10,000 Years Too Late

The acid rain had finally let up, leaving the streets slick with something that wasn't quite water. Hayazaki kept to the shadows of the upper walkways, his borrowed body moving with practiced ease across rusted metal and crumbling stone. Filis's memories guided his steps - which bridges could bear weight, which would collapse at the slightest touch.

The Outer Rim spread below him like a wound that refused to heal. Makeshift dwellings clung to the sides of ancient industrial towers, connected by precarious bridges and improvised ladders. Steam and toxic fumes rose from vents in the ground, creating a perpetual haze that turned the weak sunlight into something sickly and green.

Yet despite the grim surroundings, Hayazaki found his natural optimism persisting. He watched a group of children playing some game with collected ash, their faces covered in makeshift masks. Even here, people found ways to live, to create moments of joy. His heart ached for them, even as Filis's more cynical memories warned him that such sympathy was dangerous in the Rim.

A commotion ahead made him pause. His borrowed body tensed instinctively - Filis's muscle memory recognizing the sound of a shakedown in progress. Through gaps in the walkway, he could see Slasher's men "collecting dues" from a vendor. The sight made his jaw clench, but he forced himself to remain still. Not yet. He wasn't strong enough to challenge them yet.

Instead, he backtracked three platforms and took a different route, one that Filis had used for years. It required a precise jump between buildings, then a climb through what had once been a ventilation shaft. The toxic residue coating the shaft's walls would kill most people, but his Malara body processed it without issue.

He emerged onto a quieter level, where the air was thick enough to see but not so bad that it burned. Here, Filis's memories guided him to specific vendors - ones who wouldn't ask questions, who would trade food for the natural poison his body produced. The transactions were silent, completed with nods and gestures. In the Rim, words were a luxury that could get you killed if overheard by the wrong people.

An hour's careful navigation brought him to what Filis had called his "winter nest" - a partially collapsed processing chamber in the old water treatment sector. The route there was deliberately complex, requiring three ladder climbs, a traverse across a beam that looked far too rusted to be safe (but wasn't), and finally a squeeze through a gap that most would assume was too toxic to survive.

As he pulled himself through the final passage, Hayazaki found himself appreciating Filis's ingenuity. The chamber was perfectly positioned - high enough to spot trouble coming, multiple escape routes, and the surrounding toxicity created a natural barrier that only a Malara could cross. Some of the old machinery still hummed faintly, creating white noise that would mask any sounds from inside.

The space itself was small but efficiently arranged. Filis's memories showed him where supplies were hidden - medical kits tucked into broken pipes, preserved food in sealed containers, even a collection of books secured in watertight boxes. It wasn't just a hiding spot, Hayazaki realized. It had been a home.

He began checking the caches, noting what was still useful and what had spoiled. His hands moved with Filis's practiced efficiency, but his mind wandered to darker thoughts. How young had Filis been when he first made this nest? How many nights had he spent here alone, listening to the toxic rain on metal while Slasher's men prowled the levels below?

A sound from outside made him freeze - voices carrying across the upper levels. Through a gap in the wall, he could see a group of people gathered around something. No, someone. They were examining an unconscious figure, discussing prices. Hayazaki's stomach turned as he realized they were corpse traders - people who sold bodies to those who couldn't afford to raid the Undawild themselves.

He watched as they haggled over the still-breathing form. His first instinct was to help, to stop this horrible transaction. But Filis's memories showed him what would happen - how intervention would only mark him as a target, how the victim would likely just end up in an even worse situation. The Outer Rim had its own brutal logic, and good intentions were often deadlier than malice.

Still, as he turned away from the scene, Hayazaki made a mental note. Once he was stronger, once he had dealt with Slasher, perhaps he could do something about the corpse traders too. His natural optimism might seem naive in this harsh place, but it gave him something to work toward, goals beyond mere survival.

For now though, he had to focus on immediate concerns. The nest would serve as a base, but he needed to establish a routine that wouldn't draw attention. Filis's memories suggested a pattern - which vendors to visit on which days, when to make his poison deliveries, how to seem useful enough to be left alone but not valuable enough to be noticed.

Or at least that's what he thought. But as he turned away, a subtle movement caught his eye - the "unconscious" figure twitched, just slightly. Not a corpse at all, but a child, barely conscious and wrapped in filthy bandages. The traders were already dragging their prize toward the lower levels, where the air was thicker with toxins.

Filis's memories screamed at him to stay put, showed him countless similar scenes that had played out in the Rim. Intervention meant attention. Attention meant death. The child would either survive or not - that was the way of things here.

But Hayazaki wasn't Filis. Even in this borrowed body, with all its accumulated wisdom and scars, he couldn't just watch. Not when he could help. Not when he had power that Filis never did.

He moved silently from his nest, Filis's practiced stealth combining with his new abilities. The traders took a predictable route down - of course they would, they thought no one would be foolish enough to follow them through the toxic zones. They didn't expect a Malara to care about some random child.

Their path led deeper into the Rim's worst areas. The air here was visible, a thick soup of chemicals that even the traders' masks struggled to filter. They moved quickly, eager to get their business done before the toxins could seep through their protection.

Hayazaki followed, his Malara body processing the poison without effort. In the dense toxic fog, he was practically invisible. And he had an advantage the original Filis never did - the Axis system's enhanced abilities and his own growing understanding of how to use them.

The toxic fog worked to his advantage. Through it, he could track the traders by sound - their boots on metal walkways, their labored breathing through failing masks, the occasional grunt as they handled their cargo. His borrowed body moved with practiced silence, navigating the treacherous footing without a sound.

The traders stopped at what Filis's memories identified as a processing station - one of many scattered through the Rim's lower levels. Once, these stations had helped clean the city's water. Now they served darker purposes. The child stirred slightly as they set their burden down, drawing a sharp slap from one of the traders.

Hayazaki felt something surge in his chest - not just anger, but something chemical. His Malara body was responding to his emotions, producing toxins more potent than Filis had ever managed. He could feel it building in his throat, behind his teeth.

The traders were arguing now, their voices muffled by masks and fog. One wanted to wait for their buyer, another insisted they should process the "merchandise" first. None of them noticed the purple mist beginning to curl around their feet - heavier than the toxic fog, spreading like spilled ink through water.

Hayazaki moved closer, letting his body's natural poison fill the space. Filis had always been cautious with his abilities, using them only when necessary and never to their full potential. But Hayazaki had no such reservations. Not now. Not with a child's life at stake.

The first trader noticed something was wrong when his mask began to dissolve. The specially treated filters, designed to handle the Rim's toxic atmosphere, were no match for concentrated Malara venom. He had just enough time to cry out before the poison reached his lungs.

The others turned at the sound, but in the dense fog, they couldn't see what was happening. They couldn't see the dark figure moving among them, purple smoke trailing from its mouth like some nightmare made real.

The purple mist spread with terrible efficiency, dissolving masks and eating through protective gear. The traders' confusion turned to panic as they realized what was happening - a Malara attack, but unlike anything they'd encountered before. Their bodies knew the danger before their minds could process it; they stumbled back, choking on poison that their dissolving masks no longer filtered.

Two fled immediately, vanishing into the toxic fog. The third drew a knife, spinning wildly as he tried to locate his attacker. The fourth collapsed, his mask completely gone, gasping as the poison worked its way through his system. The last one, the largest, grabbed the child and held a blade to their throat.

"Back off!" he shouted into the fog. "I know you're there, you purple-blooded freak. One step closer and-"

He never finished. Hayazaki had moved while he was talking, circling behind him through the densest part of the fog. One hand seized the trader's knife arm while the other clamped over his mask, Malara venom seeping through the material directly onto his face. The man released the child, clawing at his burning skin as he fell.

Hayazaki caught the child before they could hit the metal grating. Up close, he could see how young they were - no more than ten, their small frame wracked with some wasting disease. The kind of desperate case that made easy prey for people like the traders.

But he had no time to dwell on it. Already he could hear shouts in the distance - the commotion would draw attention, and attention in the Rim was always dangerous. He needed to move fast.

The child stirred in his arms, eyes flickering open for a moment. They showed no fear at his purple-tinged skin or the vapor still trailing from his mouth. Instead, there was something like wonder in their gaze before consciousness slipped away again.

Hayazaki adjusted his grip, preparing to navigate back through the toxic zones. He had just made himself a target - not just for the surviving traders, but for anyone who heard about a Malara who dared interfere with business in the Rim. Slasher would eventually hear about this too.

But looking down at the child in his arms, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Some things were worth the risk.

With practiced care born from Filis's memories, Hayazaki secured the child on his back. The toxic fog curled around them as they began their ascent through the Rim's levels, following the safest paths that Filis had mapped over years of survival.

"Are they dead?" The child's voice was barely a whisper against his shoulder. "The bad men?"

Hayazaki smiled, though the child couldn't see it. "No, they're not dead. The poison I used is strong enough to knock them down, but not to kill them." He adjusted his grip carefully as they crossed a narrow beam. "Killing is bad."

He felt the child studying him - this strange Malara who spoke of mercy, whose poison could disable without killing, who smiled while discussing such things. It was so different from everything the child knew of the Rim, where survival usually meant dealing death.

His Axis terminal pulsed in his peripheral vision, indicating several level gains. The system, it seemed, rewarded protection as much as combat. But Hayazaki barely noticed, focused instead on choosing secure footholds as they climbed higher, away from the worst of the toxic zones.

"My name is Min," the child offered suddenly, their small hands tightening slightly on his shoulders.

Hayazaki felt something warm bloom in his chest - not the toxic chemistry of his Malara body, but something more human. Something Filis hadn't felt in a very long time.