But that was just the tip of the iceberg. It was halflings who were sent to clean the various nooks and crannies hidden behind the metal barriers. Pluxes were known to pounce on halflings from behind the descending section. How could they fend off an armored beast with just a plastic bucket and shovel? They couldn’t. That would be the end of their illustrious career.
They didn’t just clean, though. The system offered them a huge variety of jobs. They were rumored to be well paid, but there was no way to know for sure. But going by how they looked, HFL workers had enough to outfit themselves well and eat well, and they had all their limbs. And all of them were willing to risk their health — and their lives.
Yorka remembered, in nightmarish detail, the faces of those caught in an acid shower in one distant chamber. A whole unit of nine halflings was dispatched there, but only four of them came back — badly burned, disfigured, blinded, coughing up their lungs. The system managed to save three of them. The fourth halfling died with pride, his final act of service to their Mother. And he could have just lived the life of a less-proud orc or a carefree goblin.
The only ones who really benefited from HFL (and the additional status changes the system was rumored to grant to distinguished workers) were the brigades. They had numbers. They had at least some protective equipment — hazmat suits, rubber boots, gas masks. But it wasn’t easy to join a brigade, and there was a persistent and sinister theory that new people got all the hard and dirty jobs. They didn’t want to risk their trusted members when there were plenty of yesterday’s goblins to throw into the fire. Or into the acid. Or to the pluxes. It was a sink-or-swim way of life.
“Never a dull moment around here, huh?” I chuckled after Yorka finished her wild, wandering explanation.
“We have to think it over very carefully before we choose to upgrade to HFL.”
“Oh, we’re upgrading,” I said quickly.
“Are you listening to me at all?”
“Yep. I’ve been listening to you since my first day here. You woke me up, remember?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, goblin!”
“Me neither. The moral of each of your stories is that life here is better when you have a higher status. You just told me that the brigades control other people’s lives, choosing who lives and who dies. And we’re not playing some video game where death means nothing. For us, it’s the ultimate end. We can feel pain and fear, we can lose arms and legs, or become a freak with melted skin and burnt out eyes.”
“Woah… Calm down, goblin, take a deep breath. You’re about to burst. First things first, we have to try and keep our ORL status for a day or two, without being made goblins again. Those three thugs might still kill us, or somebody else might. Life’s short but fun here in the Outskirts, my fellow goblin.”
“You have a point there.”
“Did you hide the artifact?”
“Yeah, don’t worry.” I smiled, patting my bandaged arm. “My sharp petal is safely hidden.”
“Let’s change the subject. Too many ears here.”
I nodded, slowed down, and pushed my way to a vacant spot on nearby wall ledge. We squeezed in and started waiting for the hirers and any news. I had come to this bustling location for a reason. We’d hear the latest news here first. And tonight’s news would be bloody and violent...
I patted the sling again, feeling the outline of my weapon.
If you could call it a weapon. I had found it in the sticky mud that covered the metal blocks we pulled out of the wall. It was a miracle I didn’t slice my palm open when I scooped up the slimy filth with my hand. It flashed in the mud — the elven flower…
It was a long, sharp sliver of glass the length of my palm, two fingers wide, and slightly wider at the base. Three black lines divided it into three uneven sections: blue, then red in the middle, and yellow along the sharp edge. A colorful flower with a long stem was painted on the yellow part, running the entire length of the shard. Three clearly-drawn leaves extended from the stem.
The flower… It was vibrant, amazing, clearly the work of a true artist. Was it even a painting? It looked to me like part of some ornate stained glass window.
Why did I call it elven? Because it was so unusual, so bright, definitely not part of this nullform world. Such beauty couldn’t have come out of these filthy Outskirts. It looked… magical. So why not call it elven?
The elven flower.
When I said it out loud, Yorka just snorted. Although it was clear she was mesmerized by the bright colors on the sharp glass.
