Chương 48: Love

In just a moment he was already picking up Lily's body, to abate the discontent voices in his head and for no other reason. Dennis was wondering if he was developing an unhealthy attachment to a corpse. It wasn't like she was going to just walk away and get killed by a random monster again. The rush was unnecessary. He still did it. Putting his sword back into its sheath was so much easier now that the blade was broken. It resembled more of a dagger with an oversized handle than a sword.

Dennis wasn't sure what to feel about it. About the sword, and about the whole fight in general. His thoughts were all over the place.

"Did you level up?" he asked the most important question. If Gareth didn't get enough exp the whole fight was meaningless, and without a good weapon Dennis didn't believe himself capable of a repeat performance. Technically, the hobo was the reason why Dennis even could fight, but it was superficial and likely to be penalized by whatever decided to award the exp. Dennis still hoped that sheer disparity in power between the Arm and Gareth would mean that even the smallest scraps would be enough.

"I… Ah, yes…" he replied. Thank gods.

"Put the points in Mind," Dennis said.

"You hear me? In Mind. Don't fuck up again." Dennis was getting really tired of people around him fucking up and making his job harder. First it was the useless people who didn't know which end of a spear to use, then Lily with her own brand of idiocy, and now this guy… Dennis expected to have five seconds of the buff. While cutting the monster's head off with the first strike was a welcome fucking surprise, initially he was planning to use all five seconds to slowly chip at the neck with multiple attacks.

Gareth fucking dodging – What if Dennis didn't win in a second? What if he stumbled during the split-second when he lost his speed? What if– Maybe he would've salvaged it. Figured something out. But… He didn't know what to feel about the fight. It was a decisive victory. An instant oneshot of a foe far stronger than he was. Every movement was perfect, and the experience was enough to put him halfway to sixth level. The hobo would regain his sanity–he hoped–and have a safe place to survive for a while.

Everything worked out. This was the best possible outcome. It was just… how many things could've gone wrong? His sword broke. Gareth fucked up. Those things didn't affect the outcome of the fight, but… He sighed. Beating a fearful opponent with so many style points should've restored his confidence. Reminded him that he was, indeed, the best. Gareth stared blankly into a wall, unmoving.

"Bro, you good there?" Dennis asked.

"Did you use the points?" The man's head jerked, gaze focusing on Dennis with intensity unseen before.

"I, ah– Yes," he replied without eating his own words for once, though he still looked dazed.

"I just– I'm sorry, just give me a few minutes. This is wild." Going from a legal vegetable to above-average intelligence seemed to have a particular effect on the man. Kind of made sense that the change from such a low stat would feel more drastic.

"Suit yourself," Dennis muttered.

"I'm gonna go check out what the hell is wrong with my house. Join me at your own convenience and all that."

"Wait– Your house?" Dennis didn't bother listening to what the hobo had to say about that revelation, already closing the door behind him. Come to think of it, maybe he should've. His tried and true tactic of outright ignoring people when he didn't want to listen to them was backfiring lately in more spectacular fashion than he was used to. But chances of this particular hobo killing himself because Dennis was a bit rude to him were low, so it was fine. He hoped. He shook his head, centering his thoughts.

His house was unrecognizable, by a certain definition of it. It was the same as any other house in this world, with the same furniture, and same layout. The pictures on the walls were just as blank as anywhere else, and more than that Dennis didn't remember having any pictures on the walls in his house in the first place. By any metric, this was just a random replica of a generic house. The only things even hinting that it was his were the broken fence and the general location of a building. And, well… the aura.

It was faint. Weaker than even the canteen in the fort. It was familiar. It smelled of mold. He felt uneasy. The scratching of his Soul against the invisible barrier made the world feel just a little bit more tilted. Like a swarm of rats scratching behind the locked door. They had no hope of opening it unless they outright burrowed their way through the wood, but it didn't at all stop them from trying. There was– There was no one– The house was empty. Which of course it was.

He literally just killed the Arm that guarded the entrance. And even ignoring that, this world didn't have much in terms of denizens if you ignored all the people who floated in the sky. He moved slowly, carefully checking every detail and trying to spot any difference from what he called 'the default house'. The place was the same as any other, but felt more real because of the proximity to the skill-place. The walls were a bit more sturdy, requiring more effort to carve through.

The wooden chairs actually smelled like wood, albeit faintly. There was no noticeable difference between this house and any other except it was more real and… Well, there was a door. He knew that door. It was a door to his basement, exactly the same as he remembered it. It never bothered him before, but the fact that the only thing different in this house was the door to his basement felt wrong. Like, it should've been more. He lived here, and yet the place didn't resemble his home at all.

It was like he didn't live in his house, he lived in his basement. Which was true… And he was fine with it… You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. He blamed the Soul for the feeling of unease. The error spam was still constant, and the reason why he wasn't stumbling from the sudden feeling all the time was because it wasn't stopping, and he was getting used to it.

The Soul couldn't fit on that throne of being 'one' instead of 'zero', but its ass slipped off of it so frequently that the seat was warm. He didn't know why he hesitated. Not with that fight, and not with opening the door now. He was a person who always knew what he wanted and never had doubts. He always knew the reasons behind his actions, and could always explain himself. Aside from his passion, he was a creature of pure logic, and every thought could be traced back to his only want.

Yes, people called him unreasonable, they called him– He didn't care what they called him. In his world, everything made sense. This hesitation didn't. That fear before the fight didn't. Him fussing over a fucking corpse didn't. Make. Sense. Not for him. He blamed the fucking Soul, for… for doing whatever it was trying to do. He blamed the fucking System, for lying to him about it being a zero, and for allowing stats to grow from use in just weeks without even trying too much.

Since the apocalypse started, his Constitution grew by two points. Thirty percent better. From what? Running around for a bit? Moderate exercise? His– his endurance was almost average now. The fucking stats grew from use. He didn't fucking do anything at all to make his Soul grow, but it was whining at him, tearing, screaming– He shook his head, trying to center himself again.

It wasn't like him, getting distracted by useless stuff instead of thinking of something important, like his build or what his costume would look like. He opened the door. The staircase was as inviting as it always was. Going down while dragging a corpse was a bit awkward, he should've just left her above but… Ugh. The room was older than he remembered. Most of the shelves and the towers of comic books were gone, and out of dozens of figurines he owned he could spot only a few.

He placed Lily near the bed before turning around. The focal point was the poster. The Flash, smiling at him with that reassuring smile that promised that everything will be cool, and good, and all evil would vanish in an instant of brilliant speedsteriness. He felt his own existence resonating with it. It promised safety. It promised awesomeness. It promised… something else that he couldn't quite get. He frowned, placing a hand on it to discern the meaning better. Partial compatibility detected.

Assimilation threshold not reached. Assimilation impossible. What the–"What do you mean partial compatibility?! I've made this thing! Obviously! It's mine!" He felt cheated. How dare the System admit that skills could be consumed, and then show him his own skill that he obviously created, and then tell him he wasn't worthy! He took a deep breath. Then another one. Then he placed his hand back on the poster, determined to find out what the fuck was wrong with the skill that by all rights should've been his.

Minutes passed. As time went on, the fury on his face slowly disappeared, replaced by confusion. Then worry. And at the very end, melancholy.

"I–" he tried to find the words, but his voice was cracking.

"I'm–" He tried to organize the discordant thoughts in his head into something cohesive, something that could be spoken. Lily was a good listener nowadays.

"The skills are made by people," he said quietly instead, his finger tracing the lines.

"That's obvious. It's the only explanation that makes sense. I don't know if it's, like, faith, or it's tied to the strength of emotion they feel, or if the amount of people thinking at the thing plays a role. I assumed that it mattered, otherwise there'd be a lot more random trinkets lying around, but…" He gently smoothed out a small tear in the paper.

"I've basically prayed to this thing, you know?" he said. The girl didn't answer.

"You wouldn't believe how much. So much more than any sane person would ever do. It's not about the poster, of course… The poster was just there. Looks cool. Easy to look at while daydreaming. About heroes. And speedsters. It's–" He turned to look at Lily, as if trying to gauge her reaction.

"You wouldn't get it," he said defensively.

"It's an obsession, I guess. But it's the only thing that matters. The only thing that exists at all. Without it I– It's the only thing I care about. If skills are made from faith, then… I alone have more than a full church. I don't care about anything else, Lily. I really, truly don't." He sat on the floor beside her." I can't," he admitted quietly, looking down. Behind the door, the rats were scratching. Tearing wood. Biting the hinges.

Like in a cheap horror movie, the barricade that was surely secure didn't feel secure at all.

"And without this, I wouldn't care about anything at all. You should've seen me before I–" he chuckled, before releasing another heavy sigh.

"Skills are made not just by people," he said instead, sharing his observation.

"They don't do what you just think of them. If that was the case, I would've got it, but… Skills are also shaped by history, I guess? Objective truth? Context? What matters is not just what people think or feel, but how it happened. And…" His head was filled with static. The constant noise of errors made it hard to think.

"And my–" The scratching was tearing his heart apart.

"My mom gifted me this poster," he whispered. His voice was trembling.

"B-before… When I was a kid. Before I even knew who Flash was. After dad left us and I… I didn't feel anything then. I remember some dumb kids mocking me for being like a robot. And it was true. I don't think I even ate food unless someone fed me." He raised his head, looking at that smile as he did a million times before.

"And then one day she took me to the cinema," he said.

"I was ten, I think? It was Justice League, and it was complete trash but… I felt something then, during a joke scene with Flash, and I guess mom noticed it, and she bought me this poster, and…" Scratching, piercing, gnawing, biting…

"I learned to care about something. One thing." The Gift of Glorious Dream was a dear friend. It smelled of mold, but it was a familiar, comforting smell. Of having a precious thing that was given to you with love, and care, and worry, and you cradled it, and treasured it, and grew along with it.

"Only one thing." The Glorious Dream was indeed glorious. It was everything he ever dreamed about speedsters, and heroes. It was tangible awesomeness. The best thing to ever exist. Dennis and Dream were created for each other. Existed for each other. He understood it intimately, and perfectly. The Gift… he couldn't even comprehend it. Just scratch the surface. Reason his mind around its shape, infer meaning though detached observation.

Dryly quote the definition of love from a dictionary without ever understanding it. His soul roared every time he tried.

"I don't even know where she is," he whispered.

"Or if she's alive. And I–" The static in his head was deafening. The door was creaking.

"I don't feel anything. I don't think that I care. And I don't–" He took out his sword, looking at the broken blade. In the reflection, he was crying. Soul: 0 -> 1"I don't feel like a hero anymore."