Chapter Twenty: Uneasy Truce

TWENTY

Ten coffins dragged through the portal and the last of the level guardians nothing more than scattered bones. Roan couldn’t keep a satisfied look off of his face as he leaned back with his hands on his hips. It was good work done quickly and efficiently. Seeing his bank account swell was satisfying an itch he hadn’t known he had.

A little over thirteen hundred credits. Eleven hundred and twenty-five credits for the coffins after his ten percent was deducted to the association. Then the rest had come from helping kill the last of the guardians and his pathetic attempt at collecting bone dust. He was still a ways away from hitting his goal of fifteen-thousand but it had been a nice jump.

With the guardians dead and the rest of the saferoom willing to ally with them, the groups had begun to clear through the alleys with brutal speed. Roan hadn’t done a shift yet as he worked on selling the coffins and bone dust, but he had a feeling he’d be back in the tight hallways again. They were moving at a very fast rate now that they had found a reliable method of killing the skeletons and getting rest. The steady stream of weapons coming back to be sold along with jewelry plundered from the dead was inflating bank accounts.

“I’ll have new information soon enough. People will be buying skills soon enough.”

BANK BALANCE: 2,013 CREDITS

LEVEL 2 OPENING IN: 39 HOURS

LEVEL 1 CLEAR RATE: 28%

“Thirty-nine more hours to get another thirteen thousand. I can do that. As long as I don’t buy more stupid shit,” Roan grumbled as he felt along his neck and the amulet that sat there. He still didn’t know what it did, but the price for repairing it had been eye-watering.

“Then why do I want to keep repairing these stupid amulets,” Roan muttered as he started back toward the portal.

“I know what you are,” Nash’s voice was loud in the near silence of the safe room. Roan stopped in his tracks as he looked toward the man.

“Sloppy. Real sloppy.” Roan chided himself as he forced himself not to react violently, turning to confront the would-be thief. He still had his slick backed hair, but it had grown disheveled over the last ten hours. The jacket and jeans had more bloodstains, more tears in his jacket, and dark rings under his eyes from lack of sleep.

Roan kept his eyes on the man’s hands, which Nash kept visibly to his sides. A long handled knife was in his belt loop, not far at all from his hand. Roan’s warhammer was on his shoulder in his hand already though.

“Know what I am?” Roan asked, setting himself ready to attack or defend. He checked the hills around them but didn’t see anymore of Nash’s goons.

“A fighter. A survivor. Like me.”

“Is he really trying to bond with me? This is some cliched shit.” Roan stared at him deadpan until Nash shrugged and sighed.

“Didn’t honestly think that was going to work. Had to try though, you know how it is,” Nash said as his eyes became flat discs. There was no emotion in them at all as he stared at Roan.

“That’s more like it. I prefer you like this. Without the pretenses,” Roan said as Nash dropped his mask.

“Told you we were alike,” Nash said.

“I’m not an actual sociopath. Just practical.”

“Is that what you tell yourself? Do you actually believe it?” Nash asked.

“Get to the point. I have work to do.”

“You know they have their own agenda. They’ll toss you to the side the moment you’re not useful.”