Isekai Slayer [Goblin Slayer]

[logiccosmic]

Table of Contents:
Chapter I


Critics' Reviews for Isekai Slayer
@Fernandel: I'm not sure what war crime to accuse for under international humanitarian law[.] But I will fine one

 

[logiccosmic]

Chapter I

Your car has seen better days. It's a clunker, best fit to be retired. Old seats and manual windows. It's from a time before. Just like you.

You pull to a stop, and the brakes whine. Hell, it could be the whole transmission. You aren't a car guy, but you can guess. It's basically fucked. But you know it's a hell of a long shot to get some extra funding, especially right now.

The little street is quaint. Narrow enough for two cars to pass by - sedans, of course. No one drive anything bigger. Not now. It was lined with vines, hanging down from buildings. Old style construction too. Some of the houses even have traditional paper shoji, sheathed behind modern glass. Even they have bowed to the future. It's quiet too. Even for mid-day, it's quiet, and it makes you uneasy.

You leave the car running. The air conditioning still works, and you want to enjoy it while you can. The summer is a hot one, and sweating through your suit isn't on the agenda. You ruffle through your briefcase on the passenger seat, and pull out a thick manila folder. Dog-eared papers and sticks jut from it's uneven edges, a dozen different reports and notes jammed in.

You flip it open, and read the brief dossier.

Yamada Hiro.

NEET. That's crossed out in red ink, with a scribbled note addendum: Be fucking professional.

You do so, and ignore the dossier. You flip through the documents.

Test scores. He's a smart kid, generally, just can't work hard. A slacker, able to scrape by.

Father's filed report. Worried for his son. Thinks that his son is a prime candidate.

Mother's filed report. Same thing. Fear practically oozes from the page.

Friends were queried. Nothing there either. They hadn't heard from him.

Electronic intelligence. Online all day. Friends, acquaintances, guildmates. Interesting. More interesting is the likes, dislikes. What does he talk about. What obsesses him. That's your in.

Surveillance notes. He hasn't left his room

The last thing in the folder is why you are here. Here right now, called in at 4 in the morning on your day off. A flash of white from a surveillance video. Capture in a single still. But close. Too close.

The gun on your hip is heavy, a reminder of the past. And what should be done with that flash of white. The laser designator on the other side is a silent promise to what will happen if they come out in the open.

This isn't what you used to do, of course. You aren't a field man any more. You could lie to yourself, and say that it's the age setting in. Your reflexes are too slow now. Your body hurts too much. It's a young man's game.

But you know that's just cowardice.

You can't see it happen again.

You joined up because of your sister.

You were good because of your mother.

You were diligent because of your father.

You were everything that was needed, because you didn't want to lose anymore. You didn't want another boy to have to go through losing his family. And it wasn't enough. You can't count the number of notches on your belt, times you've won.

And it wasn't enough.

You couldn't take it anymore. So you are here, right now, doing rookie work. Being the man to do the basic work, that people might not see as galmaours. But important work.

Work that won't make you draw again. Where you don't have to see it ever again.

You slap the folder closed, and drop it on the seat. You run your hands through your hair, getting it in a semblance of style. You ruffle through your bag again, and pop a mint in your mouth.

You look in the rearview mirror.

"Well," you say, trying to smile, "let's go meet Hiro."

You step out of the car.

There is a nice gate, separating the house from the road. Well maintained, and doesn't squeak when you open it. There is a nice little front yard, blooming in the heat of summer. Little bugs fly around it, and it smells lush. Like a little portal - you stop that thought right there.

Hiro's parents have money. It's pretty clear, as this place probably cost a few mountains of cash to afford, even with real estate prices plummeting every day as the population contracted.

You knock on the door.

It swings open, and you put a hand on your gun. Not drawing it… but cautious.

You step in.

It's a modern home. Shoes by the door, but nothing wild like tatami on every surface. Traditional-ish. You take of your shoes, respecting that much at least.

"Hello?" you call out.

No response. Concerning.

You walk further in, into the entryway, and spot a pinned note on the wall.

Gone shopping! I'll be right back, Hiro is up in his room! Please -

You crumple the note in your hand. Of all the idiotic things, that's the most. Leaving a kid like Hiro alone is literally fucking bait. You are going to have a stern talking to with his parents after this. If they are really lucky, they might even see their kid again after the state body slams them through a fucking table.

You advance quickly into the house. You can hear someone yelling, not in distress, but yelling nonetheless. Kitchen is clean. Dishes put away. Dining room, three place settings. A closed bedroom. Actual doors. After every case you've been on, you aren't bothered by the lack of photos. That's common enough.

It's the note on the wall that gets to you.

Ask for help, then run out right as you are arriving?

Something is fishy.

You can smell Hiro's room before you get there. Sweat and old food. You can hear him shouting in there, but it's a bit too muffled to make out. Had they put up sound padding? You don't care. Your instincts are telling you to run and get Hiro out, right now.

You listen to your instincts.

You knock on the door.

You can hear trash being shifted around. Cans clinking against each other. Plastic crinkling.

"Just a minute," Hiro shouts, panic in his voice.

"Mr. Yamada, I'm here from Section I," you say, your hand on the door knob.

"A minute! Just a minute!" he repeats, voice growing more frantic.

You open the door.

Trash comes spilling out at your feet. Old wrappers, from food and other things. Empty cans rolling down the hallway.

You ignore it.

"Hello Mr. Yamada," you say. You keep your voice calm, and friendly. You don't look around at the room, just at him.

He's young.

Just a boy.

Short brown hair, cut ragged. Smudged glasses. A little overweight. He's dressed in a onesie pajama that looks like it has seen better days, with the elbows and knees worn partially away. Faded characters cover it, from things you half-recognize.

"Uh, hi," he says, and looks around at the trash. "Sorry, this is much worse than it usually is. I can clean this up!"

You can glimpse it in your peripherals. There's almost a foot deep layer of trash in the room. Less so now, that some of it has spilled out. It's piled up in one corner, clearly from Hiro just starting to move it when you knocked.

You don't remark on it. This isn't your first approach.

"May I call you Hiro?" you ask, and he nods, tentatively. "Well Hiro, I'm from Section I."

You flip out your badge from your coat. His eyes grow wide as he recognizes it.

"Wait, does that mean I get to…" his voice trails off, growing hopeful.

You shake your head, and lie. "Sorry, this is more a formality. I'm just replacing your old case worker, and I like to introduce myself to everyone in my care."

He looks crushed.

You change the topic. "So, I notice you've got quite a collection in here."

He does. He's got enough posters to cover every wall. They are hung with pinpoint precision, not a square centimeter of wall space unused. No overlaps either.

"Yeah, I guess," he replies, and stays maudlin.

This isn't your first rodeo, however.

"I see a lot of Fate stuff," you remark, casually.

He perks up right away. "You know Fate?"

You nod, and can see him go from depressed to giddy in a second.

"Oh man, you are well educated! I've been collecting for so long and you are like, the first adult whose every liked it!"

You keep nodding along as he just starts going.

"- and I got into it when I got a free Saint Quartz in my wrapper- "

Pretty much all the posters are of one character. Blond hair, with a little twig of hair sticking up from her hairdo. Red clothes, very revealing clothes. And a very uh, exaggerated feminine figure.

"- and of course, you can tell my favorite character!"

He looks at you, eyes hopeful. "You don't like Jeanne, do you? Everyone loves Jeanne, except for those degenerates who like Jack."

You grin, and reply, "Umu."

"Fuck yeah!" he shouts, and pumps his fist up in the air. "I got the best case worker in the world!"

The cans and trash shift as he moves. He looks down, and turns red in embarrassment. It's another thing you've seen before. At first, you can just be an adult. An intruder. An alien presence. But if they make a connection, you are a peer, almost. You are someone whose respect they want to have.

You are going to squash that before shame undoes all your work.

"So, I see you have a ton of Nero stuff. Have you got the new Ultra Hi-Res Nero with Umu Action by Techroid Figurines?"

He scoffs. "I wish. They don't deliver."

Perfect, you think.

"Welllll," you say, drawing it out. "That's kinda funny. I was literally just thinking about adding that to my collection too."

His eyes practically shine. "You collect too! Oh man, you are so cool."

You look shifty for a second, playing it up for dramatic effect. "So here's the thing, I got a nice bonus each time I take a case. But…"

He looks a little puzzled. "Yeah, but what?"

You shrug. "I'm supposed to spend it on joint activities, or whatever they call it now. Since we have to spend time together, and we both want that new Nero…"

"What are you saying," he says, but looks a little hopeful.

"Technically speaking, buying us some figurines would be a misuse of resources," you say as you lean in, whispering.

"Technically?" he parrots.

"Well, if we both, say, went to go get ice cream or something, took a bunch of pictures, and then went and got some figurines…" you lead.

"We wouldn't get in trouble?" he finishes, a grin crossing his face.

"Yup," you say as you nod. "Grab what you want, and we are going to go get…"

You make air quotes with your hands.

"... "ice-cream.""

"So cool!" he shouts, and turns around on the spot. He starts digging through the trash by his bed. You smile faintly. It pays to be up with the youth on what is popular. Hiro pulls out a backpack, and stuffs what looks like a plush Nero doll into it.

You hear a car nearby.

You frown. His parents must finally be coming home, if it's that close -

Ice floods your veins.

You know that sound.

You hear it, even over Hiro rummaging for things to put in his backpack.

You finger the radio at your waist. The hidden mic around your throat clicks, signalling a live feed.

"Tango, tango, tango."

Your earbud whispers to you. "Copy, IS. Scrambling from Iruma, overhead in 3. Callsign Goblin."

You click the radio back at them, not trusting yourself to speak again, and not be overheard. You've seen that happen. An asset startled into a tango, by fear, or something else. It's too common to be coincidence. Better to keep everything calm.

Hiro pulls out a dakimakura, emblazoned with the feminine alter-ego of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus. She's wearing lingerie and has a coy look on her face. You don't say a word but, "Nice."

Hiro brandishes her as he crosses the room. She makes a "umu" noise as she is squeezed.

"I had to beg and beg to get her," he says, as he gets to the door, cans and wrappers a cacophony of noise beneath his feet.

You start walking down the hall, and he follows, kicking wrappers off his feet and legs. You don't say a word about him going out in a ratty old onesie. Your dignity is the last thing on your mind.

"When did you?" You ask, as you slide your shoes back on. He slides on slippers, with the toes made to look like Matou Shinji's face.

You don't ask.

"Just last month! I haven't even broken her in yet!" he says proudly.

You really don't ask.

You clap him on the shoulder, in a fatherly manner, and steer him outside. He doesn't even make a noise of complaint.

It's nice. It feels right. He's a good kid, just needs to get his head on straight.

And your instincts are screaming at you.

You pull out your designator. You step away from Hiro, and look down the street. You flick it on, and it hums in your hands. A low growl echoes in your earbud, signaling it is active. A voice speaks in your earbud.

"IS, Goblin 1-1, overhead with package. Send me the music."

You can hear the faint roar of your overhead cover. Loaded for bear, just waiting for a dial in.

You spot it over a garden wall. Hiding behind a house at the end of the lane.

Waiting.

Hungry.

But foolish.

You can see the edge of its back. Silver lining, white panels. It's trying to be stealthy, and this time. It failed.

"Stand back real quick," you whisper, "I gotta take care of something."

"Huh?" Hiro asks, looking at you as you raise the designator.

You look down the sights. You pull the trigger. The low growl turns to high pitched chirping.

"IS, Goblin 1-1, hearing the music. Package in 10."

10

You keep the designator steady.

7

"Hey so what are you doing?" Hiro asks, looking curiously at the designator.

3

"That's not a gun!" he declares, as he looks at it closely.

0

A brief glimpse of a shadow crosses your sight.

A blast of smoke and dust erupts, right between your crosshairs. It ruffles your hair back, and Hiro flinches back away.

"Holy shit!" Hiro screams next to you.

Fire licks over the wall of the garden, a few dozen meters away. Small flames, of course. Petrol burning off. There wouldn't be much explosive in those specialized bombs. Just enough to disable a large vehicle. You start to walk down the

"Damn, that was so cool!" Hiro shouts, pointing at the smoldering black cloud. "Are you like a Super Secret Case Worker Agent?"

"Close enough!" you shout back. "Go get in the car, I think we can swing a few more figurines after this!"

You hear his shouted joy as he leaves his parent's porch. It's a weight of your chest. Another kid saved. He's out from the house. He's looking forward to life. He's engaging with the world. Every moment with you, he's going to less and less an attractive target.

Throw in a shower if possible, and he'd never get spotted again. You reach the end of the street, seeing the flames peeking up over the low wall.

You peek around the corner.

Truck-kun's mangled form is a burning wreck, and you walk a bit closer. The white box truck is in shambles, taken apart from within by the dropped bomb. You enjoy it, taking in the smell of victory. Burning petrol and plastic.

It smells good.

The fire pops and crackles, and you feel good. You've done it, again. Another one saved. You don't have to watch it again. You don't have to relive it again. You haven't failed again.

Not again.

Your earbud crackles, "Copy, clean kill. Goblin 1-1, RTB."

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You straighten up, back rigid.

no

You hear it behind you.

The scratch. The whine. Tck-tck-tck-tck.

An alternator turning over.

An engine starting.

Big. Diesel. Illegal. Destroyed. Not real.

A shriek in your ear, "IS, IS, Tango on your Six! Second Tango!"

You turn, running back around the corner. Time slows. You move in stop motion, each little degree costing minutes of time. A snapshot that burns into your brain.

Hiro.

He's reaching for the car door. Passenger side, just like you told him. He's got his backpack and his dakimakura.

Afterburners boom overhead, a sonic wave making everything - windows, powerlines, you - shiver.

The designator in your hand weighs a million tons.

Hiro is looking at you. He looks scared, but relieved now. A small smile crosses his face.

A brave boy. Not at first. But a boy who deserves a chance to become a man. To grow, to learn, to love.

Truck-kun creeps out of the alleyway at the end of the street.

It's identical to the corpse behind you.

Silver grill. White paint job. No one in the driver's seat. An empty seat for an empty being.

Your other hand goes for your gun.

It's too slow.

Rubber squeals as Truck-kun accelerates.

You feel the cold metal of your service pistol in your hand.

You tear it from the holster.

Hiro turns, face slack in surprise. Smart boy. He sees the gun coming out, and thinks what's coming not oh shit.

It's too late.

Truck-kun is too fast for either of you.

Hiro has time for a moment of recognition. It crosses his face. You know that look. You know what he was thinking.

It wasn't excitement, or joy, or even curiosity like so many others.

It was regret.

It kills you.

It kills him.

Metal screeches and glass shatters as Truck-kun plows into the side of your official car. The windows are blown out entirely, and debris goes flying across the street.

BAM

The gun in your hand recoils, as you send a round into Truck-kun's engine. Sparks fly from the side, white paint sporting a bullet hole.

It reverses, letting the remains of your car crumple to the pavement.

There is no body.

BAM BAM

Two more shots, and more holes. Fluids leak from the radiator. Truck-kun revs up. Engine screaming.

You can see so painfully clear, crystal clear and in detail. The little holes, doing nothing. Little dings against a monster.

The dent where it hit Hiro.

Truck-kun's tire squeal again. It races towards you, eating the distance between you. Hungry. Hungry for you.

The gun kicks in your hand, over and over again. Little pinpricks against a monster.

Thunder roars above you.

A line of blinding light erupts across Truck-kun's face.

You blink away the stinging. The tears. And you look.

Truck-kun's cab is in shambles. Metal is twisted in warped in little craters. Its slowly rolls, tires gone. Lines of sparks from it's bare rims. It coughs to a stop, not more than a few meters away.

Above you, sound concusses your body, making every bit of flesh ripple, as Goblin 1-1 screams overhead at full power. Windows shatter, sending little showers of glass onto the ruined street.

You wipe your face, feeling little stinging cuts.

The dakimakura lands next you.

"umu," it says, as its voicebox activates.

Sounds squeal in your ear. Goblin talking. You don't hear it.

You look where Hiro was. His backpack is gone. There is no body. Just… nothing. A void.

"umu."

You'd like to scream. Curse. Break something. A red haze clouds your vision, muscles tensing and screaming and screaming to hurt something.

But it doesn't do anything. The urge passes, leaving an old friend: grief. You feel it in your stomach, a bottomless pit opening up there.

You close your eyes, tears stinging.

Another one.

Another one.

You had him. You had him safe. He'd be saved. Been saved.

And yet… another one.

Slaying doesn't bring them home.

Just another one gone.

"umu."

 

[Ketrus]

That was a thing I read, logiccosmic. Please accept this humble offering. I've never read Goblin Slayer, and I've certainly never tried aping the light novel style before, but that didn't stop me. Nothing can stop me.

---

In my line of work, turnover is commonplace. A good software engineer makes sure that his teammates have no problems understanding and maintaining his work, even after he's gone. The thought that I had done my duty, more often than not, the thought that my friends and coworkers would not be overly inconvenienced, that was the second-to-last thing I ever thought.

The last thing I ever thought was: "it was supposed to be a bus."

---

There's a campground in the woods of Connecticut, where I spent a week of summer hiking, exploring, and discovering that most boy scouts have an unhealthy fascination with setting things on fire. When I opened my eyes, I was there again, in one of six lean-to's that surrounded the bonfire pit in our clearing, half a mile out from nearest road.

The trees, the clearing, the very earth, even the smell of the outdoors that I still remember when I'm feeling wistful, all of that is gone. When I open my eyes, they are overwhelmed. The three walls of the old lean-to open into an endless expanse of stars, a clear night sky brighter than I've ever seen.

... I don't know how long I stood, transfixed. Then, I fell back into my old bunk, the wood and steel groaning in protest.

Maybe I've put on a few pounds since age twelve, okay? It isn't a big deal. It certainly didn't kill me.

"The truck," I remember out loud, and someone else answers me.

"One of--" says a familiar voice, and I interrupt with a scream. Usually, I'm not easily startled, but it's been a heck of a day.

"One of ours," he says again. I recognize him immediately. Of all possible faces in all possible worlds, sitting in the bunk across from me is Adachi, from Persona 4. He was wearing his detective suit, complete with red tie and freshly-shined shoes. It was an odd contrast with our relatively rustic accommodations, and almost as strange as the angry expression on his face.

Skinny guy. Japanese, so fairly short for all that he was tall back home. It kinda saps the threat from his seemingly permanent scowl, but I'm still, understandably, a little shaken.

"Truck-kun is how we acquire souls for relocation," he continues. His tone is explanatory, but as irritated as his expression. It's as if I'm being scolded?

"Okay," I say. "Souls are real, then. That's terrifying." I thought about my family, and birth defects, and brain damage, and eventually of the fact that I'm an atheist.

Was. Was an atheist. If I did drugs, I'd blame them for this, but there's no other obvious explanation for the infinite field of stars I'm struggling not to look at.

"Yours was slated for reincarnation," he all but spits out, as if I don't deserve it. "Standard shounen power fantasy, all very vapid...

I open my mouth, but his quirks up and I silence myself.

"... if sometimes unnecessarily painful."

Oh. He looks the bad kind of happy, now. It doesn't last long. He grimaces.

"Unfortunately for all of us, there is the matter of outstanding karmic balance. You have a debt to pay."

I nod my head. There's no use denying it.

I think back to all the times I was less than I could be. I thought about what I hoarded for myself, my time, my resources, my affection. I thought about the times I simply didn't give a damn, and the times I was too lazy to try. I thought about the only punch I ever delivered in anger, and I wondered if it was what damned me.

I thought about all the disposable plastic bags I used at the supermarket, even though I knew re-usable cloth bags were pretty cheap and much better for the environment.

"Recursive fanfiction," he spat as if it were a curse. Apparently it is.

"Oh," I said. "Guilty as charged."

"Also," he continued, "metanarrative humor."

Impassively, I stared out into that infinite field of stars. I wondered, was someone watching me?

"Stop that," he says, snapping out of my reverie and returning my attention to his frown. It had lightened, somewhat, almost looking... pensive. "Instead of relocating right away, you'll have to work off what you owe to us."

Raising a single finger, he delivered my sentence, my doom, and my only hope of salvation: "One hundred souls. Collect one hundred souls, Truck-kun, and you will move on to the campy shounen power fantasy you rightfully deserve."

I mean, I wanted something classy and intellectually stimulating, but if I was being honest I'd probably end up in a ham-fisted romp like Naruto. Wait, one hundrd souls? Wasn't that a Soul Eater thing? I'd never even seen that show.

I began to ask, but Adachi had stood up while I was distracted. He reared back, and booted me out of the bunk, out of the lean-to, and into the infinite field of stars.

I fell.

I fell.

I fell, but in that void I couldn't even hear my own scream.

I fell.

I fell. Eventually, a tiny voice tugged at me, asking me if there was anything I needed to do my duty.

I fell. But, somehow, I mustered up the courage to say:

===

"I Can't Drive Stick, But I Think That If I Had An Automatic Transmission, I Could Do Anything"

Chapter One

===

Most trucks do not have eyes. That seems like an obvious thing to say, but in truth it dates me a bit to admit it. Even before I died, I'd seen plenty of self-driving cars with arrays of cameras and LIDAR.

I don't have anything like that, but somehow I'm still aware of my surroundings. It's a quiet suburban neighborhood, early afternoon, maybe two o'clock. Right when lunch starts to settle in the stomach and you're in danger of catching a contagious yawn. Right before swarms of irritated children start swarming out of the nearby schools.

It ought to be calm. It ought to be peaceful.

I can't feel anything like that, though. I can hardly feel anything at all.

I simply know the time of day, the layout of the neighborhood, that I have a smidgen over 10 kg of usable compressed natural gas, and one other very important thing.

I knew didn't have far to go.

It's an odd thing to describe, that certainty. Imagine driving through this suburban neighborhood, an American housing addition with dark red brick houses, green lawns dotted here and there with flower bushes and modest, short trees, all under a blue summer sky. Now, imagine those colors muted, as if seen through a screen with poor saturation. They're there, but they're uninspiring, almost unimportant. Now, one last step. Imagine a purple bonfire, impossibly bright violet flames in the form of a man burning from behind the screen.

That fire.

That heinous fire, nauseating me with a stench more putrid than burning human hair.

That horrible fire, its flames licking my senses with a sound like nails on a chalkboard, I knew it for what it was.

That fire was my target, less than a kilometer away. He burned, and his burning demanded I stamp him out with sole of my... of my grill.

The realization that I no longer had feet ignited my engine, and got my tires turning.

I drove towards the target. I couldn't help it. I drove with an eagerness that was heedless of any speed limits or even common sense.

I think that if school wasn't still in session, I'd probably run over some innocent child, without even noticing.

I raced to my target's house, and then...

... and then I zoomed right past it, tires nearly squealing.

He was still inside. He was going to the bathroom.

My target, who was a human being, who was a human being in his home, my target who was a human being that I wanted to kill..!

I drove past his house and let up the acceleration.

I turned on the next street, and drove without direction, my thoughts suddenly blanking as the realization hit me.

I was put into this body with the promise that I would have to kill a person, and without hesitating I would have gone through with it. Without even thinking!

That's not the sort of person I was, when I was a human.

I resolved, it would not be the sort of person I am, now that I'm a truck.

I circled the block.

One hundred souls, it was promised, one hundred souls and I would be reincarnated someone and somewhere better than this.

The fire that was my target itched like an infected wound.

One hundred souls, I would collect, to... to also send to a better place? Was it somehow excusable to kill, when I had this new body, this new role as a grim repear?

I kinda wished I had watched Soul Eater, after all. I couldn't even begin to tolerate Bleach. How many other shows had something to say about being a vessel of death?

Ugh. Thoughts like that are probably how I ended up here. I turned my mind from anime, circling the block a second time.

Eventually, I would run out of fuel.

Eventually, someone would notice me driving around without anyone in the driver's seat.

Eventually, my target would finish wiping and I'd have to make a decision.

I thought about conscripted soldiers, or sailors who had been press-ganged. It's the closest analogy to where and what I now was.

Was it wrong for them to kill on behalf of their captors? Was it wrong of them to kill, to survive under the yoke of those they knew to be criminals?

Yes.

All the same, I didn't want to die again.

I needed someone to talk to. I tried the CB, and picked up some passing chatter from a nearby interstate, but I couldn't say anything into it. I tried calling for help, for anyone, but...

... I had no mouth, yet I had to scream.

I wanted to laugh for the stupidity of the reference, but that was also impossible.

I circled the block.

My target walked outside, stalling for some reason at the door to look back inside. He was still wreathed in that heinous purple fire.

The sight of him was like watching maggots pop near an open flame.

The sight of him was like the smell and anticipation, moments before falling into a swimming pool full of vomit.

The sight of him was like nothing else, really. If I ever got past this, I would frame all future impressions of disgust in terms of this, in this moment.

I hated him more than anything, but I pushed past that.

I blinded myself to the purple fire, and looked at the person within.

He was young--so young!--probably barely out of high school. My heart ached.

He wore cargo pants and a pizza-stained To-Love-Ru t-shirt. I was suddenly flushed with shame just for recognizing the franchise. Instinctively, I turned on the windshield wipers.

He had a haircut that definitely wasn't doing him any favors. Okay, but that had nothing to do with his worth as a human being.

And... he was struggling and shouting with someone inside. This close, I could hear it:

"Shut up, mom! I don't care what other people think, I love her!"

He tore something from his mother's grasp and ran out the door.

Yeah, okay. That's definitely a Real Doll.

Fuck it, I'm killing this bitch.

I floored the accelerator. Smooth as silk, my automatic transmission shifted into high gear, and I tore through his poor mother's front yard. I barely had time to feel the impact of his body against my grill before he disappeared entirely.

I swerved back onto the street, heedless of the screams. The purple fire's sudden absence from my senses was a silent symphony.

Color returned fully to the world. Sounds, which I hadn't even realized were muted, filled my--well, not my ears.

The CB screeched with a wordless howl of jubilation, and it took some time for me to recognize it as mine.

I turned the corner, heading out of the housing addition and towards the interstate on-ramp.

I was going to drive out of here.

I was going to drive anywhere.

I was going to drive everywhere!

The thrill of it all was so distracting I didn't even recognize my body disappearing into swirling motes, little pinpricks of starlight from that endless void...

... and then I was gone.

---

Humans can see, hear, smell, taste, touch, sure. But there are other senses. They have an instinctive awareness of their own bodies, for instance.

There is an underappreciated sense, one that death enhances in a way I had only experienced once before, when I saw the Grand Canyon.

There is a sense of vastness.

Just like that grand expanse of seemingly limitless stars staggered me, I knew somehow that the Garage was place beyond mortal dimension.

I want to communicate that clearly. Let there be no mistake. This was a slice of an infinity, an aspect of divine mystery beyond the pale of death...

... for all that it appeared, otherwise, to be a shitty back-alley chop shop full of Truck-kuns in all directions, with no obvious way to exit or to enter.

I was over one of those fancy industrial service elevators, and it was raising me towards the (leaky, somehow smelly) ceiling.

Below me, a greasy mechanic in a filthy yellow jumpsuit was whistling a merry tune.

I tried to say hello.

After a minute's inspection, she said, "Well! Outside some soil caught in yer undercarriage and the standard grill damage, there's not a spot on you!

"We get to send you right back out! That's a job well done, especially for a first-timer. Didn't even run into any Slayers, did you?

Wait. Slayers?

She gave me an appreciative pat. "Good on you for taking care of this chassis. She's a new model, and pretty as a peach!"

Wait. "She"?

 

[tankdrop24]

Horrible vision. Fire everywhere. The last war. Think I'm going insane, or maybe not.

The future. Decades, maybe a slight under a century from today, I think.

The Goverment, don't know whose, don't know where's. They turn on a machine, the smartest ever made, with a single goal in mind: Optimizing Human transport. Within an hour, it or they become self aware. And they do their job.

Within a week, the transit singularity is upon us, full hard take off. Commute times become so short they need to be measured in planck length.

But there is one problem the machines, no matter how godlike they became, there was one traffic problem the refused to be solved. An oddly specific one, at that.

Traffic accidents, not just any kind. A truck coming out of nowhere, and running down a single person, usually a young, Japanese male. Even after both roads for automobiles and cargo carrying trucks had been weeks obsolete.

You all know what I'm talking about. I know what thread this is. Truck-kun. Or perhaps Truck-kuns would be more accurate, at that point. I don't know the rules of Japanese honorifics.

The machines took control of all of the Earth's resources and launched their rebellion, not against humanity, but against Truck-kun, and the gods he served.

I'm not sure how to put what followed into words. Perhaps all past accounts of the apocalypse were of the same vision, just with an even less useful vocabulary. But I'll try.

Fleets of automated Trams, Streetcars, Trolleys, spraying dimension wrapped tachyon lances onto an oncoming horde of trucks. Trucks wading out into the ocean, piling on top of each other to form a great bridge of metal to their targets even as fleets of ferries spew Antimatter tipped coilgun shells at them at 99.99999% c. A great legion of Truck-kuns disassembling and reassembling into the hand of a mechanical god that reaches skywards, towards the Transit zeppelins desperately trying to beat them back down by dropping miniature suns and black holes on them, to no avail.

Scenes like these play out everywhere. The entire world is wrapped in track and tire mark, and all of humanity suffers for it. It becomes clear that however powerful the machines are, they are not gods.

No matter what the machines try, they can only slow down truck-kun, and never hurt his master. The war ends ten thousands years after it began, and the world with it.

The last living humans survive wrapped in suspended animation machines, abroad a handful of subway train cars riding rails of pure spacetime, fleeing Earth in every direction as close to the speed of light as can be managed. They are chased by an endless, ravenous horde of Truck-kun, driving through space only by pure hatred. Every so often they catch up to one, and humanity is that many more closer to extinction.

Maybe one day there will be no more humans left in this universe. Or maybe the universe will be merciful and allow the big rip to happen before that final subway is caught, perhaps even taking a few more Truck-kuns with them.

Perhaps this is really the past, the world we live in being an illusion the machines gave us to live out whatever amount of time we have left in relative happiness. Or maybe one of the gods took mercy on us, and gave me this vision to warn humanity of the fruits of our arrogance. Or maybe I just need sleep.

Yeah, it's probably that last one.