It would cost me nothing to face them. With this rage consuming me, nothing could stop me from tearing out the torches along with their stupid hands. Perhaps I could do it at such speed they would not notice the pain until I used their torch—and perhaps their arm—with a spell that turned it into a burning log... Incinerate them and make them suffer a fate similar to these unconscious lumps that only know how to cry from pain they do not understand, spawned by idiot humans or perhaps some other "magical" being in their thirst for power.
As I begin to shift my body's weight, I hear a smile again. It is not the joyful one—my beloved has not used that for years. It is a laugh of complacency, of malice—the pleasure of knowing I am doing something wrong, and she agrees. The impression of feeling those eyes shining in anticipation, that mouth with a black tongue licking its lips inside the coffin. No, I cannot lose control over what inhabits my love's body. I must find a different method.
One of the gel blocks escapes by inertia more than any true ability to flee. It is small enough not to be seen, so close I can appreciate its structure—a kind of anima, a very small flame animating its body. It is something akin to the concept of animated armor, only this piece of simple consciousness only found garbage, abundant slime, and protected itself with it. But to maintain its structure, its consciousness extends throughout the organism's molecules and cells. That is why fire affects it so much—it literally burns. Sadly, without using that slime, the minor consciousness should fade, but that gel transmits physical heat and is responsible for its pain. Trying to communicate with these inferior beings must be a challenge, but it will be easier than continuing to hear the cries of pain from these creatures or reasoning with the drunks.
Finally, on the seventh attempt, I manage to get it to listen to me little by little. I make its essence concentrate in the center, and the lines connecting to the rest of its body become thin. They do not use them much—only to give movement impulse. It will not be fast, but at least it will reduce its pain. Now comes the difficult part: how to make it resistant to fire. The gel is combustible waste—easy to burn—but there are still options. What I do is not so much teach as engrave within it the way it must organize its molecules. It was already stupid, so I do not expect using some of its consciousness to affect it. It takes me no more than ten minutes to place in its core, in its being—now distinguishable as an organelle—to head to the lit areas. There, the drunks continue enjoying their adventure. They have left the slimes for the moment to recharge their bodies with alcohol. It is showtime.
It is easy for the organism to pick up some moderately valuable things along the way. I want them to attack it while I can see them. I must know how effective it is and where to modify. Its advance is slow, as I expected, but not as heavy as I feared. It launches its mass with a few threads; inertia and cohesion capacity allow it to move at the speed of any of these drunks. Seeing it enter the circle, they jump in surprise. One thing is attacking; another is seeing that something you are sure of its weakness suddenly appears of its own will before your eyes.
I listen to them. It seems no one wants to face it. A couple murmur they have gathered enough. I can read the truth in their minds—they are afraid. The cloud of alcohol that brought them here is not thick enough for them to risk their lives. They are cowards from the outskirts who boast to the local inhabitants that they fight like mercenaries, that they bring more metal and have money for drink and the love of any of them. If they leave like this, I will not know how effective my remedy is—nor vengeance. To tempt them, I project a small magical light onto some cloth gloves. Nothing important—an enchantment like that on a linen cloth will give at most +1 armor. But it rekindles their greed. With something so valuable by their standards, they could buy whores for a week. They approach the slime, which waits patiently. It has no instructions to attack—not yet.
When they raise the torch, I instruct the slime to execute the command line I engraved in its being. With a simplicity born of dedicating itself to one thing at a time, the slime contracts its molecular chains until they form a fire-resistant material. It looks like a cube of green jelly. The drunks unleash their torches once, twice, now a pipe. No greater effect than the minimal loss of about two liters of gelatinous mass—not bad, as it does not suffer severe pain. Now comes its attack. Using the displacement principle, it launches a pseudopod that captures their pipes in a circular motion. Inside, they are seen cleaner little by little—of rust, sweat, the grime of inhabitants who consider bathing an excessive expense. Frightened at first, terrified at the idea of being unarmed. But now it is not alcohol driving them. One suggests they must stain their hands—after all, they were not so corrosive. From there, they could take the gloves and run.
All try to put their hands in. That is the final order: Consume. Suddenly, the slime's entire body acquires the basic order H₂SO₄. It is not the same as hydrochloric acid, but it functions similarly. The skin of these bastards begins to redden and finally bleed. When pain enters their anesthetized senses, it is too late. I order a couple of those bodyless ones to surround them and consume them. My slime is left with the clothes and a couple of heads. The final process must take days, but at least I know there is now someone to defend these first attempts at life in the garbage.
I cross the dump accompanied by human screams. These are less painful—screams of repentance, of understanding, of a desire for salvation. But they did not give it. They responded to nothing the slimes asked of them. So I leave, leaving them as proof that there is someone who will avenge injustices committed against those who, by their appearance, do not deserve compassion. As I leave that path, I see the bodies that imprisoned the drunks begin to imitate my slime's structure. It seems it will not be the only defender of its "people." But they are not mine. I only gave weapons. The rest is up to them.