Chapter 4: Stray Cat Strut
London is the beating heart of England. This was an old saying, long predating the first demons; a tribute to the sheer stature of the city, and a recurring curiosity to those abroad. Many other nations divided responsibilities up between different cities: one was the political capital and the seat of government, another the economic and financial heart, and yet another the industrial powerhouse, to name a few examples. London, on the other hand, covered all these portfolios and more, being home to over a fifth of all English employees and registered corporations, dominating every business and facet of life in the South. Before the demons arrived, it was the largest city in the south by an order of magnitude. Afterwards, it was the only one left.
I didn’t recognise the street we emerged onto, following after Mascot at a slow trot, but that was to be expected. The towering skyscrapers of the central district were visible in the distance, but that told me little, given the scales involved. London grew significantly in recent decades, going from a modest six hundred square miles to well over three thousand, swallowing up everything around it until the city covered a large chunk of southeast England. It was the natural response to the endless onslaught, inexorably drawn towards the living by some unknown mechanism that the world’s finest researchers had yet to pinpoint; wherever humans gathered in bulk, demons were sure to follow. It seemed counterintuitive, when I first learned of this, that the nation’s response to this was to pack tens of millions into a single, vast city, but the numbers didn’t lie. In a world under extreme threat, humanity pivoted towards the two extremes.
On the one hand, a densely populated city meant frequent incursions, but also a quick response from magical girls, some of whom would inevitably be nearby. It meant ready availability of emergency infrastructure: warning sirens, bunkers and underground evacuation routes, all of this subject to regular review and updates by local authorities. It didn’t guarantee safety, my own case made that abundantly clear, but it kept deaths to a minimum and eased the cost of recovery. The model worked, and other regions had been swift to copy it, though London alone had kept its name. On the other hand, isolated villages with only a few residents were unlikely to draw significant attention, the few demons that spawned being small and only barely more dangerous than the local wildlife. If that weren’t the case, holidays in the countryside would never have survived as a tradition to the present day.
Granted, that wasn’t to say things were as straightforward as before, transport in particular proving to be problematic. Fixed line trains were no longer an option, as they were, by design, depending on the adequate maintenance and upkeep of tracks. Even a small disruption, such as a tree toppling onto the route could prove disastrous, trapping entire carriages in place, just waiting to be devoured. By contrast, cars were a far more resilient alternative, with the option to divert from individual areas of concern, or even go off-road in a genuine emergency; the latter wasn’t great for a vehicle’s longevity, but it generally beat dying, so most modern cars were made to be able to handle it for at least short bursts at a time. Likewise, most vehicles now came with spare tires as standard and additional fuel capacity, to account for the lack of support along the road, and families were encouraged to travel in convoys of several cars to provide additional redundancy. But despite these troubles, travel between city and countryside continued.
Somewhat counterintuitively, while both extremes of human habitation continued to endure, it was the middle ground that suffered the most, those middling towns with populations in the thousands that were large enough to draw significant numbers of demons, but not big enough to host anyone capable of repelling them, and too isolated for timely reinforcements. Humanity as a whole still lived, even thrived by some metrics, but the suburban lifestyle was very much a thing of the past, gradually whittling down to nothing over the years. I felt a pang in my chest at the thought; my parents had been some of the last holdouts, keeping to the old way of life in the house that raised generations of the family before them. The end to their story, when it came, was sad and predictable in equal measure.
“Mind your head,” Mascot chastised, drawing my attention back to the present day.
I ducked reflexively, barely missing a low hanging lamp post that probably wouldn’t have hit my head, but definitely would have taken my hat for a ride.
“Thanks,” I replied, somewhat embarrassed.
Barely days after nearly dying in a bout of inattention, and here I was again, not watching the road. In my defence, there wasn’t much to look at, just the same grey parade of concrete and endless terraces of tiny, tightly packed houses, interspersed with the odd shop or eatery. Every street had at minimum a cafe, serving greasy fried breakfasts all through the day, and a convenience store for everything else, their names interchangeable and purpose identical. A few takeaways rounded out the selection, the latter often little more than a kiosk sprouting from the side of a wall, offering pre-packed meals to the busy commuter, of which only a few were out and about so early in the day.
One of the better parts of the city, I decided, after a closer look at the nearest row. Only a single layer of metal covering most of the windows, the shops leaving their doors open on demand, and only a handful of armed guards visible on the sidewalk. Definitely one of the nicer areas, verging on privileged.
I could’ve looked up the street name and removed all doubt, my fancy new phone being just a pocket away, but I was reluctant to do so. I’d been running ragged ever since graduation, slaving away to an endless chain of deadlines, always rushing to the next point on the checklist. Newly freed from obligation, I was content to go on a walk without constantly worrying about the destination, letting someone else take the reins and simply enjoying the moment on my own terms. Maybe dying wasn’t so bad, all things considered. Although, that being said…
“Are we there yet?” I asked, barely five minutes later, because as appreciative as I might be, my attention span was a product of the social media generation.
“Not too much further,” Mascot reassured me. “Neither of us have any cash on hand, otherwise we could have used public transport, but that’s a temporary issue at most.”
I was tempted to ask why he couldn’t do whatever he did to rescue me, though I stopped short of voicing it. Teleportation was rare, I’d only ever come across it in occasional news broadcasts of major incursions, so there were probably conditions on its use, or a cooldown of some kind stopping it from being used frivolously.
“That said, if you want to move faster,” Mascot grinned, a mischievous look that was the only warning he gave before breaking into a sprint.
A sprint by human standards, I should clarify, only fifteen miles an hour or so, compared to a feline sprint that could easily double that, outpacing the greatest human athletes with ease. Even taking into account Mascot’s restraint, he’d have left me in the dust just a week ago, a panting heap on the ground who’d never run further than it took to catch the next train. With magical girl shenanigans backing me up, I was able to keep up with him, even as we swerved around the occasional obstruction or bystander, running more than a few red lights in the process. Some of the peanut gallery swore at us as we passed them by, clearly jealous of our newfound physical prowess; a couple even threw empty soda cans at us, though none ever came close to landing, saving them from painful retaliation. I ignored it all, exulting in the simple joy of moving far faster than I’d ever had before. Even when our guide eventually slowed and came to a halt, I found myself barely breathing heavily, my lungs recovering rapidly with every passing second.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Five miles in twenty minutes,” Mascot declared. “An acceptable pace for the newly enhanced. My illusion and virus are about to go down, from here on out, you’re in the driver’s seat. Welcome home.”
Home, as it turned out, was a broken and burnt out husk that barely resembled a neighbourhood, and would have looked right at home in a documentary covering the bombing campaigns of World War Two. Only a handful of buildings in line of sight remained entirely intact, with the majority languishing in varying states of disrepair, anywhere from a few bricks ripped out to completely exposed to the elements, entire walls or ceilings missing or crumpled into a heap at the property’s lowest point. Instead of the usual rectangular blocks, buildings were laid out in a large ring centred around the main attraction: a massive scrap yard, piled high with wrecked cars as far as the eye could see.
Despite the early hour, men were already hard at work inside, stripping the latest batch of carcasses to recover any components that remained intact before cutting up the rest for scrap metal. Guards wearing bicycle helmets and balaclavas stood guard in a loose perimeter, rifles slung across their chests. The entire scene felt wrong to me, especially as it was all just a brisk run away from a far more homely neighbourhood; I could only wonder what caused this particular area to look like an oversized crime scene.
“What a dump,” I scoffed. “I’ve never liked cars much, and that was before one nearly flattened me. Do you really live here?”
“Salvage is one of the few industries that remains only loosely regulated to this day,” Mascot explained. “A combination of backbreaking manual labour and low margins keep the big corporations away, leaving ownership of individual businesses to local entrepreneurs. Customers come from all walks of life, own little to their names and prefer to pay in cash, making tax audits an unprofitable proposition. In a world where everything digital is subject to tight scrutiny, car parts remain a potent vehicle for money laundering, pardon the pun. Scrap yards, likewise, are a reliable bastion of organised crime.”
That made sense on the face of it, as far as I could tell. Though hardly a true crime fanatic, I’d still heard of the rise in car jobs, quick and dirty crimes where opportunistic thieves grabbed anything that could be torn out in a hurry. With a high potential payout and far harder to track than if they stole the entire car, it had become somewhat of an epidemic in a city strapped for space, with few indoor parking spots available to keep empty vehicles safe. Self explanatory, really, though this answer also led to an obvious conclusion.
“You’re actually a fancy cat owned by a mob boss,” I gasped, pointing dramatically at Mascot. “The trope is real!”
“How regressive,” Mascot tutted. “Ownership of sentient beings was banned all the way back in 1833, didn’t you know? What I actually am is a freelance consultant for certain elements of organised crime, yes. I work on their behalf in pursuit of mutually beneficial aims, I don’t work for them.”
On that dubious note, Mascot started moving again, turning away from the scrap yard and heading towards one of the most damaged buildings. It was a drinking house, once upon a time, before some unknown catastrophe swept most of the building away. The front door alone still stood, along with a sign that bore the bar’s name: The Spotted Dick, quite possibly the worst named food in culinary history. The door itself was of excellent build, with a sturdy wooden frame, a sleek black paint job, and most importantly of all, a cat flap.
“Here’s my stop,” Mascot snarked, slipping through the tiny gateway with an ease belying his rotund body. “The sprint over here was your first test, this is your second. Find me if you can, and watch out for the rats!”
. . .
I probably spent far longer than I should have, just staring at the door in utter disbelief, before my brain rebooted and I began to think about how to tackle this unexpected twist. Naturally, the first thing I did was try and open the door, which, believe it or not, was still fully intact despite all that the adjoining building had gone through. It didn’t budge, not showing the slightest sign of giving way even as I twisted and gripped with enough force to warp the metal handle. Maybe if I was an urchin who grew up in such an environment, I would have known how to pick the lock, but I’d mostly stayed on the right side of the law as a kid, barring a few shoplifted chocolate bars and a few slap fights back in primary school. Maybe some identity fraud too, depending on where Mascot got my new login from, but nothing that would help unlock a door.
I kept at it, increasing my application of force in the hopes that something would give. The handle gave, snapping off at the hilt and becoming a nice little paperweight in the palm of my hand. I threw it away in disgust, leaving me with the same implacable door, now with nothing to leverage against it. My next move, somewhat predictably, was to kick the door centre mass as hard as I could. Sadly, it didn’t fly off the handle like the ones in prank videos on social media, this door being made of far sterner stuff. Part of me suspected magic, while allowing for it to simply be a very sturdy door, probably a plus for a volatile establishment like a pub, which historically bore witness to a high level of violent conduct. Practical, but aggravating given the circumstances.
Now convinced that brute force wasn’t the way forward, I turned to the next option in my rather limited toolbox: my phone, the MAGIActivate app to be precise. In theory, the regular old maps app might have worked too, but I wasn’t sure if I was on a timer, and really didn’t want to waste an hour or two setting up a Gawain account from scratch.
[Please wait for more information!]
MAGIActivate opened up on the Quest tab. showing the same lack of activity as the last time I checked, albeit with a different kitten holding up the sign, a calico instead of a tabby this time. The Market Board was a bust as well, owing to my lack of anything in the way of funds. That left the Message Board to try, where I decided to search for any mention of the Spotted Dick. For my efforts, I found a few old reviews, none of them within the last five years, praising the amount of alcohol for the price while lambasting the food. I also found a picture of an actual spotted dick, clearly in the advanced stage of venereal disease, something I would have greatly preferred not to see. I cleared my phone’s cache after that, but unfortunately for my sanity, clearing my own memory wasn’t quite so simple.
Annoyed now, I flicked over to the Status Page, not really expecting to find anything useful, but I’d checked three out of four pages already so I might as well complete the set.
[Status
Rank: Neophyte (Zeroth Degree)
Domains
Miraculous: Magic is death, magic is life. One hand damned you, another saved. You will survive certain death, once upon a new moon.
Nemesis: She who seeks revenge digs two graves. You always know the way to your chosen enemy.
Vestments
Suit & Tie
Cane
Additional Features Unlocked
Messages
Market Board
Quests]
Sure enough, no change yet again, and nothing that could be helpful, not even my magic, because dying certainly wouldn’t help me and it wasn’t as if I was in any way, shape or form prepared to fight Earthwarder..
“Hold on a minute,” I glanced back to my Domains, Nemesis in particular. “This doesn’t specify my chosen enemy, only that I have one.”
It had defaulted to Earthwarder when I first got it, probably because of the oath of revenge, but did it have to stay that way, because to be perfectly honest I was a lot more annoyed with Mascot in the short term. Focusing on that faint presence in the distance, I willed the invisible arrow to point away from the veteran magical girl, and instead to the furry menace leading me on a wild goose chase. With a faint click at the back of my head, it worked; no longer was the path pointing far north, nor did it want me to headbutt the door in front of me. Instead, Nemesis pointed me in due east, just a few metres away to a stairwell built into the side of the neighbouring building, leading down into the unknown.
“Was this Mascot’s intention from the beginning?” I wondered, taking my first step down the rickety old staircase.
It seemed improbable, given the cat’s inclination to do things on a whim; for all that he spoke of first and second tests, he’d only started sprinting after I complained about our pace, and ran off after hearing my disappointment upon seeing his home for the first time. A manipulative conspiracy, possibly, but I gave it even odds he was just doing this to annoy me. Not that his motives really mattered, because I had to find him either way; what joke of a magical girl would I be if I lost my mascot on my very first day out? The stairwell was short, only two flights down, and the door at the bottom was unlocked, so into the depths I went.