Savage Utopia [Peaceful system exploited for combat - LitRPG]

Serene

[Serene's progression: Level 8 → Level 11]

[Level-up rewards: Physician specialization, access to Ideality, access to Processing, 4 Processing, Life Thread, Examine, Stimulate, Telepathy]

[Attributes: Appeal (4++), Dexterity (4+), Senses (0), Empathy (6+++) Ideality (0+), Processing (4+)]

[Skills: Illusion 4*, Glitter, Identify 2*, Power Word, Flash Step, Life Thread, Examine, Stimulate, Telepathy]

[Passives: N/A]

[Divine vow (paraphrased): To never consume any intoxicating substance for recreational purposes in exchange for her Illusion skill being able to touch all five senses]

It was a quiet night at The Whimsy. Most of the fellows in there were still licking their wounds after the day's riots. Having long since gulped down their beer rations and sobered up, there was nothing left for them to do but sit and brood. Some were clustered together around the central tables, preferring to be miserable in good company, while others withdrew into the corners. Hardly anyone spoke. Cards and dice lay scattered on the tables, untouched for hours. If no one in a tavern full of workmen was interested in gambling, that meant things were pretty bad.

Serene was up on one of the tables, plucking at her wonky guitar and singing softly. An endless procession of the saddest, nastiest, most tragic songs she could think of. It was just that kind of mood. Right now, anything upbeat would only piss them off worse.

Though they weren't doing a very good job of showing it, she knew her music was having an effect on them. The rhythm of it was so soothing that she almost became lulled by it herself. Sometimes, deep into the afternoon like this, she could almost convince herself that she belonged here—almost forget the knot of lies that had brought her here. The assignment.

Folk filtered in and out as the hours wore on, but overall the place got more packed closer to bedtime. Every night, The Whimsy would shuffle aside the furniture and let people sleep on the floor—as many as would fit. These days, with Rippers and Leaguers roaming about, it was safest to sleep in numbers.

The atmosphere picked up a little when Gabby came out of the back room to chat and cheer people up, clapping shoulders and offering condolences. She didn't try to put a positive spin on things—any effort to do so would inevitably either have come off as delusional or tonedeaf—but her presence alone was enough to boost morale. She handed out pathetic scraps of stale bread and dried fruit to the newcomers, along with a few pours of weak beer to share in front of the fires.

While there was no food in Sheerhome, at least there was no shortage of firewood. Plenty of abandoned buildings and furniture to tear into. In the tavern, the fireplace kept up its merry crackling—that and the number of bodies sweating up the place was more than enough to keep out the cold. Serene's pits and underarms were slick with sweat.

"Looks like we lost a few more to the Rippers," Gabby said after asking around about some missing faces. There was some quiet grumbling at that, but no one was willing to take the topic any further.

By 'lost', she didn't mean they'd been killed. Everyone had been horrified by the Rippers when they first started spreading out from the scavenger colonies in the Academy. At first. But for many, cannibalism was looking like a more attractive option every day.

Serene could easily get food from the Kitchen if she wanted and simply wear an Illusion to look as emaciated as the others, but she'd decided that if she was going to play this role, it was important to play it fully. She'd gone so long without a proper meal that she couldn't remember what not being dizzy felt like, and her sense of smell had grown so acute that she felt she could smell a breadcrumb from three blocks away.

Gabby got a game of roundabout going at one of the tables, and for a while there was even a bit of muted laughter inside the tavern. Some people thought Gabby was the leader of the Workers' Union. She was charismatic enough, and as a Level 12 Builder-Laborer, she looked the part too. Solid. Strong. Sharp-eyed. Dressed in the same plain work garb as the others. In reality, even though she did most of the people-facing work, Gabby was only the second-in-command.

A messenger came in out of the cold to whisper in Gabby's ear, then the two of them went into the back room together to speak with the real leader—a Level 7 Builder named Tanner. His low level acted as an effective cover; to look at him, it would by all rights seem like he was the subordinate and Gabby the one in charge.

Tanner never spent two nights in the same place, always cycling between the various Topside safehouses maintained by the Union to keep him from getting caught in one of the militia's raids. He hadn't visited The Whimsy in over a week, so Serene would very much have liked to listen in on that conversation in the back room. However, though she was reasonably confident that she could cast Telepathy on Gabby to get access to at least part of her stream-of-consciousness, she didn't dare take that risk, especially since she hadn't practiced enough with the skill to mindcast it yet. Besides, One-Eye had told her to play it safe. If she went and got herself caught, that would probably ruin a lot of whatever plan he was cooking up.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

She was finishing up for the night, setting the guitar aside and working her aching fingers, when Gurney approached her. She groaned inwardly at the sight of the old fool bumbling his way over to her table, clearly drunk—same as always, in other words. Tanner had banned Union members from drinking anything stronger than beer, since whatever calorific content could be found in hard liquor and the like would be outweighed by the energy expended by the body to metabolize all that excess alcohol, meaning it was worse than air pie in terms of nutrition.

Gurney didn't care about that. No one knew where he got the alcohol from, or where he stored it, or when he found the time to drink it, but he was constantly drunk, ping-ponging along a spectrum between merely belligerent and blacking out on the floor.

At this moment, Serene guessed he was maybe at a three out of ten, meaning just coherent enough to be extremely annoying.

"Heeeeey, pretty birdie," the balding old man slurred as he sidled over. "Where'd you learn to sing so good, eh? Tweetie tweet tweeeeeet, heheheh…"

Serene gave vague, neutral replies to Gurney's increasingly pathetic remarks, hoping he'd take the hint and lose interest eventually. He didn't. It was hard to tell if he was making a pass or genuinely lost his footing when he fell up against her. His sweaty hands slid all over her torso while trying to get back up again, blubbering into her chest.

Serene was about to shove him off when someone else removed him for her. Gurney was picked clean off his feet by the back of his rumpled collar, and he hung limp in the air like a wet kitten held by the scruff.

It was Wholesome Joel who'd intervened on her behalf.

"I've warned you before," Joel said in his dull, thick voice. He enunciated each word with excessive care, as though he were a little slow in the head. "You didn't listen."

Gurney didn't bother defending himself—or maybe was too drunk to string a coherent thought together—and Joel didn't bother beating him. Gabby was called over. The old lecher was dropped to his knees, and the look Gabby had for him was full of pity and reluctance, like a woman faced with having to take the old family dog out behind the shed.

Her voice, however, was iron-firm, and carried no room for doubt. "You're done, Gurney. You can't follow our rules, and you can't behave like a man. We've given you too many chances."

Gurney let his tongue hang out like it was too big for his mouth, and spit dribbled down his chin. "Where'd the music go?" he slurred drunkenly. "Pretty birdie, where'd you go?"

"You're done, Gurney. Cut off. Out the Union. Do you understand me?"

If he did, the old man made no show of it. He just kept on giggling to himself and pawed at one side of his puffy, peach-pink face.

Gabby shook her head and turned away. "Joel, get him out of here, will you? Nobody lets him back in."

No one spoke up, but a few members nodded in silent confirmation. Everyone knew what it meant if they tossed Gurney out on the street. He'd be dead before the night was out.

"Wait," Serene said with a small sigh. She knelt beside the old man and held him up by his shoulders when he began to tip over. "He just tripped, that's all. It was a misunderstanding, so don't throw him out over this."

"It doesn't matter," Gabby shot back, crossing big, scarred arms over a barrel chest. "Anyone who can't respect themselves or their fellow worker doesn't have a place in the Union."

"Then you might as well kill him yourself and spare him some suffering."

"We don't do that here."

"Then maybe you're not such fine people as you claim." Serene looked around the room. Finding no sympathy, she tried Joel. "Joel, if you [Trust] me, then help me get him to bed."

He probably would have been on the fence about who to listen to, his superior or his friend, but the Power Word brought him over the edge to Serene's side. He took the old man roughly to his feet and walked him over to the fire, where he laid him down on a dirty blanket so he could sleep off his stupor. Gabby shook her head but let it stand and retreated into the back room, shutting the door behind her.

"You sure about this, Dess?" Joel asked when he returned.

Serene nodded. "I'm sure."

"You're being too nice. I don't think that was an accident at all."

She held out her hand. Joel helped her up. "It was, though," she said, and patted him on the chest. "He's just a sad old man, and he needs this place. He needs us." Like I'm really one of you.

"Even if it was, this isn't the first time he's gotten grabby."

"Just one more chance, Joel. That's all I'm asking."

Joel grumbled something, then shrugged his shoulders and said: "Fine. But the next time he puts those hands on you, I'm twisting 'em off."

"Yeah, yeah. Keep it in your pants, big guy."

Wholesome Joel was a giant of a man, muscle-bound and bull-necked, with a chin like a brick. He was a Level 10 Laborer, and a militia defector. He was one of three workers who got triple rations to keep up their strength in exchange for guarding the storeroom where what little food they still kept. Folk had been suspicious of a militia man joining up with the Union at first, let alone being trusted with guarding the food. But Tanner had vouched for him, and Joel hadn't gotten his name for nothing. By now, he had a friend in most all of the regulars.

Serene packed up and prepared to leave for the night. Joel walked her to the door, having just handed over his guard shift to the next guy.

"You should stay here," he said. "I don't know why you insist on going out there every night."

"I can take care of myself," Serene said with a chuckle as she opened the door. It was raining pretty bad outside. Yay.

Joel hovered behind her. "I know. It's just… Why take the risk? There's space here, you know."

"I'm a lady, Joel. I don't particularly want to sleep on the floor with forty sweaty men." For the most part, the Union had things divided so men and women slept in different places—it helped keep the number of rapes managable. Not a lot, but it helped.

"We could find someplace private for you."

"I have a nice place already. Really, it's fine."

"It's raining."

"I noticed."

"Let me walk you home at least."

Serene stepped out into the downpour and turned back on her heel to face him, instrument case swinging from her hand. "Stay, Joel. I mean it."

The dog owner routine worked. Joel stayed on the other side of the threshold, stooping to look under the frame. She left down the empty street. Whenever she glanced back she caught him watching her from the doorway with a concerned scowl on his big stupid face, all the way until she turned a corner.

Jeez. I really need to find that guy some pussy before he gets too attached.