Chương 22: Winning

A week had passed since I'd found this abandoned hut, and I had to say, it was really growing on me. Sure, it still smelled faintly of old man armpit mixed with whatever that guy had been up to before he jumped in front of my bullet, but I'd made improvements. I'd cleared out the chamber pot (horrifying), patched a few of the worst holes in the floor with some planks I'd found, and even managed to get the door to close. Mostly. If you pushed hard enough and didn't mind the squeaking.

The swamp wasn't exactly a high-traffic area, which was perfect. No witch hunters. No random Silesians who might notice my very non-Silesian face and decide to report me. Just me, Phisto, and approximately nine trillion mosquitoes. I was probably as safe as I was going to get. The only problem was that I was bored. Very, very bored.

"Do you think it's possible to die of boredom?" I asked, flopping backwards onto the couch.

"Like, actually die? Because I think I'm getting close. You see that light? I think I see a white light." Phisto didn't respond. He was otherwise occupied—specifically, with licking his own butt on top of the armoire.

"I'm starting to think the old man lied about the swamp on purpose," I said.

"Like he sent me here to die. He knew I'd do the opposite of what he'd tell me, so he set me up. Clever old bastard." The cat continued his grooming routine like I hadn't spoken.

"Come on, Phisto. Let's go outside. We could explore the swamp. Meet people... well not people, since there are no people here. You know, normal stuff that normal people do." Still nothing. He'd moved on from grooming to just staring at the wall like I didn't exist.

"Don't act like you can't hear me, asshole," I said, pulling a bullet from my belt. I threw it at his smug little face. It bounced off his smug little head with a satisfying tink. That got his attention. He slowly turned toward me, made direct eye contact, and then very deliberately raised his paw and extended a single claw in what I can only describe as the feline equivalent of flipping me off. Then he went right back to staring at the wall. I pulled out another bullet.

He couldn't seriously think he could just ignore me like this.

"Don't even try it, bitch," Phisto said without looking at me.

"I hate this swamp. I hate this smelly hut. And my feelings toward you are becoming less than favorable."

"Come on," I said.

"Let's just go outside and explore a bit."

"The only thing I want to explore is the way out of this swamp, so we can leave and never return."

"Oh, I see how it is. You want me to die. You want me to get fireballed like that poor woman, don't you? Is your convenience more important than my life?" He turned to glare at me.

"Are you seriously saying you love this swamp? Getting eaten alive by mosquitoes? Sleeping on a couch? Eating nothing but swamp fish for a week straight?"

"I love swamp fish!" I said immediately. (I hate swamp fish. I hate swamp fish so much. If I never see another swamp fish again it'll be too soon.) But I wasn't about to admit that. Not when Phisto was being so judgy. He'd just use it against me. Besides, staying in the swamp was the smart move. The logical move. Out there, I was a target. In here, I was safe. Well, safe-ish. Safe enough.

"You're scared," Phisto said. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"I'm not scared."

"You're hiding."

"I'm preparing. There's a difference."

"You've been preparing for a week."

"They say preparation is half the battle. So technically, I've already won half the battle. I'm winning." Phisto's tail flicked.

"Have you even selected a new skill yet? It's been a week."

"I totally did."

"You forgot, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't forget something like that." I waved a hand dismissively.

"I'm just taking my time to ensure I have the optimal build. You can't rush these things. It requires careful consideration. Strategic thinking. Analysis." I quickly pulled up the System to see if there were any skills that would help my build. Hundreds of options flooded my vision. [Explosive Shot], [Ricochet], [Dead Eye], [Phantom Bullet]. The list went on and on, each skill more complicated than the last. Or at least, it looked like they could be complicated. I didn't actually read the descriptions.

There were a lot of words.

"You're doing it right now, aren't you?"

"I'm no—" BAM. BAM. BAM. A knock at the door. I froze. Someone was here. Someone had found me. Was someone looking to kill me? Was it the furry-pants-guy's family coming for revenge? Was it someone looking to kill furry-pants-guy? My mind raced through the possibilities, each one worse than the last. I should've left sooner. I should've kept moving. I should've—"Well?" Phisto said.

"Are you going to answer it, or just sit there panicking?" Right. Answer the door. I could do that. I leaped off the couch and bolted for the door, tripped over a pillow, stumbled over a bucket (where did that even come from? I didn't own a bucket), and crawled the rest of the way. I scrambled to my feet and flung the door open so hard the entire hut shook.

"Try not to kill anyone," Phisto called from his perch. I looked out, but there was no one there. I looked left. Looked right. Still nothing. Just trees and mud and that ever-present smell of stagnant water. Was it the wind? Maybe it was a swamp spirit, just stopping by to add to my misery.

"Heh," I heard Phisto say smugly from the top of the armoire. I sighed and tried to close the door. It wouldn't shut properly. Again. I made a mental note to fix it later. For real this time. I tried to slam it shut harder and heard a squelchy noise.

"Brek!" I looked down. A bright green frog was wedged between the door and the frame, staring up at me with wide, offended eyes. Damn frogs. Always trying to get inside. This was another reason to hate this swamp—everything was always crawling, buzzing, or hopping into this shoddy little hut. I pulled my foot back and punted the frog without a second thought. It sailed into the trees, vanishing into the murky distance. Nice. Not bad for someone with only one point in Strength.

I closed the door—successfully this time—and dropped back onto the couch.

"Shut your mouth," I told Phisto preemptively. He didn't say anything, but I could see him smiling from the armoire. Smug little bastard. I was about to pull up the System and actually pick a skill this time when Phisto spoke up.

"You know you're not going to get any levels sitting around in this swamp. I thought your plan was to survive, get strong, and kill Menekrates. Or are you scared?" Where in Erotokomos's shimmering mane was this coming from? I wasn't scared. Why did he keep saying I was scared? I was just... being smart. Cautious. You can't kill an Archon if you're dead, after all. So staying alive was step one. And I was doing great at step one. Exceptional, even.

"I'm not scared," I said.

"You haven't done anything since we got here, except kill an innocent guy and sit on that couch."

"That guy was clearly dangerous! Did you see his face? He was definitely not innocent. Anyone would have done the same."

"No, Hecate, I didn't see his face. You shot it off like a deranged lunatic. So we'll never know if he was innocent now, will we?" I slumped back.

"Fine. Let's all just pretend the screaming and the pants didn't happen. If anything, he deserved to die for those pants alone." That guy was totally evil and totally not innocent. No innocent person would voluntarily live in this swamp. Or wear those pants. Or jump at unsuspecting visitors screaming like that. I bet he was planning on eating me, that son of a bitch. BAM. BAM. BAM. Another knock. I groaned, got up from the couch, and walked to the door with my hand on my pistol.

If this was some kind of prank, I was going to shoot whoever, or whatever, was responsible. Not because I'm some kind of homicidal maniac, but because there's a limit to how much bullshit one woman can endure before resorting to ballistics. I wasn't unhinged, I was just setting boundaries. I opened it slowly this time. Nothing. Same view. Mossy trees, buzzing insects, the same choking humidity that made everything stick to everything else. And another frog. Maybe the same frog.

Sitting right there in front of the door, staring up at me. What was it with these damn frogs in this damn swamp? I pulled back my foot, already calculating the trajectory, already wondering if I could beat my previous distance record— The frog raised a tiny webbed hand.

"Alright," it said.

"Hear me out."