Chapter 13: Sapient, Aura-Blade Shooting Crab

Chapter 13: Sapient, Aura-Blade Shooting Crab

Sergeant Sniiiiiiiips!” Fischer yelled, his hands held to his mouth as he projected his voice. Barry’s morning so far had been a roller coaster of emotions. He’d started the morning with a wariness of his new neighbor fueled by his wife’s suspicions, swiftly had that replaced by a desire to help the man when he revealed his spark, then just as quickly realized that Fischer had a disease of the mind.

“I swear she was just here,” the madman said as he walked along the coast of his shoreline.

Maybe everyone would be better off if I let someone know about his spark of potential . . .

“I really should get back to my family, Fischer. I missed the sunrise, and they’ll be getting worried—”

“There you are, you little scamp!” Fischer walked down to the water, leaning in. “I see your little peeper hiding there, Snips. I brought a friend to see you.”

A small stream of bubbles floated to the surface in front of Fischer, and Barry leaned in to see what was causing it.

“Don’t be like that, Snips,” Fischer said with a laugh. “He’s a trustworthy bloke, there’s no need to be nervous.”

Barry walked down beside Fischer, tentatively peering where the bubbles had risen. A single eye broke the surface of the water, gazing intently at him. Barry took an involuntary step back as he made out the body of a large crab beneath the eye.

“Sergeant Snips!” Fischer admonished with a tone you’d use on a petulant child. “It’s rude to stare at guests, at least come out and say hello. He won’t bite.”

Barry felt his jaw drop open as the crab—Sergeant Snips—slowly walked out onto the beach. Sergeant Snips clacked her claws at him, streaming bubbles from the mouth.

“Snips says hello.”

“H-hello?” Barry turned to Fischer. “You . . . you understand it?”

“Yeah—wait, you don’t?”

“No, Fischer. Not in the slightest.” Barry stared down at the being, implications running rampant through his mind. “This crab has taken a step—”

It snapped its claws loudly and cut him off, blowing a slew of bubbles.

Fischer cocked his head. “She wants to be called by her name, not ‘it’ or ‘crab,’ I think.”

“O-of course. Sorry. I think Sergeant Snips has taken a step on the path of ascension.”

“Yeah, I gathered as much. Is that a common thing?”

“Not at all.” Barry stared down at the being with unconcealed wonder. “The Cult of Carcinization would lose their minds over this . . .”

“I probably don’t need to say this,” Fischer said, “but this stays between us, yeah? I don’t want her subjected to any experimentation or culty bullshit.”

A sharp clack sounded, and sand sprayed against Barry’s legs. He looked down, seeing a medium-sized hole in the sand before him.

“Snips!” Fischer put his hands on his hips and stared down at her. “We don’t threaten friends!”

Sergeant Snips dipped her head, blowing a slow stream of bubbles.

Fischer turned to Barry. “She says she’s sorry.”

“Uh, that’s okay . . . and no, I won’t say anything—this can stay between us.”

Fischer nodded sharply, as did Sergeant Snips. “I know, but I appreciate you confirming it anyway.” Fischer looked out at the sea and the sun rising above it. “She deserves a peaceful life just as much as the rest of us.”

“I—I’m not sure you understand how monumental this is, Fischer.” Barry shook his head minutely, unbelieving of what he was seeing. “For a creature to take even this small step . . . I didn’t even know it was possible following the gods’ betrayal.”

Fischer smiled at him. “Yeah, I kinda picked up on that, but there’s no use stressing about it—she’s here, and she’s friendly, that’s all that really matters. She’s gonna be staying on my—well, our land—for the foreseeable future.”

How is he so calm about this? Does he truly comprehend the meaning of this crab’s existence?

“Anyway, thanks for your discretion, Barry—and the info.” Fischer gave him a genuine smile. “I don’t want to worry your family by keeping you here too long, so if you’ve gotta get back, that’s all good.”

“Y-you’re welcome, Fischer. I’d better be getting back to them.” He turned, but paused, turning back to the being behind him. “It was nice meeting you, Sergeant Snips.”

She clacked excitedly, feeding off my enthusiasm.

I’d been looking for something similar to bamboo—a long, flexible, and strong basis for a fishing rod. Instead, I’d found the real thing. The patch of bamboo before us had shoots of every size, and I marveled at the larger ones with stems as wide as my arm and over seven meters tall.

“Imagine the rod I could craft with that sucker, Snips!”

Though I doubted she knew what I was talking about, she still bubbled her excitement back at me.

“All right,” I said. “Could you snip this one, this one, and that one, and . . .” I indicated seven of the bamboo shoots, settling on the lucky number.

I can always come back for more later.

She scuttled over and cut the ones I’d shown, the wooden fibers standing no chance against her empowered claws. With six different rods over my shoulder, and one that Sergeant Snips insisted on carrying held in one of her claws, we set off back toward home.

My defense crab waved her goodbye as she slipped beneath the surface of the river. Waving back, I shook my head at what life had become. “This world is something else . . .”

Walking around the side of my house, I set most of the rods on the back deck to dry out. I wasn’t actually sure if they’d function better when fresh or dried, but I intended to find out. I took two of the fresh rods with me as I walked around to my chairs. Collecting the makeshift tackle box and my smaller rod I’d used to catch fish yesterday, I got to work. I cut the line from the curtain rod, retying it to the tip of the bamboo one. I tested the strength of it, bending it back and forth with no small amount of force. It held, and I knew it would be more than enough to handle the smaller fish.

Maybe not for the eel, though . . .

It was still a crude construction, but I had plans to bring it closer to the technological level of rods on Earth. As with all things, though, it would take time.

“For now,” I said, “I think I’ll catch a late breakfast.”

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder as he made his way through the northern streets of Tropica. He’d abandoned his cult garb for this mission; a plain brown cloak with a hood hiding his features draped his form as he neared the destination. He turned a corner, sighting the opulent house.

He stepped through the side gate of the property, handling the metal latch with care to not make too much noise. He walked along the house and around the back, coming to a room that was clearly a later addition to the building. Its construction was crude when compared to the house it clung to, its stone-and-mortar build more akin to the structures the peasants of the village used for their dwellings.

He knocked on the wooden door with the designated rhythm.

Tap-taptaptap-tap.

“Come in,” a soft voice said.

Sebastian opened the door slowly, and a sickly sweet smell rushed out to greet him. The inside of the room was dim; his eyes needing a moment to adjust. When they did, he saw all manner of dried plants hanging from the walls, different vials and distilling equipment atop drawers at the back of the room, and a single hunched figure swirling the contents of a cauldron atop a workbench before him.

“What brings you to the Cult of the Alchemist, Leviathan child?”

Sebastian felt the grimace cross his face but made no effort to hide it. It had surprised him when his contact back in the capital informed him of the alchemy cult’s presence in Tropica, but he had no issue making use of the misguided fool across from him.

“I require a tincture, Alchemist child.” He spat the last word, throwing the insult right back at him. “Something of deadly potency.”

“Deadly?” The alchemist raised his head, revealing a face filled with wrinkles and bearing a wicked grin. “Such things can be arranged . . . for the right recompense.”

“Name your price, alchemist.” Again, he spat the last word, unwilling to suppress his disdain. “I have as little desire to spend time in each other’s presence as you do.”

The man chuckled in response, the noise sounding wet and wrong. “No need for such insults, child. I no more hate you than I hate the flies that buzz around my concoctions. We all have our place in this world—after all, do you not have a use for me?”

Sebastian slammed two silver coins on the bench in front of him—a substantial sum—wanting this interaction to be over as soon as possible. “I need a single dose for a single man.”

The alchemist eyed the coins before lazily reaching out and grasping them. “And what has this man done to deserve such an end?” He slid the coins into his pocket. “While what you request will deliver a finality, it is not a kind way to go.”

Sebastian snarled. “It is the concern of the Cult of the Leviathan.”

The hooded figure looked at Sebastian for a long moment. He turned, opened a drawer, and grabbed something with serpentine sluggishness. At the same pace, he slid the small vial over to Sebastian. Sebastian snatched it and strode out the door without another word.

Neither the touch of the cool breeze nor the smell of fresh air registered as he strode back toward his headquarters, consumed as his thoughts were.

For his heresy, Fischer deserves a torturous death.