Osamaru Ta
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(WLTK) B1: Chapter 32 - "Of Valor And Violence.”
🕑 Added 2025-05-01 06:28:51 +0000 UTCThe corridors of Outskirt District 4’s safehouse throbbed with a greasy sort of life. Vents rattled overhead, casting damp heat into the stale air, while flickering lights buzzed like dying insects. Distant bursts of laughter echoed down the cracked concrete halls, warped by the acoustics into something eerie. Jeremiah moved like smoke, his steps whisper-soft across the chipped tiles.
Now and then, he passed a few of the denizens. Two teens hurried by with stacks of paper nearly slipping from their arms. A pair of older thugs slouched beside a stairwell, arguing over a busted stim injector and what looked like a half-finished card game. Once, he nearly collided with a squad of guards mid-shift change.
He froze in place — but luck, or timing, was on his side. The on-duty guards were more preoccupied with something outside the building, their brows furrowed as they muttered about patrol routes and trouble with a returning group. The off-duty ones barely looked at him, sunken-eyed and sluggish, their stares glazed with exhaustion. One grumbled something unintelligible as they passed, but otherwise, they let him go with nothing more than a quick glance.
Jeremiah kept his head down, shoulders loose, and his body language casual. He moved like someone with somewhere to be, but nothing urgent.
And to his credit, it worked.
Or at least, no one had stopped him yet.
Maybe my brief detour through the other building played in my favor, he thought.
He’d yet to see anyone here with more than one or two outfits to their name, their clothes threadbare, patched, and stained. If he’d walked in wearing anything clean, he would’ve stuck out like a polished nail. This may have been a nest of thieves, grifters, and gutter-born muscle — but seeing how many of them lived, Jeremiah felt a pang in his chest. Hunger lined their faces. Desperation clung to their voices.
This could’ve been me, he admitted silently, if the dice had rolled a little differently.
Not that it changed what he had to do.
Amani was just as much a victim of this place as these people were.
After a few more turns, and Jeremiah knew he was close. The hallway ahead stood out from the others. Cleaner, better kept. The floor tiles were still worn but in a lived-in, well-traveled sort of way rather than the cracked neglect of the lower levels. According to Ulrick’s intel, this was where the higher-ups and long-standing members stayed. Which meant the heavy oak door at the end belonged to Jonny.
Jeremiah picked up the pace, every step deliberate, eyes darting from corner to corner. If anyone spotted him here, there’d be no talking his way out of it. He had to move fast.
He reached the end of the hall and cast a glance over his shoulder. Clear. He grabbed the doorknob—
It didn’t budge.
Crap. Locked. Should’ve seen that coming.
There’s no way Jonny would just leave his room unlocked for anyone to just walk in.
Fortunately, Jeremiah had recently picked up a trick just for this kind of situation.
He activated [Kraken’s Grasp], and a single finger morphed into a long tentacle. With practiced precision he would have found impossible before his lessons with Billy, he guided it into the lock.
And immediately realized this wasn’t going to be as simple as turning a latch.
Lockpicking in games was way easier than the real thing.
Still, he had a rough idea of what he had to do. He kept one eye on the hallway while the tentacle probed the mechanism, sensitive suckers relaying every twitch and click like Braille. Jeremiah’s pulse drummed in his ears, tension stretching thin as the seconds crawled past.
Click.
The handle gave. A low breath of relief escaped him.
Jeremiah carefully retracted the tendril, eased the door open, and slipped inside without a sound.
Inside was a cramped apartment that reminded Jeremiah of his own — or what it might have been had Mrs. Grim not been able to keep her building in impeccable shape. The wallpaper peeled in long strips like shedding skin, the couch sagged beneath invisible weight, and the dust on the table was thick enough to leave fingerprints. Still, for all the wear, it was clear Jonny appreciated his comforts. Trinkets and oddities lined the shelves, each arranged with a strange sort of pride. Framed photos hung neatly on the walls — Jonny grinning beside unfamiliar faces, arms slung over shoulders like old friends. A large window overlooked the building opposite, letting in the soft glow of early morning. The light gave the space a lived-in warmth that clashed sharply with the grime.
“Alright, Jonny,” Jeremiah muttered, eyes scanning the room. “Where would you hide a focus?”
His first instinct was to check the display of bizarre items scattered about the apartment. A bloodstained knife mounted on the wall. A sleek, expensive-looking wallet perched beside a portrait of a stern, silver-haired man. Some strange device tangled with wires sat on a low shelf next to a battered bag of tools. Trophies, Jeremiah guessed. Or maybe mementos.
Each object clearly meant something to Jonny — but would a silver pocket watch lifted off some random girl make the cut?
He doubted it.
A quick glance around the room confirmed it wasn’t on display, at least. That meant either Jonny didn’t think much of the piece, or it was valuable enough to keep hidden. Jeremiah leaned toward the latter. Even if the watch lacked sentimental value, it was still worth a good chunk of change. The kind of thing a guy like Jonny might stash away until he could fence it.
It was worth checking.
Jeremiah got to work, scanning for signs of a hidden safe or stash spot. He eased pictures off the walls, feeling for hollows. Pulled the couch forward and peered behind it. Even tipped over the bedframe, gritting his teeth as the old springs groaned in protest.
Minutes ticked by. Dust clung to his sleeves. And still… nothing.
Frustration prickled beneath his skin. Time was running thin.
Just as Jeremiah was about to cut his losses and risk searching elsewhere, his gaze settled on the dresser near the window. Unlike the rest of the apartment, its surface was unusually clean. No dust, no clutter. Just a small dish filled with loose change, a half-empty pack of smokes, and a folded newspaper.
He moved in, lifting the paper with care. Nothing underneath. He tugged the drawers open one by one — socks, wrinkled shirts, a couple of pairs of knockoff sunglasses — but when he reached the bottom, the drawer refused to budge.
Locked.
His pulse quickened.
Jeremiah knelt beside it, extending a tentacle to brush along the edges. The sensitive limb registered subtle details no human fingers could detect — the faint scrape of worn paint, the minute scratches from repeated probing, and there… just at the base of the drawer, a shallow groove nearly invisible to the eye. A concealed keyhole, expertly hidden in the grain.
He smirked.
Bingo.
A quick glance at the door. Still clear.
He didn’t waste time. The tentacle coiled inward, slipping delicately into the lock. This one felt older, simpler, less refined than the door. Some antique maybe? Whatever the case, the mechanism yielded easily, and with a soft click, the drawer creaked open.
Jeremiah exhaled, leaning forward.
Nestled inside was a velvet-lined box. Beside it sat a few crumpled stacks of cash, bound in fraying rubber bands, and a scratched-up datachip reader. He ignored those.
Fingers steady, he lifted the box.
His breath caught as he cracked it open.
Then hissed a sharp curse through clenched teeth.
Inside sat a metal medallion, polished and engraved, the kind awarded at a local tournament or ceremony. On its surface were engraved the words “For Valour Beyond Duty, and Sacrifice Beyond Expectation.”
But no watch.
Jeremiah nearly hurled the box in frustration — only to freeze as muffled voices echoed just outside the door.
Shit.
He spun, heart slamming against his ribs, the weight of his oversight crashing down.
He hadn’t locked the door or nailed it shut as he planned.
Panic surged. In one swift motion, he yanked the ski mask from his belt and yanked it over his head, cursing under his breath as he staggered toward the window. If he could force it open fast enough—
Too late.
The doorknob turned… then stopped. Silence. Then, with a violent crack, the door burst open, slamming into the wall hard enough to rattle the shelves.
A blur of motion.
Pain exploded through Jeremiah’s side as something — someone — hit him like a freight train. He flew back, crashed into the wall just beside the window, and collapsed to the floor in a heap.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs. His ribs screamed in protest.
Sneering over him stood Jonny.
Even without the jacket Jeremiah had last seen him in, there was no mistaking him. That messy brown hair and black eyes. The cocky tilt of his head. And the faint flicker of kinetic energy coiling around his boots like a predator stretching before the kill.
“Well, well,” Jonny drawled, taking a step forward. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a rat.”
Jeremiah said nothing. He forced himself to roll onto his knees, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs.
Jonny glanced toward the door and nodded at the dark-skinned woman standing behind him. She returned the nod and vanished down the hall without a word.
Jonny turned back, expression sharpening.
“I don’t know how you got in here, thief,” he said, voice low and flat, “but I hope it was worth it. Because it’s the last mistake you’re ever going to make.”
Jeremiah’s mind raced, grasping at every scrap of strategy.
Jonny’s a burst-speed user. Not continuous. If I can catch him off guard before he activates his ability…
A boot drove into Jeremiah’s ribs, white-hot pain lancing through his side.
“What? Got nothing to say after trashing my place?!” Jonny barked, fury cutting through the sarcasm.
Jeremiah reacted on instinct. He twisted, flinging a handful of nails from his pouch straight at Jonny’s face. The man’s eyes widened, his form flickering as he blurred out of the way.
Now.
Jeremiah surged to his feet and sprinted to the far side of the room. Jonny blinked forward in a burst of motion. Only for Jeremiah to spin, [Kraken’s Grasp] already blooming across his hand.
Jonny swung, but Jeremiah’s [Tempered by the Waves]-enhanced strength — further boosted by his morph — let him absorb the blow and lock the arm in place. Tentacles coiled around Jonny’s wrist like serpents, anchoring him.
Jeremiah pulled.
Jonny stumbled forward.
Right into Jeremiah’s fist.
The punch cracked against his jaw, and Jeremiah immediately released the tentacles to avoid being dragged with him. Jonny staggered back, shaking his head, then wiped a smear of blood from his lip.
He spat, grinning.
“So you’re not just a thief,” he said with a sneer. “You’re a tentacled freak too. Doesn’t matter to me. I’m sure you’ll bleed all the same.”
The two men circled one another, Jonny with fists raised like a seasoned street boxer, Jeremiah holding his stance in the martial guard his old instructor had hammered into him years ago. But now, ten writhing tentacles unfurled in place of his fingers, twitching like serpents tasting the air, ready to strike.
Jonny blurred again, vanishing and reappearing at Jeremiah’s left. A haymaker roared in from his blind spot.
Jeremiah’s left hand snapped up, catching the wrist. He twisted, driving a roundhouse kick toward Jonny’s ribs—
—but Jonny flickered out of range in a blink. Jeremiah’s kick cut through empty space.
Jonny slipped back in low, hands tight to his chest, and fired off a brutal jab to Jeremiah’s already-bruised ribs.
Jeremiah grunted but turned with the hit, slamming an elbow down onto Jonny’s shoulder. The two disengaged.
Jeremiah took a step back, breathing harder now. Sweat stung his eyes.
Across from him, Jonny grinned, bouncing lightly on his toes, looking as fresh as when he walked in.
The next few clashes were similar. Jonny launching quick, surgical strikes that chipped away at Jeremiah’s stamina, while Jeremiah tried to corner him with his superior strength and grasping tentacle. But whenever he moved toward the window, Jonny cut him off with a blur of motion.
Blow for blow, the exchange wore on. Both had taken just as many hits as they’d given. But as time went on, something was becoming clearer to Jeremiah.
He’s better than me.
The thought landed like a stone in his gut. And it rang true. His training was years behind him. Rusted. Fragmented.
But this — this was Jonny’s life.
Even with the raw enhancements from the System, Jeremiah couldn’t shake the truth.
If this keeps up, I’m going to lose.
Then something shifted.
Jeremiah feinted left and braced for Jonny to blur again. But nothing came. Jonny movements were slow. Too… normal.
Another clash. Another missed blink.
Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed. He started counting.
One… two…
There. The flicker returned — but not before another pause.
He has a cooldown! Jeremiah mentally cheered.
Relief surged through his chest like a second wind.
So-called cooldowns weren’t rare among Deviants with activated powers. In fact, the accepted rule of thumb was simple: the stronger the ability, the longer the downtime. This wasn’t always the case, of course, and there were always exceptions, but it was common enough that even games and movies had picked it up.
Jonny’s cooldown didn’t seem very long. A few seconds at the very most if Jeremiah had timed it right.. maybe less.
But it was something.
The only question was,
Was it enough?
Comments
Moon Winchester
Deeply love this story, tftc. Too tried to critic chapter.
