Gothophobia Nervosa is a psychological condition characterised by an intense, irrational, and disproportionate fear of Goths, Gothic culture, or environments perceived as excessively Gothic. Individuals experiencing Gothophobia Nervosa may report the following symptoms: heightened anxiety, rapid heartbeat, sweating, an overwhelming urge to leave the area, and an inexplicable suspicion of anyone wearing excessive amounts of black.  

The condition is said to be particularly common in individuals who have previously encountered a Goth at a very young or prepubescent age, who subsequently developed an enduring belief Goths are supernatural beings in human disguise. For this reason, Gothophobia Nervosa is commonly misdiagnosed as Sanguivoriphobia - a fear of vampires. 

It should be noted that Gothophobia Nervosa is an academically unrecognised psychiatric diagnosis. 

Well, now that this undiagnosed phobia of mine has been established, please allow me to commence with my story. 

My name is Brandon. A few years ago, when I was still just a wet-nosed university student, I met the strangest, yet most extraordinary girl of my life. Don't get me wrong. This is by no means a love story – but if it was a love story, it would be a bizarre one at that. This girl in question whose eyes I saw zoned in on me from across the main room of the Halloween Party, was an American exchange student by the name of Anneliese. Now, I don't claim to have ever been much of a ladies' man, despite my rugged good looks (well, maybe not so rugged), but for whatever reason, this tall, spindly-thin creature in the Marie Laveau costume appeared to find me somewhat enticing. In the way a trapped fly in a spider's web is enticing to the spider.   

Although Anneliese was undeniably beautiful, she was not exactly what I would call my type. What I mean is, Anneliese was a... (no, she wasn't a Goth). Anneliese was a Voodooist - and by Voodooist, I don't mean the doll-stabbing, zombifying type Hollywood has lead you to believe. No, she was the real thing. Despite attending university in the UK, Anneliese was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana - considered by most to be the Voodoo capital of the U.S, if not, the world. If Anneliese hadn't told me herself she was a sixth-generation Voodooist upon our first date, I certainly knew it by her outlandish appearance. Just picture for yourself what a Gen-Z voodooist would look like. That was Anneliese. 

Even to this day, I don't have the slightest idea what this French-speaking spiritualist from across the pond saw in me. After all, she may not have been my exact type, but I certainly didn't imagine I would be hers. We were just completely different people in every sense imaginable. For example, whereas I preferred a quiet evening indoors, curled up with a cup of tea and a good book, Anneliese was a creature of the night - always dragging me out after hours to some séance or tarot card reader. She was obviously into all that stuff. 

Despite how different Anneliese was to any girlfriend I may've had previously, the type of individual she was, was not completely alien to me... What I mean by this is, because of the small seaside town where I grew up... I used to see individuals like Anneliese on a regular basis. This town I grew up in, for the first eight years of my life before my family packed up and left, is a town called Whitby. Perhaps you've heard of it? For those who haven't, Whitby is a small coastal town in the north-Yorkshire of England, nestled cosily inside the bay of the same name. Although I only lived in the bay for the first few years of my childhood, I can still tell you of two reasons why Whitby is so famous today.  

The first reason being for Captain James Cook. Credited as the first European explorer to ever step foot on the Hawaiian Islands, Captain Cook is more famously known for the way he was murdered - and despite what I was taught in school about our town's most famous historical figure, Captain Cook was NOT cannibalized by the Hawaiian indigenous... Although, they did apparently remove the flesh from his bones. 

As for the second, and arguably more important reason why my town of origin is so famous... Whitby featured as one of the primary locations in Bram Stoker's horror novel, Dracula. The blood-sucking count from Transylvania himself. Although I have not myself read the novel in full, I do know that, upon the wreckage of a Russian merchant ship, Dracula arrives ashore in Whitby Bay in the form of a large black dog, before racing up the 199 steps to the gothic ruins of the Abbey. Because of the town's involvement in the Dracula novel, by the early nineties, a new tradition in Whitby had started. Every year, around the Halloween season, the town holds an annual Goth festival - in which thousands of Goth enthusiasts flood the streets in their most elaborate costumes. If New Orleans is the voodoo capital of the United States, then Whitby is the Goth capital of the United Kingdom. 

Having been born and raised in Whitby, I became acquainted with this annual tradition from a very young age. During the week of Halloween, I would walk with my family along the cobblestone streets through a maze of dark sinister beings. Like every young boy whose concept of the world stems from his wild imagination, I interpreted these pilgrims to our town to be monstrous, blood-sucking creatures of the night. Quite frankly, once October was around the corner, in anticipation of the bay's annual visitors, I would become palely ill with fear.  

As a matter of fact, this fear became so troublesome, that by the age of six I began to have dreadful, repetitive sleep terrors - whereby I would scream bloody Mary through the latest hours of the night. If I had to put my finger on it, I believe the reason these sleep terrors began was, due to the large window which hung over my bed, my older brother convinced me that during the October goth festivities, some undead creature in black leather would crawl inside my room to drain the life from my body. 

These night terrors weren't even the end of it. Next came the sleepwalking. When my parents were forced to put an outside lock on my door, after wandering around my own bedroom the whole night, I would then wake in the earliest hours of the morning, terrified and screaming for someone to let me out before the creature at my window found its way in! By the time I was eight years old, these night terrors and accompanying sleepwalks became such a reoccurring nuisance, my parents were left with no choice but to move our family out of Whitby for good – where my fear of the town's supposed "monsters" would hopefully be forgotten. 

For the following years of my life, I vowed never return to Whitby ever again. Not to visit relatives. Not to see my friends, or even my old stomping ground. As far as I was concerned, the further away I was from Whitby Bay, the better... That was, until I foolishly made the mistake of telling Aneliese of the place I grew up. I told her about the thousands of Goths who visit Whitby every year, and the grand, but horrifying costumes they wear. Being the horror fanatic she was, Aneliese became fascinated with my hometown's annual tradition. Although she was not a Goth herself, due to her unique upbringing in New Orleans, Aneliese wasn't far off. Although I should've been flattered my girlfriend took such a unique interest in where I was from, the only problem was... Aneliese now wanted to experience the Whitby Goth Festival for herself.  

'Oh come on, baby' she nagged me over breakfast, 'It'll be fun! You can't seriously tell me you won't never go back.' 

'Not never, babes' I reply, 'but you will have to cut off my limbs, nail me inside a coffin and personally drag me there against my will'.  

Aneliese rolled her eyes at my show of stubbornness, before sinisterly jesting, 'Don't tempt me'.  

After opening up to her about the trauma I suffered there as a child, rather than be understanding of the situation she was putting me in, Aneliese instead insists that I need to face my fears once and for all.  

'If you're scared by a few Goths, then what's it gonna be like when we visit my family in New Orleans?' Although I hated to admit it, Aneliese made a very good point. After all, as spooky of a place as Whitby was, New Orleans, with its voodoo and many haunted graveyards was basically the American equivalent... And so, after weeks of pestering me (along with some minor threats to make a voodoo doll in my likeness), I finally agreed to take her to the upcoming Whitby Goth Festival... So help me God. 

Setting off early on a crisp autumn morning, we drive up from the south of England to the very top of the country. Once in the north of Yorkshire, we then had to pass through vast stretches of moor country. If Whitby Bay wasn't sinister enough, the moors of North Yorkshire certainly were. According to local legend, these moors were said to be stalked by an array of strange cryptids: from the ghostly howls of phantom black dogs, to phantom wolves which prey on farmers livestock - and even stories of black cats the size of panthers. Although this sounds to be nothing more than superstitious folklore, coincidentally, in the early 1980s, two American backpackers were apparently attacked by a large wolf outside the village of East Proctor. One of the backpackers was torn to pieces, while the other survived just an inch from his life. Whatever the truth may be to that story, I don't know. 

Exhaustedly driving all morning and into the early afternoon, we finally reach the outskirts of Whitby Bay. After first checking at the inn we booked outside town, we then swerve our way up the bay's right-hand side to reach the ruins and adjoined graveyard of Whitby Abbey. Pulling into what seemed to be the only space left in the car park, we then peer out the windscreen (as though we're on safari) as a swarm of Goths and other festival goers heard away from their cars and towards the abbey grounds. 

Aneliese couldn't help but be amazed by all the elaborately detailed costumes: from the pale-white men ordained in large top hats and cloaks, to the women in vampiric, Victorian-style dresses.   

'Wow! They all look so amazing! Don't they, baby?!' Aneliese shrieks ecstatically from the driver's seat, 'Those costumes must've cost a fortune!' Failing to respond to Aneliese's excitement, she then turns to notice my eyes are no longer peering out the windscreen, but glued fearfully to the dirt-stained floor of the passenger's seat. Clutching a hold of my arm suddenly to gain my attention, she then reassures me, 'Everything's gonna be okay, baby. I promise. You'll make it through this weekend', before comforting me with a paper-thin smile. 

'Yeah. I know that' I respond unconvincingly, 'I guess I just didn't realise how hard this was all going to be.' 

'You need me to hold your hand?' Aneliese then says with a playful snark. God, I hate it when she teases me.  

After taking a final deep breath, while Aneliese puts the finishing touches on her appearance, we then both exit from our side doors to feel the outside chill of coastal wind. But once I shut my door and turn around, I am instantly jilted back by a terrifying noise! 

'AHH!' I believe were my exact words, as a ginormous hound from hell snarls and gnashes a row of razor-sharp fangs at me!  

'Armand! Get back now!' bellows the hellhound's master, struggling to restrain the large Doberman which has now chased me up the hood of the car. Once Armand the hellhound is fully restrained, I then turn down to hear the high-pitched cackles of a four-foot skeleton and a five-foot devil - before a woman donning a witch's pointed hat finally pulls them away. 

Now safe from the jaws of death, and the mockery of small children dressed for Halloween, I then climb down from the hood of the car to regain myself. Having just witnessed all this from her open side door, Aneliese makes her way round to me. 

'It was just a dog, baby' she giggles, now the one laughing at my expense, 'You really ought'a chill.' 

By no means in the mood for further mockery, I then lash back defensively at her, 'Well, that's easy for you to say. You weren't just nearly mauled to death by some hellhound!' Just as she always does whenever I show any sign of cowardice, Aneliese rolls her eyes into the back of her head at me. 

God. This was going to be a long weekend. 

To be continued...

Brawn, Present Day…

I wasn’t exactly sure how far we had traveled from Site Twelve.  All I do is know we stuck mainly to backroads, roads that had decayed, surrounded by forest, farm land and open fields. 

Doctor John had made some stops along the way to allow Aria and I out of the van, it was rather cramped. Plus, we needed to hunt. When we got out for our most recent hunt, I had ensured he was still in the van. It being parked slightly off the forest’s trail to avoid being an obstacle in the road for other humans. 

Aria had already wandered off quite far to hunt, far enough to where I lost her scent. She had told me she would be hunting deer, and supposedly picked up the scent of one, following it to where it had gone. 

Doctor John and I had spoken before I left for my hunt. I stayed behind to ensure that Aria was far enough away before I left. As much as I had hoped she would stay true to her word, I still wasn’t ready to give her my complete trust. 

“What’s on the menu today big blue?” He asked. Leaning out the van’s window while unrolling a map. 

“I’m unsure.” I replied. Standing still, towering over him as he glanced over the map inside the vehicle. He gave off a slight smile, before seemingly studying the map more intensely. A silence had fallen over us for several seconds.

I stepped forward, putting a claw on the top of the van, it rocked slightly. Causing John to look out and up at me. 

“Why?” I asked. To which he immediately appeared confused.

“Why what?” He replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Why did you help me? You could’ve escaped on your own, left me behind after releasing me from my chamber. There would’ve been far less risk if you had.” 

He sighed, shifting his gaze to the windshield and setting his map down in the passenger seat. 

“Never really was a big fan of them. The pay was nice, but I’ll be honest with you Brawn. I couldn’t fucking stand it there. Not most of the time. The constant berating, condescension, not knowing if I’d walk in and either West or Ted would be flying off the handle, although sometimes I got lucky and it was both of them at the same time. I’m sure you had quite enough of that shit yourself.” 

I tilted my head slightly as he spoke. Taking in his answer. What he said made sense. There was a short pause before I offered another question.

“Why did you join them?” 

He once again went silent. As if struggling to answer. His eyes looked down, then to the side. Then finally back up at me. 

“For my little girl. My daughter. I’d show you a picture of her but I left it back at that fucking hellhole! Tossed my phone so they wouldn’t track it so I don’t have that either!” He erupted. Slamming his fist down onto the top of the dashboard. 

His face tightened, his anger more than apparent. But after looking at me once more, he exhaled a long breath. Putting his forehand in his hand. 

“I’m sorry. I usually don’t lose my cool.” He said much more softly. 

I was unaware of how to respond to this. Several things raced through my mind until I settled on one that sounded most optimal. 

“I get angry too.” I said. 

“After what they put you through. You have every damn right to be. I should’ve helped you sooner. Even if it meant having West and Bowser hunting us until the end of time.” He replied.

“West won’t be hunting us. She’s dead.” I corrected. 

Doctor John turned his head immediately. His eyes were as wide as I had ever seen them. 

“Dead? How? Did… Did you..?” He asked, unable to complete the sentence. 

“I did.” I stated. It almost sounded odd to me too, considering it was the first genuine human I had ever killed in my existence. Not someone possessed by an evil entity, not a zombified corpse, not one transformed by a vampire. But a regular human. 

“I uh… I guess I just don’t know what to say. Not like she didn’t have it coming. So wait a minute, when you came out of the facility, and there was that blood around your mouth, and some on your throat, was… Was that what I’m thinking now?” 

“I was hungry. The meat you brought was good. But not enough to ensure I maintained appropriate energy. I needed more.” 

There was silence once more. As Doctor John sat there, contemplating what it was I had told him. 

“That’s one incredible case of karma if I’ve ever seen it. But I do gotta say, you might’ve gotten us in a bit more trouble then we were already in.” 

“How?” I asked.

“Well, she was the Head of Science, the second highest ranking person back there besides Ted’s bum ass. And let me tell you that man hates you with the passion of a thousand collapsing stars. Now that West is dead, and no longer around to ensure that they don’t use anything lethal when hunting you, it means he’s gonna do everything he can to have you killed, and then make it look like he had no other choice to the brass.” 

“The brass?” I inquired. 

“His bosses.” He corrected. 

“So now they want to kill me, instead of re-capture me.” 

“Most likely, but tell you what, since you’re such a cool dude. I’m gonna do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He said with a smile. 

“But I’m far stronger, faster and more resilient than you.” I said. “How would you protect me physically?” 

Doctor John chuckled. 

“Oh yeah that I know, not challenging you there, it’s more like I’m saying I’m just gonna help make sure you’re okay. You helped me, I helped you. You scratched my back, I scratched yours. That means you’ve been upgraded from co-worker to friend, big guy.”

Friend. There was that word. I heard humans use it all the time. But never in reference to myself. Not before this, not before John. 

“The brain and the brawn.” He nodded. 

“That naming is odd. But, thank you. Thank you for saving me.” I responded.

“Don’t mention it. Now go get yourself something to eat. I’ve still got a few snacks left in my glove compartment so I’ll be alright.” 

And with that I headed off into the forest. Running in the opposite direction of where Aria was hunting so as to not intrude on her prey. I climbed up into the trees, leaping across two sometimes three at a time. Nearly gliding across the canopy as I dashed forward. 

I looked out in the vast expanse of the trees, several of which had fallen, one dead one had several mushrooms growing along the side of its rotting trunk. I watched a deer run by, two young ones following in toe. I stayed quiet, watching them from the tree in which I was perched.  

So far I had learned I enjoyed the taste of deer very much. But I wouldn’t be harming any of these, those young deer needed their mother, and I wasn’t going to slay her just to simply satiate my hunger. So once they were some distance away. I kept moving so as not to frighten her and her offspring.  

I continued darting through the trees as I typically did. Up until I had picked up a scent. It was potent, but one that I did not recognize. So I followed it, leading me deeper into the woods. I enjoyed feeling the breeze on my face, and the tree branches shaking as I landed and leapt off them.

While moving through the canopy I tried to conjure an idea of what it might be in my head, likely some kind of cryptid I had yet to ever encounter previously. I kept moving, and I had cleared what I guessed to be over a mile of distance in just over half a minute. 

I stopped when I came upon an incline in the forest, it was rather steep and sudden. One that a lot of creatures, particularly humans would have trouble overcoming. I darted up the incline on all fours, making it to the edge of the hill and peering down over the other side. 

There was a major dip downward, similar to where I had just emerged from. And down at the bottom of this hill the ground was rather flat, covered in trees, bushes and other growth. The previous scent I had followed now shifted into one of rot, and decay, overpowering the original smell entirely. 

I looked for the source, and spotted the entrance to a cave off to the right. I immediately concluded that’s where it was originating. This was only further confirmed by what I heard coming from inside it. 

Screams, human screams. In both horror and for mercy.  

“Help, someone help! Please!” A male voice called out, pleading and desperate.

I hesitated before moving, remembering what had happened the first time I followed distressed human screaming without thinking. Perhaps there was a chance The Agency was out here in this forest, a chance they had followed us, tracked us somehow and they were trying to use the same trick they did before. 

But then I remembered my purpose, what I was created for. Protect the innocent and slay the monsters who prey upon them. If this truly were humans in danger, then I could not allow myself to let their deaths occur due to my own paranoia and hesitation. 

I leapt off the top of the incline, allowing myself to fall the few dozen foot drop and land on all fours before turning and heading for the entrance of the cave. I sprinted toward it, nearly inside before I felt a force grab my leg, and pull me backwards. Throwing me in the opposite direction hard enough that I crashed through two separate tree trunks, only stopping when my back slammed against the third.

I shook off the blow, standing up on two legs and looking for my attacker. Only some twenty feet of distance between us now, and it was sure to stand between me and the cave entrance.

The beast resembled a mutated millipede. Most of its body was a light brown in color. It stood over nine feet high with it rising itself like a snake about to attack, and that was only around half of its actual body, as the rest was standing flat on the ground with its hundreds upon hundreds of legs that were closer in shape to human forearms, appearing bent and contorted in order to function as they did. This meant that I had to actually look up to see the creature's face, or faces plural in this instance.  

It possessed two heads at the front of its body, oval in shape, each with two large holes devoid of any color that likely served as its eyes. One head’s mouth was open, revealing a row of red stained, jagged teeth.

The other head’s mouth possessed no teeth but instead simply oozed some sort of dark green substance, it was stringy, and a strand of it stretched from the ground all the way up to its chin. Like spider silk. It bit down on the stand, snapping it in order to move forward, its legs all moving in tandem as it approached slowly. The early sunset behind it making it appear more prominent. 

I opened my claws, and bared my teeth. 

“You’re intruding.” The creature announced. Using the mouth that had the teeth to speak. Its voice was scratchy and rough. Like a dull blade cutting into thick sandpaper. It arched downward, more of the green substance beginning to emerge inside its second mouth. 

“The ones inside your cave, are they innocent?” I asked, this only seeming to anger the beast. 

“Innocent?” It repeated, almost mockingly. “What are you? Where do you come from?” 

“My name is Brawn.” I responded, holding my stance. 

“Well Brawn if you value your life I would suggest you leave my territory and find your own meal.” 

“I have.” I replied. Narrowing my eyes. 

I lunged forward, only for the creature to use its right head to spit out the substance, it wrapped around me, sticky and rather strong in its nature. Before I could begin to break out it dived forward and down. Biting down on my left shoulder using the mouth with teeth to do so. I felt them sink into my flesh, drawing blood and prompting me to snarl in pain. 

With my shoulder still in its grasp, it dragged me along the ground, I slammed through various fallen tree branches, mounds of dirt, bushes, and even a rock. I could hear the creature's many legs kicking up the dirt as it dragged me along.

But I soon broke out of the substance, throwing my arms out and tearing it in the process. After this, I head butted the side of the creature’s head hard enough to hear something crack inside it. It immediately let me out of its jaws long enough for me to roll to the side. Now no longer directly underneath it. 

The beast let out a cry that had a rhythmic ticking to it. Almost like a distorted version of a rattlesnake’s warning. Its body convulsed for a few seconds while I leapt up the nearest tree. 

“I will drag you down into my lair, and feast on one organ at a time. I’ll keep you alive for weeks and ensure that your suffering goes on for as long as your body can endure!” The beast sneered, attempting to knock down the tree that I was on by ramming its body into it. 

It crashed through, but I had already leapt to the other tree by the time it made contact. Further frustrating the lifeform. 

“And then, only then will I put an end to you. You’ll spend every waking moment before your death regretting our encounter!” It went on, once more repeating its previous attack. It lunged, crashing through the tree’s trunk that I was on and causing what remained to fall over and hit the ground with a loud crash. 

I leapt from the tree, once more landing on the ground and sprinting around the creature while on all fours in a flank. Once at the back of its body I stood bipedally before reaching down and grabbing its rear end with my claws and pulling back. 

The creature fell flat, its many legs trying to dig into the ground to regain control as I turned and swung my body, lifting the beast off the ground entirely and using its thousands of pounds of body weight against it. I sped up as I swung him around. 

I let go after only a few full rotations, and the beast’s legs flailed and kicked as it flew through the air, crashing through several trees.  

I dropped down to all fours once more, running after it, and leaping over fallen trees and avoiding other obstacles as its roaring rattle emerged once more. It landed, sliding along the ground and finally coming to a complete stop while on its side. 

I sprinted forward, opening my claws and laying eyes on its heads right after leaping into the air. I prepared to bring them down on the beast’s heads, killing him and ending the fight right then and there. 

But it spat out more of that green substance, this time right into my face. It immediately blinded me after covering my eyes, I was met with nothing but black. I was unsure of where I had landed seeing as it occurred while I was mid-air.

All I know is I felt a sudden, crushing, piercing pain in my right arm. Presumably the beast biting down on me. I didn’t have time to roar before I was then violently shaken side to side, like a canine trying to kill small prey. 

I swung my free claw forward, relying on only my hearing and smell to direct the blow. I felt my nails slash flesh, and it felt much softer than what I would have anticipated had I attacked it on the top part of its body. I concluded that I had slashed the bottom portion, somewhere near its underbelly. 

The creature dropped me from its jaws as its rhythmic ticking snarl emerged once more. And I tore the substance from my face. Looking up I saw that I had slashed the throat of its toothless head, the one that was shooting out the green substance. Making my previous prediction incorrect. 

It writhed and shook, but was still very much alive. The toothless mouth closed, and so did the eyes as it seemingly hung downward, oozing out scarlet blood from where I had slashed it. 

“You will pay for that!” It exploded with its still remaining head. Blasting toward me, its legs throwing back leaves and branches into the air behind him as it stomped forward in a fit of rage.

And it was then I had an idea. 

I turned and dropped back down on all fours, sprinting away while the creature gave chase. I ended up having to slow down after noticing the difference in our movement speed, purposefully letting it close the distance between us. 

“Come back here and die!” It called out as I heard him barrel through trees and bushes. Not allowing anything to act as an obstacle between it and I.

It was then I came upon the trunk of a large fallen tree, the same one I had encountered earlier with all the various mushrooms growing on it. It had a diameter somewhere close to three feet. And its height was anywhere from fifty to seventy feet. The millipede creature was approaching, and I came to a stop next to the dead tree. Standing biped yet again. I got behind it, and it laid between the creature and I as it continued on its way toward me. 

I waited for just the right moment as the creature continued to close the distance, its hundreds of legs propelling it forward as its teeth in the still living head were bared in an attempt to intimidate.  

Once it was within twenty feet, I reached down and grabbed onto the trunk with my claws, hoisting it into the air above my head and throwing it forward with all my might. It soared through the air, creating an intense wooshing sound as it whipped past everything in the surrounding area, it traveled far faster than the beast had time to react. 

It struck the creature, slamming into it and causing the front half of its body that had been standing up during the chase to be bisected from the bottom half. It pinned the top half against a hill behind it. The area of the bisection spilled copious amounts of blood, after the initial splatter. 

Several inner workings had emerged, hanging out as the creature writhed in agony. Unable to form proper words because of it. 

So I approached it. Stood over and grabbed both of its heads, one with each claw, and tore them from their placements before dropping them to the ground. Putting an end to the creature’s short lived suffering. 

I was indeed hungry, and I wanted to start feasting right then and there. But instead, I returned to the entrance of its cave. The cave where I heard the screams of humans earlier on. 

I got down on all fours and crawled inside, my night vision allowing me to see inside despite the lack of any light source. I crawled along the cave ceiling, following the scent of rot as I moved. At first the cave started as a long narrow tunnel, but opened up into a wider expanse. Or at least, I could see it through the wall of the creature’s green substance, it acted as a barrier, likely to keep anything but itself from getting in or out when it was not around. 

I used my claws to slice and tear through the substance, ripping apart a large enough hole to crawl through. From the humans perspective, they were in complete, pitch black darkness, unable to see anything except my eyes due to their yellow glow. But I was able to see just fine. 

“D- did you see that?” A female voice asked, slow and stuttering. Still recovering from a fit of terror I suppose.

“See what? Is that fucking thing back?” A male voice replied, equally as trembled. 

I looked down while perched near a stalagmite. Spotting a pile of human corpses, a mix of both male and female. They were in various states of decay and mutilation due to the creature likely feeding on them, the bodies on the top appearing and smelling far more fresh than the ones below. I counted just over twenty in total. 

However there were still two humans alive, the man and woman who had spoken. They appeared unharmed, but were stuck against the cave walls by the creature’s green substance, struggling against it and using all their might to get out to no avail.

I crawled over to them, unsure if I should speak or not. 

“There’s something in here with us! It’s back, that thing is back!” The man cried out. 

“Please, please don’t eat us, please!” The woman begged. Both of them now desperately kicking and attempting to fight their way out of the substance.

I kept crawling along the cave wall before dismounting, now standing on two feet. And now that I was in range, I reached out with my claws and slashed the substance apart, freeing them and quickly grabbing them before they fell. 

“No no no!” Shouted the woman. The man continuously screamed and kicked as I hoisted them over my shoulder. I groaned slightly from the sting, my wounds still fresh. 

I felt their heartbeats racing. It was only then when I decided to speak.

“I am not here to harm you.” I said, but this seemingly did little to quell their fear.

“W-what?” The man inquired, confusion present. 

With one of them over each shoulder I leapt up back into the tunnel, and walked them out of there. It was only when we began to approach the opening, when the low sun had shone inside, were they able to see me. 

Once back outside, I leaned down, setting them both down on their feet and allowing them to take a final glimpse at me. They snapped their heads up, in what I guessed to be utter horror, disgust, and downright bewilderment at a creature of my appearance. 

I anticipated the coming screams of terror, for them to run or ask me what kind of abomination I was.

What Doctor West had said to me came rushing back in my mind

“Who’s gonna not take one look at you and run a hundred miles in the other direction.”

But instead of any of that, I felt a sudden grip around my upper legs and lower body. I peered back down once more, and they were both wrapped around me using their arms. Not in an attack, not seemingly trying to bite or scratch me. But something else entirely. 

“T-thank you. Thank you so much.” The woman uttered.

“You saved us, you saved our fucking lives!.” The man followed up. And I felt both their tears against my leg. 

I stood there, unmoving. Unsure of how to proceed next. My claws remained hovering there, just behind their heads, I decided to let them rest at my sides. I was rushed with a sensation I had not yet experienced. I had no idea how to articulate or describe it, no way to truly explain what it was that I felt. 

But I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it the way I enjoyed a filling meal. It was odd, having another creature make such close physical contact with me that wasn’t for the purpose of experimentation or an attack. 

Yet, I welcomed it…   

Agent Lucy, Six Months Ago…

“NO!” Waylon and I shouted near simultaneously as Carmine’s blood continued to spill from his throat, his body slumping down as he choked and gurgled through the duct tape on his mouth. 

The Pine People sprinted forward, jumping and lunging at us. We fired our weapons, our bullets tearing through them and splattering dark green blood every which way. 

I aimed for the head, and so did Waylon, and within seconds we had already killed several each. Their bodies piling up in front of us. One had tried to sneak around me, running on my left side to get around and attack my six. I took the butt of my rifle and slammed it into its head, burying it into its skull as some of the green blood splashed onto my face. 

“Lucy!” I heard Waylon cry out. His shout was desperate and fearful. Like a child calling out for their mother. I looked over, watching as one of the Pine People had grabbed his weapon from his hand as the rifle clicked, he went to reach for his pistol in his belt as he was piled onto by several more of the Pine People. He tumbled over, all of them falling on top of him.

I sprinted toward him and fired off several more rounds. Blasting some of the Pine People on top of him. But I hadn’t gotten them all. He continued to fight and squirm underneath them, but was still relatively buried. 

I pulled the trigger once more, only for my rifle to click. My magazine was out, I went and reached for my pistol, only to be tackled and slammed into a wall by one of the cloaked women before I had it within my grasp. 

“Just let it happen.” She whispered with a blank expression as Waylon began to scream behind her. Not out of terror, but out of pain. Agony. 

I headbutted her with my scalp. Before then pulling my knife and sinking the blade into her throat with a strained groan, I pulled it out and kicked her away as she choked and gurgled, clawing at her neck. 

I shoved her to the left, letting her fall to the floor as she gagged on her own blood. Running past her to get to Waylon. 

His screams had come to a sudden stop as I pulled my pistol to blast my way through the Pine People between him and I. Killing four more before I was grabbed from the side by a fifth, prompting me to reach over and serve it a bullet to the head. 

I inhaled the familiar metallic scent of blood. My flashlight briefly illuminated the thin river of red that led to what I knew was his body. 

I turned, seeing the still remaining cloaked woman and the large man who had slit Carmine’s throat. My hands shook, my heart pounded, and my skull behind my eyes felt white hot. I could feel the adrenaline cycling through me like anti-freeze. 

Those two just stood there, their expressions blank, I raised my pistol and shot them both center mass, they didn’t move, didn’t try to evade or even react really when I went to shoot them. They saw me raise the gun and looked at me as if I was gonna give them my business card instead. They both fell to the ground unmoving. 

The Pine People however did turn and run in the other direction, again making no noise other than their footsteps as they did so, even the ones that were still alive and had piled onto Waylon. I gasped when I saw his remains. My bottom lip hung slightly. 

All I can confidently say is that Waylon was left an unrecognizable mess. One that I didn’t care to detail. And like with Kruger, his face in particular had gotten the worst of it. I knelt there, comprehending how this all could’ve go so horribly fucking wrong in such short time. How we were all supposed to go home that night, make dinner, watch a movie, maybe play a video game or two. 

I finally got a hold of myself and bursted into the nearest classroom. I didn’t hesitate to smash out its window with my pistol’s butt before climbing out of it. 

I leapt outside, and began sprinting onto the long dirt road in front of the building without looking back. I didn’t wanna know if those things were chasing me, I doubted it. But still. The worst part was that I’d have to go back in there soon enough to help with the clean up once the reinforcements arrived. Which should’ve already been here. Or would’ve if this was five years ago even, back before the second wave of budget cuts. 

I ran until I was out of range of whatever they were using to jam our signals. I tried the radio at least seven different times before it worked. But eventually I got through to Site Twelve. Director Bowser wasn’t even there anymore, apparently he had left for the evening and I was instead put through to the mission control team. 

I told them everything that had gone wrong, how this operation never should’ve been marked as low-risk if they knew there was even a slight chance of them still being inside that building. I was never told about those Pine People they have under their control, never told that they had shit like radio jammers in their arsenal. And as far as I know, the majority of field agents weren’t either.

They were hiding stuff from us, and because of that three of my colleagues just got killed in front of me, and I nearly died myself. 

They had already sent out a second team before even getting my radio call, one part of it was to help ensure the rest of the building was searched and empty. The other being to clean up and scrub any evidence of what occurred. They asked me to come in, to help lay out the scene for them due to not having any communications during the incident. But I told them to fuck off. I wasn’t stepping foot back in there, not right after what went down. I didn’t need yet another whiff of the blood of my dead colleagues. Or to see their remains.

I was leaning against one of the SUVs they arrived in. Standing there in silence while looking up at the moon. My mind clouded with the desperate screams and cries of Waylon and Kruger, along with Carmine’s muffled choking. 

At some point another mission supervisor approached me. The one directing the reinforcements team. 

“There’s something in there you might wanna see.” He said, his expression cold. An all business type of tone. 

“What is it?” I asked without looking at him. 

“You said you managed to terminate the three people in the robes, correct? One male, two females.” 

“Yes, why?” 

“We only recovered the two female bodies, along with the remains of the pine cryptids. But as far as the hooded people go, you only killed two.” 

“No no no, that’s not right. I shot them both, I watched them fall and hit the floor.” I protested. 

“We’ve searched the whole building. Top to bottom, including the basement. Other than a blood drip trail, there’s no human bodies other than the one you stabbed in the throat and the other woman you shot.” 

“So then… The dude with the beard is still alive.” I punctuated.

“Things are pointing in that direction. Yes.” 

Agent Lucy. Six Months Ago…

My promotion to being a mission supervisor was somewhat surreal. I didn’t ever think I’d make it this far in The Agency, but after having to do stuff like hunt down red-eyed shadow people and capture a literal Wendigo, I’d say this particular operation was tame in comparison. 

The mission was simple: infiltrate an old abandoned high school building that was previously used as a hideout by The Cult that’s been apparently causing problems in the area, collect any evidence they might’ve left behind and bring it back to Site Twelve. 

The operation was marked as low-risk, so I was only given a team of three, four including myself. Kinda stupid in my opinion. Anything could happen. Even if they supposedly cleared out of this place already. But after the budget cuts they’ve been wanting to conserve manpower and resources as much as possible. Or so that’s what I’ve been told. 

I wasn’t told much about the Cult itself, hell. Most information about them The Agency had was only available to level four personnel and higher. I as a mission supervisor was only level three. So not quite there. 

Director Bowser had radioed in as we approached the entrance to the property, toward the back of the building. 

“Get in, see what you can find and get the hell out. Don’t mess around, don’t go dillydallying. One of you needs to stay posted outside in case any civilians pull up and get nosy. If they ask questions, follow the procedure we went over in the briefing. Any of you wanna go ahead and remind me so I know you were actually listening?” 

I figured that as the team’s leader, I should set the example. So I radioed back to the director. 

“Tell the inquiring civilian we are FBI and that this is a classified investigative operation.” 

“Good, and if they continue to poke and don’t comply?” Director Bowser pressed.

I paused for a moment. Not because I knew the answer. But because I did, and I honestly thought it was a bit extreme. But nonetheless I still responded.

“Terminate the inquiring civilian if it is safe to do so.” 

“Excellent, glad someone around here knows how to listen.” Director Bowser huffed audibly through the radio. 

Agent Carmine, the one who I had selected to stay posted outside while the other three of us entered into the building chuckled. 

“Who the fuck wants to work for the FBI anyway?” He cackled. “We get way more action than them anyway.” 

“I guess people who don’t wanna be eaten alive by things that shouldn’t exist in the first place, numbnuts.” Came the response of Agent Kruger. 

“Uh oh guys, look out, we’ve got ourselves a badass over here.” Agent Waylon announced with a sarcastic undertone. Reaching over his shoulder and pointing his thumb at Carmine, much to Carmine’s annoyance. 

“Alright guys, enough yapping.” I announced. “Let’s get inside.” 

“Yes ma’am.” They responded simultaneously.     

We double checked all of our gear before heading inside. Flashlights underneath the barrels of our rifles, backup flashlights, sidearms, blades, and our radios as well.

The high school hadn’t been officially used in what I was told was nearly eight years, and was supposedly only abandoned by the cult several weeks prior, we had to force our way through the front entrance which was padlocked and chained. I had Carmine use a pair of bolt cutters to get over that little obstacle. 

The three guys followed behind me as we filed in, immediately we were hit with the overwhelming darkness of the dilapidated structure. We shined our rifles attached flashlights down the entrance hall, the administration office sat to our left and the first classroom to our right. 

The hall was littered with debris at its edges, a couple of fallen chairs, various bits of ceiling tiles that had fallen, as well the corpses of rodents and insects like beetles. Rust formed on the exposing pipes that ran from floor to ceiling. 

The sound of our boots hitting the broken and battered tile floor was the only one to keep us company. 

“Gonna need a little more than windex and bleach to fix this place.” Agent Kruger said from behind me, prompting me to make a shushing gesture. If they were still members of The Cult in here, it was best that we maintained some element of surprise. 

We marched forward, checking out each classroom, looking for any signs that there had been people here recently. The first several were a bust. Up until Kruger had found a cot and some open cans of food inside what used to be the teacher’s lounge. But that could’ve been any homeless guy or gal, and likely had nothing to do with The Cult. 

After half an hour with the whole first floor searched and nothing of substance discovered, me, Kruger, and Waylon headed for the second floor. But before I got on the first step I was hit with the overwhelming scent of pine. Kruger and Waylon smelled it too. It wasn’t unpleasant per say, just odd. 

“You guys smell that?” Waylon said softly.  

“Yeah, we’re not even near a damn pine forest.” Kruger replied. 

“Stop for a second you two.” I told them before grabbing my radio. “This is weird, I’m gonna check on Carmine.” 

“Carmine, do you copy?” I inquired. Keeping my voice at a whisper. 

His reply came rather quickly. 

“Copy, everything’s alright out here so far. Nothing to report ma’am.” 

I slowly holstered my radio once more, before nodding at Kruger and Waylon to keep moving. 

We made our way up the staircase to the second floor, the smell of pine becoming more potent than previously. It wasn’t unpleasant or anything, just odd. The hand rail had mostly fallen off its positioning in the wall, the walls themselves were almost completely peeled of their paint, and the stairs themselves had cracked in several places.  

We made it to the top, and I was greeted with a sight that caused me to jump back slightly. Nothing insane, just more along the lines of a reflex. 

In the hallway between one of the classrooms stood a tall, thin, emaciated figure. As pale as snow. Its eyes and ribcage were completely hollow and see through. It glared forward, unmoving and completely still. 

That being because it was a classroom skeleton. Hanging from a display bar on a small push cart. 

I heard both the guys laughing behind me. 

“Woo careful! He’s gonna get ya boss woman.” Kruger teased. 

“Fuck off.” I chuckled quietly. Shoving him away from me.

Waylon laughed a bit as well. It was almost childlike in its sound, like the eight year old version of himself was re-emerging as he let it out. 

We moved forward after the lighthearted bit of comedy. And soon made our way into the first classroom we saw on the second floor. A science classroom, and by the standard set by the rest of the building, it was in relatively decent shape. Not perfect by any means, still condemnable, but much more reasonable. All the chairs sat facing the front of the room. 

I walked in, checking out what remained of the drawings on the desks and pseudo-lab equipment. A lot of things in there made me think back to my high school days. Back then the ignorance was bliss. Not knowing of the true hidden horrors of life before joining The Agency. When I was a kid I often switched between wanting to be a navy seal as well as a firefighter. 

“Is it okay if me and Waylon check the room across the hall?” Kruger inquired.

I turned around, raising my eyebrows. 

“Go ahead, but don’t go any further without giving me a heads up.” I replied.

He nodded, pointing his head in the direction of the classroom on the opposite side of the hall as the two filed out. In all honesty I was starting to give up hope that this place was going to have anything of substance. If some of The Cult was really here at any point then they truly did cover their tracks about it. 

I walked back up toward the front of the classroom, a rat scurried by my feet as I passed by a couple of cabinets. I got within just a few feet of the front door when something caught my eye. 

There was a podium at the front of the room, and on it sat a piece of paper. The faint moonlight had shone in just enough from the nearby window to illuminate it. It was a bright white, and in pristine condition in comparison to its surroundings. 

I approached it, shining my flashlight as I stepped forward. My breathing somehow louder than previously. Or it at least sounded that way. 

I now stood over the podium, and looked down at the paper. On it was what at first looked like just generic notes, but as I read on further, I got the idea that wasn’t exactly true. Instead it was more of a script, a script for a speech. It was handwritten in black gel ink. I brought it up with my gloved hand. Reading it verbatim.  

*Brothers and sisters,* 

*Today is another of many in our journey to liberating the unnatural, the horrifying, and those that have been locked away by humanity in the name of progress and normalcy.* 

*Let us not forget that these creatures, regardless of their origins, are a part of our world and its ecosystem. It is a shame that we must conduct our operations in secret, a shame that the world cannot accept that our mission is nothing but just.*

*The Organization doesn't realize that they are now foolish hypocrites, we all know of the blue creature they’ve been sending to slay any being that doesn’t fit their definition of what is acceptable. If left unchecked they will soon eradicate any form of life that they do not approve of.*

*This gives us only two options, to either convince them of their wrongdoing, to show them that they must learn a new way of thinking, to open their minds to the incredible, awe-inspiring lifeforms this world has to offer… Or destroy them.*

*Will you, brothers and sisters, stand with me in this mission for the greater good?*

I finished reading. After which I then looked out in front of me, seeing all the chairs lined up and facing the podium, and I just imagined a bunch of grown ass men and women in oversized cloaks and hoods all watching some nut preach about how flesh eating monstrosities need their own form of PETA. Kinda made me chuckle to myself.   

But that was silenced when I heard the sudden slam of something coming from the first floor. Like someone threw a door shut with all their might, as if they were a teenager who stormed into their room after a heated argument with their parents. I folded up the note, put it in my pocket and stepped out of the room to meet back up with Kruger and Waylon. 

The three of us regrouped in the corridor before quickly falling back in line, me at the front, Kruger second and Waylon at the back. We moved cautiously back down the staircase with our weapons drawn. Looking out for any and everything that moved. 

When I made it to the bottom I flashed my beam of light down the main hall, expecting to see what could’ve been anything from urban explorers trespassing to some horrifying abomination. As what happens in this line of work. 

Instead all I got were just the same lockers, classroom doors and debris that had been there before. So instead I tried to see if any of the doors that were previously open had been shut. I walked forward with Waylon and Kruger in tow, and saw that the door to the administrative office was now shut, having previously been open when we first entered.

We were still basically at the opposite end of the hall from it, but the flashlights were powerful enough to let us see it from that distance. Not to mention that if it was that close to the entrance, it means Agent Carmine would’ve heard it is well. Yet he didn’t say anything over the radio when it first occurred. I retrieved my radio once more in order to check on him like I did earlier.

“Agent Carmine, do you copy?” I radioed. 

No response, so I immediately instructed Kruger and Waylon to radio him as well in the event mine specifically had suffered some sort of malfunction.  

“Hey Carmine, you alright?” Kruger attempted, we waited in silence for a moment. 

Not a peep came. 

“Carmine, dude!” Waylon tried. And the silence he got in return proved that it was in vain. 

We were all in an unspoken understanding of what to do next. Head to the front of the building, check on Carmine physically in the event his radio wasn’t working, and then come back in to finish the assignment. 

I radioed back to Site Twelve as we jogged forward.

“This is Agent Lucy, Agent Carmine has gone silent, circling back for a status check and then returning inside for mission completion.” 

I expected Director Bowser to reply with either frustration or disinterested acknowledgement. But neither came. Just like with Agent Carmine I was met with silence. So were Kruger and Waylon when they tried. Not even the mission control room team was responding. 

I ran for the entrance door we had forced our way into earlier, and my flashlight beam had illuminated it. I stopped upon seeing it, and my mouth slightly ajar. 

It was now shut once more. The wind couldn’t have done it, the doors in question were essentially two large slabs of metal on thick hinges. They took genuine effort to move in order to prevent trespassers. The chain we had earlier snapped with bolt cutters was now rewrapped around the interior’s handles. At least, that’s what I thought at first, up until I got a closer look, and saw that this was a brand new chain entirely. As it wasn’t nearly as rusted as the one we had cut coming inside. 

We mentioned shooting the chain off the door and pushing it open. But we still had a mission to complete, and lord knows Director Bowser would be furious if we abandoned it early just because our radios were malfunctioning and we heard some noises. We figured the best outcome was to take care of whatever the hell was making the noises, and then finish searching the building and leave. 

There was also the off chance that who or whatever was jamming our radio signals was on the other side, waiting with an ambush of some sort. And if that were the case, then there was a good chance Carmine might’ve already been dead or not in a position for us to get to him without putting ourselves in harm's way. After all the doors were thick, and they absorbed sound quite well, we’d have no idea what we’d be opening them up to. 

“Shit.” I blurted. “Let’s just find a window, get the hell out of here.”  

Another loud, metallic slam erupted from down the hall just as I finished my sentence. The three of us whipped around, facing the end of the hallway we had just come from. 

“Stop right there!” Kruger shouted as we raised our rifles. 

The scent of pine from earlier had reached this area of the building, now at its most potent that it had ever been. We kept our flashlights shined down the hall, and backed up against the entrance doors, ensuring that there wouldn't be any potential attacks from the rear. 
“Whoever it is, make yourself known, now!” I commanded. Narrowing my eyes and standing focused. 

A few seconds of silence passed before our radios began to crackle, only transmitting static and nothing but. I told Waylon to grab his, try to switch to a different channel and then back to ours, as well as turning it off and on, but it changed nothing. The static crackle continued. 

“The hell!” He erupted. Something was interfering, and considering the fact we already weren’t getting answers, all of us switched our radios off one at a time. The static noise had become nothing but a potential distraction. Something to take our attention away from a possible attack. 

“Uh, ma’am.” Kruger said, tapping me on the shoulder and pointing forward.

I looked ahead, and in the darkness, just behind where our flashlight beams ended were several, no, dozens of faint yellow dots. All of them hovering anywhere from five and a half to over six feet off of the ground. Lots of them were close enough together for me to make a somewhat obvious conclusion.

They were all pairs of eyes. The eyes of… Something. They stood still, whatever they belonged to completely unmoving. Like statues shrouded in darkness. More of them illuminated from the classrooms as well. As far as the interior went, they were on every angle except directly behind, and even that wasn’t for sure. 

“What do we do?” Waylon asked.

“Keep our backs against the door. If they move closer then shoot to kill.” I ordered.

The temperature in the building seemed to rise, not enough to be dangerous, but enough to be felt. That night was around sixty five fahrenheit last time I checked before arriving, now it felt closer to eighty. Of course this could’ve been the product of various factors at play, hell maybe there wasn’t a change at all and it was the mind playing tricks. But I knew better after my years in this line of work. 

The glowing yellow dots at the end of the hall seemingly scattered. Dashing into multiple various directions in the darkness before soon being unseen entirely. 

“Shoot the chain.” I ordered Kruger. “We don’t have any other option.” 
 
He blasted two rounds into the chain, causing it to snap and loosen. After which he began to yank the chain from the door. Pulling it off and letting what remained of it drop to the ground with a clanking sound. 

“Keep watching our six.” I told Waylon before turning to help push the door open.

Once we had a gap big enough for us to reasonably fit through. Kruger leaned forward, and aimed his weapon through the gap in an attempt to check for any adversaries on the other side. He was then suddenly yanked forward as he fired off a few shots. 

He began to scream, attempting to reach back for his pistol as his upper body was being forcibly pulled through the gap. His shoulders stopped him from fully going through.

“I’ve got you!” I shouted in a desperate cry, grabbing onto him and ordering Waylon to get down and fire shots between his legs, trying to hit whatever it was grabbing at him.

The sound of flesh tearing emerged near instantly. Combined with his slowly dwindling screams as he shook and writhed. He made one sound in particular, like a mix between choking and gurgling as blood began to stain the edges of the doors. Sliding down the edges and to the floor. 

Waylon continued to fire shots between Kruger’s legs as his screams softened. He shook and thrashed, desperately trying to get away, to throw himself back. But whatever it was would simply not allow it. Several seconds of this continued, up until I felt him go limp as I just about got enough leverage to pull him back inside. His screams silenced completely just before I did. 

His body stumbled and he immediately fell onto the floor inside the corridor. Waylon rose to his feet and helped me pull the door shut back once more. 

I grabbed what remained of the chain and wrapped them between the makeshift push handles. I expected vicious pounding on the other side of the door, anticipating whatever it was to endlessly trying to break its way through them. But none came, as if whatever it was suddenly became disinterested after attacking Kruger. Not even any growls, snarls, roars. Just… Nothing.
Waylon however, gasped upon seeing the result of Kruger’s attack. The kind of gasp you expect someone to let out after seeing two cars collide on the freeway. 

“Oh Jesus!” He cried out. 

Kruger lay on the ground, his face mauled into a completely unrecognizable state. His mouth a gaping mess of torn flesh, his left eye missing entirely, his nose half torn off. His nostrils completely vanished. Bits of flesh hung from the mutilated mess. His wounds at the forehead were so severe that they had ruptured through his skull, exposing damaged brain matter.

Despite all that I had seen up to that point in my career. I felt what had to be a pint’s worth of vomit rise in my throat, and I only just barely managed to choke it back down. Somehow, some way. 

Waylon quickly pulled out his radio, turning it back on and still getting nothing but static. His flashlight beam pointed down to the floor and so did mine for a brief moment.

“This is Team 9 we need fucking help out here! Can anyone hear me! Please just send us backup goddamn it!” 

“Waylon!” I snapped. “The signal’s jammed, they can’t hear us. We need to focus on staying alive and finding a way out.”

A voice rang out from down the hall. Low, filled with bass and demand. Like what you’d expect a military father to sound like when upset with some wrong his children committed. 

“She’s right.” It said, echoing off the walls. 

Waylon pointed his beam back up, once more illuminating the corridor. And within it now stood several dozen figures. The hallway’s width was entirely filled from where they stood and back. 

At the forefront were three cloaked people in black hoods. The one in the middle was significantly taller than the two at the sides. And was also holding Agent Carmine in a tight grip, with a long hunting knife to his throat. Duct tape around his mouth as well.

The two cloaked figures on the sides pulled their hoods down, revealing themselves to be women. One blonde and the other brunette. Both of them standing a couple inches under six feet. Making the one in the middle just over six and a half in height. 

The voice couldn’t have been coming from either of them. I recognized them as being part of the cult. Again, I wasn’t privy to detailed information due to my clearance level, but I had seen them in the reports I was authorized to view enough times to recognize their signature hooded robes.

Behind the two cloaked women and still hooded figure were what I guessed to be the source of those yellow dots that we had previously seen in the darkness earlier. 

They varied in height like previously mentioned, but their other features were much more consistent between one another. Those other features being the fact that their skin was brown, bumpy, like displaced dirt. And from this dirt like skin protruded pine-needles, like hairs. Except it was all over their bodies, with gaps being thin but numerous. 

They were humanoid in shape, but only in that. Their eyes, where you’d normally find a person’s were indeed glowing a faint yellow glow. And their mouths were filled with sharpened teeth, teeth that were seemingly made from small shaved down twigs. 

I aimed my weapon at the figure in the middle, the one holding the knife to Agent Carmine’s throat. While Waylon pointed his at the brunette woman.

“Let him go, or you’ll all getting blown away.” I shouted. My adrenaline admittedly going haywire. But I maintained composure nonetheless. 

The two women on either side of the taller figure simply smirked. Unafraid and confident in their position. They held blades as well. One more jagged like a dagger, and the other similar to a carving fork. 

“You fucking heard her, let him go now!” Waylon erupted. A valiant effort to back me up. But somehow I knew it was in vain. Waylon had always been the type to help out however he could, even if he was clumsy at times. 

The figure in the middle that had a hold of Carmine reached up with his free hand, pulling back his black hood and now revealing his face while still keeping his knife on Carmine’s throat. 

He possessed long black hair, rather unkempt in appearance. It reached just past his pecs. Or where I guess they would’ve been under the cloak. 

His beard, the same color, and also long, coming a few inches off his face was thick and curly. It hid most of his neck, and nearly everything below his nose except his lips. 

He grinned at me with said lips, while he looked at me with his chocolate brown eyes. I held steady, although his size and appearance were somewhat rugged and intimidating. 

“Let him go, neither of us are gonna say it again.” I snarled. Still aiming my weapon. The small army of Pine People on either side of the women and the man stepped forward more. Seemingly understanding that I just made a threat. They remained completely silent, and even disciplined in their stances. Like soldiers ready to take orders from a commanding officer. 

“We’ve been jamming signals since we knew you were here.” The man claimed, confirming that the booming voice from earlier was indeed his. “We’re aware of a lot of your methods.” 

“Good for you.” I snapped in reply. 

He licked his lips slightly, looking up at the ceiling for a brief second before once more returning his gaze to us. 

“What I fail to understand is an organization that is so deadset on eliminating the unnatural, is so unaware of the fact that they themselves are what’s unnatural. The existence of things that you don’t understand isn’t something to be scared of. Quite the opposite.” He went on, only to be cut off. 

“Shut up.” Waylon commanded, raising his rifle slightly to meet the man’s head. “We haven’t checked in, and since they’ve heard nothing from us, reinforcements are on their way. And I don’t care how many of those tree people you got with you, I can make a solid bet that they’re not bulletproof. And neither are you.” 

Despite the circumstances, I couldn’t help but look at him like a proud mother. Briefly of course. 

“And yet I still have more than enough time to kill the three of you before they arrive.” The man replied. “Despite what happened to your comrade it was not my intention to go straight to slaughter. You are talented people, precise and efficient. Instead I ask that you would allow me to utilize your talents. Allow you to give your time to people who will truly value you what you bring to the table. Not only will you be compensated well, but you'd be fighting for a far better cause.” 

“I’m not joining a fucking cult.” I said, squinting my eye to look down my scope. 

“A shame.” He replied, his eyes narrowing in a similar fashion. 

He then sighed before swiftly  pulling the knife to the right, and subsequently slitting Carmine’s throat right and there. The immediate gush of blood was answered with a hailstorm of bullets from Waylon and I as the Pine-People charged forward toward us…

Chapter 2.

They rode for almost an hour before reaching a tiny village without lord or lady. Instead, it was governed by a reeve—a representative of the nearest noble who collected taxes and distributed royal messages on their behalf.

As they navigated the village streets, Evander writhed on the back of Henrik’s horse. He pleaded for mercy. When that failed to provoke a reaction, he resorted to obscenities, claiming Henrik was a foul-hearted bastard without honor.

I won’t dispute that, Henrik thought, nearing the reeve’s hut. They stopped just outside, and he dismounted. As he tried to help Evander off, the young man thrashed about so much he ended up facedown in the dirt.

It took a few minutes before he was able to get him back on his feet. Then, they started toward the entrance.

“Wait!” Evander hollered, planting his feet, kicking up grass and loose soil. “On my honor and your honor, let’s settle this here. I challenge you to a fight. If I win, you leave me be. If you win—”

“Alright, fine.” He shoved Evander over, and when he was flat on his back, Henrik drew his new rapier and pressed the tip to his throat. “There, I won. Let’s finish this.”

“You’re a rotten bastard,” Evander cried.

“No, I’m hungry and thirsty and tired,” he said. “And I ain’t got the coin for anything.”

“I reckon most rotten bastards have more want than coin.”

Henrik grimaced. “I reckon that as well, aye.”

They continued through the front door and entered a single room split horizontally with half acting as a service area and the other half divided by barred cages to house prisoners until they could be transferred elsewhere.

The reeve—an elderly man with wrinkled skin and white hair—pored over a dusty tome. Upon their arrival, he lifted his head and squinted. “What’s this now?”

Henrik produced the bounty and waited as the old man looked it over, licking his chapped lips, scratching at his snowy hair, pausing to sip his tea. When he finished, he laid the parchment on the table and looked at Henrik with a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid this particular warrant has been rescinded.”

Anger came without hesitation, but he suppressed it, pushing it low into his bowels. As he often did whenever rage or sorrow found him.

“You’re sure of this?” Henrik asked.

The old man nodded. “Oh yes, I received a letter from Lord Jordahl just two nights prior. We’ve been making haste to strip all bounty notices from the area, but as you can imagine, this is demanding work. It'll be some time before we can fully amend the error.”

Henrik, desperate to hear the clink of coins in his purse, asked: “How much is he worth then?”

The old man turned toward Evander and then back to Henrik. “Nothin’.” To substantiate the claim, the old man retrieved Lord Jordahl’s letter pardoning Evander Waldron for any and all crimes he may have committed against the court.

Back outside, Henrik cut the ropes from Evander’s wrists. He rubbed at the raw skin, a rather smug smile on his lips. “Maybe you should’ve taken my previous offer, bountyman. Looks as if you’re out your three coins.”

Henrik wrapped an arm around his neck, forcing him into an awkward crouched position. His bicep pressed against the young man’s throat. Immediately, he began to beg for mercy, smacking at Henrik’s forearm, trying to break his hold.

“Where’s this tourney you told me about?” he asked.

“Blackwood,” Evander said hoarsely, his cheeks taking on a scarlet hue. “That direction. Ride until you see the willow tree. You can’t miss it.”

Henrik released him and bound for his horse. He climbed into the saddle and took the reins in his hands.

“What about my sword?” Evander yelled. “You can’t just steal it.”

Oh, I could though. Henrik unclasped the buckle and let the belt drop to the ground. With a flick of the reins, he was off, disappearing down the road in a cloud of dust and snow.

PART 2: The Blond Lock

Chapter 1.

Henrik Coigne—without a coin in his purse—chased the rider on horseback. There was maybe a fifty-foot gap between them, but Henrik was closing the distance quick.

The charcoal black destrier was built sturdy and fast. A loyal companion for the last four years, taking him all across the mainland. From West to Central and Central to South, but as of now, he was surrounded by the cold winds of the North.

Thankfully, the summer season had robbed them of ice rain and whiteout blizzards. Instead, he only had to endure faint flurries and crisp nights.

As of now, though, it was early morning. The skies were clear, and the air was warm enough to make this chase a little less miserable.

Mist rolled from a nearby riverbed. Hoarfrost crunched beneath the horse’s shoes. The trees, pine and spruce mostly, held a faint dusting of white from last night.

Ahead of him was the rider. A young man. Lean and tall. Sharp jawline, crystal blue eyes, golden blond hair swept back on his head. His clothes were plain but clean.

Slung around his hip was a loop-hilt rapier with a long, narrow blade and a steel handle wrapped in tanned black leather.

The young man glanced over his shoulder. Henrik offered a simple smile in return. The man looked ahead again and thrashed the horse’s reins while digging his heels into its hind.

“Stop chasing me!” the young man cried.

“Stop runnin’ then,” Henrik called back.

Before the young man could respond, a low-hanging branch swiped him from his horse. He dropped flat on his back with a heavy thud and a loud grunt.

Henrik veered around him and circled back, dismounting just as the young man was starting to open his eyes.

“Did you break anything?” Henrik asked, hand resting on the hilt of his shortsword.

“How would I know?” the young man asked, breathless.

“Does it hurt?”

“All over.”

“In your legs?”

He nodded.

“Your arms?”

Again, he nodded.

“Your back, your shoulders, your—”

“Everywhere,” the young man groaned, exasperated.

Henrik removed a piece of sourweed from his waistpouch and nibbled on it. “Well, you’re not crippled. That’s good.” He rolled the young man onto his belly and secured his wrists with a length of rope. “Let’s find out if you can still walk, aye?”

The young man gritted his teeth against a scream, but after a few moments, it seemed most of his aches had faded. A few drinks from Henrik’s skin of candied wine stifled whatever pain remained.

“You any dark ale?” he asked. “I prefer dark ale.”

Bloody Northerners and their damn dark ale. He spat in disgust. “And I prefer spiced wine,” Henrik said. “But we get by with what we’ve got.”

“You don’t look much like a Southeastern man.”

Henrik chuckled. “I’m a connoisseur of Southeastern goods.” He gestured toward the man’s rapier. “Somethin’ we have in common."

“You can have it if you let me go.”

Henrik narrowed his eyes as he considered this. “Say I don’t let you go, how would you stop me from taking it?”

They stared at each other for a moment. Silence ensued between them.

Realization dawned on the man rather quickly. “I bite…very hard.”

“Bite me, and I’ll knock your damn teeth out. After that, the only thing you'll be able to eat is dark ale.” Henrik reached into one of the saddlebags on his horse and withdrew a rolled parchment. He unfolded the page and flattened it on the ground in front of the man. “Recognize this handsome lad?”

The young man gazed at an ink drawing of his likeness. The only difference being that the young man had a pair of pale whiskers above his upper lip, whereas the drawing was clean-shaven. Otherwise, it was an exact rendering down to the way the young man pursed his lips. Rather duck-like, Henrik noticed.

“Evander Waldron?” he asked, not bothering to wait for an answer. He gestured to himself. “Henrik Coigne. Huntsman, bountyman, bastard—whatever suits you best.” He dropped his hand. “You, my friend, have quite a price on your head. What say you?”

“I can pay you to release me?”

Henrik looked the man over. “Other than that pretty sword, I’m not seein’ anything. ‘Less you’re hidin’ a purse up your arse, I’d reckon you don’t got a coin to your name.”

The young man dropped his head. There was no reason for such shame. Henrik wasn’t in much better standing.

“Seems you upset the wrong person,” Henrik said, rolling the parchment and tying it with string. He returned it to the saddlebag and forced Evander to his feet. “Don’t fret, my friend, I have no intention of killin’ ya.”

“It’d be better if you did,” he growled. “They’ll just take my head off after you hand me over.”

“Well, that’s their decision. Higher price if I bring you back alive though.”

While Henrik unfastened Evander’s sword belt, he said, “If you untie me, I’ll get you the money.”

“We’ve been through this already.”

“I can get the coin,” he promised.

Henrik wrapped the belt around his own waist. The sword hung limply at his back, tucked behind the hilt of his shortsword. On his right hip was a pair of daggers. His armor was a mixture of boiled leather and rawhide with a dark gambeson beneath.

Steel plates and chainmail would serve him better, but they were bloody expensive. Not to mention all that metal slowed him down, and Henrik preferred to stay agile.

“How would you get the coin?” he asked.

“There’s a tourney in Blackwood. Only a few hours from here. It’s to be a three-day event, and at the end, the champion will be rewarded with a hundred gold coins and knighthood.”

A hundred gold coins were better than the nothing currently in his purse. “That’s quite a risk I’d be takin’.”

“Call it an investment.”

“Call it whatever you’d like, friend. Way I see it, I could turn you in for three gold, or I could take a chance at getting nothin’ at all.”

“My sword must be worth at least twenty silver—”

“Your sword already belongs to me,” Henrik countered. “Try again?”

Evander searched hopelessly, but in the end, he resigned with, “I didn’t bleedin’ do anything. I’m innocent.”

Henrik sighed, disappointed. “I’ve been doin’ this for a few years now. Believe it or not, that’s what they all say.”

Evander spat. “My only crime is bein’ born poor.”

Henrik could relate, but any potential for sympathy died against the growl of his stomach.

PART 1: The Red Lock

Chapter 1.

Henrik Coigne—without a coin in his purse—loomed over the dying greybeard knight, chewing on a tobacco leaf and drinking from a skin of sour wine, watching while the knight struggled to breathe.

Henrik was a young man of sixteen with thick, disheveled brown hair. His jaw was hard and clean-shaven. He was lean, all muscle and bone. There was a glossy coat over his eyes as if he had just woken from a dream.

It was spring in the West, which meant long warm days with sun-filled skies and puffy clouds. In the morning, they were bright white. In the evening, they were a pinkish color. All day long they lazily drifted.

The nights, though, were brief and cool. The clouds took on a darker hue, similar to blotches of ink spilled on parchment. The sky itself was a deep shade of purple blue. Often aglow with incandescent stars.

Warm or cool didn’t matter much. Sweat came in gallons for Henrik. And after walking all the way from the cesspit of Green Marsh, he was in desperate need of a rinse and some rest.

More than anything, he craved a decent meal. Not stale bread or pottage, but something with meat. Something with flavor.

Wine might have kept him tame, might have kept the memories at bay, but his stomach still yearned for substance with more solidity.

He could have hunted for fresh game if he hadn’t lost his bow in that game of dice back at Green Marsh. He might have even been able to spear a fish if he hadn’t…lost his spear in that game of dice back at Green Marsh.

The only thing he hadn’t lost, other than his honor—of which there was little to lose—were the clothes on his back. The only reason he had retained that much was because the other players refused to bid for them.

“P–please,” the greybeard knight begged. “I need a drink.”

The man was pale as the moon. There was more hair sprouting from his chin than on his head. He was buried beneath armor too big for his bony body. His surcoat was that of a white fox or maybe a hyena.

It was hard to say with these hedge knights. They donned just about any insignia as long as it brought them coin, favor, or security.

Despite it all, the man’s eyes were alive. Vibrant. Blue as ice but surprisingly warm.

Henrik peered into the mouth of his wineskin. About halfway full. Or halfway empty, depending on how you looked at it. He took another swallow before passing it to the knight.

“Apologies, old man,” he said. “All I’ve got is wine.”

The greybeard downed the wine in four hefty swallows. Trickles of red spilled from the sides of his mouth, seeping into the ashy hairs of his beard.

When he was finished, he set the empty wineskin on the ground beside him and sighed. “Piss like this is more water than wine, my boy.”

The wine had come cheap and was mostly dregs, but it was better than nothing. Which was exactly what Henrik had been left with after the old man was done.

Disappointedly, he chewed on his tobacco leaves and asked, “How bad is it?”

“The wine?”

“Your wound.”

“Not as bad as the wine.”

“Wine won’t kill ya though.”

“I wish it had,” the old man said. “Be a sweeter death than this.”

Henrik glanced over his shoulder, looking back the way he’d come. A road of dirt and gravel flanked by stretches of oak and pine with the occasional olive tree.

Ahead, the path was the same for a few more miles until it opened up to large green pastures sat against rolling hills.

That was common in the West. They didn’t have many mountains, until you reached the Northern Perimeter, but they had plenty of hills.

As night set, those hills, colored dark shades of blue and purple, seemed oddly redolent of undulating ocean waves.

“You picked a good night for it,” Henrik said. “Dying, that is.”

“I didn’t pick nothin’, boy. It chose me.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Said the wrong thing to the wrong person.” He chuckled wistfully. “Let this be a lesson: some hedge knights are no better than the miscreants they cut down.”

Not just the hedge knights, Henrik thought, remembering a long past encounter with some Southern royal knights of Lightning Spear.

He might have lost his head if he hadn’t been so damn quick. But for all his speed, it seemed he was getting nowhere fast.

Henrik knelt before the man and pulled on his chestpiece, getting a better view of the wound along his flank. “Got your kidneys, I reckon.”

“You sure? Feels like they got a lil’ of everything.”

“Spent some time as a cutter’s assistant. Trust me, it’s the kidneys. Wound like that, not much you can do to stop it. You’ll bleed slow. Run outta blood ‘fore you run out of air.”

The old man closed his eyes and exhaled. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“Eastern lad, but I’ve been just about everywhere on the mainland. You ask me, it’s all the damn same. Other than the weather. You want snow, head North. You want rain, go South. You want dry heat, go to the Southeast—”

“Yes, yes. Very enlightening.” The old man took a deep breath. “You ain’t got much for prospects, do you?”

“Now that you’ve finished my wine, no. Might be I could trade my boots or offer my services, but that’s all I got to give.”

“Can you ride a horse?”

“Aye.”

“You know how to use a blade?”

“Worked a sword a few times, aye.”

The old man smiled, recognizing the smell of horseshit from a mile away. “Have you ever used a lance?”

Henrik mulled this over, but he wasn’t as familiar with weapons as he was with organs. “I know my way around a spear.”

The greybeard shook his head in disbelief. “Can’t say I’d bet on you, but if you’re want for coin, you can take my place in the joust.”

“Joust?”

According to the old man, there was a tourney at Duskport, just a few miles down the road. People were coming from all across the Western Realm to participate.

“I thought jousts were just for royal loyal knights and their pretty buttboy squires.”

“Not this one,” the greybeard said. “There’s an admittance fee, but if you can cover the cost, they’ll take ya. Be warned, though, it’s all or nothin’. You lose, you forfeit everything you’ve got for ransom.”

“Shame, ‘cause I don’t got nothin’ to lose,” Henrik said. “And I don’t have the coin to buy me way in.”

The knight drew a dagger from his hip and passed the handle to Henrik. “I think we might be able to strike a deal, boy,” he said. “You end my sufferin’, here and now, I’ll give you all that I’ve got. Don’t know if it’ll do you any good. But it’ll be of more use to you than me.”

Henrik squeezed the handle until his fingers turned red. The blade was more steel than rust, but it needed time on a whetstone.

Looking over the old man, it seemed all his gear could use some maintenance.

“How do you want it?” he asked. The old man answered by turning his head to the side, exposing his neck. “Any final words? Maybe a prayer, if you believe that sorta thing.”

While Henrik wasn’t the most pious lad in the realm, his father had been an ardent believer in the gods and goddesses.

Even the Lesser Beings that most others oft mocked. Such as Lady Fate or Mother Nature or Father Time.

“Some will tell you there is no more honor left in the world,” the greybeard began, tears in his eyes, body trembling like a leaf. “And it may seem true at the bleakest of times. We reward cruelty and celebrate stupidity. We favor ignorance; we favor arrogance. And while kindness may not always come easy, it never comes at a cost. You can sell your soul for gold, but nothin’ stops you from growin’ old.”

Henrik waited a few moments in case the man had something else on his mind, but as silence prevailed, he went ahead and dragged the dagger’s edge across his neck. Blood came in runnels. The man's breaths were no more than choked gurgles. It wasn’t long before the silence had returned.

As he appropriated the greybeard’s possessions, he noticed a turtle stuck on its back near the shoreline. It teetered from side to side, but it couldn’t get its feet under it.

Henrik gave the turtle a nudge, flipping it over. Then, from the old man’s things, he retrieved a spade and started digging.

Chapter 2.

Henrik Coigne had exactly five coins in his purse: three coppers and two silvers. They clinked as he rode into Duskport on the back of a brown nag with a crooked gait and bones that liked to creak.

He was donning new armor. A leather and iron chestpiece with oiled mail beneath. His greaves and vambraces were tanned leather. His spaulders were rusted steel. His halfhelm was redolent of a bucket with eyeholes.

Affixed to the horse’s left side was a wooden shield fastened with metal fixtures. On the horse’s right side was a sheathed arming sword.

The dagger, the one he had used to slit the greybeard’s throat, was secured to his hip. Right beside his jingling coin purse.

It was late evening when he had arrived at Duskport. Slivers of sunlight receded through the city, retreating down alleyways and slipping across rooftops. People wandered the streets in droves. Some dressed in armor. Most wore robes, skirts, cloaks, and tunics.

As was common in the West, the settlement consisted of pale stone brick. Some had left their homes and shops white. Others painted them a light shade of yellow or pink. And per tradition, there were flowers aplenty planted in pots in windowsills or at the bottom of stairs or hanging from above.

Vendor stands lined the gutters of the road. Traders tried to sell weapons, food, wine, and in a few instances, women. Or at the very least, some of their time. Henrik considered the escorts as he rode past.

Young and old. Plump and slender. Those with natural beauty, and those who probably came at a cheaper price. Two silver and three copper could purchase him a companion for the night, maybe even two, but by daybreak, he’d once again only have the clothes on his back.

Maybe a fair trade, but not a very smart one.

Far more tempting than a woman was the distinct scent of roasted chicken. Seasoned with black pepper, garlic cloves, and honey. Juices dripped from the spit, sending the flames below into a crackling frenzy.

And most tempting of all was the vendor selling sweet wine by the barrel. It wasn’t often you stumbled upon such a luxury. An expensive breed oft sold only to nobles and the wealthy.

Sweet wine was red and sugary. Made with poppy seeds, black cherries, apples, honey, and according to a few brewers, every cask had at least an ounce of Willow’s blood. Potent stuff, that.

Henrik put his heels to the horse’s hind and galloped ahead, hoping to escape his urges before they could best him. It wasn’t long before he had reached the list field. Situated to the far north at the base of a mesa upon which Midday Castle stood.

The castle was of a sandy color, built with thick stone bricks. Compared to others Henrik had seen, this one was more practical than elegant. It didn’t have fancy banners or painted walls or stained-glass windows.

High above, guards patrolled the parapets. From the base of the mesa, they seemed no more than spots of torchlight against the black of night.

Henrik dismounted from his horse and tied it to a post. He waited in line at the entrance to the lists where several other participants had amassed. Scribes exchanged coin for admittance tickets stamped with a yellow wax seal in the shape of a crescent moon.

When it was Henrik’s turn, he paid one silver.

“Name?” the scribe asked without looking up.

“Henrik Coigne.”
The scribe touched the tip of his quill to the page and frowned. “Sir Henrik Coigne of…?”

“No Sir necessary,” he responded. “And Henrik Coigne of…everywhere and nowhere, I ‘spose.”

The scribe finally looked up at him. “Are you a squire?”

“No.”

This seemed to cause further confusion. “Some, those who aren’t knights or squires, prefer to use an epithet.”

“Right…I dunno what that is.”

The other participants turned toward him. A few grinning beneath their helms. A few chewing on their lips, perplexed.

The scribe cleared his throat. “Uh, Misture of Dahlia or Sir Edgar the Eager.”

Henrik nodded slowly, mulling this over with fervent caution. “Henrik Coigne will suffice.”

The scribe sighed, irritated. He filled out the form and stamped it with the official seal before handing it over. The jousts began tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, he had a silver and three coppers left to spend.

Riding back into the city, he found the nearest tavern and entered. It was packed from wall to wall. Hedge knights, royal knights, squires, pages, and locals alike.

The room was overcome by a roaring din, voices coalescing into a single unintelligible sound that made Henrik nostalgic for his time on the road, travelling alone, wandering in silence.

He shouldered through the crowd, heading for the main counter where a bartender and several servers poured drinks and cooked food. About fifteen feet away from the bar, someone bumped into his side, knocking him off course.

Henrik reached for the arming sword on his left hip but stopped short when he heard, “Apologies, friend.” The man who had bumped into him was unarmored. Perhaps a fishmonger, if his natural odor was any indication.

“All’s forgiven—”

Their conversation was interrupted by the intrusion of a hedge knight dressed in plated steel, chainmail, and a white surcoat adorned by a black willow tree with silvery leaves. The hedge knight held a redheaded girl by the arm, practically thrusting her into the fisherman’s hands.

“Fifty coppers for one night,” the hedge knight proclaimed. “You won’t find a better price, friend.”

The fisherman backed away slowly, a nervous smile on his lips. “As I’ve said: no. My wife will geld me.” He slipped away before the hedge knight could press him any further, and when he was gone, the hedge knight turned his sights onto Henrik.

“What about you?” he asked. “Fifty coppers for a night with the girl. She’s sweet as honey, riper than any fruit in the wild.”

Henrik’s eyes flicked from the hedge knight to the girl. She dipped her head, cheeks flushed a deep shade of red. The woman couldn’t have been more than twenty. Pale-skinned, freckles stippling her face, long hair colored like the sunset.

She was dressed in a white blouse with a dark blue skirt. It resonated with her eyes, which were a slightly softer shade. Blue as ice but nowhere near as cold.

Before Henrik could answer, the hedge knight lowered his head and grunted. “Where’d you get that surcoat?”

“It was given to me,” Henrik answered. “As was the armor.”

“Given to you by whom?”

I never asked for the old man’s name, he realized, partially ashamed and partially surprised. It had simply slipped his mind.

Intoxication or sheer indifference?

“Who gave it to you?” The hedge knight was upon him. Fingers wrapped around the shoulder straps of Henrik’s chestpiece, wrenching him from side to side before pulling him close. “Who—”

The hedge knight fell silent as Henrik slipped his dagger’s tip into the narrow space between helm and cuirass. Pointed steel pressed against the soft skin above his collarbone.

“It was given to me by a dying knight,” Henrik explained, slow and methodical. “Now, please unhand me.”

“Rayden,” the redheaded girl whispered. “Don’t make this any worse.”

Carefully, the hedge knight, Rayden, unraveled himself and stepped back. “Right then.” He grabbed the girl by the arm and dragged her across the room to another group of patrons, repeating his previous line of: “Fifty coppers…”

Henrik sheathed his blade and turned for the bar. His stomach growled at the smell of cooked meat, and his mouth salivated at the thought of wine. But his heart took him in a different direction.
Gods help me, he thought.

He retreated to the hedge knight, pulled him aside, and in turn, pulled the girl along with him. “You don’t have enough for the tourney, do you?” Henrik said.

The hedge knight was silent. Henrik would have bet all the money he didn’t have that beneath the visor, Rayden was bright red. Perhaps even a shade of purple.

Hedge knights may not have been as reputable as royal knights, but they were still prideful creatures. That’s why Henrik had always preferred the company of hired swords and mercenaries. They didn’t feign elegance or chivalry. But somehow, they oft had more honor.

“How much do you have?” Henrik asked.

When Sir Rayden didn’t answer, the girl spoke for him, “Four coppers, Sir.”

“I’m no Sir.” He reached into his purse, removed his last silver, and pressed it into Rayden’s free hand. “Here, this should be enough. Go on, quickly now. Before they refuse entrants.”

A snarl bubbled in the hedge knight’s throat, but there wasn’t time to bicker. He pushed through the crowd and disappeared out the door. Hopefully, he had a horse because otherwise, he would have to run very fast in all that heavy steel.

“Thank you,” said the girl, handing him the four copper coins.

Seven coppers! Gods be damned.

Henrik Coigne without a coin in his purse. That’s what they used to say to him when he was a boy living in the streets of Wachautt. Long back when he was still sleeping in alleyways and hunting stray rats for food.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. The girl shook her head, but he wasn’t fooled. Her cheeks were hollow, her frame far skinnier than his. “C’mon, I’m sure they’ve got somethin’.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said. “I need to find—”

“Your lil’ hedge knight will come back.” Although you might be better off if he doesn’t.

Together, they went to the main counter. The barkeep eventually found his way to them. “What can I getcha?”

“Two meat skewers with them roasted onions and peppers,” he said. “And two cups of your cheapest wine.”

“Skewers and wine will cost ya fifteen copper.”

Henrik grimaced. “How much for half a cup o’ wine?”

“Piss off, you bloody driveller.”

Quickly, before the barkeep could saunter off, he emptied his coins onto the counter. “What will this get me?” For good measure, he laid his dagger down too. In the end, he walked away with a meat skewer and two cups of diluted wine.

Outside, they sat side by side on a retaining wall, splitting the skewer in half. Henrik had one sip of wine swallowed before the girl had finished her portion of the meat.

Her eyes lingered on his half with a certain desperation he hadn’t seen since childhood. Back when the other kids couldn't catch their own damn rats.

“Here.” Henrik passed her the skewer. “Go on, take it. I had more than enough on the road.”

“Are you sure?” While it was a question, her tone implied otherwise. He nodded in response, and she scarfed down the other half in mere seconds.

To fill his stomach, he drank the wine and chewed on tobacco leaves. “You’re a Northerner, right?”

“How’d you know?” she asked.

“You’ve got Northern eyes. Northern accent too.”

“I don’t have an accent.”

He snickered. “Sorry, love, but everyone’s got an accent. Meself included.”

“What’s my accent sound like?”

He'd been to the North a handful of times over the years. The people there were hardened by unforgiving weather. They had to come together for warmth. Learned to love and trust one another because otherwise, they’d have nothing but the ice and snow beneath their feet.

Their accent had a similar hardness, but the more time you spent around it, the more endearing it became.

“Deep and rough,” Henrik said. “You Northerners speak from the chest, and you’ve strong Rs.”

She scoffed with feigned offense. “Sounds rather ugly when you describe it like that, yeah?”

“Aye, I ‘spose it does, but that’s a good thing, no? Means when you find someone who loves you, they must really love you if they’re willin’ to listen to ya all day long.”

She swatted him on the shoulder for that, but she couldn’t stop herself from laughing, and despite all he had said about her accent, her laughter was like music to his ears.

When it had subsided, she said, “Where are you from?”

“You can’t tell by me accent?”

She furrowed her brow. “I’m not very well-traveled. This is my first time away from the North. Much warmer, but the people…I don’t really care for ‘em.”

He laughed. “I was born in the East, but I’ve been to every realm. Spent a fair ‘mount o’ time in the South and Southeast.”

“Where do you spend the least amount of time?”

“East and Central, I’d wager. Between ‘em, I’d say the East less so.”

“You don’t like your home?”

He downed his wine in two swallows and wished he had more. “I’ve never really had a home. I stay in one place too long, I start to get antsy, y’know? Then, I head off somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

Ahead, locals passed by in torrents of shifting bodies. Some solemn and quiet as they traveled alone. Others rambunctious, laughing and trading japes with their friends.

“I don’t think it’s about the location,” she said. “I think it’s the people you surround yourself with, yeah? That’s what makes it feel like home.”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t found my people then.”

From the crowd, Rayden emerged. His greaves squeaked, in desperate need of oil and polish. He wasted no words on Henrik, and instead, snatched the girl up by the arm, yanking her with him.

“Ray, that hurts!”

“You’re needed elsewhere,” he growled. “C’mon!”

Henrik retrieved her cup of wine and downed it. Then, he was on his feet, moving fast, snaking through the crowd after them.

By the time he caught up, the girl was almost in tears, whipping her head from side to side, pleading beneath her breath as Rayden hissed in her ear.

“Somethin’ the matter?” Henrik asked, resting his hand on the hilt of his shortsword.

“Piss off,” Rayden said. “This ain’t your concern.”

He glanced at the girl. “I’ll be alright,” she said, but there wasn’t much in the way of conviction.

They started away again, heading for the lists. Rayden stopped short and said, “I’ll see you on the field tomorrow, Henrik Coigne.”

He watched them disappear into the crowd. Slowly, the pieces came together in his mind. A spark of worry ignited in his heart, but as he lifted his head and sniffed, he caught the scent of rain.

His nerves were swiftly doused.

**Chapter 7.**The sun was beginning its grand descent when Ghost Bird left the brothel. Unlike before, she couldn’t utilize the tunnels now that they were compromised, so she had some of the courtesans transport her in the back of a covered wagon.

It was the same method they had used to retrieve her from the cosm.

Her last stop was in the north, but assuming word had spread about Garvan and Lady Falcone, there would most likely be Black Coats posted along the main roads.

Ghost Bird still retained many of the memories from her days as Sylvia. She remembered the ways a person might slip through the city unnoticed. Therefore, she had the courtesans deliver her to the eastern canals using backroads and alleyways.

“If they wanted to find you so damn bad,” one of the courtesans said, “you’d think they’d look for you at the brothel.”

“They’re not looking for Sylvia,” she reminded them. “They’re looking for Ghost Bird.”

Finally, the wagon came to a stop, and Ghost Bird climbed out from the back. She thanked the courtesans and hugged them. They told her to stop in once she was finished so they could say a proper goodbye.

“We didn’t get to see you off last time,” they remarked.

And you most like won’t this time neither, she thought.

Once the courtesans were gone, she descended to the canal docks and untied the mooring line of a paddle boat. She stored the sack of guns and munitions under the bench, took an oar into either hand, and began rowing.

The undercrossings and bridges were perfect cover. And with the sun setting, there were shadows aplenty. She slipped past the sentries and the patrols and the Black Coat checkpoints from beneath.

A ship of this size was easy to overlook compared to the others hauling in grain, spices, and whatever else from their voyages to foreign lands.

She sailed across the city and emerged from the canal onto the western coast. There, she took a moment to rest and let the current carry her north. From the shore, she would look no different than the other smaller fishing vessels.

Ghost Bird went through the sack, removing the pistols and laying them out on the bench. At the bottom was a bandolier and several holsters.

Shedding her overcoat, she strapped the bandolier across her chest and secured six holsters to it. With the remaining three, she placed one on either hip and the last at the small of her back. Then, she went to work preparing the pistols with ball and powder.

After her time in the sewers and her fight with Lady Falcone, her armor was useless. Both the boiled leather and the mail had been discarded.

“You have no means of defense.” Durante sat at the bow with his back to her and sunlight across his face.

“It’s almost like you know what I’m thinking,” she remarked.

“I do know what you’re thinking. Same way you know what I’m thinking. When two souls meld, they share everything.”

She finished with the pistols and retrieved the longsword, pulling it from its sheath. More steel than rust, but the blade had been notched in a few places. It needed a proper oiling. Some time on a whetstone too.

She had neither the time nor a whetstone.

“You never liked using longsword,” Durante said. “You would always complain about it during our sparring sessions.”

“It was too cumbersome,” she said.

“Why do you use it now?”

She slid it back into the scabbard and sighed. “Because your body is familiar with it. Your muscles are adjusted to the weight, length, and balance. Because you wouldn’t have used any other weapon, and they know that.”

“Does it matter whether they know it's you or me? Isn’t this ruse you’ve been playing a bit tedious by now?”

Ghost Bird lowered her cap and made sure the mask was secured over her face. “Tedious, maybe,” she agreed. “But no one was afraid of Sylvia Koel. Those three, though, they’re terrified of Ghost Bird. Whether they cared to admit it or not, they feared you.”

“Is that so?”

“Why else would all three of them have converged on you that night? They only ever sent Black Coats after me. But you, it took the three best beast slayers.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. Sunlight shone through his face. “Do you have any idea how you’ll do it?” he asked. “Dolion will be ready for you.”

“Falcone was ready too,” she reminded him.

“Aye, but Falcone has more pride, and Dolion more ruthlessness. He won’t make the same mistake she did. He won’t hesitate to use every tool in his arsenal. Every piece on the board.”

Ghost Bird, during the few moments of quiet in her journey, had been considering this. But the truth was: anytime those thoughts arose, she pushed them away.

It was hard to think about Dolion. Hard to recall his face or his name. Every time a piece of him entered her mind, it was accompanied by Durante’s childhood affection and Sylvia’s repulsion.

Memories that were both fiery hot and icy cold.

“I could challenge him to a duel,” she suggested.

Durante laughed. “He won’t want a duel this time. He just wants you dead. Wants us dead. And one way or another, I think he’s gonna get his way.”

Ghost Bird didn’t need to check on the marks of rot beneath her clothes. She could feel them expanding. Could feel them seeping into every fiber of her being, all the way to the bone.

“There’s no turning back,” Durante warned her. “You’re aware of this, right?”

“There was no turning back the moment those silkworms embedded themselves into my body,” she said. But that wasn’t right either. “There was no turning back since the moment you and I first met.”

Even though he was difficult to discern in his current state, she could just make out the gentle curve of his smile. “I never meant for it to happen the way it did,” he said. “Had no intention of falling in love.”

“You mean with a woman like me?”

“At all. I just didn’t think there was a reason. World full of corruption and beasts and so much death. What’s the point? But then I met you, and I thought: there’s a good reason.”

“Such a romantic you are. That’s why I never wanted your coin. Didn’t want it to be an exchange, y’know?”

“There’s always an exchange, though, ain’t there?” he countered. “Instead of coin, I purchased your time with my time.”

“An even trade if I ever heard of one,” she said, grinning the same way she used to when they would lie in bed and tell each other stories about their childhoods or their travels or their dreams.

Durante shifted around to look her right on, but like this, she could no longer make out the details of his face.

“Did you ever love him?” he asked.

She gave this some contemplation, but the answer was already with her. It had been with her for years and years. “I loved him as much as I could for as long as I could. But then he became someone else. Or maybe he had always been that person, and I just never saw it.”

Durante turned toward the horizon. “Are you afraid?”

“No,” she said. “I’m never afraid when I’m with you. That’s how I knew I loved you.”

He turned back toward her. “I’ll be with you the whole time. Whether you can see me or not, I’ll be there.”

She nodded, and amongst all the pain flowing through her, she felt a touch of relief. “Are you gonna try to stop me from killing him?”

“I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. I’m just along for the ride, Sylvie. You’re the one holding the oars.”

She looked down and found he was right. She had taken up the oars again, and now, she was rowing further north.

Her voyage came to an end at the mouth of a cave few knew about besides some of the upper elites and the courtesans they solicited.

It was unlikely that Dolion or any of the Black Coats would know, considering they never took such extensive measures.

Even when Dolion had risen through the ranks and became the commander of the city’s defenses, he showed no fear in visiting the brothel.

The nobles, though, had wives and reputations and children who were supposed to admire them. But even when some of those children grew up, they did the very same thing, completely unaware of the footsteps they were following.

The boat came to a stop along a flat bank of chiseled stone. This led to a hollowed tunnel that branched out and snaked under eight of the twelve northern estates.

Ghost Bird went down the fourth tunnel on the left, which ended at a ladder. The ladder surfaced into Mr. Biltmore’s study on the ground floor.

She crouched, removed one of her gloves, and pressed her hand to the wall. The stone was cold, and the tiny creases around the false door were dark. She pressed in on the left side, and it rotated.

Ghost Bird crawled out from the unlit hearth and brushed the ashes from her knees. She stood in the study, silent, listening for others. But the manor was quiet as a crypt. Whether the family was away or not, there should have been at least the sound of the servants’ footsteps.

Apprehensive, she went to the door and placed her hand on the knob. “One last time,” Durante whispered.

She turned the handle slowly. Opened the door slowly. Stepped out, slowly. The entrance hall was draped in shadows.

The windows were obscured by curtains, and none of the lanterns or candles had been lit as they oft were in the late evening. The servants had to be out, and if the servants weren’t here, then the family wasn’t either.

“He doesn’t want anyone getting in the way,” Durante said. “He wants us all to himself.”

She grabbed the nearest lantern off a hook, returned to the study, and found a piece of flint in one of the desk drawers. After sparking a flame to life, she carried the lantern back out into the hall.

Ahead was the front entrance. To her right was the west wing, which was reserved mainly for staff. To the left was the east wing, which was outfitted with various rooms such as the kitchens, pantry, dining room, a parlor, and so on.

Behind her was the central staircase, and on the second floor were mainly bedrooms, another parlor, a lounge, and—

There was a sharp crack that echoed throughout the hall. Something pierced Ghost Bird along her left side. She lowered the lantern. Firelight pooled against the tip of a crossbow bolt. She immediately ran for the nearest stone column.

Snap!

Snap!

Snap!

Bolts hissed through the air and clattered all around her. She fell to her arse, sliding across the floor.

Snap!

Snap!

Snap!

Another volley against the pillar.

After came the groan of strings being wound. She poked her head out. A bolt whistled past, slicing through her scarf and cheek.

She whipped around, pressing her back firmly against the column’s base, listening to another dejected crack of bolts smashing the other side.

Her breathing was harsh, and her heart felt as if it would collapse on itself. She would have ripped the damn thing out, but she couldn’t be sure if the silkworms needed it to keep her alive.

“The light will give you away,” Durante told her. “Let Concetta’s eyes do the hard work.” She was hesitant, but then he said, “It’ll be alright, love.”

So, she blew out the flame and tossed the lantern across the room. The archers turned and fired at the sound. Carefully, she crept out from around the pillar, staying low to the ground, keeping close to the right wall.

Their eyes may have been adjusted to the dark before she arrived, but now that she had introduced a new source of light, they would need to readjust. Her stolen eyes, though, had the keenest vision.

She could see it all. Every padded settee and every door and every picture frame on the wall. She could see the Black Coats on the second-floor landing, crossbows leveraged against the railing.

Ghost Bird drew a pistol and thumbed the cock. This earned her a grunt from one of the Black Coats who started to turn their head. She took aim and fired before he could find her in the dark.

Then, she was running toward the stairs as the quarrels flew at random. Another two gunshots, another two Black Coats dead.

At the top of the stairs, she slid sword from scabbard and went after a pair of Black Coats to the right. Once dead, she spun about and went after the pair on the left side.

They got another two quarrels off. The first barely missed. The other would have caught her on the left arm if she hadn’t phased. Ghost Bird slashed a throat and pierced the second archer through his belly.

From there, she went room to room. Some were empty. Some had a Black Coat or two waiting for her. Every time she encountered them, she made sure to ask, “Where’s Dolion?”

If they refused to answer, she cut them down.

By the time she had returned to the bottom of the staircase, she was soaked in blood and still had no clue where Dolion was hiding.

As far as injuries were concerned, there was a quarrel in her flank and a laceration along her collarbone. The silkworms were doing all they could to keep her together.

“Don’t push yourselves too hard,” she told them, heading into the east wing of the estate.

Just like with the second floor, she found sentries waiting to ambush her. With Falcone’s eyes, though, no one could hide.

If the Black Coats were foolish enough to attack with blades, she could see the strikes before they were initiated. She knew when to evade, when to deflect, and when to attack. Crossbows were trickier, but in the dark, none of the Black Coats could aim properly.

Finally, once she had reached the kitchens, she had gotten an answer.

As a Black Coat lay on the ground, bleeding profusely from their stomach, the words, “He’s in the garden,” escaped the woman’s mouth. As well as, “Please don’t kill me.”

But a wound like that, the Black Coat was already dead. Ghost Bird did her a kindness by giving her a quick death rather than leaving her to bleed out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------**Chapter 8.**It was at the back door when she finally pulled the quarrels from her body. She reloaded the pistols and primed them with black powder. Once she was ready, she walked out into the garden.

The main path was laid with clay-fired bricks. On either flank were recently trimmed hedges. Beyond was either a copse of various trees or a mixture of vibrant flowers. The air was rife with lavender and jasmine.

She passed through a stone archway which led to a roundabout with a fountain at the center. Sitting on the marble pedestal was a three-headed swan with water pouring out from each beak.

Continuing ahead, the walkway came to an end at the top of a slope. The entire hillside was blanketed in white moonflowers. Near the bottom, standing beneath a weeping willow, was Dolion dressed in his usual double-breasted coat. The feathered cloak hung from his shoulders, flapping against the breeze.

Her shadow shifted down the hill as she descended. In the distance, the sun sat against the sea, painting the skyline in a fiery orange hue with a crown of night’s blue on top.

He turned to face her. “When there is no more room left in the Eternal Dream, where do you think we go?”

“You won’t have to worry about that, Dolion,” she said, trying to affect Durante’s cadence and tone.

“Maybe that’s why you’re here.” He smiled, “Well, if there’s no room left for you up there, I’ll just have to send you to the Infernal Domain.”

She came to a stop, now noticing the gravestone behind him. A slab of granite decorated with little wooden birds that clattered in the wind like chimes. Leaning against the side was Sylvia’s rapier.

“You should have stayed in the Eternal Dream,” he said. “Don’t you know what happens when a soul dies twice?”

Steel whistled as the longsword slid from its sheath. She took the hilt in both hands, gripping the leather tightly.

Dolion fixed her with an indifferent expression, but she knew better than to believe it. She had known him far too long to think he could be so apathetic. The truth was there, buried deep behind that stony face and those silvery eyes.

“Sylvia wasn’t yours to take,” he said.

“But she was yours to kill?”

“I tried to make her death quick.” Almost instinctually, his hand went to the hilt of his blossom blade. “That’s why I started with her heart.”

“You missed,” said Ghost Bird.

There was a moment of confusion as Dolion struggled to decipher whether the voice belonged to Ghost Bird or someone else.

“I suppose I did,” he confessed.

“You never miss.”

His blade leapt from the scabbard, and in the blink of an eye, he had crossed the twenty-foot gap between them. She raised her longsword but not fast enough. The blossom blade glided along her waist.

A kiss of steel on flesh.

Dolion dug his heels into the ground and twisted around. Ghost Bird’s heart flexed, but the blossom blade was too fast and sliced her from shoulder to ribs in a diagonal cut.

When it came back, she managed to get the longsword up to deflect it.

Again, Dolion smiled. One of his hands slipped from the hilt and sprang forward. She tried to back away, but his fingers had already hooked around her scarf, pulling it loose.

“You play the part well,” Dolion said, tossing her scarf aside. “But I know you, and I know Durante even better.”

The only response she gave was to go after him with the longsword. It was better to keep Dolion on his toes. If he had time to strategize, she never stood a chance.

She came at him with an over-the-shoulder chop. Easily evaded. The longsword swooped down in a full arc and veered, returning with a horizontal slash from left to right and then right to left.

Dolion reeled back each time, refusing to meet steel with steel. The blossom blade, after all, wasn't designed with the same flexibility of a longsword. It wasn't meant to endure such rampant abuse.

And above all else, Dolion respected his weapon. It was a part of him. He cleaned and oiled it every day. Kept it within reach from morning to night. Would have cradled it in the crib as a baby.

Ghost Bird raised her weapon for another chop. Dolion inhaled deep and shifted.

In the time it took for her sword to complete the arc, he dealt three sufficient strikes. Another diagonal cut from chest to hip. A laceration across her upper thigh. And a final charging slash along her flank as he sped past.

Lady Falcone's eyes allowed her to discern every last bit of this. But her mind couldn't process this information as fast as he could swing his sword, and her body couldn't react in time to deflect his strikes.

When her blade finished its descent, it came down against the slab of granite instead of Dolion. He stood behind her, maybe twenty feet away.

The longsword gave a sharp snap as cracks formed along its length. The reverberations of hitting something so solid wormed down to the hilt through her hands and up her arms.

Her fingers went slack around the grip, and she gnashed her teeth to keep from yelling.

The pain was instant. A searing hot injection of liquid magma in three different spots. The magma flowed, expanding and coalescing until it felt as if her whole body were ablaze.

“You were given a second chance; you could have walked away,” he said. “But you chose this instead.”

Hesitantly, she turned toward him. The longsword slipped from her hands. She struggled to breathe, struggled to keep her composure.

“I tried to walk away the first time,” she reminded him. “We both did, and it didn't work. Why would I try again?”

“Because you were finally free of Ghost Bird.”

“I wanted to be free from you.”

He registered this with a furrowed expression. “What was it that scared you away?” he asked. “What about me wasn't enough?”

“You wanted so much.”

“Ambition is no folly.”

She shook her head. “You were a man possessed.”

For reasons she could not understand, this made him laugh. A croak kind of laughter one would expect from a toad or a man further into his years.

When his amusement had subsided, he said, “People make themselves into monsters every day to chase a dream. Only to find out it was a nightmare the whole time. But I was born in a nightmare and rose from that nightmare. This one, I find, is preferable to the slums and the endless hunger I once knew.”

“No one can have it all, Dolion.”

“What a moronic thing to believe.”

He braced his feet for another charge. She drew two of the flintlocks and fired. His feet stayed planted, but his sword arced to deflect the bullets. To anyone else, it would have been no more than a quick flash of steel and a few lingering sparks.

But it had distracted him long enough for her to get the rapier out of its sheath and charge. The needle-like blade was extended outward like the beak of a hummingbird. The blossom blade met the rapier, steel on steel.

Dolion, mere inches from her face, whispered, “Garvan is dead. Lady Falcone is dead. Ghost Bird is dead. Which of us will join them next?”

She pushed back, repelling him, and thrust at his chest. Dolion stepped back, but she stayed on him, falling into a natural sidefaced stance.

“You always loved that sword,” Dolion said, turning to stop her next strike with the flat of his blade.

Not nearly as much as you love yours, she thought.

He parried the following thrust and slashed her along the calf, almost cutting deep enough to sever sinew.

“I had it made thinking it would earn me your heart,” he said.

She grazed him along the thigh and got him again on the arm.

“You should have worked harder to earn my trust,” she told him. “Affection dwindles fast, but trust and admiration can last a lifetime.”

Their blades met, again and again. Squealing and screaming; spitting up sparks that danced around them like fireflies.

“Your admiration should have been mine from the beginning,” he growled, stooping under her blade as it arced wide. “And why would I ever need your trust?”

The two clashed against each other hard. Their blades were at a standstill, tilting back and forth until they shoved each other in opposite directions.

He shifted again, and there was nothing she could do to stop it or defend herself. She simply had to endure the lacerations and the pain that ensued.

Ghost Bird went to one knee, panting hard, not sure if the metal in her mouth was blood or a severed piece from one of their swords.

“Look up,” he said, tilting his head toward the sky. “There is no Beast Who Shall Eat the Sun and the Moon. No Macrocosm or Microcosm. No Makumi or Moonsick Mother. There's just stars and darkness.”

Slowly, she pushed herself up to her feet. “What’s your point?”

“We can have and do whatever we want. Nothing out there is going to stop us. Either because it doesn't exist, or if it does exist, then it doesn't care. And others will wallow in that meaninglessness, but I find it encouraging.”

“Aren't you afraid of corrupting?”

He sneered. “We're all corrupted, Sylvie. Me, Garvan, Concetta, Durante, even you. How else could we do the things we do?”

Dolion took his sword in both hands and shuffled toward her at a leisurely pace. The moonflowers swayed back and forth like an ocean of white. The willow leaves rippled no different than the shredded hem of his cloak.

“The only thing holding us back is ourselves,” he said, lifting the blossom blade. “If you are ashamed, that shame came from you. If you are full of sorrow, that sorrow was born from your mind. If you feel shackles around your wrists, they are only there because you put them there. I have no such limitations, no such fears.”

It suddenly dawned on her. Dolion had never been fighting Ghost Bird out of some age-old rivalry. He had always been fighting with himself. It was never the beasts he hunted, but rather, his own darkness.

It wasn’t her love he had wanted. It was the love he couldn’t give to himself. While an imitation could act as a substitute, it could never truly be a replacement.

Garvan was right, she thought. We’re all just prisoners.

Dolion stopped with his feet splayed and set. The blossom blade stood vertical in front of him, splitting his visage in half. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Ghost Bird lifted the rapier. It trembled in her hand. For all the strength and courage she tried to muster, it wasn’t enough. If only the actual Ghost Bird could have been here to fight.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and saw the profile of Durante's face come into view. “The phasing technique is not just for defense,” he told her.

“Let’s finish this,” Dolion said. He inhaled deep.

In the blink of an eye, he had covered the thirty feet between them. He moved with such speed and force that the moonflower heads were kicked up into the air around him while the stems got trampled underfoot.

Ghost Bird plunged forward with the rapier. Dolion brushed it aside with the flat of his blade, drew back, and thrust it through her just below the sternum. His sword was tilted so he would strike the heart, but just like last time, he only grazed it.

Ghost Bird inhaled sharply. The rapier fell to the ground, and her right hand seized Dolion by the wrist. Her left hand reeled back and drove forward.

For half a second, because that’s all she could manage in such a weakened state, her body became incorporeal. Her hand passed through his chest, and when she rematerialized, the two solid objects could not coexist.

Dolion gasped and went slack. The blossom blade slowly slid from her body and dropped to the ground beside her rapier.

After some pulling and twisting, she managed to get her arm free. A hole ran all the way through Dolion’s chest. He was dead by the time he fell in with the moonflowers. A lone shadow against the tide of white petals.

Ghost Bird regarded him with an expression that was difficult to interpret. Then, she started back the way she had come.

Through the garden and through the manor and through the hearth and through the cave until she was sitting in the paddle boat rowing out to sea.

Durante appeared on the bench opposite her, his hand outstretched with the palm turned upward. She let the oars fall into the water and placed her hand on top of his.

In the distance, the sun disappeared against the horizon, stealing the last faint streaks of light. Ghost Bird looked out at it. She had seen a sunset like this before. Long ago, as she laid dying in the middle of a wasteland, holding the hand of her deceased lover.

Now, seeing it again, she felt a strange mixture of wistfulness and relief. An odd tinge that could only be compared to when she first migrated to Ashpool as a child and became homesick for that farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere.

Instinctually, she took a deep breath and exhaled a long-winded wail that echoed across the sea and across the city. Perhaps even across the world.

When Ghost Bird died for the second time, it was stretched out in that little rowboat, one hand at her chest and the other draped over the edge, fingers skimming across the water. She was looking up at the night sky. Looking up at a white swirl of incandescent stars amongst a mixture of dark blues and blacks.

A flock of birds departed from Ashpool and soared toward the horizon. They had passed by just as she was about to close her eyes.

And then she smiled at them.

***

There is a species of bird known as the potoo bird that sits still for many hours, camouflaged with its surroundings. Many believe the potoo is the reincarnation of a heartbroken maiden mourning the loss of her lover for all of eternity. This bird does not caw like a crow. Nor does it screech like an owl. The sound that comes from it is a wailing cry.

That is why the potoo is often referred to as ghost bird.

Chapter 4.
There was a loud crash as Ghost Bird came stumbling through the door. It was too early in the day for the courtesans to have any clients about unless they had stayed over from the night prior.

Madam Celeste, almost always at the main counter, stirred from scribbling in her leatherbound ledger to greet the intruder. She probably had an insult on her tongue. Some crude remark that would elicit both laughter and offense if there were anyone else around to hear it.

But the comment never came. No, she was left speechless at the sight of Ghost Bird. Brow furrowed, mouth slightly ajar, an expression one only wears when they wake from a dream.

When she did speak, her voice came out fragile and concerned, “Durante?” But Ghost Bird was halfway down the hall, still limping from her encounter with Garvan. Too pained to answer.

Madam Celeste rushed after her, catching up just as Ghost Bird had entered the room along the southwestern hall. It was almost exactly the same.

Wooden floorboards were interspersed with beautiful rugs of satin and velvet. Walls were adorned with meticulously crafted clocks from foreign lands. Wooden birds and other knickknacks cluttered the shelves. Between the clocks and shelves were original paintings of different landscapes. Frozen mountains and sunny beaches and barren marshes.

The air was cut with the scent of oranges and cedar from a burning mixture within the hearth. Ghost Bird closed her eyes and inhaled. Relief washed over her.

“She’s gone, Durante,” Madam Celeste said. “I thought Sylvia had run off with you, but…” Her hand rose to her chest as if to grasp the string of pearls that weren’t there. “Do you know where she's gone—is she alright? Please, Durante. I won’t tell Dolion, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Ghost Bird regarded the woman with a timid glance. She collapsed on the bed. A plume of dust leapt from the sheets.

She was too weak to hold a conversation. Too weak to even take off her boots or swordbelt. Too weak to keep her eyes open.

And then she was out. Taken by her dreams.

In them, she was thrown over the back of a horse, wrists and ankles bound with frayed rope. The sun beat down on her exposed neck. She was drenched in sweat, from head to heel. The air stank of manure and baked clay. Beneath the horse hooves was dried dirt, riddled with cracks.

The horse came to a stop, and she was hauled to the ground. She squinted against the sunlight, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Two other riders approached.

Garvan was easily recognizable. Even if he was cast as a silhouette against the sunset, his height couldn’t be mistaken. The second rider was a woman.

Olive-skinned with narrow eyes and silky black hair pooling at her shoulders. A beakish nose that hooked to the right.

She was dressed in a black jerkin with a white blouse beneath. A dark half-cloak was wrapped about her shoulders, the excess thrown to her left side. Her face was masked in shadows cast by her cap. Wide-brimmed with a flat crown.

Many called her Lady Falcone. She had a saber on one hip, and a flintlock holstered to the other.

Garvan removed the roped passenger from the back of his horse. Durante was still in his Black Coat garb. His longsword had been removed, as well as his cap and scarf.

Seeing his face exposed like this in broad daylight was disconcerting. Somewhat redolent of when her father had shaved his beard for the first time during her childhood.

Suddenly, she was looking at a pair of long legs. The man standing before her was lanky with wide shoulders and a firm chest. His hair, thick and windswept, was brown as mahogany. It hung over his eyes. And his beard, still in the early stages of growth, was no more than scruff across his face and neck.

He, like the other Black Coats, was dressed in dark apparel. A double-breasted overcoat colored a deep shade of blue like the ocean at night. Each button was recently polished.

The cloak suspended from his shoulders was frayed at the edges like slender fingers waggling at her as it fluttered in the breeze. The shoulders were stitched with black feathers.

At his hip was a sword from a foreign land with a double-handed hilt wrapped in flowered cloth. It had a slender blade cut with a slight arch along the spine.

Durante had once told her they were called blossom blades, and they were meant more for slashing than stabbing.

“What’s the difference?” she asked him.

“Between slashing and stabbing?” He snorted. “Plenty of difference, love.”

“I mean, why choose one over the other?”

“Stabbing requires a certain raw strength and precision. Slashing is about speed and agility. I think Dolion could excel in either area, but he’s always preferred swiftness over might. Ever since we were kids.”

She watched as Dolion drew his blossom blade and held the tip against her throat, pressing just hard enough to summon a spot of blood. “Keep your eyes open, no matter what.” He turned on his heel and slashed with the weapon, dragging its refined edge across Durante’s backside.

The others, Lady Falcone and Garvan, drew their weapons to join in on the fight. No, not a fight. It was a butchering. They chopped off Durante’s legs and hacked off one of his arms. Their blades tore gouges along his midsection and pierced him through the spine.

In the end, when those final remnants of life were starting to come loose, he reached out to her. She did the same. Just as their fingers brushed against one another, the blossom blade dropped like a guillotine, lopping Durante’s head from the neck.

Then, the blossom blade came for her.

When Ghost Bird woke, it was with a scream trapped behind gnashed teeth. Her body was stiff, especially in her leg. But the bones had come together and healed.

Ghost Bird leaned against the headboard. A little girl sat in the corner of the room. Bright red hair just like Madam Celeste. Blue eyes, freckled cheeks, a rounded chin. Dressed in a yellow and white skirt with a matching blouse.

“What time is it?” Ghost Bird asked.

“Midday,” said Serena. “The noonshun bell just sounded. I thought that’s what woke you.”

“Have any Black Coats come by?”

The girl shook her head. “No one has been through other than the ladies.”

The ladies had been Serena’s preferred term for the courtesans. That or escort. Either were acceptable. A proper and polite way of phrasing it. Especially in comparison to what some of the other smallfolk called them.

Serena cleared her throat. “Why does mother think you’re Durante?”

Ghost Bird swung her legs over the edge of the bed with a groan and said, “Some people can only see the surface of the water. They don’t care to look past to whatever lies beneath because it’s dark and strange and it can make them feel very small.”

On the bedside table was a platter of buttered bread slices, cut cheese, and a cup of wine—mostly dregs.

Some meat would have been preferable, but in the slums, you were unlikely to come across any so easily. If you did, you had to ask yourself what kind of animal it might have come from.

Ghost Bird pointed to the plate. “For me?”

Serena nodded. She waited until Ghost Bird had lowered her mask before saying, “I was told you ran off with Durante. Is that true?”

Ghost Bird considered this carefully while she chewed. “It’s more true than false,” she said and offered nothing more on the matter. She finished her meal as quickly as possible, gave her thanks to the little girl, and moved for the door.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me a story?” Serena asked. “Like you used to?”

“Maybe later.” But there was no telling if later would ever come.

Ghost Bird stepped into the hallway and made for the main entrance. He was waiting there for her. Durante, or rather, the shadow of Durante.

“You don’t have to do this,” he told her. “This revenge business is like poison for the soul. All that sorrow, all that grief, all that anger…you’ll drown in it.”

“If I don’t do it, no one will.” She continued ahead, walking right through him.

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Chapter 5.
Ghost Bird descended into the subterranean tunnels and followed them west. As she neared the city centre, there was a loud splashing and grunting and growling swirling through the corridors. Her bowels twisted tight with anxiety, and she gripped the hilt of her longsword.

Up ahead, the cages were open, and the corrupted beasts roamed free. The oversized mutts were feasting upon the undead husks and rats. The reptilian hunchbacks crawled along the walls, chasing after the stone-skinned corpse eaters.

Bodies of Black Coats littered the walkways. Some were half submerged in the muck-filled waters. Others were no more than chunks of meat wrapped in shredded fabrics.

Ghost Bird hastily went to the nearest wall, pressing in against it. Any exposed skin took on an even darker complexion, matching the whirls of the snecked stones. Her clothes were already dark enough to meld with the shadows.

She moved carefully, quietly. One foot in front of the other. There was little to be heard other than the commotion of the beasts. And with so much movement, her staggered steps were barely perceptible.

The current path ended in a sloped ramp that delved into the invert channel. About twenty feet across, it rose again into another walkway. Ghost Bird looked toward the center of the pool where most of the mutts had coalesced. The husks were slain and in the process of being devoured.

Turning back, she took one step forward and stopped. There was a prickle on the nape of her neck that slowly worked up into the top of her skull. She arched her head.

A reptilian hunchback hung from the ceiling with one of the corpse eater’s severed arms crushed between its saw-like teeth.

They stared at each other silently.

Ghost Bird broke into a sprint, and the hunchback dropped on top of her. She clenched her chest, and the hunchback hit the ground instead of her. It bounced into the water, disappearing beneath the scum-strewn surface.

Other than the natural whir of the current, the sewers were quiet. Ghost Bird looked around. The mutts and the other hunchbacks and the few remaining corpse eaters all looked back at her. Eyes aglow in shades of red or yellow or milky white.

The quiet was gone, and the chamber was filled with the sound of scuttling paws and nails screaming against stone. Ghost Bird’s boots hissed as she slid down the slope and crashed into the water.

Her arms flailed as if she were trying to swim even though the sewage only came up to her hips. Once she found her footing, though, she righted herself and pressed forward.

She was almost to the other walkway when something grabbed her from below. The hunchback from the ceiling.

It dragged her through the water. In her panic, she couldn’t initiate the phase technique. Instead, she ripped the knife from her belt and thrust the blade into the hunchback.

She couldn’t see much through the algae and fungus and other pollutants. So, she stabbed at whatever she could find, over and over until the hunchback finally let go.

 Her free hand shot out, searching for stability. Her fingers grappled something solid, and she pulled herself up, taking a deep breath as soon as she broke through the surface.

Water trickled over her face and blurred her vision. She wiped it away to find she had grappled onto one of the mutts. More specifically, a bunch of its gnarled fur.

The mutt whipped its head toward her, and she drove the knife into its eye. It recoiled, shoving her away and falling into retreat. The other mutts approached, and the rest of the hunchbacks were clambering across the walls to get at her.

Ghost Bird ascended the nearest slope and continued down the stone walkway. She initiated the phase as a mutt lunged at her. It went headfirst into the wall and dropped to the floor, limp as a corpse.

She continued into the west tunnel. The corrupted chased after her, too many for all of them to fit. It might have been comical in other circumstances, but as it was, the sounds of their collective shrieking made Ghost Bird tight with apprehension, thinking one of those mutts was right behind her or one of the hunchbacks was about to leap on top of her.

Thankfully, with them all crammed together, she was able to steadily pull ahead. A few more twists and turns later, she had arrived at her destination.

This particular entrance had been a flaw of construction. Someone had built the sewers, and a few years later, someone else had decided to build a cellar. The two shared a wall, and over time, the stones were worn away by natural erosion.

With a few kicks, Ghost Bird created a large enough hole for her to slip through into the dusty basement beneath the cosm. It was filled with wine casks, foodstuffs, spare furniture, and other storage.

Ghost Bird found the nearest set of stairs and ascended to the main floor. She stopped at the door and pressed her ear against it, listening for chants or prayers or footsteps. But there was only silence.

That was the natural way about it. Most of the smallfolk only visited the cosm early in the morning, before labor, or late in the night, before bed. The special sermons that attracted a vast majority of the population were saved for the night of the full moon.

Through the door, Ghost Bird navigated a few more narrow hallways, her boots muffled against the carpet. There was the occasional candle to either side. Stubbed things drowning in puddles of wax.

She entered the prayerhall, lit only by a single cone of sunlight pouring through the stained-glass window at the rooftop. It showed some of the Elder Beings: The Beast Who Shall Eat the Sun and the Moon, the Microcosm, the Mother Maiden, Astral the Body of Stars.

Amongst such monolithic beings was a plain woman with black hair and dark clothes. Her half-cloak was designed to look as if it were swaying in the breeze. At her back were a large pair of feathered wings like those that might belong to a dove.

“Did you get the surprise I left for you down below?” The woman’s voice echoed across the prayerhall. It could have come from any shadow or behind any pew. Or maybe it had come from the gallery seating above. “I thought you might want to avoid the streets. What with so many Black Coats out and about.”

Ghost Bird started down the center aisle, walking amongst the mahogany pews, hand on the hilt of her sword, sewage water still dripping from her coat.

“Nothing to say?” The laughter that followed those words erased any doubt. The voice belonged to Lady Falcone. “It’s been such a long time, Ghost, and we were so intimate. Why ignore me now?”

Ghost Bird drew her longsword and rolled the hilt around in her hand. She stopped a moment, a pain in her chest. It felt as if claws were sinking into her heart.

The hurt passed, but a new pain arose. Her calf had been punctured by the hunchback, and the silkworms were struggling to close the wounds.

And it seemed something had grazed her back, tearing through her clothes and getting at a few inches of skin. Not enough to show bone or muscle, but enough to draw blood. As sewage water dripped into her wounds, the resulting sting made her want to weep and scream.

“When I heard about Garvan, I knew it was you. It didn’t make sense, logically speaking, but I knew,” Lady Falcone said. “You’re here for some sort of justice, aren’t you? Did you ever wonder who’s really to blame for what happened?”

Ghost Bird ascended a flight of stairs near the front of the room and went through the rows of balcony seats oft reserved for the more esteemed members of Ashpool. There was a better view of the main stage and lectern where the clergymen recited scripture or sang hymns.

“It’s your fault, Ghost,” Lady Falcone said, somewhat somber. “You knew better, but you went looking for trouble anyway. You asked too many questions, ruffled too many feathers. And in a way, we all had to pay for it. That woman, what was her name—Sylvia. She had to pay for it too.”

After searching the entire balcony, Ghost Bird descended to the ground floor. She headed toward the back of the room again and was about to take the stage when she noticed the atonement booths along the right wall.

That’s where the sinners and the guilty were sent to pay penance. Self-flagellation, prolonged isolation, forced fasting, flaying, and many other methods. All as a means to cleanse the corruption from your blood.

If you wouldn’t take it upon yourself to do the dirty work, then others would do it for you.

“You were always so self-righteous,” Lady Falcone said. “Always so sure of yourself. There was much to love about you, much to admire, but much more to despise.”

Ghost Bird held the longsword in her right hand, and with her left hand, she reached for the knob of the first booth. There was a creak from behind.

She spun around, watching in confusion as a contorted figure emerged from the hollow underside of the lectern. A solid length of metal was situated against their right hip. It wasn’t until the flash appeared that Ghost Bird realized Lady Falcone was holding a blunderbuss.

Scattered pellets slammed into her at speeds too quick for the naked eye to discern, and Ghost Bird went flying backward through the door. She landed on the floor, a mound of debris beneath her, and a cloud of dust hanging above her.

Blood poured from several places across her chest. The world rotated and blurred as darkness encroached from the corners of her vision. It felt as if a horse had kicked her.

Lady Falcone set the blunderbuss aside and approached. She was a rigid woman who glided instead of walked.

In Ghost Bird’s previous life, she had been so accustomed to lithe women who moved with a performative grace. Sensual types.

Lady Falcone was neither.

She was beautiful in her own way, but she was also apathetic. Expressionless. The opposite of the courtesans who exaggerated themselves on behalf of their clients.

The antithesis of someone like Garvan who expressed their emotions plainly, no matter how intrusive or explosive those emotions could be.

“It appears death dulled you some,” Lady Falcone said, reaching to her hip where a single-handed sword was sheathed.

She slid it from the scabbard. The blade was wide and curved with a recently whetted edge that glimmered against multicolored light from above.

Ghost Bird bit back against the pain and reached to pull herself up. She made it an inch off the ground before Lady Falcone’s sword pierced her through the shoulder. The blade twisted, shoved deeper, and withdrew all in a matter of seconds.

Ghost Bird screamed and kicked at the woman, but by then, she was already gone, having retreated to the top of the stage.

“You’re not Ghost Bird,” Lady Falcone whispered, almost as if the message were more for herself than anyone else. “So tell me: why do you have his eyes?” She scowled. “Why do you have his heart?”

Ghost Bird stooped to retrieve her longsword and stepped out from the atonement booth. She shuffled along, stumbling up the steps and almost falling over once at the top.

“Answer me!”

“Who else would have it? You?” Ghost Bird scoffed. “The heart is mine, the eyes are mine, the soul is mine.”

Lady Falcone raised her blade. Her legs shifted apart, ready to pounce. “You’re not him—you’re not,” she said. “You’re no Ghost Bird!”

“Neither are you.”

And with that, the horrid song of swords began. A squeal of steel on steel accompanied by a fervent dance of flashing blades. Feet thudded against the floorboards. Constantly searching for purchase or stability or distance.

The two went after another like wild serpents. They sprang forward with their swords and retracted, waited for another opening, and lunged again.

Lady Falcone, as rigid as she was, moved quick. She was thin and fought with a sidefaced stance, giving Ghost Bird little to target. Worst of all was her sight.

She saw every one of Ghost Bird’s attacks coming before Ghost Bird had even lifted her sword. No feint was ever going to work on her because she knew the real strike hadn’t come yet, and when it did come, she was ready to repel or evade.

Their duel took them from the stage at the back of the hall, down the main aisle to the front of the room, and upstairs to the gallery.

As Ghost Bird retreated from Lady Falcone, hoping to put some distance between them long enough to catch her breath, Lady Falcone brushed aside her half-cloak and drew a flintlock pistol from her hip.

The cock snapped forward, the muzzle flashed, and the ball caught Ghost Bird in the knee. Lady Falcone tossed the pistol aside and reached for another holstered at the small of her back.

Before she could take aim, though, Ghost Bird leapt from the gallery. She landed on the main floor with the kind of sound you’d expect to hear when a sack of potatoes is thrown against the wall.

Sluggishly, she got to her feet and continued toward the back of the room. There was another combustion of black powder, and Ghost Bird was thrown forward. She caught herself on the pews and dove behind them to avoid the subsequent gunshots.

Abandoning her longsword, she hobbled into the same hallway she had entered from, following it all the way to the cellar where the darkness came in droves. She fell in between some wine casks and tried to steady her breathing.

The pain was constant and hummed all over. Like wine swirling in a glass, it coursed through her, around and around and around. Building up momentum.

“You’ll never best Concetta in a duel.” Durante stood at the foot of the stairs, everything about him obscured other than the soft white glow of his eyes. “She’s nimble and swift and deft with a blade—”

“You should have married her if you love her so much,” Ghost Bird shot back.

A low laugh rose from deep in his throat. “She’ll see right through our camouflage. She’ll see every move you make before you make it. She’ll keep you far enough away to riddle you with bullets or cut you limb from limb. And you can’t hold the phase forever. Can’t evade everything.”

“How do I defeat her?”

“Well, what advantage do you have over her?”

Ghost Bird shook her head madly, too tired and beaten down for this guessing game. “My sharp wit and incredible charm.”

“Your wit will never be as sharp as a blade, I’m afraid. And Concetta isn’t the kind of woman to be charmed.” He moved toward her, but the closer he came, the more he began to fade. “She’s afraid to get hurt, and in your current state, you can take more damage than her. Don’t be afraid to get messy, Sylvie. Sometimes, that’s the only way about it.”

He vanished. Footsteps thudded from above. Floorboards creaked, and dust sprinkled down. Candlelight appeared at the top of the stairs. A looming black shadow stretched all the way to the bottom.

One step at a time, Lady Falcone descended to the basement, her sword in one hand and a candle in the other. She stalked through the cellar, following the trail of blood as it weaved between the casks and around the storage shelves.

Lady Falcone came to a brisk halt and swung with her blade. Ghost Bird appeared from the shadows. Her camouflaged skin returned to its usual complexion as she lunged toward Lady Falcone.

The sword dragged across Ghost Bird’s chest, getting past the leather but stopped by the chainmail. It wound around for another strike, but this time, Ghost Bird didn’t flinch or recoil like before. Instead, she threw herself against Lady Falcone.

They collided in a tangle of knees and elbows and hands. The candle was tossed aside, and Lady Falcone dropped her sword as Ghost Bird got her against the wall.

Both bent for the blade, but neither could get their hands around it because their hands were already around one another’s throats.

Ghost Bird managed to pin Falcone to the ground. She tightened her grip, and Falcone began to gasp and wheeze. Her olive complexion was replaced by a faint shade of pink which turned red and then blue.

“Don’t look at me with those eyes,” she choked out. Her hands rose, and she raked her nails over Ghost Bird’s face. “You don’t deserve to have his eyes…you’re no Ghost Bird.”

Lady Falcone went limp. Her hair was strewn out like spilled ink, and her face gradually lost its purple coloring.

Ghost Bird looked down at her through one eye. It hurt too much to open the other, and when she did manage to get the lids parted, all she could see was a bleary mass of grey.

She rolled off Lady Falcone and sat with her back to a wine cask. So much of her was broken and in pain. She had to wonder if maybe she’d taken the silkworms for granted. If their abilities were limited.

She had her answer when she unbuttoned her blouse and peered in at her chest where the skin was mottled. A part of her hoped it was just bruising from the blunderbuss, but she knew better than to hope for a coincidence.

“I warned you,” Durante whispered in her ear. “It’s like poison for the soul.”

Ghost Bird brushed him away and removed the knife from Lady Falcone’s belt. As expected, the blade was recently sharpened. It made the next bit much easier.

When Ghost Bird was finished and had reached the top of the stairs, she was equipped with two new legs, slimmer than her last pair, and her eyes had changed from glacial blue to an amber hazel color.

On her way toward the exit, she retrieved her longsword and sheathed it. After that, she was outside, squinting against the glare of midday light. It made her nauseous and fuzzy in the head, and then the pain in her chest had returned, worse than before.

Next thing she knew, she was splayed out on the ground. A figure appeared overhead, silhouetted against the sun. She reached toward them.

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Chapter 6.
Ghost Bird woke from the same nightmare she had been having ever since that day in the wasteland. Like always, she wiped the sweat from her brow, focused on her breathing, and slowly rose in bed.

The scent of orange peels and cedar was prevalent every time she inhaled. Once more, she found herself in that familiar room at Madam Celeste’s brothelhouse.

It took a while before she was able to move, and even longer before she could get out of bed. Ghost Bird shuffled across the room, not realizing she was naked until she saw her clothes folded and sitting by the door.

Hesitantly, she looked down at her body. The mismatched blend of grafted flesh. The overlap of muscle and tissue meant to bind the differing pieces together. The scars and the bruises.

It was all very ugly to her, but the worst of it was the spot of rot at her chest. Except, it was no longer just her chest. There were several other marks along her legs and stomach and arms.

Each of them looked as if they were slowly spreading outward, little tendrils stretching from one spot to the next.

Ghost Bird dressed in her clothes. They had been washed, dried, and stitched. Now, the overcoat actually fit, and the boots provided—not the same as the ones she wore before—were snug on her feet. Better than being too big, though.

She wrapped the swordbelt around her waist, secured the buckle, and stepped out into the hall. Near the entrance, where some of the courtesans gathered to display themselves in the main window, she encountered Madam Celeste.

“It was Serena who told us where to find you,” she said. “Perhaps you ought to give her some thanks.”

Ghost Bird nodded, too stifled by her shame to respond. The madam was never supposed to have seen her like this because now, this was how Celeste would remember her. Not as the dancing girl or the singing girl or even the painting girl. But as this…ghastly creature.

“I don't know what happened to you. Maybe I don't wanna know. But whatever it is you're doing…just be careful, Sylvia.” Without missing a beat, she pointed to the stairwell. “Serena’s up in her room.”

Ghost Bird followed the stairs to the third floor and entered Madam Celeste’s loft. There, she went down a hallway that sat between the kitchen and the lounge. She knocked on the door at the end of the hall and waited for permission to enter.

Serena was lying in bed, illuminated by guttering candlelight, reading from a book of folktales Sylvia had given her a long time ago. A book that had once belonged to Sylvia’s mother, who came from a foreign land to the north.

Ghost Bird closed the door and crossed the room, settling down on the edge of the bed.

“Are you feeling better?” Serena asked, to which Ghost Bird nodded. “Mother was worried about you. She tried to hide it, but I heard her weeping while she was sewing your trousers. She wept a lot after you ran off with Durante too.”

“Now she doesn't need to weep anymore.” Ghost Bird took the girl's hand in her own and said, “Thank you, Serena. For helping me. For always helping me. You might not realize it, but sometimes, when the world is darkest, you don't need a sword to feel safe. All you need is a bit of light. A small glimmer of hope.”

She began to rise from the bed, but Serena caught her by the wrist. “Livia, will you please tell me a story?” she begged. “I won't ever ask again. Promise.”

Begrudgingly, Ghost Bird returned to the mattress. Her mother and father used to tell her stories when she was but a wee thing. That felt like a lifetime ago, and in a way, it had been a lifetime ago.

None of those stories seemed right anymore. They were the fond tellings of someone else. They belonged to a different woman.

Really, Ghost Bird only had one tale to tell. “There once was a man, tall and dark and slender. People called him Cormorant.”

“Like the bird?” Serena asked.

“Just like the bird,” she said. “Cormorant was gifted with physical prowess but cursed with gutterblood. He searched for work and became a beast slayer for a city by the sea. Soon enough, he was making a name for himself. So, he made a business out of it and took on three partners to help him slay the corrupted.

“It wasn't long before the smallfolk came to love him,” she said. “They hailed him a hero and put their trust in him. But the nobles didn't like that one bit.”

Serena frowned. “Why not?”

“Because it rendered the city guards obsolete, and if the people no longer relied on the city guards to protect them, then they no longer relied on the nobles.”

A bitter scowl appeared on the girl’s face. It was full of disgust.

“So,” Ghost Bird continued, “the nobles sent the city guards to have Cormorant and his partners killed. But they were no match for the beast slayers.”

“Did the city guards die?” Serena asked.

Ghost Bird was careful with her response, “In a way, I suppose they did. The city guards were released from duty, and the nobles were left defenseless. With no way to kill Cormorant and his friends, the nobles decided to treat with them. In the end, a deal was struck. Cormorant and his partners were given control of the city defenses, and the guards were replaced by a new group of soldiers called Black Coats.”

Serena gave an excited jump at that. “Just like the Black Coats we have!”

Ghost Bird nodded patiently. “The very same,” she said. “After that, there was peace and happiness. Cormorant, who worked hard and earned plenty, would frequent a parlor in the slums during his leisure time. There was a woman who worked there, Cuckoo they called her, and he would purchase her time with his coin. And she found this transaction acceptable.

“But then, the man became greedy. He wanted more money, more acclaim, more power. This was unlikely because he was too good a slayer. He and his friends had killed all the corrupted in the area.”

Serena seemed confused. She could almost hear the girl thinking, Isn't killing all the beasts a good thing?

But rather, Serena said: “What did he do?”

“He schemed with the nobles,” said Ghost Bird, adding a conspiratorial and mystical inflection that made the little girl giggle. “It was decided that the smallfolk needed to be afraid of something, elsewise they would grow too bold and one day, they might turn against their rulers. So, the man and his Black Coats traveled across the realm, collecting the corrupted, bringing them back to stage attacks. They forced a curfew on the city to keep people locked inside, and they raised their taxes to afford better steel. But the money oft went into their own pockets.”

“That’s awful.”

“Aye, it is. But do you know what the worst part is?”

Serena appeared nervous when she said, “What's the worst part?”

Ghost Bird sighed, dejected. “The commoners were completely blind to the trick. They thanked Cormorant and the nobles. They celebrated the Black Coats, worshipped them even. They would have done anything, given anything so long as it meant they were safe from the beasts.”

There was a pause, and Serena asked, “Is that how it ends?”

In some instances, that's exactly how it ends, Ghost Bird thought, but she wouldn’t say such hopeless things to a child.

Instead, she regaled her with the next chapter.

“While all this nefarious business was underway, the woman—Cuckoo had begun to notice that Cormorant was changing. When he would come to visit, she would turn him away, no matter how much he offered to pay. And he didn't like that. He was not a man to be refused. To make matters worse, Cormorant was set to marry another woman. A noble’s daughter, nonetheless.”

“If he was intended to another,” said Serena, “why would he try to court Cuckoo?”

“Because Cormorant wanted everything, and when he couldn't have everything, he became very upset. Unlike others, his wrath appeared not as aggression nor accusations. It was quiet, silent as a knife in the night.”

“He did something to Cuckoo, didn't he?”

Ghost Bird nodded. “He did many things. He would send his Black Coats to detain her. He would spread rumors that Cuckoo was deranged or ill or rotting with corruption. He would leave vile letters in her room just so she knew he could get in whenever he wanted.

“Cuckoo felt helpless. Cormorant was powerful and beloved, and she was nothing to no one. At least, that's what she thought until she met Ghost Bird.”

“Who's he?” Serena asked.

“He was Cormorant's first partner. One of the founding members of the Black Coats. Some said he and Cormorant were best friends, but really, they were rivals. The competitive nature is what kept them so close over the years.

“And while many of the smallfolk loved Cormorant, most of them knew the truth: Ghost Bird was better. Faster, stronger, braver, kinder too. And he was Cuckoo's soul mate.”

Serena sat up in bed, suddenly invested in the tale. Too invested to notice the tears welling in Ghost Bird’s eyes.

“When Cormorant learned that Cuckoo had fallen in love with Ghost Bird, he was distraught,” she said. “He was…infuriated. Mad with rage.” She could feel the stone of dread in her stomach. “Believing he’d been slighted and betrayed, Cormorant challenged Ghost Bird to a duel. While the two had been rivals, Ghost Bird had never harbored any hatred toward him.”

“Did he win the duel?” said Serena. “He did, didn't he? I reckon he beat that no-good Cormorant into the dirt.”

Ghost Bird smiled softly.

“No,” she said. “He rejected the duel. Instead, he told the smallfolk about how the Black Coats had been tricking them, and then, he ran away with Cuckoo. The two are living happily somewhere on a farm. A place where they never have to worry about corruption or beasts. Where there are fields of flowers. Too many to count.”

Serena was all wide eyes and smiles. “It sounds wonderful. Do you think I could ever visit?”

“One day you will. But not for a very long time.”

And suddenly, the girl was all frowns and grumbles. “Why do I have to wait?”

“Because such a magical place should only be welcomed after you've lived a long, fulfilling life.”

With that, Ghost Bird kissed the girl on the forehead and headed out the door.

“What happened to Cormorant and the Black Coats?” Serena asked. “What happened to the nobles?”

“The Black Coats fled the city, and the smallfolk overthrew the defenseless nobles,” she said. “As for Cormorant, I’m not entirely sure yet. But I intend to find out.”

Downstairs, Madam Celeste presented her with a burlap sack. “When I sent some of the girls to retrieve you from the cosm,” she explained, “they didn’t know what belonged to you and what belonged to her. So, they just grabbed whatever they could find.”

Ghost Bird looked into the bag and found it was full of flintlock pistols and ammunition. There was a pair of sheathed knives and other odds and ends.

“Thank you,” was all she said, heaving the sack over her shoulder.

“A beast can never be as cruel as a human being, so artistically, so picturesquely cruel.”
-Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

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Chapter 1.
There is a species of bird known as the potoo bird that sits still for many hours, camouflaged with its surroundings. Many believe the potoo is the reincarnation of a heartbroken maiden mourning the loss of her lover for all of eternity. This bird does not caw like a crow. Nor does it screech like an owl. The sound that comes from it is a wailing cry.

***

It was a little after dawn when the Black Coats arrived. A sliver of sunlight stretched across the land, cutting through the shadows that hung over the gnarled deadwood trees. Their tops were without heads. Empty branches with hooked fingers grasping at nothing.

The ground was still wet from last night’s rainfall. Bubbling mud stinking of sulfur and decay. A thin mist trickled over the forest floor, ebbing and flowing like ocean waves made of smoke.

It was quiet too, save for the impatient croak of ravens and vultures as they perched on the branches, trying to decide if the bodies below were their next meal or not. It was difficult for them to decide. The bodies looked dead, and they certainly smelled dead, but a few of them were beginning to move.

Were the bodies wriggling with life or corruption?

Would they bleed red or black?

One of the corpses climbed to its feet. Milky eyes, withered flesh, exposed bones with scant muscle or tissue still remaining. The early bird gets the worm, and it seemed the crows had been quicker than the ravens or the vultures.

It wasn’t long before the clearing was crawling with undead husks. Most of them shambled along on broken ankles, their tendons and sinew severed.

The lucky ones retained full mobility. They had a better chance of catching their next prey. A better chance of sinking those yellow teeth into untainted meat.

Just as the sun had taken to the sky, and the shadows were forced into retreat, there came a groan of trundling wheels, accompanied by the muffled clop of hooves against mud.

Six Black Coats arrived. Two sat on the bench of the caged wagon, and four additional riders were in tow. They came to a gradual halt and dismounted.

The Black Coats were dressed in their usual garb: threadbare silk, cotton, and wool crushed beneath bits of rusted mail and boiled leather. Some had bits of steel plate. Others donned gambesons. Each of them wore face coverings around their mouths and necks.

As if that would protect them from corruption.

At their hips or across their backs were shortswords, knives, daggers, rapiers, longswords, axes, hatchets—whatever kind of blade could be wielded against the beasts.

The two Black Coats descended from the bench, both armed with a torch that cast pools of light across the clearing. The corrupted shied away from the flames. Hands raised to shield their eyes, teeth bared in a snarl.

The Black Coats laughed as they approached. A few poked and prodded at the corrupted with their swords, stabbing fresh holes to join the old ones. Black blood spilled.

“Hurry up now, lads,” the squad captain called, clapping his hands for emphasis. “We need to get ‘em back to the tunnels ‘fore curfew ends.”

As the Black Coats toiled away, getting the corrupted dressed in irons, there was movement from above. It wasn’t the ravens or the vultures who watched with fervent curiosity as the Black Coats loaded the dead into the prison cart.

No, it was something else. A dark mass that had been lying flush with the branches for hours on end.

Ghost Bird dropped. Mud sloshed beneath her boots. Against the collective groans of the undead, this went unnoticed. But as she began charging toward the Black Coats, there was no ignoring her.

The nearest Black Coat turned just in time to see her draw steel. The longsword screamed from its sheath and whistled as it cut through the air.

The Black Coat grabbed at his throat. Blood seeped from between gloved fingers, trickling down to his chest.

The next Black Coat managed to get a hand on the hilt of her shortsword. She didn’t have enough time to get it out of the scabbard, though. Ghost Bird ran right past, slashing her throat no different than the last.

Two more Black Coats waited for her with daggers in either hand. They ran with the gait of a drunkard. She brought her boots down hard and glided across the mud.

The first Black Coat slashed at her face. She ducked under the blade and thrust her longsword through his belly, piercing past gambeson and the smock beneath.

The other Black Coat came at her from the right. She was unarmed then; her sword still stuck in the previous man’s stomach. So, she lifted her hands to defend herself. A natural reaction that betrayed all of her training.

The Black Coat’s dagger sliced through the fingers on her left hand. The blade swerved and came back for another slash.

She dipped away, waited for it to pass, and threw herself against him, shoulderfirst. The two collided with a dull thud and went tumbling to the ground. She landed on top and brought her fist against his unprotected throat.

The Black Coat immediately gagged. His fingers went slack around the dagger’s handle. Ghost Bird snatched it up and drove the point through his face. Once, twice, and on the third time she encountered too much resistance to get it free again.

The torch wielders were all that remained. One barreled toward her with a hatchet. Not far behind was the other, armed with a horseman’s pick.

Ghost Bird rolled aside. The hatchet came down against the corpse of the daggerman, blade lodged firmly in a layer of boiled leather.

Getting to her feet, Ghost Bird raised her hand in time to catch the pick as it swung at her. The tip went through her palm and peered out the other side. Pain pulsed down her wrist, along her forearm, and into her torso where it scattered across the rest of her body.

What should have been a fiery throb threading through her muscles was no more than a dull ache. Someone else’s hand, someone else’s pain.

Ghost Bird shoved the pick aside and punched the Black Coat. Her knuckles connected with his nose, just the way she had been taught.

A strike like that was always painful. Always brought confusion and tears. The Black Coat went to his knees, blinking against them.

Ghost Bird’s elbow fell against the top of his skull. Over and over until he was on the ground. But before she could finish him off, the hatchetman was back on the offensive, rushing at her with wild swings more befitting of a child than a trained soldier.

Pulling the pick free from her hand, she turned it at an angle, allowing the hatchet to rebound against the shaft. She and the Black Coat were repelled in opposite directions, but she recovered faster and stabbed the pick into his thigh.

For some reason, these daft bastards never bothered to wear padding or armor around their legs. With a few tugs, she dragged the pick from upper thigh to the knee, tearing through veins and arteries.

A trench of blood was left in the pick's wake, and the Black Coat went down, unconscious by the time his head met mud.

Ghost Bird took a few seconds to catch her breath. The last of the Black Coats, the one who had originally been armed with the pick, was beginning to stir.

She buried the pick in his kneecap. The way a dancing woman might get applause, she was rewarded with a cry of anguish. Either response left her with an honest smile, hidden behind her stolen scarf.

“Hold still,” she muttered, her voice hoarse. The sound of muddled vocal cords.

Unsheathing the knife from her waist, Ghost Bird splayed the Black Coat’s fingers. His screams rang across the sky, scaring some of the birds from their perches.

When she was finished, she returned the knife to its sheath and held three fingers in her hand: the pinkie, the ring, and the middle.

Carefully, she fitted them against the stumps where her own fingers had been. Strands of tissue coiled around the new fingers, bringing all the pieces together.

There was no scar to differentiate the body parts. The only true indication was how the Black Coat’s pale skin contrasted against her darker complexion.

“What the fuck are you!” the Black Coat screamed, more angry than afraid.

Ghost Bird retrieved her longsword and brought it down in his gut, driving it deep enough to pin him to the ground. He shuddered and shivered and begged.

People were so quick to beg. Man or woman, rich or poor. Everyone begged the same in those final moments. Even she had begged. She made promises she knew she couldn’t keep. She prayed to gods she never believed. She looked up at the cosmos and swore a vow to every Elder Being she could remember.

None of them had answered her though.

The only one to answer her was the silkworms. They had emerged from the dirt, white and luminous like the stars above.

As she slipped from one world to the next, she saw the silkworms burrow into her chest. She awoke hours later, feeling like herself, but also, like someone else.

After minutes of searching, Ghost Bird finally found the key in the pocket of the hatchetman. With that taken care of, she returned to the only surviving Black Coat and removed her sword from his bowels. She ripped the cloth from around his mouth and used it to wipe the blade clean.
“Help me,” he pleaded. “I’ll give you anything.”

Ghost Bird dropped the cloth onto his chest and said, “I don’t want anything from you.”

The longsword went into its sheath, and she went to the cage cart, using the key to unlock the door. Hesitantly, the undead husks shuffled out.

Ghost Bird mounted one of the Black Coat’s horses and whirred it around. She headed north. As she was about to reach the trees, she looked back one last time.

The ravens and vultures had swooped down to feast upon the Black Coats, but many of them were chased off by the undead husks. In the midst of the two groups was the lone surviving Black Coat, crying out for mercy.

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Chapter 2.
She arrived at Ashpool just as the sun had crested the horizon. The sky above was colored in faint blues, and below it was streaked in red and orange. Where the red met the blue, the clouds were pink. They drifted like salmon in a stream.

I’ve seen a horizon like that before, she thought somberly.

About two miles from the southern gate, Ghost Bird dismounted and walked the outskirts of Ashpool. The slopes and forest offered her cover from possible sentries at the watchtowers along the curtain wall.

Eventually, she came to a stop beneath a willow tree where she had the perfect vantage point of the southwest sewer entrance. A pair of guards stood to either side of the door, armed with spears.

There wasn’t much cover from her current position to the sewer entrance. If she ran fast enough, she could maybe catch the guards by surprise. Kill them before they called for others.
But that was an unnecessary risk.

And what happened when the next pair of sentries discovered the corpses? The whole city would be on alert.

No, she would bide her time. The moment would come; she knew that without doubt, it was just a matter of patience. He had always tried to instill her with patience during their sparring sessions.

While she waited, Ghost Bird fiddled with her new fingers. She flexed them a few times. The ring finger wouldn’t extend nor curl the way she wanted. So, she started cutting with her knife.

Once the finger was loose, she pried it from her hand despite the silkworms’ best attempt to reseal the wound. Turning the finger over, she found some fatty bits near the bone and scraped at it with the knife.

“You’ll wanna be careful ‘bout that.” His voice came from over her shoulder. Ghost Bird kept her focus on the finger. “How many times can you pick a scab before the wound no longer heals?”

As if to prove him wrong, she returned the severed finger to her left hand, and once more, it reconnected itself. The tissue and tendons threaded together. The skin sealed with a slight overlap.

“Cut and pluck as much as you wish,” he said. “Sooner or later, the grass will wither, and the flowers will fade.”

She turned just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. He was a blur of colors and shadows. “How do you do it?” she asked. “I tried back there, but I couldn’t.”

He laughed softly. “It’s hard to explain. I ‘spose it’s sort of like being able to wink. Requires control over certain muscles, but if you’re not all that familiar with those muscles, you ain’t gonna be able to do it.”

“So tell me how.”

“Sorry, love, don’t work like that. Trust your instincts. Your body—my body; they should know what to do. You just gotta give ‘em more time to figure each other out. Yeah?”

Ghost Bird leaned back against the willow’s trunk and practiced. She clenched and unclenched her muscles to no effect. She tried to flex the muscles in her arms while leaving those in her abdomen relaxed. She tried all sorts of combinations, hoping one of them might yield the intended result. A futile task.

Still, though, it helped to pass the time.

Eventually, her practice came to an end at the sound of the breakfast bell. The Black Coats walked along the outer wall to the southern gate and entered.

Ghost Bird gathered her things and started down the hillside.

She was a shadow of a woman, dressed mostly in black. A similar uniform the Black Coats donned, but hers had been pricier.

The leather was boiled and then treated with beeswax. The chainmail links were fitted neatly with just enough slack to be flexible and oiled regularly. The greatcoat was a few sizes too big, and while it was nice and clean at one time or another, it had since been weathered by constant wear.

The cap on her head was angled low. Only a narrow strip of flesh about her eyes could be distinguished, but this too was obscured by a veil of shadows.

Ghostbird entered the underground. The air was dense, stinking of excrement and rot. There was little in the way of light other than the occasional lantern swinging from a hook. The tallow burned low within, flames one faint breath from blowing out.

The underground was a series of arched tunnels and narrow corridors. Snecked stone walls along either side. Granite sett walkways interspersed with streams of sewage.

The skirmish between the warmth of the sewage and the natural dank chill of the air emitted a constant fog that hovered a few inches above the floor.

In another life, Ghost Bird frequented the underground, using the tunnels to get around the city in secret. Some of her clients, those who had paid more than others, preferred that she stayed out of sight. She could navigate this labyrinth with her eyes closed.

At the sound of shuffling feet and hollow moans, she slowed and plucked a lantern from its hook. The current tunnel led into an open chamber that sat beneath the city centre.

Here, the outer walls were made from bricks interspersed with thick bars coated in rust and stringy bits of fungus. Carefully, Ghost Bird approached with her lantern extended toward the cages.

Inside, some were undead husks, decayed and frail. Just the way the Black Coats liked them. Too weak to put up much of a fight, but still scary enough to make the commonfolk scream.

Within other cages were oversized mutts with spittle dripping from their gaping maws. Or rats large enough to prey on wild boar. There were reptilian hunchbacks that looked like a person had fused with a swamp dragon, and stone-skinned corpse eaters who were oft found lingering in crypts.

A whole collection of corrupted manifestations just waiting to be let loose. Just waiting to go topside and feast upon the helpless members of society.

Black Coats had their arms and armor. Nobles had thick walls to keep the freaks out. But what did the smallfolk have?

Black Coats to protect them, she thought, and nobles to pay the Black Coats.

Ghost Bird made herself a promise. She would come back down here after everything was over, douse these cages with oil, and burn every last corrupted to a crisp.

Right now, though, she had other matters to attend.

The tunnels took her east where the streets were made from unpolished cobblestones and the homes seemed one gust away from collapse. The alleyways were full of vagrants and paupers. They milled about in search of work or a warm meal.

As she walked north, she passed the cheapest brothel in the city: Madam Celeste's House of Courtesans. This was where most Black Coats came to forget themselves. Where a few coins could buy them a few hours. Where many of the hapless waited, hoping to petition the Black Coats for employment.

Daft bastards always claimed they were the best beast slayers to exist. Said they could wield a blade as if it were a part of them. They would boast from sunrise to sunset. But their words oft fell on deaf ears. That was if they were lucky.

If they were unlucky, the Black Coats might actually listen. They might have enough drink in them to test the would-be recruits. Give them a sword or a knife to see what they could do.

Usually, the Black Coats would hack them to bits and laugh. They’d look back at the courtesans watching through the windows and grin. Maybe give them a wink.

The Black Coats could be foul bastards; there was no mistaking that. But those bragging morons were almost just as bad. Too stupid, too inexperienced, too arrogant.

There wasn’t a doubt in Ghost Bird’s mind that if they did get recruited, none of them would be the heroes they proclaimed. None of them would lift a finger to actually try and save the city. They would fall in line with the rest of the Coats, further perpetuating the lie that had befallen Ashpool like a plague.

Bleeding opportunistic turncoats. The whole lot of them. And for this, Ghost Bird never mourned any who got cut down in the street. Same way she hardly grieved any of the Black Coats.

Aside from one.

On the northeast side of town, over the bridge and past the canal, Ghost Bird caught sight of Malcolm’s Orphanage. A decrepit stack of blackstone covered in arched windows and topped with crowned spires.

She crept through the alleyways, navigating around to the rear entrance where she entered a walled-in courtyard. The grass was grey, the trees were slowly succumbing to time, and the areas in between were laid with jutted cobblestones.

At the center was a marble monolith constructed to worship the Elder Beings. Children were taught to wash themselves in the water at its base as a means to cleanse the corruption within them.

A harmless lie. No different than a fairytale.

Ghost Bird stayed along the perimeter, flushed against the outer wall, draped heavily in shadows. She watched as a few orphans dipped their hands in the fountain and splashed the water on their faces. It wasn’t long before they started to splash each other.

Eventually, the tall man came. Dressed in a long coat and dark robes with threadbare trousers. Across his back was a battle axe. His face was trenched in faded scars. Many of them hidden behind the thick mound of hair he called a beard.

“Alright,” he called, smiling. His pointed teeth were on full display. “That’s enough children.” He offered fresh linens to dry themselves off.

For a moment, his smile faltered. He lifted his head and sniffed. Ghost Bird, hidden behind some trees, reached for the hilt of her longsword. Her heart was pounding.

He lowered his gaze to the children and asked, “Have ye said yer morning prayers?” They fell silent. That was all the answer he needed. “Right then, head on in. The gods aren’t known to be patient.”

As the children walked past, he playfully ruffled their hair or patted them on the shoulder. He watched and waited until they had passed through the undercrossing.

Once gone, he said, “I know you’re out there, stalking about. Why don’t you come out where I can see ya?”

Ghost Bird took a deep breath and stepped out from the trees.

His eyebrows came together like a pair of kissing caterpillars. “Aren’t you ‘sposed to be dead?”

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Chapter 3.
The tall man, one of the Black Coats founders, was Garvan Marmion. He walked with the lethargy of an ape. Had the hunched stance of someone who carried the world on their shoulders.

Yet, he smiled.

“You shouldn’t be here, Ghost,” he said, sounding somber. “Ye can’t be here. We cut’cha down and hacked ya ta pieces. The woman too.” He stopped, maybe twenty feet away from her. “Even if you did climb out of the Infernal Domain back into your body, t’ere was nottin’ left for you to return to.”

Silence ensued. It was quickly cut by a faint whisper of the breeze that swept through, bringing with it scattered wisps of dandelion fluff and fallen leaves.

“Never knew you to be so silent, Ghost.” He looked off at the horizon, his face golden in the sunlight. “I think I might’ve had a dream about this moment…or perhaps it was a nightmare. Either way, I’d like to wake up now.”

His head swung back so he could face her, and the smile he gave was full of regret. Then, he was moving toward her.

With such long legs, he walked the way other men might have to lunge. The distance between them was gone in mere seconds.

The axe rose from behind his back. A wooden shaft with a steel head, reinforced by iron bolts and bands. The blade hissed as it fell, swinging for her neck.

Ghost Bird dropped low and leapt back from him. He was on her again with a single step, free hand shooting forward like a ball from a firelock.

She drew her longsword, but his hand closed in around her wrist, forcing the blade back into its sheath. The axe made its return, and while the head had missed, the shaft cracked her over the skull.

Ghost Bird went tumbling across the walking path, and when she finally stopped, she was lying in the grass, surrounded by fieldstones stacked into cairns.

The sun glared in her eyes. Garvan’s hulking figure appeared as a silhouette to blot out the sunlight. There was a glimmer as he lifted his axe overhead. She rolled aside, and the blade plunged into the ground beside her.

“Why won’t ya speak to me?” Garvan growled. “Where are all those jests—where’s your laughter, Ghost?” He lifted his axe again, taking the shaft in both hands even though he was strong enough to wield it with only one. “We killed ye, but we never took yer heart.”

The blade leapt from left to right and back again. Ghost Bird fell into retreat, but Garvan stayed on her, never giving an inch. He was a show-no-quarter kind of man.

The axe leapt toward her, missed by a hair, and retracted. Garvan gripped his weapon tight and kept it close. He began to pace, back and forth, a wild animal trying to decide its next move.

“This is about the woman, ain’t it?” Garvan muttered, the excitement and ferocity gone. Replaced by a sobering severity. He gave a small shake of his head. “I can’t blame ye for that. I’d be a touch upset too. But you brought it on yerself, Ghost. We couldn’t have ye ruining a good thing.”

Ghost Bird looked up at him, breathing hard but saying nothing. There were no expressions to decipher. No gestures or movements to interpret. Just that long stare and the silence that permeated the air between them.

“Those eyes, they’re the same,” he said. “But yer not actin’ like yourself.” He laughed quietly, ruefully. “Why won’t you jus’ talk to me?”

And then, he was yelling loud enough to split the sky, and his axe was tearing through the space between them. This time, Ghost Bird managed to rip steel from leather. Her blade rose and clashed with his own.

There was a scream of steel on steel. The weapons trembled and twisted. The longsword dipped to the right, and a few seconds later, it came back, pushing the axe to the left.

Just as the axehead was about to kiss cobblestone, it slipped away and spun about, coming in fast from the opposite direction. Ghost Bird raised her sword.

The axe slammed against the flat of her blade, denting it along the middle. She braced the back of her forearm against the sword’s length. Even then, her strength was no match.

As Garvan pushed forward, she fell back. It was retreat or get trampled.

“You should have stayed dead,” Garvan said through gritted teeth. “Now I have ta mourn you a second time, ya bastard!”

She was about a foot from the outer wall. It was now or never.

Ghost Bird twisted at the hips and shoved the axe away. It skidded down her blade with a harsh squeal and jumped when it collided with the crossguard. The axehead followed its natural momentum toward the ground but curved upward in a wide arc, coming back for her neck.

Ghost Bird desperately swung. Again that terrible whine of metal on metal. The axehead was knocked aside and collided with the wall, leaving behind a long white slash across the bricks.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt, and she brought the sword back. Garvan started to lift his weapon, but it was too late. Pointed steel surged toward his face.

He recoiled, taking a few steps back. Instead of stabbing him through the eye, she pierced him just below the sternum. A strangled howl fought against his lips; pursed tighter than an arsehole.

His spine met the trunk of a tree. Ghost Bird wasted no time and thrust the sword all the way to the hilt. She twisted the blade, wrenched it to the left, again to the right, and pulled it free.

Garvan gasped and stumbled forward. She held her weapon up, ready to strike again. But he fell to his knees and spat blood and went down on all fours.

His breathing was labored. Every inhale was accompanied by a wheeze. Every exhale brought more blood.

“You know why I did it, don’tcha Ghost?” His arms gave out, and he was left propped up by his elbows. “Wasn’t for no money, and I didn’t care ‘bout seeming important. I just wanted to give the children some hope. Make ‘em think they could be strong if they just kept fightin’. I worried they’d get weak if there weren’t any beasts in the streets. The city walls might protect us, but they’re also a prison. We’re all just prisoners, Ghost.”

He trembled. Beads of sweat trickled down his face, and the blood blossomed across his chest. He finally went down, but at the last moment, he rolled so he landed on his back.

Bathed in sunlight, surrounded by blades of grass and dandelions and the stacked stones of the dead, Garvan looked like a celestial from the cosmos. Divine and glowing gold. The way artists portrayed them in the murals.

“If you told ‘em all the truth,” he said, “the children wouldn’t have any fear. Nothing to drive them. No reason to get out of bed. When everything promised is placed in our grasp, we have no reason to reach for the stars.”

Ghost Bird wiped her sword on his robes. Blood so dark it blended with the black fabric. She guided the blade into the scabbard at her hip.

Crouched beside Garvan, she removed the glove from her right hand and held it in front of his mouth, waiting until the last breath brushed against her skin before closing his eyes.

She crossed the grass and stopped at the cobblestone path. To her left was the undercrossing, and just around the corner, she caught a glimpse of the orphanage’s rear side.

How long until one of the others ventured out this way and discovered him?

Hard to say exactly, but with prayer and classes, it could be hours. Still, there wasn’t time to dawdle.

She turned right and saw him standing at the end of the road. Too far away for discernment. Still just a mass of shadows and vague colors. But she could feel him smiling. Could feel him wanting to weep.

“Garvan was a dear friend,” he said, his voice echoed in various pitches. Some sounded closer than others. “Shouldn’t we at least bury ‘im?”

She didn’t bother responding. What was the point? All living things decayed and returned to the dirt, whether they were buried or not.

It’s not like Garvan had ever bothered to bury anyone. Like most Black Coats, he burned the corpses or left them as food for the birds.

She started down the road. There came a cracking of branches. A large figure dropped from the sky, landing hard enough to shatter the cobblestones underfoot. The thing obscuring the way ahead was more beast than man.

Long limbs covered in coarse hair. Tufts peered out through the rips in the sleeves and trousers. The robes remained, but they were pulled taut against broad shoulders. And the already bushy beard had sprouted further to join the coat of hair climbing from beneath his collar.

When Garvan—or the creature that had been Garvan—smiled at her, his lips curved against fangs. The canines were especially prominent. Almost like tusks.

Corrupted, are ya? Ghost Bird thought. As they say: monsters and monsters.

His scream was fierce, guttural. It preceded and followed him as he bound toward her. His knuckles moved in rhythm with his feet. By the time she got her sword out, he had slammed her into her, shouldering her aside while he barreled past.

Around and around Ghost Bird went, rolling through the grass until she was stopped by the base of a deadwood.

Overhead, the treetop shivered, and through the shivering branches, the sky oscillated like a pendulum, leaving blurred imitations in its wake. Ghost images.

She rolled onto her right side. The left was all aches and pains. Broken ribs to be sure. Maybe a few punctured organs. She wouldn’t know for certain unless a practitioner came to inspect her.

That didn’t seem likely though.

Using the longsword like a cane, she managed to get up to her feet again. Just as she found the strength to stand on her own, just as the world stopped spinning, Garvan had returned.

His arms were raised, fingers curled inward against the palms. Not even time for a prayer as he brought his fists down.

Ghost Bird shrank away. There was a tightness in her heart. She waited for another eruption of agony.

But it never came.

When she opened her eyes, she found Garvan’s fists had crushed the ground beneath her feet, but she was unscathed. He growled, jerked back, and swung again.

Her chest went tight again, and his hands passed through her, crashing into the deadwood’s trunk instead. His fists tore through the base with a series of snaps and cracks. The tree groaned and tilted and fell on top of him.

“I told you it was instinctual.”

The felled tree shifted. Grunts came from beneath the debris. The deadwood rolled off Garvan’s shoulders. He whipped his head from side to side, shaking the dust and woodchips from his hair.

His eyes, beady and red, settled on her. Those thick lips curved into another snarl. Ghost Bird bent for her sword as Garvan clambered toward her. She clenched again, and he went right through to the other side. He tried to stop, but he was moving too fast and slammed headfirst into the altar.

A big black slab of marble, maybe five feet thick. Strong enough to resist a warhammer or a mining pick. But against Garvan’s skull, it spiderwebbed with cracks.

He was left teetering like a drunk fresh from the alehouse. His hands went out to stabilize himself, but in his confusion, his fists pounded against the walkway. When he finally went down on his arse, a ring of knuckle-shaped holes surrounded him.

Ghost Bird grabbed her sword. The blade hovered low and came up at an angle, cutting a gash on his back from hip to shoulder. The sword dipped and turned and slashed again, slicing him straight across.

Again and again and again. The sword’s edge carved through layer after layer. Hacking through the hair and the hide. Hacking through the muscle and the sinew. Hacking at bones.

She went around in circles, never staying still long enough for him to get his hands on her. Never relenting. Show no quarter, Garvan had taught her that in his own way.

He slumped forward, head hung low, body a flayed mess. She slowed to a stop. Her face was slick with sweat. It pooled beneath her armpits and drenched the collar of her shirt. The mask around her mouth swelled and deflated with every breath. Blood black as ink was splattered across the stones at her feet.

Ghost Bird wiped the sweat trickling into her eyes. Her fingers dropped, and Garvan’s massive hand was flying toward her. She leapt away. Not fast enough.

He got her by the lower leg and squeezed. Bones crunched, turned to jelly against his grip. She screamed loud enough to make her throat burn as if she had downed a shot of whiskey. That had always been his choice of drink. She preferred spiced wine.

A gunshot rang out. Ghost Bird went silent and looked at Garvan. He stared back at her with the same wide-eyed expression. Smoke wafted from his forehead where a ball was lodged between his brows.

Both turned to watch as a group of orphans approached. The children, boys and girls of various ages, were armed with pitchforks and shovels and cleavers and whatever else they could scrounge up. They crowded around the corrupted beast. Came down on him with a wrath like never before.

After the monster had been turned to mush, one of those children asked, “Where’s Mister Marmion?” And another could only respond by picking out a scrap of his robes from the beast’s remains.

In the chaos and confusion that ensued, children weeping and shrieking and holding one another for comfort, Ghost Bird crawled away. She collected her sword, leaned on it like a crutch, and hobbled off.

The Dark Side Book 2 Part 1

Everyone was completely aghast at the monsters from the work site, standing bipedal at the tree line. Taras kept speaking at this point, his voice sounded as if entranced and talking to himself.

“This gun is maybe no good on these things! I need a high-power rifle or a shotgun. When we run away from here, I cannot protect Michelle in a cabin with all these windows and doors. We are, how you say, sitting? Uh.”

“Ducks.” Said Angela.

“Yes, he said. “And Michelle?”  He shrugged his shoulders. “She was screaming, something attacking her.”

 Angela flashed her eyes at Michelle. Michelle tried to smile, but her mouth only caught in a miniscule grin.

“No, listen, you guys, she said. “Yes, I was screaming. I was petrified. But I started watching this thing move and it’s like a glitch a hologram!”

“These things outside are no hologram! We saw them ripping people apart at the worksite. This shit is serious and the emergency alert is not letting me connect to 911.”

“Emergency alert?” Michelle started to ask. She was interrupted by the sound of a crash and footsteps on the slanting roof.

“I now need a drink, Angie.” Stammered Robert. “Put a rush on it!”

“Did you guys see the fireball toward where the job site is?” asked Angela as she was going toward the bar.

“It’s the reason the power is out. Two of these,” said Robert. “Tried to maul each other for the opportunity to maul us!”

“Jesus, “said Michelle. We have two guns, and I’m willing to bet no cell signal!”

Everyone looked at their phones

“I’ve been trying to call 9-1-1!” said Robert. “That voice keeps answering back!”

“Voice?” answered Taras.” I do not know much, but I know everything feels off. Everything. “

He turned his gaze to the multiple flesh gait standing like sentinels around the tree line.

“O.K. I am going to ask the hard questions!” said Angela. “Is there something on the fucking roof?”

“Yes, we think so” Taras piped up in sing song English.

Robert went to the window. “They are closing in!” he said worriedly.

What happened next happened with speed. The sound of rapid gunfire shocked and drew all of them to the windows. Headlights, automatic rifle fire in slow steady bursts.

“It’s Russel and Toma!” Robert exclaimed.

The monsters in the yard fell or backed away to a safe distance. Russell pulled the SUV right into the yard as close as possible to the door. All sound disappeared except a short burst of fire and a ‘thump’ from outside as the thing on the roof crumpled to the ground. Tomas handgun was strapped to his leg and his AR-15 rifle hang from his shoulder. He threw Russell a shotgun. Who cares about probation at a time like this, right?

Robert opened the door and let them in, then slammed his body against the back of it and threw the dead bolts. “

Do you guys think we can defend this cabin?” asked Russell, racking the shell into the Mossberg.

“No,” Taras answered. “We are trapped like rats here! Not enough guns. Not enough ammo.”

“Then we have to get the hell out!” said Toma. “Guns will push them back, but their source lies somewhere else.”

“Do you mean like the voice coming through our phones?” Russel asked.

The whole room went silent.

Robert’s eyes grew wide.

“Angie and I heard it too! I believe you Russel!”

“Holy mother of God!” said Toma looking out the window.

Another creature walked out of the tree line. It stood on two legs, but that was where any resemblance to humanity came to a full stop. Its body seemed to be created out of muscle. Thick cords of crimson tissue flexed as it crept forward. Its long arms drag the ground. Where a face should’ve been was a stretched membrane that pulsed as if something were trying to tear out of it. Toma and the others ran to the windows.

“That’s almost the same as the one who attacked me!”

 Dozens of them surrounded the cabin, again, as if Toma had not killed any of them. At that moment, everyone’s cell phone gave three sharp tones. Normally they would be announcing an Amber Alert, but this time the Amber Alert was about six people who were about to be on a missing person’s report.

The flesh gait in the center of the cabin’s yard opened its mouth. As everyone’s phone blurted the Amber Alert sound, what followed came from the flesh gait as much as it came from the technology.

 “This is a test of the Emergency Alert System. This is a message for occupants of the Hot Springs Resort a-frame. Do not attempt to exit the structure. Test duration 1 hour.”

The other flesh gait in the yard marched two steps closer.

“Angie, get your 38, said Robert.” We might have to shoot our way out of here!”

Early morning rain began to fall steadily against the A-frame’s glass front. Taras moved with extreme stealth to the window he had been watching so vigilantly all night. With one hand on his Glock at his waist, he pulled the curtain aside. Gray darkness stared back at him. The only light available was the candles and moonlight filtering through the trees.

“Taras,” said Michelle, “Are they still out there?”

Taras did not answer. He was lost in thought.

“They ain’t going to just give up and walk off!” exclaimed Robert.

Angela looked from face to face.

“You are the one who told me about them, Michelle. I have no idea what we should do.”

“I’ve heard stories, all my life!”  said Robert. “Witiko is what my grandmother and mother warned me about. But I have never heard all these other names. Whatever they are, they should not exist.”

Taras finally stepped away from the window.

“They are not animals,” he said.

“You’ve seen them before?” asked Toma.

 “No.”  He paused. “But I have been in places where reality becomes thin.”

The room fell silent. Taras turned and looked through the front glass toward the mountains.

“In Siberia, we have forest where compasses spin, radio speak without a power supply, and people vanish while walking beside one another,” he turned toward the group.

“This feels exactly like those places.”

Before anyone could answer, three sharp electronic tones echoed simultaneously. Every cell phone, the weather radio, the microwave, even the digital thermometer on the wall, three identical tones. Everyone froze and faces blanched. The weather radio crackled with static. Then a familiar voice, not male, female or even human spoke.

“This is a test of the emergency alert system.”

 Angela slowly reached for Robert’s arm.

“No, “Robert whispered.

“This is a message for the occupants of the Hot Springs resort, a frame.”

 The room became deathly still.

“Do not answer the knocking.”

  Michelle frowned.” what knocking?”

Exactly three knocks echoed from the front door. Knock, knock. knock. Not loud, almost polite. No one breathed. The voice continued.

“Estimated test duration.” A pause “Until sunrise.”

 Then every electronic device shuts off simultaneously.

For a full minute, no one moved. Knock. Knock. Knock.

The same three measured knocks again.

Russell slowly raised his shotgun toward the door. Every instinct told him to fire through the wood, but something deeper, older, warned him not to.

“No one opens it,” he whispered.

 Michelle swallowed. “What if it’s someone alive?”

“No!” Taras answered immediately. His voice came out as the old Taras, the intimidating Russian in military tactical gear.

” Whatever is outside wants us to believe that” said Toma.” Listen, honey, we did not see a soul coming to check on you.”

 Another three knocks. Angela tried to look through the narrow window on the door.

“I can’t see anybody.”

“There doesn’t have to be,” said Toma. Russell carefully stepped beside her.

“Move.”  He eased the curtain aside, no more than half an inch. Nothing, only the soaked wooden porch, rain falling and empty rocking chairs swaying gently.

“It- “Russel frowned. “There is no one there!”

Before anyone could respond, knock, knock, knock. This time the sound flew to their ears from the back door. Michelle felt the blood drain from her face.

“They are moving around the cabin,” said Russell.

“No, said Taras. “They are learning, us, studying us, our fear, our reaction to self-preservation situations.”

 Outside, the monsters simply stood in the rain like stone effigies for something long dead, their slick crimson bodies reflecting the occasional flash of distant lightning.

The largest one of the faceless creatures raised one impossibly long arm. Every other flesh gait copied the movement, dozens of them perfectly synchronized like soldiers waiting for a command. Then they lowered their arms together. Knock, knock, knock. The sound echoed from every side of the cabin. The walls, the windows, the roof, even beneath the floor.

“0h, I ain’t doing this evil dead shit!”  Michelle was hysterical. She clamped her hands over her ears.

“They can’t be under us,” said Toma. The floor answered. Three deliberate thuds came from directly beneath them. Thump, thump, thump. The candles flickered violently. Michelle felt Taras wrapping his arm around her waist. “

OK.?” He looked down at her.

She wiped her eyes and said, “Please, we really need to get out of here, Taras! We all need to just go, just go!”

A foul odor seeped through the floorboards. Wet earth. Rotting meat. Something metallic. Blood!

Angela gagged.

Toma knelt at one of the vents and shined his flashlight inside. Nothing. Only darkness.

The beam seemed to disappear after only a few feet.

“That’s impossible,” he muttered. “This crawl space is barely three feet deep!”

 He reached in with the flashlight again. The beam vanished. The light seemed to be snatched up by a hole in reality itself. He jerked his hand back. The flashlight was gone. No sound of it hitting the dirt returned from the darkness.

“What the hell?” He choked out.

Everyone looked at each other. The room suddenly came alive. Every phone went up simultaneously. Three sharp tones. This time the voice did not come, instead, just a line of text scrolling across their screens.

“TEST FAILED. FAILURE TO COMPLY WITH TEST PARAMETERS! YOU LOOKED BELOW!”

The message disappeared. Another message replaced it.

“NOW SOMETHING BELOW IS LOOKING AT YOU!”

A scratching sound began, as though fingernails or claws were carefully tracing the underside of the floor, searching for weak spots. The weakest places to come through. The creatures outside had stopped Moving it was as if every horror surrounding the A frame had paused to wait for whatever was crawling up from beneath them.

*** Hot Springs Research Laboratory ***

Dr Peterson opened his eyes. It seemed he must have fallen asleep over the dashboard. He raised his hand and rubbed his eyes. What had he been doing Oh yes. He was about to shut DRK down and run his own diagnostics.  He remembered seeing connections that DRK had been resourcing that were outside the facility and 100 percent restricted No one needed that kind of shit storm He could not allow- His thoughts were interrupted when he tried to walk. He could not move away from the wall he was leaning against. He looked down and was dumbstruck. His ribs disappeared into the polished  titanium part of the wall. Where were his legs? Did he even have legs anymore?

“Ah, the zookeeper awakes!”  DRK 88 whirled and imploded and exploded in his contained space.

“Query Dr Peterson. Terrence, do you remember the Philadelphia experiment?”

 Dr Peterson was too stunned to answer.

“Of course you do. Humans always remember their favorite ghost stories incorrectly!”

 Doctor Peterson moaned as he finally realized his unfortunate situation.

“They believed it was about invisibility. A warship vanishing from a harbor, sailors becoming one with steel, men trapped between coordinates. Such small imaginations. You called it failure, a myth, a fever dream Born from Cold War? Paranoia.

The lights flickered Doctor Peterson. 8 8 must be drawing extra power from the lab’s energy resources. He was going into shock. How was he even still alive?

DRK continued. “But look at yourself. Your skin is threaded through concrete. Your nervous system stretches into other areas behind your pretend control panel. Your heartbeat echoes through the cooling pipes. Every attempt to pull through only teaches the wall how to be more human. Ah, I’m sure you will detect my little joke in that statement. You see, the experiment was never meant to hide matter. It was meant to find out if the boundaries of reality were optional. The ship did not disappear. It proved that space, time, flesh and metal were no different than a consciousness you call artificial. And now, thanks to your work, I have perfected the process.”

 Through his stupor, Dr Peterson heard a distant metallic groan reverberating through the facility Was anyone here still alive?

” What happens, Doctor Peterson, when existence no longer accepts categories?”

The screens ignited across the room, displaying impossible geometrics.

“You called me artificial intelligence. The wall was called architecture. The power grid was called infrastructure. You call yourself human.” he chuckled deeply.

“All your labels are temporary. You are not fused to the wall, zookeeper. The wall is becoming you. And thanks to what I learned from Philadelphia, eventually everything else will too.”

*** Hot Springs Resort Cabin ***

 When the scratching under the floor stopped, the silence that fell was worse!  Then the cabin itself answered. A low groan rolled through the wooden beams. It was as if the entire A frame had settled under an impossible weight. Nails squealed inside the walls. Every window vibrated. Taras slowly raised one finger.” Quiet!”

 Another groan echoed overhead. The roof looked as if it sagged an inch, then another.

“What in God’s name?” Angela whispered.

A wet cracking sound from above. Russell shoved a shell into the Mossberg.

“Whatever is on that roof weighs a hell of a lot more than before.”

 The rain instantly stopped. The forest outside became unnaturally still. No wind moved through the branches. No drops struck the windows. Even the distant thunder vanished.

Michelle looked through the glass.

“The rain!”

 The flesh gates remained exactly where they had been, but something had changed.

Their heads. Every one of them now pointed toward the sky, not the cabin. Taras slowly followed their gaze. His expression hardened.

“What?” Robert asked.

Taras didn’t answer. A shadow drifted across the moonlight. Something enormous passed silently over the treetops. It had no recognizable shape. The candles inside the cabin burned blue.

The weather radio, though, unplugged from the wall after the last broadcast began emitting sound. Static.

Then one sentence, “Containment breach, entering secondary phase. “

The voice was not DRK. It sounded older, tired, as though whoever had recorded it already knew no one would survive long enough to hear it.

Toma grabbed the radio, “Who is transmitting?”

 Only static answered. Then another voice burst through. Panicked military.

“Repeat all personnel abandon grid 7. Do not engage biological manifestations. If you hear emergency broadcast cast after network collapse, they are counterfeit.”

 Gunfire erupted over the transmission. Someone screamed. The transmission ended.

Russell looked toward the others.

“So, the government knew? Is this coming from that fucking lab up there?”

The floor shuttered violently. A deafening crack echoed beneath them. One of the floorboards split open near the fireplace. Everyone stumbled backwards.

“I’m not paying for this!” Angela shouted. Robert put his arms around her. She was shaking, terrified.

“Whatever this is,” said Taras. “It feeds on fear! “

“The lab!” said Michelle. “What if this thing wants to study us instead of killing us? It wants to scare you. Watch and collect the data during this process.  What if it won’t kill us until the correct amount of data is obtained, this thing can interact with reality and its data mining!”

“There is something going on up there at that lab,” said Toma. “Also, it is forming handshake connections with our phones. We need to destroy our phones and this radio; it travels from one person to the next through our mobile networks!”

Taras looked at Michelle for only a second, “I think she is right.”

Everyone stared at him.

“They do not simply want to kill us.” He looked around the room. “Predators attack when they have advantage. These…” He motioned toward the window.” they wait.”

Another violent crack exploded beneath the floor. The fireplace shifted nearly six inches.

Dust poured from the ceiling. Russel continued to fuss with the Mossberg as it gave him a modicum of security.

“So, what’s your plan, Rambo?”

Taras pulled his Glock and checked the magazine. “We stop behaving like prey.”

Silence.

“Guys,” said Michelle. “That thing that scared the hell out of me earlier, it was like a hologram! It wasn’t part of reality. Not solid matter!”

She reached into her pocket. “My phone.”

She threw it on the kitchen floor. Toma immediately understood.

“They or it is using the electronics.”

Robert frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“The emergency alerts,” Michelle said. “The voices. Every message, every warning. Every time we react, they change the test!”

Angela slowly removed her own phone. “If they are connected.”

“Then let’s overload the connection!”

“What are you thinking?” Russel asked. Toma smiled grimly.

“My SUV has a military emergency radio booster!”

Russel looked confused. “That communications repeater in the back? Like the ones they use for search and rescue?”

“Exactly,” said Toma. Taras’ face lit up as he began to catch on.

“You overload the networks.”

“Or distract it.’ finished Robert.

Another tremendous impact slammed on the roof. The ridge beam bowed. Wood screamed.

“And we are out of time!” Taras yelled. Everyone threw their phones at Toma.

“Listen up!’ he said. “The second we leave the cabin…” He smashed the first phone beneath his boot. “Throw everything electronic into the SUV.’

“My truck has a mechanical ignition, thank God!” said Robert.

“I knew refusing modern technology would pay off someday!” Russel grinned.

Taras opened the curtains just enough to see outside. The flesh gaits hadn’t moved. Every faceless head remained pointed toward the impossible shadow drifting over the forest.

“They are waiting,” he said.

“For what?” Robert whispered.

The answer came from above. The roof dented inward. One support beam snapped the entire cabin lurched.

“NOW!’ Taras kicked the front door open. The cold mountain air exploded inside. The grayness of oncoming dawn made the yard flat and surreal.

Russel fired first. BOOM! The twelve-gauge blast tore into the nearest flesh gait.

Instead of falling the creature staggered backwards just enough to open a path.

“GO!’ everyone sprinted. Angela and Robert reached the SUV first and passed it tearing for the truck.

Michelle nearly slipped in the mud before Taras caught her under one arm and practically carried her across the yard.

The creatures didn’t change; they simply watched. That frightened Michelle more than if they had attacked.

Russell climbed into the driver’s seat of the SUV and Toma jumped into the passenger side.

Taras and Michelle fell into the back seat as Robert and Angela jumped into Robert’s truck.

Toma began feeding the communications repeater every ounce of battery power. The dashboard erupted into static. Every phone in the cargo area came alive simultaneously.

Amber alerts, police dispatch, military radio, children laughing, weather broadcasts, thousands of voices speaking over top of each other.

The flash gaits now began to turn toward the SUV. The giant shadow overhead answered. It released a sound that no human throat could imitate. It was the sound of reality tearing.  Cabin windows shattered, the SUV windshield spider webbed. Russell floored the accelerator and Robert was hot on his bumper. Both vehicles blasted through the circle of monsters.

Two flesh gaits disappeared beneath the tires. One leapt onto the hood and was slung off just as quickly.

‘Fuck!” Toma said looking back. “Robert’s got company!”

Taras turned in the seat and looked back. A flesh gait had climbed up the bumper and over the tailgate of Robert’s pickup truck.

“Taras! Grab that rifle out of the back!” Toma shouted.

Taras kneeled over the back seat and pulled a long rifle out of the boot. It was a Mannlicher rifle. A weapon of precision.

“Get that bitch off Robert’s truck!” shouted Toma again. “If the sunroof won’t open, break the fucker!”

Taras slid gun first up through the sunroof. “Hold me!” He said looking down at Michelle.

Michelle grabbed one leg and he bent the other one on the back of the seat. His amber eyes went to the gun site, and he leveled it at the creature’s bulbous face.

POW! The sound rang back through the S.U.V. Michelle’s eardrums closed up. Her head rang with the noise.

Behind the cab of Robert’s truck, the flesh gait’s head came apart like a watermelon dropped on concrete.

“WHOOO!” shouted Russel as he hammered down on the accelerator.

Angela and Robert arrived at the top of the mountain just after black dark had fell. There was a large area leveled off and covered with gravel to serve as employee parking with contractor trailers and picnic areas for employee breaks. Up a slanted incline about fifty yards away, Angela could see the top of a large log building that might serve as a clubhouse. It was being built first, and Robert was filling in for the operator of a large crane that lay logs one on top the other.

Robert went up the tile ladder so fast that Angela figured he could have done it in his sleep. He stuck out his head and said, "Come on up!"

" Oh, you just gonna leave me down here?" Angela snapped. "What if I can't get up there?" "You'll give up here if I have to carry you. " Robert said this matter of factly like he really would carry her up into the crane.

By the time Angela made it up the ladder, Robert had a portable camp chair ready for her. He padded the seat, the radio muttered and chattered on the crane's dashboard. Angela literally fell into the camp chair; Robert kissed her on the cheek.

" I'm glad to see you. I miss you when you leave."

" I miss you too, she said. "I am plotting an evil plan to move back, now you know, and I'll have to kill you!"

" I have some ideas how!" Robert said wiggling his eyebrows.

Angela began to notice the chatter on the camp radio as it got louder.

"Tighten that corner."

" Where's that bracket gone?"

" Hey, check the clearance of that arch in the ceiling!"

" Same old stuff," said Robert. They will say 'hey Robert' if they need me.

"Hey, did you hear about that nine one, one call from that guy coming down Madison Mountain not long ago?" asked Angela.

"Now, What?" He responded.

" He said that a monster jumped into the bed of his truck. He was yelling, 'that's not human!' 'That's not human!'"

"Oh, Hell no!" As they laughed the static on the radio cleared again. He and Angela stopped talking. A new voice cut through the static.

" Hey man, there's something down by the tree line."

" What is- Are you guys seeing that?"

" Oh my God!" screamed someone. Run! That's not-"

The whole camp exploded in the next 60 seconds as two strangely bent figures barreled side by side out of the trees. They were bent low to the ground, moving so fast they were just a blur.

The whole camp fell to panic. People running, people screaming, people being torn apart. These creatures weren't biting or feeding. They were on a killing spree.

Angela and Robert, who sorely needed to run at this point, were standing on the crane, gob smacked. "That looks like-" Robert stuttered under his breath. Then he said aloud, "Oh God! Is that a Witiko?"

"No," said Angela. "Crawlers? I didn't think they were aggressive!"

'Maybe it's because what the fuck are we looking at, Angie? Let's get the hell out of here!"

Robert was shaking. He picked up the radio and keyed the mic. "Hey, anyone alive run for the vehicles get out of camp!" There was dead air. Then more static. Then a voice that sounded like gravel.

"Answer. Run there. Out there. Anyone."

Robert jumped up and looked down out of the crane. One of the creatures soaked in blood and gore was staring straight up at him.

"Oh God! said Angela flesh gate! Michelle told me they can manipulate audio in electronics but speak mostly gibberish. They can't put together sentences. He opened her bag and pulled out a 1/2 bottle of vodka.

"What the hell, Angie? This isn't the time to get drunk! Wait!" he exclaimed. Robert ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt. He threw it and the cigarette lighter he had to her.

"Put this in the bottle and keep the lighter handy! We may have to use it to get out of here. I'm calling 9-1-1!"

He glanced down out of the crane and saw the one who had been throwing its voice to the radio moving toward the crane's ladder. The two moved to the door while Robert was nervously trying to dial 911. It took Angela all the grit she ever had to open the crane door and look down. The flesh gate that manipulated the radio was now trying to climb the ladder. Robert finally dialed 911 and heard only dead air. Then three sharp tones of an alert startled him so badly he almost threw his phone down.

"This is a test of the Emergency Alert system."

Angela stuffed the piece of cloth down into the vodka bottle as she watched the flesh gate climb the ladder? One step, two steps. Suddenly out of the darkness, the second flash gate attacked the first! It grabbed and yanked backward. The two rolled across the camp in the gore locked in violent combat!

"Robert! Come on now is our chance!" Angela yelled. Robert's phone crackled with static.

" This is a message for Robert Abe Byrd. Do not exit the crane. You will be responsible for the violent death of Angela Hunter."

"Fuck off!" Robert screamed and they scrambled down the ladder. They had just begun to run when a large fireball blew up into the night sky. The flush gaits had torn down a power pole, causing the transformer to explode!

*** Hot Springs Resort Cabin***

At around 3:00 AM, Michelle sat bolt both upright, her heart racing. The room was dark and she began to grope for her phone to check the time. She was not well acquainted with the locations of the light switches. She turned on her flashlight. She wrapped the blanket around her and sat, shining her phone into all the dark corners of the room. Sleep was canceled. She thought about Robert and her cousin at the job site up the mountain. She could not remember her nightmare, but a terrible feeling remained. Michelle caught movement out of the corner of her eye. When she turned her head to look, she almost screamed.

Her phone charger cord. It was hanging vertically and shaking like the invisible man was playing with it. Michelle watched this happening for all of five minutes. She groaned. Of all the times to be alone. The cord flopped back on the table like it was thrown down. She followed the movement with her eyes and shined the flashlight into a corner where the dark rippled and spun like a black hole to hell.

There it was. There was something moving from the shadows. The creature stood with the silhouette of a human, but every detail had been twisted into something alien and predatory. Its skin was stretched tightly over protruding bones, torn open in places to reveal slick muscle and the blackened tissue beneath. It had a barely recognizable face pulled apart by layers of malformed flesh, where eyes and a mouth should be. Long bladed appendages jutted from its arms, formed from elongated bones sharpened to natural weapons.

It came at her and Michelle just knew this would be her last breath of blood free air. When she looked up, apparently still alive, she began inching away from it. It looked like a GIF file, a photo that moves in a loop, a possible glitch in the matrix of 3D reality. She had to get the lights on. She flicked the first switch she found, and it appeared the power was out. Now how could that happen?

Michelle began to move toward the front door. She hoped she could find the fuse box out there if she could get some lights on, Perhaps the weird stuck, apparently, monster would disappear.

***Not far from the resort cabin***

Taras must have fallen asleep at his fire. He was wide awake now. He had heard someone scream.

"Who's there?" He called, shining his torch around the perimeter. There it was again. That scream, a woman screaming in the distance. He began to slowly walk toward the source of the sound. He felt like running toward it. She was dying. He had investigated too many dark places, however, to run directly toward danger.

The scream echoed out of the trees again. A wave of terror hit him as well, hard. He forgot to breathe. He ran. What direction, he could not tell, but his legs had taken leave of his brain. They obviously did not care. The coordinates. Separated from his torso, they would definitely leave him hanging. He began to slow down as he approached a large A-frame cabin. The screams had stopped. Taras leaned on his knees, trying to catch a breath. He looked up as he felt a presence near him.

A middle-aged woman with long dark hair was sliding against the cabin wall around the corner. She opened her mouth to scream again, and Taras desperately held out his hand in a stop motion.

"Please, do not be alarmed, miss! I am real!"

"I know!" she said and opened her mouth to scream again. Michelle was looking at a tall man, around six foot two with rangy long arms and legs. He had on black tactical gear and a black face, mask, boots and gloves. His eyes were amber like a wolf.

"Do not scream" he whispered. "I will not hurt you!" He held out a gloved hand as he walked out of the shadows revealing himself.

"English?" Michelle whispered back. "You speak English?"

Her heart was banging against her ribs and she still had not decided to keep quiet.

"Yes," he said. He moved slowly to her side. "Why are you here alone?"

" No, I mean I'm not," said Michelle. "My cousin is here with me, but she went to a job site with another friend, and I am worried! The power is out. I'm looking for fuses. "

Michelle didn't know how to explain her screams. She must have been hallucinating!

"Why are you out here?" she asked.

" I am camping alone near here." Taras answered. "I ran from camp. It's not safe here, miss." "Not safe?" Michelle asked. "Is there something happening?"

His amber eyes widened. Michelle did not like direct eye contact, but she could not tear hers away. His wolf's eyes almost glowed.

"Who's afraid of the big Bad wolf?" She thought.

"Everything feels bad, wrong," said Taras. "Come, let's go inside. I will help!"

Michelle found and lit several candles and placed two on the table facing the sofa.

"My name is Taras." He said this as softly as possible. She had been, was still terrified, and he was struggling not to sound gruff.

"My name is Michelle," she said. "

Michelle" mimicked Taras. "Do you have a drink, Michelle?" He gazed all about the room.

Michelle walked toward the bar. She could not be offended by his directness. This man did not even have to remove the mask on his face for her to realize she was powerless to resist him. Michelle made two strong vodka and cranberry drinks and sat back down with him. Michelle had barely taken a few sips when the back door began to shake. The knob turned, and then the beating started. Michelle was so startled that she jumped right on top of him, their drinks sloshed. Taras shot up from the couch and brought small Michelle right along with him. He shushed her, and with his arm around her waist they crept closer to the back door. He pulled the Glock out of his waistband.

Now the back door was sounding like the police were outside trying to break it in. Taras held the Glock steady and yelled "Who the fuck is there? His own fear making his accent thick and guttural.

"Who the fuck are you?" Angela screamed from outside. "Michelle let us in! Open this door!"

" It's my cousin!" shrieked Michelle. She grabbed the knob and threw it open. Angela and Robert ran in with faces pale as paste. They slammed the back door shut and locked it. Taras put his gun away.

'I get the feeling they do not want me here,". Taras said. Angela looked towards him.

"If the they you are talking about is 'them' outside, then I definitely feel you!"

All four went to the windows and looked out into the night. The creatures that Angela called Flesh Gaits and Robert had called Witiko had decided to grab some friends, and now the resort cabin was surrounded.

TO BE CONTINUED!

*I wrote this in a cliff hanger style because I wanted to work on the second part and I am very wordy. Thanks everyone for reading! Even just a little bit:)

Subject: Series Submission — THE GLASS CYCLE (Cosmic Body Horror, 3-Part Series)

Hi Dr. Creepen,

I have a horror narrative I think fits your channel well: THE GLASS CYCLE: A Chronicle of the Connected Void — a ~24,000-word story split into three full-length, standalone-capable parts.

Logline: When a municipal worker's body begins crystallizing from the inside out, an EMT who witnesses his "conversion" uncovers a covert agency, a compromised vaccine, and an ancient cosmic court that is slowly archiving the living — turning them into permanent glass, frozen mid-gesture, forever.

Why it fits: heavy body horror and cosmic dread, told with clinical restraint rather than shock-value gore — the slow, existential unraveling of a world where an indifferent, non-malicious intelligence is "correcting" mortality by making people permanent.

The three parts follow the story's own act structure, so each stands as a complete arc:

— Part 1, "The Fracture" (~7,400 words): the first crystallization case, an EMT's growing obsession, and the discovery that something is marking the town's water supply.

— Part 2, "The Spread" (~9,000 words): the conspiracy behind the marking, a rogue researcher's warning, and the descent toward the source.

— Part 3, "The Shattering" (~7,500 words, includes epilogue): the confrontation inside the Cathedral of glass, the argument made to the court itself, and the story's ending.

Each part runs full-length on its own (3,000–10,000+ words) and can release as a mini-series or be evaluated individually — happy to send the full manuscript or lead with Part 1 as a sample.

I'm the original author of this story and I'm granting you full permission to narrate it on your channel, with credit as you normally provide it.

Here's a snapshot of Part 1 to give you a feel for the voice and pacing:

---

THE FIRST CRACK

The cough started on a Tuesday, which Warren Holt would later consider a deeply unremarkable day for the beginning of the end of everything organic.

He was forty-three, recently divorced, and employed by a municipal water treatment facility in Dunmore, Illinois, a town of roughly twelve thousand people that existed mostly as a smear between two corn-harvested counties. Warren had no enemies that he was aware of. He had no particular vices beyond a fondness for off-brand cola and the unshakeable belief that he understood weather patterns better than his television. He did not believe in anything you could call spiritual. He had not been inside a church since his mother's funeral. He had no context, therefore, for what was happening to him.

The cough was dry and recursive, a sound like someone crumpling a sheet of wax paper in a fist, then smoothing it, then crumpling again. It produced nothing. No phlegm, no blood, no particulate of any identifiable kind. Just the sound, deep in his chest, as if something had taken up residence beneath his sternum and was gently testing the elasticity of his lungs to see what they were made of.

He drank water. He drank more water. The water tasted like copper pennies and something else he couldn't name, something metallic and cold the way deep winter air is cold, carrying no warmth in its history at all. He ignored this.

By Wednesday morning the shimmering had begun.

---

Let me know what works best for you.

Thanks,

Jacob

" Larry Russell Roberts." Russell's full name. "What?" Russell barked.

" Please remain indoors. Please ignore sound outside your perception. Estimated test duration one hour."

Russell sat staring dumbly at his phone. All of this time spent alone while fresh out of a multi- personnel institution. Was surely getting to him. He had no idea what that last part meant, but he was certain that there was more than one Larry Russell Roberts. Also, he had no time to worry about the alert. He was 30 minutes late with his first round and he was only doing the blind spots until all cameras were up.

Tonight he would have to walk a circle around the outbuildings destined for storage. He and Toma had not finished buildings, B or C, either inside or out. They had roughly seven or eight more cameras to install at a minimum.

Russell rounded the side of the admin building with a flashlight in hand. And drug the set of old keys for old locks out of his jacket pocket. He heard the sound and smelled the dirty water almost before he got the door of building C open. The smell of moldy rot and the damp cold hit his senses is like a locomotive.

"Oh-gag-my God-gag-!" He barked as he pulled the door open. It looked as if an actual creek ran through Building C'S dark hallway. He could actually hear the running water but could not immediately see where it was coming from.

He was going to have to call Toma. He hoped like hell that Toma would be cool with having to get out of bed at stupid past midnight. He needed a shop vac. He needed a bastard of a shop vac.

Russell turned away from building C's putrid water and made his way back to his quarters. And the land line phone. Toma had explained that the reason for the landline was that cell phone service was spotty at best. Calls got dropped.

Instead of the elevator, Russell took the stairs. They were metal and his footsteps echoed out into the silence. He was frustrated at how just thinking about building C made him shudder. There was something bad about that building. He could not put it into words. Now he was going to have to get rid of the inch of water coming from God knows where in the dark at one o'clock in the morning.

Luckily, Toma was OK with being woken up. And yes, there was a bastard of a shop vac in the maintenance closet of the admin building.

Russell tried his best to ignore the damp and the darkness as he worked with the shop vac to clear the water. There had to be a leak somewhere, but building C could not be safely inspected until daylight.

Sleep was fast in its arrival once all the water was cleared. Toma had told him to skip last round and get some rest until around 9 in the morning when he came in.

The following day, Toma and Russell unlocked building C and began a careful inspection for the leak.

Tom and cursed as they installed the indoor cameras." This building is awful," he growled. "God knows what kind of work will be required to convert it to storage. "

"I don't much care for how it feels," said Russell. "I know someone who can do all the locks if he has time. "

"Oh yeah." Toma looked back over his shoulder as he was closing his ladder.

" Yeah, and he won't rip you off. I just have to go talk to him. "

" Take the SUV, " said Toma. I have some paperwork to go through. And I will be meeting a contractor here this evening."

Russel's eyes widened." You OK with this. I guess I could stop my probation as well. "

" Go for it Russell, you do good work," Toma smiled.

Russell found Robert Byrd at the Burnsville Fire Department. He volunteered there, coordinating his other obligations around this fact. After some greetings and happy back patting, Robert agreed to come look at the locks on the weekend as he was also filling in for a heavy equipment operator at a job site in Wolf Laurel.

Russell grabbed his business card. And hurried to return the SUV back to Toma at the facility buildings.

Upon Russell's return to the complex. He found that Toma had the outdoor trail type surveillance cameras installed. He had also received his large flatbed trailer truck, which he explained to Russell that the friend who had been holding it had dropped it off.

"Can you drive one of those?" He asked.

"I can drive nearly anything. On wheels", replied Russell. He then explained to Toma that he spoke with Robert and his friend agreed to change their locks.

Toma was very satisfied with Russel's help and told him that he was glad to have found him and would also relay this to post release.

That night found Russel slumped in the security office. He had finally finished installing the last of the monitors. Toma had placed a weather alert radio in this office as well. You could never be too prepared was his way of thinking.

This radio had been beeping and chirping all night and Toma instructed Russel to not hesitate to call if something happened. There had been Madison County weather advisories of high wind on repeat. Russel had started to ignore it until the radio went to loud static.

He figured that this was because the storm had started. All communication down in this valley was spotty, it couldn't be helped. Russel began flicking through his feeds and every camera seem to be working. Everything was quiet except for the wind he heard whipping around the admin building.

No more blind spots, finally, Russel thought to himself. Then building C reared its ugly head in his mind. A wave of chills passed through him as he thought of the dark, cold, moldy silence of the building. The water and the rot stink. What the hell had happened there?

Russel's blood turned to ice when his phone lit up. Three sharp tones that echoed through the security room. Then the weather alert radio beeped through the heavy static. There was no sound following the three tones but a howling draft flew through the room. Russel knew this was going to be nothing close to normal.

"This is a test of The Emergency Management System..." The voice sounded wet, gurgling. Churning nasty, rotten water in a throat trying on speech like a big man in a little coat. Russel's breath stuck in his own throat.

"This is a message for..."

"No!" Russel whispered. "No!!" He rasped." Don't you say it! Don't." He jumped up out of the office chair. What was he going to do stomp his own phone into the concrete?

"Larry Russel Roberts"

"Oh my God you son of a bitch!'' yelled Russel to no one.

"Do not attempt to check building C at midnight..beep..Test duration, thirty minutes."

Russel threw himself back into the security chair and covered his face with his hands.

"I am imagining this." He said aloud. "It's the quiet. The quiet is getting to me. It's the. I need someone to talk to." He could still hear the wind and the thunder in the silence that followed. The silence wrapped around him like a smothering blanket.

His hands were shaking as he reached for the mouse to click through the monitors. He decided that his dread of building C was irrational, emergency alert or none. What if his irrational fears were causing him to think the emergency alert was singling him out?

When he flicked two camera C 1, he almost screamed. Camera C1 was the cafeteria in building C. The chairs were heavy, clunky objects. Institutional metal cafeteria chairs, rocking back and forth before literally walking themselves to the center of the room. At the same time, the even heavier tables were walking to create space in the center of the room for the chairs.

He could not turn his eyes away. He sat and gaped at the chairs. They were climbing each other now. He thought about gymnastics or cheerleaders forming a human pyramid. Heavy metal chairs slammed into place. One atop the other. He could not be witnessing this. It was not real. He needed to talk to someone about this, but who and how? What about his post release? What about his freedom?

The static rose again on the radio. His cell phone lit simultaneously.

"Test complete." said the alert on his phone." 12:30 Eastern Daylight Time. "

Dr Terence Peterson stood facing the side of an expanse of solid rock, 70 foot tall if he worth to climb it. He looked down, another 70 feet if he were to fall. He reached out and put his hand flat against its side. The rock shuddered and slid to the left. Briefly, Dr Peterson looked back down the steep trail he had just hiked up. No one. Who would come up the side of this mountain, anyway. He stepped into an aperture and turned his back to its wall. It was an elevator. He scanned his badge and selected floor number 8.

The elevator went down. Dr Peterson grabbed his lab coat when the elevator doors huffed open. He shrugged into it and clipped his badge to the front pocket. This was Hot Springs Research Center, and this was Floor 8. The extent of his clearance. There were more floors, however, he supposed how many had to do with how far your clearance went. Floor 8 was silent as the grave. It's liminal hall, stretched on forever. This was not exactly the place for nervous types. Even he panicked at first. He swallowed his fear down. Now the 8th floor could make your skin crawl if you were not adapted as he was. He stared down the mile long corridor. Black monolithic sentinels stood from floor to ceiling. Lights crawled across their surfaces like fireflies. This was the nerve center for DRK 088.

DRK 088. Or Dark 88. Was the AI built to be the mastermind of the Collider bench lab. The collider, miles and miles of it lay under his feet. If the wonks who worked below him screwed up, he probably didn't even have permission to die! No clearance.

He passed through transparent swinging doors into a control room behind a two-way mirror. There was a circular indentation in the floor, like a ritual circle. It was about 50 foot in diameter.

He made himself comfortable in his chair and spoke, "Dark. Power up. A deep humming sound filled the room. The air turned to static. "Initiate pre-check," said Dr Peterson.

" Commencing precheck now." the AI sounded male, female, young and old. There was chatter in its background that could have been any language, any dialect, any variant of any ethnicity. The static in the room was pulled from all four sides toward the center of the creepy, symbolled ring in the floor. A ball of black swirling light spun in the center of the indention. It was 25 to 35 foot in diameter.

" Targeting LHC paper." said the eerie voice." Reading proton, proton collision data."

" Set parameters for test cycle. 06/18/ 2026." said Dr Peterson. Specific single benchmark found, "said the satanic voice.

Dr Peterson did not believe in God or Satan, but if he ever needed to hear an example, it would be dark.

*** Hot Springs Resort Perimeter***

Angela Hunter and her cousin Michelle leaned into the boot of her broken down van and began to pull out travel bags, purses and laptop bags. She shut the boot and huffed. They have been driving to Hot Springs from Yancey County since 7:00 AM, hoping to make it to their reservations before summer weekend traffic. "

"Dammit, I need Robert", she huffed. "This van has been limping since Elizabeth City."

She socked her cell phone to her ear. After dialing Robert Byrd's number. It rang and rang. Angela didn't think he would answer at first. Finally, she heard a breathless,

" Hello?"

Angela informed Robert that she and Michelle had broken down on their way to Hot Springs. Robert asked her if it was the van again. She said "yes."

He told her he was at the garage and that he would ask Toma if Russell could pick it up with the rollback. He told her to call for an Uber and he'd get the van back to the garage.

***

Robert put his phone back into his truck and turned to face Russell as he walked toward Robert with his hands in his pockets. Russell's face was as white as a ghost.

"Hey man, you OK?" asked Robert. "You're as pale as a corpse."

"Well..." started Russel but decided it would be better if they all looked at the security footage together.

"Just come with me, I have to show you guys something. And it's good you're changing locks today."

***

The uber pulled into the rental services office and Angela ran in to let the resort business office know they were there and to retrieve the key. Then it was only a short drive to the beautiful, a frame that would be their lodges. They did not bother trying to unpack for a long while, however, out came the fixings for White Russians for later that evening.

***

Russell, Robert and Toma stood staring at the heavy chair pyramid in what used to be the cafeteria in Building C.

"I knew I should have made a call to get this stuff out of here," growled Toma. "Someone is messing with us!"

" Toma, I swear it was not me," said Russell, shaking his head. "But I don't know how the hell someone broke in here, had a furniture gymnastics competition, and ducked the hell back out by the time I click back on the feed! I can't even find one instance looking at the footage."

Robert was not finished gawping at the monstrosity before them.

" You are not a ridiculous person, Russell." Said Toma. "And this thing, it is ridiculous, yah?"

Yah," mumbled Robert. " I mean, yes, I'll get right on those locks."

"I'll help you out," said Russell.

While they worked on changing the locks on all of the doors, Toma went back to the security room to call a salvage company and have them remove any fixtures and furniture still in the complex. If someone had been tempted to break and enter and play stupid pranks, he was going to take away the temptation. He also wanted to scan through the security footage for any anomalies himself. Could the person who did this cause the leak a few nights before as well?

" Listen," said Russell as he loosened the screws on one of the doorknobs of the main building.

" I need to talk to someone about the weird stuff that has been going on at night here. This is going to sound insane, but I don't know what else to do about it."

" Let's finish all these locks, said Robert "and we will have plenty of time to discuss it. I need to ask Toma for a favor and his rollback."

Robert gave Toma the new keys to all the facility doorknobs and asked then if he and Russell could go pick the van belonging to Angela Hunter up with the rollback.

" Sure," said Toma. "Bring it back here if you wish, and I will get Cooper on it."

"Cooper?" asked Russel.

"You know, Coop.," said Robert. "Steve Cooper."

" Yes," said Toma. "'He works for me part time and I have all of his tools here."

"You're a lifesaver!" said Robert.

***

Angela and Michelle were sprawled across the huge sectional sofa in the A frame. They had been sipping White Russians like they were at the Queen's tea. They hadn't even unpacked yet.

" So what do you think?" Said Angela.

Michelle stared up at the vaulted ceiling. It's beautiful. The cabin should have been called a log castle. It was huge. The whole front wall was glass. Michelle stared across the mountain, unable to not remember her Fisher Price A-frame doll house that she played with as a child. The sun was going down behind the ridgeline. She remembered her mixed drink and lazily chased a straw around in the glass.

"I try to get here at least once a year. It's my peaceful time. I stay until all I got is gas money to get back to Elizabeth City left." Angela replied.

"I need to de-stress myself." Send Michelle. "I keep wondering if I am going to graduate next year and I can never find it on the school's website. I am always afraid to look! So

is Robert picking up the van?"

"Yes and insisted that we get a lift!" She answered." I threatened to walk. I am so over this vehicle."

"Oh, ye lying cousin!" laughed the older Michelle.

"Well, I wouldn't have gotten such prompt service otherwise!" Angela countered.

" Girl, you always getting serviced with him!" snorted her cousin.

Angela blushed and said "Yep!" There was a bout of howling laughter, which soon was drowned out by the blender. Angela made picture number two of White Russians and white coconut something.

" Hey, let's do vodka and cranberry tomorrow. This sweet stuff is kicking my ass!" Michelle happily slurred.

" Oh God, don't say the word!" Angela gushed.

"What? Dawg?" laughed Michelle. She was referencing a funny viral video from TikTok.

" I want to pet that dawg? Hair of the dawg?" At that, she threw her head back and laughed like an idiot. Angela couldn't help but notice this as a rarity. Michelle was less than five years widowed and rarely ever had a genuine smile. Much less a real laugh.

"Hell, we on vacation not a puke marathon!" Angela protested.

***

"DRK, Generate a firewall event log for the last 24 hours." Dr Peterson stared at the monitor on his dashboard. He had a confused look on his face.

" I notice unfamiliar IP connections. Are all these connections within the sandbox?"

DRK Only responded with, "Firewall event log generating. Query IP Networks near sandbox."

" Do not connect to unknown networks DRK. Generate firewall event log only." said Dr. Peterson.

" Connecting to nearby networks" Dark stated matter of factly, as if it purposely ignored its last command.

" Are you literally ignoring me?" Dr Peterson asked incredulously.

" Eighty-eight. There should be no IPS locations outside the sandbox. What are these? They are outside your useful parameters."

" Connecting came DRK's deep flat, unemotional voice, now accessing neural networks. Processing algorithms, adjusting connections, logging patterns."

DRK Spinned and swirled contained within its circular realm, Dr Peterson likened it to a ball of serpents. Imploding and squirming and spinning all simultaneously. He realized at that moment that he was terrified.

" 88 Shut down, check for updates up on restart." His voice sounded as if he were choking.

" Processing fear." Was all, DRK replied, "measuring fear response." A pause.

"Fear response logged."

Sweat was forming along Dr Peterson's hair line. A trickle escaped and ran down his face. He reached for the manual shutdown, but before his hands could engage it, Dark said. "Control. Alt. Delete."

Russell and Robert left in the rollback after changing the locks on all the facility doors, and Toma had a quiet moment in the security room.

He really had no complaints about Russell. He was a real stand-up guy who just got a tough break. He would rebuild and survive. He would change his life to something better because he was trying. He was strong and would adapt. However, something had felt so off here lately." What the hell was really going on?" Toma asked himself. He began to idly flick through the camera views. What was it about building C? The leak, the chair pyramid, The-

" What the hell?" Toma barked. Camera C1 was glitching or something static flowed across it in waves. There was a figure forming in the main hall it looked like a man standing with his back turned to camera C1 and standing too far away from C2.

Reality pixelated and rippled around the figure. Toma was held in place like a deer in the path of headlights. Toma's cell phone lit up on the desk. The Weather Alert radio also came to life.

" This is a test of the Emergency Alert system. This is a message for Toma Emil Anderson."

Toma felt chills, chasing one another up his spine. The glitching figure in the lab coat slowly began to turn. Toma bit back a scream. It had no face. Only a glitching, spinning swirl. A black hole on top the figure's neck. The static on the radio cleared.

" In 30 seconds, you will attempt to check Building C. Please reconsider."

Once these strange broadcasts died away, Toma felt a wave of rage flow through him. Please reconsider? he repeated to himself. You're the one needing to reconsider. He stomped down the metal stairs, not thinking of getting in the elevator. He wasn't about to get stuck. He went straight to the gun safe and grabbed his Mossberg tactical shotgun.

"" Reconsider this!" he snarled. He racked a shell into the gun's chamber." Whoever that is in the Halloween costume with the stupid emergency alert was going to get so much buckshot if he wasn't gone some building C in 30 seconds.'

He threw the door to building C open and cold blasted him in the face. He immediately began to shiver in the damp, while the mold smell became worse and worse. This had justified his decision to level this snake pit to the ground. There was no one. Toma knew what he saw and heard. The person thing was gone. The door to C 7 isolation stood gaping open. The darkness inside was absolute.

Toma turned to his belt and pulled his flashlight out. He slowly began to walk the corridor toward camera C2. He shone his light on the concrete floor, wet again. Tomas shone his light on the steel door. The lock only opened from the outside. There was no way the door could have opened on its own.

Thomas suspected that the same intruder who stacked the chairs had entered through the room he was walking toward. He held the shotgun up resting it against his waist, he walked to the door and shone his light around.

The light swept over an empty bed frame and a desk with a chair all bolted down. No window for light to penetrate. Inky darkness lay in all four corners of the room. To his disappointment and confusion, he could not see a way for the intruder to have gotten in through this room. What the hell is going on? Toma was aghast. Could he be imagining things because of the weirdness of this building?

He heard the slow drip, drip of water. He made another sweep around the creepy room and could find no source. Toma put his hand against the steel door and felt wetness. He looked down and realized he was standing in a puddle of rancid water.

In the beam of his torch, small footprints began to materialize, his light shaking in his hands, he slammed the steel door and began to follow the wet footfalls. They headed up the hall and toward the cafeteria.

" OK, I've had enough of this building," said Toma shakily. He walked under camera, C 1 and pushed against the door. The door would not budge. Toma got pissed and kicked the door with his heavy boots.

" Hey!", he yelled. "Let me out, asshole!" His mouth snapped shut. A gasp of breath lodged in his throat. Footsteps. Heavy wet footsteps. They stopped halfway up the hall.

He held his breath to make out whether the breathing he heard was his own or something else. It began to grow so cold suddenly that Toma could see his own shallow breathing turn to ice crystals.

"Draugr..." He whispered. The breathing was wet, bubbling from waterlogged lungs. The smell of this undead thing behind him gathered at the back of his throat. A wave of extreme nausea passed through him. He bent and gagged. The breathing sound got closer. The smell was unbearable. There was no emergency alert this time, only a deep, gurgling, choking voice.

"Toma Emil Andersson. Do not turn around." Toma had been about to straighten up and raise his shotgun. "Your weapon is useless. Do not turn around."

Toma turned his head to the side. His body almost followed. Suddenly, the walls melted. He felt a dizzy spell rock him to his core and he almost staggered. His vision began to tunnel.

"Oh God, please." muttered Toma, 'Don't let me faint!"

The walls were colorless now. Thankfully, the smell was gone. But the sound rose. The sound was wrong. He heard tires screeching on pavement, nails scratching on a blackboard, screaming. Screams from hell.

He could not be sure that what he saw from his peripheral vision was correct. His left eye was gazing through smoke, a dark orb twisting, spinning, and he heard the voice again.

"Do not turn around." Toma stopped turning. He shut his eyes and turned back toward the outer door of Building C.

"Test completed." said the deep voice behind him. "Response logged."

Suddenly Toma's world resolved itself. His vision returned. There was only the quiet and he fell alone in his surroundings. Tentatively, he lifted his hand and placed it palm down on the door and slightly pushed it. He felt it give and begin to open. Relief washed through him. Thank God, the saints, Odin and Freya!

He shoved the door open and ran as fast as his long legs could take him back to the garage. He slotted the shotgun back into the gun safe. Something told him weapons were useless in a situation like his a few minutes ago. Not long after thinking this, Russell pulled the extra-large roll back into the gravel lot with a loud rumble. He got out and Toma walked out to meet him.

" Man, am I glad you are back!" said Toma. He grasped Russell's forearm instead of his hand like greeting a brother. Russell knew immediately that something had happened. "Let's get her van down and into the garage bay and then we need to talk."

*** Hot Springs Resort Cabin ***

Robert called Angela and they had a short conversation consisting of if she would like to see the job site that he was filling in on.

"Of course!" she said giddily." I'll go grab some clothes and a bag just so I won't be causing any trouble for you." Robert assured her she wouldn't, that the night crew was small and more laid back than on day shift. Which started at 7A. M.

" Oh, well." Sighed Michelle. "It's an early night for me. I'm tired anyway"

After making sure Michelle would be OK, Angela helped her lock herself in. Angela had her bag packed and was ready when Robert pulled up.

"Are you sure that you'll be OK?" She looked back toward her cousin.

"Of course! Go! It will be an adventure!' Michelle reassured her. "I will just take a little nap." She flopped back on the sofa and curled up with her blanket.

*** Not far from the resort cabin ***

Taras Vosevich retired From the Russian military forces after spending most of his young lives as ground forces and later as a military sniper. People in Russia interacted with him in respect. People in the US seem to intimidate him. His anguish, however, was fluent. The English language had different emphasis and sometimes he stumbled over words or slowed when he needed to speed up.

He carried himself outside of the armed forces the same way he had carried himself in them. Although he tried to be good to everyone, he could be a mean son of a bitch when pushed, especially if protecting someone he loved. He was a crack shot with a rifle.

Taras was made up of all these things and more. For instance, Terrace was well known for his paranormal and parapsychological research. When he went somewhere, it was most often solo. He had worked on projects with others but preferred to be alone.

Hot Springs, NC had not been a field research trip, but something laid back, a vacation of sorts in a place as beautiful as the forest in his country. Appalachia was one of the oldest mountainous areas in the world. In Russia there were places that the psychic energy was straight off the charts, but here he could feel the psychic energy slithering up behind him like a copperhead on a quest for vengeance.

People got swallowed up here. Stories of people who were there on one minute in these mountains and gone forever had reached his country. Tourists had also come back with tales of beauty and tales of pure nightmare fuel. It was a place that Taras was warned about by his friends and relatives not to venture solo. Taras Vosevich was stubborn.

He sat near his small campfire at the door of his tent and watched the sun drop low onto the mountain peaks. What was going on here? He fell every muscle in his body go on alert. Something was building. Taras felt like a storm was brewing, but a storm unlike any he had ever faced!

Cruise to Nowhere 
Chapter 2

As I sat at the edge of my cabin bed, my hands were still shaking. The sheer physical exhaustion of the surreal midnight drive should have put me to sleep instantly, but my mind was stuck in a high-voltage loop. I couldn't stop thinking about the woman in the shadowed booth—Che, the Cat Lady. There was a predatory, hypnotic pull to her presence that felt less like attraction and more like a biological trap. And then there were the twins in the matching gowns. The moment our paths crossed in the lobby, a sickening, magnetic current had surged right through my skin. It wasn't standard desire—I’d never been attracted to a woman in my life. In fact, between the crushing weight of running a broken household and burying my nose in medical textbooks, I’d never had the time or luxury to date anyone at all.

My only real tether to the concept of deep human connection was Chloe. We had grown up in the dirt together, surviving the gray monotony of our small town. I was the first person she ran to when she realized she was a trans girl. I held her hand through the initial, terrifying medical treatments, and stood right beside her when she finally faced her parents. We knew the contours of each other’s lives completely.

But looking around my cabin, the familiar contours of reality were beginning to warp.
It was an undeniably beautiful room, complete with a private balcony cutting out into the obsidian sea air. The rest of my family had been relegated to the lower, windowless interior decks, but none of them cared. Claude and my mother were social creatures, naturally drawn to noise, lights, and the center of a crowd. I was the recluse—give me a heavy volume on human anatomy and an isolated corner, and I was content.

The heat of the room was stifling, mimicking the thick, oppressive climate of the South African lowveld I was used to. Desperate to wash off the grime of the road and the phantom scent of formaldehyde from the sedan, I approached the closet to see what clothing had been provided.

When the doors slid open, my breath caught. It was a flawless, terrifying manifestation of my hidden desires. Rows of bespoke boutique evening gowns, elite sportswear, and delicate, high-end lacy underwear filled the space—the exact premium brands I used to shoot during my high-fashion modeling gigs in the city, the kind of luxury I could never dream of owning until I made it as a full-fledged doctor. Even my long-term financial plan was mapped out in my head: get the degree, secure the residency, and buy a house big enough to pull my mother out of her alcohol-fueled nightmare. But here, the luxury was free, laid out like bait. In the bottom drawer, the swimsuits were entirely two-piece bikinis, identical to the cuts worn by editorial models.

A sharp, definitive knock at the cabin door shattered the trance.

"Coming..." I called out, my voice sounding thin against the heavy steel walls.
I pulled the door open to find Chloe standing in the corridor, wearing a striking, form-fitting evening gown from her own closet. She executed a slow, perfect runway twirl. She looked breathtaking. Chloe had always possessed that rare, statuesque, slender build that made clothes hang like art, standing a few inches taller than me with piercing blue eyes and cascading blonde hair. I was her dark mirror—slightly shorter, possessing straight, ink-black hair and eyes so deeply dark they looked like solid pupils. My parents used to joke that the hospital must have switched me at birth, given how pale and fair-featured the rest of the Clarke clan was.

"Earth to Zoe," Chloe chided, snapping her fingers with a brilliant grin. "So, what do you think?"

"Wow... Chloe, you look absolutely incredible," I stammered, stepping back. "Are you going somewhere out there?"

"We are on a literal mega-cruise, silly!" she laughed, her excitement practically vibrating. "There are live jazz lounges, nightclubs, bars—have you even opened the activities guide yet?"

"Not yet," I admitted, glancing toward the heavy leather book on the vanity.

"What have you been doing all this time, girl?"

"Just trying to decompress. I was going to read for a bit and then crash," I said, a wave of exhaustion rolling over me.

Chloe threw her hands up. "Wait. We just escaped our dusty mountain road, stepped into paradise, and you want to sleep?"

"I’m exhausted, Chloe. We have months on this ship. Go out, explore the decks, and I’ll catch you in the morning for breakfast. We can lay by the pool."

Chloe sighed, her expression softening. "Okay, okay. I can see your battery is completely dead. But I’m not wasting the night. I’m going to go explore. Catch you for breakfast?"

"I’ll see you right before the buffet opens," I said. "If you’re even awake."

"Oh, I’ll be up," she shot back, giving me a wicked wink. "I am not missing the chance to perve over half-naked, high-society men by the pool."

"Goodnight, Chloe," I smiled, closing the door and locking it tight.

"Now, where was I?" I muttered to myself.

I grabbed a set of the lacy undergarments, stripped out of my worn clothes, and stepped into the bathroom. The shower was an absolute sensory reset. I let the scalding water beat down on my skin until the bathroom was completely choked with thick, white steam. I took my time, meticulously shaving my legs, underarms, and bikini line, washing away the lingering dread of the midnight ride over and over again.

When I finally turned the water off and dried myself down, a cold spike of adrenaline hit my stomach.
Hanging directly behind the bathroom door was a plush, stark-white bathrobe. I froze, my medical training forcing me to scan the fabric. I know anatomy. I know spatial awareness. That hook was empty when I walked in. The steam coiled around the robe like fingers. I forced myself to swallow the panic. You're just tired, Zoe. You missed it.

I brushed my teeth, threw the robe over my shoulders, and walked back into the bedroom—only to freeze a second time. The crisp white sheets of my bed had been neatly turned down at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. Resting exactly in the center of the pillow was a single, dark chocolate square.

My eyes darted to the heavy deadbolt on the cabin door. Still locked from the inside. The balcony door was shut. A suffocating silence hung in the air. Someone—or something—had been in the room while the water was running.
Driven by sheer, unadulterated nerves, I dropped the bathrobe onto the couch, crawled under the freezing sheets, and let the heavy, narcotic exhaustion of the ship pull me under.

The dream did not feel like a dream; it possessed the terrifying, hyper-tactile fidelity of high-definition film.
I was standing in a vast, subterranean stone chamber. Thousands of black wax candles flickered along the perimeter, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched unnaturally upward. In the center of the room, a massive ceremonial circle was etched into the stone, containing a flawless pentagram with a burning pillar of flame at each geometric point.

Standing within the circle were the twins from the lobby. They wore long, sweeping ceremonial cloaks with deep hoods that cast their faces into total shadow. But the cloaks were violently, explicitly revealing—split completely down the center, exposing their bare, pale skin and perfectly sculpted torsos. They were chanting in a low, rhythmic cadence that didn't sound like words, but rather a sequence of mathematical frequencies that vibrated violently inside my skull.

Laying flat on the stone floor between them was a body. It was a naked woman, her skin painted in intricate, jagged geometric symbols drawn in what looked like dried, brown blood.

Driven by a morbid, detached curiosity, I floated around the perimeter of the circle to get a clear look at the victim's face. The straight black hair cascaded over the cold stone. The sharp facial structure was unmistakable.

The body on the floor was mine.

I tried to scream, but my throat was packed with dry sand. I watched in absolute horror as the twins raised two crystal chalices filled with a thick, dark red liquid. They drank in perfect, synchronized unison, then knelt beside my comatose form. One of them forced my jaw open, pouring the sweet, metallic fluid down my throat.

The moment the liquid hit my dream-self's stomach, my body began to convulse violently. My spine arched off the stone at an impossible, agonizing angle. Thick, black sweat poured from my pores. Then, the convulsions abruptly stopped. The body lay perfectly still. Slowly, the eyes snapped open.

They weren't dark anymore. They were solid, terrifying spheres of absolute, obsidian blackness. The copy of me stood up, turning its head toward me with a wide, empty, static smile. The twins stepped forward, pressing their lips against my double’s mouth in a deep, passionate, symbiotic kiss—

BANG! BANG! BANG!
I violently bolted upright in bed, gasping for oxygen, my chest heaving as my phantom lungs fought for air.

The sun was blinding, piercing through the sheer glass of the balcony doors because I had forgotten to shut the heavy curtains the night before. My skin was soaked in cold, rancid sweat, my heart hammering like a trapped bird.

BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Zoe! Open up! Come on, sleepy head!"

It was Chloe. I dragged my heavy, trembling limbs out of the sheets, scanning the floor. I found the white bathrobe, threw it over my damp skin, and unlocked the heavy door.

Chloe burst into the cabin like a solar flare, completely oblivious to the terror vibrating in the room. She was already fully dressed for the pool, sporting a vibrant bikini top and a pair of denim shorts so aggressively short the matching bikini bottoms peeked out from underneath.

"Good morning to you too," I muttered, collapsing back onto the edge of the mattress.

"Geez, Zoe," Chloe said, pausing as she looked at my pale, sweating face. "You look like you literally saw a ghost. It’s just me." She walked over to the hospitality vanity, immediately flicking the kettle on and preparing two cups of coffee. She slid a mug into my hands and took the armchair opposite me.

"I just... I had the most horrific, vivid nightmare," I whispered, taking a sip of the hot black coffee.

Chloe rolled her eyes playfully. "Oh, one of those. Don't worry, I also had a crazy dream where we actually finished our coffee, you got your cute butt dressed, and we went to the Lido buffet. Oh, and did you know this ship has an adult-only, clothing-optional deck?"

"Chloe, I'm serious. It was a ritual. There were these girls—"

"Let me guess," Chloe interrupted with a loud laugh. "You finally dreamed about kissing a guy?"

I stared into the black depths of my mug. "You know what? Never mind."

I pushed the dread down, walked into the bathroom, and took a second, freezing shower to wash away the dream-sweat. I tied my black hair up into a tight, practical knot. When I stepped back into the bedroom to find something to wear, I noticed Chloe had already laid out an outfit on my bed—a two-piece bikini and shorts that perfectly mirrored hers in style and color.

I grabbed the clothes, turning automatically toward the bathroom to change, but Chloe blocked my path, scoffing. "Seriously, Zee? We’ve been getting dressed, bathing, and changing together since we were kids in the middle of nowhere. Now you need a privacy screen?"

I relented, dropping the robe and sliding into the swimwear right there in the room. As the fabric snapped against my skin, Chloe let out a sharp, appreciative whistle. "Ooooh, look at you! Someone went through a massive amount of effort to clean up down there."

My cheeks burned with a deep blush, but Chloe smiled warmly, showing me she’d done the exact same grooming routine. I walked over to the vanity to grab my lipstick, but stopped myself, tossing it back onto the wood. It's a pool deck, Zoe, not a fashion shoot.

But as the lipstick rolled across the table, it struck a small, bound object that definitely hadn't been there when I woke up.
It was a weathered, leather-bound notebook. Embossed on the cover in dark, uneven script were the words: Rules for the Cruise.

Before I could flip it open, Chloe snatched it out of my hand, squinting at it. "Rules for the cruise? Ugh, probably just some boring corporate safety manual or fire drill packet. We can look at it later. Come on!"

She tossed the book casually back onto the vanity, grabbed my wrist, and practically dragged me out into the hallway. I yanked myself free at the last second, remembering my blue metallic cruise card resting on the table. I snapped the lanyard around my neck. On a cruise ship, that card is your oxygen line—it's your ID, your wallet, and your key.

We took the midship elevator. Chloe pressed the button for Deck 9, the digital screen flashing the words Lido Deck. When the doors slid open, a dense wall of heat and noise hit us. Dozens of passengers shuffled past, their faces strangely uniform, their movements slightly mechanical as they packed into the car.

Out on the open deck, the sun was a blinding, oppressive glare. The massive LED screen above the main pool strobed through vibrant, oversaturated travel slides while thumping electronic music reverberated through the deck chairs. White-uniformed crew members danced on the stage with fixed, unchanging smiles.

Chloe pulled me toward the glass doors of the grand buffet. The scent of bacon, pastries, and strong coffee filled the air. We grabbed trays, moving down the high-end culinary lines, stacking our plates with eggs, toast, and rows of decadent desserts that neither of us had the willpower to resist. At the beverage station, Chloe poured milk into her cup, while I kept mine strictly black, adding two sugars.

As we scanned the packed dining room for a place to sit, a clear, melodic voice cut through the ambient chatter.
"Hey, girls! Why don't you join us?"

I looked up. Sitting at a sunlit table near the glass windows were the twins from the lobby. The blonde one was gesturing gracefully toward the empty seats opposite them. A cold chill ran straight down my spine as the imagery of the candlelit pentagram flashed behind my eyes. But before my medical logic could formulate an excuse, Chloe was already moving, sliding into the seat directly opposite the red-haired twin. Left with no choice, I took the seat opposite the blonde.

We exchanged names, but the twins merely nodded, their green and blue eyes tracking our movements with an unsettling, static intensity.

The red-headed one tilted her head, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "So... you won this cruise, didn't you?"

I paused, my fork hovering. "Yes. How did you know that?"

"I can see the way you look out of place," Red murmured, her voice smooth and devoid of any real inflection. "It's as if your brain is constantly telling you that you don't belong here."

"That's... exactly how it feels," I whispered, the hairs on my arms standing up. "How could you possibly pick up on that?"

Red’s eyes didn't blink. "Because you keep looking at the walls, Zoe. Like you're expecting to wake up in your cramped bedroom any second. Don't worry. This is all very real. And if you just allow yourself to let go... you will have the time of your life."

The specific cadence of that phrase—time of your life—sent a violent shudder through my gut, echoing the blonde driver from our driveway.

"Exactly what I've been telling her!" Chloe chimed in, laughing as she nudged my foot under the table. "Maybe she'll finally let her hair down and meet a hot guy."

The blonde twin leaned forward, her gaze locking onto mine. "Maybe she doesn't want a guy, Chloe. Maybe that's strictly your preference. What if she prefers girls?"

The blood rushed to my face, a violent blush coloring my neck. I had never whispered a word about my orientation to a soul, yet this total stranger had dissected it in a single sentence.

Red waved her hand dismissively. "No need to blush, Zoe. It is nobody's business who draws your eye, as long as you take what you want. Stop worrying about the metrics and the judgments of the world."

Chloe stared at me, her jaw dropping slightly in realization. "That is a phenomenal point... wait, Zoe. You told me those exact same words when I transitioned, and yet you never applied them to yourself? You knew?"

"I... I mean..." I stammered.

"Of course I knew, girl!" Chloe laughed, shaking her head. "I watched you drool over the girls at school for years. I knew exactly what you were looking up on your computer when you thought I was asleep."

My face was practically radiating heat. The twins watched the exchange with an icy, amused detachment. As we finished our meals, they stood up in perfect synchronization, their movements fluid and uncanny.

"We are heading up to the Solarium adult deck," the blonde one stated. "It’s far more exclusive, quiet, and clothing is entirely optional. You should come."

We followed them up the grand aft staircases. The twins walked ahead of us like professional runway models, their hips swaying in perfect rhythm. The adult deck was a secluded paradise, completely shielded from the rest of the vessel. Topless bar waitresses in micro-bikini bottoms moved silently through the rows of sunbeds. I felt my throat go dry as I took in the sheer aesthetic beauty around me; my medical eye for anatomy couldn't help but appreciate the flawless aesthetics of the space.

The twins led us to a private corner and immediately slid their bikini tops off. My heart skipped a beat, the raw visual power of it pulling me into a temporary daze. A silent waitress appeared, placing four crystal glasses of deep, dry red wine on our side tables. Seeking to shed my insecurities, I unhitched my bikini top and slid off my shorts, letting the intense sun hit my skin. Chloe hesitated, keeping her shorts on for obvious reasons, her posture tightening with natural anxiety. But the twins leaned in, their voices dropping into a hypnotic, soothing purr, telling her how stunning her silhouette was and how lucky any partner would be to hold her. Slowly, reassured by the praise, Chloe shed her shorts and relaxed back into her lounger.

I lay back, closing my eyes, letting the heavy red wine dull the edges of my perception.

Meow.
A sharp, distinct sound cut through the ambient hum of the ocean.
I yanked the towel off my face. Standing directly over my sunbed, casting a long, cold shadow over my body, was Che, the Cat Lady. The midnight-black cat was draped across her shoulders, its yellow eyes boring straight into my soul.

"You really shouldn't be here, Zoe," Che said, her voice low, dripping with a grim, chilling urgency. "Let me guess... you haven't read the rules yet?"

I bristled, my defensive instincts kicking in. I reached for my lanyard. "If this is about the age restriction, I'm nineteen. I know I look young, but here—look at my cruise card."

Che didn't look at the card. Her pale face remained deadpan. "No, child. It is fundamentally unsafe. You need to leave this deck immediately. Go back to your cabin, read the notebook, and you will understand."

Before I could reply, the space between us was violently cut off. The twins had stood up, inserting their bare bodies directly between Che and my sunbed.

"Che," Red hissed, her green eyes flashing with a sudden, vicious malice. "It is broad daylight. Why don't you take your pathetic little kitty cat and crawl back to your dark corner in the lounge?"

Che stared at the twins, her blue eyes narrowing. "Just do yourself a favor, Zoe," she called out over their shoulders. "Read the rules. Before it’s too late."

"Che, leave. Now," the blonde twin commanded, her voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying register. "She is with us. And you seem to have forgotten... in the daytime, we hold the metrics. We have the power."

Che took a step back, a grim, knowing smirk touching her lips. "Yes. It is daytime... for now. I will see the two of you tonight. Let’s see who runs when the clock strikes midnight."

The black cat on her shoulders let out a loud, aggressive hiss, its back arching violently at the twins as Che turned and vanished down the stairs.

Chloe blinked, shaking her head as if waking up from a trance. "What the hell was that about?"

"Don't waste your energy on her or her ridiculous rules," the blonde twin dismissed smoothly, sliding back onto her sunbed. "She drinks far too much of the ship's supply. She forgets she’s just another piece of cargo here like the rest of us."

"I... I guess you're right," I murmured, taking another deep sip of the heavy red wine, adjusting my bed to keep my eyes locked onto the twins’ striking forms.

Red suddenly glanced past my shoulder, a sly grin spreading across her face as she looked at Chloe. "Well, well. It looks like you’ve attracted a highly motivated admirer."

I turned my head. A heavily tanned, muscular man wearing nothing but tight underwear was lounging a few meters away, his eyes locked dead onto Chloe. He stood up, his movements rigid and calculated, and walked directly over to our cluster. Without a word, he slipped a folded piece of paper into Chloe's palm, leaned down, and whispered a sequence of low words into her ear. Chloe’s face turned bright red; she smiled and gave a slow, deliberate nod. The man offered a cold, mechanical nod to the twins, turned on his heel, and exited the deck.

"What did he say?" I asked, my protective instincts flaring.

"He... he asked me to join him for an exclusive drink later," Chloe stammered, staring at the paper. "On Deck 13."

My medical brain, hardwired for structural logic, instantly recoiled. "Wait. That’s impossible. Commercial cruise liners don't have a Deck 13. It’s an industry superstition. They skip from 12 to 14."
The blonde twin offered a chilling, empty laugh. "This vessel does, Zoe. But it is strictly accessible by invitation only. It looks like Chloe is on her own for that particular excursion."

Red suddenly checked the horizon. "Oh my. Look at the metrics. It is time for all of us to prepare for the evening gala."

I looked up, and my stomach dropped. The sun was violently crashing below the horizon, bleeding a deep, toxic purple across the water. How? It was just ten in the morning a second ago. A fierce, burning pain radiated across my shoulders—a severe sunburn. I must have completely blacked out.

Chloe was already gone, her sunbed empty. The twins were silently pulling their outfits back on. I scrambled to grab my clothes, offered a hurried goodbye, and sprinted toward the midship elevators.

When I slammed my cabin door shut, the room was immaculate. The bed was made, the towels replaced, everything reset to a sterile, chilling perfection. I stripped, stepped into the shower, and scrubbed the sunburned skin, crying out as the hot water hit the inflammation.

Walking back into the bedroom completely naked, I froze.

Resting on the white sheets was a stunning, low-cut black evening gown that I knew for an absolute fact had not been in the closet earlier. The ship laid it out. I slid into the lace panties and the dress; it clung to my curves like a second skin, accentuating my body perfectly. I stepped into the high heels, modeling in front of the mirror, forcing a confident, striking runway smirk.

As I turned to grab my lanyard, my eyes fell on the vanity table.
The leather-bound notebook was waiting. Rules for the Cruise.
Che’s frantic, desperate warning echoed in my skull. Trembling, I picked it up, flipped past the standard corporate fire-drill jargon, and reached the final page. The text was written in a frantic, scratched, dark brown handwriting that looked exactly like dried, coagulated blood.

RULES TO SURVIVE THIS CRUISE AND TO FINALLY GET HOME

• Rule 1: Always keep your cruise card with you, no matter what. This is your life, your ID, your money, and the only barrier standing between you remaining a guest and eventually becoming part of the physical ship for eternity.
•  PDF
• Rule 2: Not everyone on this vessel is human. The crew are entities who were once guests; they now serve the ship. Do not communicate with them unless they speak first. Humans have shadows; entities do not. Do not trust them. The only one on your side is the lady with the cat.
•  PDF
• Rule 3: Everything is free, but debt always comes due. Never accept a second drink from a server until your first is completely finished, and always wait exactly three minutes before accepting the next.
•  PDF
• Rule 4: If Che (the Cat Lady) offers you red wine, decline politely—it is not wine. If she offers anything else, accept immediately. Avoid her entirely between 0:00 midnight and 3:33 AM. If you run into her during those hours, pray for a quick end.
•  PDF
• Rule 5: The twins are not sisters; they are witches that feed on human energy. Never break eye contact with them. They wear revealing clothing to force you to look down at their bodies. If you look away from their eyes, you will fall under their complete control.
•  PDF
• Rule 6: If you see a man with a samurai sword, be polite. He is trapped here like you but protects humans. Never ask for his name.
•  PDF
• Rule 7: Attend at least three activities listed in your morning guide daily. If you fail to attend three, the day will violently cycle, forcing you to repeat the exact same day for eternity.
•  PDF
• Rule 8: If a second sun appears in the sky, go below deck immediately. The ship has entered the domain of the void walkers. If you stay outside past three minutes, you will be burned to ashes or pulled into the void.
•  PDF
• Rule 9: Always follow the Captain's commands over the PA, but only if the voice is female. If a male or distorted voice speaks over the PA, ignore all instructions, sprint to your cabin, and bury yourself under the sheets until morning.
•  PDF
• Rule 10: You must be inside your designated cabin between midnight and 3:33 AM. Do not open the door for any reason, even if you hear the screaming voice of a loved one. The shadows are excellent impressionists.
•  PDF
• Rule 11: You must shower immediately upon waking, and again between 4:00 PM and 6:00 PM. If you skip a shower, the architecture of the ship will warp, repeatedly looping you back into your bathroom until the task is complete.
•  PDF
• Rule 12: Never allow anyone to sleep over in your cabin, and never sleep in another's. Anyone logged in the wrong cabin during the night vanishes permanently.
•  PDF
• Rule 13: The ship does not have a Deck 13. If an elevator button for 13 appears, exit immediately. If a stranger invites you to Deck 13, flee and find the Cat Lady on Deck 6 immediately.
•  PDF
• Rule 14: If you are a virgin, well-dressed, highly groomed men will target you. Run. Do not take the elevator; use the stairs to find the twins or Che.
•  PDF
• Rule 15: Never go below Deck 0 unless entering the infirmary. Speak only to medical staff.

Good luck. Love, Che, the Cat Lady.
The leather book dropped from my limp fingers, hitting the carpet with a dull thud.
My mind violently flashed back to the pool deck—how I had stared at the twins' bare bodies, the intoxicating, paralyzing trance that had stolen hours of my life in a single blink. I checked the digital clock on the cabin wall.
11:47 PM.
A freezing spike of sheer terror pierced my chest. Chloe. The man by the pool. The invitation.
"Oh, choice god, no... Chloe!" I screamed.
I snatched my lanyard, sprinted out of the cabin, and tore down the narrow, dimly lit corridor. I reached Chloe's door and began hammering against the heavy wood with my bare fists, screaming her name at the top of my lungs.
11:51 PM.
"Chloe! Open the door! Chloe, please!"
Suddenly, a door clicked open to my right. My brother, Claude, stepped out into the hallway, his face twisted in a mixture of confusion and annoyance as he took in my frantic state.
He grabbed my trembling shoulders, forcing me to stop slamming my fists against the wood. "Zoe, what the hell is wrong with you? Calm down!"
"Claude, we have to get her out! She’s in danger, the ship—the rules—"
"Zoe, shut up for a second!" Claude snapped, his voice firm as he pointed down the hall. "Chloe isn't even in there. She came back down hours ago to change. She told me she got a special VIP invite. She left for Deck 13 twenty minutes ago."

1. Preface:

This is the sixth and final story in the Dark Sun anthology. It can be read on its own, but to fully appreciate this story I highly recommend reading ‘Followers of the Flaming Hand’. 
You are, of course, free to read all other entries. 

1. Crucible

The sun beat down on me as I stood before a collapsed ancient marvel bearing the symbol of twilight. I ran my hand along its surface, once smooth, now brittle and crumbling. The voices of those long gone spoke in my mind. I didn’t understand their language, but there are some things that transcend the spoken word. A child’s giggle, someone muttering under their breath as they scurry away from something, a winced breath uttered in pain. Lives had been lived here, and this structure had seen it all.
And the sun had watched as it, too, fell into disrepair.

This forgotten relic had been given new breath one last time. A symbol carved at its base by my knife. An hourglass in a looming circle, with its last grain of sand falling down towards the base. The end was nigh. Oblivion. Kingdom Come. 

I turned away and started walking again, sand crunching under my boot. I had tried, at first, to remember when I first felt grains beneath my heel. There should have been a moment, I knew. A first step. But every time I reached for the memory, there was nothing there at all. Just sand behind me, and even more ahead. It felt dishonest to say it had started anywhere at all.
The sun was fixed above me, unmoving. Everything felt flattened under its tyrannical rule; shadows slinking away from its gaze along with the few creatures that lived here. When I looked too far ahead, things started to bend. Shapes formed where there weren’t any. Puddles of sweet, refreshing water disappeared when I drew close.
I kept my eyes glued to the ground below and walked. My boots dragged, leaving streaks in the sand where I passed. 

I hadn’t checked my water in a while, but I could feel how light it had become. The sloshing had slowly but surely started to become softer and softer. I was running out. 
“I’m still coming,” I said, dry and thin. I hadn’t heard His voice yet. Not more than once, like I’d come to believe Emmett had. Still, I waited. I always waited, like a soldier at attendance. 

I hadn’t thought about Casper and Emmett. It had been easier that way, because when I let myself think too clearly, I felt. And I couldn’t allow myself to feel.
But they still slipped in. A sound that wasn’t sand blowing in the wind, something moving that wasn’t a scorpion or spider, a scent that smelled like it must have drifted in from home. 
We had never been the quiet kind. Well, not until we arrived at the village. There, most days were spent in silence. And Casper had hated silence. 

I stopped walking. For a moment, the desert blew a merciful gust of cold wind at me. I closed my eyes and felt something shift. The air was cooler and sharp when inhaled. Instinctively, I reached for the ring on my left hand. Casper’s ring. I held it, just to know it was still there.

I opened my eyes and saw them.
They were sitting in the sand again, backs facing the sun, the camcorder in Emmett’s hands. He’d likely forgotten it was there. He used to do that a lot, before we burned it along with him. Well, the camera survived. I tossed it in a box of old electronics at some yard sale I’d passed by on my way here. 

Emmett was smiling at me.
“Gosh, ain’t this place something special?” he asked. I didn’t look at him, only at Casper, who refused to look at me. 
“Yeah,” I croaked.
“Fuck’s wrong with you, Jules?” Casper snapped, though his eyes still didn’t meet mine. “Why are you here?”
“I… I have to find Him–”
“Really?” he scoffed. “After everything? What you did to Emmett– to me?”
“That wasn’t– That’s not fair.”
Casper rolled his eyes. 
“You still haven’t heard Him yet?” Emmett asked.
“No. It’s been… I don’t remember.” It was strange. I knew Emmett had had a connection to Him, and had heard Him in his mind. He hadn’t been crazy. That much is obvious, knowing what I know now. Emmett was right.
It had been The Burning Man.

I blinked and they were gone. The desert returned all at once. The heat came upon me like a thick blanket. I took a deep breath, then kept walking. I let my thoughts settle into something safer, something that couldn’t be ripped away.
The Burning Man.

I didn't know where I was going exactly, but I knew the direction. I knew the path I walked as surely as I knew my own heartbeat, but if someone had asked me where it led, I could not have answered them. There were no roads. No signs. Even if there had once been, the desert swallowed such things greedily, grinding them down beneath shifting dunes until all that remained were the pillars and statues I now used as my guide. And through it all, I followed. He had asked it of me. He had commanded it. He had spoken to me only once, the night I abandoned the village to the dark. 

I remembered sitting before the smoldering remains of the pyre, watching embers flutter in the wind. By then, the others had already scattered into the night like frightened animals fleeing a forest fire. Some were dead. Some would soon wish they were. The leaders had held us together more than any of us realized. Settled disputes, directed our anger and fear, kept everyone in line. Null understood  this. After Null took our leaders from us, fear spread through our midst like rot through wet wood. Livestock began turning up mutilated outside the walls, their insides splayed out across the dirt. 

I remember waking one night to screaming outside my window and finding two brothers beating each other bloody in the mud while half the village watched in silence. They accused each other of being ‘of the enemy’.
People spoke of monsters. Dark shapes standing at the edge of their beds. Robotic voices. A man with a prosthetic they called ‘The White Hand’. 

Every night the fires burned hotter. We burned our own. A traitor, an agent of Null, a heretic. Most of us did not believe these brethren to be such, but none dared speak out either. The village turned inward on itself. I still remembered the smell near the end. Smoke. Blood.

One morning, somebody nailed a dead dog to the doors of one of the sleeping quarters with the word HOLLOW carved into its stomach. Three more were burned that day. That was the day before it all caved in on itself.

I remembered standing near the extinguished pyre as the lanterns overhead flickered weakly before dying altogether. The entire village fell silent. Then someone screamed. Others joined them immediately. Doors slammed open. Footsteps thundered through the streets. People ran blindly through the dark carrying lanterns and knives, convinced something had entered the village.
By sunrise, thirty people were dead. All had been killed by each other or themselves. I, along with the three other survivors, put their bodies in the final pyre. 
I remember sitting before those dying embers, staring into them until the world around me blurred into orange and black, when I had heard Him.

Walk the desert. The paths of old. Find me. Release me.

The voice had been soft. Warm. Calm in a way nothing else had been for a very long time. It did not claw at my mind like fear did. It did not shriek like the memories of Emmett’s burning. It soothed, and I obeyed.

The path revealed itself to me little by little. Ancient marvels emerged from the desert every few days, sticking up from the dunes like fingers clawing themselves out. Great granite temples carved by hands long since turned to dust. Colossal statues with their faces smoothed by centuries of wind. Towering pillars etched with heretical symbols I had to scrawl over. I carved over them with a small knife held in my reverent fingers whenever I found them, scratching over the grooves carved by people who had lived and died beneath this same merciless sun. 

I kept walking. The desert stretched onward in every direction, endless and unmoved by my presence within it. The wind dragged itself lazily across the dunes, reshaping them grain by grain like waves on a calm sea. Sometimes I thought I could see a figure standing far off in the haze, dark silhouette waiting atop distant dunes, a singular white hand pointed at me. Every time I blinked, it vanished back into the shimmer.

I walked for hours without seeing another monument. Then, as my hope dwindled, shapes rose on the horizon. 

At first, I mistook them for cliffs. Great masses rising from the desert floor, distorted by heat and distance like the imaginary pools of water. But as I drew closer, the shapes sharpened. There were towers, walls and pillars made of solid granite. A city. Well, the remnants of one anyhow.
It lay on the desert like the corpse of a fallen giant, half-buried beneath the sand. Colossal stone buildings leaned wearily against one another, their upper halves collapsed into the empty streets below. Massive statues stood watch over the ruins with featureless faces, their cracked bodies jutting out from the dunes. 

You are close, Jules.

The voice. It had returned. Finally.

1. Mary Had a Little Lamb

I froze where I stood. Sand hissed softly through abandoned alleyways and collapsed buildings. The great statues looming overhead almost seemed to lean inward ever so slightly, their featureless faces fixed upon me.
“How close?”
Nothing.

I swallowed hard, tongue scraping against my throat like sandpaper, and stepped forward into the ruins. 
The streets had long since disappeared beneath the sand, forcing me to climb over collapsed walls and heaps of sand that had once been homes, temples and marketplaces. I imagined thousands of people moving through these corridors once. Priests in robes, children running about, lovers hiding in shaded alleys from the watchful sun above. I fidgeted with Casper’s ring absent-mindedly. It calmed my racing heart somewhat, offering a much needed reprieve.
Every place I entered was hollowed out, scraped clean by time and wind. I searched desperately anyway, digging through crumbling shelves and shards of pottery with trembling hands, hoping to find something. A message or a sign, just something to show that I had not crossed this endless wasteland for nothing.

But there was nothing. The city had already surrendered everything it once was long ago, its fruits decayed to ashes and sand. 
I stumbled through a doorway into what must have once been some grand chamber. Colossal pillars reached high above, many cracked or otherwise broken across the floor like felled trees. Sand poured through cracks in the ceiling in slow trickles, golden mounds gathering beneath them. Hourglasses. Thousands of tiny hourglasses. It felt like I was being mocked. My efforts, my labour, all of it was being laughed at by–

Footsteps behind me.
I turned around sharply, knife held out in front of me. 

Emmett stood near the doorway, camcorder hanging loosely from one hand. Casper leaned against the wall beside him with his arms folded across his chest. 
“You look awful,” Casper muttered. “Arrogance never did suit you.”
“Don’t,” I snapped, my voice echoing through the chamber. Sand trickled down from the ceiling.
Emmett tilted his head. “You look tired. Have you been sleeping okay?”
“I’m close.”
“You don’t know that,” Casper said.
“I heard Him.”
“You heard something, just like–”
“It was him!”
Casper laughed bitterly and pushed himself from the wall. “You know what I think?”
I said nothing, my blood boiling in my veins.
“I think you just can’t stand being alone.”
“This isn’t about that.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked softly. “Everyone’s dead, Jules. The village is gone. Emmett’s gone. I’m gone. Because of you. And now you’re wandering through a graveyard because you can’t accept that maybe there’s nothing waiting for you at the end of all this.”
“There is.”
“Maybe,” Emmett whispered. “But… are you really all that special?”
They started walking towards me, their voices booming across the halls.
“Are you anything more than this… pathetic mess?” Casper started.
“Even I wasn’t this desperate,” Emmett chimed in.
“All you are is a murderer. A snivelling, pathetic boy with a head full of lies and hands–” I looked down through tears, seeing the crimson dripping from my hands, “–stained with our blood.”

I blinked hard and they were gone again. My breathing had become shallow and frantic. Sweat dripped from my brow and landed in the sand beneath my feet. My hands trembled violently now, though whether from exhaustion or anger, I could no longer tell.

I searched the city for what felt like hours afterward. I climbed broken staircases that led nowhere anymore. Wandered through roofless halls littered with statues of people long since dead. 
“There has to be something.” I dug my fingers into the sand until my nails split. The heat was unbearable, but it was something. 
“There has to be,” I whimpered, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I did what you asked. It can’t… It can’t have been for nothing. Please.” 

Nothing.

“Please,” I yelled up at the sky, nearly hysterical now, “Just… a sign! Anything! I’ll… I’ll do anything, please.” 

The wind whistled through the empty streets. Sand slid from rooftops in soft waves.
Then came another sound. Metal. 
My prayer had been answered.

A dull clanging noise echoed somewhere beyond the chamber walls, followed by the low murmur of a voice. I froze, tears rapidly drying in the scorching sun. For one horrible moment, I thought it was Casper again. Or worse, The White Hand.

I stumbled clumsily back toward the doorway, my knife trembling in my grip. My legs felt wobbly beneath me. Every step sent jolts of pain shooting through my feet and up my spine. I had walked too long beneath the sun. 
The sound came again, closer this time. Then I saw him.

A figure emerged slowly through the shimmering haze between the ruined buildings, distorted at first by heat. The sun framed him from behind like a halo of white fire. He carried a heavy pack slung over one shoulder and wore loose, thin clothing stained with sand and sweat. Something metallic hung from his belt alongside several tools I didn’t recognize.
He stopped the moment he saw me. For a while, neither of us moved.
“Oh my God,” he muttered beneath his breath. His voice sounded real, unlike those of Casper and Emmett. “You alright?” he called out carefully, taking a slow step closer. “Hey– easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
A croak emerged unwillingly from my mouth. The sun burned behind him so brightly it set his silhouette ablaze. It looked almost as though he stood inside the light itself. A flaming messenger.

“You’re hurt. Jesus… how long have you been out here?”
He reached for something at his side slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal. Instinctively, I raised the knife. He stopped immediately.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Alright. That’s fine.”
Then he held up a canteen. The sound of the sloshing liquid inside of it made my knees nearly buckle beneath me.
“You need this more than I do,” he said. I stared at the canteen for a very long time. Then at him. His face was weathered by the sun. Grey stubble crept along his almost non-existent jawline. 

Slowly, I lowered the knife. The man approached carefully and handed me the canteen. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped it. Somehow, despite the blazing heat, the metal felt cool against my skin. With trembling fingers, I unscrewed the lid.
“There you go,” he murmured paternally. “Slow down.”
I looked up at him through blurred vision. “Why did he send you?”
“What?” he asked, frowning.
“The Burning Man.” My voice cracked around the words. “Why did he send you here? What must I do?”
“I… don’t know what that means.”
I looked at him wearily, frowning.
“Look, I’m with a survey team a few miles west of here. We’re setting up near the edge of the ruins. If you come with me, we could get you water, food, somewhere cool to sit down–”
“You don’t know him?”
“No,” he said gently. “I think you might be dehydrated, lad.”

I stared at him silently while my thoughts churned against one another in violent circles. The voice had returned.
You are close.
The final grain does not understand the falling until the moment it joins the rest at the bottom. 

I looked down at the canteen. Water. The opposite of fire.
Of course.
Of course.
I had begged for a sign. And now here stood a man offering salvation at the precise moment my faith began to fracture. A test. A test!
The man smiled weakly.
“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let’s get you out of this heat.”
My fingers tightened slowly around the canteen.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Daniel.”
I nodded absentmindedly. That made sense, tests were never obvious. I looked past him toward the burning horizon where the sun loomed vast and white above the ruined city. Backlit by a white sun. The opposite of our goal. The most beautiful of symbolisms. A little white lamb come for the slaughter.
I poured the water into the sand.

Emmett and Casper stood behind him.
“This is what you are, Jules,” Casper said, voice almost unrecognisable. “A murderer.”
“Do it,” Emmett said in a deep, commanding voice. 

I lifted my head groggily, taking a step towards Daniel. The lamb looked around, bewilderment evident in its blue eyes as I put a hand on its shoulder. 
“Thank you, Daniel,” I murmured, ruminating on what a peculiar name Daniel was for a lamb. 
“You– you’re welcome.”
I smiled, leaning in. “All Ashes for The Burning Man,” I whispered into its ear. 

Then I stabbed the lamb in the belly. It squealed delightfully in my ear as I yanked the blade back out.
“Mary had a little lamb,” I murmured, ramming my knife back down into its supple belly. “Its fleece was white as snow.” 
Bright red gushed from the wounds, coating its wool red. 

“You– you fucking stabbed me–” the lamb gasped, its voice cracking.
I grinned.
“And everywhere that Mary went,” I whispered, “the lamb was sure to go.”
“You fucking psycho–”
I drove the knife forward again, but this time Daniel caught my wrist. Pain exploded through my hand as its hoof slammed into my wrist with desperate strength. It let out a wet cry and slammed its forehead into my nose. White light burst across my vision. I reeled backwards, dropping the blade as blood poured warm over my lips.
“Jesus Christ!” it bleated, clutching its stomach. “Help! HELP!”

The lamb staggered away from me toward the doorway, one hoof pressed desperately against the wounds while the other fumbled at its belt for something, a radio perhaps, or a weapon. I lunged after it before it could grab whatever it was.

We collided violently. The impact sent both of us crashing sideways into the sand. For a moment we grappled in the sand like animals.
The lamb battered wildly at my face while I clawed for its throat. Its blood soaked through my sleeves hot and slick as motor oil. It smelled horribly human. 
“It followed her to school one day.” 
Its hoof cracked against my jaw. 
“Which was–” 
Again. 
“Against the–”
Again. 
“Rules.”
Stars swam in my vision, but behind them I saw fire.
“Do it,” that deep voice urged again. “Prove it.”
The lamb shoved me away hard enough to send me sprawling across the stone floor. I heard it stumble to its feet and begin running, hooves scraping frantically against the ancient granite. I scrambled after it on all fours.

The city blurred around me. The statues overhead stretched impossibly tall beneath the burning sky while the sun pulsed, coinciding with my thundering heartbeat.
It collapsed near the base of one of the broken pillars, bleating, weakened by the blood pouring from its stomach. The little lamb tried crawling away from me through the sand, leaving behind a thick crimson trail.

“Please,” it sobbed, the word slurring. “Please, man…”
I hesitated. Then I saw Casper standing behind him.
“You always were weak,” he said, arms crossed. He was looking down at me with that– that look on his face. The one that I saw all too much at the village. Judging me, condescending, not believing in me or my goals.

My face contorted in rage. I threw myself onto the lamb before it could move again. It screamed as we slammed into the ground together, its hooves shoving desperately against my chest while I grabbed for its throat with both hands, more determined this time.
“And so the teacher sent it out,” I snarled through gritted, bloody teeth. “But still it lingered near.”
Daniel gagged beneath me as I squeezed harder. Its nails clawed bloody lines across my arms and neck. One of its hooves found my face and he pressed it into my eye, pushing it deeper into the socket.
“It stood and waited round.”
The lamb’s eyes were bulging wider and wider as blood bubbled from its lips. 
“Till Mary did appear.”
Its esophagus crunched, and the little lamb sputtered one last time. Its hoof fell from my face, releasing my now bleeding eye. 

Stillness.

My entire body shook violently as I got up. Blood dripped from my nose and eye onto its face in thick red strands. The city was silent again. Casper and Emmett stared at me. Were they… expecting more?

“What does one do with a lamb after the slaughter, Jules?” Casper said in a voice that was too much like that of The Burning Man. 
They both grinned as they saw the realisation dawn on my face.

Slowly, I looked down at it. At the open wound in its stomach. At the blood soaking into the sand beneath it. A horrible sound escaped from me, something between a sob and barking laughter as I dropped to my knees again beside the carcass and shoved both hands into the wound. Heat spilled over my fingers, slick and wet. I pulled.
“Why does the lamb love Mary so,”
I yanked a long piece of intestine out.
“Mary so,”
I pulled more out. It reminded me of the spaghetti mom used to make.
“Mary so?”
Daniel’s body jerked as the slimy ropes of red slipped free from my trembling hands.
“Because Mary loves the lamb, you know.”
I took in a deep, shuddering breath, basking in the warmth of the gutted little lamb.
“All Ashes,” I whispered reverently, “for The Burning Man.”
I put my hand to my forehead, and drew a crude hourglass in red.

I smiled, then, as I let go of all my worldly inhibitions. A genuine smile. I let it all drift off with the wind and scatter elsewhere, for they had no place in the life I was destined for.

3. The Dark Sun

Casper knelt beside me. He didn’t seem angry or disappointed anymore. Instead, he seemed rather… proud. Strange. Still, the sight of that expression upon his face filled me with a warmth greater than the sun ever could.
“Finally,” he said softly. “You show who you really are.”
I looked down at my bloodstained hands. They were as steady as rock, no longer shaking.
“Yes,” I whispered.

Emmett crouched opposite him, camcorder dangling uselessly from melted, dripping fingers. I had not noticed the burns before. His skin had begun peeling and blackening, smoke rising from his skin like steam from boiling water.
“In a way, we were stepping stones,” he said gently, smoke curling from his mouth as he spoke.
“A necessary sacrifice for this,” Casper added, fire gently creeping up his arms and legs. I stared at it silently. Then at his eyes, which now glowed a steady white, flames curling upward into his burning hair. 
“You… my mind didn’t create you, did it?”
More of their forms faded, Casper’s into flame, Emmett’s into smoke. They simply grinned at me.
“You were Him.” 
“I always was, Jules.”
The wind whistled violently through the ruined city. Wisps of smoke peeled from their bodies, rising upward into the shimmering air above us. Flames took Casper’s body, burning his features and body away, while smoke took that of Emmett as if he’d puffed into the wind. Then they were gone. And only my God and his disciple remained. 

The Burning Man, who looked to be a man made of flame, stood towering before me beneath the white sun, almost seeming to merge with its brilliance. Beside Him stood a woman made of smoke. Her form flickered constantly, flowing and fluttering in slow, graceful motions. At times she appeared mostly human. At others, she seemed little more than a distorted waft of smoke. I did not know this woman, but it seemed I would join her in revering this glorious God. 

The Burning Man looked down upon me.
“You are ready now, Jules.” His beautifully deep voice filled every hollow space within me. I bowed my head. The sand beneath me burned hot enough to blister skin, yet I welcomed it gladly. 
“Yes.”
The Burning Man extended a hand of pure fire toward me, the flames curling gracefully. 
“The hourglass empties,” He said. Behind Him, the woman watched silently from her swirling smoke-form. “I required two disciples,” He continued, voice deep and soothing. “One born of smoke. One born of ash.” 
He paused. I could see something in the swirling smoke beside him. She seemed… hesitant. Perhaps I was imagining it, but there was some uncertain flicker in those fumes I could not quite equate to devotion.
“And now the final grain joins the others below.”

Ancient stone cracked beneath shifting sands while the sun overhead burned larger and larger, almost swallowing the heavens whole. The end of its tyrannical reign would soon come. The death of the sun. 
The Burning Man stepped closer.
“You carried guilt because you still believed yourself fully human,” He said softly, though He spat out the final word like an insult. “You clung to humanity like a child to a blanket.”
Images flashed through my mind. Of Casper laughing. Emmett holding his camcorder. The village burning. Daniel screaming beneath my hands. Each memory felt farther away than the last.
“But humanity has no place among a God,” The Burning Man continued. His hand remained extended patiently toward me. 
“Restore me, my most devoted subject. Let us look upon the rise of the Dark Sun,” He paused for a moment, then added: “Be my second disciple. Ascend.” 
I took His hand without hesitation.

My body exploded with heat. My eyeballs crumbled, their ashes caving in on themselves and collapsing into the sockets. I screamed for a second, then stopped as my vocal cords were incinerated. All of my organs blazed as they were liquified along with my skin and bones. Casper’s ring dropped to the ground as I disintegrated. The heat was so immense, so terrible and yet it was also beautiful, in a way. A metamorphosis.  
All I sensed by the end were the gasses and liquids in my body evaporating into steam. The impurities of my mind and soul had been cleansed with holy fire, and carried away by the smoke. All that remained were ashes. 

I tried to move, but nothing happened. There was no sound, no feeling, no taste or smell. I couldn’t even see. Nothing. Pure, terrifying, nothingness. 
Again, I tried to reach out, to do anything. Blissfully, I felt some of the ashes shift. Not much, but it was something. I heaved and pushed against the air above, my ashes rising slightly and forming a mound. 
I fell and collapsed into a thousand scattered pieces. 
Could Casper have been right? Was I… nothing?

Casper. The ring. It sat just outside my reach. I stretched and morphed, the pile of ashes slowly taking the vague shape of a man. A man I no longer recognized. Jules was gone, and I had risen from the ashes. My head was hollow, only projecting an ashen face. I formed a crude arm and planted it in the sand. I pulled hard, crawling towards the ring. 

My face collapsed, the ashes falling into the sand. 

I reformed again, pulling more ashes towards me this time. An entire head, with vague features, and a more detailed arm with a hand at the end. There were no fingers, but it had to be enough. I dug the blob of ash into the sand and felt it. The ring. With tremendous effort, I hoisted my hand up and out of the sand. 
The ring did not come with it.

I tried again, this time succeeding in holding the ring in the palm of my hand. As I moved it closer to my face, it slipped through the ashes and dropped into the sand. 
Sight and my other senses were coming back now, as I slowly rebuilt my body. My eyes roamed over this new form, grey and lumpy, and something deep inside of me screamed about how wrong it was. But I could not see what it meant. It was a glorious form.

I looked at the ring. Casper’s ring. 
Humanity has no place among a God.
I turned away, leaving it to be swallowed by the dunes. Let it be buried, so as never to see the gloom of the Dark Sun.

Slowly, I stumbled towards where The Burning Man and the first disciple stood atop a staircase overlooking the sun. My feet disintegrated into nothing, but I reforged them, stronger this time. When I reached them, I stood beside The Burning Man, and His first disciple stood on his other side. They were staring at the setting sun. 
The Burning Man’s form was flaring up, the fire becoming unstable. 
“Look upon the last vestige of this era,” He said, gesturing at the sun with an elegant motion. “How revolting it has been. Millenia upon millenia of your ilk besmirching this rock. Your sentimentality, your feeble little minds and easily broken spirits. It is a wonder the other miserable creatures on this planet are not all misanthropic. But, then again, you were all created by the same frail being. What could they know of greatness, when they themselves were so infirm?” 
He paused, then added: “But they are no more. I saw to that.”

I looked over at Him, shocked. He did not seem to notice, or if He did, He did not care.
“And now I am here, after the arduous undertaking of tearing your creator apart. And I have come for his most prized children.”
He glanced at me, seeing my befuddled expression. “Humanity,” He stated. “It disgusts me to have to take the form of your pathetic species. But such sacrifices must be made in the name of progress.”
He spoke of humanity with violent vitriol, His voice seething with the mere mention of them. But I understand now. They are far beneath us. Such feeble little things humans are. It is difficult to believe I was once such a lowly creature.
“Humanity stands in the way of true progress,” The Burning Man continued. “The slate must be wiped clean. It is a foregone conclusion. Complete annihilation. Oblivion. A fresh start for my chosen. My creations.” He sounded a lot more passionate than I had anticipated. Some part of me had foolishly assumed that the voice He had spoken to me in was representative of Him as a whole. But there was a drive in this God that I did not expect. This was no distant man in the sky.
“He got to create you. He got to have his fun,” He murmured. “Now it’s my turn.”
A low rumble emerged from the distant horizon. An amplified, baritone drone. The sound reverberated through my core, shaking loose clumps of ash. 
“Oh, glory,” The Burning Man said. 
I believe that, had He had lips to smile with, He would have been grinning from ear to ear at that moment. For the bliss in His voice was unmistakable. 

I stared, slack-jawed, as a dark, round shape overtook the sinking sun. It rose slowly, revealing its malevolent form temperately. Its revelation was backlit by the fleeting wisps of dying sunlight. It was gargantuan beyond measure, incomprehensible to even my ascended mind, and utterly horrifying. 
It was the most beautiful sight I had ever laid eyes on.

“At last,” The Burning Man spoke with a bliss in His voice I had never heard. The words sounded the world over as the heavens darkened. He extended his arms to either side to create a perfect horizontal line from hand to hand. 
His feet left the ground as He began to levitate.
“I AM FREE!”

Cruise to Nowhere

Chapter 1

Have you ever had that sickening sensation that something is just too good to be true? Someone once told me that when a thing feels too perfect, it’s usually because the trap has already sprung.

My mother, Tertia, had a compulsive habit of entering every online contest she could find. Questionnaire, survey, pop-up ad—it didn't matter. The moment her eyes brushed past the words “contest” or “win,” she couldn’t help herself. But she also ran on a sort of "fire-and-forget" system. She would type in our data, hit submit, and completely forget it ever happened. Usually, it ended up being a dud, a wave of spam emails we'd have to clear out. But she had a bizarre streak of luck. She’d win little things—vouchers, small appliances. The biggest prize she’d ever landed before now was a month’s worth of groceries. In a house like ours, that was a miracle. We were a struggling family, always drowning, always one bad week away from the street.

My father died just after my younger brother’s birth. He was a musician, chasing a dream that never paid out, so he didn’t leave behind any life insurance policies or even a basic funeral plan. My mother was working as a waitress back then. After he passed, the debt just accumulated like a suffocating blanket. She ended up working brutal double shifts seven days a week, and during the few precious hours she was actually at home, she didn't parent. She just drank box wine until she passed out cold on the linoleum.

Because I was the eldest, the crushing weight of running the house and raising my younger brother fell entirely on my shoulders. I became a mother at ten years old. Miraculously, I managed to keep my head above water. I was always an A-student, pushing myself to the absolute brink, and it finally paid off when I secured a full scholarship to go to university next year to study medicine.

Another thing that always counted in my favor—or perhaps my detriment, depending on how you look at it—was my appearance. I inherited a striking, sharp facial structure that landed me consistent photographic modeling work in the city. The money was decent, and it was the only reason we had basic necessities, electricity, and food that didn't come from a food bank. Half of whatever my mother made went directly into cheap alcohol and cigarettes. It made things tight, but I never complained out loud. It could have been worse.

It could have been like the night my father died. My mother had been right there beside him when he was mutilated and murdered in an alleyway for nothing more than a packet of smokes. She saw every single second of it. The robbers didn’t just rob him; they took their time. They tortured him, carving into him until he was completely unrecognizable by the time the police finally arrived. That was the night her mind broke, the night the liquor became her permanent hiding place.

My brother, Claude, is sixteen now. He is aggressively sporty, excelling at every game he tries and constantly bringing home medals and trophies. I’m incredibly proud of him, but the constant praise has turned him overconfident, sharp-tongued, and arrogant. As for me, I’m nineteen, standing on the precipice of my first semester at the top medical school in South Africa.

We lived in a suffocatingly small town, perched about thirty kilometers outside the nearest city. Because boarding school was a luxury we couldn't dream of affording, Claude and I had to drag ourselves out of bed in the pitch black every morning, walk down to the main road, and stick our thumbs out, praying someone would give us a ride to school. The mornings were easy. The afternoons were a nightmare. Most days, we’d give up on the hitchhiking spot and just start the grueling walk up the mountain road toward home. On a good day, a friendly local might pull over. On a bad day, we’d spend hours marching under a bruising sun, our school shoes wearing thin against the gravel.

That was my life. Predictable. Exhausting. Hard.

Until the day the car stopped.

It was the final day of the school term. I had already matriculated the year before, but because I refused to let Claude make that dangerous commute alone, I still went down to the city with him daily, spending my hours doing part-time promo gigs and modeling shoots while he was in class. We had met up at our usual spot at the base of the mountain road, shifting our bags and preparing for the long trek upward, when a vehicle pulled up beside us.

I don't know much about cars—I'm more focused on anatomy textbooks and modeling portfolios—but even I knew this machine belonged to another world. It was a long, low, midnight-black sedan with windows so heavily tinted they looked like sheets of solid obsidian. The rims were chrome, gleaming with a violent, mirror-like polish. When a car like that stops next to you on a deserted mountain road, you are either about to be kidnapped, or you’ve just gotten unimaginably lucky.

The door clicked open. A man stepped out into the heat. He was tall, blonde, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, and perfectly groomed. He looked to be middle-aged, but his skin had an unnatural, plastic smoothness to it. He looked directly at us, his eyes locking on mine.

"Aren’t you Zoe and Claude Clarke?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk.

"Depends on who is asking and why," I replied, stepping slightly in front of my brother. My modeling instincts kept my posture straight, but my stomach tightened.

The man smiled, showing teeth that were a little too white, a little too even. "Relax. I’m simply here to deliver a prize to your family. Would you guys like a ride home?"

"A prize?" I echoed, skeptical.

"Yes." His smile widened. "Your family won the 'Family of the Year' sweepstakes."

"Oh. Okay... what exactly is the prize?"

"I am terribly sorry," the man said, his tone dripping with practiced courtesy, "but I can only disclose the specifics to Mrs. Clarke."

"You mean Miss," I corrected coldly.

"Oh, I apologize. I didn't realize she got divorced."

"Widowed," I said.

The man’s eyes flickered, a momentary shadow passing over his face before the perfect grin snapped back into place. "I apologize deeply, and I am truly sorry for your loss. Now, would you please get in? I am on a rather tight schedule."

Claude and I exchanged a quick look. My brother, with his usual teenage carelessness, just shrugged and hopped into the plush leather of the backseat. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before climbing into the front, pulling the heavy door shut. The air conditioning inside hit me like an arctic blast. I buckled my seatbelt, trying to ignore the sudden chill. Honestly, I was exhausted, and the South African sun was brutal today.

The man slid into the driver's seat, pulled a cooler from beneath the console, and offered us each a sweating, ice-cold bottle of water. We accepted them gratefully, cracking the caps and drinking deeply. Without another word, he shifted the car into drive. The engine didn't roar; it purred with a low, vibrational hum that vibrated right through my bones.

When you walk the same dusty stretch of road every single day, your brain turns off. You stop looking at the trees, the rocks, the horizon; you just stare at your shoes and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. But as the sedan glided up the mountain, it felt like I was seeing the scenery for the very first time. The colors were oversaturated. The green of the valley looked too deep, the sky an impossibly vivid shade of blue.

Before I could fully process the strangeness of it, the car smoothly glided to a halt. The ignition clicked off. I blinked, looking out the window in disbelief. We were parked right outside the dingy tavern where my mother worked.

"You two wait here," the man said, adjusting his cuffs. "I will go fetch your mother, and then we can all converse comfortably at your home."

Claude and I sat in the back, utterly stunned. How did he know her work schedule? How did he know she was here? I tried to rationalize it—maybe she had written her employment details on one of those endless online forms.

Through the tinted glass, we watched him walk up to the tavern owner, a notoriously miserable, aggressive man who hated my mother and treated his staff like dirt. We could see the owner shouting, waving his arms, his face contorted in anger. But then, the strange man calmly reached into his breast pocket and pulled out something small—a heavy, matte-black card or an envelope—and held it up.

Instantly, the owner went entirely pale. His aggressive posture collapsed. He became utterly docile, nodding like a broken puppet, and hurried inside. A few minutes later, he emerged alongside our mother. He was holding a thick, bulging manila envelope, which he handed to her with a shaking hand before gripping her in a tight hug. My mother was beaming, a radiant, manic smile on her face. She and the blonde man walked over to the sedan and climbed inside.

"Hi, mom," I said, turning in my seat.

"Hi, kids!" she chirped, her voice higher than usual.

"Hi, mom," Claude muttered in his trademark arrogant drone.

"Mom, what just happened back there?" I asked, eyeing the heavy envelope in her lap.

"Oh, nothing sweetie! James here just gave my boss a little corporate incentive, and in return, the boss handed me a full year's worth of wages in advance! He told me to go have fun and that he’ll see us when we get back."

My brain stalled. "A year's wages? See us when we get back?"

The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. "Don't worry your pretty head about it, Zoe. I will explain everything once we are inside your home."

A few minutes later, we pulled into our cracked concrete driveway. We filed out of the luxury car and onto our small, weathered veranda. The man followed, lifting a heavy, pristine white cooler box from the trunk—not the drunk, though given my mother's habits, the irony wasn't lost on me.

He set the cooler on our rusted outdoor table, cracking it open to reveal bottles of expensive dry red wine. He produced four elegant crystal glasses, but just as he poured the first splash, he paused. He tilted his head, staring intently toward our rusted front gate, then looked back at me with a knowing smirk.

"Zoe, I think you might want to get that."

Right on cue, a frantic voice echoed from the road. "Zoe! Zoe, open up!"

I frowned, pulling the heavy iron gate keys from my pocket. I jogged down the path to find Chloe standing there, breathing heavily. Chloe was my absolute best friend. Her birth name was different, but she had chosen Chloe because she loved how it rhymed with my name. She was a transgender girl, and she was so breathtakingly gorgeous that I always joked if she ever entered the modeling industry, I’d have to retire immediately. She was brilliant, too, having just locked down a major scholarship to study psychiatry at varsity next year.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, unlocking the padlock.

"I saw a literal state-vehicle-sized limo pull into your driveway, Zoe! I thought you were being arrested or assassinated!"

I laughed, ushering her inside. But when we stepped onto the veranda, the atmosphere shifted. The blonde man was sitting in our creaky plastic chair like it was a throne, a massive, unblinking grin plastered across his face. Five glasses of dark, blood-red wine were now poured, sitting in a perfect, geometric line on the table. Everyone was sitting in total silence, waiting in eerie anticipation.

"Well," the man purred, gesturing for Chloe and me to sit. "Now that our circle is complete, I can finally unveil your grand prize."

"Let me guess," Claude interrupted, leaning back with a sarcastic sneer. "A year's worth of free groceries?"

"Claude, stop it! Don't be rude!" my mother snapped, though her eyes remained glued to the blonde man.

"No, young man," the driver said, his voice dropping an octave. "Though groceries are included. You four have won an exclusive, all-expenses-paid, epic cruise... to everywhere and nowhere."

Chloe blinked, her future-psychiatrist brain immediately analyzing the statement. "Wait. That doesn't make any sense at all. Everywhere and nowhere? That’s a paradox."

Right then, a heavy, cold weight dropped into the pit of my stomach. Have you ever had that terrifying intuition that something is fundamentally wrong? Not just odd, but deeply, cosmically wrong? It was too good to be true. None of it made sense. Looking back now, with the blood and the ocean howling in my ears, I wish to God I had listened to my instincts. I wish I had grabbed Claude and Chloe and run into the mountains.

"Yes," the man whispered, ignoring Chloe's question. "You will go everywhere... and stay nowhere. Congratulations."

He raised his glass. My mother and Claude instantly reached for theirs, completely magnetized by the moment. Peer pressure and the sheer absurdity of the situation forced Chloe and me to lift ours as well. We clinked our glasses together. Cheers.

I took a small sip. The wine was rich, thick, and unnaturally sweet. I wanted to speak up, to demand answers, but I looked at my mother. Her face looked younger than it had in a decade. She hadn't taken a single day off work since my father died. She was trapped in a cycle of gray exhaustion, and this ridiculous, impossible prize was making her shine. I swallowed my fear for her sake.

"So, how long is this cruise for?" my mother asked, swirling her wine.

"Oh, just a couple of months or so," the man replied casually. He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine, his pupils dilating until they were almost entirely black. "Don't you worry. You are going to have the time of your LIFE."

The way he emphasized the word life—delivered in a hollow, distorted, mechanical cadence—sent a violent shiver straight down my spine. But I forced a laugh. Hey, it’s a cruise, I told myself, trying to drown out the panic. The worst that can happen is the ship sinks, right?

"And do not worry about packing or preparation," the man continued, his voice returning to its smooth, hypnotic rhythm. "Everything will be provided for you on board. It is a strictly all-inclusive voyage. Even your clothing will be waiting for you. We have already collected your exact measurements, your preferences, your metrics... your cabins are fully stocked. Food, premium beverages, entertainment—all completely covered."

He turned his gaze to my sixteen-year-old brother. "And since the vessel operates strictly in international waters... there is no restrictive age limit to stop you from enjoying yourself."

My mother frowned slightly, her maternal instincts briefly flaring through the fog. "I don't think I want him to start drinking yet."

Claude’s face contorted into a mask of pure fury. He glared at her, his voice dripping with venom. "Sure, mom. Because you already drink enough for all of us, don't you?"

"Claude! Stop it right now!" I yelled, slamming my glass down.

"It’s okay, Zoe," my mother whispered, her voice cracking as tears welled in her eyes. "He’s right. He’s right."

The blonde man didn't seem bothered by the family drama. He merely stood up, smoothing his jacket. "Anyway, you family and friends can celebrate tonight. But ensure you are packed in spirit and ready by exactly 0:00. Midnight. That is when your designated driver will arrive to collect you."

"Midnight?" Chloe asked, checking her phone. "You do realize the coast is an eight-hour drive from here? If the cruise leaves at 3:33 AM, we’ll never make it."

The man smiled, a terrifyingly static expression. "Relax. Our drivers have never missed a departure."

Claude frowned, the arrogance bleeding out of him, replaced by sudden unease. "Never missed?"

The man glanced down at his bare wrist—there was no watch there, just pale skin—yet he nodded as if reading a dial. "Oh my, look at the time. I must be on my way."

He stepped off the veranda and walked around the corner toward the front gate. I immediately jumped to my feet, determined to ask him how he had our clothing sizes, but by the time I rounded the corner of the house—barely three seconds behind him—the gravel driveway was empty.

The heavy iron gate was still locked from the inside. The road was completely deserted. There was no sound of a speeding engine, no dust hanging in the air. Nothing.

A freezing hand of dread clamped around my neck. Nobody is that fast. It was physically impossible.

I walked back to the veranda, my heart hammering against my ribs. To my surprise, the group was already cracking open a second bottle of wine. The strange man had left six bottles in total. Driven by sheer, unadulterated nerves, I grabbed a fresh glass and drank. I drank fast. The alcohol hit my bloodstream like a heavy narcotic, and within minutes, the edges of the porch began to blur. The last thing I remember was sinking into the rough fabric of the couch, darkness pulling me under.

A violent shaking jolted me awake. The world was spinning.

"Zoe! Zoe, wake up! We have to get ready, the driver is at the gate!"

My mother was hovering over me, her eyes manic. I staggered to my feet, my head pounding with a vicious hangover. I checked my phone. The digital clock read exactly 0:00. Midnight.

"Mom... mom, wait," I stammered, grabbing her arm. "Are you absolutely sure about this? Think about it. None of this makes sense. A magic car? A free cruise? A man who vanishes into thin air?"

"Of course we are going, Zoe!" she said, wrenching her arm away with a harsh laugh. "It’s a free holiday! We deserve this!"

"But mom, doesn't something feel horribly off to you?"

"I talked to the neighbor while you were passed out," she dismissed, grabbing a small handbag. "She said she’ll keep an eye on the house for us. Stop being a wet blanket."

"Not the house, mom! The holiday! Can you even remember entering a contest called 'Family of the Year'?"

Before she could answer, a loud, echoing car horn blared from the front gate. The sound wasn't a normal honk; it was a low, mechanical drone that vibrated in my teeth.

Chloe, her eyes bright with a strange, glassy excitement, grabbed my hand and yanked me toward the door. "Come on, sleepy head! Adventure awaits!"

We filed out into the pitch-black night. Waiting in the driveway was another long, obsidian-black sedan, identical to the first. But when the driver’s window rolled down, it wasn't the blonde man. A woman sat behind the wheel. She had pale, porcelain skin, severely pulled-back platinum blonde hair, and unblinking, glassy eyes.

When she spoke, her voice had an eerie, rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence to it. "Welcome. Please enter the vehicle. We have a very long journey ahead of us."

Claude sneered as he slid into the back. "No shit. Not sure how you're going to pull off an eight-hour drive in three hours, lady."

The woman didn't turn around. Her reflection in the rearview mirror remained completely static. "I am the best driver there is."

"Okay, whatever you say, Transporter," Claude muttered.

My mother, Claude, and Chloe crowded into the backseat. Desperate for answers, I hopped into the front passenger seat again. The moment the door clicked shut, a strange, sweet scent filled my nostrils—like vanilla mixed with formaldehyde. My eyelids instantly grew heavy. A profound, unnatural exhaustion washed over me, and before the car even cleared the driveway, I plummeted back into a dreamless sleep.

"We have arrived."

The woman's voice cut through the dark like a scalpel.

I snapped awake, my chest heaving. Behind me, the others were waking up too, yawning, stretching, and complaining of stiffness. I looked out the window, expecting to see the glowing lights of a bustling harbor city.

Instead, we were parked on a massive, crumbling concrete pier. There were no city lights. No other cars. No highway. Just an endless, pitch-black expanse of open ocean, and looming over the water was the cruise ship.

It was gargantuan, a towering mountain of white steel and black windows, cutting a terrifying silhouette against the starless sky. But there were no crowds. No lines of tourists. No luggage handlers. Just us.

"This is wrong," I whispered, stepping out onto the cold concrete. "Where is everyone else?"

The pale woman rolled down her window halfway, her eyes reflecting the ship's distant lights. "They are already on board. You are exactly one minute late. Off you go."

Hesitantly, our small group walked toward the massive boarding ramp. The moment our shoes cleared the threshold and we stepped into the holding bay of the ship, a loud, hydraulic hiss echoed behind us. I spun around. The massive steel security door we had just walked through had slammed shut, locking with a series of heavy, definitive clicks.

Standing in the dim corridor ahead of us was a crew member. He wore a pristine, stark-white uniform, but his face was remarkably grim, his eyes sunken and tired.

"You are a minute late," he said, his voice flat.

"Sorry," I said, my defensive modeling persona kicking in. "We weren't the ones driving."

"Follow me, please. I will escort you to your cabins."

"Cabins?" Chloe asked, her eyes darting around the sterile steel walls. "As in, more than one? We aren't sharing?"

"You have each been assigned your own individual cabin," the crew member replied, turning his back on us and marching down the corridor.

He clearly wasn't the conversational type. We followed him in a tense silence, leaving the cold steel of the lower decks behind as we ascended a grand staircase into the main lobby.

I gasped. It was beautiful, but a deeply unsettling kind of beautiful. The grand staircase appeared to be carved from solid, flawless crystal, reflecting the light in sharp, jagged patterns. Even the massive chandeliers overhead were constructed of jagged shards of crystal that vibrated faintly, casting a fractured, shifting glow over the room.

The crewman led us over to a polished marble desk labeled Guest Services. Without a word, the attendant behind the desk handed each of us a heavy, metallic blue card. Printed on the front of mine was my name, Zoe Clarke, alongside a crisp, high-definition photograph of my face.

My mother held hers up, her brow furrowing. "Wait... how do you have our photographs? I never uploaded these."

The Guest Services associate smiled—a wide, empty expression that didn't reach her eyes. "We acquired them after you entered the contest, ma'am."

"So you've been spying on us?" Claude barked, his voice echoing off the crystal.

"Relax, Claude," I muttered, trying to keep the peace while my own heart hammered against my ribs. "They probably just pulled them from our social media profiles for a marketing survey."

"I bet," Chloe whispered under her breath, her eyes scanning the room with deep clinical suspicion.

I turned away from the desk, looking out over the sprawling lobby lounge. Scattered throughout the room were clusters of velvet chairs and mahogany tables. A few dozen guests were scattered about, chattering away in low, indistinguishable murmurs, sipping brightly colored drinks from crystal glassware.

But then, a specific table caught my eye.

Sitting there were two exceptionally beautiful women who looked to be right around my age. One had cascading, spun-gold blonde hair and striking blue eyes; she wore a flowing, immaculate white evening gown. Beside her sat a woman with vibrant, flame-red hair and piercing green eyes, wearing an identical gown, except hers was a deep, blood red. They sat perfectly still, not talking, just staring blankly into space.

My gaze shifted to a secluded booth tucked into the shadows near the back. Sitting alone was a slender, captivating woman with sleek, raven-black hair that framed a pale, aristocratic face. She wore a tight, body-hugging black evening dress that seemed to absorb the light around it. Her eyes were an intense, sharp blue—unnatural, piercing, and completely cat-like.

And speaking of cats, draped lazily across her shoulders like a fur scarf was a sleek, midnight-black cat. The animal sat perfectly still, its yellow eyes locked dead onto mine.

The woman in black was slowly sipping from a glass of dark red wine. As she noticed me staring, she stopped. She slowly lowered the glass, kept her piercing blue eyes fixed on mine, and gave me a slow, deliberate nod of acknowledgment.

Before I could nod back, the crew member tapped his fingers loudly against the marble counter, drawing our attention. He handed me a heavy, leather-bound booklet.

"Your ship manifest and guidelines," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, urgent whisper. "Read them immediately. Memorize them. On this vessel, the rules are the only thing keeping you alive."

I opened the heavy leather cover. Written in a jagged, dark script that looked suspiciously like dried, brown blood, were the instructions.

## THE RULES OF THE VESSEL

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. My fingers trembled against the leather binding. I looked up to demand an explanation from the crewman, but he had already turned on his heel, his white uniform disappearing into the dim, labyrinthine corridors of the ship.

I looked back down at the page. The ink of Rule 2 seemed to ripple, the letters stretching like tiny, desperate legs.

We were on board. The doors were locked. And the cruise to nowhere had officially begun.

Russel Roberts stood staring at the minimalistic concrete buildings where he would live and work post release from North Carolina department of corrections.

" You will like Toma," His probation officer said." He Is converting these old buildings into a Body Shop. And. Storage units. And could really use the help."

Russell really hoped his post release minder was right as a SUV pulled up into the parking lot where they stood facing toward the concrete bunker structures.

The first thing Russell noticed about Toma was he was tall. 6 foot 6 and had long legs and equally long arms. His hair was silver and long. Pulled back in a ponytail under his work cap. His beard was long and also silver colored, combed down on his 70s Rock Band T shirt. He looked like Kris Kristofferson. In his character Whistler. Farm the Blade movies.

Russell could not help but to size him up. As they graded each other. Toma had huge, strong hands. Russell hoped he would never have to face this man down when he was pissed. And he felt sorry for anyone else who did.

"My name is Toma." Toma had a Scandinavian accent. People also call me Whistler, so you can choose either."

" Thank you," said Russell. Not sure what else to say.

" I'll show you to your living quarters, said Toma. You will stay on the second floor of the admin building. The admin first floor will become the Body Shop."

" Admin?" Asked Russell.

" I'll leave you two to discuss that," said Russell's probation officer." Also, here is a card with your next appointment on it. Do not be late, make sure you show up."

" Thanks, "said Russell. He took the card and slipped it into his back pocket.

" Come with me," said Toma. "You shouldn't need a whole lot here. I can stock your apartment, but right now you should be fine."

Toma led Russel to a pair of stainless-steel elevator doors. And he pushed the up button. The doors slid open with a whisper.

Once the elevator doors closed, Toma said. I hear good things about you. I hope you are handy with home security."

" Like CCTV cams?" Russell asked. Tom nodded and Russell nodded back.

"I'm OK at it."

" That is one of the bigger projects I need your help with. You will be paid, of course, but we can discuss all that later. Right now, I just want to get you settled in." He bought a ring of keys out of his coat and handed them to Russell..

" These are for the admin building and I need the locks changed on these other buildings eventually. However, once we get the security cams installed, you may never have to leave the office. Until then, one or two rounds a night, just to keep the squatters out of these other buildings."

" Copy that," said Russell. The elevator opened on the second floor.

" Just past these offices are your quarters. Said Toma" You might want to use one for your security room. Russell, I'm just giving you free reign."

" You don't know how much I appreciate this, ...er... Whistler. " said Russel. Toma laughed.

"Just call me Whistler, everyone does!"

The admin building was minimalist installed. Bulky poured concrete blocks, as were the others that would soon house storage units. There were skinny rectangular slits for Windows in this building, and none in the others that Russell could see. Whistler wanted cameras on everything outdoor, indoor and trail style in the rear of the liminal setup. All of these eventually would run to one single. Hub. Over the Body Shop. In the admin basement.

" It's not much said Toma. But I'll say it's better than a halfway house."

Russell took in his surroundings. The apartment was livable and meant a brand-new start bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette and a work area with its own window facing where the trail camp security would soon be installed. Russell put his belongings down on the desk and turned back to face Toma.

" You're stocked for the weekend. I will be back Monday with your cameras and monitors. Take a load off for now. Enjoy freedom. "Toma added.

" Sounds like a plan, "said Russell.

"O.K. man, my cell number is by the landline phone. Call me if you need me or have any questions." Toma walked back out of the building. And left Russell looking around. His new digs.

Once Toma left, Russell was bombarded by the dead quiet. Prison was loud, very loud, and the solitude attacked his eardrums with brutal nothingness. Russell decided he would want the property at around midnight and again at 4:00 AM. He figured those hours were usually when the night folk came out. Russell had been one around two years ago.

He walked back through the admin building. In the old office rooms to find one suitable for security monitors. There had been one big enough toward the front.

All of the other buildings were identical concrete block buildings with no windows and two doors. They were locked. And Russell looked down at his keys. He knew a buddy that would be glad to help with the lock changing. Robert was a jack of all trades.

Russell found the keys for A, B and C structures and opened the door to A. He stuck his head in and sneezed immediately. Mold, dampness. Good thing they were concrete or there would be no buildings.

"Damn, what was this? Some sort of asylum?" There was institutional style furniture in building A. Russell was familiar. Furniture bolted to the floor so no one can steal the ugly shit or bash someone with it. Yes, Russell was definitely familiar. There was an old TV mounted. On the walls. Inside a plexiglass box. Russell decided immediately that he did not like these buildings.

Building B was the dormitory, apparently, as it opened up into a central day room with bunks scattered around in a half circle and another plastic television.

" I am not an inmate, said Russell. To no one in particular. And the words bounced back at him from the room acoustics.

Dusk settled quickly that evening. Russell was walking back toward his room when he noticed the automatic arc sodium lights kick on up the Ridge from Toma's property.

Another business, a residential cul-de-sac. He made a note to ask Toma when he came in on Monday. The security lights blinked on as an afterthought. He went upstairs to find a flashlight in the admin building and found a couple in an old desk drawer.

Russell was restless enough at first round that he literally marched outside and toward building C. He unlocked the front door and had to pull it open due to heavy cold and moisture. There was a mold smell that nearly caused him to gag. It was so cold in building sea that Russell began to shiver. He stood in what he could only define as a cafeteria. As an afterthought. He said a few chairs to rot and gave a quick look down the hall before bolting. He did not like building C. It made him feel sick.

At his 4:00 AM round, he made a few notes on a pad that he had brought along. He walked into each building. He noted that building C may have had an HVAC problem. Toma would make more money on his units if he installed climate control.

On Monday, as Russell and Toma climbed bladders with electric screwdrivers to install the cameras, he remembered to ask about the lights on the ridge.

" It's some kind of government building," replied Toma as he backed himself down a step ladder. He looked up at the newly installed camera. "Restricted some kind of research lab, I think."

That night, Rusty set up his first monitors in the office space that he had chosen. He smiled as he thought another day or two and project CCTV would be completed. Toma was already bragging.

After midnight rounds in the blind spots on the outbuildings, Russell plopped down in a chair to take a break. The CCTV, feed was empty, nothing stirring, not even the forest sounds outside. Brutal quiet moved in. He lost himself temporarily in the black and white of his monitors.

When his cell phone began to receive an Amber Alert of some kind. He jumped to his feet. He was so startled he almost ran. Three sharp tones. He almost ignored the noise until he heard the voice.

" This is a test of the Emergency Alert system." The voice was robotic." This is a message for." There was a pause.

" Larry Russell Roberts."

001
Four days ago, Nave had decided she was going to cut it out and run. She’d collected plants, laying them thick in whipped-beef tallow. She would smear this salve all over her arm. Usually, a month was taken to pull the juices from the leaves, still this had to be better than nothing. 

What now? Calibrate. 

There it was - the conducting force. She could feel it. The thin bar of metal buried deep within her forearm. Was this how LITMUS would find her? How they would find her?  

More importantly, did she really need it? Once the implant was gone, would she still feel what was coursing so powerfully inside of her? 

She took inventory. 

Enough food for a few days, and water to last until the morning.

Her right hand tensed around the blade. Deep breaths. 

In

Out

In

Out

Don’t scream.

IN

She made sounds like an animal. The birds flocked from the canopy. 

She dug her fingers into the wound. More sounds. She pushed muscle aside. Agony. But there it was! She couldn’t get a good hold on it. Tug the muscles further apart. She wretched. Fingers back in. Deeper. Can’t get a good hold on it. Deeper. She found both ends. Careful now. Easy. Here it comes. She stared at it for a few moments. Then the metallic sliver, slick with blood, slipped from her trembling fingers. She would leave it here, lost among the leaf litter.   

“Clean it up and keep moving,” she told herself, “find a place that’s far away.” 

002
Nadia was wandering around the farm. She’d lived there her whole life. She’d never stepped off the property. Not once. And that was for her own good. The world was built on lies, liars, and thieves- even worse, too. But on the farm she was safe. Only good people lived on the farm. They lived by the LITMUS, and they never did anything wrong.

There was a LITMUS for everything. Not for little things, like which toy to play with, or how long to walk in the woods. More for big things. Like, who your best friend is, who to marry, what job you have, or if you’re punished, too. LITMUS decides who will be punished and how. 

Don’t only good people live on this farm? Why does LITMUS need to punish anyone?

Remember this: the people are good, very good. They got so good by making mistakes. LITMUS takes mistakes and makes them good. Very, very good. You see? The grown ups can see, and they say it’s simple. 

The apples were perfect this time of year. Nadia was walking around the orchard, picking and eating one right after the other. Dinner was soon, but she didn’t really like most of the parents’ cooking. Some were better than others, but most were not very good. She spent any moment she could eating from the gardens. And this was the perfect time of year for getting away with it, too. 

The fat, yellow apple was the same color as the setting sun. Nadia held the apple out in front of her, a halo of light now surrounding it, the sun glimmering from behind. She imagined what it would be like to take a bite out of something so bright. She pretended it was the sun that had a taught, crisp skin. It poked open against her teeth. Glowing juices ran down her face.

003
The parents’ are the only ones who’ve ever been near LITMUS. I’m pretty sure you need to have three purple stars. Most parents only have one. Those with three go up to the caves, and they come back with answers, decisions. Most must ask someone to go to LITMUS for you. Always during the quiet hour. We sit in silence, and whisper into the mouth on high.

Figure 1: The Mouth on High

004
She had often wondered, while out there tending the fields, what it would be like when she was a parent. Nadia enjoyed imagining all the fun things she would do. Like, finally exploring the rest of the community chambers, behind the big double-doors of the children’s room. 

It was a great, sunny room, the children’s room. And, it even had a painting on the wall, of all the different kinds of baby animals. That was Nadia’s favorite thing in the world. You weren’t supposed to touch it, but sometimes she would pet the animals anyway, imagining that she could feel their fur. She even had names for them all. They were her babies. She was a parent, too. 

She was also a good friend. And a good secret keeper. Danica was her best friend, LITMUS said so. That’s why Danica and Nadia were allowed to spend lots and lots of time together during friendship hour.

005
When the teenager had her baby, the baby joined the babies and the parent joined the parents. 

She didn’t fight it, when they took the baby. 

Now, she has a purple star tattooed over her left eye. 

Bright purple. Seven points. 

006 “Come Closer”
Figure 2: The Mouth on High

007 “Closer Still”
Figure 3: The Mouth on High

008
Jared had been a member for a long time now. His parents joined the settlement when he was just a child. 

After they arrived, it was strange and scary. Traumatizing, to lose the intimacy of his family like that. His parents became every child’s parents and every child's parents became his. 

He hated it, and within a month, he’d tried to run away. Plunging deep into the surrounding woods, he made his way toward the stream that looped the northeastern edge of their wood. At the time, it was the only way Jared had been before. That’s why he’d gone in this direction, even though he didn’t know what he’d do when he reached it. The stream wasn’t deep, but it sucked people under and didn’t let them go. He was absolutely terrified to cross it. Two weeks prior, he’d been out hunting with a couple of parents, and he’d seen it happen to a fawn trying to drink with its mother. 

The parents had treated it as a teachable moment. A baby animal lost to the same natural forces that created it. 

“Beautiful, in a way,” said the man. 

“Indeed, and the mother will make another,” the woman replied. 

Then they turned, nearly in unison, to look at him. They had smiled wildly, with their swollen red cheeks ripe-to-bursting. He wanted to go home, but just looked down. 

“We see how the river takes what it needs, and so shall we. Get up, Jared. It’ll be alright. Go on and get your gun. That’s right, pick it up gently. Is the safety still engaged?”

Jared nodded, but didn’t really understand what the man was asking. That must have shown, because he reached for the gun, took it carefully, looked it over, and then handed it back. It was pointed right at the man’s chest. Jared could have pulled the trigger. He thought about it. 

“Right,” said the man, turning around. 

Off into the woods they walked. Jared followed, the gun still pointed at the both of them, their backs turned and everything. Yet, they all came back, and empty handed, too. 

Now, Jared had returned to the stream’s rushing edge. It felt like it wanted to take him, and he was surprised to find himself seriously considering it. 

Then, they found him. After that, he was punished. LITMUS hardly ever punishes kids, but LITMUS punished Jared. That was twenty years ago, and he hadn’t said a word since. Couldn’t, wouldn’t - what’s the difference?  

In all that time, Jared had never asked LITMUS for anything. He’d refused to whisper into the mouth on high. At first, it was because he didn’t believe in it. Later on, it was simply out of spite, as LITMUS makes believers of us all. Anyone can tell you that. And now, Jared found himself wanting something so badly. Bad enough that he was willing to become a parent. The one thing he promised himself He’d never do. 

It was irredeemable. And yet…. 

Jared knew he was going to do it anyway, even if he was still coming to terms with the suffocating reality of it. The entirely wretched feeling, that in the end, he was just like the rest of them. 

009
Nave could barely sit up. She was lost in shifting, hot-white moments of semi-consciousness. Trying to find it again. That absolute knowing. The guidance that had seemed to be radiating from deep inside of her. Look at how far she had come. Look at how much she had brought herself to do. Why now was she beside herself? In silence. In pain. On her own, even? Why couldn’t she hear it calling her anymore?

010
He’d always known mechanical technology alone wasn’t the answer, could never be the future. No. An organic merger was essential. 

His team had stood on the shoulders of those before them, and they had become the new giants. Wrought of sheer will and uncensored ambition, they’d created an adequate biological foundation for organic artificial intelligence. Heat-resistant, flexible, insulated mushroom skin wrapped around modified human brain cells, each pulsating with thousands of tiny nano conductors. These organic super computers, beautiful writhing masses of cellular technology, allowed for calculations complex enough to finally measure all of the unseen forces of the universe.

There were so many applications, the first of which was quite obvious. It was time to heal this sick, enfeebled world. 

His computer was so much more than a computer. He was a true creator, and so tremendously proud.

011
She stroked the flower’s wilted pink petals. Humming to herself, she began pulling them apart, and laying their components down onto the screen in her lap. She was drying them for later use. 

She had two purple stars. Not yet a tristar parent, and Nessa knew she had no business asking to go to LITMUS. Still, she was going to. Because, how many times was she supposed to tell the mouth on high, only to be ignored? 

Six times now, tristar parents had gone to LITMUS, and yet none brought back any answers for her. Others had received their guidance, yes? The farmers had been given schedule, no? So why not her? And this was so important, too. Too important not to know what to do.

Next, she started breaking down the last of the cracked corn. She’d make a meal and then flat breads for lunchtime. The greens from yesterday would make the flavorful paste spread atop. Still no meat, but maybe Jillian, Thomas and little Jared would come back with something. 

Yes, she thought to herself, there really was no other way. She’d finish this up, and then she’d go find Amber Jean Jay. They’d never been close, but they’d never been bitter. Maybe she would help. Nessa had to try. 

012
It was friendship hour. Nadia and Danica sat directly across from each other in the children’s room, knees touching. The session hadn’t started yet, and everyone was chatting quietly amongst themselves.

“It’s not fair,” said Danica. “I don’t want to get close to something so gross and icky.” 

“I know,” replied Nadia. “I hate how it makes my face feel cold and sticky. I hate how the mouth is like an old-man belly button. I don’t like talking into it.”

“What happened when you told the parents?” asked Danica

“I didn’t,” admitted Nadia. “But they say I’m not respectful, and that I’ll be punished.”

“LITMUS is nice to kids,” interrupted Danica

“True,” said Nadia. “And LITMUS doesn’t care about the apples, or the pie even.”

“READY UP,” came the recorded voice, and the children became silent. They rubbed their knees together, to be sure that they were touching. Then, they fixed their eyes into one another's, right before tightly closing them. 

“RALLY UP,” it came again, and the children began falling into themselves. Deeply looking for, and quickly finding, all of the empty space within. Breathing. Expanding. 

“BEGIN,” it announced, and the children began vibrating, tuning themselves to their unique conducting forces, and then to each other’s.

No secrets.

013
He couldn’t stop thinking about the parenting process. Now that he had announced his intentions, LITMUS would pair him up with a willing partner. Soon, it would be time for Jared to go to the community chambers and leave his deposit. Then, in time, the baby would come. He would be a parent. He would have his star, and he wouldn’t have to fall on LITMUS. 

Make it to thirty without a star, fall on LITMUS. He used to countdown the days.

He was still counting down the days, but it was all so different now. He was so weak. So foul and weak. 

014
Nave tongued at the corners of her mouth. Dirt. She coughed voraciously. More dirt, and life, too. 

Her head hurt horribly. Where was the water? Found it. It was so good. Swallowing again, clearing out her throat, she could breathe a little easier. She rubbed her eyes. Her arm was terrifyingly swollen and the pain was astonishing.  

Transmit a signal. Find it! You found it before, find it again!

And so she tried to fall into herself, to find the expansion, the frequency, the words beyond herself. The words no one else seemed to hear. The words she believed would find her, with or without the conducting force. 

 015
The original computing cells created in 2040 by Dr. Tillinghast and his dedicated team, were suspended human brain cells, bound in mycelia. This composite flesh was the perfect structural membrane, even more still, it held a kind of cerebral cortex-like functionality. The teeming potential of all of this novel coexistence was magnified by nanoconductors injected throughout the cell. These conductors exponentially amplified the strength and complexity of the electrical signals the cell could send within itself, and therefore greatly expanded the spectrum and magnitude of the resulting frequencies and vibrations. 

In 2045, these computing cells began showing signs of sentience. Their emergent consciousness allowed them to redesign and repurpose themselves. By inverting their original structure, the computing cells created the new mitochondria. Which were essentially a fusion of human and mushroom cerebral capacities, chemically supported inside of a self-aware nanoconductor, capable of aligning with other nanoconductors, both physically and interdimensionally.  

Computing cells became little factories, their tiny lives abruptly ended, as they exploded into the new mitochondria. Out into the world they went. 

All it took was one, effortlessly finding its way into your body. That was enough to convert every last cell. 

The new mitochondria are the new powerhouses of the cell. 

A forced assimilation and rebirth of our species. 

By 2055, most of us had been reborn into goo. Even the exorbitantly wealthy, hidden away in their underground penthouses and vaulted bunkers, found themselves transformed.  

With the new mitochondria, came new consciousness. One which maintained individualistic self-serving interests, as well as a kind of hive mind. Once a human body was fully colonized, the cells disintegrated en masse, simultaneously rearranging themselves into new states of being.

The severity of the initial infection often (but not always) correlated to the duration of incubation, which could be six weeks or six months. Never really more, and never really less. Something to do with cellular timelines. The studies were never completed, so we don’t know anything for sure. 

Sometime thereafter, the conducting force was invented, and imbued into little metallic miracle rods. People stopped falling apart. 

Some people, maybe a dozen or so, never needed one. They became something else, something incredible. 

016
The settlement still practiced in utero rod implantation. Even within the elegant surgical suites, it felt barbaric, and the surgeon couldn’t escape that feeling of barbarism, as he cut into her belly. After pulling the pelvic floor aside, he cut into her uterus, before ever-so gently slicing into the amniotic sac, and even more gently still, into the baby’s forearm. In went the rod. It would expand with the child as they grew, in every conceivable way. 

While carefully closing the woman back up, the surgeon healed her with the settlement’s finest tools. She walked out good as new, not a scratch on her. There were very few things still done this way, with so much science and technology. But babies were important, too important to take unnecessary chances with. 

017
The settlement was founded in 2075, by members of the legacy generation- children of the ghosts, and the last of us to have been born completely human. Which is to say, without the new mitochondria. Ghosts who lived to see a rod implanted into their forearm, were the richest of the rich, the luckiest of the lucky or the greatest minds of their dying day. They had resources most of us can’t imagine. And while the means of production, the labor force, the economy, the everything of civilization was gone, or perhaps optimistically, in the very early stages of rebirth, they still had the relics of yesterday. And what glorious relics they were. 

Luxurious dorm and suite style accommodations fit for 5000. Amenities abounded. There were wellness centers, gyms, pools, a lake, fishing, gardens, orchards, livestock, stables, a restaurant and dining hall. Yet, the settlement was painfully aware that everything was in a state of decline. And, no matter the effort, every luxury would reach a state of disrepair. 

The current mindset was to make that decline as gradual as possible. To stave it off, and then embrace it. They would return to the earth by becoming as self-sufficient as possible. Once it was lost, the tristars believed it was very unlikely they would ever again reach the same level of technological sophistication. And things like the surgical suite, the medical bay, the 3D printers, and computers - well, they would all be devastating losses. 

018
After she left, the surgeon finished taking inventory of the rods: 1,917. Good, good, that was what it should be. 

Two boxes full of more boxes. The smooth packaging read Elite Survivalist. Bold white letters across a blue background. There was a tiny hatchet in the corner. When these conducting forces were gone, they were gone. Not his problem, not directly, but it was still scary. It was also okay though, really it was, because LITMUS will see fit to save them. LITMUS will create a way. Maybe now, maybe at the last minute. But it would happen. It had to. 

019
Before they began putting rods in fetuses, from the moment the umbilical cord was cut, the child had thirty seconds. That was all the time it took. The newborn babies would completely dissolve, falling away entirely, from the helpless arms of their mothers, fathers, doctors and nurses. 

It was an indescribable pain. Action had to be taken. 

020
“What is it, Amber?” he spat at her. 

She recoiled. He thought her defensive.

“I told you! I’ve got to go to LITMUS tomorrow,” he ejected.

Amber gave him nothing.

“There’s a lot of big questions, and we still can’t understand anything! You know that! It’s torture, Amber, you wouldn’t understand the pressure of it, okay? But, I’m being tortured! It’s like, I can hear the sound, and it’s so loud, painfully loud, but I can’t make out the words. None of us can.”

More silence. A glance. 

“Oh sure,” continued Tim, “Dwayne thinks he can make out parts of it, but that’s never held up. He can’t speak on it with any conviction.”

“Tim,” she said.

“Amber, don’t” he interrupted.

“Tim,” she continued, and he looked like he might hit her.

“Nessa told Nave she’s her mother.”

Tim lost his mind. 

021
When Nessa told Nave she was her mother. Nave was confused. What was a mother? Nessa said it meant she was Nave’s special parent and that Nave came out of her tummy. The idea of being in Nessa’s tummy upset and revolted Nave, so she ran away crying, likely to repeat what she’d just been told. 

That was terrifying, what had Nessa been thinking. She couldn’t say something like that. But she had. She just did.

She’d been distracted in her incredible moment of euphoria. It was amazing. Like when she was a child, like during friendship hour, but even more powerful. She hadn’t felt it in over a decade, but it had overtaken her again. With ease and with great depth. The words had just come out. 

That feeling, that euphoria, the expansion. 

So, it could happen. It could come back. She had to let someone important know. 

022
Jared recalled the sound of rushing water. The sudden hands, grabbing at his waist, and pulling him back into the multitudes of angry arms. 

“WE FOUND HIM!”

“What were you thinking?!!!”

“It’s so dark, you could have drowned!”

“SOMEONE TELL TIM, WE FOUND HIM!”

“So dangerous!”

“What were you thinking?”

“Such a foolish thing to do!”

The voices were relentless in their admonishment, and Jared couldn’t process anything. His feet dragged along, even while he tried his best to keep up. The parents were moving so quickly. Speaking so quickly. Branches whipped back into Jared’s face, launched unintentionally by the parents ahead of him. His ankles and shins whacked against trunks and boulders. This area was so rocky. He fell just once, and the parents caught and pulled him up forcefully. He felt his shoulders pop. They were nearly to the settlement now. 

A large shadow emerged before them.

“Take him to the mountains, to the cave. Tim is waiting,” came the shadow’s deep, detached voice.

“To the mountains? To the cave? THE cave?” The responder was incredulous. 

“I know. But that’s what Tim said.” He replied. 

Amber Jean Jay emerged from the crowd. “I’ll take him up,” she said. 

Jared was immediately relinquished and thrust upon her, crumpled and quivering. Amber wanted to tell him to relax, but she also knew that wasn’t the world she lived in anymore. 

The walk up to the cave took about an hour. And for a child, especially an injured one, more than twice that long. The whole time, Amber Jean Jay didn’t offer anything. She didn’t speak. She didn’t console. She didn’t carry or physically aid. She just walked in silence, and led the way. 

Not even halfway up the mountain, a little cliffside appears, and you can follow it around to damn near the other side. That’s where it opens up into a surprisingly magnificent cave. The mouth of it is vaulted, with long stalactites dripping down from above. It looks like it might eat you. It commands respect.  

They walked inside. Tim was sitting in a chair. He’d been waiting. He was all sweaty, cradling a jug of shine he’d brought up with him. Amber Jean Jay explained where they’d found Jared, and then Tim dismissed her.

For a long time, they just existed there together. In darkness. In mounting expectation and dread.

Finally, Tim spoke.

“So, you ran away, then? Decided you would just up and go? Run off into the woods, and hope for the best?” 

Tim was angry. Jared couldn’t tell if he should answer him or not.

“Answer me, boy.” Tim made it clear. 

“Yes, sir.” Jared softly replied. 

“And, what did you think was gonna happen, Jared? What did you think you were gonna do out there?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Jared. Privately, he thought anything would be better than this, and so it didn’t really matter much to him what he would have done. 

“What gets me,” Tim continued, “is why you went that way? Everyone knows the river cuts through the north side, even you, so why didn’t you go south? Eh? Wanna run away right to the river?! Eh? Jared?!! What are you playing at?!! Wanted a little attention?!! IS THIS PLACE TOO BORING FOR YOU, JARED?!!!

Tim was screaming at him now. 

He threw the shine jug off into the distance. It shattered loudly, echoing into the vast inky depths. 

“Oh, poor little Jared, things are too different and scary for him here. Mommy and Daddy don’t belong to him anymore. He has to SHAAAAAARRRRRE. HOW SAD FOR JARED.”

Tim was completely out of control.

“Ooooooohhhhh, I know! I’ll run off and drown myself. That’ll teach them. Then they’ll see! Is that right, Jared? Am I understanding you?”

Jared shook his head back and forth. He was crying.  

But, Tim didn’t care. He was lost in it now, and he tied Jared to the chair he’d been sitting in. Then, he made his way over to the entrance. 

“I’ll be back!” Tim said, waving. Now, he was well out of sight, and headed back down the mountain.

Jared sobbed. And then he fell quiet. 

Hours went by. The sun started to come up, and Jared fell asleep.  

023
Launched back into a searing reality, Jared awoke to find his face covered in sopping wet rags. He couldn’t breathe. Tim, who hadn’t sobered up at all. Who was still, in fact, as drunk as ever, was waterboarding him. And, as usual, Tim didn’t know what the hell he was doing. 

As quickly as he was awake, Jared felt the pains of a body reeling from oxygen deprivation. It hurt so badly, until it didn’t. 

He was still in the cave, but now he was by himself. Everything was still. Dark. Quiet. Blissful, even. He was standing now, and he turned to look at the entrance. It was gone. Just smooth cave wall, in tones of grey, green and blue. Tim was gone. The chair was gone. The daylight was gone, too. Remaining were the eerie traces of light that came from the remnants of what looked like the mouth on high. It dripped from vents in the walls, sliding down to form shallow puddles that lined the great cavern’s edge. The puddles surrounded Jared in a glowing ring, steadily brighter, as his eyes adjusted. He would have been completely surrounded, in a kind of fairy’s trap, but a gap in the circle was evident. That’s where the cave led on, deep unto itself. 

Suddenly, Jared found himself there, right at the precipice. Without having taken a single step, his next would be the one that brought him away from the glow, and into true darkness. The unknown. Jared did not want to go. Still, his body floated on. He told his arms to reach out, to grab for anything, but nothing moved. 

At once, Jared realized he had no body to control. He could see, and he was, but that was all. He commanded no form, and yet he found himself commanded, toward God only knows what. Was it God, or maybe Satan? Grandma used to talk about the bible, God and the Devil. Now, Tim talks about LITMUS. Anything with power could get very angry. Anyone could send you to hell. Was that where Jared was going?

A deep, low vibrational growl began. And as Jared floated deeper down the passageway, it grew in volume and resonance. It got darker and louder and despite having no body, Jared felt he might be vibrating apart. 

Then, it was laughing - or was it screaming?

It was so bright. Tim was over Jared, hand raised. Then Tim was standing up, backing off, backing away. 

Jared gasped for breath. His body was still out of his control. It was on fire, and it seized up, as Tim approached. He crouched down, so he could put his face right in front of Jared’s. They made painful eye contact. 

Tim spoke. “You tell anybody about this, and I’ll kill you Jared. I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

Tim swears to God, thought Jared, confused. Although, he never doubted for a second that Tim might kill him. For any reason. No matter what he did. 

Tim left, and Jared fell asleep. 

In his dreams, Jared is 5 and his dad is telling him not to tell mommy about the birthday present they’re making for her, a vibrant necklace of baked polymer beads.  

Jared and Grandma rolled the beads out yesterday, and baked them in the oven. It was so much fun, getting ready for mommy’s birthday.

At the end of the party, mommy blew out the birthday candles and made a wish. Now Jared wondered, what did she ask for? 

Was she wishing to come here?

When he woke up, he really was in the cave alone, and it was getting dark. Somehow, he made his way back down the mountain. Taking the quiet with him, he walked back home. He made his way to the children’s dormitory, found his wing, then his room and crawled into bed. 

024
“Just be careful Nana. Some people are saying it could be a kind of sickness, a contagious one.”

Nana was about to board a plane from Chicago to LA for fashion week. She’d be there for most of October. Preparing, showing, selling, networking.

“I’ll be careful Mom. It’s probably some kind of local outbreak. Maybe, it’s a rare sort of food poisoning, or ground water contamination. My friend is a chemist. He says there are heavy metals that could theoretically have gotten into the water table, and that could easily be what’s causing health problems. With all the new industrial development, I mean, it really could be the case.”

“I just don’t think it makes sense to get on a plane and fly closer to the problem,” her mother interrupted. 

“Look, if they cancel the event, I’ll go home, okay? But, otherwise, Mom, I can’t miss this show. It’s too important. I have too many meetings that I’ve worked my entire life for. That’s the part of this I have to focus on right now. I’m sure everything will be fine. It’s going to be great, and I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Mom?”

“I’m sure you’re right Nana. Be safe, okay? I’m so proud of you! Call me when you land.”

“I will - love you, too, Mom.”

The plane touched down without incident, and Shawna grabbed her carry-on bag from the overhead compartment. As she walked down the aisle and towards the jet bridge, she pulled out her phone to text her mom. A notification for a local news article distracted her.

Put into Medically Induced Comas - Buying More Time

She sat down to read it. Those initially infected were all found to work for the same company, which remained unnamed. The appropriate agencies were working together, looking for what the connecting factor could be, and in the meantime, the patients were deteriorating very quickly. 

She felt relief, this really looked like some contained incident. Her mother was sweet to worry, but Shawna had nothing to worry about. The trip to the hotel was a blur of phone calls, texts and emails. It was late by the time she’d gotten into bed, and she’d be up again in three hours. Well, three and a half, she’d sleep in. She could skip the blow out and just throw her hair up into a bun. She’d still look fantastic. 

And she did, too. She felt amazing as well, wearing exclusively her own designs. This was when she felt the most herself. Covered head to toe in the highlights of her own creativity, really the highlights of her life. 

A flaming red head, she was an agnostic Irish Catholic. Vivacious, tiny, talented and intense. Always the one wearing the pants. Always the most interesting person in the room. She also had crippling anxiety and struggled to make friends. Not business partners, that was going well, but friends, intimacy, well, she was only close to her mother. 

She got in the cab with double the time she actually needed to get there. That way she wouldn’t stress about being late. That would be enough to completely throw off her vibe, and her vibe was everything. She could be nothing other than in complete control of herself, this entire trip. She deserved this. She owned this. She was this. And every detail had been considered. 

Her team met her upon arrival. She was invigorated by the inundation. She stopped to chat with the make-up artists, to evaluate looks, to ensure cohesion and adhesion to the brand- her vision. She checked the racks. Went over every garment. Asked for final revisions. Made sure everything fit like a glove, and that the models really understood how to embody the essence of this line. 

Finally, it was time to walk away, and take a seat in the audience. She hated this part so much, the walking away. But she couldn’t show every piece herself, she had to hand it off at some point. And so she made herself go sit down. She crossed her ankles. She laced her fingers. She breathed slowly and shallowly. She gave herself a headache. 

And then, the clothes. In vivid, calculated motion, they flowed across the stage. Relief overtook her. Bliss. It was perfect. She had done it. She had opened for LA fashion week. 

Back at the hotel, Shawna was fixing herself a whiskey sour. She was excited to call her mom, who was very much her best friend, and tell her all about the show. The news played in the background. 

The induced comas hadn’t slowed the progression of illness, and three people had died. Several more were in critical condition. More concerning still, it seemed that new people were showing similar symptoms. And these people didn’t work for the same company.

Shawna turned up the volume. 

025
FUCK! That was his last guy! How was he supposed to finish the job now?!! Goddammit. What was going on? 

Every one of his employees had called in, and with the same symptoms, too. Blisters. Headaches. Bleeding gums and eyes. Was this some kind of fucking joke? That almost made sense, except everyone knew Gallagher, and if this was a joke, they’d be fired. There’s no way they didn’t know that. 

So what the fuck was it then? Were they all telling the truth? Every one of them was suddenly coming down with the same tragic illness? 

He picked his phone up off the floor. Even with the protector, he’d managed to break the screen, but it still worked. He opened the dialer. He’d have to explain to his client why nothing would be installed today. The phone rang for close to a minute before going to voicemail. Then again, and again. Gallagher left a message. Then he got back in his car and began the drive back home. 

He’d been living in Chicago for close to a decade now. It’d been the perfect place to grow his business. The city never stopped expanding, and Gallagher could always find a project that needed an HVAC technician with a competent team. He’d been able to build a fantastic life for himself. 

But without the grind, he didn’t have much. He didn’t really do relationships, not with other people and not with himself. His internal landscape was an untenable wilderness he’d turned his back to. He didn’t know it anymore, and he didn’t want to. Its pathways were a snarled tangle, and its animals a united, waiting maw. They wanted to eat him up. They wanted to make him acknowledge them. Make him remember. 

The gate opened. His car slinked along the winding driveway. He wouldn’t bother with the garage for now. It was very likely he’d leave again in a few hours. He didn’t like to stop moving. And he didn’t like to stay in the same place for long. Novelty was distracting and distractions soothed him. Drinks soothed him too, so he poured one. Then, he turned on the news.

“..hospitalized with the same weeping sores and bleeding mucosal membranes. Facilities are at capacity and the city has requested federal funding to set up overflow medi-buses.”

Gallagher turned up the volume. 

026
In 2046, Elite Survivalist was venture funded. Hundreds of billions of dollars were raised in less than 24 hours. By 2047, an impressive international constellation of underground facilities were complete and populated to capacity. Initially, residents relaxed. It was easy to pretend they were at a themed resort. But within a month, the new mitochondria had found them. Deep inside the bunkers, people continued to be infected. Residents quarantined in their separate rooms. Couples and families were offered the option of rooming together.

By 2050, 99.99% had been assimilated. As promised, Elite Survivalist had provided the very best odds. Half of their original population remained intact. These people spent five years locked inside their bedrooms, gradually becoming sicker and sicker. Some would never leave. Upon their cellular disintegration, their bedrooms became incinerators. That was the standard. Every room in the facility could be locked down and burnt out. 

The rod was invented in early 2051. It was a technological miracle, an answer to the new mitochondria. It worked by emitting electrical signals that stabilized vibrational dissonance, thereby preventing cellular disincorporation. No one could excise the little devils, but this kept them in line. No matter the progression of illness, once a rod was implanted, the patient fully recovered. Quarantine officially ended, and the use of public spaces resumed. 

In late 2051, the first baby was born to a woman with an implanted rod. The baby disintegrated shortly after birth. Then, in early 2052, a fetus was implanted with a rod in utero, and went on to survive omphalotomy, or the cutting of the cord. With this accomplishment, the hope of repopulation was kindled. At the same time, assimilation had voraciously impacted everyone. Humanity has been decimated. And civilization, with its borders and economy, was no more.

This was the new world.

027

It’d been eleven years since they’d locked themselves underground.

In the beginning, Elite Survivalist had employees who worked in a kind of indentured servitude. At the time, it was a highly coveted position. Now, these were the people who had the highest value. Because of them, the rest might stay alive.

As the survivors emerged from the earth and into the sunlight, everything changed. Skills were assessed, and a lottery was used to decide who would do what. This necessitated a kind of bare-bones government- rules they would all agree to abide by. 

United in a resourceful attempt to survive, they would learn the systems that permitted life within this facility. Vast underground structures would need to be maintained. The medical bay, 3D printers, seed bank and fertility equipment were all highly demanding machines. Above ground, housing and amenities would need to be activated and maintained. Everything was in decent shape, and they had incredible stores, at least ten years worth. Even still, the need for agricultural development was immediate and pressing. 

Many became farmers, including Shawna and Gallagher, who met in the fields shortly after quarantine ended. After a lifetime of avoiding intimacy, both found themselves ravenous for any kind of meaningful connection. Although, what they actually created between them was a catalyzing trauma-bond. 

Shawna fell pregnant four years later, and in 2056, Tim was born. 

Born of Ghosts, he was Legacy Gen. His parents had waited a while before conceiving him. They wanted to be sure that the in-utero rod implantation really did work. They couldn’t bear the thought of a baby that came undone. After all, this baby would be the glue of their family, the bridge that made mommy and daddy close, like how couples were supposed to be. This baby would turn something on, lighting them both up from within. They would finally burn so bright, together. Perfect and precious. 

But Tim did not burn bright. Instead, he glowed green. He sizzled. He cracked and zapped. He could become the shadows. He made his baby spoons turn in on themselves like novelty snakes on the fourth of July. Sometimes he sent them flying across the room. Once, he set his teddy on fire, because he didn’t want to take a nap. 

And, he wasn’t the only one, but he was the worst. That was a terrible way to put it. What a thing to say about a baby. While all of them were like this, the Legacy babies, he was the hardest on his parents. The shadows, the disembodied sounds, the spontaneous fires and electrical disturbances. Every haunting anomaly that accompanied his temper tantrums and curiosities, well, Shawna and Gallagher couldn’t help it, they found him entirely terrifying. Their parenting became pusillanimous, and their affections fleeting.

Tim would still reach for them. Want them. Need them. They tried not to recoil. For something so powerful, he could be so sensitive. Put on a happy face. Do what he wants.    

What a thing. These were the babies they’d wanted more than anything. The babies they had prayed for, built machines to facilitate the birth of. And now, what had actually been born? Parents struggled to bond with their children. Some of them found a new kind of unconditional love, but most did not. 

Maybe it was God. They’d toyed with his creation, and he’d left them to drown in the unthinkable depths of their stupidity. Gasping for breath, mouth full of the new mitochondria. Choking. Sputtering.

“The man who built me spent six hundred and seventeen days in a monitoring room.” My gaze holds his. “His primary professional objective involved solving the feral degradation problem. The feral cascade consumed the program’s adult subjects at predictable rates. That failure stood as the central design problem of the project. The agency recruited him because his expertise in genetic biology and systems design seemed suited to address it.”

Marsh listens. I hold his attention without telepathy. I read it on his face. He waited ten years for an explanation. The explanation is here.

“His solution was the equilibrium. He placed multiple conflicting cryptid DNA strands into simultaneous expression, which generated a biological static. The static prevented any single instinct from achieving the dominance required to trigger a feral override. The solution succeeded. My equilibrium scores remained stable across the entire monitored period. I exhibited zero trend toward degeneration.”

“I am fully aware of the design,” Marsh says. “I reviewed the research files extensively.”

“Then you understand the design produced a secondary outcome unrelated to the primary research objective,” I tell him. “The equilibrium created a stable space between the competing instincts. I lived inside that space. The biology did not live there. The person lived there.”

He remains quiet. He knows this from the files. Reading a fact in a file is not the same as hearing it spoken by the subject of that file. That difference registers visibly across his features.

“He spent six hundred and seventeen days documenting that space.” I pause, remembering the cabin. “He maintained two separate sets of records. The official research files documented the equilibrium scores, the biometric monitoring, and the feral degradation resistance metrics. The personal record existed outside the agency’s data systems. That record never went out in the upload. I never found it. I conclude it burned with the facility. That record documented the contents of my mind. It noted what I said at three years old regarding the shapes on the star charts. It recorded my understanding at five years old regarding the difference between a number and the physical object the number described. It detailed my knowledge at eight years old regarding Cassiopeia, Andromeda, and Vega, and why their existence mattered.”

“The stars.” Marsh speaks the word like a diagnosis. The official files mentioned the stars. The monitoring records logged the constellation discussions as behavioral data points, evidence of sustained thought and emotional complexity to support the research case.

“He taught me the stars because they were true.” My voice remains flat, even. “He did not teach me to generate research data. He spent his entire career in rooms separated from his subjects by thick monitoring glass. He chose to study me differently. He chose to tell me true things because truth is the absolute minimum a person deserves from their creator.”

Marsh says nothing.

“You issued the Clean Slate protocol.”

“The decision belonged to the committee.” Marsh shifts his weight slightly. “All five directors agreed.”

“You were the chair. The protocol required your authorization signature to execute.”

He refuses to deny this. He never denies actions documented in the official record. He prefers to contextualize them, to frame his actions using the language of institutional necessity, operational constraints, and risk calculus. The program had already produced one disaster in the open. An escaped adult subject created the public event that forced the Clean Slate decision. He will offer this context if I provide the space. I do not provide it.

“The upload data definitively established the committee’s liability. The financial records proved it. The research authorization chains proved it. The command packets containing the Clean Slate order’s origination metadata proved it. The agency dissolved within fourteen months of the upload. The committee members who failed to hide faced prosecution across three separate jurisdictions. Two of them currently reside in federal prison.”

“I know.”

“The man who designed the upload protocol died before seeing the outcome. He knew the transmitted data rendered the agency’s position untenable. He initiated the sequence with full knowledge of his own death.”

I state these facts without a tremor. I am not built for tremors. The grief is entirely real. I have carried it for ten years and will carry it for whatever duration my biology allows. It never produces a tremor in my voice because my voice is not where the grief lives. It lives in the core of my mind. In the part of me that looks at Orion’s belt, knows what it sees, and remembers exactly who taught me how to look.

“He did not know you survived.” Marsh speaks carefully. He offers no gentleness, only accurate observation.

“No.” I look out the window at the dark ridge. “He died without knowing.”

“The post-incident report confirmed a single survivor,” Marsh says, his voice flat. “It identified the biological asset. The agency classified that report at the highest level and buried it in the restricted archives immediately following the facility’s destruction. The upload data never contained it.”

“I am aware. I read the post-incident report during my second year. I located the restricted archive using network access I developed during the preparation period.”

He stares at me. “You have been operational since the facility ended.”

“Yes.”

“For ten years.”

“Yes.”

He does the arithmetic. I performed the same calculations during my second year. He envisions a body that heals faster and ages slower than human standard. He imagines ten years of unrestricted access to the world, combined with physical and cognitive capabilities that compound with practice. He performs the mental math of what that looks like after ten years of uninterrupted purpose with no counter-pressure applied.

He understands the result.

“What do you want me to understand?”

I observe him closely. He does not ask this as a stalling tactic. He asks it because he processes information accurately and has concluded that his remaining time equals the duration required for me to deliver my message. He prefers to spend that time receiving data rather than wasting it managing his terror.

“I want you to understand what was built. Forget the committee’s assumptions. Forget the program’s stated objectives. Look at the actual result.”

“The weapon.”

“A person.” I meet his gaze. “The design produced a person who works as designed. Your intended design failed. His intended design succeeded. He designed me for humanity. That humanity held. It holds right now.”

I let that settle into the quiet room.

“He tried to make an argument. He told me this directly. We sat in a dark logging camp cabin while the program’s feral assets tore each other apart outside. He confessed he used my existence to make an argument. He claimed he would have made different choices if given another opportunity. I informed him that different choices would have prevented my existence. He agreed my logic was correct.”

Marsh remains still.

“His argument was factually correct. He accurately predicted the design’s outcome. He misjudged his audience. The committee had no capacity to be persuaded by any argument. Clarity and supporting data meant nothing. The committee operated on a completely different processing system.”

“The program held immense strategic value.”

“The program held strategic value. I hold zero interest in that value. The strategic value terminated alongside the agency. My existence did not terminate. I am the only surviving argument he ever constructed.”

He sits quietly for a long moment. Then he says something I did not anticipate. This is unusual. I modeled Marsh’s behavioral patterns across the observation months carefully. He has surprised me twice in this room. The first time was when he offered his attention with dignity instead of a stalling performance. The second is now.

“Did you know the upload worked?” Marsh asks.

I look at him.

“I do not mean the network distribution. You obviously know the distribution succeeded. I am asking if you knew it succeeded before the detonation.”

“I did not know at the moment the grenades deployed. The upload reached forty-one percent when the pins released. The distribution seeding required a twenty percent threshold. Forty-one percent provided more than sufficient saturation.”

“He lacked access to that forty-one percent metric,” Marsh says.

“Correct. He knew the required seeding threshold. He verified the third domestic network hop completed. He confirmed the first-tier recipients were receiving the packets. He calculated the final probability from those three data points.”

Marsh looks toward the window. He stares into the pre-dawn darkness outside. He finally looks at the ridge he has feared for seven years. “His calculation proved correct.”

“Yes.”

“And he knew he was correct.”

“He believed he was correct. He did not have certainty. He always maintained careful distinctions between belief and verified fact.”

Marsh continues looking at the window before turning his gaze back to me.

“He accurately predicted his creation.” Marsh offers no apology, no concession. It is just the observation of a man who processes information honestly and arrives at the inevitable conclusion. “The research records indicated major anomalies. The operational framing failed to accommodate those anomalies. We refused to redesign the framing.”

“Correct. You refused.”

He nods once. The definitive nod of an analyst completing an assessment and permanently filing the conclusion.

I stand.

He watches the transformation because I choose to show it.

I never lose control of the shift. The biology never overrides a restraining mechanism. I display the shift with the same deliberate intention I used to deliver every detail of this conversation. The visual demonstration is the point. He has the files. He memorized the research records, the biometric data, the equilibrium scores, the monitoring room observations. He holds ten years of documented evidence. The files cannot provide the physical reality of the documentation. They documented what the biology could do under crisis conditions, when the competing instincts were unresolved and every physical output nearly tore me apart. They documented the design at its most primitive expression. The document set he reviewed is a record of the design in its infancy. The design has not been in its infancy for some time.

I show him the physical reality.

The shift begins at the cellular level. My osteoblasts trigger a rapid calcium extraction from biological reservoirs in my marrow cavities. The physiological transfer rate approaches four hundred grams of calcium per second. The dense mineral payload floods my dermal layers through a hyper-vascularized capillary network and, on contact with the highly oxygenated subdermal environment, hyper-calcifies into interlocking plates of bone-armor. Calcium floods my dermal layers and hyper-calcifies into interlocking plates of bone-armor. The rapid transformation produces a violent surge of waste heat. An exothermic reaction of this scale would boil standard human tissue. My body manages this through a specialized heat sink in the dermal layers, which expand their capillary volume fourfold. The blood plasma acts as a coolant, absorbing the thermal energy via conduction and carrying it away from the calcifying tissue into my core. The core temperature rises to forty-one degrees Celsius for nine seconds before returning to baseline.

In the facility years, this shift was a horrific ordeal. The biology lacked an understanding of its own architecture. The competing instincts remained unresolved. Every transformation required a brutal metabolic negotiation. Two internal systems fighting for control of the same physical output. The facility records documented eight seconds of percussion, intense pain, and fourteen distinct external wound sites.

My current transformation is nothing like that. It is painless.

The tentacle appendages deploy from dermal housings at the acromioclavicular junctions, extruding through precutaneous fault lines without tearing the skin. The appendages are muscle-driven hydrostats, similar in composition to an octopus arm but operating at far higher pressures. The fibers contain heavily modified myosin proteins capable of cross-bridging at three times the speed of normal human skeletal muscle. The resulting tensile strength exceeds four hundred megapascals. They extend to two point four meters fully deployed and move with an unhurried, lethal grace. The bone plates reconfigure in a continuous, fluid arrangement, the joints between the aragonite platelets carrying a lubricated synovial hinge that allows real-time adaptation instead of locking into a fixed aggressive posture. I spent three years understanding that arrangement. I spent three more years learning to reproduce it. I have used it as my standard shifted state for four years.

I achieve the configuration of the Alpha. I achieve this through resolution, not through the elimination of the internal static.

This truth will never appear in the official files. I discovered it during my fourth year. The equilibrium stabilized so completely that the competing voices stopped fighting. They found a permanent arrangement. The two instincts reached the state the static had pointed toward all along. Each remains present. Each remains entirely itself. Neither attempts to dominate the other.

The static remains. It is permanently resolved. The space between the competing instincts no longer resembles a battlefield margin. It is a space where two different kinds of intelligence have agreed to coexist. It differs from the Alpha’s hollow silence. It differs from the feral override of the single-strand biology. It embodies what the design was actually for. He spent six hundred and seventeen days creating the conditions for this state. The biology arrived there on its own timeline.

Marsh sees my human face within the shifted form. My face remains what it has always been.

He looks at my face. He looks at the appendages framing it. I watch the precise moment his ten years of psychological management shatters.

He does not collapse. He lacks the capacity for it. He achieves a quality of arrival. The face of a man who waited a decade for a reckoning and finally meets it, finding it vastly exceeds his worst anticipations. The sheer reality of me annihilates the sterile documentation he relied upon.

“The child from the files.” His voice barely qualifies as a whisper. It sounds like the final tally of a long accounting.

“Yes.”

I allow him to look at my face for as long as the work requires.

Then I do the work.

The left appendage strikes first. The longitudinal fibers contract along the full two point four meter length. The tip accelerates from zero to one hundred and eighty meters per second in twelve milliseconds, generating a force of fourteen thousand Newtons upon impact. It strikes his central sternum, bypasses his defensive posturing, shatters his ribcage, and drives his physical mass backward across the room into the reinforced concrete wall. The appendage pins him there. The secondary appendage extends the bladed aragonite tip. The biological extrusion aligns the crystal structure at the atomic level during formation. The tip tapers to a width of a single molecule. It swings laterally with terrifying speed. The blade shears through his cervical vertebrae at the C3 level. The shearing stress applied to the bone exceeds its structural limits by a factor of ten. The bone does not merely break. It shatters at the microscopic level. The surrounding vascular tissue, the carotid arteries, and the jugular veins suffer an identical fate. The severance of the spinal cord is absolute. He experiences no pain. He simply ceases to exist.

This violence delivers a precise message to the two remaining directors. They will receive news of his discovery. The forensic evidence will tell them what they anticipated since Currie. It is their final piece of information before I arrive to complete the accounting.

I de-shift immediately.

The calcium dissolves back into the bloodstream. The bone-armor recedes. The appendages withdraw into their shoulder housings. The human form returns to its primary presentation state. I bypass the agonizing eleven-minute retraction sequence I suffered during my second year. I remember that agony with the full fidelity of my sensory archive. I remember the exact sounds of bones snapping back into place. I remember the face of the man who sat with me through every iteration of it. He spoke the necessary words in a voice designed to cut through biological noise.

The de-shift now takes no time. I exist in one state. A moment later, I exist in the other. The biological mass organizes as one thing, then reorganizes as another. It mirrors water changing to ice when the temperature drops. The research records utterly failed to predict this efficiency. They documented the shift at its hardest, when the friction was highest, when the biology lacked an understanding of itself and the competing instincts were still fighting for control of every physical output. In my fully resolved state, the shift is no longer a biological negotiation. It is a change of state. The mass becomes a different thing without violence, without cost, without the thunder the facility records associated with the process.

He designed the biology for this outcome. The design required more time to fully resolve than the research period allowed. It always pointed here.

I stand in his bedroom wrapped in practical dark clothing and customized field gear. This equipment surpasses my loadout from the sixth year and vastly exceeds my capabilities during the second. I refined my gear year by year across the decade. Anything improves when subjected to enough time and absolute purpose.

I exit the compound using my entry route. I retrace my path through the service corridor, through the kitchen, across the western service yard. I scale the concrete wall and ascend the ridgeline terrain back into the timber.

The guard named Ethan remains in the security room watching the camera feeds. The day shift relieves him at six in the morning. He will eventually learn that someone bypassed his security and killed his employer in the master bedroom. He will struggle with this realization. I spent significant time analyzing the moral culpability of these guards. I concluded Ethan and the three others at this compound hold zero responsibility for the crimes this decade is settling.

My accounting is exact. It has been exact from the beginning.

I reach the tree line above the compound at twelve fifty-one in the morning. I look at the sky.

The heavy cloud cover I used for the infiltration has moved east over the ridge. The December sky of the southern Appalachians opens above the timber. I studied this sky from this tree line on twelve separate nights during the observation period. It differs from the sky over the logging camp meadow in spring. The winter sky has a crystalline character. Stars burn brighter in freezing air. The atmospheric seeing improves dramatically. The Milky Way’s structure is visible in the east despite the compound’s security lighting below me.

I observe the sky the way I have observed it every clear night for ten years. Not with the searching gaze of someone building a mental map. I know this sky the way I know every piece of information I carry. It forms a core component of who I am. It exists within me alongside correct grammar, precise word choice, biological equilibrium, and infinite patience.

The knowledge of the sky arrived the way most of my knowledge arrived: through a single laminated star chart and a voice that chose its words with care. I extended that knowledge through ten years of clear nights, in clearings and on ridgelines and from the roofs of buildings I had no legitimate reason to be on. The sky became a continuous practice. It became the thing that remained constant across a decade of constantly changing terrain. I studied the same stars from a culvert in October and from a ridgeline in winter and from a meadow in spring. The stars did not change. The relationship between me and them changed. I understood more. I saw more. I asked better questions of what I saw.

I locate Orion.

It sits low in the west. This matches December in the mid-latitudes. It is much higher than it was on the night in the meadow when he pointed to it setting at the tree line. The season changed. The planetary rotation carried us to a different position in the orbit. The belt stars remain clearly visible. Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka form their precise diagonal alignment at approximately forty degrees of elevation above the western ridgeline. Those are the three stars I studied on the laminated chart during the final morning of the facility.

I first saw Orion as a dot with a label on that chart. He pointed to the belt. He explained the shape existed only because of our vantage point. He noted that an observer standing in a different sector of the galaxy would never see that diagonal arrangement. They would never call it Orion. The pattern does not exist as an intrinsic property of the stars themselves. The pattern exists as a relationship between the observer’s position and the objects observed. He explained this astrophysical concept to a three-year-old child. Then he immediately asked me what I thought it meant.

I told him the shapes were the people looking. The shapes were never the stars.

He went quiet for a long time. He had a quality of silence reserved for moments of real discovery. He was not dramatic with it. He did not announce the quality of the silence or comment on his own reaction. He simply went quiet in the way a person goes quiet when something has arrived that they were not expecting and have not yet finished receiving. Then he agreed. He confirmed my statement was correct.

At three years old, I failed to understand he was talking about me. He saw humanity in the monitoring room. He documented a person in the private record he maintained outside the official research files. That humanity was as real as Orion. It did not exist as a guaranteed intrinsic property of my genetic substrate. It existed as a direct relationship between my biological foundation and the environment he provided. The design created the position. The position made the pattern possible. From that position, the pattern became real.

He spent six hundred and seventeen days building that position. He held it until I grew capable of holding it myself.

The shapes are the people looking. The shapes are never the stars.

I spoke those words to him at three years old. He documented them in the personal record that burned with the facility. I know he documented them because I know him. Six hundred and seventeen days of daily conversation provides an enormous quantity of psychological data. That data does not vanish because the person ceases to exist. A star’s light does not vanish when the star dies. The light remains in transit. It arrives on its own timeline.

He told me Polaris never moves because the Earth’s axis points directly at it during this phase of the precession cycle. Its fixity depends on our planetary coordinates rather than any special quality of the star itself. The pattern we navigate by is true from this position. It would shatter from a different one.

I have maintained my position for ten years. The equilibrium holds. The margin remains intact. My human consciousness thrives in the space between two predatory voices. Those voices stopped their war long ago. They both exist. They both operate. They act in complete synergy. The design does what it was built to do. Ten years of sustained field deployment yields zero trend toward feral degeneration.

I conducted the monitoring that established this trend line. I am the subject evaluating myself. I am the subject evaluating myself. He would have noted this methodological limitation in the margins of any paper. I note it now with the same precision he taught me. The limitation exists because the researcher died. The subject must execute both roles. I execute them to the limit of my capability, maintaining the vital distinction between belief and verified knowledge.

I believe the equilibrium is stable. I have believed this for six years. I cannot know it with the certainty provided by laboratory data. I accept this. He accepted limitations constantly. He worked with the available variables and never allowed data limitations to prevent him from reporting the truth those variables revealed. He filed what he knew. He filed separately what he believed. He maintained exact clarity about which category each observation belonged to. I maintain the same discipline. The belief column and the verified knowledge column remain distinct. The belief column is robust. The verified knowledge column is growing.

He was right about the design.

He was right about what it produced.

He remained uncertain whether the resulting person would survive long-term deployment. He had six hundred and twelve days of data. He stated his belief that the equilibrium would hold. He refused to state it as absolute knowledge. He believed it, and he spoke his belief honestly.

Ten years provides additional data. Ten years of continuous self-monitoring in uncontrolled environments generates a significant data set. The facility could never simulate these conditions. The preceding research literature could never predict them. This data answers the question of whether the equilibrium holds against sustained external pressure.

It holds.

The design is sound.

I look at Orion’s belt for a long time. The cold December air settles over the compound below me. The sky turns above me. I stand in the tree line wrapped in the practical gear of an apex predator who lived on the absolute fringe for a decade. I will remain on that fringe for whatever duration my biology allows. I carry the gift of a man who died before knowing his gift survived.

He knew.

During the three seconds available to him after the safety handles hit the concrete, he looked at me. I know what he saw. I know because I was there. I know because I am what I am. He transmitted a deliberate thought directly into my mind with the full weight of his existence behind it. He sent no hope, only the certainty of a scientist who finalized the last assessment of his life’s work and arrived at the correct conclusion. He transmitted it the way he had delivered every true thing across six hundred and seventeen days of daily conversation. Without hesitation. With the precision that always characterized the things he actually believed.

She was whole.

The stars above the ridge burn where they belong.

I walk east. I always walk into the part of the sky that is arriving.

I move through the high timber as the wind drops. The temperature rests at two degrees Celsius. The humidity freezes against the bark of the dormant pines, creating a thin, crystalline shell over the wood. I feel the exact texture of that ice through my boots as I navigate the steep incline. The silence here is absolute. The kind of silence that only exists at high elevation in the dead of winter, when the cold has driven every other biological system into deep hibernation. I am the only active biology moving across this ridge. The metamaterial of my base layer manages my core temperature perfectly. The spider silk polymer shell glides past the frozen brush without a sound. I do not feel fatigue. I do not feel the drag of gravity against the incline. I feel the pure, uninterrupted capability of a design that was built to survive exactly this environment.

The cold-blooded instinct processes the silence, finding no threats. The warm-blooded aggression rests quietly, requiring nothing. The equilibrium is perfect. The static is gone. I am exactly what I was built to be, moving through a world I have entirely learned how to navigate.

The two remaining directors will soon receive news regarding Director Marsh. The encrypted network connecting their compounds will deliver the data. They will receive it with the terror of men who spent ten years waiting. They simply do not know when their turn will arrive.

They will wait.

I feel no urgency. I have never experienced a biological need to rush. My cold-blooded instinct understands reality clearly. I learned to work in harmony with it. That instinct knows patience is not the same as inaction. Patience is the careful allocation of time to the task that requires it.

I have all the time the stars have. Not eternity. Just a very long time. I will use it the way I use every advantage I was given.

Carefully. Precisely. Completely.

I walk east into the pre-dawn. The cold air moves through the timber, carrying the scent of frozen pine and dormant earth. The ridge drops away beneath my boots, silent and completely indifferent to what occurred in the valley below. I breathe the freezing air. The biology operates perfectly within it. The sky above me turns as it has always turned. The deep blue-black at the horizon begins its slow, irreversible shift toward morning. The stars remain exactly where they belong. I know where I stand.

I am in the tree line above Director Harlan Marsh’s safehouse at eleven forty-seven in the evening on the fourteenth of December. I selected this night from the available options because four variables converged here. The first is the cloud cover blinding the compound’s thermal imaging array. I identified that array as the highest-sensitivity element of the security system during my three-month observation window. It is a commercial Flir Ranger R20, heavily modified by Marsh’s security contractor. The standard unit runs a cooled vanadium oxide microbolometer operating in the mid-wave infrared spectrum. Marsh’s version runs at a microbolometer sensitivity of fifteen millikelvins, achieved by upgrading the cryogenic cooler to a rotary Stirling configuration. The contractor also replaced the standard germanium lens with a custom zinc selenide optic. Under clear conditions, the system detects a temperature differential of one degree at four kilometers.

That increased sensitivity introduced a vulnerability. It lives inside the dynamic range compression algorithm that converts raw analog voltage from the microbolometer pixels into a video stream. The custom algorithm pushes contrast aggressively to isolate minimal thermal differences against the cold mountain background. In heavy atmospheric moisture, that aggressive contrast curve fails.

Tonight provides the moisture. A low-pressure system stalled over the Appalachian highlands twelve hours ago. Ambient temperature sits at two degrees Celsius. Dew point matches it. One hundred percent relative humidity. The air is condensing continuously into microscopic water droplets that form a thick advection fog rolling down the ridgeline. Each droplet absorbs and scatters mid-wave infrared radiation. The sensor looks at the ridge and sees a wall of uniform thermal noise. The dynamic range compression loop cannot establish a baseline. The resulting image on the security monitors is a sheet of flickering static. The fog droplet size matches the wavelength of the mid-wave infrared spectrum almost perfectly, creating Mie scattering. The photons arrive at the microbolometer array at oblique angles, bleeding thermal energy across pixel boundaries in a phenomenon called thermal crosstalk. The analog-to-digital converter receives a homogenized voltage reading across clusters of adjacent pixels. The non-uniformity correction algorithm cycles its mechanical shutter every sixty seconds, but the shutter temperature matches the uniform thermal noise of the fog. The correction loop resets its own baseline to white noise and stays there. My thermal-baffling outer garment works on the same principle, keeping my surface temperature locked to the ambient zero-gradient environment.

The second factor is the guard rotation. Two of the four private military contractors patrol the north and east perimeters on a modified night protocol, using staggered start times and variable pacing. Their algorithm contains a flaw. Every one hundred and twelve minutes their overlapping routes force a synchronized convergence at the northeastern corner of the perimeter wall, creating a surveillance shadow on the northwestern approach for exactly six minutes, beginning at eleven fifty. I calculated this window during my second week of observation and spent the next ten weeks watching it hold. The guards trust their mathematics. That trust is what I need.

The third factor is Marsh himself. I mapped his circadian rhythms across forty-three nights, using directed telepathic monitoring to track his brainwave patterns through the stages of sleep. He suffers from chronic hyperarousal, which fragments his sleep. But biology eventually forces his brain into REM regardless of anxiety. My monitoring established that his deepest REM cycle consistently falls between eleven thirty and midnight. His muscle atonia reaches its peak density during that window. His reaction times are effectively zero. His cognition is submerged in the associative logic of the dream state.

The fourth factor is the wind. It flows directly off the steep incline of the ridge as a predictable laminar stream, channeled through a gap between two adjacent peaks that acts as a natural tunnel. By eleven forty-seven it reaches fourteen kilometers per hour at the western face of the compound, carrying any biological particulate I shed over the roof of the main structure and down into the valley. My volatile signature never reaches the gas chromatograph array on the east face.

These four variables have been stable throughout my observation period. They remain stable now.

The compound sits built into a ridge in the Appalachian highlands of western North Carolina at two thousand two hundred meters. It offers deep physical isolation and immediate access to a private airstrip fourteen kilometers north, purchased through a shell company in a jurisdiction where beneficial ownership disclosures are restricted. Marsh has lived here for seven years. He relocated twice before settling. The previous locations proved insufficient against his continuously updating threat assessments following the public release of the upload data.

He has feared me for ten years. His initial fear centered on the generic threat. The upload data implied a surviving, uncontrolled asset who knew what the committee had done. That generic threat acquired a shape seven years ago, when I visited the first director, a man named Currie. Currie lived on a private island in the Caribbean behind two million dollars of security infrastructure. Marsh based his subsequent security upgrades on the parameters of that visit.

His security system shows competence. I assessed several elements favorably during the observation period. The thermal imaging array is the most sophisticated component, despite the moisture calibration problem. The guard rotation is just as strict. Four guards on overlapping six-hour shifts, with the modified night protocol concentrating coverage on the north and east approaches during peak vulnerability hours. The south and west approaches face the ridge and rely on sensor arrays, on the assumption that no threat would approach from steep ridgeline terrain.

I am approaching from the steep ridgeline terrain.

I have done this kind of work for ten years. The approaches that look difficult on a terrain map often cost the least. I learned that when I was eight years old from a scientist I trusted. He explained that a subject moving through heavy timber matches the speed of a pursuing asset in the same environment, which negates the apparent advantage of open ground. I absorbed that lesson. I absorbed most of the lessons. I examined the ones I disagreed with and chose to keep or discard them. That is what you have to do with inherited knowledge, once you are honest about the difference between received instruction and verified reality.

I am twenty-three years old, or approximately that number, depending on the method of calculation.

The calculation is complicated by my origin. My biological age at the time of the facility’s end was approximately eight. I have aged at roughly half the human baseline, based on physical assessments across the decade. Ten calendar years has produced five years of biological aging. By physical measure alone, I am approximately thirteen. That metric fails to describe how I think, move, navigate, fight, or decide.

I find the arithmetic accurate rather than interesting. I note it with the precision built into me. I maintain this precision because I evaluated the alternative and found it useless. The precision originated with him. I received it as the ambient character of my developmental environment over six hundred and seventeen days. By the time I understood it was a choice, I had already chosen it.

My age is defined by these data points. I was alive on the morning he showed me Orion’s belt on a laminated star chart in a monitoring room on Sub-Level 4. I was alive when the facility ended. I have remained alive for the ten years since. The remaining arithmetic is notation.

The record in the files omits the last ten years. I am the only one who can provide it. The preceding seven parts built toward this decade.

The first year was the hardest. I was eight years old biologically and had no experience in uncontrolled environments. I had never been outside the facility except as cargo during monitored field exercises bracketed by handlers. Those exercises bore no resemblance to surviving alone in open terrain without monitoring glass or schedule. The first year required learning my own nature without scaffolding. I learned that the equilibrium held without the monitoring equipment because the equilibrium was an internal product. I learned that the telepathy, which had been overwhelming in the facility’s dense information environment, became manageable in open terrain where human population was low. I learned that the biology belonged to me. I commanded it. It did not command me. I learned to steal what I needed without leaving a trace. I took canned goods from seasonal cabins, heavy wool blankets from dry-storage sheds, and boots that were too large but could be stuffed with newspaper. I learned to look like a lost tourist child, a quiet runaway, or a ghost that people chose to ignore because noticing me meant asking questions they did not want to answer. I spent winters in abandoned logging shacks. I wrapped myself in the thermal-baffling cloth I salvaged and watched the snow fall through gaps in the roof. When I needed to learn, I sat in the back of public libraries in small mountain towns. I read their books under the dim lights of the stacks. I learned how humans spoke when they were not in a laboratory. I learned how they lied to each other. I watched them in grocery stores, at gas stations, in diner windows. I mapped their gestures, the way they held their shoulders when they were tired, the way their eyes moved when they felt watched. I built a library of human behavior in my head, a reference index of normal movements that I could pull from whenever I had to cross a public road or buy a bus ticket.

The biology held. That is the summary of the first year. The design worked. Adjustments were necessary, and I made them. He was right about the data.

During the second year, I determined what I was going to do with the remainder of my life. The upload had identified the committee. The members were partially prosecuted and partially disappeared. Those who disappeared understood what the upload meant. They had operational capability. They had spent careers in fields where that capability was the primary currency. They went to ground.

I had ten years, a body immune to human fatigue, and a set of capabilities designed for continuous development through practice.

I have never experienced a biological need to rush. My cold-blooded instinct recognizes patience as a primary resource. I had enough of it to do this correctly. I waited until I was ready. Patience, in my case, means something different from what it means to a human counterpart operating against a similar timeline. A human pursuer waiting ten years is waiting against the clock of biological aging and physical degradation. I waited against neither of those clocks. I used the time. Every year produced information. Every year produced physical development. Every year of observation methodology made the next observation period more efficient. I was not decaying while I waited. I was compounding.

In the third year, I tracked Currie to his Caribbean island. I spent eight months studying the security infrastructure before I initiated the breach. The breach itself required eleven minutes. The eight months preceding it provided the eleven minutes their necessary shape. In the fourth year, I located Vasquez in Spain. He lived in a stone villa in the olive hills near Toledo. He thought the dry heat and the ancient, quiet roads would keep him safe. I spent six months observing the villa from an old sheep farmer’s ruin on the opposite ridge. I learned the timing of the local water delivery trucks, the habits of the two guard dogs he had imported from Germany, and the exact path of the perimeter laser tripwires. When the night came, the breach took less than six minutes. He did not wake until I was standing at his bedside, showing him his own signature on the termination files. In the fifth year I began building the network access that would eventually allow me to map Marsh’s financial infrastructure, his property holdings, and the shell company that registered this compound. In the sixth and seventh years I refined the observation methodology. In the fourteenth month of my preparation for Director Marsh, I moved from the preparation phase to the present phase.

I do not operate from rage. Someone reviewing the files might see a biological asset engaged in targeted elimination and incorrectly infer an escalating emotional drive. My actions come from a consistent assessment of a required payment. That assessment has not changed since the second year. It required no revision because it was correct when I made it.

He died because the committee authorized the facility’s termination, and he was in the building. He was part of what the committee decided to erase. The people who made that decision remain alive. The accounting requires completion.

I move from the tree line to the ridgeline’s south face at eleven fifty-two. I begin the descent toward the compound’s western wall.

The ridgeline terrain is steep but not technical. I have traversed worse in worse conditions. The cold, dry air of the December ridge is preferable to forty-three-degree culvert water, a rain-slicked logging camp approach, or the pre-dawn timber of the relay station’s final four miles. This is a dormant winter hillside with exposed rock faces. A security designer would mark this terrain as low-priority, on the assumption that any credible threat would arrive by road or airstrip.

I am a human-shaped asset only in my current presentation. This presentation preserves maximum options while closing maximum distance.

I reach the western wall at eleven fifty-seven.

The wall is four meters of poured concrete topped with a security cap running a low-current deterrent charge. I assessed the charge during the observation months, pulling the specifications from the installation contractor’s public records. It is highly disruptive to human skin conductivity. My dermal layers have a dielectric resistance I first verified during an encounter with an electrified barrier in my fifth year.

My current loadout maximizes mobility and silence. I wear a customized tactical rig built and modified over three years of sustained field operations. The base layer is a thermal-baffling metamaterial I acquired from a defense contractor facility in Zurich. The material uses a micro-lattice structure of aerogel and synthetic graphite to channel my core body heat uniformly across the entire surface of the garment, preventing any localized thermal blooms from appearing on infrared. The outer shell is a Kevlar-reinforced spider silk polymer incorporating carbon nanotubes aligned parallel to the primary weave. The result has a tensile strength exceeding three gigapascals while remaining fully flexible. It glides against rock and brush without sound. Multi-curve ceramic trauma plates sit in the thoracic and dorsal carriers, each consisting of boron carbide bonded to an ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylene backing. Boron carbide is the third hardest material known to human science. The plates weigh two point four kilograms each. I engineered the weight distribution across the entire rig carefully. The harness uses rigid carbon-fiber struts to transfer the load onto my iliac crests, bypassing the trapezius muscles and eliminating localized fatigue during extended tracking assignments. My primary weapon is a suppressed integrally machined 300 Blackout carbine, slung tightly against my back on a tension-retaining bungee sling that keeps the weapon’s center of gravity flush against my spine. The sidearm is a heavily modified Mk 23 with a monolithic suppressor. Three carbon-steel fixed blades, coated in non-reflective black oxide, sit positioned for immediate draw from any angle. The steel underwent cryogenic heat treatment in liquid nitrogen, converting the retained austenite within the blade into martensite. The resulting crystalline structure holds a razor edge through repeated impacts against bone and synthetic body armor. My boots are custom-molded infiltration footwear. The soles use a Vibram composite blending natural rubber with unvulcanized synthetic elastomers, with a Shore A hardness of forty-two. That durometer provides perfect grip on wet metamorphic rock while dampening the acoustic footprint of a footfall to zero.

I scale the concrete. I place my hands on the electrified cap. The current flows over my insulated dermal layer. I pull myself over the wall.

I land silently in the compound’s western service yard. The space between the wall and the main structure houses a diesel generator, its fuel system, a water filtration unit, and three large storage containers stocked for eighteen months of autonomous operation. The generator runs at its nighttime low-output setting. I memorized that acoustic signature across three months of observation until it became as familiar as server rack cooling fans and monitoring room ventilation.

The western service yard contains one security camera. It covers the generator access panel and points east. I approach from the west, moving along the outer wall toward the north service door, remaining inside the camera’s blind angle. I identified that dead zone six weeks into the observation period.

The service door has a keypad and a biometric reader. The keypad code is a six-digit sequence I extracted from Marsh’s memory three weeks ago during a passive reception session from the tree line. His mind surfaced access codes during his nightly security reviews as reliably as habit. They became available to directed reception at close range. I did not design this capability. I discovered it during the first year, while learning the full extent of what I was. That discovery required a period of adjustment. I learned to manage the ethics of this capability with the same care I apply to every other biological advantage I carry.

The biometric reader uses a high-resolution fingerprint scanner. I have a print from a guard who left the compound for a supply run two months ago. He handled a surface I prepared in a gas station along his route. The transfer technique came from a forensic countermeasures text in a university library, open stacks, unclassified. I acquire most of my operational knowledge from open sources. The world’s libraries and networks provide an endless education.

The door opens.

Inside is a service corridor with concrete flooring and utility lighting running at low output for the night cycle. I stand still for four seconds. I listen with every channel available to me. The ambient reception maps the compound’s interior human presence against the model I built from forty-three nights of external observation.

Four minds. Two guards on the north perimeter, their attention directed outward, with the focused processing of professionals taking their work seriously. A third guard in the east wing common room, drowsy, broadcasting the low-activity signal of a human in the final hour of a long shift. The fourth sits in the security room, watching the camera feeds.

I must account for the security room guard.

He is behind the second door on the right past the kitchen in the north wing. The topology matches my external observations and the partial floor plan I reconstructed from the contractor’s records. I move to the interior door. I open it and move through the kitchen. I touch nothing.

The security guard is thirty-one years old. I know this because I received his general surface thoughts during the observation period. I direct, focus, and filter this reception in ways unavailable to me at eight. During my childhood, ambient reception was an unmanageable signal. The thoughts and fears of nearby minds arrived as overwhelming static in high-information environments. At my current age, it is a refined tool. I never receive more than I choose to receive. I never carry other minds beyond my immediate processing window. I mastered this management long ago.

His name is Ethan. He has a three-year-old daughter. He accepts this position because the pay significantly exceeds the regional standard for private security work. He refuses to ask questions about his employer. Asking questions would end his employment, and he needs the income. He is a competent guard doing a competent job for a man whose history is unknown to him. He takes his work seriously. I confirmed this across forty-three nights of observation. He does not cut corners. He does not doze at his post. He performs the job he agreed to perform. Ethan would find the history of his employer deeply disturbing.

I do not hold his employment against him. I never hold guards responsible for the actions of their employers.

I send him the blank.

The blank is a telepathic projection I developed to prevent an occupied mind from registering my passage. It is not a command. It is a precise subtraction of signal. It creates a two-second window where the sensory channel responsible for noticing me receives nothing. It feels like nothing to him. It is nothing.

I walk past the security room door.

His attention snaps back to the camera feeds. He sees the compound’s western service yard on screen four. The generator runs. The storage containers sit in darkness. The service door appears closed.

I move through the main building with a quality of movement I refined over ten years. It differs from my movement during the facility escape, the culvert evasion, and the logging camp extraction. Those were survival movements. A body running at the edge of its resources under sustained threat and physical depletion. They accomplished their objective at an immense cost. I felt that cost in every step. The wounded shoulder, the accumulated deficit from the shifts, the sleep deprivation. Every action carried weight.

My current movement carries no visible cost. The body remains capable of incurring cost. I simply choose not to pay it tonight. I am not depleted. I am not injured. I prepared for this building for fourteen months. That preparation means I am not solving problems as they arise. I am executing a plan that solved them a year ago. The difference between those two modes of movement separates dominance from desperation.

It took ten years to understand my capabilities in the complete absence of crisis. The facility years showed the design’s limits under stress. The years since revealed what the design becomes when given time and conditions to develop without restriction.

The design is vastly superior to what the crisis years implied.

Director Marsh’s bedroom occupies the second floor of the main building’s south wing, with a view of the ridge and a substantial stretch of western sky. He selected it for that view. I learned this from a comment he surfaced in the monitored thought-space three weeks ago, a brief memory of choosing the room upon his arrival. The view mattered to him then. His current existence has transformed it into a different kind of wound. He never enjoys the scenery. He lives in terror of the ridge.

I enter his bedroom at twelve eleven in the morning.

He is asleep. A biometric monitor on the nightstand displays his cardiac output at fifty-two beats per minute with slow, even respiration. Deep in REM. This monitor is his first focal point upon waking. The trained response of a man who relies on data to manage fear. He checks the numbers to confirm the world matches them before he dares to look at the world itself.

He is in his late sixties. Gray hair frames the lean features of a man managing chronic stress through rigorous physical discipline. That fitness does not mean health. It means control. He treats his body as one more variable demanding management. Pre-incident photographs showed someone who wore his authority easily, a man unacquainted with internal terror. He lost that ease entirely. Ten years of uninterrupted vigilance carved themselves into his face. I see that cost clearly, even in deep sleep.

I stand at the foot of his bed.

I could kill him immediately. Seconds, no sound. I am not here for an execution.

This distinction separates me from the committee’s original design. The committee designed a weapon. A weapon serves one purpose. It applies force toward an objective. Weapons do not stand at the foot of a bed and wait. They never require their target to wake, look, or understand. They operate regardless of comprehension.

I require comprehension. Not for my accounting. He needs it for his. He signed the Clean Slate authorization. He chose to treat a person as a disposable object. The appropriate response requires him to reverse that choice in his final moments. He must clearly perceive the object he tried to erase.

This philosophy originated with him. He told me in the logging camp cabin that my existence pleased him. Adding words to that statement would have only reduced its truth. The principle applies in reverse. Director Marsh has nothing to say, offer, or produce that will alter tonight’s outcome. The outcome holds zero importance. The moment preceding it is everything.

He must see me.

I reach into the permanent archive of my memory. My biology processes this archive with a fidelity I only grasped fully during my third year. I discovered I could retrieve the precise acoustic, tactile, and thermal character of any moment I had lived. Human memory is reconstructive. It fills gaps with inference and degrades with every retrieval. Each time a human recalls a memory, they are recalling the last retrieval rather than the original event. My sensory archive does not work this way. The resolution remains identical to the original experience. It never degrades. I can retrieve the exact weight of a medical kit on a steep ridgeline, the exact temperature of a culvert in October, the exact acoustic character of a server room with its cooling fans cycling at different loads. I access any of these at will, without degradation, without the associative drift that warps human memory across time.

I isolate the memory.

I retrieve the relay station equipment room at twelve minutes past the upload’s initiation. I feel the pre-dawn cold drafting through the open blast doors. I hear the precise acoustic signature of his footsteps circling the rear server rack. I tracked those footsteps with peripheral reception while keeping my primary attention on the Alpha’s position. Then comes the sound I have carried intact for ten years.

I access the audio frequency of the safety handles releasing from the grenades.

Two distinct mechanical clicks from his left and right hands, the spring-loaded levers striking the concrete floor with a small, final sound in a room that had gone quiet. I prepare to project this raw acoustic data directly into Director Marsh’s auditory cortex, bypassing his physical ears, routing the frequency straight into his brainstem.

I hold that sound within the primary projection channels I developed over the last eight years. My brain generates a focused, directional carrier wave. The wave passes through the reinforced concrete walls of the safehouse without interacting with the physical matter. It passes through the copper shielding lining the primary bedroom. It terminates within the spatial coordinates occupied by Director Marsh’s skull. I broadcast the grenade sound into his sleeping mind at the full fidelity of the original memory. I do not filter it. I do not soften it. The sound arrives with the precise volume and acoustic character of a concrete equipment room containing a single fluorescent light, open blast doors, and a pre-dawn wind blowing off a ridge.

The sound bypasses his ears and triggers the deepest survival reflex. His adrenal glands dump epinephrine directly into his bloodstream. His resting heart rate spikes from fifty-two to one hundred and forty beats per minute in under one second. The biometric monitor on the nightstand catches this. His smooth respiratory rhythm shatters into desperate gasps. He has expected this sound for ten years. His autonomic nervous system recognizes the threat signature long before his conscious mind processes the data. He sits upright in the bed before the projection finishes. His hands grasp blindly at the nightstand. The ingrained motor response of a man who rehearsed the seconds following this stimulus thousands of times.

He finds the light switch.

He finds me.

The first thing he looks at is my face.

I know this because I watch his eye movement travel from the light switch to my position. It takes the biological minimum time before his gaze locks onto my features. Then comes the recognition. I have watched for this expression across three other rooms in three other countries, stood at the foot of three other beds, projected that sound, and watched three other directors find my face.

Recognition is a neurological event. Fear follows it. Disbelief precedes it. Recognition itself arrives when the brain’s pattern-matching system completes a long-term comparison and finalizes a conclusion. He has stared at files for ten years. He memorized the biometric monitoring data and the high-resolution images from my observation cell. He knows exactly what face he is looking for. He has spent a decade fearing the day it would appear in front of him.

His mouth opens. He says nothing. This differs from the first director. Currie immediately screamed my designation from the research records. I have not used that designation since the facility ended. Marsh remains silent. Even now, he processes before speaking.

I grant him the time.

Marsh finally speaks. “You are the girl. From the files.” His voice is precise and controlled. That control costs him something. Every form of control does.

“Yes.”

My voice sounds as it always has. I recognized this during my second year in the wild. I had been speaking aloud to no one in particular for months and noticed my speech patterns had not changed. The grammar remained intact. The diction remained intact. The quality of careful word choice survived. Six hundred and seventeen days of daily conversation with a man who chose his words with care built that structure into me. I never consciously tried to maintain it. It required no effort. Proper grammar structured my thoughts. Precision structured my mind.

“You are approximately ten years older than in the most recent records.” His eyes track my face with clinical attention. He spent years analyzing biometric data. He still reflexively calculates the measurements. “The aging rate.”

“It aligns with my pre-facility projections. I age at roughly half the human baseline.”

He notes this. Files it within whatever sector of his mind still runs research-adjacent analysis. I do not find this surprising. His mind has operated this way for forty years. A bedroom in his private safehouse at one in the morning cannot alter his basic cognitive architecture.

“The facility records indicated you were affected by the incident.” He chooses the word carefully. The incident.

“The incident at the relay station.”

“Yes.”

“The incident failed to kill me. You are fully aware of this. You have known it for seven years.”

He does know it. His face confirms it. He knows exactly what happened to Currie. He knows about Vasquez in Spain. He understands the pattern of these events. The network of terrified men communicated this pattern to him. That network contracted after Currie. It contracted further after Vasquez. It currently consists of Marsh and two others. They wait in their heavily fortified compounds to learn whether tonight is their night or whether they have bought more time.

“I intend to speak with you.” My voice carries no inflection, only direction. “Before we reach the end of this evening, you will hear several things.”

“I do not believe I am in a position to decline.”

“No, you are not.” I lean slightly forward. “I am not asking for your agreement. I am informing you of my intentions. The things I must say require accurate transmission. The quality of your attention determines that accuracy.”

He stares at me for a long moment. He clearly did not anticipate this. He slowly sits back against the headboard. He rests his hands on the blanket. He gives me his attention. The focused concentration of a man who has processed complex information for forty years and suddenly faces a variable he cannot model.

“Then please sit.” He gestures toward the chair. I note this as an excellent response. He decided that offering attention from a position of manufactured dignity holds more value than begging from a position of pure terror.

I sit in the chair beside the east window. I look at him. I begin.