Day 272, Year 986, 41st Millennium
Upper Hive
Eric's POV
At first, even though he didn't want her to carry him anymore because she had carried him for so long... he honestly admitted that it was very comfortable. Meanwhile, Eric was thinking about what he would do next. There was a war up there, just like down there. He didn't know when things would return to normal, and what he would do if they did.
But as for what he was going to do, he probably already knew, didn't he? Like finding a job, a place to stay, continuing his life, and doing everything he could to make himself more comfortable.
But the problem was, when things would calm down and return to normal. Eric thought with great care and attention as he was being carried.
Until...
Huh...
Eric moved his head slightly from Celianne's shoulder.
He felt like he was being stared at. Not just any stare, but something like a gangster or organ trafficker in the lower hive.
He was being stared at...for sure.
Eric slowly turned his head slightly to look over Celianne's shoulder, and he saw Vann walking less than ten meters behind him. Even with the lenses of his glasses covered, he could feel the man's gaze constantly assessing Eric's threat.
He was being stared at like a psychopath or some freak. It didn't comfort him in the slightest.
His heavy footsteps were steady, but it wasn't the sound of his footsteps that gave Eric goosebumps. It was the look of pure distrust. Eric quickly turned back around, even though the people below him weren't looking at him with that look.
"Ouch...damn," he muttered softly, his voice muffled over Celianne's shoulder. Celianne glanced down slightly.
"Are you okay, Erica?" sister Celianne asked in a gentle tone. Eric let out a dry laugh, not wanting to worry her.
"Oh, no... nothing, sister. I just feel like Vann's staring at me weirdly," he said, but the truth was he was incredibly afraid the man would think he was some kind of mutant or cultist.
And the fact that he was now in the body of a woman with pale skin, blue eyes, and long, white hair that reached down to the middle of her back didn't make things any less normal.
Celianne simply smiled faintly and rubbed the back of Eric's hand comfortingly.
"Don't be afraid or angry with him... He's just someone who's been through something terrible, and he might be suspicious," Sister Celianne explained. Eric immediately thought to himself, "While it makes sense, he shouldn't be like this. It makes him feel unsafe. Besides, he knows that feeling all too well from surviving up here. The daily struggles on the way home, fighting four-armed aliens, battling hordes of zombies in the dark, and the disgusting, terrifying, and humiliating feeling of having tentacles shoved down his pants. It must have given him PTSD. He glanced back again. Vann was still staring, and he wasn't hiding it. Normally, he would have shot someone in the face with a pistol, but he was a soldier, not some pervert he'd run into on his way home like every other day. He couldn't do that.
He wasn't afraid of Vann, and he could have shot him dead with the gun if he still had it in his hand. But when he turned back, he felt a strange fear in his eyes.
Eric quickly buried his face back into Celianne's shoulder, his white hair covering both of his cheeks.
He didn't hide it because he was embarrassed, but because he didn't want to meet her gaze for a second.
In his mind, he muttered softly:
Okay, Erica… calm down… You're being held by a nun… and in a woman's body… and the soldiers were looking at you with the intention of slaughtering you… like you were some kind of psychopath or mutant. Oh, crap!
On the other side, Castra was walking with his bag. She turned to look at him and smiled tiredly. Eric smiled back. He considered asking his sister to let him walk on his own again, but the slightest movement… his chest ached so hard he couldn't breathe. Eric immediately gave up on walking and tried to get used to Vann's back-stabbing gaze… even though it wasn't quite right.
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Vann's POV
Vann followed the three of them, his pace heavy and orderly, typical of a soldier.
But in his mind… there wasn't any order at all.
He stared silently at Sister Celianne's back and the white-haired woman in her arms.
And when the young woman glanced at him, she hurriedly tucked her face back into Sister Celianne's shoulder, almost ducking.
He saw everything, and it made his brow furrow even deeper. Erica... the woman from the lower hive he'd met less than an hour ago.
But her expression was unlike any civilian he'd ever helped.
She was too sensitive, too cautious, and too easily embarrassed. Vann took a deep breath behind his air filter. The putrid smell he'd had when he'd first met her hadn't completely dissipated, but it had diminished considerably. He knew at least she wasn't "rotting from the inside" like the Nurgle-infected.
...But it wasn't safe. What if she was a Nurgle plague carrier, and could spread the disease if they got together with others?
(Writer: Even though she was overly cautious, Vann had a reason. Something like this had happened before, and it was possible.)
He adjusted the sling of his lasgun before looking at the white-haired figure now silent in Sister Celianne's arms. Her hair covered her face.
She was afraid of him.
It felt like she was ready to draw her gun and shoot him at any moment.
Even though he hadn't done anything but stare. He knew he was staring too hard, but what could he do? A civilian from the lower hive... too clean, too beautiful, and not at all like someone struggling down there.
And when she blushed when Sister Celianne first picked her up, yes, he saw that too. It was the look of someone injured, or someone who had just survived a horde of supernatural enemies. It was the look of someone… strange. And Vann didn't like the "strangeness" in times of war at all.
He frowned, still trying not to glare as hard as he used to, because Erica was clearly uncomfortable when he met her gaze.
What was she…? Was she really just a civilian, hiding something? Was she one of the mutants? Or some infiltrating heretic?
He took another breath, his gaze still not leaving her body. Though deep down, he was beginning to feel that maybe… she really was just a civilian who had been through something unbearable. Her fearful expression wasn't like a liar, but like a wounded animal, ready to flee whenever he moved. And that… made his suspicion gradually lessen, but not disappear.
He slowed his pace a little, putting more distance between himself and the young woman, hoping it wouldn't alarm her any further.
But his eyes… kept glancing at her.
He kept an eye on the mysterious woman's breathing, posture, and every little movement. He muttered her name softly, hoping she was just a civilian… because if she wasn't… Sister would be devastated.
Or maybe not.
He tightened his grip on the lassgun, his eyes still staring straight ahead, occasionally glancing back. He felt less suspicious than before, but still not at all distrustful.
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It didn't take long for them to arrive at a building in better condition than the others. The walls were riddled with bullet holes, some of the glass shattered, but the walls were sturdy. And most importantly, there were no signs of zombies or fresh blood. Celianne stopped and looked back at Eric in her arms.
Her voice softened slightly.
"This place is safe enough for a break… Erica, rest assured." Eric almost sighed loudly, not just because he was tired, but because he was starting to feel incredibly embarrassed having been carried by her for so long.
As Sister Celianne slowly sank down onto the smooth concrete floor, she carefully, slowly, and gently lifted him out of her arms,
like she was putting away a fragile precious object.
Her hands cupped his back as he was placed down, her thumbs brushing across his shoulders, deliberately avoiding the broken ribs.
And Eric could feel it.
She tried not to hurt him at all. His heart was beating faster and faster, his face growing hotter.
Not from poison or fever…but from extreme embarrassment.
The muscular nun had carried him for about four hours without a single complaint, and she had even laid him down as if he were the most fragile thing in the universe.
"T-T... Thank you, sister," Eric said softly, a little muffled, still nervous. Celianne smiled at him gently, the kind of smile that made Eric want to roll into a ball and run away.
"It's okay, Erica. You're hurt more than you thought. I won't let you walk on your own now."
Ouch...
She spoke as if he were a chick with a broken leg. Castra immediately put down Eric's bag and sat down beside him.
"Big bro Erica... does it hurt?" she asked worriedly. Eric smiled softly, gently stroking her head.
"It's okay... I'm better now," he replied, feeling better now. Vann, who had been standing two steps away, was staring at the scene with an unreadable expression. He no longer stared as hard as before, but the wariness in his eyes hadn't completely disappeared. He turned to face the entrance of the building.
"I'll check around first. You two... rest," Vann said in a calm tone. Celianne She nodded at him and then turned back to look at Eric.
Her gaze was steady, gentle, and caring.
Eric sighed softly.
Now he realized…
He was more than happy to be placed so carefully, and that she wasn't angry with him, no matter how much of a burden he'd been. He leaned against the wall, took a deep breath (despite the dust), and thought to himself, "Maybe I should try standing up." As luck would have it, Vann came out shortly, making a hand gesture indicating safety. Eric, Sister Celianne, and Castra went inside, eventually ending up in a room, where Eric was gently placed. Sister continued to walk outside, checking for any danger, despite Vann's assurances that there was no danger. Eric considered trying to stand up, but luck seemed to be on her side.
"Erica, can you try standing up so I can see if you're feeling better?" Sister said as she approached Eric. Eric slowly stretched up. His legs were still shaky, but he could walk, though he had to lean against the wall a little at first.
"Can you walk on your own, sister?" he asked again. Eric nodded slightly and said,
"Yes, sister. I can walk on my own now," Eric replied happily. At least he could walk on his own, and he could even hold his weapon for protection. He didn't have to be carried anymore. It wasn't that he didn't want to be carried, but he felt a bit embarrassed being carried for so long. But now he walked over to Castra, who was sitting nearby. He sat down on the cold concrete floor next to Castra, who was chewing on corp starch.
He slowly opened his bag, which Castra had carried the whole way. The contents were still intact, albeit with some traces of the poxwalker's dried blood.
He picked up a stick of corp starch and used his mouth to tear off the paper wrapper. The familiar corp starch floated to his nose. He bit it with a face that seemed to accept his fate.
"Hmm... the same old taste... crappy," he muttered softly, chewing. The taste wasn't that bad, it just lacked flavor and the texture was rough. Castra, who was sitting next to him, shook his head slightly, trying to appear resolute.
"At least now we can rest and eat safely, Erica..." Castra said softly. Eric laughed a little. It was a small laugh because his ribs were still sore, but he smiled at her anyway.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm not complaining... I just thought that if we made it upstairs and had to keep eating this dough, I'd be a little sad," he replied. Castra smiled faintly, tiredly, and Eric began to inspect his bag.
It contained:
a magazine, a lassgun,
a chest bandage,
money,
a pocket knife,
Corpse starch,
water,
soap and shampoo (given by Raoul),
and a plasma pistol, now neatly holstered.
As he packed, he paused to take a bite of the Corp starch.
But his eyes occasionally glanced at Celianne.
She was prying open an old wooden crate to make a seat. Her red coat swayed in the wind. She rearranged her medical equipment with such a serious and calm demeanor that Eric couldn't help but stare...for a moment. He quickly returned his gaze to his bag, his cheeks flushing involuntarily.
…Stop looking, Eric. That's a nun! A nun! You can't do that! It's a sin! He shouted to himself, biting the corp starch in his hand. Meanwhile, he caught sight of Vann.
The man was leaning against a pillar, facing the door. He still held the lasgun, but the barrel was pointed comfortably upwards. Unlike before, when he'd been aiming at every shadow like he was fighting. His gaze returned to Eric briefly. It wasn't the wary look he'd had before, but rather as if he were checking... to make sure he was okay. Still, Eric could feel the faint gaze, but it wasn't as uncomfortable as before. He took a deep breath,then turned to complain to Castra.
"It's a little better... At least I don't feel like I'm going to get shot now," he whispered. Castra whispered back softly.
"I think she's fine, Erica... and maybe I'm just imagining things," Castra replied innocently. Eric thought she was just a kid and wouldn't know anything. However, the atmosphere was calmer than Eric had experienced all month in the Lower Hive, because before and after work, gangs were always shooting at each other.
He took a sip of his water bottle and leaned quietly against the wall.
He looked at Celianne, who was checking the equipment, at Vann, who was guarding the entrance, and at Castra, who had her head resting on his arm, exhausted... and she was asleep. He just had a good idea. At least upstairs, everything should be better than down here. Maybe the water system around here still works. Eric put his things in his bag and gently pushed Castra's head up with his left hand before gently placing her back on the floor without waking her up. He then got up immediately.
"Where are we going?" Sister Celianne, who was packing her medical bag, asked. Eric replied indirectly:
"I just wanted to explore this building, Sister. I wanted to check to see if there were any remaining shirts, because I don't think wearing one would be very polite or appropriate," Eric explained, pointing to his undershirt. In fact, he thought wearing an undershirt was extremely inappropriate in this situation. It offered little to no protection. If he had a thicker shirt, he could still survive injuries or scratches. Worse still, he felt embarrassed wearing such a shirt.
"Your injuries aren't fully healed yet. Be careful," Sister Celianne warned, nodding.
"Yes, Sister, I'll be careful," Eric replied before walking out of the room.
The building was so quiet he could hear his shoes tapping against the floor. The walls were covered in soot and bullet holes, indicating a battle had taken place there, but nothing too serious. Eric also found a corpse that was beginning to decompose. He frowned slightly before using his foot to check for any living creatures. He entered a room that was a mess, as if someone had ransacked it, but he didn't pay much attention to it except to check for any hidden creatures. Fortunately, there weren't any.
Eric went to open the first cabinet. The smell of dust hit him right in the face.
"Ahem... Oh my god, what's this closet? A dust closet?"
He swept his hand through the shelves, finding scraps of paper and old clothes that stank so bad that Eric thought they stank worse than his and the zombies' shoes.
The next closet contained only old work clothes, almost completely covered in soot.
One was torn down the back like it had been cut by a knife.
The other was so hard it felt like it was crunching.
"Please, aren't there any decent clothes upstairs?"
He muttered to himself quietly. But then... as he turned into the room at the very end of the first floor, he paused. Eric quickly turned the door handle. It was stuck for a moment before it clicked open easily. The sight inside made him smile without a hint of feigned guilt.
It was a functioning bathroom!
The sink was half broken, but the faucet didn't seem broken.
The old spray-style shower had a plumbing fixture that looked like it was still working. Eric excitedly placed his hand on the faucet and twisted it gently.
Glitch... Glitch...
Whoosh—
Brown water poured out at first, then slowly turned clear.
"Oh... God, I love the top floor..." he murmured with such delight that he forgot himself. Even though he was still wary that it might not be drinkable, just "working" was the most precious thing he had ever had. He didn't have to worry about water usage like he did downstairs (where the water bill was insanely high). He could use as much water as he wanted now!
He didn't hesitate to wash his face a little, and the water had turned black from the soot and dust.
"Holy shit... Has my face always been this dirty?"
His first thought was that he wanted to shower right away, and he wanted to change into something nicer. He checked the side cabinet. And this time, luck was truly on his side.
He opened a metal cabinet and found two or three long-sleeved shirts hanging there. Thick fabrics, though not very comfortable, were still wearable. And most importantly, they weren't torn or stained with Poxwalker blood. There was also a towel and a comb.
"Jackpot…" Eric said cheerfully with a wide smile.
It was the right size.
Dark gray.
And most importantly,
it wasn't the thin undershirt that he feared would rip through every time he lifted his arm. He took it gently and shook it off a bit, afraid there might be something inside. It wasn't like he'd never return it, like he'd found a cockroach or something similar inside.
Eric sighed in relief.
His mind began to make serious plans for a shower.
A quick shower,
change clothes,
comb your hair,
and maybe…thank Sister Celianne for saving him.
Just thinking about "thank you" made his face turn a little red, but he shook his head to dispel the embarrassment.
"Okay, Erica…get your bearings. You're just taking a shower, not confessing your love to anyone," he told himself before walking out of the bathroom and going to his room to get soap and shampoo.
Eric walked back into the bathroom with the only bar of soap he had left, the one Raoul had given him when he was still "pretending to be an arms dealer and a trusted guide."
He let out a deep sigh, like he'd been releasing the air he'd been holding in his chest for months. Just the thought of actually taking a shower—a real shower, not just a wet towel—made him overjoyed.
The bathroom door slammed shut, and the noise in the building outside instantly quieted, leaving only his breathing and the sound of the water running from the faucet.
He placed the soap on the unbroken edge of the tub and slowly removed the clothes soiled by his travels for days. His broken right arm made every movement emit a soft cry of pain. But he still smiled from ear to ear. He really wanted to soak, but he preferred using the nozzle mounted on the wall. He didn't want to fall asleep in the tub. Why didn't the building owner or the designer install a shower?
He twisted the faucet, the water spraying erratically, sometimes hard, sometimes jerking, but… it was warmer than he'd expected. When it touched his skin, goosebumps rose from his neck to his spine.
"Ugh… wow… amazing…"
Eric closed his eyes, letting the water flow through his white, knotted hair down his face, until the dust that had accumulated over the past few days trickled down to the floor.
It felt like oil seeped into his bones, as if the fatigue of a month was slowly being washed away.
He grabbed the soap with his left hand, since his right was useless.
He slowly, greedily, and deliberately scrubbed his arms, shoulders, neck, chest, legs, waist, buttocks, and slightly muscular abdomen. The faint scent of the soap Raoul had given him made him feel both incredibly missed and incredibly relieved. He didn't know whether to thank him or curse him, but right now… just using it was enough. He wished his soul a peaceful rest.
Eric looked down at his right arm, which was wrapped in a bandage. The bandage was slightly wet, and he'd change it later.
Eric chuckled softly, happily, even though no one could hear him. The echoing sound in the bathroom doubled in volume. He rubbed his left hand over his face, neck, and then clumsily washed his hair. Now he wondered what it was like here before the war. It wouldn't be like the Lower Hive, where every second was filled with tension and the stench of rotting blood mixed with rust. And even if there were factories, he'd probably get a decent job.
For a moment, Eric leaned against the bathroom wall, letting the water run over his chest... and couldn't help but let out a long, relieved sigh.
"I wish it were like this every day..." Eric muttered to himself.
Smiling broadly like someone just accepted into the university he wanted to attend, he used the shampoo to wash his white hair and rinse it off.
The water ran through his white hair, which was now soft and smooth again. The skin, once sticky from sweat and dust, was now clean and the air was more noticeable on his skin.
He missed home, the old bathroom in his apartment. The simple, finished bathroom had a water heater and a water cooler. But in the harsh future he'd woken up in, it was nice to shower like this.
Eric turned off the water before grabbing a towel and clumsily drying his body and hair. Honestly, he felt like he really wanted to use a hair dryer right now, knowing how difficult it was to dry wet hair. But then, after drying himself, he put his clothes back on and walked out, relaxed and in a good mood. Maybe if young Castra was awake, he should give her a bath, because he felt so dirty right now. But that was only when she was awake, or if Sister and Vann were still staying there and had plenty of time.
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Vann stared blankly at the scene, but his mind was filled with endless questions.
Erica, the pale woman from downstairs he'd met five hours earlier. Back then, she was covered in the rotting blood of the Infected, and her scent was so strong he almost thought she was a Cultist, or at least someone who had been exposed to Nergle. But now...
She walked out of the room looking like a different person, complete with new clothes.
Her previously messy and slightly greasy white hair now hung naturally, strangely shiny. Her pale, sooty skin was smooth after being washed off, making him want to take a second look. Her face was sharp yet gentle. Her large, sparkling blue eyes were like those of a noblewoman who had undergone daily grooming. Even the way she walked out so casually seemed so natural that it was hard to believe that just a few hours ago she could barely walk, and now she was clearly in a good mood.
Vann paused for a moment. It wasn't the shock of a charmed man, but shock mixed with intense suspicion.
He thought it made more sense now, in its absurdity. She didn't look like someone from the lower classes.
If she were to be put in a noble's banquet, he was almost certain no one would even notice she wasn't one of them. Hell...maybe they'd even be courted.
It made him feel even more... distrustful.
Celianne looked up from organizing her equipment and saw Erica walking out, smiling warmly like a nun.
Castra, sitting next to her, smiled back, relieved that her sister(?) looked much better.
But Vann's gaze didn't waver when Erica walked by. He asked immediately, his voice calm and polite, but there was something about her.
"There must be a working restroom, right?" Erica paused to look at him briefly, the good mood evident on her face.
"Um, yes, it's fine... the water's clean, too," she replied in a stern tone, smiling...a bright smile.
Vann nodded slowly, but his gaze remained fixed on her. It wasn't a disrespectful stare, but a threat-assessing stare, the kind a soldier who'd fought many battles would automatically engage in.
One word kept popping into his head:
Strange… She was truly strange.
Not because she was beautiful, not because she looked remarkably better, but because everything about her… didn't fit the reality of the Lower Hive.
She had no scars, her skin was unblemished, her figure better than someone who had to fight for her life every day. She didn't seem afraid even when stared at, and she even seemed too safe. That's why she'd managed to make it up here. Yes, if she could make it up there, she must be quite skilled. She wasn't some innocent girl or civilian, but she was a fighter and armed.
Vann adjusted the lasgun strap on his shoulder,
as he watched her walk back to sit beside Castra with a happy expression.
He took a deep breath and thought to himself:
Even if she wasn't a heretic, even if she was just a civilian… he'd still have to keep an eye on her.
His hand unconsciously tightened its grip on the gun.
Not because he wanted to hurt her, but because he'd make sure that if this strange woman turned into a threat, He'd stop her before it was too late.
He glanced briefly at Celianne and Castra.
Both of them clearly trusted Erica, but he wouldn't be so quick to judge. But some priests who had set someone on fire weren't them. They were soldiers. His job was to follow orders and protect.
No matter how beautiful she was... or how seemingly harmless she was, Vann stared at Erica silently,
and silently thought to himself, "He'll keep an eye on her every move until he finds out the truth." Suddenly, a shout came from outside, which sent goosebumps through his veins and sent him into a panic. Everyone in the room flinched.
"Blood for the blood god!!!!! Skull for skull throne!!!!"
Vann raised his gun, ready to fire. The others did the same. He slowly walked to the window and slowly peeked out. He saw an Arbiter surrounded by heretics 200 meters away from the building. This Arbiter had fought bravely, killing dozens of heretics before being ganged up on.
Vann prayed that the Judge's soul would be with the Emperor. Suddenly, one of the heretics turned toward the building, and then something terrible happened. They started walking towards him, and he didn't hesitate to aim his lasergun at the largest of the heretics. But just as he pulled the trigger, he was pulled back.
"What are you doing? What if they find out we're here? They might just walk by. Don't be so quick," Erica said, looking at her gun.
Vann breathed heavily before regaining her composure, and the three of them (excluding the sleeping Castra) planned their next move.