"Slacker, can you teach Blackfield?"
The question had co out of nowhere.
Since Soren had begun the day again, making such an out-of-the-blue request was weird.
After all, to them, this was the first ti Vinegar was introducing Soren to Slacker.
Fortunately, Soren had asked only after the introductions.
Otherwise, it would have been unsettling—almost off-putting—to know Slacker’s na before being told.
Slacker paused, those narrow eyes looking to Vinegar, and then they traced back to Soren.
"No."
The answer was flat.
It surprised Soren. "Why?"
A reasonable question, in his opinion. The others had been willing to teach him—eager, even.
"Reason...hmm." Slacker flipped the map closed. Then he glanced towards Vinegar again.
Soren caught it.
"She will hurt," Slacker replied.
Soren didn’t understand what the man was getting at. "Please, I really need to learn it."
"No." The answer ca without further explanation.
Soren was lost for words, turning to Handler, as if to say, ’help out here.’
Handler turned to Vinegar. Even though she was similarly surprised by the sudden request, she still nodded.
The man sighed, stepping forward.
He placed a hand around Slacker’s neck. "Co on, amigo. Help the kid out. For all we know, he might beco our in-law so day—huh."
Soren blushed, instinctively turning toward Vinegar, who quickly looked away, pretending to play with Ratler’s tail.
"Co on," Handler nudged again, "do it for family..."
Slacker pushed Handler’s hand away. "No."
He turned and walked off.
Handler looked back at Soren and shrugged, clearly signaling that he’d tried.
But Soren wasn’t ready to give up. This wasn’t the worst thing he’d endured—not by far.
"Wait..." He ran up to him. "... If I don’t learn Blackfield, I’ll die in the Glass. Please, teach ."
Again the sa answer: "No."
"Why!?" Soren asked, more in annoyance than actually wanting to know the reason.
Slacker paused.
Then he turned. Slowly, his fingers reached for the zip closest to his neck.
tal whispered against fabric as he pulled it down.
The orange jumpsuit opened up, revealing a sight.
Soren’s breath caught in his throat.
There was no chest beneath it.
From Slacker’s lower jaw downward, flesh had been burned away, not scarred cleanly, but destroyed.
The edges were blackened and uneven, as though sothing had eaten him from the inside out and lost interest halfway through.
Soren could see into him.
Blood vessels twitched in the open air, as thick cords of red and purple flexed and retracted as if searching for sothing to cling to.
The cavity where ribs should have been was hollow—too hollow.
Sothing pulsed.
At the center of the void, an organ shifted.
It folded in on itself with a wet, organic sound, reshaping—stretching—until it beca a pair of lungs.
They breathed.
Air passed through exposed tissue, producing a faint, gurgling hiss.
And then the lungs collapsed, knitting back together, condensing—
—and beca a heart again.
It resud beating.
But that was not the only organ changing form or responsibility.
Lower down, Soren saw movent.
Slacker’s intestines recoiled and tightened, compacting unnaturally, reshaping themselves into kidney-like forms before unraveling again.
Above them, what should have been a stomach flattened and broadened, darkening as it hardened into sothing liver-like.
Nothing stayed the sa for more than a few seconds.
Slacker’s body was constantly correcting itself.
Soren felt bile rise in his throat.
He had seen things.
Been through things.
But this...
Suffering.
There was no true regeneration of the organs.
Just constant survival.
Slacker let the jumpsuit hang open, completely indifferent to the horror he exposed.
"I only know how to teach Blackfield the way I learned," he said.
His voice was flat. Cold.
"Unless you’re willing to lose this much," he continued, eyes locking onto Soren’s, "I can’t teach you."
Soren was lost for words. He wanted to say sothing.
Anything.
But right now, it seed anything that ca out of his mouth would be spitting on Slackers’ suffering.
Was it his place to do that?
Soren knew what suffering felt like. When he newly acquired his Shade and the suffering that ca with it, he had no one.
No one knew what it felt like.
To be torn, bruised, and wounded in body and mind. And to do it all again.
No one to share his burden with. Not even Machos.
It wasn’t the sa suffering, but it rhyd.
That crushing weight on the shoulders. Enduring because there was no other choice.
Moving forward because stopping ant being left behind.
He had to push through.
And all this was on top of the fact that people expected him to remain in the mud.
For a mont the world seed to pause around them.
"The Glass will open in T minus ten seconds." The chanical voice bood.
Slacker zipped up his jumpsuit. Turned. Walked away.
"Yeah," Handler arrived beside Soren, "I rember that day. He lost... most of his family."
Handler shook his head as he turned. "Let it go, amigo." He patted Soren’s shoulders.
He walked away.
For a mont, Soren stood there. The prisoners rushed past him into the Glass.
What was he going to do?
Slacker had agreed to teach him. But the cost was a steep one.
Then again, it was sothing he could afford.
The problem was in respecting the underlining wish of his yet-to-be teacher.
Screw this.
He cursed, hands squeezing into a tight fist that made blood seep out of the knuckles he bruised earlier on.
Once more, those words rang in his head.
"If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself but to your estimate of it."
Soren frowned and rushed into the Glass.
And once he ca out the other side, he walked straight to Slacker, passing Ratler, who just stepped into the pond.
Soren stopped in front of him.
"Your pain is your pain. My pain is my pain. Every man to the burden he chooses and carries.
Teach ."
(Author’s note: I know, I create characters that arrest your attention. Please send gifts. I appreciate the encouragent.
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