Jett finally spotted Pizza Inferno in his sights. The sign was still hanging on for dear life, that one corner stubbornly refused to give in to gravity's sweet embrace.
Out of habit, he tried to smooth down his work shirt again. He knew he had a death wish for disappearing for days and suddenly returning without even giving his boss a call—well, he had in fact lost his phone during his transformation in the woods.
He shoved open the door, the bell above unleashed its usual cacophony of jingles. The rays of sunlight struck his skin through the windows, there was a slight burning sensation.
He ignored it.
The smell of cheap tomato sauce and burnt cheese hit him once again like a brick wall.
"Jett! You're back! We've got your bike here. And you're not late..you're astronomically late!"
My.Pyre's familiar voice boomed from the back, making Jett wince. The man emerged from the kitchen, with flour dusting his already flour-dusted apron.
His comb over seemed to have achieved sentience, defying the laws of physics.
"Mr.Pyre, I am so sorry! You wouldn't believe what happened to me," Jett said, attempting a tone that wasn't dripping with sheer panic.
"Oh, I'm sure it was epic, Jett. Did you battle a dragon in those woods? Did you get abducted by a particularly polite alien? Because only something extraordinary could explain your absence!"
Mr.Pyre continued:
"People expect their Meat Meteor, Jett! Their spicy Supremes! They have needs, desires, unlike you, apparently!"
Mr.Pyre's face was turning a shade of purple that Jett was pretty sure wasn't natural. Also, didn't Mr.Pyre say something similar before?
He shuffled his feet. "Well, uh, you see—there was this..incident."
Mr.Pyre's one visible eyebrow shot up so high that it threatened to disappear into his hairline.
"An incident? Was this incident perhaps called sleeping until the end of time? Or maybe forgetting that gainful employment is how you afford instant noodles, Jett?"
Jett was baffled, he shook his head:
"No, sir! It was more of a..life altering, possibly supernatural kind of incident," Jett blurted out.
The silence that followed could have been used to age cheese, it was that thick.
Mr.Pyre's comb over seemed to deflate slightly.
"Supernatural, you say? Jett, are you finally admitting that your punctuality is so bad, it defies the natural order?"
Before Jett could formulate a response that didn't involve spontaneous combustion, Marco sauntered in from the back, tossing a stack of pizza boxes onto the counter.
"Yo! Jett's back! Guess the wilderness didn't eat him up after all."
My.Pyre rounded on Marco:
"The wilderness almost ate my most incompetent employee! Have some respect, Marco! The boy's been through..something! Though honestly, I'm not sure what could be worse than working here.."
Mr.Pyre sighed, surprising Jett and Marco.
"Just get back to work, both of you. And Jett, if you're late again—I'm docking your pay. Maybe then you'll learn that time is money, and pizza is sacred!"
He stomped back into the kitchen, muttering about the ingratitude of employees and the decline of civilization.
Jett stared after him, then turned to Marco.
"He seems... surprisingly unfazed."
Marco wiped his hands on his own grease stained apron.
"Eh, Pyre's just glad you're not a ghost. Besides," he jerked his thumb towards the back and spoke again:
"We found something of yours."
Jett frowned. "Found something of mine? What, did you guys finally locate my dignity? Because I'm pretty sure I lost that here years ago."
"Nah, better than dignity. Your baby's back."
He gestured towards the door Jett had just come through.
Leaning against the wall, looking like it had gone ten rounds with a particularly angry badger, was Jett's bike.
The front wheel was at a jaunty angle, the handlebars were twisted, and there was a sizable dent in the frame.
"My... bike?" Jett stared at it in disbelief.
"What happened to it? It looks like it tried to fight a bear and the bear used it as a toothpick."
"Woods happened,"
Marco said with a shrug.
"Pyre sent the chopper out to look for your body, you know, for closure and all that. They didn't find you, but they did find that mangled mess. Figured you'd want it back. Sentimental value and all that."
Mr. Pyre's voice echoed from the kitchen.
"Sentimental value? Jett, that bike is an abomination! It's all related to your appalling sense of direction and your even more appalling life choices!"
He appeared in the doorway, brandishing a spatula like a weapon.
"But, since it's back, you're back on deliveries! We've got a backlog of hangry customers demanding their cheesy goodness. So, unless you want to face their wrath, you'll get back on that... that wheeled bonus and start pedaling!"
-
Moments later, Jett reluctantly climbed onto his bike.
It shared his general sense of existential dread. He adjusted his grip on the twisted handlebars and pushed off, the wonky front wheel wobbled precariously.
'What's up with me and battered bikes?'
"Pizza Inferno: We deliver... eventually!" he muttered under his breath, channeling his inner Pyre.
As he pedaled, the city blurred around him, thee were honking cars, shouting pedestrians, and the ever present aroma of exhaust fumes. But Jett barely registered them.
His mind was a maelstrom of 'what ifs' and 'holy crap, what nows..'
The display from the voice flickered in his thoughts again.
[ Name: Jett Walker ]
[ Rank: Spawn ]
[ Vitriol: 1/1000 ]
[Path: Somatic I - 0/1000 ]
[ Lineage: Veschar ]
He shuddered. Veschar. Even the name sounded ominous, like a particularly nasty cough.
'What happens when that Vitriol counter hits the required amount'? he wondered, his legs pumping harder.
'Do I sprout fangs? Start craving plasma? Develop an aversion to garlic bread?'
Below the display, the voice had helpfully provided a description, which Jett now recalled with a mix of awe and terror:
Description: From humble beginnings as a mere delivery boy, ferrying cheesy discs across the urban sprawl on his trusty wheeled bonus, Jett unwittingly stumbled into a destiny far stranger than a late night rush. It was a chance encounter, and a thirst that wasn't for soda—but it was instead for something far more...profound that transformed him. He became Veschar, a scion of an extinct lineage and the personification of desperate adaptation.
Jett grimaced. "Desperate adaptation? Is that what they're calling getting jumped by a Vampire these days?"
He accessed the display again, focusing on the Veschar lineage. New information swam into view:
Veschar Lineage Traits:
Dark Frenzy: In the embrace of darkness, your speed and reflexes sharpen to a razor's edge.
Bottomless: You possess the unnerving ability to absorb and integrate the traits of those you consume. Their strengths become your own, their weaknesses... irrelevant.
Hard body: Your skin hardens, forming a natural armor against physical harm. Most blades bounce off you, blows lose their impact.
He dismissed the red line of words, trying to focus on the road. He had a Spicy Supreme with extra jalapenos to deliver.
His first stop was in one of the ritziest parts of town, all gleaming skyscrapers and intimidating doormen. He chained up his bike as best he could with the mangled lock and approached the building, feeling distinctly out of place.
He found the apartment number it was a ridiculously high floor with a view that probably cost more than his entire life savings.
He pressed the doorbell, and a voice that sounded like gravel gargling with acid barked from the intercom, "What is it?"
'He sounds like Brenda.' Jett thought.
"Pizza Inferno. Spicy Supreme for a Mr. Volkov?" Jett said, trying to sound professional and not like he was about to be sick from the sheer altitude he was at.
The buzzer buzzed, and Jett entered. The elevator shot him upwards with alarming speed, his ears nearly popped.
'What the hell?!—'
When the doors opened, he was faced with a massive, ornate door that looked like it belonged to a medieval castle.
He knocked, and the door swung open to reveal a man who looked like he'd been carved from granite.
Mr. Volkov was tall, broad, and had a face that could make anyone look the other way. He had eyes that seemed to pierce right through Jett, and a scowl that could stop a clock.
"Pizza," Jett said, holding out the box.
Volkov snatched the pizza, his grip was surprisingly strong. "About time. I was starving."
He opened the box and sniffed it, and his scowl deepened. "Where's the extra jalapenos? I asked for extra."
"I-I'm sure they're there, sir," Jett stammered, peering into the box. He could see a generous helping of jalapenos.
"Liar!" Volkov roared, his voice echoed in the opulent hallway like a violin.
"There's barely a pepper in sight! You think I'm blind? You think I'm stupid?!"
'This is oddly familiar.' He thought to himself.
Before Jett could blink, Volkov hurled the pizza at him. The box hit him square in the chest, splattering cheese and sauce everywhere.
Jett stood there, dripping with pizza, his jaw hung open. "What in the actual.."
He was about to storm off when a wave of anger washed over him.
He was tired. Tired of the weirdness, tired of the abuse, tired of being covered in cheese.
He balled his fists, feeling a strange explosion of energy within him.
He turned back to the door, a feral grin spreads across his face.
"You want extra jalapenos, Mr. Volkov? I'll give you extra jalapenos!"
Then, they both lunged at each other.