Chapter 5: Going Under
Cities and nations used to compete to build the tallest high rise buildings, proudly touting every inch as a new achievement for mankind. Dad used to say the architects were overcompensating for something, but there was no denying the results, impressive as they were, dotted all along the cityscape and the river Thames. The first major incursion over London put an end to such frivolity; not to tall buildings as a whole, but to isolated, overextended, indefensible structures, where sheer height height made evacuation impossible and condemned thousands to a gruesome death when the larger demons slammed into the side of them and made the whole edifice come crashing down to Earth. Nobody knew exactly how spawn locations were determined, to be clear, but population density was one of the main recognised variables, and tower blocks were densely populated by design, which only exacerbated the issue.
Fast forward to the present, and the central district holds a monopoly on skyscrapers, all of them packed tightly together to create a singular fortress. No more fragile windows of glass, to break and expose those within, but towers of concrete, steel, and enough guns to saturate the sky in hellfire. The sheer mass of all the buildings bound together prevented a repeat of the early disasters, no demon capable of flight was large enough or heavy enough to topple the entire district in a single assault. Each new building adjacent to the old, grafted tightly in place to expand the whole; eventually, the plan was for all of London to look like that, an impenetrable mega-city that would know no fear. Of course, such a dream was hellishly expensive in time and resources, and to this day the central district covers only most of what was once the old city, not even five hundred square miles or a sixth of London as a whole.
For the majority of the city, still waiting for an upgrade, the solution to enemies from above remained the same as it was all the way back during the Blitz: go as far underground as you can and pray. It worked during the war, sheltering in underground rail stations, huddled together for warmth as axis bombs fell overhead, and it worked to this day in the face of demons that could spawn out of nothing with little to no warning, but preferred to do so high in the air with statistically significant regularity. By law, every building was now required to have at minimum a concrete bunker in the basement, large enough to fit all the inhabitants and with enough food and water stored to last several weeks of frugal consumption.
Those with significant means often went far further than the basic legal requirement, building elaborate networks of tunnels descending deep into the ground, featuring labyrinths filled with mines and gun turrets, false paths and dead ends, and that was just my former office block. On the extreme end of things, I’d read rumours of an entire underground city beneath the central district, hidden black sites in pocket dimensions purchased for ruinous sums from elite magical girls, and even more outlandish claims, though I had no idea how much of that was true, and how much was good old fashioned internet trolling.
The tunnel I was exploring lacked any of that, preferring to keep things basic, short and narrow, likely a deliberate design choice to restrict access by the larger demons, as while bigger didn’t always mean stronger where the enemy was concerned, it was true often enough for many blueprints to take it into account. Fortunately, I was also rather compact, barely five feet from head to toe standing upright and blessed with a thin frame from a malnourished childhood, meaning I only needed to dismiss my fedora to fit comfortably within its confines. No need to duck my head or contort my body, there was even an inch or two between my shoulders and the walls. The lack of light was rather more problematic, though quickly resolved by my phone, the flashlight app being one of the few that didn’t require account details to use.
It was easy going at first, darkness aside, a slight but steady downward incline bereft of obstacles. That lasted for maybe two hundred yards, before the modern tunnel gave way to a much older structure; the rust on the walls gave it away, as did the reduction in headroom, designed as it was for an older and shorter generation, to the point where even I had to bow my head on occasion, whenever a low hanging pipe or loose bundle of wires got in my way. The further down I went, the more apparent the decay, as cracks on the walls became commonplace, with the occasional faint rumbling, hissing and squealing of concealed machinery really helping to set the scene. I was by no means claustrophobic, that particular trait having self-selected out of existence in an era defined by emergency shelters, but even I could admit to feeling a bit uneasy.
Thankfully, this stretch of tunnel wasn’t much longer than the first, and it wasn’t long before I spotted a light up ahead, bright enough for me to put away my phone. Stepping into the light, the cramped tunnel suddenly gave way to a wide open space; looking up, I could see actual sunlight high above me, trickling down through what appeared to be an abandoned vertical mineshaft, with myself at the bottom. What exactly used to be mined here, given the southeast’s conspicuous lack of coalfields, I had no idea; I certainly didn’t notice any coal lying about, just the remnants of wooden scaffolding littered across the floor in a haphazard manner. Frankly, I wasn’t inclined to think too deeply on the matter, relieved as I was to be out of the tunnel; it was a rare moment of unabashed happiness, which of course was when I first noticed the rat.
According to an enduring joke and urban myth, a Londoner is never more than ten feet from a rat at any given time. Completely untrue of course, maybe the saying held weight back during the height of the bubonic plague, but modern sanitation did wonders for keeping the population down, and even battered as the species might be, humanity could still manage basic plumbing. Even so, they were common enough to occasionally spot scavenging for food on the sidewalk, or diving into exposed bags of trash, and I’d seen my fair share of them over the years, to the point where a single specimen normally wouldn’t usually be cause for alarm. Those rats weren’t the size of a wolf, with glowing red eyes like embers and teeth the length of my forearm; needless to say, I was very alarmed, and barely held back a scream as it jumped at me.
In hindsight, Mascot’s words on magical weapons rang true: where my first attempt at summoning my cane took considerable effort, ensconced as I was in the safety of my hotel room, this try took barely a second. That was a very good thing, because it gave me just enough time to block the rat’s lunge with a hasty horizontal swing, hitting it across the nose and sending it flying. More importantly, it kept those twin swords disguised as teeth from piercing my heart, a great success by my count. Less good was the impact that raced up my arm, nearly making me drop my weapon as my elbow burned in protest; the rat had power in spades, far more than could be explained by momentum and unusual size alone. Any hope that this was merely some mutant or lab experiment died then and there; without a doubt, this could only be a demon.
That was unfortunate, because while I’d killed the occasional rat before, the extent of my training amounted to ‘set the trap like this to avoid catching your finger’; against this oversized variant, I could only swing and hope for the best. Gripping my cane with both hands now, I watched as the rat shook its head, one paw touching the tip of his nose in a remarkably human-like reaction, before it dropped back to all fours to begin the battle anew. Having learned from our first exchange, it abandoned the straightforward lunge, zigzagging on the approach before committing to my left. A paw lashed out, tipped with serrated claws longer than my fingers; I’d also learned from before, catching it with a two-handed swing and hearing a satisfying crunch as his paw turned to powder.
I leaned into my blow, turning my swing into a full body dodge that carried me to the side, avoiding an enraged attempt at biting with ease. Its tail proved far more dangerous, wrapping halfway around my ankle and beginning to pull. My other leg snapped out instinctually, catching the tail with a heel, the stiletto living up to its namesake as it parted flesh and bone with ease, leaving my adversary half a tail shorter for its trouble. That drew a proper shriek from the rat, far too close to my poor, sensitive ears for comfort, but I powered through the noise, lifting my cane to strike one final blow while the enemy was frozen by pain.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
From my past experience with rodent trapping, I knew that snap traps were designed to target the neck, a weak point that led to a quick and humane death. I wasn’t feeling particularly humane just then, but ‘quick’ remained a good selling point, so I didn’t hold back as I brought my cane down on the reeling rat, right behind its ears. I had anticipated another crunch, like when I struck its paw, followed by silence. I did not expect for its lower neck to burst open, spraying a truly ludicrous amount of blood all over the floor, some of it even splashing back to coat everything below my knees in ruby red, before the overgrown rodent finally slumped to the floor, falling still at long last.
I felt my gorge rise, threatening to make me vomit as I watched my fallen enemy decompose with unnatural rapidity. I forced the urge away, my spite telling me not to mourn an enemy that was out for my head, and caution warning me it would be a terrible idea to leave myself vulnerable, when I had no idea how many more enemies could be lurking in the shadows. It was a close run thing, but I managed to keep my stomach down in the end, helped by the fact that I’d not eaten anything since taking my contract. That realisation brought me up short, because I really ought to have felt hungrier after a weekend without food. I was fairly sure magical girls still needed regular nutrition, because there were far too many sightings of them in restaurants and bars for them all to be sponsored events or publicity stunts.
Before I could dwell on the matter, however, my phone buzzed in my pocket, and I reflexively went to take a look, only to pause as reason reasserted itself. I headed back into the tunnel I came down from, as I’d already confirmed it was clear of enemies, and the narrow layout would make it hard for me to be swarmed, if more rats were waiting in the wings. Only once my position was secure, did I pull out my phone.
[You have two new updates!]
The notification on MAGIActivate came as a bit of a shock, as I’d yet to post anything in the app, not even to introduce myself. Sure enough, the Message screen was still void of anything remotely when I checked it, out of ingrained social media habit more than anything else.
The participants were having a lively discussion about a predicted solar eclipse due to happen a few months in the future, a recent helicopter widely suspected to be foul play, and the recent mayoral election won by a local resident’s stuffed sock puppet. The Market Board was largely unchanged from the last time I checked, the one notable addition being an auction hosted by the daughter of Gawain PLC’s Chief Operating Officer, featuring some very expensive pieces of artwork with bids starting at the seven figure mark; interesting, but irrelevant to me. Quests remained empty, and I wondered when that would change, if ever.
Typically, it was the last page I checked that had what I actually needed, the Status Page having changed the formatting around slightly, coupled with a pair of very intriguing additions to my arsenal.
[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 (Fedora, Stiletto Heels)


Fashionable Edge: Look good doing evil. Exert cutting force from any point.


Cane


Mark of Cane: Fugitive and Wanderer, rejoice. When striking a weak point, multiply damage inflicted sevenfold.]


“That explains a few things,” I muttered, the puzzle pieces slotting into place, as my mind circled back to the blow-by-blow action of my first fight against the great enemy of mankind.
Naming aside, a single kick from my stiletto heel shouldn’t have been able to cut through a demon’s tail so easily, but with a bit of extra cutting power, the equation changed completely. Likewise, the finishing blow seemed altogether too potent, as my poor trousers could attest to, but a sevenfold increase would more than explain the bloody end of the battle. Of course, these new benefits, while welcome, only raised more questions as to how magic worked. Mascot had claimed that my outfit would evolve with my experiences, but I’d assumed he meant their appearance, rather than the acquisition of powers tied to them. How did that work anyway; did I gain powers that helped me fight better, or did my actions during the fight lead to the powers? Finally, and most distressing of all, I noted the pun on the latter power; my magic had a sense of humour, the lowest form of it in fact, which boded ill for my sanity going forward.
“Alright, no more of that,” I chastised myself, putting an end to my spiralling thoughts before I could waste any more time in pointless navel gazing; there was a time and a place to theorise on the nature of magic, and this was neither.
I put my phone away, and took a step forward, immediately grimacing as my bloodsoaked shoes touched the ground. Taking a careful look into the mineshaft, I confirmed that no further enemies were visible, before testing something I’d been wondering about for a while now. With an effort of will, my clothes vanished in a cascade of light, leaving me in the bathrobe liberated from the hotel. How that worked, I wasn't sure, given I'd left it behind; maybe magic itself wanted to preserve my modesty? Another small exertion, and my suit was back, now mercifully clean of blood, wood shavings and other assorted detritus. Where it all went, I didn’t really know, but some kind of pocket dimension was a reasonable guess; I hoped to have access to such a thing more generally at some point, though that was probably something for the distant future. In the meantime though?
“No more money spent on dry cleaning,” I declared, grinning widely, as I patted myself down, my hands coming back clean.
Apartments in London were already the most expensive in the country before demons started popping up, and the prices only shot up from there. Accordingly, my former home was barely more than a small, self-contained box, and luxuries like a kitchen or any white goods were entirely the stuff of dreams. I’d spent far too much of my life in a crowded communal laundrette, fussing over temperamental, coin fed washing machines, now I never had to go back, yet another timesaving benefit of obtaining magic; truly, the rich only get richer.
Now in an excellent mood, I pulled on Nemesis again, looking for Mascot, and sure enough the correct path was straight ahead, past the mysterious mine shaft and into another tunnel on the opposite side. It didn’t help that I could see slight movements between piles of wood, along with a faint but noticeable vibration, paired with the occasional squeak from below the floorboards. Needless to say, I was quite careful in my approach, picking up way across broken wooden planks while keeping an eye out for more rats. My caution was rewarded halfway across the mine shaft with a dark shadow darted out from an overturned barrel, lunging for my face.
It died to a casual swat of my cane, because while it shared the same ferocity as its predecessor, this was undercut by it being less than a tenth of the size. It didn’t turn to dust either, instead leaving a very mundane corpse on the floor. That wasn’t necessarily reassuring, to be clear, as this implied a level of aggression that would make even an ordinary rat lash out, despite ordinarily a species known to be cowardly, with a strong preference for avoiding larger animals. Personally, I suspected rabies, which was probably better than demonic influence, but not by much.
Thankfully, they were easily dealt with before they could get a bite in, and none of the larger specimens were around, so it didn’t take long for me to reach the opposite wall, where I found a set of double doors painted in bright yellow and black stripes, the universal sign for ‘hazard.’ That was far from ideal, but I was already too far along to turn back now, and the sunk cost fallacy demanded that I continue to look for my wayward cat. Giving the door a gentle push with one hand, and my cane ready in the other, I prepared myself to dive deeper into the unknown. The door opened without resistance, spraying me in the face with thick purple mist, making my eyes water as I coughed my lungs out.