A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 3: Adapting

The first week at Strangefellows was brutal. Michael's days—and nights—blurred together into an endless cycle of grunt work. Hauling crates of liquor from the basement to the bar, scrubbing the perpetually sticky floors, wiping down tables after patrons who were anything but clean—it felt like there was no end to the tasks Alex threw at him.

Alex didn't go easy on him either, barking orders with the sharpness of someone who'd been running the place for far too long and didn't have time for anything less than perfection. "Stock's running low on the cheap rum," Alex would say. "Go get more." Or, "Someone puked in the bathrooms again. Guess who's cleaning it?"

Michael didn't argue, not even when his ribs flared with pain or his legs ached from constant movement. Complaining would only give Alex an excuse to toss him out, and Michael couldn't afford that. So he gritted his teeth, pushed through the discomfort, and got the job done.

By the end of each shift, he felt like he'd been wrung dry. His body screamed for rest, and the bruises from his first encounter in the Nightside didn't help. But through the exhaustion, he noticed something strange: his body was adapting. His muscles grew stronger, the ache in his ribs dulled slightly each day, and his stamina improved. He moved faster, carried heavier loads, and even the long shifts began to feel manageable.

He couldn't ignore the stark contrast to his old body—the one he'd left behind in Sweden. That version of himself wouldn't have lasted a day here. His knees would have given out, his back would have protested every box he lifted, and the constant running around would have left him gasping for air.

But this younger version of himself—this strange, foreign body—was keeping up. Thriving, even.

When he wasn't working, Michael was exploring the limits of his new abilities. The insects in and around Strangefellows became his quiet project. He started small, focusing on the ants and spiders that lived in the basement. With a little concentration, he could guide them, make them move where he wanted. Over time, he grew bolder, drawing in insects from farther away—roaches from the dark corners of the bar, flies buzzing near the kitchen.

The connection was startlingly clear. He could see the world through their eyes, hear faint vibrations through their senses, even feel textures through their tiny legs. It wasn't just control; it was like sharing their experience, immersing himself in their strange, alien perspectives.

He tested the limits whenever he had the chance, trying to see how far his influence extended and how many insects he could control at once. Each day, he grew more confident, his connection to them feeling as natural as breathing.

Still, the power unsettled him. It was useful—there was no denying that—but its implications gnawed at him. Sitting on his cot one evening, he watched a line of ants march across the wall in perfect synchronization, their movements precise and deliberate under his guidance.

The irony of his ability wasn't lost on him. He couldn't help but think of Worm, the web novel he'd read years ago. The protagonist, Taylor, had wielded a similar power, controlling insects in ways that were both ingenious and terrifying. She had turned a seemingly insignificant ability into an unstoppable force, using it to outthink and overpower enemies who underestimated her.

And then there was the Nightside's Taylor. Taylor was a name that carried weight here, tied to the infamous private investigator who could find anything, no matter how lost or well-hidden. Michael had never met him—he doubted he even knew he existed—but the parallel struck him as oddly poetic.

Two Taylors, both known for bending the odds in their favor, and now him, caught in the middle with an ability that felt plucked straight from fiction. The idea made him chuckle darkly.

"It's like some cosmic joke," he muttered, leaning back against the wall. "Of all the powers to end up with…"

His fingers drummed against his knee as he pondered what it all meant. In Worm, Taylor's power was a reflection of her ability to think strategically, to see connections others missed. Was that what this was for him? Was this strange, insect-based connection supposed to mean something deeper?

And then there was the Nightside itself. Nothing here was ever random, or so Alex had said. Powers, transformations, and circumstances all seemed to have a purpose, even if they weren't immediately clear. Had someone done this to him with intent? Or was it just the Nightside's way of reshaping him to fit its chaotic puzzle?

Michael's gaze flicked to the ceiling, where a spider was spinning a web in the corner. With a thought, he sent it crawling down to his hand. Its legs tickled his skin as it perched there, motionless under his command.

Taylor turned her power into something incredible, he thought. If she could do it, so can I.

Still, the questions lingered. Who—or what—had given him this ability? Why? And what would it cost him in the end? For now, there were no answers, only possibilities. But one thing was certain: in the Nightside, powers weren't just gifts. They were tools, weapons, and sometimes curses.

Michael wasn't sure yet which his would turn out to be.

Michael spent his spare moments carefully asking around, subtly piecing together information about the Nightside and its key players. He was cautious not to draw too much attention, knowing that too many questions could invite the wrong kind of curiosity. Most people brushed him off or ignored him, but a few patrons of Strangefellows were more talkative after a drink or two.

That was how he learned that John Taylor, the infamous private investigator, had left the Nightside just a few weeks ago. The news made Michael breathe a sigh of relief. If the canon of this strange place hadn't started yet, it meant the more dangerous parts of the story—the escalating chaos, the clashes of gods and powers—hadn't been set into motion. For now, things were relatively stable. If he was stuck here, he would take advantage of the situation and the knowledge he had.

At the end of his second week, Alex called him to the bar after the last patrons had left. Michael sat on a stool, exhausted from another night of running errands, scrubbing floors, and hauling crates. Alex reached into the cash register and pulled out a small stack of bills, sliding them across the counter.

"Your first paycheck," Alex said, his tone as neutral as ever.

Michael picked up the money and counted it. Two hundred and fifty pounds. It wasn't much, but considering he was getting room and board on top of it, he wasn't in a position to complain.

"Thanks," Michael said sincerely, tucking the money into his pocket. "Really. I appreciate it."

Alex looked up from wiping a glass, his eyebrows lifting slightly. "You're thanking me?"

"Of course," Michael replied, leaning against the bar. "I know it's not easy to take in someone who just shows up out of nowhere. You didn't have to give me a chance, but you did."

Alex snorted, setting the glass down. "You're the first person in years who's thanked me for anything. Don't let it go to your head."

Michael smirked faintly. "Noted."

Alex tilted his head, studying him for a moment. "You've done all right so far. Better than I expected. Figured you'd be dead or gone by now."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You're still alive, aren't you?" Alex shot back, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a brief smirk. He pulled a piece of paper from under the bar and slid it across to Michael. "Here. Your schedule."

Michael blinked in surprise, taking the paper. "A schedule?"

"Yeah, you've earned it," Alex said. "The first week, I needed to see what you were made of. Now you'll have shifts like a normal employee instead of being on call 24/7."

Michael scanned the paper. The shifts weren't great—mostly nights, of course—but it was better than the chaotic, nonstop workload he'd endured the first week. "This is… actually really helpful," he admitted. "Thanks."

"Don't get too comfortable," Alex said, grabbing another glass to clean. "You screw up, and you're out on your ass."

"Wouldn't expect anything less," Michael said with a faint grin. He folded the schedule and slipped it into his pocket alongside the cash.

As he headed back to the basement, he couldn't help but feel a small sense of accomplishment. The work was hard, the pay was low, and his future in the Nightside was far from certain. But he had a roof over his head, food to eat, and—most importantly—a chance to build something in this strange, dangerous world.

For now, that was enough.

Michael approached Alex during a lull in the day, the bar momentarily quiet for once. He leaned on the counter, catching Alex's attention.

"I need to head out," Michael said. "Been stuck here for over a week, and I need to get a few things. Any chance you could give me directions to some stores? I'm looking for clothes, electronics, maybe somewhere to grab essentials."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Finally got sick of the basement, huh?"

Michael chuckled. "Something like that. Plus, I can't keep wearing the same set of clothes over and over. The handwashing thing's getting old."

Alex shook his head, muttering something under his breath about clueless newbies before grabbing a napkin and a pen. He scribbled down a few names and addresses. "Here. Drift shop's on Fleet Street—don't expect high fashion, but it'll do the job. There's an electronics place a block over from there, run by some guy called Smythe. Prices are steep, but it's Nightside. Everything's steep. Don't get mugged."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Michael said, pocketing the napkin. "Anything else I should know?"

"Yeah," Alex said, fixing him with a sharp look. "Keep your head down. Don't talk to anyone you don't need to. And if something looks like it wants to eat you, it probably does."

"Great advice," Michael said dryly. "Thanks."

 The walk through the Nightside was both fascinating and unnerving. The streets were alive in ways that defied logic. Neon signs flashed in colors he couldn't name, strange figures loitered in shadowy alleys, and the air buzzed with a low, thrumming energy that set his nerves on edge. He kept his head down, following Alex's directions to Fleet Street.

The drift shop was a small, cramped storefront with a flickering sign above the door that simply read Clothes. The inside smelled faintly of mothballs and old fabric, and racks of mismatched clothing filled every available space. Behind the counter stood a tall woman with unnaturally pale skin and hair dyed an electric blue.

"New face," she said as Michael entered, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Looking to upgrade, huh?"

"You could say that," Michael replied, glancing at the racks. "Been stuck in the same clothes for a week."

"Yeah, I can smell it," she said bluntly, smirking at his wince. "Don't worry, I've seen worse. What's your size?"

Michael hesitated, realizing he wasn't sure. His old body's measurements wouldn't work anymore, and he hadn't had time to figure out what fit this new, younger frame.

"Not sure," he admitted. "Guess we'll find out."

The woman grabbed a tape measure from the counter. "Hold still."

A quick set of measurements later, she pointed him toward a rack near the back. "Try those. Bargain bin stuff, but they'll fit, and it won't cost you much."

Michael sifted through the rack, pulling out a few plain T-shirts, some jeans, and a jacket that looked like it had seen better days but still had plenty of life left in it. As he browsed, he caught sight of a patron in the corner, a man with scales glinting faintly under the fluorescent lights.

"First time out in the Nightside?" the man asked, his voice low and gravelly.

Michael nodded. "Yeah. How'd you guess?"

"You've got that look," the man said, grinning to reveal sharp teeth. "Wide-eyed, trying not to stare. You'll get used to it. Or you won't."

Michael didn't reply, just grabbed a few more items and headed for the counter. The woman rang him up, her sharp gaze lingering on him. "Word of advice, kid—don't look like an easy target. You smell new, and new gets eaten around here."

"I'll keep that in mind," Michael said, handing over his cash. He left with a bag of clothes and a growing awareness that the Nightside wasn't just dangerous—it was hungry.

The electronics store was a small, cluttered shop tucked between two looming buildings. A bell jingled as Michael entered, and a wiry man with a wild mop of gray hair looked up from behind the counter.

"Ah, a customer," the man said, rubbing his hands together. "Welcome to Smythe's. What can I do for you today?"

"Looking for an adapter," Michael said, holding up his laptop charger. "Need to make this work here."

"Adapter, adapter… yes, I've got just the thing," Smythe said, disappearing into the back. He returned a moment later with a small, clunky device. "This'll do the job. Thirty pounds."

Michael blinked. "Thirty? For an adapter?"

"Welcome to the Nightside," Smythe said with a grin. "Take it or leave it."

Grumbling under his breath, Michael paid the man and left the store with the adapter in hand. It was pricey, but at least he could charge his laptop, phone, and battery packs now. As he walked back to Strangefellows, he couldn't help but feel a small sense of accomplishment. He had clothes, he had power for his electronics, and he'd survived his first solo outing in the Nightside.

For now, that was enough.

Michael hadn't even heard the man approach.

One moment, he was walking back to Strangefellows, his bag slung over his shoulder, mind distracted with thoughts about his shopping trip. The next, a rough hand yanked him sideways into an alley, and he stumbled, his bag falling to the ground. He barely had time to register the cold metal pressed to his forehead before the man growled.

"Hand over your money and everything in the bag," the man demanded, his voice low and dangerous. His breath reeked of stale cigarettes, his sunken eyes filled with desperation.

Michael froze, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst. His mind raced. He could feel the weight of the gun against his forehead, the pressure of the man's hand gripping his arm. The world around him felt distant, reduced to the gun, the man, and the growing sense of panic clawing at his chest.

"Now!" the man barked, shaking him slightly.

Michael started to raise his hands, trembling, but the man didn't wait. The butt of the gun slammed into his face, and stars exploded in his vision. He staggered back, his hand flying to his forehead as pain radiated through his skull.

And then, something primal surged to the surface.

It wasn't a conscious thought. It wasn't a plan or even a reaction he controlled. It was instinct—raw, visceral, and terrifying. Pain hurt, and the insects responded.

He felt the connection flare to life, a snap of energy that rippled through the dark corners of the alley. In an instant, they were there. Ants, spiders, cockroaches, even flies—they poured out from cracks in the walls, from under the dumpsters, from the shadows where they'd been hiding. The swarm surged forward, a living wave of stingers, mandibles, and legs.

The man barely had time to react. The first bite made him flinch, the second made him curse, and by the third, he was screaming. He dropped the gun, clawing at his skin as the swarm enveloped him, biting and stinging with relentless precision. His screams echoed off the alley walls, high-pitched and frantic as he tried to swat the insects away, but there were too many.

"Get them off me! Get them off me!" he screamed, stumbling backward. He fired the gun wildly, the shots deafening in the narrow space, but the bullets hit nothing but air. His movements grew more erratic, his screams more desperate, until finally, he collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony as the swarm continued its assault.

Michael stood frozen, watching in a daze. His ears were ringing from the gunfire, his face throbbed where the gun had struck him, and his legs felt rooted to the ground. He touched his forehead gingerly, relieved to find no blood, though the pain told him a black eye was inevitable.

The man stopped moving. His screams faded into a weak gurgle, then silence. The swarm didn't relent, their tiny legs and sharp mandibles continuing their attack. Michael could feel their movements, each bite, each sting, as if they were extensions of his own body.

Stop.

The command rippled through the swarm, and the insects obeyed. They retreated, scuttling back into the shadows, their work done. The alley was silent again, save for Michael's ragged breathing.

He stared down at the man's body. His face was swollen, his skin covered in angry red welts and punctures. Michael didn't need to check for a pulse to know the man was dead.

His hands trembled as he crouched and picked up the gun the man had dropped. The metal was cold and heavy in his hands, a stark reminder of how close he'd come to being the one lying lifeless on the ground. He tucked it into his bag, his fingers brushing against the adapter he'd just bought. The mundane juxtaposed with the deadly felt surreal.

He looked back at the body one last time, numb. It wasn't his first time seeing a corpse, but it was the first time he had caused one. The weight of that realization settled over him like a cold, suffocating blanket. He didn't feel remorse—not yet, anyway. Just shock.

Grabbing his bag, Michael turned and started walking back to Strangefellows. His legs felt heavy, his face throbbed, and the alley seemed to stretch endlessly before him.

He didn't look back. He couldn't.

Michael went straight to the basement as soon as he reached Strangefellows. He didn't stop to talk to Alex or anyone else, didn't even glance around the bar. His legs carried him down the stairs automatically, and once he reached his small room, he dropped his bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the cot, staring at nothing.

His heart was still racing, the adrenaline refusing to fade. He could still hear the man's screams in his ears, still feel the insects swarming through his mind. It hadn't even been a decision—it had been instinct, pure and unthinking. He'd defended himself, and now someone was dead because of it.

The revolver sat in his bag like a heavy, accusing weight, but he couldn't bring himself to touch it. Not yet.

A knock on the door startled him, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. He blinked, disoriented, as the door opened, and Alex stepped in, leaning against the frame.

"You okay?" Alex asked, his tone surprisingly soft for once.

Michael swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I… yeah," he said, though his voice betrayed him. "I just… I had to defend myself. Some guy tried to mug me, and… I won. He lost."

Alex raised an eyebrow, stepping fully into the room. "You don't sound too sure about that."

"It all happened so fast," Michael said, his hands trembling slightly as he gestured. "He pulled me into an alley, had a gun in my face. He hit me, and then… I don't even know. I reacted, and the next thing I knew, he was gone."

Alex's sharp eyes studied him, but he didn't push. "What'd you do with the gun?"

Michael reached into his bag and pulled out the snub-nose revolver, holding it out for Alex to see. "This. It's… it's his. I grabbed it after."

Alex took the weapon, giving it a quick once-over before handing it back. "Decent piece. Not the kind of thing most lowlifes carry. Probably stolen."

Michael nodded, his grip tightening on the revolver as he placed it back in the bag. "I didn't mean to… I mean, I didn't want to… it just happened."

"That's life here in the Nightside," Alex said, his tone blunt but not unkind. "You look like a newbie, and that's like blood in the water. You're going to attract the wrong crowd until you stop looking so fresh."

Michael glanced up at him, confused. "What am I supposed to do? Just… not be me?"

"Not exactly," Alex said with a faint smirk. "You adapt. Stop walking around like you're expecting someone to be nice to you. This place doesn't care about you. Doesn't care about anyone. You survived, and that's what matters."

Michael let the words sink in, their harsh truth cutting through his lingering shock. He survived. The man who had attacked him hadn't. And while he didn't feel good about it, Alex was right—surviving was what mattered here.

"You did what you had to do," Alex said, crossing his arms. "And if you're smart, you'll learn from it. Nightside isn't a place where you get second chances."

Michael nodded slowly, the weight of the gun in his bag suddenly feeling a little less unbearable. He wasn't proud of what had happened, but if this was the cost of staying alive, he'd have to learn to live with it.

"You're alive," Alex added, turning to leave. "That's what counts. Now get some rest. You've got work tomorrow."

As Alex left, Michael sat back on the cot, staring at the door. He didn't feel like resting, but he didn't have the energy for anything else. He'd survived his first real brush with the Nightside's darker side, and he knew there would be more to come.

But for now, he was alive. And that had to be enough.