Absorb Soul System

Brody Miller slouches at his desk, a wobbly thrift-store relic with one leg shorter than the others, propped up by a stack of old comics—mostly X-Men, yellowed pages curling at the edges. It's 6:28 a.m., and the room smells of damp wood, stale laundry, and the faint musk of dog. Rusty, his scruffy mutt, sprawls across a threadbare rug near the bed, one floppy ear draped over his snout, chest rising and falling with soft snores. The eleven-year-old rescue—part terrier, part who-knows-what—has a coat patched with gray, a survivor of too many winters. Brody's 21, all lanky limbs and hunched shoulders, his brown hair a tangled mop he hasn't combed since yesterday's shift at the gas station. His hazel eyes, flecked with gold, catch the dim glow of a chipped desk lamp as he sketches in a spiral notebook, its cover scuffed and doodled with stars. A spaceship takes shape under his pencil—sharp, angular lines, thrusters flaring with imagined fire, a cockpit glowing faintly blue. It's not just a drawing; it's an escape, a lifeline to a galaxy far from Willow Creek. Above his bed, a faded Metallica poster sags at one corner—"Master of Puppets," the skeleton strings glowing faintly in the half-light. It was his dad's, one of the few things left behind when he split eleven years ago, tires squealing out of the driveway with a suitcase and a six-pack. Brody was six, watching from the porch, Sarah's hand tight on his shoulder. The memory stings less now, dulled by time, but the poster stays—a quiet rebellion against a ghost. Downstairs, bacon snaps and pops in a frying pan, the sound sharp against the stillness. Sarah Miller's voice drifts up through the creaky floorboards, humming "Sweet Home Alabama" with a warble that's more heart than pitch. She's 43, wiry and tough, her dark hair streaked with gray she doesn't bother to dye. Her laugh lines run deep, carved from better days—before the coal plant shut down, before the town started bleeding people to cities that didn't care. Brody's lips twitch into a half-smile, pencil pausing mid-stroke. She's all he's got—her and Rusty—and most days, that's enough. He flips the page, starts sketching a planet with jagged rings, three moons orbiting in uneven arcs. His mind drifts to yesterday—Trent Baxter and his crew cornering him outside the QuickMart, where he pumps unleaded for $11 an hour, the kind of job that leaves grease under your nails and despair in your gut. "Still drawing your little spaceships, freak?" Trent had sneered, his broad shoulders blocking the exit, his buddies—Dylan and Kyle—snickering like hyenas. Trent's 23 now, still strutting like he owns Willow Creek, his buzzcut bleached blond and his knuckles scarred from bar fights. He'd shoved Brody into the ice machine, the metal edge biting into his shoulder—a dull throb he feels now, rolling it gingerly. High school was four years of dodging Trent's fists and Dylan's spitballs, Kyle's taunts echoing down locker-lined halls: "Loser. Nerd. Nobody." Brody learned to shrink, to fade, but the labels stick in a town too small to shed them. Rusty twitches in his sleep, paws kicking like he's chasing rabbits through some dream-field. Brody sets the pencil down, leans over, and scratches behind the dog's ear, feeling the coarse fur under his fingers. "Good boy," he murmurs, voice soft, the kind that cracks when he's nervous or lying. Rusty's tail thumps once, lazy, and Brody's chest warms. He found the mutt at 10, a shivering stray under the bleachers after a rain-soaked football game Sarah dragged him to. "He's yours now," she'd said, handing him a towel to wrap the pup in. Eleven years later, Rusty's still here, a constant in a life that shifts like loose gravel. The window's cracked an inch, letting in the chill of late February—pine-scented air, crisp and wet, curling through the room. Brody inhales deep, trying to shake the weight of another gray day stretching ahead: eight hours at the QuickMart, Trent's crew maybe swinging by to hassle him, then home to microwave leftovers and sketch until his eyes burn. The clock ticks to 6:45, its red digits glowing accusingly. He picks up the pencil again, shades in the planet's rings, adding a faint glow to one moon. Outside, the forest beyond the backyard looms, a wall of black pines swaying faintly, their needles whispering secrets he's never cared to hear. A scrape cuts the quiet—like a knife dragged slow across glass. Brody freezes, pencil hovering, the lead trembling in his grip. Rusty's head snaps up, ears perked, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. "What's up, bud?" Brody whispers, but his pulse kicks up, thudding in his ears. The sound comes again, sharper, deliberate, from the window. He stands, chair scraping the hardwood, and edges toward the glass, breath fogging in the cold. The forest stares back, black and still—too still, like it's holding its breath. He squints, sees nothing but shadows, but the hair on his neck prickles. The window explodes inward. Glass shards rain across the floor, glinting like broken teeth in the lamplight, scattering over Rusty's rug and Brody's sketches. A *thing* crashes through—eight feet of nightmare made flesh, all jagged limbs and dripping fangs. Its skin glistens, oil-black and slick, stretched tight over bony spines that jut from its back like a row of shattered ribs. A Skitterfang—Brody won't know its name for weeks—rears up, its claws clicking on the hardwood, each one curved like a butcher's hook, glinting wetly. Its eyes glow sickly yellow, slit-pupiled and unblinking, set in a skull too narrow, too angular to be natural. Its mouth splits wide, a gash of jagged teeth, drooling something thick and green that hits the floor with a hiss—wood sizzles, curling into blackened pits where it lands. The air fills with a stench—rotting meat and burnt metal, so thick Brody gags on it. He stumbles back, knocking his chair into the wall with a dull thud. "Rusty, no!" he yells, voice cracking, but the dog's already lunging, barking—a fierce, desperate sound that rips at Brody's chest like a knife. Rusty's teeth snap at the monster's leg, sinking into the slick flesh, but the Skitterfang barely flinches. Its claw whips out, faster than thought, a blur of black and red. Blood sprays, hot and coppery, splashing Brody's cheek, his neck, his hands. Rusty's yelp cuts off mid-breath as the claw tears through his side—fur and muscle part, a wet rip exposing pink bone and pulsing insides. The dog slams into the bedframe, a crumpled heap of fur and red, hind legs twitching once, twice, then stilling. A whine—faint, fading—escapes his throat, and Brody's world tilts. "No—no—no—" His voice breaks, raw and ragged, a scream clawing up from his gut. He scrambles across the floor, glass cutting into his palms, and grabs his old baseball bat from under the bed—aluminum, dented from sophomore year when Trent mocked his swing in gym class, "Swing like a man, pussy!" The memory flashes, bitter, as he grips the worn handle, splinters of glass embedding in his skin. His hands shake, slick with sweat and Rusty's blood, as he staggers to his feet. The Skitterfang turns, head tilting with a wet crack, a gurgle bubbling from its throat like drowned laughter. Footsteps pound up the stairs—"Brody?!" Sarah's voice, sharp with panic—but the door's too far, and the thing's too close, its claws flexing, dripping. It lunges, claws slashing air an inch from his face, the wind of it cold and rancid. Brody swings wild, a scream tearing out of him, primal and unhinged. The bat cracks against its jaw—bone snaps, loud and wet, a sound like a branch breaking under snow. Black ichor splatters his arms, his chest, burning where it touches, tiny blisters rising on his skin. The Skitterfang screeches—a sound that claws at his eardrums, high and grating, like nails dragged down a chalkboard—and staggers, one eye dimming as goo oozes from the socket. Brody swings again, harder, aiming for the skull, putting every ounce of terror and grief into it. The impact jars his wrists, a shockwave up his arms, and the monster's head caves in—crunching inward, a mess of shattered bone and pulpy flesh. Ichor gushes, steaming as it pools, and the thing collapses, legs curling inward like a dead spider, twitching faintly. Brody drops the bat, chest heaving, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. His knees buckle, and he crawls to Rusty, glass crunching under him, slicing shallow cuts into his jeans. His hands hover over the dog's ruined body—blood soaks the fur, matting it dark, a puddle spreading slow beneath. Rusty's eyes stare up, glassy, one ear still flopped over like he's just sleeping. A sob rips out of Brody, low and broken, and he presses his forehead to the dog's, tears dripping onto the cooling muzzle, mixing with the red. "I'm sorry, buddy," he whispers, voice shaking, "I'm so sorry. I should've—I didn't—" His fingers curl into the fur, clutching, as if he could pull Rusty back. Sarah bursts through the door, apron dusted with flour, a spatula still gripped in her hand like a weapon. Her hazel eyes—same as his—widen at the carnage: the shattered window, the smoking holes in the floor, the monster's corpse, and her son kneeling in blood. "What the *hell* is that?" she chokes, the spatula clattering to the floor, absurdly loud in the silence. She drops beside him, grabs his shoulders, pulls him away from Rusty with a strength he didn't know she had. "Baby, talk to me—are you hurt? Brody, look at me!" He shakes his head, numb, throat too tight to speak. The room spins, edges blurring. Then—a sharp *ping*, like a tuning fork struck inside his skull. Words bloom in his vision, cold and blue, floating like a hologram only he can see: [System Initialized. Level 1 Unlocked. Absorb Soul? Y/N] Brody blinks, swipes at the air with a trembling hand. "Mom—you see that?" "See what?" She's staring at him, worry creasing her face, flour smudged on her cheek. The words pulse, insistent, glowing brighter. His gaze drifts to the Skitterfang's corpse—a faint shimmer dances over it, like heat rising off summer asphalt. His stomach twists, bile rising, but something—curiosity, maybe fear, maybe something darker—pushes him forward. He staggers to his feet, hand outstretched, shaking so hard his teeth chatter. "Yes," he whispers, barely audible, the word tasting like ash. A rush hits him—wind roaring through his veins, cold and electric. The monster's body dissolves into threads of light, thin and writhing, spiraling into his chest like smoke sucked into a vacuum. He gasps, clutching his shirt as images flood his mind: dirt parting under claws, the pulse of a hunt through shadowed trees, the Skitterfang's hunger gnawing at its core—an alien, primal thing that claws at his own thoughts. It's alive in him, slithering, wrong. His knees buckle again, and he lurches forward, vomiting onto the floor—black ichor mixes with last night's ramen, steaming as it splashes, the stench acid-sharp. Sarah grabs him—"Brody!"—pulling him back, but he's shaking too hard to answer, sweat beading cold on his forehead. **[Strength +2. Agility +1. Soul Absorbed: 1/10 to Level 2.]** The words glow, then fade, leaving a faint hum in his skull. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stares at his fingers—still trembling, but heavier somehow, stronger. He hates it, hates the weight, hates the way it settles into his bones like it belongs. Hours later, Brody's on the couch, wrapped in an old quilt that smells faintly of mothballs and lavender—Sarah's attempt at comfort from the hall closet. The living room's dim, lit by a single lamp with a crooked shade, casting long shadows across peeling wallpaper and a coffee table scarred with water rings. He's still in his blood-streaked clothes—jeans stiff with drying ichor, sneakers crusted with Rusty's red. Sarah's pacing near the kitchen doorway, phone pressed to her ear, muttering, "Still no signal, damn it." She tosses it onto the table, where it lands with a clack beside a chipped mug of cold coffee. The TV's on, volume low, flickering with static—CNN's anchor looks harried, tie askew, talking fast: "Unexplained anomalies reported across the country—Dallas, Chicago, Boise—authorities urging calm—" Grainy footage rolls: a rift in Dallas, purple and jagged, spitting out something scaly and thrashing before the feed cuts to snow. Brody stares at his sneakers, Rusty's blood a dark smear across the laces, the white canvas mottled now. His chest aches, hollowed out, like someone scooped out his insides and left the shell. Sarah sits beside him, the couch creaking under her weight, and brushes hair from his forehead with calloused fingers. "You're okay," she says, her voice firm, like she's convincing herself. "We're okay, baby. Whatever that thing was—it's dead. You're safe." He nods, but it's a lie—he feels it in the hum at the back of his skull, the faint pulse of something watching. She squeezes his hand, her wedding band—never taken off, even after Dad—cool against his skin. "You're tough, Brody. Tougher than you think." He doesn't feel tough. He feels small, brittle, like one more crack will shatter him. The System's words linger in his mind—*Soul Absorbed*—and he clenches his fists, nails digging into palms still raw from glass. Rusty's last whine echoes, a loop he can't stop, and his eyes burn, hot and wet. He blinks it back—Sarah's worried enough. A fist bangs on the front door, loud and insistent. "Brody! You in there, man?" Jake Harper's voice cuts through the haze, brash and familiar. Brody shuffles over, quilt dragging, and opens it. Jake's 22, stocky and broad, with a buzzcut and a faded Eagles hoodie stretched tight over his shoulders. His grin—crooked, all teeth—falters when he sees Brody's face, the blood, the hollow eyes. "Dude, you look like crap. Saw your window from the street—what the hell happened? You fall through it or something?" His brown eyes flick past Brody, catching the glint of glass in the hall. Brody tries to explain—the monster, Rusty's death, the glowing words—but it comes out jumbled, a mess of half-sentences and choked pauses. "Something… came in. Killed him. Rusty's gone, Jake, and there was this—this thing in my head—" Jake claps his shoulder, too hard, a habit from years of roughhousing. "Whoa, slow down, man. You're freaking me out. C'mon, you need air—let's walk it off." Sarah protests from the couch—"It's not safe out there, Jake!"—but he's already dragging Brody toward the door, tossing back, "Five minutes, Mrs. M! I got him, promise!" The street's quiet, frost crunching under Brody's sneakers, breath fogging in the chill. Jake's the only one who stuck by him through high school—shared lunches when Brody's were stolen, dumb pranks like swapping Trent's gym shoes with size-fives, late nights sneaking warm beers by the creek while bullfrogs croaked. "Remember when Trent TP'd your locker senior year?" Jake says, nudging him as they walk. "We got him back with that stink bomb in his truck—smelled bad for weeks. Worth the detention, man." Brody forces a smile, thin and fleeting, but it dies fast, Rusty's blood still warm in his memory. They head toward the forest across from the house—pines towering fifty feet, branches swaying in a breeze that carries a faint metallic tang, like rust or blood. Jake stops halfway across the street, squints into the trees. "You hear that?" Brody doesn't, but he feels it—a vibration under his boots, subtle but growing, like a heartbeat through the earth. The trees part ahead, revealing a tear in the air: a rift, seven feet tall, pulsing purple-black, edges crackling with static that makes Brody's hair stand on end. Jake picks up a rock from the curb, tosses it underhand—it sails through the rift and vanishes with a faint *pop*, like a stone into deep water. "Holy Crap." he laughs, grin widening. "That's some sci-fi crap right there. You seeing this, Bro?" "Don't—" Brody starts, voice tight, but Jake's already stepping closer, boots scuffing asphalt. "C'mon, it's cool! What's it gonna do, eat me?" The ground rumbles, a low growl through the dirt. Brody grabs Jake's arm—"We need to go, now"—but it's too late. A Skitterfang bursts from the rift—bigger than the first, spines longer and sharper, claws gleaming like polished steel. Its screech splits the air, and Jake shoves Brody aside—"Run!"—but the monster's too fast, a blur of black and hunger. The Skitterfang's claw slashes, and Jake's chest opens like a busted seam—ribs crack wetly, a sickening snap-snap-snap, blood arcing in a wide spray that paints the frost red. He hits the dirt hard, a grunt punched out of him, hands clawing at the ground as his legs kick uselessly. "Brody…" he croaks, blood bubbling from his lips, eyes wide with shock and pain, locking onto his friend's. His hoodie's shredded, soaked dark, ribs glinting white through the mess. Brody screams—primal, throat-tearing, a sound he doesn't recognize as his own—and grabs a jagged branch from the ground, pine needles still clinging to it. The Skitterfang turns, drool sizzling as it pools, steaming in the cold. He charges, clumsy and terrified, rage drowning every shred of sense. The branch slams into its side, splintering against the slick hide, but he keeps going, ramming it deeper, twisting with a roar. Ichor sprays, coating his arms, his face, stinging his eyes until they water. The monster swipes, claw clipping his shoulder—pain flares, hot and bright, blood soaking his sleeve—but he ducks under the next swing, drives the wood up through its jaw. The point punches through, bursting out the top of its skull with a wet crunch, and the Skitterfang gurgles, legs buckling. Black blood steams in the frost as it collapses, a twitching heap. Brody drops the branch, panting, chest heaving like he's run a mile. His shoulder throbs, warm and sticky, but he stumbles to Jake, falling to his knees beside him. "Stay with me," he begs, pressing shaking hands to the wound—blood seeps through his fingers, too much, too fast, pooling under Jake's back. "You're okay, you're gonna be okay—" It's a lie, and they both know it. Jake's chest stutters, a shallow rattle, his hands grasping at Brody's wrists, weak and slipping. "You're… tougher… than they think…" he rasps, blood flecking his lips, eyes fading to a glassy haze. A final shudder, and he's gone, hand limp in the mud. Brody rocks back, tears cutting tracks through the ichor on his face, mixing with the red. His scream's gone silent, replaced by a low, keening wail he can't stop. The System pings, cold and sharp: **[Monster Soul Absorbed. Strength +3.]** The light spirals into him again, unasked, and he flinches, gagging as the Skitterfang's hunger flickers through his mind—brief, brutal, gone. Then, softer, a second prompt: **[Human Soul Detected. Absorb? Y/N]** "No," he sobs, clutching Jake's hand, still warm, fingers curled like he's reaching. "Not you. Not you—" The words hover, patient, glowing blue in the corner of his vision, waiting as his tears drip into the dirt. A twig snaps, sharp in the silence. Brody whirls, branch raised in a trembling grip, blood and ichor dripping from his knuckles. A girl steps from the trees—Mia Torres, 19, wiry and scarred, a knife gleaming in her hand, its blade notched from use. Her braid's messy, dark hair spilling loose, and her eyes—sharp, gray, guarded—scan him like a predator sizing up prey. She's all quiet menace, boots crunching frost, a leather jacket scuffed and patched at the elbows. A scar cuts across her left cheek, thin and faded, another peeks from her collar, jagged and fresh. She stops ten feet away, tilts her head. "You're one of us now," she says, voice low, steady, like she's stating a fact. "Awakened." Brody wipes his face with a sleeve, glaring through blurred vision. "What the hell are you talking about?" His voice cracks, raw from screaming. She nods at Jake's body, then the dead Skitterfang, her knife twirling once in her hand before settling. "That. You've got a System. Means you're in deep crap, kid." He laughs, bitter and cracked, a sound that hurts coming out. "Leave me alone. Just—go." "Can't," she says, stepping closer, boots deliberate. "More are coming. You're not ready." Her eyes flick to the rift, still pulsing, faint whispers of sound leaking from it—growls, maybe, or something worse. A whisper—faint, impossible—cuts through his skull: "Brody… don't let me go…" Jake's voice, soft and fading, a plea from nowhere. Brody flinches, head snapping up. "You hear that?" Mia's brow furrows, just for a second, then smooths. "No. But I've seen it before. Time's up, kid. Get up." The System pulses brighter, blue light flaring in his vision. Mia closes the gap, stopping an arm's length away, her shadow falling over Jake's body. "Move, or you're next.