Page 82 of The Only Way Out Is Up

[Progress: movement continues to be difficult—]

Star!

[Assessment: ow. Some damage sustained. I have reached the rear end.]

Get it following you!

[Sadness: you cruel, cruel taskmaster.]

You know the plan, you little shit. I’ll build you the best body you’ve ever had—

[Reassurance: relax, meat. I am leading it away.]

The end of Rotwurm close to me starts to move again, faster and faster. I jog after it, not wanting to get too close. Star, with his skittering speed, has an easier time keeping ahead of the monster—if we’d been able to spare him to be the decoy, this would have been so much easier—

Ky steps out from a side tunnel. She waves at me with her sword, and we shout at each other inaudibly. Rotwurm is out of sight around a curve; that’s probably far enough. (Unless we end up bringing the whole mountain down on top of us.) I hold up three fingers, then two. Then one.

Then I reach out and tug. The BLASTS retain their connection to my spirit. I can feel all five of them activate—nothing, for a couple of heartbeats—

Boom.

Suddenly I’m on my back, head cracking painfully on the tunnel floor. Ky is flung against the wall. Orange light blooms ahead, tongues of flame licking around the curve of the tunnel. I feel a wash of heat even through my armor, and pieces of scrap ping and rattle all around us. The walls shudder, and my little joke about toppling the whole mountain no longer seems quite so funny. I stop breathing for a moment, willing the colossal pile of junk to stay together.

It does. For now. I suck in air and scramble to my feet.

Is it dead?

[Unknown: I no longer possess functioning optics.]

Shit. Ky pulls her earmuffs off, and I do the same; I still can’t hear anything but a high-pitched ringing. I gesture down the tunnel. We move cautiously, ready to run.

Rotwurm’s front head is still intact, sagging against the side of the tunnel with all its blades extended. Beyond that its body is a blasted, twisted ruin, blown open from the inside like some horrible egg had hatched from within.

Lesson learned. Hit it hard enough, all at once, and you can kill anything.

TWENTY-SIX

It feels like everyone on Stair #3 is watching us.

Well. Nobody is watching me. I’m just a short, skinny Heaper in battered leathers, carrying a heavy pack that (unbeknownst to the watchers) is filled with a small fortune in sigils. Nothing special.

Ky attracts some eyes, of course. She’s still wearing Ameliana’s battered old dress, but she’s taken off her cap and let her hair down in its full glory. There’s something about the way she carries herself, too, as proud as any Clawmark, as though the attention of everyone on the stair is only her due.

But Star is, well, the star. The Mark 6 isn’t even finished, but it’s already impressive, nearly twice as large as the previous versions. He’s now far beyond the point where I could carry him, so he walks brazenly beside us. Each of his limbs has an extra joint that provides wonderfully fluid motion. His central body is partly open, framed out but still missing its armor, with plenty of room inside the curving ribs for all the surprises I’m planning to pack inside. His head rotates now, allowing him to point a pair of extra-large optics in every direction. On his back is a broad metal shield carried by a dedicated limb; as he walks, he uses this to pretend to hide from everyone’s gazes, bringing the shield down in front of himself and coyly peeking around the edge.

[Embarrassment: I’m blushing.]

No, you aren’t.

[Clarification: I would be, if I had blood. And skin.]

I smirk. No, you wouldn’t. You love the attention.

[Assessment: possibly you are correct.] He puts the shield away and waves to the goggle-eyed crowd.

He’s not the only runic on the steps, but there’s no disguising him as a labor model; the shining blades that tip his limbs make it clear this is a construct intended for the arena. For Heapers, the smoothness of his movement carries darker implications—most runics don’t move like that, but Twisted do, and people shy away instinctively. Malkuth citizens meanwhile might recognize the shape of the notorious champion of Venci’s pit, apparently back for another round.

The attention ripples ahead of us, and by the time we reach the top of the steps authority descends. A flying squad of Arbiters in sigwork breastplates comes out from behind their barricades, a wide circle of bare metal forming as onlookers retreat to a safe distance. The sergeant, an older man with silver bars on his helmet, steps directly into our path. The rest remain a step behind, hands on their swords.