That made sense. It made perfect sense. The system didn’t force anyone to become a soldier. If you agree to the fact that you’re a fighter, a soldier, then you’ll have to be prepared for the fact that the system will be counting on you, expecting you to carry out combat orders quickly and precisely. If the system told you to attack a superior enemy force, you’d attack — there’d be no other option. In the army, the commander’s orders are the highest authority. Heaven help anyone who didn’t obey — anyone who committed sabotage or deserted, setting a bad example for the other soldiers. So that explained the immediate punitive measures.
It also had a moral aspect to it. You chose to move up to fighter status of your own free will, right? So you understand that refusing to push your exhausted group further through the rooms and hallways towards your target enemy meant the death of some peaceful grunt somewhere. Because you were the ones who were supposed to protect them. That would be a heavy burden on your conscience.
“I’m almost afraid to ask. What’s the punishment for refusing a combat job?”
“If you’re a cadet, there’s no punishment.”
“What if you’re a fighter?”
“You lose all your savings, lose access to capsules, even if you’ve paid for one in advance. You can’t use ATMs for six months, and you get made a zombie.”
“Hold on. You mean...”
“If you, as the leader, refuse to take on a combat job — for any reason — the same punishment awaits you and your entire group. You will lose everything you have, and they’ll take three limbs from each of you, leaving just one arm. You’ll practically be worms.”
“Holy shit,” I muttered thoughtfully.
“Yes.” Two-Ninety-Nine nodded. “One screws up, everyone suffers! Clear?”
“Painfully.”
“Keep that in mind.”
“Do a lot of people choose to be fighters?”
“Yeah. The benefits are incredible, goblin. You’ll have enough money for everything you could ever want and more. The most important thing is to use your head! That’s why I’m telling you — always know where you are, always choose your route carefully. You’re a leader. You’re a soldier. You should always know where your group is and what jobs might be coming from the system at any time. A lot depends on your surroundings, so you have to know any special features or potential dangers beforehand. Ask questions. Don’t be afraid to pay for verified information. That’s my advice to you.”
“I’m grateful for it. Thank you. So what places should I avoid?”
“Stay close to the clux. Don’t hang around in the older hallways. Be extremely careful on the Cursed Bridge and places like that.”
“The Cursed Bridge?”
“It’s just the first place that came to mind. We went over it yesterday. Have you ever been to Drainagetown?”
“Not yet.”
“The Cursed Bridge is the shortest route from here to Drainagetown. Going around takes five times longer. People who want to do some drinking and get cozy with acceptably good-looking boys or girls, not too crippled, for a reasonable price slip across the Cursed Bridge. Most of the time, they make it.”
“Is it long?”
“You’ll see. Just don’t hang around there too long. And whatever you do, don’t go down to the pillars underneath — that’s where the Stagnant Cesspool begins. Now
“What — ”
“No more! Today’s my day off. I have a nice two-hour workout, a special lunch, and some very nice company in the evening to look forward to... Good luck!”
“The Stagnant Cesspool...” I sighed sadly, scooping up my t-shirts. “You drew me in then left me hanging... How about just one more piece of advice, fighter?”
“Equipment!” She called out, right before turning to leave. “Weapons! Those are two of the biggest deciding factors. But even those are less important than the leader’s brain — that’s number one.” Then she walked away for good.
I sighed.
“The leader’s brain,” I muttered, thoughtfully tapping a finger against my right temple. “The leader’s brain...”
“What’s wrong with the leader’s brain?” I heard a familiar voice.
“You’re alive!” I looked up, delighted, at the returning Yorka. “Jeez...”
“Yeah, really!” She tried to look angry, but couldn’t stop from grinning.
She had two arms again. She vigorously flexed the fingers of her new hand, bent and unbent her elbow, showed off the working shoulder joint. The new arm was wrinkled — it looked pretty terrible overall, if I was to be honest — but it was still an arm. A fully-functional second arm. Yorka was no longer disabled. Our party was coming together.
My shock hadn’t been because of the new limb’s wrinkled skin, though — it was the tattoos. Whoever owned this arm before had certainly loved tattoos. There was literally no empty space left on the skin, to the point where I couldn’t even tell what color the original skin was. None of the tattoos were concrete drawings — just cunningly twisted lines in black, red, and green.
“Want me to hit you?” Yorka asked gleefully, clenching her new fist.
“I’ll pass.” I shook my head. “Congratulations, partner.”
