Walking Out on My Own Two Feet

Acrid gunpowder smoke swallowed the left corridor. I pressed a hand against the cold wall to orient myself, tracing a route I had committed to memory over the past six months.

Three corners to the laundry facility. Twenty-two paces past the first security checkpoint. Clear the second blast door at the bottom of the gentle downward slope, and I would reach the emergency stairwell where fresh outside air flowed in.

The ultimate clock-out route. Flawless.

Before I could even round the very first corner, someone lunged into view.

A security guard clad in a navy uniform. Blood poured down his face from a gash across his forehead, yet his hands held his standard-issue bolt-action rifle in an iron grip. The instant his eyes locked onto me, his muzzle snapped toward the space right between my brows.

“Subject 317, hal—”

I kicked off the concrete. The subtle tensing of muscle as his index finger tightened around the trigger registered in slow motion. A heartbeat before his sights aligned, I snapped my upper body sharply down and to the right.

Bang!

The shot deafened the enclosed hall. Heat grazed my cheek, and the concrete behind me ruptured in a spray of pulverized stone. Without breaking momentum, I drove ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠myself straight into his chest.

My left hand batted the rifle barrel toward the ceiling, knocking his aim wild, while the dense heel of my right palm drove upward into his jaw with the full momentum of my body behind it.

Crack!

“Guh!”

A grown man lifted clean off his feet. His helmeted skull slammed violently into the concrete wall, sending a spiderweb of hairline fractures tearing across the surface. I hadn't spared an ounce of thought for holding back—it was a full-power swing.

The guard crumpled to the floor, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, motionless without even a death rattle.

I had killed a man. My fingertips buzzed with a dull numbness. I began to look back down at the fallen guard, but the heavy scrape of combat boots echoing down the corridor snapped my focus forward. Survival came first; regret and guilt were luxuries I could indulge in only after I made it out alive.

I scooped up the fallen rifle. Popping the magazine plate open, I confirmed four rounds remaining, including the one chambered. I had only ever fired from fixed test mounts and had never shot from the shoulder, but whether used as a club or a bluff, steel was better than bare knuckles.

The rhythm of heavy boots closed in just ahead of the next bend. Two men. One was breathing in ragged gasps; the other's web belt clattered with every stride.

I shrank back into the shadows of an alcove where laundry carts were staged.

Firing a round would immediately give away my position, and I lacked the familiarity to handle this long, cumbersome rifle outside a testing rig. Crouched behind the cart, I waited for them to draw near.

Two guards broke through the haze of smoke. The man in the lead stumbled to an abrupt halt as his boot caught near his dead comrade.

“Hold! On the floor, there's—”

The second man glanced in the opposite direction to secure his flank. In that exact fraction of a second, I heaved the bolt-action rifle like a shot put, hurling it straight into the lead guard's face.

Smash!

“Gah!”

The solid receiver struck him flush across the nose and cheek, knocking him off balance and dropping his muzzle. Seven paces. With my explosive acceleration, that distance was gone in the blink of an eye.

I launched forward, the soles of my shoes tearing against the floor, and wrapped my arms around the lead guard's waist. The heavy frame of a full-grown man folded over my shoulder, forming an instantaneous human shield just as the trailing guard opened fire.

Bang! Bang!

The body in my grip shuddered violently twice, spraying warm arterial blood. Not a single pellet grazed me.

“You crazy bitch—!”

The second guard frantically reached for his bolt. I hurled his bleeding comrade straight into him. As both men tumbled into a tangled heap, I closed the gap before they could recover.

Snap!

My heel slammed down on the wrist clutching the weapon, grinding bone to splinters. Before he could scream, I seized him by the collar and hammered the back of his skull into the concrete floor.

Once. Twice. Three times. The floor stained crimson, and the sickening sensation of bone giving way vibrated through the meat of my palm.

Beneath him, the gunshot victim made a desperate, dying grab for my throat. I caught his thumb and ripped it backward against the joint.

“Aaaagh!”

With a brutal twist that tore his elbow apart, I drove my knee squarely into the center of his sternum. Ribs caved inward, puncturing his lung with a wet crunch, and his breath cut out forever.

“Hah… hah…”

Silence fell over the corridor, broken only by the sharp stench of copper and my ragged panting.

My thighs began to lock up. When I tried to unclench my fists, my fingers refused to obey. Pain flared fiercely the moment I shifted weight onto my right knee.

Right on the edge of overheating already. My fuel efficiency is an absolute disaster.

Looking around, several rifles lay scattered on the ground, but their barrels were bent or pinned beneath the bloody corpses. I had no time to dig ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠them out. Panting through clenched teeth, I bolted toward the first security door.

The blast door hung crooked, buckled halfway open by an earlier blast. I shoved through with my shoulder. The firing slit on the left was blocked by torn steel plating, while the mounted machine gun on the right drooped uselessly with a bent barrel. But waiting just ahead of the second security door at the end of the hall stood another figure.

A navy uniform collar gleaming with silver piping. A security officer. His left arm was swathed in bandages, but the heavy, sleek handgun in his right hand was already cocked, its hammer pulled back.

Twelve paces. Rush him, and a bullet would catch me first. Freeze, and I would be turned into a sieve.

Without hesitation, I reached out and slammed down a crimson emergency lever set into the wall—the fire-suppression steam valve I had triggered once before.

Hssssss!

High-pressure white steam cascaded from the ceiling pipes like a scalding waterfall. As the officer's field of vision went blind white, two shots cracked through the mist.

Bang! Bang!

The first slug whistled through empty air, but the second ripped clean through the meat of my left upper arm. Muscle tore and a searing agony scraped along the bone, rattling straight to my skull. But the nerves in my fingers were still firing.

Give me a break, will you?!

Swallowing a scream, I threw myself through the boiling steam.

The officer tracked the sound of my footfalls, swinging his barrel toward me, but he was a fraction of a second too late. I locked onto his wrist and jerked it upward, sending his third bullet harmlessly into the ceiling.

His free fist drove hard into my ribs with a dull thud. The breath blasted from my lungs, but I refused to let go of his gun hand. Pulling his upper body down with all my weight, I drove my knee into his face.

Crunch!

His nasal bone and front teeth shattered together. Even reeling in agony, his hand plunged toward his hip and drew a jagged combat knife, slashing outward.

The cold steel sliced deep across my right flank, hot blood immediately soaking through my shirt.

I clamped my free hand over the wrist holding the blade, grinding my thumb into the base of his joint until his fingers gave out. As the knife tumbled into the air, I snatched it by the hilt and drove it straight into the side of his neck.

A wet, sickening hiss accompanied the severing of his artery, and the officer's body collapsed into a limp heap.

“Haaah… haah…”

I leaned heavily against the wall, forcing trembling legs to keep me upright. Blood streamed freely from my left arm, and every ragged breath pulled at the gaping laceration on my flank.

Yet my eyes remained fixed on the weapon that had slipped from the dead officer's grip.

Wait… what is that?

It was longer and heavier than the standard-issue revolvers carried by the regular guards. Beneath its octagonal barrel sat a folding loading lever, and brass inlay gleamed against polished walnut grips.

It was a percussion-cap cap-and-ball revolver, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the legendary Colt 1851 Navy I remembered seeing on military enthusiast forums in my past life.

A quick check of the cylinder revealed three blackened, spent chambers, while the remaining three still held seated lead balls and fresh percussion caps intact.

Three rounds. Better than nothing.

I tucked the revolver firmly into my waistband. It belonged to me now.

Stripping the key ring from the dead man's neck, I shoved the keys into the heavy lock of the second security door. On the third attempt, the lock engaged, and the heavy bolt retracted with a dull thud.

Clank!

The barrier that had kept me caged for six months swung open. Cool night air poured down from the stairwell ahead—not the stale, sterile reek of antiseptic, but the scent of the real world: damp earth, pine needles, coal smoke, and blood.

I scrambled up the stairs on hands and knees, bursting out beneath an open night sky that spilled out before me in dizzying vastness.

It had been ten long years since I last looked at the open sky. My memories of it as a child were faint and fragmented, but looking up now, not a single constellation Kim Yujin had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠once known existed here.

No Big Dipper. No Orion. Piercing through the drifting clouds, seven unfamiliar stars burned with a cold, bluish light, forming a perfect, flawless ring.

I really am in another world.

The cold reality that Earth was gone forever sank down to my marrow. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠But I was not allowed even ten seconds to lose myself in sentiment.

Bang! Crack-crack-crack!

Tracers streaked overhead in a blinding crossfire. The research facility had been built half-buried into the side of a low, forested hill, and its entire courtyard was an inferno.

Guards in navy uniforms were locked in a vicious firefight with unknown assailants clad in ash-grey combat fatigues. The intruders wore seven-braided horsehair knots pinned to their shoulders, and hulking orc warriors fought alongside their ranks.

The Urgan Frontier League commandos. The Imperial rebel factions they taught us about in class.

They were enemies of the Herzen Empire, and the very saviors who had set this exploitative black enterprise ablaze tonight. That didn't mean they were my friends, however.

In a corner of the courtyard, two angular, steam-powered armored vehicles with solid rubber tires idled with rumbling engines. League operatives were hurriedly loading crate files and wounded comrades into the cargo bays.

“Who's there?!”

The moment one commando spotted me, two others whipped their rifles around in unison. On instinct, my hand drew the revolver from my waist. If I squeezed the trigger, I could take at least one of them with me.

“Wait! Hold your fire!”

A woman with short brown hair stepped through the line of leveled rifles. A human woman in her thirties. She wore a grey military overcoat, and instead of a sidearm, she held rolls of compression dressings in her hands.

“She came from inside. She's a test subject.”

“It could be an Imperial trap, Captain Mira!”

“Look at her. Who could set a trap in that condition? We aren't leaving her behind.”

She took a slow step toward me, then paused as I pulled the revolver's hammer back to full cock.

“We're pulling out now,” she said softly. “Do you want to come with us?”

Her tone was warm and gentle. Even so, my gun stayed level.

People who offer you free meals are always selling a pyramid scheme or recruiting for a cult.

Behind me, the main laboratory complex detonated, sending a colossal pillar of fire roaring into the night sky. The armored transport sounded a long, urgent blast of its steam whistle. There was no time to weigh options. I was bleeding far too heavily to survive escaping on foot into the forest.

“Get in first,” I said coldly.

Mira's brow lifted slightly, but she offered no argument. Turning her back to me, she climbed into the rear compartment of the vehicle, and I followed right behind her, my gun trained squarely on her back.

The heavy iron door slammed shut, and the steam transport surged forward, tearing through the mud into the dark wilderness.

Through the narrow vision slit, the hellish facility where I had been trapped for ten years shrank into the distance, consumed by roaring flames.

The transport brought us to an abandoned pine resin processing plant hidden deep in the forest—a safehouse prepped in advance by the Urgan commandos.

The woman's name was Mira. She laid me out across a wooden kitchen table, poured high-proof grain alcohol over my open flank, and stitched the wound shut. There was no anesthetic. Searing agony flashed across my vision every time the needle pierced raw flesh, but I bit down hard on my lip and kept the revolver resting squarely over my stomach.

“Do you really need to keep holding that thing?” she asked gently.

“If you hurt me too much, I'm shooting.”

“Aren't you adorable.”

Mira dressed the through-and-through wound on my left arm and carefully applied soothing burn salve. She set down three steaming bowls of rich meat stew, soft white bread, and even gave me a dark brown overcoat to replace my shredded clothes. No one tried to take my gun. No one interrogated me about the facility's classified research.

It was excessive kindness. And that made it all the more terrifying.

My own biological parents sold me off for a handful of silver coins. Why would enemy soldiers treat me with unconditional charity?

At dawn, we disguised ourselves as traveling merchants and made our way to a small freight depot. Sitting on the tracks was a mixed train bound for the northeast—two passenger carriages coupled to six cargo cars, running straight toward the Urgan border checkpoint.

Handing me a forged transit pass that listed me as her niece, Mira spoke softly.

“Once we cross to our side, you'll receive proper medical care. You can even go to school.”

“School?”

The word carried a brief, alluring weight. But crossing the border was out of the question. What if they discovered the true extent of my physical augmentation? What if they kept me chained to their military once my wounds healed? There was no proof Mira was lying. But I had neither the faith nor the courage to gamble my life on her words.

My lifelong dream is to be a comfortable slacker, not a patriotic war hero.

Two hours after the train pulled out, it entered a gradual upward grade, the locomotive laboring as it slowed to a crawl. Beyond the ajar sliding door of the freight car, a grassy embankment drifted lazily past.

The moment Mira began to doze off on the bench across from me, I gathered my canteen, two pieces of bread, and quietly rose to my feet.

“Sonya…?”

By the time Mira's eyes flew open, I had already hurled myself through the open doorway.

“If we ever meet again, I'll pay you back!”

“Sonya—!”

Crash!

My feet slammed into the embankment, and my right knee buckled with a sharp shriek of agony. My body tumbled down the slope three, four times before crashing violently against an exposed tree root. The stitches along my flank tore open, soaking the bandages in fresh blood, but I was still breathing.

The train rattled onward without stopping, its iron wheels rolling steadily away. Mira's desperate shouts from the doorway were swallowed entirely by the blast of the steam whistle.

“Haah… haah… At least I saved half.”

One loaf of bread was lost to the dirt, but the canteen, the revolver, and the remaining bread were safe. Now, I was truly on my own.

The days that followed were a grueling march through hell.

I slept hidden in thickets by day and navigated southwest by night, using the glowing signal lanterns along the railway lines as my compass. When fever raged through my veins, I plunged my head into icy creek water to cool my burning brain; when hunger gnawed at my belly, I crept into barnyards to steal raw potatoes and eggs.

Pushing my altered output to the absolute limit had taken a brutal toll. My right leg remained stiff and sluggish with every step, and the fine tremors in my hands refused to settle.

Even in twenty-nine years of unemployed scraping back on Earth, I never pushed myself this hard.

On the evening of the fourth day, as I limped along the gravel beside the tracks with gritted teeth, a weathered wooden signpost came into view.

Emblazoned on the wood was a familiar silver crest: three distinct hands representing three different races lifting a winged wheel. It was Belok, the sprawling industrial railway city in the eastern Herzen Empire that I had read about during our lessons.

Beyond the crest of the hill, clusters of iron smokestacks pierced the skyline. The setting sun burned blood-red against plumes of pitch-black soot rolling into the atmosphere. Even from here, the distant wail of train whistles and the shriek of metal grinding against metal carried on the wind. In a place like that, surely there would be a corner where I could earn my keep.

A lawless frontier city ruled by money over the law, teeming with humans, orcs, dwarves, elves, and wanderers from every corner of the continent.

Brushing aside strands of platinum blonde hair matted with dried blood and mud, I tapped the revolver at my hip.

“I finally made it, damn it.”

Pulling the brown coat tight around my shoulders, I started down the dirt path leading toward the smoking chimneys.