Chapter 108: Scattered ink

Alva held on a crutch, his legs were trembling, and his arms were shaking as he totters the paved path. He was sweating from head to toe, his eyes darting everywhere. He still was getting used to the cavern ceilings coated in obsidian. Still, he needed to go back and turned his head to the building.

This elevated building was given to him. No, it was more like he was given this place to work on a pile of documents. His body was lacking any strength, he barely could lift anything past fifty kilos, and making him work made him think that it was really a scam.

“Way better than screaming for fucking years,” he thought, forcing his body to function as he goes back to the house after a few tries.

“What to do? Those monsters really just decide to throw all these paperwork on me, geez, do they really think that I am in a fine condition, still, I wouldn’t be able to stay in this city if I don’t ” Alva muttered as he looked at the table.

On the table was documents piled up together, reports, bills, letters of intent, and more reports about the city. It made him think if it was really alright for him to be responsible for this.

“But most of them are for the Porters, huh?” he looked at the papers. “There are sure a lot of them, and they are very active all over the continent. For a small city, they all have these tunnels connected to each different points. Looks like the closest is in the Town of Memoria, huh? ”

One word caught his eyes. Alva placed the paper down, he curled his fingers, a vein popping on each hand.

“War, huh,” he said. “Guess that’s something that never changes.”

He took the paper down and placed it aside. The lighting of the room was moderate, there was a trash scan near his right leg, and a box full of pens.

“They have a typewriter, electric train, and neon lights all over this place. What era is this?” Alva thought.

He took a pen and scribbled on a paper. He put the paper on the left side of the table and started using the typewriter. His typing was stiff, his fingers would shake for a bit before it could fully press the keys of the typewriter. He was sweating, his jaws tightened as he continues his work.

His wrist was aching badly, his rubbing it, while his eyes cringing at the amount of work that he had to do. He had no choice, and he had to do it. Still, he slumped on his chair, pushed against the table, and placed a pen between his teeth. His eyes wandered everywhere, and finally stopping on the windows.

“A city that never sleeps, huh,” Alva said to himself. “Weird, just weird, to think that something like this would happen, in this lifetime of a timeline.”

His face became that of a Cheshire cat. The side of his lips, slightly tearing, blood pouring, and his eyes dilating, bloodshot as it is.

He wipes his face with his hands, yet, liquid came out of the docks of her eyes, sliding down his hollowed cheeks, for a second, he look at the mirror reflected his appearance, for second, he saw two red eyes staring back, and then, a mocking face, no, he saw a dark tunnel covered in purple hues, he saw a person, walking this tunnel, there were walls around this tunnel, transparent walls that had ghostly figures smoking black shadows were banging their grotesque hands at the walls.

“Do I look like still worth the trouble, you bastards?” he was a wolf that was barking back. “I’ve been your battery for too long. This time, I’d rather die, no, it would be better if you just kill me. I have enough being a battered dog.”

Then, he saw a black wolf looking back at him, the wolf, whose red eyes were shining against the darkness, made Alva bite the side of his cheeks.

“Go away, wolf, I had enough. Don’t you understand? What you are looking at there is something we can’t possibly resist. Do you really think you can take that on? ”

The wolf stared at Alva, he stared back. With a sneer, the wolf continued down the tunnel without looking back. The wolf’s body, slowly being dyed with the color of blood.

Alva turned his eyes away, the Cheshire’s smile went away, and the illusions that conjured vanished. The noise from the ceiling fan, the dry smell of ink, and the fresh smell of blood was all that was left. The train from nearby passes by, illuminating the room, leaving Alva to push his palms against the table. He stood up, taking the crutch, and walking to the kitchen. The kitchen was neat, on the counter was the utensils neatly lined up on a rack along with a few glasses. He took a cup, went to the sink, and twisted the faucet, filled the cup, and tottered back to the table where he was working.

He took a pen, tap it on his left thumb, and started writing. He squinted his eyes, moved his right hand steadily before stopping. He put the pen back and started typing. His fingers moved simultaneously, each keystroke was precise, and there was not a miss or mistype keystroke.

“Not like a keyboard, but still feels better than just quill pens and printing presses,” he said. “Yes, this should be life, just working on the office, no troubles, no time wraiths, and no heartbreaks.”

Alva grinned, his lower lip trembling, as he types continuously. He didn’t stop typing for an hour, but he had to redo the paper he typed on, he looked at the paper. There were words on the paper that only two people in this world could read, and yet they would not be able to make anything out of it even if they recognize the letters.

How could they read the scattered ink on a wet paper?