The smells down here are their own kind of special hell. Mold, various wastes, and discarded anatomy; all mixed with magic runoff, all changing and metamorphosing into horrific new life forms. Nobody comes down to the sewer tunnels of the Night Market except the ones who have to. And tonight, that meant me.

  Hi, I'm Tony and I'm a member of the Bucket Brigade.

  I was sweating inside my 'helmet' already, an old metal bucket upended and enchanted with protection against pestilent magic. The wards kept most of the miasma out, though some stink still wafted through in waves. My 'weapon' was nothing more than a mop, a basic wooden handle but banded in divine forged silver, blessed with cleansing magic that let the mop-head drip a steady stream of clean, blessed water. Every push across stone hissed as the water burned away whatever vile thing it touched.

  The night’s detritus had settled by second dusk. A little sample of the Market above in every puddle below. From *Borrowed Beauty*’s parlor came oily strands of discarded hair and body parts no longer fit for use. It made for a disgusting slurry that had crawled down the drains, but at least Madame Gothel heavily perfumed everything discarded, so that was somewhat nice.

  Somewhat.

  From the coffee shop, half-digested werewolf and vampire biles, blessed pastry filling still fizzing in it, making the goo squelch and bubble. Someone made a mistake and served the wrong pastries again.

  From the treant's spa, resin and sap leached into the runoff, amber strands knitting into clots that clog every pipe if left untouched.

  And when all those materials mingled? That’s where the slimes came from.

  I found the first one clinging to the tunnel wall, quivering like a jelly mold in an earthquake. The mop hissed as I pressed it against the mass. The slime shrieked briefly before it popped, goop splattering across the floor. A couple more pushes and you'd never know danger had been lurking there at all.

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  Further down the tunnel, a tremor through the stones meant a muck elemental was forming nearby, everything the Market flushed away running into a clog and forming into a twisted amalgam of filth. I poked my head around the corner just in time to see it assemble, and just in time for it to see me.

  It swung. I ducked. The mop whistled in a clean arc, slapping holy water across its chest. A tidal splash of cleansing water surged forward, clean as mountain spring, and the elemental staggered from the blow, parts of it already disintegrating. A second strike collapsed it into nothing but broken gunky globs and debris. This took many more swishes to clear, dissolving the beast's remains into nothing but water; you had to really work these stains to ensure they didn't reform. Which, speaking of -

  Worse than slimes or muck elementals were the phantasmal ectoplasms. You could smell one long before you saw it; you could hear it chattering amongst itself before you smelt it. Faces bubbled up in the slime pool ahead, mouths speaking erratically in sheer chaos. One moment a hundred voices from a hundred mouths, the next a hundred eyes searching its surroundings. Undulating back and forth between the states, constantly trying to force a dominant self amongst the legion of slimes and elementals. It was not intelligent nor quick to react, but once motivated, a phantasmal blob was a right danger to everyone and everything in the Market, above or below. A unified, focused phantasmal ectoplasm was a top tier threat and a primevals least favorite thing to deal with. Hence, the Bucket Brigade.

  “Bucket man,” a handful of the voices crooned mockingly, showing some unity already. “Mop knight. Guardian of the dinge, dank and damp. Lay down your mop. Join us, we are many. We will consume the world.”

  I sighed. Third time this week I found a phantasmal ectoplasm. It was probably the same one. You had to get all of them in one go, otherwise it would reform again and again. This time, I'd make extra sure.

  I swung the mop wide, and the resulting water wave made the tunnel tremble. Holy water carved into the blob, light bursting through its ooze as the mass tore itself apart with a violent reaction to the blessed water. Voices screamed, sputtered, scattered as the blob squelched into nonexistence. I worked the mop hard, back and forth, but not fast enough. Bits of phantasmal goo dissolved into trickles, while a few others sucked down into cracks of the floor, escaping for now. It would be some time before it reformed, but I would have to deal with this again.

  Steam curled around my boots as I rinsed the mop, scrubbing away the Market’s discarded horrors while the others wheeled and dealed above. The Market was still alive with laughter and haggling, but down here it was starting to go quiet again. My shift was nearly done; this section was nearly cleansed.

  I wrung the mop once, watching holy water drip in steady rhythm. The bucket helmet shifted awkwardly on my head as I tilted back and sighed.

  Another night, another mess.

  At least the insurance is good.