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Time seemed relatively funny when you've spent no sleep on the day before today. Tommy felt so lethargic that every step forward shook her brain.

How long have they been walking? Hours? Days? Why did she arrive to an interview seven hours early? 

The sewer was cold but she found herself sweating. Her skin was tingling and her breath was heating. Tommy glanced down at her bandage-ridden hand ridden with scrapes and cuts, anxiously wondering if a flesh-eating virus really was going to give her a chainsaw hand. Her shoessoggy, her sockssponged up with shitwater, her feet—aching, but continuously they dragged themselves forward in a hellish loop. Lift, step, squish, and repeat. Occasionally, her feet would get tangled in something in the water, like plastic six-can rings, or something obscene; like a thong.

Then, there was the smell. Initially, Tommy had to go through the trouble of pinching her nose the entire time. Now, she painfully breathed it in like how some people would after being forced to sniff a fart for, perhaps, an entire afternoon. A bit of bile started to make its way up her throat, possibly due to the instantaneous violation of her five senses.

“Damn, that was stupid.” 

Ashton's voice snapped her back to reality. Right. We're on a mission. Tommy shook her head, but regretted it soon after, a brief wave of vertigo spiraling round and around her . . .

"I didn’t think to mark our path, to keep us from getting lost.”

"Wh—?" Tommy softly exclaimed, coming back to her senses. She turned back, slowly gasping in a late reaction. " . . . Oh." She said. "Fuck."

Both of them stood there, feeling a bit ridiculous. "Fuck it." Ashton said, now taking the time to mark their path. He started to draw glyphs, a fairly common use of magic, but it was still something Tommy was in awe of. “A lesson for future us, make sure you know how to get out.”

"I, yeah," Tommy said, "I kinda remember the graffiti on the walls, though. The one back had like, dicks, or something." Tommy squinted. Funny she remembered that and not the claw mark. It seemed that she really was a teenager.

Ashton turned back to her. “Ugh, could you imagine being trapped down here for a few days?” 

Tommy smiled, suddenly excited with his change of attitude. "I know! I'd probably go nuts or something - chewing on rats and sleeping submerged in sewer water. Ugh. The people trapped down here must be doing really bad right now. We should really get them out of here as soon as-."

Something bumped into the back of her foot. Tommy nearly screamed—but yelled—at the fluffy denizen paddling around in the water. A rat struggled to stay afloat; it didn't seem to want to pass by. Instead, it waited for the two humans to react. Tommy glanced at Ashton, a bit confusedly, then crouched down and reluctantly brought her hand down. The rat climbed up on her fingers, shook it's fur, then sat in the center of her palm. She was so used to killing these kinds of things that Tommy felt incredibly awkward. Rats were an enemy to the corn.

"Um." The corn former stared at the rat in her hand. She leaned in closer to Ashton. "Can rats talk? Other than the Rat King?" 

A horrifyingly hollow growl echoed throughout the tunnel. Guttural and large. It is loud enough for all three of them to hear. At the sound of it, the rat is visibly distressed. On the top of the walls, several others of it's kind begin scurrying in a panicked frenzy.


Here we go!

  • The creature attacks in the next post. 
  • The team is in a long, winding tunnel with no turns.
  • The sobbing has stopped. . .


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First there was a growl. Then there was a ROAR

The water reverberates from it's guttural voice, goosebumps flittering across her body like frightened sand mites stampeding under her skin. In a second she stood there frozen, in the next she snaps her head to Ashton, face pale with fear. Tommy tries to talk—but something rumbles the sewers; dust and shards of debris fall from the ceiling as the rodent in her hands scutters into her jacket pocket. It roars again. This time it's nearer. It's shrill, hollow, and many voiced. 

Tommy pulls her bag around, panicking, searching for something.

It's turning around the corner, splashing in the water. Placing its hands on everything. Moaning, sobbing.

And then she saw it. "A-Ashton," she stutters under her breath, frantically patting his shoulder, a gun in hand. Fight or flight teems in her nerves—reluctant to fight, but also too terrified for flight. 

The crying was louder now. In the distance, shrouded in the haze of the sewers, it approaches. Walking—no—crawling, lurching, teetering it's way towards them, struggling beneath the weight of a dozen humans melted into it's skin. It's limbs were their limbs, it's arms were their arms.

Suddenly, it stops. It studies the creatures far from it's reach, arms from the back of its spine flaying about weightlessly. The thing had a mind of its own, and it thought, more bodies to take.

And, without a single roar, it sprints on six limbs towards them.


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ArtStation - Sewer Thing, Zack Cy







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f7550bb0492279b71df833f628e8fd2d535a5bf2_00.jpgWith the first roar his mind speeds up and time seems to dilate for him, a standard reaction to the sudden influx of adrenaline brought on by the unexpected. Admittedly, he had hoped to ambush whatever the hell was down here. Things are always easier when a decisive blow can be dealt before the enemy is aware. However, this luxury isn’t afforded to them.

“We need to figure out what we are dealing with.” The delivery a calm, nonchalant, stoic even. It is however as mask. Fear bubbles and boils, fear of the unknown, fear of death, fear of failure. However, as every soldier knows, has to be suppressed and experience has taught him that action has to be taken.

Glancing at Tommy, he offers the closest thing he can muster to a reassuring smile, it more or less ends up being a halfhearted grin. “Put some rounds into it and then put some distance between you and it. I’m going to go try to trade some blows with the thing, see what happens.”

The conditions are suboptimal, the space is confined, Tommy’s gun risks igniting pockets of methane, and the thing has arms everywhere, meaning he can be grabbed at any time. His approach is limited to head on, and his attack options are almost entirely limited to thrusts. Beyond that, from what he can tell, it might very well have a 360 degree field of vision.

“Eh, fuck it.” Ashton leaps from the shit water, vaulting sideways, as his body reorients. Almost completely horizontal, his feet hit the wall for a fraction of the second before he pushes off to the other side. This time, he’s gained enough speed. In an act of defiance against gravity, he takes off in a full sprint toward the monster, running at it from halfway up the wall.

With the two closing in on each other, Ashton’s gravity defiance only has to last for a moment. Within ten feet of the abomination he leaps again, straight at it. There is no doubt in his mind that it will try to grab him out of the air. And so, within what he assumes to be the maximum range of the beast’s reach, he phases.

His translucent body sails through the air uninhibited by drag, although still on a descending trajectory. As a ghostly apparition he passes through organic mass and the shit water as if both were rays of light. Although he doesn’t see it, he can hear the sounds of hands whipping through the air, splashing into the water, and slamming against walls. The phase ends, causing his speed to be arrested by the sudden additional of friction. Sliding through the sewage on shins and knees, he drags his sword in his wake, half swinging it toward a mass of limbs, hoping to cut through a few. With his low profile combined with the length of the sword, it’s a calculated move that should keep the vast majority of his body out of grab range.

With a twist of chest and hips, he rotates to face the sewage and plants his left hand into the shit stained floor, his weight shifting onto the balls of his feet as he retracts his sword arm and assess to see if he can get a thrust in. One or two pokes, and then I can disengage and meet up with Tommy.

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