Osamaru Ta
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(WLTK) B1: Chapter 30 - "Silence And Shadows."
🕑 Added 2025-04-25 23:44:10 +0000 UTCAs the footsteps approached — not from the alleyway below, but from the elevated walkway several meters overhead — Jeremiah froze, his breath caught in his throat.
Then came the sound of a sigh, just above him, followed by the sharp flick of a lighter. A moment later, the acrid tang of cigarette smoke drifted down. Jeremiah cursed his luck and pressed tighter against the wall, melding with the shadows pooling beneath the overhang. From that angle, even a direct glance downward would miss him. He hoped.
Minutes crawled by, each one stretching under the weight of held breath and pounding heart, while Jeremiah mentally screamed at the sentry to move on.
The universe, of course, answered with mockery.
A second set of footsteps echoed along the walkway, lighter and quicker. Then came a cheerful, feminine voice. "Morning, James! Stuck on dawn patrol again? Rough break."
"Mornin', Jess." The young man's voice rasped around his cigarette, gravel-thick with smoke and sleep. He exhaled a plume over the railing. "You know how that bastard Markus is. Any chance to screw with me… ain't my fault he got his ass kicked by some random civ."
Jeremiah could practically hear the eye roll in the man's tone.
"I swear, ever since Jonny started taking him on runs, he acts like his crap don't stink."
Jess chuckled. "Heard Nic tore into Jonny over that. Big scene."
James huffed. "As she should've. The whole thing's foolish, if you ask me. Ain't nothing good gonna come from antagonizing the baker. That man's dangerous."
"Oooh, so you do believe the rumors?" Jess teased. Jeremiah could see her shadow lean in, a playful bump of shoulder against arm.
"I believe there's a reason none of the old-timers pick a fight with that man," James muttered.
Jess's tone shifted, half-curious, half-scheming. "So… think Jonny's barking up the wrong tree trying to impress the Oddfather?"
James didn't answer right away. Another long inhale, then smoke ghosted over the railing. "I don't know, Jess. I just know that guy gives me the creeps. The Oddfather's been pushing hard into the Crossroads lately. Somethin' don't sit right with me."
"I know what you mean..." Her voice dipped, losing its usual bubbly cheer.
A pause stretched between them before Jess spoke again, quieter this time. "Hey… "You ever think about… ya know… leaving?"
James puffed again before answering. "And go where?" He spat over the edge. "None of the other crews are gonna take in some no-name street rat like me. Not like any of them are any better, either. At least Jonny and Nic give a damn about the kids."
Jess leaned in closer. "It doesn't have to be like this. We could find someplace else. Somewhere the gangs aren't always fighting."
James let out a dry laugh. "Sure. You got bus fare for both of us? I sure as hell don't, and I don't trust the highway wards enough to try walkin'. There's a reason the intercity buses are armored, Jess."
Jess didn't back off. "We could try another district. My cousin in the eastern Outskirts says it's calmer out there. Safer."
James shifted his weight and flicked his cigarette over the edge. The glowing ember tumbled down, bounced off Jeremiah's hood, and disappeared into the dumpster below.
"Maybe. But unless you got a pass into Central, we'd have to go south through Black Palm territory to get there." He shook his head. "No thanks. I'll take my chances with the Oddfather."
He turned away. "Besides, who'd watch the kids if we left? You want Markus looking after them? Yeah, right."
His laugh echoed as his footsteps faded down the walkway.
Jess lingered in silence, her shadow unmoving, before whispering into the emptiness, "You stupid idiot… what about us?" Then she followed after him, her steps softer now.
Jeremiah lingered in the shadows for several more heartbeats, ears straining for the faintest sign of anyone else approaching. When the silence held, he exhaled slowly, steadying the frantic rhythm in his chest. Then, with a soft grunt, he hauled himself up to the window's narrow ledge. It barely offered enough space for an elbow to rest, his legs still dangling in the open air, but with his enhanced physique, he could've stayed there for hours without strain.
He reached for the window and gave it a tentative push — only to feel it resist. His fingers tensed. He shoved again, harder this time. Still nothing.
Is it locked?! Jeremiah thought to himself. Or just jammed?
For a split second, his hand hovered over the hammer in his pouch. One swing would do it. But the noise would echo through the alley like a gunshot.
A closer look at the warped seal sparked a different idea.
Back when researching how to care for Billy, he'd fallen down a rabbit hole of cephalopod videos — octopuses slipping through bottle-necked jars or manipulating puzzle boxes with eerie precision. The clips were meant to highlight their intelligence. But for Jeremiah, they'd planted seeds.
Could I do the same?
He adjusted his grip on the ledge, bracing himself, then brought one of his tentacled hands up to the crooked frame. Slowly, carefully, he slid a slender tendril into the largest crack between the decaying wood. Twice he had to retract, pulling out soft, pulpy chunks of rot to widen the space. Then, finally, the tip of his tentacle slipped behind the glass.
A silent cheer welled up inside him.
He spent the next few minutes navigating the tight angles, blindly feeling along the interior frame until he found a rusty latch near the top. A firm tug — and click — it released.
Another inward cheer. He pushed against the window again.
It groaned, loud in the stillness, but opened. Jeremiah winced at the sound, but moved quickly, slipping through the gap like a shadow. Once inside, he gently pulled the window closed behind him and dropped into the room beyond.
Dust clouded around his boots as he landed.
The space was dim, lit only by the muted light from the window. It looked like it had once been an office, but was now abandoned to time. A rusted filing cabinet slouched in the corner. A mold-spotted desk sat beneath a pile of crumbling paper and debris. Whatever value it had once held was long gone, claimed by looters or decay.
Jeremiah waited, eyes adjusting to the gloom, then crept toward the door. A jagged hole gaped in its lower panel — evidence of long-past violence — but for him, it served his needs perfectly.
He pulled the small mirror from his pouch and carefully extended it through the hole.
The hallway beyond was just as dark as the room, dimly lit by a few narrow windows high along the wall. But it was enough for him to confirm there was no one in the immediate area.
Still, a part of him tensed.
Maybe he was being paranoid. He hadn't even entered Jonny's base proper yet. But leaving the building directly next door unguarded? That would be stupid. He had to assume it wasn't and proceed carefully.
The next half hour passed in a slow, tense crawl through the decaying office building. At every junction, Jeremiah paused to peer around corners with his mirror, one ear tuned to the hush of stale air, alert for even the faintest anomaly. Twice he ascended stairwells that creaked beneath his weight but held steady, as he mentally tracked his location in relation to the base.
Specifically, to one of the lifts the crew used to enter and exit.
The very one anchored to the roof of the building he currently crept through.
If he could reach it unseen, he could cross directly into the base without tripping any alarms. By his reckoning, only two floors remained. His heart beat harder as he picked up his pace, each step fueled by adrenaline and tightly coiled focus.
As he climbed one more set of stairs, he froze.
Through the stagnant silence, a sound bled through — faint but unmistakable once he caught it.
Snoring.
Jeremiah dropped into a crouch, cocking his head, trying to trace the source.
He hesitated, torn between slipping away or heading toward the sound.
On one hand, it confirmed his suspicion; this building was guarded. On the other, a guard likely meant he was close to something important. Possibly even his way up. After a moment's deliberation, he veered toward the sound. Risky, yes — but there might not be another path to the roof.
The snoring grew louder as he crept closer until he came to what looked like a checkpoint. The narrow hallway ahead had been fortified with makeshift barricades and reinforced doorframes. A battered chair sat behind the barrier, empty. The snores drifted instead from a side room, the door cracked just enough for the sound to spill out.
Jeremiah exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from his shoulders.
Maybe this'll be easier than I thought.
He crept forward.
All was going smoothly — until his foot clipped something hidden in the gloom.
His eyes widened in horror as an empty beer can rattled across the floor and pinged against the nearby door.
The snoring stopped. A beat. Then a snort, the creak of a mattress, and a groggy voice muttering, "That you, Amar? Rotation already? Shit."
Heavy footsteps approached the door.
Jeremiah's heart slammed in his chest as he whipped his gaze back the way he came — then to the checkpoint ahead. Did he risk making a break for it? Or go back the other way? Either way, escape wouldn't be subtle.
"Look bro," the voice called, still thick with sleep, "No need to tell Nic I crashed, right?"
Then came the sound of a latch turning.
Jeremiah's choice was taken from him the next instant as the door in front of him opened.
"I can get you that mag you were—"
The young guard froze — staring directly at a masked Jeremiah, crouched like an animal mid-pounce.
Despite the man's grogginess, reflexes honed by a rough life on the streets had him reaching for his club before the door had even fully opened.
Jeremiah's reflexes, fueled by instinct and panic, were faster.
He lunged, driving into the man's midsection, knocking them both back through the doorway. One hand grabbed at the guard's wrist, while the other, transformed and flexing, reached for the man's face, tentacles unfurling.
Legs stronger than a professional athlete's, pinned the guard to the floor, crushing the air from his lungs. The man thrashed beneath Jeremiah as sinewous, shifting tentacles wrapped around his face, sealing his nose and mouth, stifling his screams to muffled grunts of panic.
The guard bucked violently, his free hand scrabbling across the floor in search of his dropped club. When it proved out of reach, the guard instead pummeled Jeremiah's side with a series of wild punches, each blow sending searing waves of pain through his side.
Still, Jeremiah didn't move.
He couldn't.
He was locked — frozen — staring into the man's eyes. Wide with terror. Desperate. Pleading.
And Jeremiah couldn't look away.
His breath caught in his throat, and something inside him cracked as he watched that panic drain away. The punches slowed. Grew weak. The man's struggles dulled, became twitches, then spasms… until finally, the arm dropped limp.
The light behind the man's eyes flickered—and went dim.
Jeremiah's breath caught in his throat.
Did I—?
He tore himself back, nearly stumbling as he disengaged his limbs and rolled off the guard's chest. Jeremiah drew in several long, ragged breaths. For a few seconds, he simply knelt there, panting, staring at the man sprawled on the floor. His heart thundered like a war drum. His skin felt clammy and his hands shook uncontrollably.
Slowly, he leaned forward and pressed two trembling tentacles to the man's neck.
Please…
A beat.
Then another.
Faint. Shallow.
Still there.
Jeremiah scrambled to retrieve his mirror and brought it gently to the man's nose. After a moment, a whisper of fog bloomed across the surface.
He collapsed backward onto the filthy floor, limbs splayed like a marionette with its strings cut.
A broken, ragged breath escaped his lips.
Then a laugh. Short. Shaky. It bubbled up uninvited and cracked into a sob. He covered his eyes with one hand and let it pass through him, the relief crashing over his body like a dam bursting.
"He's not dead," he whispered, the words barely audible. Almost too quiet to be real.
He hadn't crossed that line.
Not yet.
After a long, trembling moment, Jeremiah drew in a sharp breath and pushed himself upright.
No time to break. Not yet.
He stood over the unconscious guard, heart still thudding like a drum, breath shaky but steadying. The man lay sprawled, limbs askew, chest rising and falling with a shallow rhythm.
Jeremiah considered binding him, maybe stashing him somewhere, but quickly dismissed the thought.
"The man said shift change is soon… if his relief finds him missing or tied up, they'll sound the alarm," he said to the room as if trying to convince himself.
No. He needed something smarter.
Jeremiah crouched down and hoisted the limp figure, grunting with effort, and dragged him back onto the filthy mattress in the corner. He repositioned the guard's limbs, arranging them into something loose and slouched, like someone who'd simply passed out where they fell. Jeremiah grabbed the man's discarded club and leaned it against the doorframe. Close enough to seem neglected, not hidden.
Then, for good measure, he scooped up the nearby beer cans scattered around the checkpoint. A few were still sloshing. He tossed them inside the room and dribbled one's contents over the man's shirt, adding a few damp stains to complete the illusion.
Stepping back, Jeremiah examined the scene he'd crafted.
To the untrained eye, it told a clear story: a lazy guard, drunk and snoring through his shift. Nothing more.
With any luck, the man himself might think the entire fight had been nothing more than a booze-induced nightmare… if he didn't pay too close attention to the sucker marks around his neck.
Not perfect. But good enough.
It might just buy Jeremiah the time he needed.
Carefully and quietly, he backed out of the room and eased the door shut behind him with a soft click.
