《Strigoi Soul (Original Urban Fantasy)》 Shallow Grave, Prologue
As you can tell by my avatar, I''m fascinated by the idea of strigoi. In Romanian folklore, they are the spirits or reanimated bodies of the unquiet dead, rising again because of unfinished business, or curses, or just a refusal to stay down. If you want to read about a snarky strigoi coming to terms with his unlife in a world where the supernatural has existed in the open for decades, this is for you. Come along and join our hero as he tries to reconcile his faith with his nature, while facing the myths of his country and others. Seriously. Romanian folklore is vast. I fully expect to get things wrong or miss them, and I''m Romanian! But, if the Witcher can do it for Poland, so can this for my country. Enjoy, but as a warning: this story deals with subjects like depression, suicide, addiction and so on. Also, gore. *** I''ve heard some people call death the unknown country, but, in my experience, it''s more like a public bus. Except it''s crammed, dark, smelly, and you can never stop where you want. Actually, scratch that. It''s just like a bus. My name''s David Silva, though only my few friends call me that. Everyone else calls me strigoi, moroi, Satan''s spawn or coward. Especially myself. A few months ago, I hanged myself. In a cemetery, so they wouldn''t have to move the body too far. I''ve always been considerate like that. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. It didn''t take. After I finished college, what feels like an eternity ago, I hoped I could just work a few odd jobs, just to keep afloat, while I devoted myself to my true passion: writing. Unfortunately, people who live with the supernatural don''t really care about books on the subject, and I was, bluntly, shit when it came to other genres. Moron. Over the years, I worked as a gardener, a delivery man, a teacher and so much more. But my books rarely sold, and the few times they did, people often sent them back to me. I still remember being paid to take back one of my first novels. I wouldn''t say I sank into despair. It was more like a rollercoaster, really. Ups and downs, moments of passion and detachment...but, in the end, I got sick of it. And took the coward''s way out. I should have known God wouldn''t take me. Why had I ever believed people had anything left to learn about the supernatural? Ever since Hitler''s occultist toadies performed a last, desperate ritual as Berlin fell around their ears, concepts such as "mundane" disappeared. Thanks, you goose-stepping fucktard. Just like you to ruin everything for everyone, even after you''re dead. What? No, I''m not talking to myself. At the moment. The Shattering, as it was called, stopped World War 2 right in its tracks, as mythologies came alive. Weak, at first, since few people saw them as anything more than whimsical tales-at the time. But that changed. Everything did. Today, even internet memes can briefly come alive, if famous enough, and sufficient faith can shape reality. It''s just as fun as you imagine. But I''m rambling. After they found my body, it was taken to the morgue. After God knows how long, I was buried. Only my friends and father attended. They were there when I ripped my way through the dirt, too. Shallow Grave, Chapter 1
I was the first to arrive. Dead on time, as Lucian would say while snorting. Thing was, I just had little to distract myself with these days. No hunger, no thirst, no pain. No need to breathe, never a moment when I felt tired. Or human. But then, that was the point. Ghencea Cemetery had become something of a meeting place for us in recent months. Bianca had asked why we couldn''t switch to somewhere cheerier one day. ''Because I used to hang around here,'' I''d said, grinning my death''s head grin. She''d rolled her eyes. Ghencea is located in sector six of Bucharest, and it''s usually a quaint, quiet place. A few famous names buried here, but nothing that would make you visit unless you had someone here. Like I did. Alex Horia was the second to come, much to my annoyance. This was his home, couldn''t he get up faster? It''s a bad sign when you''re outpaced by your guests. Alex rose through the ground, tall and translucent, with a face that was somehow gaunt and round at the same time. He''d died years before me, though not of his own choice. As far as Alex could tell, he''d died when his asthma had finally done him in. He''d been born like that, and people had always warned him not to strain himself, but he''d never listened. Always darting about, looking to learn things and help people. He''d always participated in marksmanship contests, from throwing darts to archery. It was before such a contest that he kicked it. ''Hey, David,'' he rasped, floating over to join me. I was standing under the old oak where I''d thought I''d leave the world behind. He looked at the tree and sighed. ''Nostalgic?'' He asked with a mixture of affection and exasperation. ''You know I''m not,'' I replied. ''This is the only place in Ghencea where I can feel like myself. I think I get vertigo if I stand anywhere else.'' "You feel like you''re falling?" "Is that what it means? Shit." He sighed, again. He often did that around me. "And you used to be a teacher..." "That was years ago! And it''s not like I taught languages." ''No one would have let you do that,'' A new, amused voice said. We turned, and there was Mihai Codrea. Former tennis player, now coach, he had excelled at everything in high school, where we''d first met. He''d never held it above me or anyone else, but I''ve always felt quietly frustrated around him. Mihai wore sporty clothes, as always, which were covered in arcane wards. As a mage, he never felt safe outside his own home-or even there. So, he took precautions. The wards, meant for everything from reflecting energy attacks to deflecting weapons and burning projectiles, hung around his body like a mantle of chains. They would have been invisible to mundanes, but my dead eyes were sharper than any man''s. Bianca followed after a few minutes. She was in her usual form, the one she wore when away from her iele sisters. Short and stocky, with blonde hair and blue eyes behind thick glasses, she was cute enough, in a nerdy sort of way. In her true form, she was ravishing-or so I''ve been told. My blood doesn''t flow, my flesh is cold and my mind proof against most outside influences. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Lucian dropped from the sky with a whoop, hovering above a grave like a giant, scaly hummingbird. As a zmeu, Luci was beholden to wild, fierce passions. But most of his kind have learned, by now, that you can''t kidnap maidens and hold them for ransom. It just doesn''t work. Luci was tall and broad, a tailed, winged, green-scaled man with knees that bent backwards and muscles that could crush tanks like cardboard. His face was dominated by a long, fluttering moustache, which did nothing to make him look human. Andrei Dravich entered the cemetery grunting and grumbling, as was his wont. He was in his lean, dark-skinned human form. Born of rape during World War 2, Andrei''s father had been a bastard of a Soviet captain and his mother an unfortunate gypsy. Andrei was older than us all by several decades, though, thanks to his nature, he''d never age past his prime. When he embraced what he was, he could become a bear, or something between one and a man. My father, Constantin Silva, was the last to arrive. You''d have never guessed the old priest was sixty if you saw him on the street. His hair was still mostly dark brown, as mine had been before it had become grey, and he was dressed casually. Still, I could hear the crosses and icons he always bore on his person shifting and tinkling, under the rustling of his clothes. Pops saw me, gasped, and pulled a mirror from a pocket I couldn''t spot if you paid me. Faithcraft-channeling his belief to shape reality. Not magic, as pops'' mana was dormant, like most people''s, but just as impressive. He thrust the mirror into my hand, and I quickly understood his reaction. I looked like I have for the last few months: grey-skinned and grey-haired, with ink-black eyes and a mouth like a shark. My neck still bore the marks of my death, so the world could never forget it, perhaps. Despite my regeneration, which meant I couldn''t even be erased from existence unless you were channeling holy power. It''s why I always wore a scarf. But something had changed. My flesh, which was usually strong and taut, had started sagging, and I saw a chunk drop from my cheek and fall to the ground. My friends looked at me with wide eyes. Luci swore under his breath. Usually, not feeling pain is a boon. But it also means you can''t tell what''s wrong with you unless you look. ''Oh, my boy... what''s happening to you?'' Pops asked, shaking his head, hands clasped as if ready to start praying. ''It''s why I called you here,'' I said carefully and, despite everything, I somehow felt like I was choking. "It''s like... I''m being rejected. I''ve started falling down, unable to move, and now..." I looked at my disfigured face in the mirror, and grinned bitterly. ''And now, I''m falling apart, as well.'' Shallow Grave, Chapter 2
My friends looked at each other, their faces saying "boy, we should have chosen a spokesperson before this". Eventually, most eyes settled for Bianca, who scoffed. ''What, I should be the soft touch because I''m the team girl? Alex, tell him.'' My ghost friend-from certain points of view, he was a strigoi too-looked at me with what he probably thought was a reassuring smile. ''You look like you''re about to tell me I''m pregnant with mutants or something,'' I told him drily. We both laughed, despite ourselves. Because, in lives-so to speak-like ours, you take your laughs when you can. ''Do you feel any...different?'' Alex asked hesitantly. "You know I hardly feel anything these days. No. If not for pops'' mirror, I probably would have missed my face starting to turn into a jigsaw." ''This can''t be a curse,'' pops said heatedly. "Or a poison, or sickness. Strigoi laugh those off, even if they happen at the same time. No, this..." Usually, when it came to my nature, I deferred to pops. He''d been putting down freaks like me before I''d been born, while I''d only been undead for a few months. I''m harmless, mostly. Usually, if you piss me off, the most you''ll get are a few creative insults and a shove, if I''m feeling bold. Most strigoi aren''t like me. Every story told about us-harried relatives, unnatural weather, animals drained of their life-is true, because people, or some of them, at least, believe them to be true. Pops was born in the sixties, in the middle of the Long Watch. The decades when mankind spent every waking moment, and most sleeping ones, keeping an eye on their incarnate imaginations. They still reached out to the kinder, more reasonable creatures, and so it was that, in the nineties, the supernatural was accepted, if not embraced. Thanks, in part, to the efforts of people like pops. Constantin Silva entered a church in his town in his teens, and, by the time he was eighteen, he was accompanying the old priest on patrols around the town and nearby forests and roads, looking for enchanted animals, iele, strigoi and other creatures that bothered the people and stirred up trouble. It was then that he''d learned to faithcraft, something he tried to pass on to me, and never managed to. Neither of us knew why. I liked to consider myself fairly faithful, even now, abomination in the eyes of God that I was. I hope He does not take my prayers as mockery, because they are not. I pray every evening, and thank Him whenever something good happens, to me or those close to me. Or when something bad does not. Pops was fairly tolerant, as far as Orthodox priests went. He even accepted other faiths, and had once regaled me for hours with his theory on how God, Brahman, the Tao and other supreme entities are actually the same thing viewed from different angles. ''The same god wearing different hats, if you will,'' he''d told me with a smile. Because he was a Discworld fan, too. ''Could a priest have done this?'' Luci asked, interrupting my train of thought. He was worrying his lip with his fangs, as he did when frustrated. Pops shook his head. ''God would never grant someone the power to do this. However sinful they believed my son to be.'' Because suicide was a sin, indeed, and not just because the scriptures and traditions said so. The risk of suicides coming back as undead monsters with a grudge was a significant threat, which meant high buildings, cliffs, railroads and other such places were carefully watched by the government. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. It''s the reason the Japanese cut Aokigahara down and burned the lumber. Too much symbolic weight, too many suffering ghosts drawing malevolent yokai and oni. Metaphysical echoes of the forest still popped up around Japan, occassionally, and even other countries, rarely. On the bright side, it meant therapy and psychology were taken very seriously, which helped mankind as a whole. Even if suicide hotlines ended up having to answer questions like "how do I end myself without becoming a monster?" I swear, some people want to have their noose and hang in it too. ''Strigoi can''t be truly harmed by anything other than a priest channeling holy power,'' Mihai said thoughtfully. ''Maybe it''s not someone local. Maybe it''s some self-righteous Catholic, or a jihadist, or...'' ''Do not generalise,'' pops told him with a stern look. ''Just because someone does not share our faith, it does not mean they wish us harm. And you share no one''s faith, Mihai. Do not cast stones.'' ''Hey, only a moron would say gods aren''t real. I know...'' ''There''s a difference between knowing and believing. And our unknown enemy clearly believes, to harm David like this.'' Pops shook his head. ''I still don''t want to believe a fellow man of the cloth would do this, whatever they believed in. Perhaps there is something else that could have harmed David...'' ''Unearthing and beheading?'' Andrei suggested, crossing his arms. ''The meat of a pig slaughtered on Saint Ignatius'' Day?'' ''No,'' Bianca said before Pops could answer. ''You''d need blessed tools for the first, and the users would have to believe they are holy too. Same thing for the pig flesh.'' ''Besides,'' Luci said, perching on a mausoleum like a living grotesque. ''David''s walking and talking to us, not back in the ground, headless. He''s falling apart slowly. It''s why I suggested a curse earlier. Or something like one, backed by holy power. God cursed Cain to walk the Earth, so...'' ''That was different,'' pops said firmly. ''It was a decree of God, not a curse.'' ''Look,'' I said, giving pops back the mirror with a nod of thanks. ''While I appreciate the brainstorming, it''s getting kind of late. Maybe we should move to somewhere more...reputable.'' The sun was setting when I arrived, and, after the others came and we talked, it was gone. And I didn''t want to spend evening in Ghencea. So many supernatural beings talking in a cemetery under the cover of darkness could give the wrong impression. Pops nodded. ''I drove here, and the truck''s outside. Come on. We can go home...'' and he turned, walking away. I frowned. ''Pops!'' I called after him. ''Seriously? You drove to Bucharest just because I called you? I though you were already in town, or I wouldn''t have asked. We could have talked on the phone!'' ''Yes,'' pops replied, neither turning nor stopping. ''But it wouldn''t have been the same.'' And so, we left Ghencea, and headed to pops'' truck. And then, it was back Urziceni, the town where pops and I grew up. The town where I was left as an infant, for pops to find me on his doorstep after returning from church. As a priest, pops took chastity seriously, even though, with the laws passed in recent years, he could have married. He had certainly never expected to have children, but he could not turn a newborn away, or place him in foster care. He wasn''t that kind of man. And so, he adopted me. Constantin Silva was the first person I saw after being brought into the world. For his sake, I hoped he would not be the last as well. Shallow Grave, Chapter 3
Urziceni was located sixty kilometres northeast of Bucharest. At full speed, I could run fast enough to catch on fire, and cover that distance in just half a minute-but that would have drawn the wrong kind of attention. The truck was safer, even if it was standing still from my perspective. I had to constantly glance at the road, both to make sure we were moving and to avoid losing myself in my thoughts. Because, when you''re a strigoi, your minds is the last place you want to get lost in. Made you remember everything you should have never done, as well as everything you should have. All in all, I''m surprised I lasted until forty. Most people who become like me end themselves in their twenties, at that age of passion and recklessness, when you''re outraged life isn''t going your way. I suppose I was unusually restrained. Maybe they''ll start using me as an example in the Strigoi Society... Damn it. Haven''t I just told myself not to drift off? And the trip is still taking forever. I should have just zipped over to Urziceni, and damn the consequences. Yes, I''d have torn up the roads and probably terrified whoever I passed by, but still... No. Stupid stunts like that would have just drawn the police to me, so they could stop me from threatening infrastructure. Or, even worse, ARC would have come. Abnormal Research and Combat is the world''s foremost supernatural authority, acting as both the bridge and the shield between the mundane and the unnatural-though who they defended from who depended on the people you asked. Unsure which division is responsible for dealing with supernatural speeders. Probably Camelot. They deal with the integration of superhumans into society. ''You''ll get an unibrow if you keep frowning like that,'' Mihai said from the backseat, sounding amused. ''Seriously? You''re using a spell just to see my expression? Ever heard about treating your powers with respect?'' ''I''m using a spell to make sure your face is in one piece. Your father can''t do that and watch the road-please focus on driving, Mr Silva.'' Mihai wasn''t usually this... sentimental. Or, rather, this open with his feelings. Of my friends, he was usually the most cool and collected, much to my envy. Whenever I try to seem detached, I come across as sarcastic and uninterested. It''s a gift, appearing nonchalant without making people think you''re an arsehole. I''ve never had it. Pops briefly glanced at me, looking slightly guilty. ''Sorry, buddy. I''d do something to keep your body stable, but I doubt it would work. If it didn''t harm you, that is.'' ''It''s alright,'' I lied. God will understand. ''Let''s keep going as we are and not accidentally speed things up. Everyone for it?'' There was a general murmur of agreement. From above, pacing himself not to outspeed the truck, Luci spat a gout of flame that looked vaguely like a thumbs up. I snorted despite myself. But then, a thought came to me. ''Pops?'' I started. ''Why exactly do we need to go back home? Is there something you need to do there and can''t do in Bucharest?'' Pops clicked his tongue as he weaved through traffic. Every time someone flipped him off or cussed him out-usually involving his mother''s orifices and dead relatives- I felt my gorge rise. I wanted to rip the truck apart, followed by their cars and bodies. I wanted to drain them of life. I wanted to shapeshift into a flea, jump down their throats, then turn into a great beast, ripping them apart from the inside. I... The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. My face must have showed something, or I must have started grinding my teeth, because pops shot me a disapproving glance. ''It seems you''re not completely unfeeling, son. Road rage is hardly uncommon, but please, don''t contemplate murder for my sake. It wouldn''t hold up in court.'' I must have been in a really bad state if I couldn''t tell whether pops was being sarcastic or not. I also couldn''t help but notice he hadn''t answered my question. But then, if pops had decided to put me out of everyone''s misery, he would have had no reason to invite my friends along, too. Unless he wanted them to help. But he had no reason to concern himself with that. I would never fight back or hurt him. I wouldn''t. We reached Urziceni in just over an hour. It hadn''t changed much. Once numbering fourteen thousand people, it had been destroyed and rebuilt decades ago. Now, it counted about thirty two thousand. People who wanted to be close to the capital, if needed, but not live in the bustling mess itself. I understood the feeling. The town wasn''t great in size. Dominated by a church, with chapels scattered throughout it for the townspeople''s protection, it had been named for the nettle that grew in and round the place. The plant grew in carefully-controlled gardens, but sometimes sprouted from concrete, or even the sides of buildings. The legend of the town, dipping into reality with no care for the laws of nature. Pops'' house was at the edge of town-a holdover from his youth, when he patrolled Urziceni''s surroundings alongside the police. Nowadays, the police was larger, with better equipment and funding, which meant pops'' could concern himself with peaceful duties alone. He''d never killed. Never killed people, that is. He tried to follow the Commandments in both letter and spirit, but, in my opinion, no being he''d ever banished, sealed or destroyed could have been considered a person. Pops had tried to tell me that all thinking, feeling beings were children of God, and that his killing of the worse ones was nothing more than murder, but I''ve never shared that view. And, even if it was, his other deeds more than made up for it, in my opinion. ''Two wrongs don''t make a right, David,'' he''d told me. ''And good deeds don''t erase your sins. Many people are victims of their nature. Most of them want to better themselves, but can''t. Remember that.'' Pops parked in front of the courtyard gate. After we left the car, he made no move to open it. Strange. He usually parked inside. No one would try to break into Father Silva''s car, but you never knew. ''To answer your question, David, there is someone here I believe can help you. If not...your friends and I have our methods. We''ll find something,'' pops said, looking around, hands on his hips. ''We believe that''s our cue, Constantin,'' a smooth voice said from behind me. I turned, shocked. I hadn''t sensed anyone approach. Shallow Grave, Chapter 4
I shouldn''t have been surprised at being sneaked up on, I suppose. I can hear heartbeats, smell blood in people''s veins and feel the emotions of those around me, but none of that matters against the stealth available to an ARC Agent. She was of average heigh, average weight, in the archetypal black suit and tie. No sunglasses, but her features were so common she would hardly need to hide them. Brown eyes, black hair bound in a ponytail. But I knew what she was. And, more importantly, what she was not. It seemed ARC had decided to stick their head into my unlife, after all. But this agent was not from Camelot, come to discuss my relationship with humanity-both the species and the shriveled, shriveling remains inside me. No. She was from the Goetia division. Goetia dealt with demons, oni and the like: binding them, banishing them, and, sometimes, destroying them. Their headquarters was in Israel, built around the temple where Solomon had bound his seventy-two demons. But this agent was not a hellhunter, as they were coloquially known. She was a hellbound, someone who bound demons to themselves in order to channel their powers, or because the fiends could only be imprisoned inside a person. More specifically, she was the Fourfold. She had three mighty hellspawn inside her, and kept them from fighting for dominion through sheer force of will. Her legend more than made up for her bland appearance. But...why was she here? Pops'' words implied he had called or arranged for her to be here, but why? He''d said it was to help me, but it wasn''t like I needed to be exorcised. Or perhaps there was a demon in my hometown, moving unseen and planning ruin for all. If it was so, it made sense pops would call for the Fourfold. We''d all help if needed, of course, but she had both the expertise and the power needed to deal with any hellish incursion. ''You were right, old man,'' the Fourfold said, walking towards pops while smiling. ''He does frown a lot when thinking.'' ''He does it all the time, actually,'' pops said lightly, smiling at me to show he didn''t meant anything by it. He walked forward, extending a hand for her to shake. Her hands could pulverize tungsten, but pops showed no fear or hesitation. He trusted her, for some reason. ''Ah,'' the agent said, glancing between us. ''Must get it from you.'' Then, she turned to me, her smile changing into a blank expression. ''You know who we are.'' ''I know of you,'' I said carefully. ''Though not the names or natures of those bound to you.'' ''We would be concerned if you did,'' she said. ''Half of us, that is. The other two are too smug and brutish to concern themselves with fear.'' ''Can I ask why you are here?'' ''Yes, you can,'' she replied, then looked at me, saying nothing. Can''t believe I fell for that one... ''May I ask why you are here?'' A corner of her mouth twitched. ''Constantin isn''t sure what your problem is, exactly. He asked a favour of us, because we have access to a vast range of knowledge and options.'' ''My problem isn''t demonic.'' God, I hoped she wasn''t one of those people who believed strigoi drew their powers from Satan or whoever else. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Actually, was she? With her experience, she was unlikely to, but... ''One of us can see the weak points of anyone or anything,'' the agent said. ''And your greatest weakness is yourself.'' ''Thank you, Sun Tzu,'' I couldn''t help myself from snarking. ''But if I could help myself, I would have done it by now.'' The Fourfold nodded again. ''Yes, you would have.'' I looked at my friends in exasperation. Most of them shrugged, while Luci shook his head. We were getting nowhere with the Fourfold and her cryptic bullshit. I needed solutions, before I started looking like John Carpenter''s Thing. God, I hoped it hadn''t manifested again. Some fans are way too passionate. ''The agent,'' pops said, jerking his head towards her. ''Is here as a...last resort. Something to keep away gawkers while we try to help you, and try to heal you herself, if we fail.'' And to help put me down if I went feral during the process. He didn''t need to say it. Mihai snapped his fingers-pure theatrics, really- and they all disappeared, leaving me alone with the Fourfold. I looked at her dubiously. Esoteric powers, such as teleportation, slipped off strigoi like water off a duck''s back. What about her? Was- ''One of us is untouchable by anything save brute force,'' she said. And one of them was probably a telepath, too. Or I was just shit at hiding what I was thinking? ''Shall we?'' she asked, gesturing at the horizon. A forest had been planted here after Urziceni''s reconstruction, grown supernaturally fast and vast by the iele that had taken it as a home. I nodded, and ran to the woods, breaking the sound barrier and continuing to accelerate. Far from my fastest, but there was no need for that. The Fourfold was already there when I stopped running, digging my boots into the earth in surprise. We were in a clearing in the middle of the woods, Mihai standing in the center of it. He had replaced his sporty clothes with the classic hooded solomonar robes, and he was grinning broadly at me, all but rubbing his hands in anticipation. ''We''ll leave you to it,'' he Fourfold said, then somehow disappeared from my sight. Either she could become imperceivable, even to a strigoi, or she could somehow move faster than I could sense while at the same time not disrupting the environment. Probably both. Mihai cleared his throat, drawing my attention back to him. ''Where are the others?'', I asked, to hide my unease at the agent''s disappearance. Mihai shrugged, still smiling. ''Oh, you know... here and there... and there. There''s no need to distract yourself thinking about them, David. It''s just the two of us now.'' ''You''re filling me with confidence,'' I deadpanned. Then, just to heckle him. ''I''d knew you''d want to catch me in the woods one day, alone...'' ''Oh, piss off. What, are you in middle school? We''re alone because I need some space to use my spells.'' ''What? What for?'' His grin widened. ''If I hurt you enough, your healing should kick into overdrive.'' Shallow Grave, Chapter 5
''Wait!'' I said, holding my hands up, palms out. Mihai grinned cockily. ''Scared?'' ''Screw that. Where the hell did the Fourfold come from? When did pops talk to her and, for that matter, why were none of you surprised?'' I asked, narrowing my eyes. Mihai shrugged. ''I froze up when I saw her. Agent like her turns up, you know something big''s about to go down.'' ''When did pops talk with her?'' I repeated. ''He didn''t leave my sight when since we talked in Ghencea!'' ''I. Don''t. Know.'' I froze, realizing I was pressing my friend for answers he didn''t have. Damn it. ''Sorry,'' I said. ''It''s just that...'' ''You''re scared. Like a sick man who feels death approaching,'' he took in my expression and tried to grin encouragingly. ''Hey, relax! Doctor Codrea''s in the building. Look alive!'' ''Oh, that was awful!'' But I was grinning. We hadn''t bantered like this since my return from the grave, and it was...refreshing. Good for the soul. A transparent, spherical forcefield snapped into existence around us. Fifteen metres in diameter, it encompassed the clearing, both above and beneath the ground. So that Mihai could go all out, for my sake. He started with cold. His wards protected him, but the ground beneath me and the air around me turned into solid ice, covering me, pressing into my skin and clothes. I didn''t feel anything. I shrugged, and the ice shattered like glass. He switched to heat. Fire blazed inside the forcefield, vapourising the ice and the ground beneath me for metres. My clothes turned to smoke in an instant, but I stood there, not feeling any difference in temperature. My skin wasn''t singed. How could this strain my healing? The fire consumed the air inside the shield. I didn''t need to breathe, and Mihai was protected, but this wouldn''t do. With a gesture, time rewound. The ground was untouched and the air was clean and sweet. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Mihai curled one hand, and a spear of lightning appeared in it. Fifteen thousand degrees celsius, one gigajoule of energy, it came straight for my right eye, crackling in the air. And was stopped cold. Mihai frowned, pushing the lighting with his mind, maintaining its shape, but it couldn''t pierce my eye, not even burn my eyelashes by proximity. He gave that up, too. Mihai hit me with all the elements of nature. He tried transmuting me into gas and liquid and metal, forced plasma hot as the Sun''s core down my throat, bent space around me and tried to rewind me back into infancy. None of his magics overcame my undead nature and impossible toughness. So, he switched tactics. Enhancing his body with mana, Mihai blurred towards me, striking me in the chest with an open palm. The blow sent me flying, first past the clouds, then into space. I was hurtling towards the Moon. I landed with a silent crash, pulverizing a new crater into the surface of our satellite. It could have swallowed Bucharest with space for more cities, and was so deep I couldn''t even see... I couldn''t see. My head was pulped. So, this was what it took to overcome my body... It took a few moments for my shattered head to heal itself. My eyes were the last to heal. The crater was, indeed, deep. Like someone had pulverised a mountain range to make space for something new. I''d landed on my head, but now that I could see, my gaze pierced through the dust raised by my fall, yet couldn''t see the edge. Mihai teleported next to me, shaking his head. ''I''m sorry, David. I don''t know what else to try...'' he somehow said into the airless vacuum. I waved him off and clapped him on one shoulder. ''You did your best,'' I mouthed. Mihai sighed, took my hand, and flew us back to Earth. Shallow Grave, Chapter 6
It didn''t take us long to get back to Earth. By the time we reached the exosphere, I figured it was the time to ask. ''Do I...'' But the air was too thin for talking. Mihai looked at me, confused, then made an "ah" face. He snapped his fingers, and a glowing, translucent web appeared in the air around us. ''Think of it as a...telephone line,'' he said. ''The spell catches sound and transmits it clearly. I''d use a spell directly on you, but we''ve just seen how useful that is...'' He looked away from me, honey-blond hair fluttering as we descended. His tanned face was scrunched up in frustration or concern, and, for once, he looked his age. ''Hey,'' I awkwardly tried to pat his arm. ''I told you, you did everything you could. You were just...the wrong tool for the job.'' He turned to me, brow furrowed. ''Did you just call me a tool!?'' It was like that all the way down. We were now above the magical forcefield, which we dropped through without resistance. A thought came to me, and I shot Mihai a questioning glance. ''How could you send me to the moon with a strike and not...level the forest as a side effect?'' I asked. He looked at me with a mix of patience and exasperation. ''My shield took care of that.'' ''Maybe. But how come I didn''t hit anything when flying? Or mess up the weather with how fast I was going? Or-'' ''You think too much,'' he said firmly. ''Go. Bianca wanted to be the second, if my idea didn''t work. I''m gonna do some research, in the meantime...'' And, with a clap of his hands, a pair of thick, leatherbound books, each as wide as my chest, appeared in the air before him. One was a deep, earthy brown, and the other a dusty grey. Mihai made them spin around him, like planets around a star, as he flicked pages and muttered to himself. I left him to his devices. I quickly left my mage friend behind and out of sight, hidden by the gnarled, ancient-looking trees. I knew they could only be a few decades old at most, but you wouldn''t have guessed it at first sight. You know how a few centuries ago rich people liked raising buildings that looked ancient and ruined from the start? It''s kind of like that. The iele share some things with mankind, however alien they are in other aspects. It occurred to me that I didn''t know where any of my friends were, and the woods weren''t exactly small. Oh, sure, I could find them with my strigoi senses, eventually, but that would take time if I moved at human speed. And if I moved at full speed, I''d level the forest and set everything on fire, too. I would also attract the wrong sort of attention. But, somehow, I just felt that they would find their way to me, and vice-versa. This story was more than a place: it was an idea made fact, the old, vast woods where travelers got lost, and wonders and horrors awaited behind every tree and bush. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. The forest is mankind''s oldest nightmare. After a while, I realized I couldn''t keep track of time. Since I didn''t breathe or blink, and my heart didn''t beat, I didn''t have much of an internal clock. I couldn''t have said how long I''d been in the woods...and then, a bit of flesh on my chin quivered and sagged, then fell off. I looked at it fall with a kind of fascinated horror. I didn''t try to catch it, and why would I? What could I have even done, jam it into place and pray it would stay there? An idea came to me. Since Bianca didn''t seem to be in a hurry to find me, and I didn''t have anything better to do... Strigoi are associated with both solomonari, mages, and pricolici, or werewolves. None of us are bound to a single shape, and it was us Stoker drew inspiration from when he came up with the idea of shapeshifting vampires. I became a flea, then a bat, then a snake. A frog, a wolf, a bear, a cold mist. Each form brought new sensations...and a piece of me was still missing. Even when I became mist, I could somehow tell there was less of me than there should have been. It was...sickening. After a few more shapes, I switched back to my default form. It was then that Bianca found me. She had ditched her modern clothes for a sheer white dress, covered in vivid splashes of colour, and a crown of flowers. It took me a moment to realize she was showing her true face. I could, on a vague level, tell what other people might find attractive. But like this, Bianca looked...strange, other, to me. Like a brightly-coloured insect. ''Are we all going back to our roots today?'' I asked by way of greeting. ''Mihai put on the robes, and you...'' ''Why are you naked?'' she asked, an amused smile on her face. Looking down, I realised that she was right. I hadn''t even...damn it, Mihai. Would it have killed you to create some clothes to me before we parted? Just because I missed it, it doesn''t mean you should, too. ''I...'' I began awkwardly. ''That is, we...screw your mother''s ancestors, Mihai.'' ''Oh?'' Bianca raised an elegant eyebrow. ''And what did you two do, exactly?'' Her smile widened. ''Alone, in the forest?'' I made a strangled sound, and she laughed musically. ''He went all out on you, didn''t he? Hit you with every spell he could think of?'' I nodded, and she shook her head. ''Honestly...percussive maintenance? You''d think you were a faulty TV or something. I''m surprised he didn''t smash your head open looking for an antenna...'' She trailed off, running her eyes up and down my body..."Hmm...'' ''Bianca!'' ''Oh, relax, would you. I''m not into...dead meat.'' Still smiling, she approached me, taking my hand. ''We''re going to meet with my sisters. But before that, I''m going to make you some clothes. Wouldn''t want them to get the wrong idea.'' ''Of course not.'' Shallow Grave, Chapter 7
Bianca wove me clothes out of light and shadows, flower and fern, wood and stone. You can tell how good I feel if I''m using words like those. ''Couldn''t you just make a shirt and jeans?'' I asked her. She had her back to me, and was bent over as she worked her magic. Do you have any idea how lame it feels to look at a beautiful woman and feel nothing, nothing at all? It''s like looking at food while full, or finding an empty bathroom while constipated. Both things have happened to me. I better stop before my mind comes up with weirder comparisons. ''Bia?'' ''Yes, I heard you the first time,'' she said without turning to face me. ''And yes, I could. But my sisters could take it the wrong way. They have little love for the modern world and its works.'' ''Damn hippies,'' I said lightly. When she replied, I could hear the smile in her voice. ''Closer to the Amish, actually... you should be happy you''re dealing with iele, and not, say, the Fae. Sociopathic little...'' She started cursing under her breath. Well, this explained why she''d been in such a bad mood after returning from that trip to Britain. Probably. ''Done!'' She said brightly, then straightened up and spun around. I looked at her blankly. ''Ie and i?ari? I don''t think it''s a national holiday...'' She huffed. ''It''s not, smartarse. I told you, they have no love for the modern world. They yearn for simpler, older times.'' ''Times they''ve never know,'' I felt the need to point out. ''None of them should be able to remember anything before the Shattering.'' ''Oh, David...do you truly think the Shattering only touched the present and shaped the future? How do you think the stories were born in the first place?'' I didn''t answer. I had nothing to say, partly because my mind was racing, thinking of the possibilities, of a past that had never existed, but had, and- ''David!'' Bianca snapped, bringing me back to reality. ''This is not the time or place to contemplate such things. Now, come on. Put these on, and let''s go to my sisters before you turn into the world''s first undead eunuch.'' ''Actually, there''s this jiangshi in China...'' ''Don''t you "actually" me, David Silva. Why are you so damn reluctant, anyway?'' ''The iele...'' ''Yes? It''s not like you can be affected by our songs, or cursed.'' ''That wasn''t quite what I was thinking of.'' ''Then what...'' she broke off, laughing. ''David, be serious! We don''t waste barley on geese, heavens...'' She handed me the clothes, which fit surprisingly well. I asked her if she had known my measurements beforehand, or had just guessed. ''Woman''s intuition,'' Bianca said airily. And we set off. As we walked, the dark, twisted woods gave way to a brighter, airier, more open forest. It was so damn pretty, I half-expected Snow White to burst out of a bush, singing, with little animals around her. I told Bianca this, and she didn''t appreciate my opinion. ''Heartless! This is all wasted on you, I swear...'' Eventually, we reached a clearing, quite unlike the one where Mihai had done his best to help me. The woods here were taller, closer together, but light still streamed through them like through an open sky, falling in all the colours of the rainbow.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Very pastel. Someone put this on a puzzle box. Still, I couldn''t help but notice something: ever since we''d entered the forest, I hadn''t seen or heard any critters, or birds, or even any insects. It was unnatural, and it''s never a good sign when a strigoi starts describing things like that. I turned to ask Bianca if she knew what was going on, but she wasn''t there anymore. How even...I swear she''d been at my side until I''d turned, talking about this or that, humming some nonsensical song. I looked down and saw that I was clutching a slip of paper in my left hand. The sinister hand, some would say. Fuck sinister. I was just sick of so much slipping past my senses recently. My dead flesh couldn''t feel, so if I, say, closed my eyes, I could only tell I was holding something by its weight. The paper was too light for that. I opened it, revealing Bianca''s spidery handwriting. She was saying that, while she had made the iele agree to help me, that was all she could do. She didn''t feel comfortable participating in what was going to happen. And, if my instincts were even halfway correct, I fully agreed with her choice. No need to muddle our friendship by...by... I closed my eyes, shook my head and, when I opened them again, I was standing inside a circle of iele. Bianca''s sisters looked like she had before her disappearance, in the sense that none of them even bothered pretending to look human. Or, rather, they did not look like anything. Their appearance was constantly shifting, like light moving through a prism, but always beautiful. I remembered a quote about water changing shape to fit its vessel, and wondered whether they would look different if I were, say, a zmeu, or werebeast, or something further from humanity. They smiled and sang and spun around me, dancing on air. I knew what they were trying to do...and it wasn''t working. Iele could induce feelings with their voices, but their songs were just empty sound in a strigoi''s ears. Maybe they hoped that, if I felt joyful, my body would just heal itself. Stupid. They stopped singing and frowned, in unison. Less like a coordinated group of people, and more like creatures that shared a hive mind. After this was over, Bianca and I would have a long discussion on her nature. Just to make things clear. I took in their expressions, and stretched my arms above my head. ''If you ladies need a moment to rest your throats, feel free to sign so. Sadly, I didn''t bring any water or mint drops.'' They were only trying to help me, and it wasn''t their fault for failing, but I wasn''t in a reasonable mood. I was dying, again, or something like it. And a treacherous voice in the back of my mind whispered that this time, it wouldn''t be quick. One of the iele, with long hair like dancing flames, floated forward, hands moving in a series of arcane gestures. I felt polymorphic magic lapping at the sides of my being... and finding no hold. Finally, the spell retreated, sullenly. It had been harmless, but had she known it would be? And anyway, what damn purpose would a shapeshifting spell serve. I wouldn''t take this lying down. I strode out of the circle, the iele reluctantly moving aside to let me pass. Good. I would have walked right through them otherwise. I walked to one of the trees they loved so much. A knotted old thing, as thick as my arms were long, covered in bark you couldn''t scratch with an axe. I chopped through it like it was made of air. The tree split with an almost pained groan, and fell forward, parted neatly in two. I sat down on it, trying to ignore the way it was squirming beneath me. The iele gasped, one of them dropping onto the ground and striding purposefully towards me. I prepared myself for another spell...and then she slapped me. I didn''t feel anything, of course, but I was shocked. While I stared at her like a moron, the iela glared down, tears in her eyes. ''Monster!'' she hissed. ''Why would you-'' ''Why did your sister try to turn me into something else?'' Before she could answer, I continued. ''You think I don''t know the stories? Like that poor boy who was too shy to respond to your advances, so you turned him into an animal?'' She tried to slap me again, but I caught her arm in a vicelike grip. ''Careful,'' I said coldly. She tried to meet my eyes, and quickly changed her mind. She was squirming, though I couldn''t tell whether in disgust, because of my cold flesh, or just in a need to get away from me. I let her go. ''Your heart is dead. Why would it soar at the sound of our music? We should have thought of that earlier, but we were too proud,'' she laughed briefly, humourlessly. ''My sister hoped she could turn you,'' she said sardonically. ''Into a happy man. She should have known that would be pointless, too. We wasted barley on geese.'' I though of Bianca saying that earlier, and something closed around my heart. ''She tried to...but how? A happy man isn''t a type of being. It...'' The iela scoffed, rubbing at her arm, as if to scrub off the taint of touching me. ''Magic is shaped by intention, not logic. But no magic can help one such as you.'' Her eyes turned cold. ''Go,'' the iele spoke in unison. ''Leave the forest. We should have never allowed you in. And tell the one you call Bianca...that we''ll have words.'' I rose from the severed trunk. ''I acted foolishly, but Bianca has no place in our quarrel. She just arranged for us to meet. If you want revenge, take it out on me.'' ''We will, strigoi.'' And they were gone. Still, despite everything...thank God Bianca hadn''t been here for this. I don''t think I could have forgiven her for trying to alter my mind, or for that matter, that she could have forgiven herself. And, just like that, I made some new enemies, chopped a probably sentient tree in half, and manhandled a woman because I was too damn impatient to have things explained to me. God, I''m such a fucking arsehole. Shallow Grave, Chapter 8
With the iele gone, the multicolured light and fairytale clearing seemed pale and lesser, like circus artists deprived of their makeup and costumes. And perhaps it was so. It would not be the first time the Daughters of the Woods had changed a place to suit them, and it would not be the last. I turned and walked out. The damn place was unbearable now. Like looking at the insides of my soul. I walked and walked, but not forty days and forty nights. I wasn''t a hero. I doubted there would be a happy ending for me. I found Bianca sitting on a log, back in her human disguise. Quickly, I focused my senses on the log, to make sure it was not alive, not writhing and squirming, like the tree I''d murdered. God, what has my unlife come to that I''m using sentences like that? But, no. It was just dead wood. Long dead. Bianca made a point of never using or exploiting living plants, but the log was long gone, and she didn''t care about it anymore. Wonder if I''d share its fate, and how soon. She nodded as I approached, then saw my flesh was even worse than when we''d parted. Sighing quietly, she stood up and walked to me. She held her hands before her, and I reluctantly took them. ''I''m sorry they failed you, David. I thought...or, rather, hoped...'' ''It''s alright,'' I lied. ''I''m the one who failed them.'' And I told her about my stupid tantrum, about the tree I''d felled and her sisters'' twin promises. ''If you weren''t already dying,'' she told me with a dry look. ''I''d say you were trying to get yourself killed. What were you even thinking?'' ''I wasn''t, much. At the moment,'' I admitted. ''But it''s like you just said. What more can they do? I''m already-'' ''Already getting on my nerves,'' she snapped. ''You need to stop thinking you''re hopeless-when it comes to surviving, I mean. Not even your god could help you with the other things you''re hopeless in.'' I managed a small smile, for her sake. It didn''t fool her. ''After we heal you,'' she sounded so sure it would happen, too. ''My sisters will be sure to make good on their promise. They keep their word.'' ''How do you know they won''t intervene before that?'' ''Because us iele are patient when it comes to revenge...and your ilk are annoyingly hard to truly harm.'' She moved away from me and sat back down on the log, suddenly looking exhausted. ''Go. Alex and Andrei are next.'' ''So, Alex first, then Andrei?'' ''No. Are you deaf? Both of them. Now leave. I''ll try to get us out of the mess you got us into. Maybe I can claim you were delirious, or... '' I left her to her planning and dim view on my sanity. I could feel where my friends were. Andrei''s strong, fast breathing, characteristic of most weres, and the pale, ragged thread in the tapestry of the world that was Alex. I followed my senses and, after what felt like a few minutes, I was on a battlefield. Romania after the Second World War. After unreality broke into reality, and the world''s powers scrambled to put down enemies they had never seen before, except in story books and childhood nightmares. All grudges forgotten, at least while mankind and the world as they knew it were under siege. The Soviets had swept through Romania like a red tide, like blood pumped into a corpse. Someone had to keep order in Eastern Europe, and, after our neighbouring countries were dealt with, it was our turn. The Soviets brought order, I won''t deny that. They brought along their psychics and occultists, their mystics and the results of their esoteric experiments. And our myths-the cruel, dangerous ones-were forced back into the shadows. And to the heroes, the spoils. Who cared if some farm or two were looted, or if some women were deflowered, if the country as a whole was safe again? And why would you even pin the blame on the heroic liberators, and not a cruel strigoi or ogre? How could you tell who was responsible? You could not. Thinking like that would not help anyone. In fact, you would help much more if you joined the rebuilding efforts. These were Andrei''s memories. The world of his childhood. Andrei stepped out of a cloud of dust, clad in shredded, bloody Soviet fatigues. I didn''t tell him how well they fit him, how natural he looked in the uniform. I knew his opinion on his father. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Alex rose from the ground, floating next to Andrei, and wasted no time in explaining their idea. ''You see, David, we believe the cause of your decay, for want of a better term, is internal, rather than external. That is, we believe it''s a mental problem. Say, are you at peace with yourself?'' The question came out of nowhere. I could only look blankly at him. ''What?'' ''Do you feel at peace with yourself? Are you happy being a strigoi?'' A low growl rose in my throat. ''Are you mocking me?'' ''Yes, David. I''m making sure my friend is going to fall apart while in a shitty mood. Of course not, genius!'' ''What Alex is trying to say,'' Andrei said, and we were clearly in a bad spot if he was trying to be diplomatic. ''Is that, as long as you hate yourself, you are going to wither. How many strigoi do you know, or have you heard of, who do not embrace themselves?'' I looked at the ground. ''None, right? And none of them share your problem, either.'' ''So, what are you saying? That I should just give up? Say "fuck everything" and start acting like a fucking animal? Forget that. I''d rather shove a sharpened cross through my brain. I still have enough faith that it would work.'' ''Maybe,'' Andrei replied. -But what is the worst thing you have done since the beginning of your unlife? Have you hurt, truly hurt, anyone?'' ''I''ve become more...temperamental. Started swearing a lot more. I''ve started insulting people and shoving them around in public, just because they got in my way. I never did that before.'' ''You were a spineless worm before,'' Andrei said bluntly. ''But the past is the past. Alex believes that, if you were to become happy and content, your body would stabilise. And I agree. I think that clearing up a mystery that has tormented your nights would be a good first step. Would you like to learn about your parents?" It seemed things could not stop but fly at me out of left field. I didn''t reply, and Andrei likely took my bemusement as approval, because he continued. ''I chose this background because... because we''re going to talk about memories,'' Andrei seemed unusually hesitant, and I didn''t like that. How bad could my parents have been, to unsettle the old werebear? ''Your mother was a little slut.'' Very diplomatic start. At least Andrei was back in character. ''She was underage, but sneaked her way into places she had no right or business being in. Getting drunk, getting groped, sleeping with men and women twice or thrice her age. Most of them knew they were exploiting a stupid child. Both sides found it exciting. Your father was her last partner.'' I didn''t ask how he knew this. Alex talked with all sorts of beings in the afterlife, and Andrei knew everyone who knew anyone. ''Your father left her pregnant, something neither of them had ever experienced. The teenage mother screamed and wailed her way through the pregnancy, while the stupid bastard wrung his hands and ran around like a headless chicken. She died giving birth to you, but he was not prepared to be a father. Hell, he hadn''t even been prepared to be a husband. So, he took his newborn son, and went to the house of Constantin Silva while the priest was away, and left you there. He knew Silva was a good, responsible man. A better father than he could ever be, guilty and terrified as he was.'' I waited for him to continue, but that was it. So... so... So fucking, mindlessly stupid. This was the secret story of my birth? No wonder I was such a damn failure. Must be genetic. I understood Andrei''s outrage, too. He''d never been able to stand people like his father. Eventually, I forced a choked laugh out of my throat. Stretching my arms above my head, I walked over to Andrei. ''Thanks for the effort, man, but...that sure as shit didn''t cheer me up. Some mysteries are supposed to remain veiled, I guess. Still,'' I said with a strained smile. ''Thanks for telling me about my father. Put it in and ran away after, did he? Just there for the fun, not the consequences. Fucking...'' I chuckled harshly. ''And you called me spineless. If I survive this, I''m going to find that bastard, and tell him a thing or two.'' ''Alright,'' Andrei said, walking closer, a strange look in his eyes. ''Tell me.'' Shallow Grave, Chapter 9
No. No, I must have misheard. I must have gone mad, crazed with fear at my approaching...my... My what? My death? I was beyond such natural things now, by my own foolish choice. I was clearly hallucinating, hearing things. Though, for a hallucination, Andrei still looked annoyingly real. ''Tell you what, Andrei? Look, I understand if you know him and want to protect him or whatever-I''d want to be protected to, if I were in his place. But I don''t want you to pass my words on to him. I said-'' ''Stop playing the fool, boy,'' Andrei said curtly. ''You heard what I said, and you understood. You know-'' ''Yes, yes! I searched my heart and know it to be true!'' I snickered at the absurdity. ''And, now that we''re being honest, tati...'' My fist crushed his nose, faster than a tank shell, harder than a mountain. The werebear was sent flying, skin smoking and blood turned to steam from the sheer speed of my strike. He landed on the far edge of the battlefield, on the horizon, and I ran after him. I was there before him, and his body hit mine with a sonic boom. I headbutted him, the ground shattering around us, so that we were standing in a crater the size of a house, then grabbed him by the tongue with a clawed hand. Foul thing. He didn''t need it anymore. I noticed he wasn''t fighting back. Good. Smart. Only smart thing he''d ever done in his life. I grinned, and popped the twitching, bleeding tongue in my mouth. I chewed until it turned to pulp, then turned my head and spat. ''Filthy. Guess it''s to be expected.'' He was on the ground, but his tongue had already grown back. Damn were healing. I stamped on his head, grinding one heel into his left eye. Squelch. My grin widened. ''It''s alright, tati,'' I told him in a cheerful voice. ''I''m only hurting you because I know you''ll bounce back. Unlike you, I think before I act. You should try it.'' And the bastard sighed. He fucking sighed, like I was boring him. Like I was wasting his time! I hissed, and the sky churned at my rage. Huge, lead-grey clouds gathered in moments, and hailstones the size of fists began falling, until it sounded like we were in a gunfight. Lightning, white and blue and red, red as blood, red as rage, lashed through the ashen sky, and the thunder that followed almost drowned out the sound of the hail. ''First time.'' I grabbed him by the throat, claws digging through flesh until my hands were cupping his spine. ''First time in your fucking life you''re honest with me, first time you''re here for me, and this is it?'' ''Do not lie,'' he gurgled, eyes still cool, voice still calm. How hare he look so fucking stolid!? ''I was there for you...so many times. Who carried your coffin? I was there when you-'' Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. I swiped at his face, cutting his eyes out. ''When I rose through the earth like a fucking maggot? Yes, I remember. A beautiful moment. And, somehow, still more dignified than my first birth. I''ve got to thank you for that.'' I swiped at his face again, cutting his nose off. It grew back instantly. ''And don''t you tell me not to fucking lie! You''ve been lying to me for decades-why the fuck did you even become my friend? Was it your fucking guilt again? Or were you just playing a prank on me? Laughing at your stupid son while he was none the wiser?'' I laughed again. It sounded more hollow each time. ''Fucking hell, is that story you told us even real? Were you really born of rape? If it is, you''re almost as bad as that sack of shit you called father. Oh, wait!'' I widened my eyes, as if I''d just realized something. "At least he fucking died when you were still shitting your diapers, so you never had to deal with him! Why couldn''t you do me the same favour!?'' ''David, enough!'' a voice cried from somewhere above me. I looked up, growling, and saw Alex looking down at me, scowling, arms crossed. Who the fuck did he think he was? ''Are you fucking serious? Defending him? Seriously!?'' ''Is hurting him going to change your past?'' the ghost asked patiently. I barked a harsh laugh at him. ''I though you were just asthmatic, not retarded. But it seems you''re deaf as well. Did you hear any of what he said?'' ''I did, yes-'' ''I did, yes,'' I parroted. ''Better stay up there, friend. The way you''re defending him, I''d bet you knew about this, too. Did you?'' He didn''t answer. ''Did you?'' I repeated. ''Did you fucking know!?'' ''I met your mother in the afterlife,'' he said eventually. ''She-'' ''So, you did,'' I said with a deceptively calm smile. ''Good to know. Don''t come close, Horia. As I am now, I''d eat you and shit the scraps into Hell.'' I turned away from the ghost and back to my father. ''Do the others know?'' I asked dangerously. ''Does Constantin?'' Andrei barely managed to shake his head, so tightly I was holding him. ''I don''t think so. Or, if they do, they never said.'' I scoffed, tossing him away from me. He landed on all fours, and sprang to his feet with ease, showing no sign he''d been mutilated several times. ''Luci is next,'' Alex said from above me. ''He originally wanted to help Mihai, but changed his mind. ''I didn''t ask,'' I replied, then looked up at Alex. ''Better pray I die during this, or you do. Because, if not...'' He dissipated into ectoplasmic mist, and disappeared. Then, I looked at Andrei, who was studying me intently, carefully, as if expecting me to pounce on him again. ''The next time we meet,'' I told him as I turned to leave. ''I''ll bring silver.'' And I left the past behind. Shallow Grave, Chapter 10
The battlefield faded behind me, and I was walking through the forest again. Now that I''d calmed down-so to speak-, I wondered what that had really been. Andrei had implied he had created it, but how? He couldn''t warp reality, or even create illusions. And I didn''t think Alex could, either. He wasn''t that kind or ghost, as far as I knew. But then, what did I know, really? Jackshit, as far as recent events had show. In order to finally start keeping track of time, I began snapping my fingers. Each finger-snap lasted a second, as far as my senses and instincts could tell. It took about three and a half million seconds before the scenery changed. Thank God I don''t get tired. I was getting sick of this damn place. This forest, with its eldritch laws and flow of time. If I didn''t get cured, I''d level the place, just to spite it. No. Fucking damn it. What''s wrong with me? I''ve already stepped into it with the iele. No need to keep digging my- I fucking hate my mind sometimes. My body continued to degrade. Wither, as Andrei had said. My arms and legs became thinner, and my face stuck to my skull, feeling paper-thin. It was all my perception, I knew. I wasn''t getting physically weaker, or slower, less durable. There was just...less of me. The forest was replaced by an endless plain. The grass was tall and made of gold, beneath a purple sky with green clouds. On the horizon, I could see a golden palace, tall as a mountain, clouds not even reaching its middle floors. I was in the country of zmei. In many stories, the hero- F?t-Frumos, Praslea or whoever-has to leave the mundane, human world behind, and walk into the realm of his enemies to confront them. The zmei are often not of the Earth, so the hero has no choice but to go to their country. The gates of the palace opened, shaking the ground and air for as far as I could see, and a giant mace came flying at me. Its round, spiked head was the size of my torso, its spikes the size of daggers and far sharper. It was coming at me so fast fire was dancing around it, and it was glowing white-hot from the friction with the air. The sound of its passing would only reach me long after the mace itself. But I didn''t need to hear it to react. I raised a hand and backhanded the mace away. It shot away from me like a Rod from God, and the grass turned to smoke from the force of the clash, for as far as I could see. The mace flew, then hit the ground, carving a trench through the barren ground deep and wide enough for the Danube to pass through. Lucian''s laughter shook the plain, seeming to come from everywhere, even from beneath. It made sense. This was his realm. His domain. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. The zmeu dropped from the sky like a meteor, hitting the ground far harder than his mace had. I had to brace and repeatedly stomp through the ground not to get sent flying away by the shockwave. I''m inhumanly strong, but I still only weigh as much a human. Superhumanly strong people often forget this and get ragdolled by the cars, trucks or trains they try to stop. Lucian hovered above me, wings beating slowly. He was dressed as fine as any voivode, in black threaded with gold, and boots shaped for his clawed feet. If he were standing on the ground, I knew the top of my head would only reach the base of his chest. His arms were as thick as my torso. ''Mihai had the right idea!'' he bellowed in a voice like the horn of a warship. ''But he never packed enough punch. But don''t worry-it all ends now.'' I didn''t like they way he''d phrased it. ''What the hell do you mean? Are you going to beat me up, or what? Mihai pulped my head, and I healed, but I''m still withering. What purpose would it serve?'' ''He only pulped your head. I can, and will, do far more.'' He chuckled throatily at my expression. ''Oh, yes. I know of the new crater. I''d bet everyone with a telescope does, and the rest of the world can''t be far behind.'' He dropped to the ground-in a three-point landing, because of course he did-, then raised to his feet. He opened his right hand, and his mace reappeared in it. No cloud of smoke, no flash of light. Just a weapon, heeding its master''s will. ''You''ve been a gloomy bastard ever since you dug your way out of the earth,'' he said, mace casually slung over one shoulder. It was made of solid gold, enchanted to make it far heavier and tougher than any earthly material. I''d felt its weight when I''d backhanded it. It had felt like a locomotive. ''And that''s the problem. I''ve yet to meet a strigoi who shares your problem, but none I know shares your winning personality, either. They''re all at peace with themselves, even if they''re all vile shits.'' This was basically what Andrei and Alex had said, almost word for word. Had they talked? Or had Lucian come to this conclusion himself? Did he know about- No. No. I couldn''t start thinking like that. It would only distract me, and besides, maybe they were right. If my body was tied to my mindset, paranoia wouldn''t help it one jot. So, I just walked to Lucian, crossing my arms and looking up at him. ''So, what shall we do, zmeu? Cut ourselves with swords, break ourselves with maces, or wrestle in a brawl?'' He sniggered at the (probably mangled) quote, drool and flame alike slipping through clenched fangs. ''You can fight as you want. If you think it will help.'' And we leapt at each other. Shallow Grave, Chapter 11
At first, we grappled. Lucian tossed his mace far away, and gripped me so hard he clutched at my bones. I returned his favour, but I couldn''t even crack his scales, for all my strength. I couldn''t feel anything, and if he did, he showed no sign of it. Eventually, we gave up on trying to overpower the each other. With a grunt, Lucian lifted me over his head, then threw slammed me into the ground, up to my knees. I dug my way out, then grabbed him and slammed him down, up to his waist. He laughed, ripped his way out, and this time, he buried me up to my neck. We kept at it until a strange sun rose in the sky, and set again. Lucian wasn''t even breathing hard, though by now, we''d slammed our way down to where the centre of the Earth would have been, in the mundane world. Singing, shrieking lava bubbled and thickened around us. My clothes were long gone, and Lucian''s were in tatters, but the fact they still existed at all was a testament to the toughness of whatever they were made of. Lucian leapt away from me, wings held close to his body, like a mantle, and summoned his mace. Shaped by his will, the terrain changed. The steaming, lava-filled pit was replaced with rocky, uneven ground. We were now surrounded by mountains. I grinned. I hadn''t fought-really fought-since the beginning of my unlife. To hell with Andrei, and Alex, and their bullshit. I felt alive, and, if my last moment was coming, I wanted to remember this. It was only later that I realized my flesh had stopped withering. Lucian whooped, then threw his mace even faster and harder than earlier, and this time, I didn''t try to stop it. It crushed my ribs, dragging me through mountains that were turned to gravel by the impact of my body. I was laughing. Lucian heard that, and laughed joyfully in response. Then, he leapt after me. We fought for what felt like days, until fatigue, for all of Lucian''s strength, caught up with him. His muscles began twitching, his reflexes slowed, his eyes grew dull. His breathing sounded like a furnace. Eventually, he lifted a clawed, scaled hand, and his mace returned to it. He put it on the ground, leaning on it like a cane, and grinned at me, flames shining behind his fangs. ''Better?'' I laughed breathlessly, saying nothing. ''I figured,'' he rumbled, then pointed a long finger at my face. I lifted a hand to in bemusement, and, to my amazement, my flesh felt strong and taut again. Oh, the missing pieces, the gaps that had appeared earlier, had not healed, but the degradation had stopped. It had stopped. ''Like I said. Mihai had the right idea, but he could never fight with you. He could never get your blood boiling. This...'' he breathed out a cloud of smoke. ''Is what you needed.'' I snorted. ''What, are you a therapist now, too?'' Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ''You should see my van. It has "therapist" on it.'' ''With a gap after the third letter, or what?'' We laughed, truly laughed, for probably the first time since I''d become a strigoi. I hadn''t been able to muster some genuine joy in months, and Lucian, for all his bluster, tried to take people''s feelings into consideration. ''What now?'' I asked him. ''We spar every now and then, and hope something new and worse doesn''t pop up?'' He shook his great head, moustache still frayed after I''d grabbed on it and tried to rip it out, to his outrage. ''Go to your father, and tell him I was right. Constantin should be pleased he won''t have to put his plan into practice.'' I didn''t ask what it was. I just felt It would be better if I didn''t. ''And tell him to prepare the money, so I can rub the others'' faces in it.'' I gave him a dry look. ''Seriously? You bet on...what? Whether I''d survive or not? Who would save me? And pops bet, too? He isn''t like that.'' ''Of course not. But that doesn''t stop him from overseeing it.'' And he flew away, as the country of zmei disappeared, and I was back in the forest. In fact, back in the clearing where Mihai had tried his percussive maintenance, as Bianca had called it. The others were gathered in a circle around me. Mihai was still reading the two books orbiting around him, though he''d found time to change to his sporty clothes. Bianca was in her human form, but her eyes were darkened by something I didn''t like. I wouldn''t ask if she had gone to meet her sisters. Not now. Alex and Andrei stood together, looking at me with a mix of curiosity and...relief, upon seeing I did not look any worse than when we''d parted. I scoffed inwardly. A bit too late to care. Lucian was there too, though he''d left his clothes and mace back in his palace, and was now wearing only a pair of oversized trousers, with a hole cut for his tail. He nodded at me. And, finally, pops stood next to the Fourfold, reminding me of someone standing next to a nuke and hoping it won''t explode. He smiled widely upon seeing my face, and came to embrace me. I hugged him back, hesitantly. Had he known? And if he had, did I have any right to think less of him due to that? He''d still raised me, still taught me to be a man. Still...accepted me, after I sinned, and came back as a monster in the eyes of God. Other priests...other people would have...they would have... I had not known, until then, that strigoi can weep. Nowadays, I like to think it is something God allows us to keep, in order to remember our former selves. And, above all, it is proof that we are still human. Because true monsters do not, cannot, weep. I clung to my father like a lost child, perhaps holding him tighter than I should have. He did not say anything, did not push me away. He never had, and he never would. Shallow Grave, Epilogue
We walked back to Urziceni, and this time, the forest did not seem so dark and forbidding. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but... But, you know what? No. For once in my life, I chose to believe things were as good as they seemed. Because despair would serve no purpose. If the worst were to come, it would come. I could not change that. We walked back to pops'' house, and he unlocked the gate for my friends to enter. ''Go,'' he said. ''We won''t be long. Just prepare things, as we agreed.'' My friends nodded, and moved to walk through, but not before Bianca chastised me for losing my clothes, again. She quickly spun me a new change of clothes, and this time, I didn''t look like I was going to perform on the 1st of December. They walked through, Luci having to crouch and turn sideways, and Alex trying to float through the gate, only to bounce off the protections. I smirked at that, and pops looked at me with concern. It was then I noticed that the Fourfold had neither walked through, nor returned to wherever her superiors needed her. She was still with us. ''Pops?'' I said softly. ''I think there''s something-rather, a couple of things, that we need to talk about.'' He nodded. ''Of course, David. Just follow me, please.'' It was about halfway through the trip that I realized we were walking to the church. The Fourfold was walking behind us, not because she couldn''t keep up, but because, it seemed to me, she wanted to keep a respectful distance. Not spoil the moment between pops and I. Someone tell the Goetia guys their hellbound are starting to grasp nuance. They''re evolving, I tells ya! We reached the church, and pops took out another key. There were no services being performed at the moment, past midnight as it was, but pops always had access to the church. You never knew when the local priest needed a little bit more bang for his buck. Pops pulled the heavy doors open, shoulders cracking with the strain, but he didn''t ask for help. He knew I''d only burn my hands by trying. This church was believed in by enough people that just being inside would make me writhe in pain. I knew. It happened the last time I came here, to pray and ask forgiveness for what I''d done to myself, and what I''d become. I followed pops into the church, which, to my surprise, was not dark. A golden gentle light filled the chamber, coming from no lightbulb or candle. I tried to find its source, even as my eyes twitched and blinked rapidly in pain. I looked at him questioningly, and he just shrugged, smiling. ''Perhaps He is trying to enlighten us.'' The Fourfold entered the church too, to my slight surprise. I had no experience with hellbound, but what I''d heard and read about them painted them as being as vulnerable to holy power as me, if not more so. And the Fourfold housed not one, but three demons inside her flesh. I looked at her dubiously, but, if being in the House of God pained her, or even made her uncomfortable, she showed no sign of it. Her face was as blank as when we first met. Pops took out another key-I always tell him to just get a keychain, but he''s worried that way, somebody can steal all his keys at once- and started heading to the chancel. At my questioning look, he just said he wanted to do this properly. And that was how a strigoi was left alone in a church with a woman and three demons, in the middle of the night. You could make good money writing bad smut about this. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. The Fourfold just stared forward blankly, an almost bored look on her face. If you saw her on the street, you couldn''t tell she had more demons than the average teenager. ''So,'' I said, after the silence became awkward. ''Ca-Will tell me about yourself? Yourselves?'' Caught myself this time, you Exorcist extra. One corner of her mouth briefly quirked upwards, seemingly the closest she ever came to smiling. ''Do you want to learn about us, or our work?'' I know a trap question when I hear one. Sometimes. ''Both?'' I asked hopefully. And this time, she actually smiled. It was freaking ghastly. No wonder she did it so rarely. ''It''s good to want things. But, information about us is classified.'' ''You told me one of...your selves is immune to all but brute force. In the forest,'' I pointed out. ''We said untouchable, not immune.'' She was still smiling, and I was contemplating whether to tell her to stop it or not. It would probably be a nice change of pace from what she heard from her colleagues. ''And there are many demons who could be described like that. If you do not know the Name, the nature is useless.'' ''When did you and Constantin talk?'' I asked, changing the subject, because we were clearly going nowhere. ''When we met, he implied you two had already arranged things, but I never heard or saw him talking with you.'' ''We have worked with Constantin in what you would call the past, though we were lesser then. We have fought together many times, for we shared enemies, and still do. After you hanged yourself, Constantin contacted us through the usual channels, because he values our expertise. If your companions had failed, we would have thrown ourselves into the task of saving you.'' ''Because you owe Constantin a favour?'' I was shooting in the dark, but I couldn''t see any other reason. Any other plausible reason. ''No,'' The Fourfold said. ''Because we do not.'' I hoped pops would return soon, so we could stop torturing this conversation. Fortunately, he did, and this time, he was in his priestly habit. I raised an eyebrow at that, and he sat down on a chair, gesturing for me to come to him. I hadn''t done confession since becoming a strigoi. I dared not to, lest God perceive it as mockery, but...but, if He wanted to strike me down, He could do it now. He did not. I knelt, and Constantin and I spoke softly. I told him of my friends'' attempts at saving me, and the eventual success, but he already knew that. So, I told him about Andrei, and Alex, and how I had ended up on his doorstep. He had not known, but he warned me not to bear Andrei ill will. If a man foolishly commits a sin, he should not compound it by attempting to fix his mistake when he does not know how. I gritted my teeth, and nodded. I told him of my descent into despair, of my failures in my human life. He knew, of course, and had known even before I''d first told him, over a decade ago, but I...I felt the need to unburden my soul. And I had one. I had one. Not in the sense that I was a spirit bound to my own corpse, but in the sense that I though and felt like a human. And as I spoke, my flesh healed. ''In the end...'' I said with a smile. ''I think I didn''t escape the grave-not truly-until tonight. Because I did not believe I could, so I could not rise from it.'' ''Then let us thank God, my son,'' Pops said. ''That it was a shallow grave.'' Cold Blood, Prologue
After my brush with death, pops and my friends decided we needed to celebrate. This might surprise you, but I''m not a party animal. You know that awkward guy who always sits stiffly in corners and doesn''t say anything? That''s me. Except, now that I''m undead, I sit absolutely still unless I actively move. People who suffer near-death experiences often change. Some become less hesitant than before, willing to do things they would have previously balked at, because who knows if they''ll ever get another chance? I suppose actual death would change you on a greater scale, but even the reaper can''t remove the stick from my arse. Though, if you prod me enough, I may start making working stiff jokes. Such an interesting saying, a brush with death. I wonder what they''d call my case. Pops'' property is laid out in a fairly straightforward manner. You enter the concrete courtyard, with the barn on the right and the vine-covered fence on the left. No grapes at the moment. I helped pops harvest them a few weeks back. Behind the fence is his flower garden, from which a narrow path, between the fence and the wall of the house, leads to ''the front of the house''. It''s an open area, with a table, chairs and couch, situated between the entrances to the gues rooms and the family rooms. We''re not going inside tonight, though. Pops is probably thinking that I don''t want to feel trapped somewhere, after everything, which is nice of him. A table and two benches are brought down from the attic. Pops hasn''t prepared anything-he didn''t have time, because he didn''t know my situation until this evening. Luckily, Mihai was just itching to try and convert mana into food, so we could eat and talk, rather than fast and talk. It was Saturday, anyway. Fasting wasn''t expected. ''No, no!'' Lucian grumbled, waving a clawed hand at at a conjured chicken. ''What, you a vegan now?'' Mihai grumbled, brow furrowed in concentration. ''Like hell. Make a raw one, I want to try a trick.'' Those words would have sent most sane people running to somewhere they thought was a safe place. No one left. ''A trick,'' Mihai deadpanned. Though he conjured a raw chicken, too. Morbid curiosity, maybe. ''Oh, yes...'' Lucian said, then pursed his lips and breathed a thin curtain of flame over it. I don''t know what he expected. Judging from the scowl, probably not carbonized meat on a flaming table. ''Oh, for God''s sake...'' Pops muttered. Mihai prepared to extinguish the flames, but pops waved him off. Moving his hands over the table, he faithcrafted the flames into harmless smoke. Then, he turned to the zmeu. ''Lucian, enthusiasm is not a substitute for skill.'' ''What''s that supposed to mean?'' ''That you''re awful at cooking. But, don''t worry. I''m sure you''re great at making charcoal.'' The zmeu grumbled, but gave up on playing chef. With an easy leap, he was on the barn''s roof. The roof creaked in a way that made me wince, but held. Considering the two hundred and forty kilos that had just dropped onto it, that was something.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ''I''ll stand guard here!'' Lucian declared proudly, hands on his hips. ''Look out for hidden enemies.'' ''They''ll definitely hide once they see his face,'' Bianca whispered, busying herself with arranging the drinks. ''Look on the bright side,'' Andrei said, apparently feeling entitled to participating in the conversation. ''At least he didn''t summon his mace.'' ''Yeah,'' Alex said, because everyone was feeling talkative tonight. ''Damn thing''s a thousand times heavier than him. He''d crash right through the roof. And the floor.'' ''It''s nice he thought about what a headache that would be for everyone, then decided not to do it,'' I said lightly. ''I have a feeling you''re being catty,'' Bianca said, giving me a thoughtful look. ''It''s good to be open about your feelings,'' I replied. She glanced between me and the others. Alex mouthed that he''d explain later. It was then that the Fourfold arrived. I didn''t notice until the dogs started barking, and they only noticed because they were looking straight in her direction. Pops named his dogs after Biblical figures. Maria was a big Carpathian shepherd. She and Iosif stay in the courtyard. Petru is next to the pig pens, and Pavel sits at the edge of the vegetable patches. I only know Maria''s race. The other three are mutts of some sort or another. Iosif and stocky, black-furred and has a long tail. Petru and Pavel are brothers, both brown-furred, though the former is long-furred, with a short tail, and the latter looks almost shaved, with a tail like a snake. ''Did you forget something?'' I asked, turning and standing up to face the agent. She smiled thinly. I think. ''We are on leave. It is the reason we were able to come here at all. May we stay?'' That sounded uncomfortably close to the way vampires ask to enter homes. ''You may stay in the courtyard for tonight,'' I said carefully. She nodded, and came to sit at the table. She looked so human, for a moment, that I almost laughed. We ate and talked the night away, though the Fourfold didn''t eat and mostly listened. We reminisced about how we''d met: Mihai, Alex and I had met in high school. We went to one of Bianca''s concerts, back when she was touring the country, with Andrei and Lucian as bodyguards. We bumped into each other after it was done, in the parking lot, and something clicked. Bianca spoke about her recent trip to the Fae realm. To nobody''s surprise, it started out nice and turned into a horror movie at the end. Mihai talked about his wife and twin daughters, and how grateful he was for meetings like this, where he wasn''t outnumbered by the other sex. Luci came down from the barn, to complain about his stupid older brothers, with their Navy career and tattoo salon, who always chastised him for acting childish and "perpetuating stereotypes about our kind". He did the air quotes and everything. Pops was about to start regaling us with stories about his youth as a monster-hunter, when Andrei cleared his throat. ''I would like to...clear the air,'' he said with a constipated look. ''David knows what I''m talking about, so he can leave, if he wants.'' I stood up, and started towards the garden. Was I petty enough to throw out a biting remark as I left? ''Thank you for considering my opinion.'' Apparently, yes. At the edge of the courtyard proper is another fence, with a door. Past that is a patch of concrete. On the left is the structure that contains the attic and the cellar, and on the right are the pig pens. Beyond that, there''s grass and a few trees, the small kitchen building, and the outhouse. And beyond them, the vegetable patches. I didn''t want to walk the garden, though. So, I entered the pens. I''ve always found the pigs oddly cute. Almost all the pigs, some brown, some pink-white, were sleeping. Almost all, except for one. Hogge has been in the pens for as long as I can remember, which makes him far older than the average pig can get. He was black and his teeth had never been filed, instead growing into tusks. His beady eyes seemed to glint with amusement, and his snout was permanently curled into something that could have been called a smirk. Hogge had never shared his pen with another pig. I think they were scared of him. I remembered when I was five, and pops took me around our home, so I could familiarise myself with the animals. I didn''t like Hogge, even when I first met him. ''Hogge doesn''t sound like a Romanian name,'' I had told pops. ''Because it''s not,'' he had replied. Even now, watching Hogge set me on edge. And he was sitting with his back to me. The Fourfold joined me shortly after I entered the pens. She took one look at the black pig, and her lip curled. ''What a loathsome creature...'' she muttered. ''I think he feels the same way about us,'' I said, only half-joking. ''We know it does,'' the Fourfold replied. That killed our conversation for a bit. But, like me, it came back. ''Why are you here? Really?'' I asked the agent after we went back outside. ''What did you major in, David?'' she asked. I frowned. I doubted ARC didn''t have a file on me. Maybe she hadn''t read it? ''I majored in parabiology, with a minor in pseudothanatology.'' The study of supernatural beings, and undead in particular. So I could know what I was writing about in my books. ''And how long has it been since you''ve taught?'' ''Five, six years...why?'' ''We cannot make any official offer now, since we are not an agent, at the moment.'' A corner of her mouth twitched upwards, and I wondered if she was joking. ''But we would advise you to think about becoming an ARC consultant. Supernatural perspectives are always welcome. With your experience, you could even become a psychologist, if you study a few years.'' ''Thanks for the offer,'' I said. ''But I don''t think I''d be comfortable talking to...people like me. For a while. I''ve worked a few oddjobs since I''ve returned from the grave, mostly manual labour. They paid well. I think I''ll get my papers in order, maybe get back to teaching.'' She nodded. ''We understand.'' ''Besides,'' I smirked. ''You know how girls get around undead...'' ''You are not a vampire, Mr Silva.'' ''Oh, it''s Mr. Silva now, is it?'' Before we returned to the table, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hogge turn in his pen. For just a moment, his eyes flashed yellow. Cold Blood, Chapter 1
The night grew colder as we talked, until pops suggested to head inside the house. None of us would be bothered by the cold, but I knew pops'' real reason for going inside. No one would be keen to lose their temper inside pops'' house, and not just out of respect for him. The Fourfold remained outside. Pops'' bedroom was fairly small: a stove, a chair, a table with a TV and the bed. Between them, you hardly had space to move around. ''I think we should have a game night,'' pops said bluntly after everyone had sat down. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I raised an eyebrow at him. ''To clear the air,'' he answered my unasked question. Or do you want to fight it out, right here? He asked me silently. ''Sure,'' I said. ''Got anything prepared?'' Apparently, he did. Soon enough, we had formed pairs. Pops and I attempted to dissect a mythology crossword, with the clue for each word written in another language, while Andrei played chess with Alex, who sat cross-legged across him. In midair. Luci beat a rhythm on his knees as he sat on the floor between the bed and the stove, waiting for Bianca with the game they had agreed on. The iela entered gracefully. That was the only graceful thing she did. The floor of pops'' bedroom is bare earth. It used to have floorboards, then a zmeu smashed through his window while he was asleep and tried to strangle him. This way, it absorbed blood easier. It was also covered in bumps, over one of which Bianca stumbled. ''Dammit,'' she said. ''I dropped the Scrabble box.'''' ''That could spell disaster,'' I muttered, leaning over the crossword. She obviously still heard, given the box that flew at my head. ''Now, Bianca,'' Pops said, after catching it. ''This is quite a wordy complaint for a pun.'' The iela threw her hands up. ''They''re multiplying...'' she took one look at Lucian''s broad grin, and pointed a warning finger at him. ''Don''t you start as well.'' Somehow, he didn''t. It was Sunday tomorrow, so pops went to sleep early, to make sure he was rested. Keys in my hand, I guided the others to their rooms. Lucian was the last. ''Sorry, man,'' I told him. ''We don''t really have beds your size...or shaped for your wings.'' ''It''s aright,'' he said, speech a little slurred from dinner earlier. None of the drinks Mihai had conjured had so much as made him tipsy. Instead, the zmeu had taken out a huge metal keg-don''t ask me from where- filled with a bubbling, steaming, dark green liquid. He''d called it "the homebrew", and I hadn''t been eager to sample. ''Aaaalriiiight,'' he dragged the word out. ''I''ll just...sleep on my gut. Stomach. You...'' he let out a jaw-cracking yawn. ''You know what I mean.'' And he did sleep on his stomach. On the barn''s roof. I found him in the morning. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. I had no damn idea how my lumbering friend evaded my senses, or how he avoided wrecking the roof in his sleep. I guess booze turned him into a ninja surgeon, or something. But don''t tell him I said that. He''d start drinking more, and the world doesn''t deserve that. After seeing pops to the gate, I walked the courtyard for a bit, played with the dogs. They still didn''t know quite how they should react to my presence. I was still David, but I smelled like old meat and moved like nothing human. As such, they regarded me with a kind of fond confusion. I was sure it would get better in time. If I had managed to overcome my self-loathing, why wouldn''t other things improve? Eventually, the others woke up, or simply came outside, if they didn''t sleep. Mihai was the first, followed by Bianca, whom he offered to teleport back home. ''Thank you, but I think I''d rather meet my sisters alone. There are some things that can only be said between us. Besides,'' her eyes glinted with amusement at the solomonar. ''What would your wife say if she saw you alone with so many women?'' ''I dunno,'' he said. ''Ask to join in?'' Leaving them to their rich imaginations, I saw Alex sink into the ground, nodding good-bye at me. Andrei left without a word, which I was glad for. Neither of us had ever been good with words. At least now, I knew who I got it from. Standing up on the barn''s roof, arms and wings stretching and cracking, Luci yawned. With a jaunty wave at me, he leapt into the sky, and was gone. Bianca and Mihai had left as well, so I was alone when the Fourfold appeared out of somewhere. ''Remember the offer, Mr. Silva,'' she said, walking to the gate. On some level, it vaguely annoyed me that she could somehow evade my senses when appearing, but chose to leave openly. No matter. I''d find out how she was doing it, sooner or later. ''What offer?'' I called after her when she was a dozen paces away, on the road. ''I though you weren''t an agent at the time?'' I both heard and felt her smile. Then, she was gone from my sight. I blinked, slowly, to make sure my eyes weren''t playing tricks on me. No. She hadn''t moved faster than I could see, or the ground would have been turned to dust as a side effect of the speed. This was something else. I shrugged. Women had to have their secrets, and all that. It wasn''t like we were close, either. I doubted anyone was, to her. What a miserable existence. I knew all about being an unnatural abomination, but at least I wasn''t alone, with three monsters from hell inside me, wary colleagues and paranoid superiors. I had my friends, and my father-my real father, no matter the fact that we didn''t share blood. And I knew I would never lose them. Cold Blood, Chapter 2
Five years later After I returned from the dead, I had to go through my papers. Both update the old ones, and get new ones. Which resulted in a series of annoying questions. Are you truly undead, Mr Silva? Why, of course not. All dead bodies get up for a stroll every now and then. Are you a strigoi? We must check if you can be harmed by such and such. To make sure you''re classified properly. Have you ever felt the desire to murder/and or rape people who wronged or annoyed you? Or just happened to be around you? How much lifeforce have you consumed up to this point, and how much do you feel the need to consume daily? None, and none. Until five years ago. So, lifeforce is sometimes confused with the soul itself, but that''s like saying steel is iron. Lifeforce-or mana, or chi, or what have you-is created by the synergy of the body, mind and soul. There are some exceptions, since trees have lifeforce but not minds, and golems rarely have all three, but generally, you have to be a living being to have it. To strigoi, consuming lifeforce is completely unnecessary, but also almost irresistible-especially if you do it once. It''s like only eating one chip. But I''m rambling. The point is, pops eventually convinced me to start doing it, in small doses. That tree is rotten, or that neighbour''s cow is dying. They''re going to die, anyway, so why not take advantage? And, I admit, it has a relaxing effect on me. Kind of like those flavoured cigarettes that totally don''t mess up your lungs. The greater power is nice, too. I imagine feeding on dying beings empowers me because of the symbolism, not the energy involved itself. After all, a dying cow-or a healthy one, or a herd-wouldn''t even register when talking about strigoi-scale strength. And yet, I''ve gone from being ripped open by Lucian during sparring to matching him. My reflexes have sharpened, to the point bullets now appear frozen in midair rather than merely slow. And my shapeshifting had grown more refined.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Before, I could only perform what the supernatural community calls ''broad'' shapeshifting, changing my whole body at once. Now, I can change individual limbs into mist, become a chimeric creature, or change my appearance without makeup. I was clean-shaven when I died, which made me look younger than I was, if not better. Pops has worn a chest-length beard for as long as I remember, but I''ve always shaved because it was easier than constant grooming. I''d have shaved my head, too, but I didn''t want to look like a featherless goose. Since I''ve started teaching again, I''ve worn a moustache. Personally, I think it makes me look more friendly(for which I need every edge I can get) but several of my students have told me I look like an undead porn actor. Which I guess is a compliment? As I walked down the high school hallway to my next class, I saw one of the janitors, Gheorghe Jianu. He was older than me, but younger than pops, though he also had more grey hair than my father. Work environment, probably. I waved in greeting as we approached each other. ''Keeping clean, man?'' I heard as much as felt his sigh. ''Yeah, Silva. Though I might puke if you keep talking.'' ''Aw, no need to be nervous around me,'' I was only half-joking. These days, I was doing my best to be as non-threatening as I could. You know that saying about there being no atheists in a foxhole? Well, the post-Shattering world is a trench network. People can get really pious when threatened. Gheorghe snorted as he passed me, dragging his trolley of cleaning supplies behind him. ''Because you''re so cuddly, right?'' The door to the classroom was locked. Like every door in the school, you had to stand in front of it for several seconds before you were confirmed as a student, teacher or other staff member. Too many things that could go wrong with shapeshifting outsiders. Though it got on the shifter students'' nerves, because they had to keep to one appearance. Supernatural world struggles. After a few seconds, the door opened, and a recorded voice announced that David Silva, parabiology teacher, had arrived to begin his class. Sounded like a really important guy, with the way the voice said it. I''d be nervous to meet him. ''Good day, class,'' I said as I walked inside and placed my bag on the desk. The class was already on their feet by the time the recording started. ''Good day, Mr Silva,'' Thirty more-or-less sleepy voices chorused in reply. I had the dubious honour of teaching the first two periods on Monday, which meant the children came from their weekend to be greeted my by grey mug. They were usually as enthused as they sounded. I understood how they felt. When I was their age-yes, yes, I was old enough to talk like that- I got really nervous each time I was called to the board, or the front of the class. Looking back, I''ve got no idea why. The worst thing that could have happened would be messing up, then getting sent back to your seat with a bad grade after being laughed at. When you were the teacher, you were always at the front of the class, always the center of atten-pfft. Sorry. Couldn''t finish that sentence with a straight face. I could''ve been the Devil incarnate, but I doubt I could keep some of these brats away from their phones. Twenty of the thirty students were human, seven of them mages. Their powers were weak enough they hadn''t been sent to a specialized school. Urziceni Central School was for general education, but so far, it was enough for them. Unless something happened to mark their psyches, and give them a burst of power. But the chances for that were slim to none. The other ten were split between different species (or maybe I should call them races, given most can breed with each other and with normal humans, but rarely with other species). We had three werewolves, a werebear, a set of iela triplets, two vamps and a zmeoaic?-a female zmeu. She was the oldest in class, nineteen, and always flirted with me. I think. I''m not really good at picking up on things like that. Well, she flirted with basically anything that could respond, and a few things that couldn''t. Imagine Lucian with more hormones and no experience in reeling them in. She had gotten used to her advances being rejected by my libido-less arse, but still kept at it. ''Today,'' I started, taking my laptop out of the bag. ''We are taking a break from the usual subjects, as we are going to watch a special documentary. The Mars Colonization Effort has begun, and they''re transmitting live. You might see a few relatives or friends on screen...'' Cold Blood, Chapter 3
After I turned my laptop on, I stepped back from it, leaning against a wall, so I could watch alongside my students. I was between the wall and the desk the vamps share. Call me biased, and yes, I am, but, out of all the classes I teach, I relate the most to them. Partly because we don''t have strigoi students-and I don''t think I could bear the thought of a child ending up like me-partly because we have few undead students, in general. Ghouls appear due to a variety of causes, but young people rarely become ghouls, and most of them are more interested in flesh than education. The proliferation of lab-grown meat has reduced their cannibalistic tendencies, but not the stigma against them. Ghosts are rarely coherent enough to participate in society. So, vampires. Eric and Bogdan weren''t brothers, but they might as well have been. Vampires remain the age they are turned at until they are destroyed, so being turned in your teens might not sound so bad, at first. But then, you think about it. You realise that your mind and body, while far more powerful and efficient, are never going to truly mature. That can be sobering, which is why most ''young'' vamps have mental issues. They''re also the most likely to form groups, if only so they have a shoulder to lean on. Their souls are gone, too. At least I''ve still got mine, though it''s bound tighter to my corpse than any human''s to their body, and so twisted most soul-eaters would rather starve than try to consume it. Eric and Bogdan have been friends since the fifties. After the Soviets stamped down on the supernatural threats in Eastern Europe, they established military bases in neighbouring countries, so they could watch over potential threats and put them down before they could escalate. And if that resulted in increased scrutiny in civilian life, well, no one ever said freedom is free. Romania was never part of the USSR, but our country was still filled with their watchmen. We had used "their" money to rebuild it, after all (the money had first come from the Americans, but they didn''t like talking about that)so it was only natural that we would allow them to patrol our lands, just in case something we couldn''t deal with appeared. The two got sick of that. They were both city boys, in a time when the term was synonymous with "rebellious intellectual", with no desire to enter the Party or the Security. So, they sought a way to escape the lives they saw as cages. They went to Castle Bran, where vampires from across the world are drawn by Dracula''s legend, and asked to be turned. They were spurned several times-vampires are weary of turning anything other than adult humans, especially since that Australian madman turned a blue whale that drowned Oceania in blood-so they tried something else. They cut their wrists, and throats, and laid down on the ground to bleed out. They knew a vamp would pass through, and, even if they didn''t turn them, and were merely tempted by the blood, they''d still die. Win-win, in their perspective. A vampire did pass through, eventually, and, after a moment of exasperation once it realised what they were trying to do, turned them to prevent them from bleeding out. Then, once they healed, she beat them to a pulp while screaming their ears off. What did they think the Communists would do if they learned people were turning to undeath to escape them? They were sent to the Canal-the Danube-Black Sea Canal, to be precise, but everyone called it the Canal-where superhuman, tireless workers were always sought and appreciated. In the eighties, when Eastern Europe began chafing under the Soviets'' ''helping hand'' they were among the first to jump in with the Revolutionaries. But they never finished their education. They were fifteen when turned, then spent several decades doing everything short of learning. When the supernatural was accepted, if not embraced, in the nineties, they tried being normal again. Or, well, as normal as they could be. Mind, I only spent time thinking about all that because it took a few moments for the signal from Mars to reach us. The screen showed a ridged, volcanic area, with steam raising from glowing pits in the ground. I recognized Olympus Mons in the background. ''Greetings from Mars!'' The speaker-announcer? host?- was a cheerful black woman, with a wide, white smile and cornrows visible through her transparent helmet. From the accent, she seemed to be from the southern US. Georgian, maybe. ''We are happy to announce the Mars Colonization Effort has begun. The Restoration Process ended years ago, but we are still watchful for any signs of Red Weed or Black Smoke.'' Typical for announcements nowadays. Start on a happy note, then remind everyone that they should still watch for dangers, even if-especially if-there appear to be none. There was no need to scare people, though, which was probably why the speaker was affable. ''Lame,'' Eric muttered. ''I wanted to see ''em fight a Tripod.'' ''Didn''t you have your fill of those when we ran from one?'' Bogdan replied. ''Bet I could take one now...'' ''Yeah, yeah...'' ''Hush,'' I whispered. ''They''re getting to the good part.'' The boys, both of them almost twice my age, nodded and stopped discussing. Two more figures, both naked, both sexless, appeared on the screen, next to the announcer. One was short and thin, its bulbous grey head barely reaching past her waist. Its big, black eyes didn''t blink, because they were lidless. The other figure was so tall the woman didn''t even come up to its elbow. Broad and scaled, I knew it was wearing this form to show it had nothing to hide. No reason to give the conspiracy theorists ammo. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ''Our alien allies are just as eager to explore our solar system as we are!'' the woman continued. ''We hope their experience in blazing trails across the stars will make this endeavor merely difficult, rather than daunting.'' The reptilian didn''t say anything, just nodded at the camera. The grey raised its three-fingered hand, trying to make a peace sign. ''Yes, Terrans.'' Its lipless mouth didn''t move, but there was no need. Its telepathy crossed the void between worlds at a significant fraction of lightspeed, and I knew everyone who was watching this was hearing the same worlds. ''You sheltered me in a moment of weakness. I would return the favour.'' Grey One''s flying saucer had crashed to Earth in 1947, and it was the only crewmember to survive. After the Americans dug it out of Roswell, they quarantined it for several years, to make sure it brough no alien diseases to our world. Grey One went along with it, because it was fascinated by our species and technology. It healed fast enough to be apt for fighting when the Martians came, and destroyed several of their war machines in a manoeuvre that also ruined its ship. Since then, it has remained on Earth, learning all it can until its fellows find it. The reptilian, I didn''t recognize. It didn''t introduce itself, either. Maybe it was uncomfortable? Going from the Earth''s core to Mars'' surface meant some serious temperature shift, and it was a testament to its toughness that it wore no environmental suit. Speaking of... ''This is a joint effort, made by the world''s governments and corporations alike,'' the announcer said, as thousands of more people, in suits similar to hers, filled the background in the camera, setting up prefabricated shelters and research stations. Terraforming vehicles, wheeled and flying alike, came after, racing across and over the volcanic landscape, seeds dropping from them like rain. ''Ordinarily, volcanic soil would be perfect from planting. However, the Martian environment means most plants cannot take root here. The potatoes and bamboo in the vehicles you see have been modified in labs, to thrive on the red planet.'' ''Bamboo? Did you bring some pandas too?'' the werebear, Alin, wondered out loud. His classmates snickered. I smirked. ''We are as safe as our crops-though for different reasons, obviously,'' the woman joked. ''As we speak, the atmosphere is being modified across Mars, and forests will be grown to accelerate the process. Our mages assure us that, in a few years, we will be able to walk this world as if it were home. Until then, the suits provided by Yamada Incorporated will have to suffice.'' ''Ah, and now a word from our sponsors,'' I said. ''See, children? Nothing is free in this world, or out of it, apparently.'' ''At least there weren''t ads before the transmission, teach,'' one of the werewolves said. ''If there were, I bet they''d have been unskippable, too,'' One of the iele chimed in. ''The Safesuit is environmentally-sealed, and has its own air supply,'' the woman said, gesturing at her torso. I bet the watchers were real interested in her air supply. I certainly was. ''Made from yamadium, it can withstand almost anything the wearer can expect.'' The image shifted to a testing montage. A yamadium string-because old Kenji just can''t resist naming things after his family-,thinner than a strand of hair, was stretched between two pillars. I doubted it was visible to normal people, for all that it was clear as day to me. A speeding freight train, dozens of cars, thousands of tons, came at the string, the rails shaking under it. And was stopped cold. The locomotive bent in half, and the train crumpled into a mess of cars, but the string barely bent. The image shifted again, the string stopping other things: a cargo plane trying to take off, a cargo ship, a naval artillery shell. It hardly bent, no matter what was thrown at it. I nodded approvingly, for all the glorified advertisement. I''d seen yamadium in action, because I''d been asked to test my strength against it, and was one of the few beings that could rip through it. Not that they didn''t have stronger stuff for use against strigoi or worse. Talk was that, in a few months, Safesuits would be distributed to firemen, cops and soldiers worldwide, which would even the gap between humans and hostile supernaturals. ''Well,'' the woman smiled after the montage ended. ''I think we''ve showed enough, yes? Time to get started.'' ''Yes,'' the reptilian spoke for the first time, and its voice was raspy, like scales slithering on leather. ''It is.'' And, without any warning, it ripped the woman in half. On the screen, Grey One stumbled away, shocked. In the classroom, everyone rose to their feet, screaming in outrage or horror. Cold Blood, Chapter 4
Most of my students were appalled, some were scared, but none were panicking. Good. That was good. Well, it wasn''t good at all, but not at bad as it could have been, either. They were regularly drilled and expected to deal with anything from a blood-starved vamp to a were during a full moon. "Everyone calm down!" I barked over the clamour. "I know this is shocking, but we are safe-" A low, tortured moan cut me off, because when is anyone ever safe after saying such things? Out loud, too. As I''d said, none of my mage students had really come into their powers yet. Currently, they peaked at making small objects fly or turn invisible. Carnival tricks, basically. Fate chose a wonderful moment to accelerate their growth. Of course. People can''t really be trained to deal with mages, because it''s almost impossible to know what you''re training against. There''s an old military joke about how the enemy can''t guess your plan if you don''t have any. Mages are like that. Because their power is only limited by their imagination and the amount of mana they have, a mage can do almost anything, like Mihai did while trying to help me deal with my withering body. And new mages? They didn''t know what they were going to do. Dammit. I had to stop them, before they harmed their classmates or themselves. But quickly, or things would only escalate. I drew on the power strigoi use to manipulate weather, tapping into a sliver of it. God willing, it was all I''d need. With an apologetic look at the human children, I drew most of the oxygen in the classroom towards and around me. The air thinned, like we were on a mountaintop. The humans fell to their knees, or against walls, trying to breathe normally. The mages, between the stress and the sudden change in the air, fainted, their eyes closing, the aetheric strands around them fading away into nothing. The rest of the students were fine. Weres and iele didn''t need air, and I had yet to hear of a zmeu choking. The vamps were looking expectantly at the fallen mages, ready to mesmerize them back to sleep if things looked like they were about to get hairy again. For a moment, we all just stood, getting our breath back-literally, in some cases. I quickly thought of checking the other classrooms, to see if there had been other incidents, but it seemed like I had one more problem to deal with first. Mia was slim and petite-by zmeu standards. Which meant I barely came up to the base of her neck, and was thinner than her. She usually looked so carefree and confident, especially when making her advances. Now, she was practically squatting, muscles twitching, almost curled into a ball. I speeded over to her, gesturing for everyone else to stand back, and listened. Her heartbeat was...normal. Steady and lizard-slow. Her breathing wasn''t strained. Her lifeforce didn''t feel out of the ordinary, either...so why did I have such a bad feeling about her? "You alright?" I asked quietly, going down on one knee beside her, putting one arm around her shoulders. Her tucked wings rubbed and scratched at my arm, ripping through my jacket sleeve like sandpaper. "Do you feel fine?" She raised her head to give me a strained smile, fangs clenched, eyes rimmed with tears. "Not...as fine as you, teach." I clicked my tongue in annoyance. "Cut the crap. It''s really not the moment to screw around-" "You think I''m fucking joking?" She hissed. "It''s like...like every goddamn urge I''ve ever had is hitting me at once..." "Don''t blaspheme." I told her, almost absent-mindedly. "What do you mean? What brought this on?" Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. It took her a few minutes to get herself under control, so she could speak clearly. She was shivering now, though, but not like she was cold. More like...she was having a seizure. "You ever stood at the edge of a building and though about jumping?" Mia asked, looking down at her desk, rather than me. The other students stood close by, ready to help, if needed, but watching the byplay, for now. Eric and Bogdan had rushed the unconscious mages to the infirmary, so they could be placed in the secure ward. "A few times." I replied. Before I actually killed myself. "It''s known as ''the call of the void'' to some people." I said, watching her carefully. "Was that...what you felt?" She nodded, finally looking at me. "That, and more...so much more. Look, Davi-sir. I talk shit all the time and mess around with people, alright? But I''m not dumb or impulsive enough to do everything I say, or think." "And what did you feel, exactly?" I asked, wishing for this to be over, so I could check my phone, see if similar incidents had happened in other parts of the country and world. I''d gotten several texts from my colleagues, describing similar situations they had, thank God, gotten under control. Even if a were teacher had needed to punch so many kindred students his silver knuckledusters had broken, driving shards into his fists. Strangely, all the students had been some kind of werereptile. Mia grinned at my question, but it was a dry smile. "I thought how great it would be to jump you right here, teach. Rip your clothes off and take you." Her eyes were half-lidded, but not with the earlier madness. Her usual humour seemed to have returned. "Did ?you feel anything similar?" "Oh, definitely." I deadpanned. "I feel such things all the time. You should see the holes in my ceiling at home." Mia snorted, and the rest of the class cracked smiles, some of the tension and apprehension left. In truth, I suppose she was attractive:fierce, spontaneous, friendly. Tall, athletic. Some guys were turned off by girls like her because they were completely flat, but to each their own. However, I, personally, had never felt attracted to her. Leaving aside the age difference, and the fact that I was her teacher, I could only appreciate people on a platonic, aesthetic level, nowadays. Ugh. Can''t believe I''ve gone full creep mode...damn this freak occurence, whatever it had been. "Did anyone else feel anything weird? The desire to do something they usually wouldn''t do?" I got a bunch of shaking heads and a chorus of ''nos''. I hadn''t felt anything, either. "Alright." I said. "Form a line. We''re going in the courtyard." The evacuation went smoothly, thanks to the drills. In a few minutes, buses and parents arrived to take the students home. The school would be searched, exorcised and blessed, just in case. When I returned home that night, after the first of many inspections the school would go through, I turned on the TV immediately. Every channel was showing news-breaking news;aren''t they always?- even the music and cartoon channels. I changed channels every few minutes, to see if what I was seeing was some hoax or attention-grab by a few isolated channels. It wasn''t. All of them, even the foreign ones, were showing the same thing. I even turned on the subtitles, to make sure I wouldn''t misunderstand anything. "Zmei gone mad? Bucharest under attack!" "Return of Fafnir, Munchen cut off-" "Taj Mahal toppled by naga! ARC response is-" "Sui-ryu levels Kyushu. JSDF attempts counterassault." Destruction, red in tooth and claw, and cold, cold-blooded. Cold Blood, Chapter 5
It was like every supernatural reptile had woken up and decided to confirm every nasty rumour and stereotype about them. Lowering the volume on the TV, I took out my phone and called Lucian. He took longer to answer than usual. The way he answered was unusual, too. ''Why?'' I blinked. ''Why what?'' I heard him grinding his fangs before he spoke again. ''Why did you call?'' ''Did you see the news?'' There was no need or time to beat around the bush. ''The one about almost every country getting fucked up? Good riddance.'' It took me several moments to find my words. Any that weren''t curses, I mean. ''What did you say?'' ''I said, good riddance to whoever did that.'' He sighed. ''Why did you call, David?'' ''Bucharest was or is being attacked by zmei. The only reason I haven''t gone to help yet is that I wanted to make sure my friend isn''t involved with that.'' A growl. ''You think I''d be stupid enough to admit that? No, what am I saying? Of course you do. Stupid Lucian, with his drinking and his whores and his jokes...but I''m not the moron who wondered about his parents for years while his real father was right under his nose.'' I blinked again at that, too shocked to even be angry. ''Where did that shit come from?'' ''I...'' He had the confused tone of someone who had said something they didn''t mean to. ''Where did that shit come from?'' I repeated. ''Since when do you go for the past like that? You''ve never been so vicious.'' No answer. ''Where are you now?'' I asked eventually. I needed to know if he was playing bouncer or bodyguard at the moment, or participating in a fight. When he answered, his voice had a kind of sarcastic amusement, nothing like his characteristic boisterous cheer. ''On the phone. With you.'' Despite myself, when he said "with you", I glanced around the living room, almost expecting to see Lucian in a corner, grinning madly, golden mace raised to smash me to a pulp. Not that it would have done anything permanent, with my healing. Still, I found myself laughing at the absurd thought. The zmeu was two and a half metres tall, wider than my fridge. No way he was hiding under the table or something. Bullshit like that only happened in bad horror movies, the kind that were getting made less and less often as the years went by. No one wanted another Springwood Slaughter. ''What''s so funny?'' The zmeu asked, drawing my attention back to the phone. ''Your joke. But seriously, where are you?'' A sigh. ''At Lucas'' place. The wimp doesn''t know his arse from his elbow, so I thought to come and have a look.'' There was a sound like heavy glass breaking, then Lucian grumbling. ''Luci, what did you just do?'' ''That was me,'' said a new, haughty voice. ''My hand slipped, along with the vase in it. So clumsy.'' ''Hey, Luc,'' I said. ''You alright there? Felt anything unusual recently?'' ''Oh, I couldn''t say. I don''t know my arse from my elbow, as you just heard,'' Lucian''s older brother sniffed. ''A zmeu came here earlier, before Lucian. Someone I didn''t know, bleating about how we had to join forces, overthrow the world order and take our rightful place at the top of the food chain.'' I heard Lucas roll his eyes, all six. They sounded like marbles on stone. ''Wait,'' I said. ''Let me just-'' After a few adjustments, I was looking at the inside of Lucas'' tattoo parlour. The zmeu in question was front and centre. Lucian was in the background, trying to clean up bloody, scaled clumps of...something. ''Damn, man. What did you do?'' Lucas, like his younger brother, wore his whiskers long. The silver moustache on each face was carefully-trimmed and waxed, arranged into curls towards the ends. He was smoking, a sure sign he was stressed. The left and right heads each had a cigar thicker than my thumb in their mouth. The middle head had two. Lucas made his own smokes, and I knew the stuff he was inhaling now would have killed a blue whale. ''Aggressive negotiation,'' the zmeu replied gruffly. ''I convinced him to die.'' Hah. Good for him...although, looking closer, he didn''t appear to have blood anywhere. Not on the deep blue scales covering most of his body, or the silver ones on his torso. His wings and the spiked crests on his heads were clean, too. ''I used the morningstar,'' he said, seeing the question in my eyes. With a nod of one head, he indicated the wall behind him, where a silver morningstar, with three chains and spiked heads, laid on a rack. ''No need to get my claws dirty. Damn bastard...hadn''t used that thing in decades. It will start asking for blood again.'' ''So, is everything alright there now?'' I asked, trying to ignore the implications. ''Are both of you feeling normal?'' ''All the gods together couldn''t make the brat normal,'' Lucas said, jabbing a thumb at Lucian, who flipped him off with one hand while using the other one to mop. ''But, yes. We''ll keep an eye on each other. I''ve sealed off the joint. No one coming or going until whatever the hell is going on ends.'' I nodded approvingly. ''Any sign of Aaron?'' At the mention of his older brother, Lucas grimaced. "He took a dump over the Palace of Parliament, if that''s what you''re asking. It was stopped by the forcefield, of course,'' he said. Lucian snickered. ''Funniest shit I''ve ever seen.'' ''Less jokes, more work!'' Lucas barked. ''Disappeared after, though. Probably came to his senses, dug under a mountain and is waiting for this mess to pass.'' ''That''s good,'' I said. ''A shame that you''ve already sealed yourselves off, though. Maybe you could have helped me with something...'' After I described my idea, Lucas pursed his lipless mouths. ''I wouldn''t try that, Silva. Even if I deactivated the wards and locks, I wouldn''t trust myself around a female right now.'' He smiled mirthlessly. ''The only reason I trust myself around my brother is because I only want to kill him. But I''ve wanted to do that several times over the years. I''m used to controlling myself, in that sense.'' ''Alright,'' I said with a frown. ''Thanks, anyway. Take care.'' After the call ended, I made another one. It yielded as many results as the first. ''What do you mean you''re in Banat?'' The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ''All combat-ready priests have been called to crisis areas,'' pops said, sounding as frustrated as I felt. ''Hell sees the world besieged and seizes its chance. Several demon have appeared on Earth, taking the form of lizards and snakes so as to avoid drawing attention, but I know their tricks. I''m sorry, my son. I can''t watch over her for you. But you have access to my house...'' ''No, no need,'' I said running a hand through my hair. ''Mine is just as protected. Thanks. Watch yourself, pops.'' ''God does, always. Goodbye, David.'' I looked down at the phone, annoyed. I had one more idea, but before that... ***** ''Teach, I''m real flattered that you''re so worried about me, but it''s fine, really. I can defend myself,'' Mia said, looking down at me as we walked from her home in the forest-far away from the iele, thank God- to my house. Well, I walked. She flew. ''I''m less worried about you and more worried about your surroundings. You''re the strongest student at school, and there''s no way of knowing what you could do if you lost control.'' Mia snorted a puff of flame, but didn''t let the praise distract her. ''There''s loads of other strong people at school. Some of ''em were affected, the same as me.'' ''But unlike you, they can''t slap mountains in half. They can be contained, if need be, but I need to keep an eye on you for a bit, until I find something sturdier than my house.'' I whispered the activation words as soon as we arrived, the wards Mihai crafted snapping into existence in and around the house. It was closer to the town''s centre than pops'', but that didn''t meant I was in less danger in case of a disaster. ''Pretty bare place,'' Mia muttered, looking around my living room. Besides the couch, table, TV and bookshelves, the room was empty. No china, no decorations, no posters. ''It''s so guests can have space for their stuff,'' I told her, dialing a number I''d honestly never expected to. The zmeu girl shrugged. ''I''ve only got what I''m wearing. You kinda rushed me, teach.'' Her baggy trousers and vest had holes for her tail and wings, but no pockets. Someone finally answered. It wasn''t what I expected. ''Hi, you are calling Faith Ranch! What service can we perform for you today?'' I blinked at the peppy voice. ''Uh...excuse me. I think I might have the wrong number.'' Or... "Are you the Fourfold''s...secretary? I need to talk to her.'' ''You ?are talking to us.'' The peppiness disappeared, replaced by a clipped, bland tone. ''How did you expect us to answer the phone?'' ''Definitely not like that,'' I admitted. ''Good cover though, the farmgirl impression. Bet it throws lots of people off.'' I wasn''t sure how to compliment an agent. ''It is not a cover,'' the Fourfold replied. "Or a fa?ade. Why did you call, Silva?'' ''I need your help. I''ve got someone with me who might lose control, and I''m not sure I''d be able to stop her.'' Without killing her, I thought. ''Where is the nearest ARC facility?'' ''ARC has operators for answering questions like that. The number is public.'' ''ARC also has its plate full, and is running around the world, putting out fires. I thought things might work faster if I called you.'' ''Using acquaintances, are you? You remind us of ourselves.'' I got the feeling that wasn''t a compliment. She gave me the coordinates for a meeting point, and told me to be ready in half an hour. ''The Fixer will come to escort you.'' And she hanged up. I''d never heard of this Fixer, but considering the way she''d said the nickname, she probably expected me to know them. Most ARC agents with nicknames were infamous. So, half an hour. We had nothing to pack, and could reach the meeting point in a skip and a hop, by our standards. I chose to use the time we had to check the news once more, see if anything had changed. Mostly, it hadn''t. Some attacks had been stopped, or at least contained. Siegfried had manifested in Germany, wielding Balmung and battling his old nemesis once more. Talking heads presented blurry pictures as evidence that Jormungandr had appeared around Norway, and that Apophis was rising in Egypt. Nonsense, of course. The various pantheons almost never allowed each other to manifest on Earth, and that extended to their enemies. If the old monsters really appeared, Thor and Ra would follow soon. It was debatable if that would be better, of course. I switched channels, Mia watching the TV with one eye and the window with the other, as if expecting the Fixer to appear and knock on it any moment. A Japanese news channel drew my attention. They usually broadcast nothing but trash-tabloids in visual form, basically-but what they were showing now was different. On the wall behind the host was a screen, showing Kenji Yamada, CEO of the corporation that bore his name. Over a hundred years old, Kenji looked in his late sixties, and was calm and composed as he fended off a crowd of angry reporters. The screen changed to show the Martian landscape, where Yamada security forces-the corp was one of the main sponsors of the mission, after all-were battling reptilians over the remains of terraforming vehicles and their crews. ''Yamada-san, this reporter has never thought you would be so shameless!'' The old man sighed, the scar tissue where his right eye had been crinkling. ''I''m sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Takada-san.'' ''Do not try to deflect.'' This was another reporter. ''The whole country knows you staged the reptilian "attack" on Mars so that you security thugs could swoop in and show off their abilities.'' ''That sounds farfetched, Umeda-san. Why would I do that, if I could?'' ''To show the world how safe everyone is under your "protection". We know you hire out your bullyboys as mercenaries all the time. We have proof! What better ways to gain new employers?'' Things deteriorated from there. ''Murderer!'' ''Jumped-up Yakuza!'' ''Usurper! Bring the Emperor back!'' The last didn''t even make sense, but such things rarely did. ''Huh,'' Mia said, glancing at the TV. ''Aren''t people from Japan supposed to be polite as hell or something?'' ''Things rarely are as they''re supposed to be, these days,'' I said, weary in mind, if not in body. Interlude: Fourfold
Faith Ranch, Arkansas 3rd of April, 1966 A girl is born. Her father had desired a son, though that desire shames him now. He hoped for a strong child who could help him around the ranch, for he is growing weaker as the years pass and the aches pile on. His daughter will never learn of that fact. 3rd of April, 1970 Christine is celebrating her fourth birthday today. This is the first time she celebrates it alone. It will not be the last. Her parents are out in the fields, having reckoned she''s old enough to handle herself. It is on this day that Christine asks God to never be alone again. In the decades to come, that will be the only prayer she will regret. 15th of September, 1973 Christine has only been going to school for a few days, and she is not sure she likes it. Everyone speaks so loudly, all the time. The teachers, the other kids, and they can''t be shut out. At home, she is used to going to her room and stuffing her fingers in her ears when her parents start arguing. Elijah has never hit Helen, nor has her mother ever done anything more than nag him until he started yelling. It is not difficult to anger Elijah Faith. He is not violent, not with his family, not physically, though his words often hurt more than his fists would, Christine thinks. Elijah is not a drunkard. When he drinks, it does not dull his senses. That suits him, for, whenever he is not working, he is searching around the house. Looking for "trinkets", which he calls things that either take up space or just annoy him. Sometimes, it seems everything Christine and her mother own are trinkets. Other times, he looks for money, taken from his wallet or pocket by his wife. She sometimes does that, when she thinks her or her daughter deserves something her husband is unwilling to pay for. Elijah does not hoard money-the family has never wanted for anything-but he balks at the thought of anyone in his house buying anything ''too expensive'', even if it''s out of their own money. The house gets very loud, on such occasions. 1977 "Now, I''ve nothin'' against them queers. You must get that through your skull, Chris," Elijah says, continuing to milk the cow. Christine must stand nearby on such occasions, in case her father needs to give or be given something. He curses so vilely, if she''s not... "They could do whatever they wanted, if this was a safe world. But it ain''t. Every story your mom tells you? Bet your hide she leaves the worst details out. We''re at war, Chris. We must all have as many children as we can, or else they''re gonna drown us in numbers." Chris-he calls her that, as if she were a boy, she muses- isn''t sure who ''they'' are at the moment. The Reds, the aliens, the supernaturals? Whoever, they must be formidable, given her pa''s insistence on the subject. "Now I get that not every lad likes girls or that every chick likes men, but really, it ain''t the time to for frills like that. I mean, I don''t like fish, but I eat if it''s served, y''know? We must do what we must do." "Is that why you keep trying to give me a sibling?" Chris asks, in some burst of boldness. Elijah is on his feet in a flash, stool knocked over, cow startled. He begins cursing. "Fucking dammit, girl," he finishes, after several minutes. "You got your moron of a mom''s mouth, you know that? I should''ve never showed you that fuckin'' room." Chris knows her parents tried to have children before her. Her birth only encouraged them. She is the first of them to live. The rest are in a room that can only be accessed from the attic, in jars. She''s seen the things floating in clear liquid, of various shapes and sizes. Some of them are-would have been-boys. None of them really look human, in her opinion. As her father gets back to milking, still cursing in his beard, Chris muses that, in a way, it''s good that she was born a girl. If she were a boy, she''d have been named Christian Faith. The thought makes her laugh. 1983 The hanged man seems so small, so withered, swinging in the wind. Almost doesn''t look real, Chris thinks. More like those mannequins she''s seen in shop windows in the big cities. Hanging is not necessary anymore, not really. Other things-chemicals and injections and spells-could kill a man dead, just the same. But a man must be hanged, for the thing that follows. The man in black looks bored and serious, like he cuts off the hands of dead men every day. And perhaps he does, for all Chris knows. The hand will me reshaped and enchanted, until it will become able to open any door. Chris isn''t sure if that is glorious, despite the name it will receive. "Remember this, little me," Helen tells her as the gawkers start to leave the square. The portly woman is shorter than her gangly daughter now-muscles under fat, next to knobby knees and elbows. "Anyone who departs the world in such a way almost always deserves it, as well as what comes after. His soul will burn, forever." Chris doesn''t feel that is fair. How can an eternity of pain be the proper punishment for a life of crime, however heinous? Human lives are not infinite. There are only so many sins one can commit. She resolves to do something about that. 1989 The Reds are running around like headless chickens, and the world at large is going through a time of confusion. In the years to come, she will laugh to herself about finding Xelkhe on such an occasion. The demon-though it does not look like one, or she would not approach it- is lurching in the middle of the road, as if drunk. In Hell, it used to amuse its betters with its tricks and illusions, until it made the mistake to become boring. Before it was thrown out, it was subjected to such things that fear will never leave it now. It wants to hide itself, as much as possible, but it is too broken for that. It still disguises itself, so that when the mortal girl, so full of certainty and altruism, approaches it, she reaches out. It grasps her hand, and dives deep into her being, glad to be hidden in this small way, at least. 1995 The Twofold joined ARC six years ago, out of necessity. The local priest failed to exorcise the hellspawn inside her, only driving it deeper, so she turned to the world''s shield against the unnatural. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ARC was founded twelve years before her birth, funded and staffed by people from almost every country. The organization that would become the Global Gathering laid the foundation, though it never watched the growth. Not carefully enough, at least. Such a powerful organization, unbound by ties to any country and with so many deeds to its name-both heroic and horrific-would not be allowed to exist otherwise. The Twofold''s current mission has her braving the plains and woods of southern Romania, looking for a demon that cannot be exorcised. Ylvhem forced its way out of Hell like a bull through a rotten stable door, and cannot be harmed by esoteric means. Spells, prayers and exorcisms patter harmlessly against its knotted hide. The demon, rhino-sized and with no skin over monstrous muscles, six-legged and eyeless-its head is all mouth, full of fist-sized fangs- can only be hurt by brute force. The Twofold doesn''t not have enough of that, which is why her guide-and liaison to the Ronanian Orthodox Church-is along for the ride. "Ready for another go?" she asks, breathless from the exertion. Constantin Silva nods, blood dripping off his knuckles. "Of course." 2001 The Threefold has not thought about their-her-country in years. She knows it exists, and has been on many mission in many of its States, but her patriotism-if it has ever existed-is dead. Still, the attempt to destroy the Three Towers is enough to dredge up a sliver of shock from her heart. She contemplates that, as she waits for her sometimes-partners, sometimes-watchdogs to arrive in the briefing room. None of them are from her division, though she is closer to them than to any of her colleagues. Like calls to like, and they were all broken things, in their own ways. The Handyman-and she expects him to burst new appendages the moment she looks at him- does not enter the room. He is suddenly in a chair, as if someone has taken off a sheet to reveal him. His form shifts, though that is a lie-its form is as eternal as the things it shares a realm with, and it is only its extension into mundane reality that changes, fractions of the true entity coming and going. He looks at her, and raises three hands to wave. She sighs. There it is. Hex and Nacht come next, indistinct as a shadow at midnight-whose power is in effect is debatable. Hex''s white longcoat and wide-brimmed slouch hat almost manage to hide his old Thule tattoos and the stitches at his joints and lips. He moves his face-eyeless, white as chalk-in her direction, and nods. The mundane agencies-there are few of those, nowadays-were not alone in snapping up Nazi thinkers after the Shattering. A supernatural Operation Paperclip started in 1945, and never truly stopped. Nacht is wound around Hex like a living shroud, a black shape showing hunting wolves and murders in the shadows and bodies dumped into ditches. Every horror of the night it''s named after. People have good reason to fear the dark. "Aaaahhhh," Nacht says, twisting in her direction, form briefly lit up by an inner lightning strike. A grin shaped out of a storm crosses its false face. "All three. Good, good. I was worried we wouldn''t have enough...fodder." The thing chuckles to itself, then turns its attention to the man (so to speak) it is bound to-or, perhaps, it is the other way around. It speaks, and he answers in ways that have nothing to do with language. "We can begin the briefing now. We will be team leaders for the duration of-" "We?" Typical of the Handyman to cut them off, and so soon after the start, too. "So, it''s...joint command? Or what?" The Threefold blinks, then frowns. "We...I mean, forgive me. I was talking about myself. I will command." Nacht starts laughing. 2003 Zhannar has been with them for two years now, and it is finally starting to feel normal. The demon can see the weak points of anyone or anything, and it used that to great effect in its realm of origin. Until it angered something it shouldn''t have, and barely escaped whole. It came to America in a moment of weakness, for demons are enamored with such symbolism. Whenever it is not focusing its attention on a given task, it tries to escape the bindings that tie it to the other three, or mocks them. Xelkhe weeps at the cruelty. Ylvhem rages. Chris takes it in stride. You still haven''t told me your purpose, hellbound. Zhannar refuses to call her ''human''. It is fine by her. In a way, it''s even correct. The other two know, have known, for years. She supposes it is its turn. She tells it of her opinion on Hell, explains how no sinner deserves endless torment, for no one can do enough to warrant that. She confesses that she hopes to gather more demons, bolster her strength and, one day, take the Pit by storm, and rip the Devil off his throne. Make it a fairer place. Zhannar cannot hold back its laughter. 2022 Constantin lacking faith is not something they ever expected. And yet, the priest seems only halfway sure the bear''s son will make it through. They knew the moment he asked for help, his thoughts reaching them through an old bond. Luckily, they were free at the time. The four stand still as the priest paces, detailing his plan to save the strigoi if the other attempts fail. They know what they will have to do, if such a thing happens. Christine hopes it won''t be necessary. 2027 The world is drowning in blood-hot and cold alike. Christine would have never expected something so random-why only beings similar to reptiles, or their kin? Xelkhe is sure that this is a plot by the Serpent, to prove his endless cruelty. But most things are, according to the lie-weaver. David contacts them, telling them about their pupil. Their human side confused him, much to her disappointment. Let him speak to them all, then. He describes his plight, the mad pupil he has chosen to watch over, and asks for their help-and protection, by implication. But they are far away, prowling America and putting down old, cold monsters. They will send someone else. It will have to be enough. Cold Blood, Chapter 6
Yamada''s interview-lynching attempt?-didn''t last much longer, so I switched channels. Mia and I sat in silence; usual, in my case, extremely odd in hers. I half expected her to try and bring the house down any moment, or something equally ridiculous. It got awkward enough that I almost asked if she wanted me to show her around the house. My inner introvert shrieked in outrage. Luckily, I was saved by the bell. Or, rather, the knock. It was a weird sound, like multiple people were somehow knocking on the window in the same spot at the same time. I turned, confused, and my eyes burst. Literally. I had never beheld such raw, eldritch power. My arcane sense almost turned itself inside out with how quickly it shut down to prevent further damage. The thing outside the window, the thing that had turned my eyes to jelly with its appearance alone, didn''t look like anything. I don''t mean in the sense that it wasn''t impressive. I mean it literally didn''t look like anything, or, at least, like nothing my mind could recognise. My eyes regenerated, and I blinked. The thing, whatever it was, still looked incomprehensible, but at least I wasn''t hurting myself looking at it anymore. ''Ah-Silva, right? I didn''t expect you to be so sensitive to the world beyond worlds,'' the thing said in an apologetic tone. ''What the fuck are you?'' I asked, sitting up and ready to punch it back up Azathoth''s arsehole, or wherever the hell it had crawled from. ''Whoa, you''re cool,'' Mia said, looking straight at it, and apparently unaffected. This thing was either tailor-made for fucking up undead, or just people with more than five senses. ''Aw, thanks!'' it said brightly, and I got the sensation that it was smiling. ''She''s as calm as she will be after this, Silva. I know. I''ve already lived that moment.'' ''Are you a time-traveler?'' I asked, unsure if it was bullshitting me or not. It had nothing of what I usually used to spot lies said by beings, living or otherwise. ''How can I travel something that doesn''t exist?'' Something like an eye briefly appeared in the centre of that shapeless, colourless mass, narrowing in confusion. Then, suddenly, we were outside. I looked around, to make sure I wasn''t being bamboozled by its power or something, but every sense and instinct I had told me we were on the road outside my house. They just couldn''t tell me how that happened. This also meant that either my wards were useless, or... ''See? The only reason things appear separate is perception. Case in point...'' it gestured at the house with some sort of appendage. ''Well, now that''s fixed, let''s get on with this great mess, eh chaps?'' ''Very British.'' I couldn''t help myself. It was what I did in absurd moments. ''You almost sound human.'' ''Aw, thank you! So do you!'' it nodded to itself, seemingly satisfied with the backhanded compliment, then became still. ''Ah! I haven''t introduced myself, have I? Cripes...I''m the Fixer! Fifi told me to come get you and the girl, David.''The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. I didn''t like the way it just switched to my name, but that wasn''t what caught my attention. ''Who the hell is Fifi?'' ''Mmmhmm? Aw, but you five aren''t close at all, are you? Fifi is the Fourfold! Get it? FF, Fifi? It''s not that complicated, Dave my boy.'' ''Dave.'' I could practically hear Mia smiling behind me. ''Can I call you Dave, too?'' ''No.'' Then, more quietly, to the Fixer. ''Stop giving her ideas.'' ''But of course!'' It was smiling too now, shaped like a human, if without details. ''I give you my word, and that''s a mighty thing, see? I always keep it. In Dunwich, it was the only thing I could keep. Oooh! I must tell you ''bout the dune witch that came to Dunwich! We have a song about her, wanna hear it?'' Before either of us could answer, it pulled a guitar from somewhere and started torturing it. I had no idea what the hell it was singing, only that it wasn''t in English. ''Oi, that''s a mean thought, mate! Don''t knock the accent, it knocks back!'' ''Stay the fuck out of my head,'' I growled as we followed it on the path to the outskirts. ''How the hell are you an ARC agent?'' ''Eh,'' it shrugged. ''They''re more scared of me if I''m behind them than on the enemy''s side. Makes them less likely to do something dumb, see?'' ''If you say so,'' I conceded. ''Are you from the Dunwich in...'' I didn''t want to say Lovecraft Country. It might get offended. ''Miskatonic county?'' ''Aw, ''course not, old bean. I''m from the other Dunwich, see? On this side of the pond. Though...'' it seemed to draw the light around itself. ''I studied at Miskatonic for a day.'' ''A day? What, did you get scared?'' Mia asked, then seemed to remember what she was talking to. ''Uh, not that I''m dissing you. I''ve heard there''s lots of spooky shit in that place.'' ''Ah, nah, nothin'' like that. I got kicked out-well, begged to leave- because I was a bit too extreme for the faculty, see? Might''ve also exposed a few infamous mommies and daddies...'' the Fixer snickered to itself. ''Honestly, some family trees are more like flytraps! Just waiting for some poor fool to drop in...well, they choked on me. Some things aren''t used to getting bitten back.'' After that, we walked in silence. I didn''t want to give the Fixer more stuff to talk about. It seemed to find subjects by itself. We didn''t have to worry, though, according to it: its presence warped reality around us, so the multiverse itself would have a hard time finding us if it tried. Its words, not mine. It had many other words, too. ''But they didn''t wanna go to the hospital! How else did they expect to stop looking like a Deep One had shagged a centipede? Honestly, they even hated the name. Dagoff, because it gets rid of what Dagon put inside you! Get it?'' ''And she said "The Bloop is the call of my master!", then rattled off the whole "praise Cthulhu" spiel. Bah! The walking sushi pile might make many things, but sounds aren''t among them.'' ''Am I the only one annoyed that Shub-Niggurath, the being with the most spawn in the Mythos, is knows as the Black Goat? Ol'' HP wasn''t exactly known for subtlety, even in his day, but did he really gotta say the Promiscuous One is black? Really now, I know Shub, and it''s nothing like that.'' ''You know the Black Goat,'' Mia said. It wasn''t a question, more like a statement of blunt disbelief. ''Nnnnh...yeah, but that''s a dumb name, like I said. Worse, some of its spawn have learned the nickname and started making themselves look like farm animals when they come to Earth. We''ll end up with the Calamitous Chicken of Kentucky at this rate.'' ''Farm animals?'' I started. ''Like-'' ''Welp!'' the Fixer cut me off. We''d arrived at the outskirts. ''Yeah, yeah, you''ve gotten used to me by now, ah, so to speak. We can take the shortcut!'' And an instant later, we were in the middle of some sort of hall, stretching away for as far as I could see. The white walls looked solid and thick, and the ARC symbol- a black shield with an arc above it(because alphabet agencies are addicted to puns, as we all know)- was plastered on every surface. ''Forgive the abrupt skip an'' hop, guv''nor!'' The Fixer was suddenly in my face. ''But I really can''t let you see how to get in and out of our bases right now...information is important, and all that. What if you get mangled by a dragon with holy gear and start babbling, eh? We can''t have that.'' ''Didn''t you say you already know how this ends?'' I frowned. ''Or was that just babble, like the rest of what you said tonight?'' ''Now, now, Dave,'' it said in a chiding tone. ''I can''t just very well spill stuff like that as I wish, alright? People, and things very much not-people, could and would get mighty offended.'' Cold Blood, Chapter 7
''Can I at least-'' I pushed the Fixer away, and it let itself be moved. ''Ask where the base is? Its general location, I mean.'' ''Why?'' it asked, sounding vaguely amused. I frowned in annoyance. ''Because, if you people fuck up and Earth ends up under the rule of the Scaled Reich, cold may be their blood, I want to know where the hell I am, so I know in which direction to run!'' I said, then pointed at Mia. ''Is this whole hall supposed to be her holding cell? It looks sturdy enough, I suppose, but...'' But she doesn''t have an undead''s mental fortitude, to not go mad from boredom. Who knows how long this will last? And that''s without counting the actual madness she''s already suffering from...dammit. ''But it looks pretty bare,'' I finished lamely. The Fixer nodded approvingly. ''Right answer. And, to answer your question, this is the Antichamber-as in, anti-anything-that-would-attempt-to-interfere-with-it-and-its-occupants!'' It smiled broadly. ''Cripes, but that sounded much less like word vomit in my head...'' I bet most things did. ''I should really get better at talking...well, practice makes perfect!'' It turned and left. Trying to ignore the idea of the Fixer talking more to"''get better at it", I turned to Mia. But, before I could get a word out, it called after me. ''Silva! Why aren''t you coming? The Antichamber''s gonna be filled with every supernatural scaly we can get our hands on-don''t worry, it expands to fit its contents. You have no reason to stay here, you''re not crazy. Violently so, I mean.'' This fucker was just in love with insulting people, wasn''t it? ''C''mon. There are people you don''t want to meet, but have to,'' it said as we exited the Antichamber. Yay, I thought, turning to wave at her, but not stopping. She waved back, shily, and it struck me how bizarre that looked for her. People her age shouldn''t have reasons to be afraid. She shouldn''t have to be like me at her age. ''Do I know these people?'' I asked as we walked-well, I walked, I don''t know what it did- towards a blank, white horizon. It didn''t seem to be getting any closer, though I felt like I was moving, but, just as the Fixer answered me, a thin black line appeared from thin air, then expanded to become a door. It opened, revealing more white behind it. I couldn''t tell whether it led somewhere else, or if we were still in the same room, and the door opened into nothing. ''Well, of course! How else could you dislike them? Your father is here.'' I almost got whiplash from the non sequitur. ''Pops returned from Banat? When? Did you guys call him here?'' ''Ah...'' For the first time since I''d met it, the Fixer sounded sheepish. I wasn''t sure whether I liked it more than its usual stupid exuberance, or if it fucking terrified me. ''Your gene donor, then? That''s what children who hate their parents call them these days, I think.'' Scratch both. I was pissed. ''And why is Dravich here?'' I asked tersely as we passed through the black door and into a corridor with grey, metallic walls. I haven''t seen monochrome like this since I last looked in the mirror. I was going to barf. ''Because, as a citizen of Romania and inhabitant of Earth, he''s entitled to the protection me and my colleagues offer,'' the Fixer replied, all levity gone from its voice. ''You think we don''t put people who can''t stand each other together? You don''t even wish him ill, not really-or you''d have brought that silver you promised, any time you met him in the last fi-'' ''Stay out of my damn head!'' I snarled, fists clenched, claws out. ''I know you don''t understand intimacy-you''d have to be a person for that-but if you want a little mindfuck, go chat up your eldritch buddies in the Outer Void or wherever.'' I grinned sardonically. ''My mind is one of the few things I truly own. Stay the hell away from it.'' Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. For a long moment, it didn''t say anything. Then, it turned away. ''You don''t know a thing about me, Silva. I''d hope you''ll never learn, but I know what will happen.'' It waved an appendage, and another door, at the far end of the corridor, opened. ''That''s one of the safe rooms. Stay there until called upon.'' ''Until? Not unless?'' It scoffed. "As you say." And it was gone. I haven''t mentioned it, but ARC corridors are fairly long-the door was over forty metres away from me. Sure, I could cover that in a hundredth of a heartbeat, but I didn''t want to turn whatever metal they were using to glowing slag. Still, I made fairly good time, even at a mildly superhuman pace. The door closed after me, probably waiting for the next civilian accompanied by staff, and I was in the breach, as they say. The room was much bigger than I''d expected-it looked like it could fit everyone in Bucharest, with space for the people from the surrounding cities. It wasn''t even half-full at the moment, though. Not because the evacuation would take time, not with so many mages in the country, but because-I believed- ARC wouldn''t want to put all their eggs in one basket. Most of the civilians were human, of course, with assorted supernaturals forming clumps and cliques among but separate from them. In one corner, I spotted Bianca and her sisters, though she was standing pretty far from them. The iela smiled briefly at me, then went back to muttering a song alongside her sisters. They were calming down the people in earshot, I suppose, though it didn''t have any effect on me. I''d have liked to think it was because I was a gloomy bastard, not a strigoi. Mihai and his family-Adriana, Nina, Nela- were fairly close to the iele, Bianca in particular. Adi was sitting down on the floor, the sleeping girls in her lap and her long, curly brown hair in disarray. They must''ve been hustled out of the house. It would have explained Mihai''s annoyed expression and twitching hands-not struggling to hold back a spell, thankfully. Just a nervous tic. The mage spotted me and nodded curtly, then went back to watching his daughters. There were other mages scattered across the room, in what I suspected were symbolic patterns meant to bolster their powers in case they needed to jump into action briefly. None of them wore ARC uniforms, and I doubt they were all agents, but they were clearly trained. They were not the only line of defence in the room. Roman Legionaries and Dacian warriors, translucent flags and wolf heads on poles swaying in the nonexistent wind, lined the walls, the badge of ARC''s Crypt division-called the Corpse Corps, but never to their faces- glowing green above ghostly shoulders. The ghosts watched everyone with unblinking eyes, reporting anything of interest to their superiors, when they weren''t bickering with each other. Two Romans, who had died some centuries apart, were splitting hairs over religion. Probably to avoid splitting heads. ''Christians! When did you crawl out of the gutters, and why didn''t we throw you back'' ''Watch your pagan mouth. God knows His people have suffered enough. Do not mock our pain.'' ''Or what, cross-fondler? Are you going to kill me?'' Well, at least I believed that''s what they were saying. It had been decades since my last Latin class. Alex was floating next to Andrei, who was sitting down on a carpet, in the middle of a Romani family, mangling some old song on a guitar. The children thought it was hilarious. I sneered in disgust. So good that he loves children, but not his own. Bless his soul. I could barely wait to ride out this disaster with him in my sight. I wonder if the Corpse Corps is hiring? Strigoi, forty-five years old, probably has anger issues, will act violently for money or good reasons. Cold Blood, Chapter 8
''This is unprecedented,'' the ARC agent began as soon as he stepped onto the podium at the front of the room. The guy was the sort you''d lose sight of in a crowd as soon as you took your eyes off him. I guess it was useful for infiltration. ''Not in scale, if you will excuse the pun, but in nature. Never before has such a widespread, yet oddly concentrated disaster appeared in our world.'' Nothing we didn''t know, so far. Was this just a confirmation? Things still suck, please keep calm while we attempt to wrap up this mess? Well...it wasn''t like there was much I could do to help, really. For all my power, I had neither the training nor the authority to use it. ''We will provide updates whenever possible,'' the agent continued, a section of the wall behind him sliding away to reveal a screen the size of a football field. The agent tried to smile reassuringly, but he didn''t have the face for it. ''You will be pleased to learn the situation in our country has stabilised! Most rogue zmei have allowed themselves to be restrained and taken into Antichambers, or were transported there after being neutralised.'' Let''s not talk about the ones who couldn''t be neutralised, eh? No reason to scare the people more. There were enough nightmares outside without some more becoming real too. ''We must give thanks to Aaron, retired Admiral of the Romanian Navy. The Bronze Boyar, as he is affectionately referred to as by his former subordinates, many of whom he convinced to go along with the...'' And now he was reciting Aaron''s service history. Well, at least this way, nobody would get bored or distracted. There were sixty years of stories to tell, and most people loved Aaron, in that distant way you love pulp characters, except you could actually go and meet him, if he wasn''t being cantankerous. I had a feeling the old, grizzled people in the hall who stood at attention, necks stiff, had served under or fought alongside the old zmeu. And the younger ones had grown up with stories of him, like I had. ''Aaron himself is in the Antichamber as well. He agreed to come with us, though not without some coaxing. The Boyar had buried himself under the Eastern Carpathians, and the mountains were too scared to move. It took us a while to dig him out...'' Well, seemed Lucas was right. I wondered if the mountains had gotten over it. ''As for the global situation, I will not lie and tell you things have gotten better. While we have contained the most violent incidents, with help from local militaries and paranormal agencies, the supernaturals themselves have reacted poorly.'' ''What, they start trying to fuck up the world and get mad when someone puts a stop to that? Screw them.'' That was Mihai, muttering under his breath some hundred metres to my left. I didn''t want to get too close to the Codrea family. The girls were light sleepers at the best of times. They didn''t need me walking around. I resorted to floating above the floor whenever I babysat them. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. ''Speak louder, please. The twins haven''t learned to cuss yet and could use your example,'' Adriana hissed. ''Sorry, dear.'' ''Mhmm. I don''t know how they can sleep here, but good for them. Let''s make sure they stay asleep.'' ''...Would this be a bad time to mention the spell?'' ''Spell? You-'' Welp. Hope he had a spell for getting out of that, too. I glanced again at the ghost and the werebear, but turned away when Alex looks at me and started smiling-guiltily? Apologetically? I turned away, and walked towards a wall, or, rather, the Legionaries standing at attention in front of it. One of them glared at me from the corner of his eye, then realised I was a strigoi. ''Ave. Anything you need?'' The guy, a head shorter than me and transparent, looked like he was wondering whether I was about to eat his ectoplasm or tear it apart. ''Yes. Does the Crypt accept volunteers?'' He gave me a confused look. ''This room is under control, as you can see. I suppose you could look around for anything suspicious and tell us...'' Gosh, I''d always wanted to be an informant! Too bad the commies got shafted while I was in grade school. ''That''s not what I meant. They may have taken care of things on Earth,'' I gestured at the agent, who''d turned into an impromptu announcer, commenting as the screen showed footage from the remaining crisis areas. Japanese construction teams, vehicles overclocked by the yokai inside them, attempting to rebuilt Kyushu, though the island was wracked by unnatural tsunami. Indian mage-priests, meditating or walking around the Taj Mahal, rooting out Naga curses and stragglers. ''But there''s still Mars. Sure, it was supposed to be a colonisation mission-but it wouldn''t surprise me if the reptilians managed to somehow sneak weapons in. And they''re dangerous by themselves, anyway...and that''s not to mention the ones under our feet. It''s not like the whole Collective is offworld.'' By now, the Legionary''s fellows had come closer, to look me over suspiciously. ''What are you getting at, revenant?'' he asked. I looked over his lorica, for a name engraving or something similar, but- -Flavius Marcus- The name came to me unbidden. I must have had a strange expression, because the Legionary-Flavius-asked, ''Revenant? Can you hear us?'' ''It seems we are closer than we thought,'' I said by way of apology, smiling. In truth, I wasn''t sure what had happened. Strigoi were kin to ghosts, in a way, and some summoned them, intentionally or otherwise, but I''d never heard of this...awareness of the dead. I''d have to look through the old stories, maybe ask pops once this mess was over. ''As you say...'' Flavius started uncertainly. ''Was there anything else you needed, revenant?'' ''No, thank you. That will be all, Legionary,'' I lied. Cold Blood, Chapter 9
It took weeks before any of the world''s major powers could agree on what to do. The Russians were sure this was all a setup created by Chernobog, in revenge for not being worshipped anymore. The Americans were being given the hairy eyeball for having gotten off easy, relatively speaking. There were few supernatural reptiles in the States, so the major losses, in terms of lives and gear, had come from lending aid beyond their borders (which, of course, resulted in some lovely comparisons with World War Two). China was currently seen as ineffectual, much to their annoyed blustering, after a failed attempt to calm down a maddened dragon by praying to it. It wasn''t their fault, they said. Dragons had always been revered in their country, and responded favourably to human pleas. Everyone else was watching from the sidelines and commenting, passing popcorn and money to each other. Waiting for one of the big guys to say or do something embarrassing. It was the middle of October when a decision was made. The leaders of the Global Gathering met in Greenland, the island having been seen as neutral ground for decades, due to its location, sparse population and lack of ties to any country. There would be a joint military effort to crack open the Reptilian Collective''s defences, they said-most of the reptilians had entered their hidden cities and closed the doors behind them at the start of this mess. Despite repeated demands to open up and give reparations, or at least explanations, nothing had happened. So, if they wouldn''t come to us, we''d go to them. The plan hinged on mages, mainly. They could teleport people and vehicles to any location they were aware of, convert their mana into food and reshape terrain at a whim, making logistics almost laughably simple and removing the need to dig to the Earth''s core. The mages would take the assembled forces deep into the Collective''s domain, provided the reptilians didn''t have defences against teleportation, and they would take things from there. Most of the supernaturals in quarantine, for lack of a better term, had gotten used to the routine, to the random bouts of madness, much to their families and friends'' dismay. They hoped something would change, so that they could be let out, but they weren''t betting on it. But there was also the matter of Mars-and with the way people used this phrase on the news, I think "matter" deserved to be capitalised. Basically, the reptilian representatives, workers and security forces had slaughtered a large portion of the Martian expedition, then dug in around Olympus Mons, and they weren''t eager to leave. They had indeed concealed weapons, confirming my theory, though not in the way I''d expected. I''d been thinking of personal subspace pockets and the like, but the weapons had been surgically, ah, introduced into their bodies, so that they were indistinguishable from organs, turning them into scaled cyborgs with attitude problems. And that was where I came in. Well, I and people like me. The taskforce that would be sent to Mars consisted mostly of undead, their minders (in the case of voodoo priests and their zombies, as well as other necromancers) a few ARC agents and military officers from their countries as "liaisons" (handlers), and, of course, the camera drones. People needed to see a triumph, se we had to get rid of the gloom that had enveloped the planet before it turned into something else. After I talked with Flavius Marcus, the Legionary passed my question to his own superior. I was tentatively accepted as a civilian consultant, though I could become a Crypt agent once I finished the training course, which mostly consisted of what not to do in public. Sure, I learned to fight more efficiently and focus my powers, but as a strigoi, my mind was unnaturally-inclined towards violence and worked much faster than a human''s, so that took far less than the PR fest. As for why undead had been chosen? Well, the answers varied, depending who you asked. Most politicians said that the rest of the forces were already committed to either peacekeeping or assaulting the Collective, so we were sent (so glad to be seen as the shit scraped from the bottom of the barrel). Other people said we were sent, because, as Kenshiro would have said, we were already dead, so nobody would miss us if things went pear-shaped. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. There were also those who said our existence was an affront to the world, and mankind was sending us away to be rid of us. It sounded disturbingly close to what I would have said five years ago. We met in Greenland too, of course, on one of the many mountain-surrounded plains. Mages were waiting to teleport us to the Red Planet-those of us that could be teleported, that is. Their spells would just slip off me like water off a duck''s back, but...I had an idea for an alternative. Being unable to see their faces after I did it would be a shame, but... We had zombies and ghouls and draugr, roused when a dragon had tried to plunder the tombs of Norwegian nobles. We had more Japanese undead than you could shake a naginata at, and even a lich from Australia, though he mostly kept to himself. I didn''t know his name yet. The leader of our merry fellowship was a colonel of the Israeli ghoul force, who didn''t give his name for security reasons, instead introducing himself as "colonel". He was hunched and wiry in his unkempt uniform, but I knew that pale, ragged body housed the strength to rip through tanks and trains. While the colonel briefed us once more on the mission''s details and objectives-capture and restrain the reptilians if they surrender, use lethal force if they don''t- I walked towards the lich, who turned his skull-like head, green flames blazing in empty eye sockets, to look at me as I approached. I took one look at the robes, the headdress, the staff with carved snakes wrapped around it, and couldn''t help but grin. It was niche, sure, but that was why I always loved to find another fan. Unfortunately, I''m shit at expressing my emotions, so he took my grin the wrong way. ''So I like fantasy, ''he rasped. ''If you''re going to talk shit, bite me.'' ''Sorry, not a vamp. But seriously, I like Warhammer too. Though I''m not sure whether Nagash would be flattered that you''re using his image, or offended for the same reason.'' The lich snorted. His face didn''t, or couldn''t change expression, but he sounded amused. ''Probably both. I don''t always dress as him, mind. You''d be surprised what cosplays you can pull off when you look like this.'' ''I know what you mean. There was this undead guy at London Comic Con two years ago, pulled off Arthas perfectly. And there was a great Skeletor a year before that.'' ''...That was me. Both times.'' ''Ah! Sorry, didn''t know. I only saw you from a distance, you know. So...'' Written supernatural fiction has suffered since the Shattering, but games and shows have been mildly successful, if niche. That''s why you always should talked with a fellow enthusiast when you met one. ''So, you can''t be teleported either?'' I asked conversationally as we watched a group of draugr vanished in a flash of white-blue light. The lich shook his head. ''Not by others. Too many wards, on top of passive resistance. I''m going to teleport myself. You?'' ''Oh, I''ll jump.'' ''...To Mars.'' ''Don''t be absurd,'' I flashed him a smirk, and turned away, legs tensing. The departure area had been warded and covered in forcefields, in case anything went wrong. It would contain the side effects. I cleared the atmosphere quickly, though it took me a few minutes to reach the moon from the exosphere''s edge. Thank God strigoi don''t need air to fly, or I''d have gotten stuck floating like an idiot. Sure, I could have jumped much farther, but needed landmarks. So, reach the exosphere, follow the moon, find Mars. I could have just aimed straight for the Red Planet, but I''d have needed to stop and fly to it if I missed or miscalculated anyway. The flight to Mars took longer, but I busied myself with the reactions the people on the ground must have had to my jump. I could practically hear the lich rasp "fucking showoff." Cold Blood, Chapter 10
I touched down in sight of Olympus Mons (not that I was sure what it looked like; I just looked for the tallest mountain on the planet, thought that took a while). The other undead were gathered in rough squads, except the zombies, who naturally gravitated around their masters. The still-living necromancers had been issued with safesuits. We working stiffs didn''t need protection from the environment. I looked around for anyone I knew, and ended up with jackshit, as in most situations. I''d been hoping the lich had made it before me, but- Ah. I turned around at the shift in the aether. A pillar of darkness, filled with screaming skulls, parted like a curtain, revealing the lich. And they call me a showoff... ''Good time, Liam,'' the ghoul colonel said, his voice sounding even more eerie in the thin air. ''And thank you for the comm spell. This way, we won''t have to use sign language...again.'' He shot a meaningful look at another ghoul officer, who shrugged, grinning toothily. I had a feeling their unit was more concerned with results than discipline. ''Remember: only kill them if they try it first. We don''t want to spur the Collective into a war. The ARC personnel wil remain here, at the arrival point.'' To mark it, he stomped down with his reinforced boot, pulverising a bathtub-sized hole into the red soil. ''If we fail, or are overwhelmed, you are to return to Earth and seek reinforcements. Questions?'' The ARC mages and agents shook their heads, though I noticed the latter did it grudgingly. Maybe they''d hoped to keep a closer eye on us, but the colonel was in charge of this mission. ''We do not know the nature of their defences, but expect the worst. That way, you won''t be disappointed.'' Did I dare ask if he was joking? ''Good. Now-'' The ground burst apart under our feet. I jumped away just as it began shifting, and turned to mist in midair, letting the supersonic chunks launched by the reptilians'' entrance pass through me. I didn''t believe they could harm me, but... Liam the lich cursed as three reptilians seized him, clutching and ripping at his withered form with the strength to level small towns. Flaming eyes flashing, he raised his staff, even as a reptilian tried to wrench it from his grip. Then all three shuddered, their eyes rolled upwards, and they fell. Liam drew his robes around him, muttering a petty spell to sew the tears shut. The draugr brought axes and hammers down just as the reptilians burst from the ground, splitting heads with such force Olympus Mons shook on the horizon. The runes tattoed on their arms and throats glowed red at the kills, revelling in the spilled blood. Zombies drew around voodoo priests, defending them as their masters prepared battle spells. The dead men were turned to red mist dozens of times as the reptilians tried to get through them, but healed just as fast as they were destroyed, stalling them. Then, the priests held up wands and amulets surrounded by auras of black light, and the reptilians burst apart into dust, or turned into piles of bone, or simply flopped down onto the ground, bodies emptied of guts and life alike. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I glanced over at the ghouls, but they had already taken care of their attackers. Now, the colonel and his subordinate officers were beating the soldiers about the head and shoulders, to get them to stop eating the enemy. They''d have enough time for that when the mission was over, they promised. I looked down at the reptilian who''d tried to jump me, and saw it coming up at me, fire blazing around its body from the speed. The spot where it had jumped from was a steaming crater, the sides smooth and glassy. As it reached for my throat and eyes, claws extended, fanged mouth open and snarling, I jabbed two fingers through its eyes, and kept pushing until I felt something spongy and soft-in comparison with its scaled body, that is. Fingers scrabbling at its brain, I drew upon my power to shape weather. The bastard was still moving-the only thing my move had done was removing its sight-, still trying to beat me to a pulp. Grinning, I tapped into my power, and lightning danced around my hand, shaped into a spear by my will. I sent it deep into its brain, and received a claw swipe to the eyes in response. A clawed foot kicked me in the balls. I frowned. No respect for showmanship, I swear...I''d been hoping to end this scaly arsehole with a lightning spear, but ?no. I ripped my hand free of its skull, pulverising it, and returned its little favour. The reptilian didn''t have genitals of any kind, but that didn''t stop my kick from pasting its body. I watched the bloody mess fall to the ground. A ghoul who''d started laughing at the beginning of my fight with the reptilian was still in mid-laugh. The fight had only seemed long to me. I let myself fall, and zipped over to the colonel. His eyes flickered from my bloodied, loaned ARC uniform to the remains of my opponent, and he nodded approvingly. I was going to ask about the next step when Olympus Mons rumbled. You know those Bond movie scenes when the villain''s lair rises or opens, if it''s domed? It was like that. Roughly humanoid, reptilian-sized figures broke off from the mountain in their millions. It was like seeing the mountain shed a layer. The mountaintop split apart to reveal three figures. Not stone men, but reptilians, though unlike any I''d seen yet. One seemed to be an albino, white-scaled and pink-eyed, twice my height, a muscular tail covered in black spikes lashing at the air behind it. Its pink eyes zeroed in on me, and turned red. The second was an ordinary reptilian, in terms of size, but it was changing colour and fading out of reality like a glitch in a videogame. It smirked widely, showing needle teeth. In the middle was a hunched, pale green reptilian, barely a metre tall. I couldn''t see anything unusual, besides its tiny, unassuming appearance. It worried me the most. Cold Blood, Chapter 11
I didn''t see the albino move. It was only later that I learned it hadn''t. One moment, it was standing on the mountaintop with the other two weird reptilians-and thank God for my superhuman sight, or I couldn''t have seen them from the ground. At least this way, I saw where it was coming from, though I couldn''t tell how. There was no thunderclap, no flash of light, distorted air or bent space. One moment it was twenty-five kilometres above me, the next we were clashing. Fists larger than my head almost tore my arms in half as I blocked, elbows and forearms held together by ragged strands of flesh. The ground between us and the horizon turned to steam from the force, though-strangely-the mountain was untouched. In an instant, I was pushed down through the ground, clothes atomised, lava swirling around my knees. But my arms had healed, and I started pushing back. To little effect. The giant albino was stronger than me. Much stronger, in fact. My punches and kicks struck its body like pebbles hitting a wall, and every counterattack ripped chunks out of me. It shattered limbs, punched head-sized holes through my torso and beheaded me so many times, we were left standing in a lake of lava and bobbing strigoi heads. It was fucking unsettling. I looked like Ichabod Crane crossed with Dracula at the best of times, and the glassy eyes and crushed faces didn''t help. At least they were gone quickly. The albino crushed them under its heavy feet as we struggled back and forth. But I healed. Every time it tried to sweep my legs out from under me with kicks or tail swipes, I healed before I could lose balance. My torso regenerated just as it drew its arms back, briefly trapping it and allowing me to strike at its joints. Not that it was doing me any good. Whatever this bastard was made of, it was far tougher than anything I''d fought so far. It didn''t seem to be tiring, either. Looked like I''d have to get creative. I hoped everyone who''d survived had been thrown away by the shockwave, because I was going to cut loose. As it tried to clamp its jaws around my head, I turned into mist, and it bit nothing. A fun fact about my mist form: any part of it can become any part of my body. I surrounded it, formed the mist behind its head into a tensed arm, and struck at the base of its thick neck. It staggered, but more in surprise than pain, if I''d even hurt it. Its spiked tail came up at my arm, so I turned it back into mist, and formed a leg beneath it. I kicked upwards, lifting it off the ground, and formed my arms around its tail as it sought to regain its footing. I pushed another tendril of mist into its snarling mouth-I was annoying it, at least- and formed my fanged mouth around its snakelike tongue. The albino grunted in annoyance, and snapped its jaws shut, but I was mist again. I dispersed the body parts around it into mist, too, and tried a different angle. I tried to push the mist in its mouth deeper, into its throat and stomach, but couldn''t. It had no throat, only a sort of fleshy wall at the back of its mouth. Frowning mentally, I tried my idea anyway, and turned solid again. Friendly advice: if you want to phase through something, then turn solid again-or pull a similar move, like I was trying-be sure you''re tougher than whatever you''re phasing through. Otherwise, you''ll get crushed inside it, like I was. Instead of splattering its head and neck, my body was crushed into a compact mass against the walls of its mouth, which bulged slightly. The albino opened its mouth to spit me out, but I had another idea. Summoning lightning around me, I pushed its upwards, trying to reach its brain, if it even had any. Either its mouth was insulated, or it was just too tough, because it spat me out, lightning sparkling harmlessly in its mouth. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. I scowled. Seemed like there was no hurting this thing, not with brute force. Maybe I could put it in time out... As it spat out my pulped body, I healed, upside down, and kicked it in the chin with both feet. It wasn''t hurt, but the sheer force sent it flying upwards. Good. Now... Keeping my eyes on it, I whipped the air into a frenzy, enclosing the albino in a sphere of hurricane-force wind. No leverage, no way to use its strength-I hoped. Just to be sure, I created a larger sphere of lead-grey, impenetrable clouds around it, too. Raindrops like bullets and hailstones the size of fists battered the reptilian, punctuated by lightning strikes and thunderclaps that would have turned a human''s teeth to dust. And then, I briefly felt something appear behind me, and my head burst apart. I turned and jumped away as the albino tried to grab me. Damn it. I had hoped it couldn''t teleport, or whatever it was that it did, while its senses were obscured by my artificial storm. Maybe it just needed to visualise a place to teleport to it? But even so, it should have been distracted... Snarling, I leapt at it, wrapping my arms around its huge torso, and jumped. The city-sized lake of lava created by our clash turned into a geyser from the force of my jump. It tried to rip me apart, even as we cleared Mars'' atmosphere and passed Deimos and Phobos. I turned to mist again, and reformed with my feet against its chest, legs tensed. Growling silently, I kicked, and sent it flying through the vacuum like a rocket, towards the sun, until it was just a tiny dot set against the star''s glow. Finally, it disappeared from my sight. And reappeared behind me. For the second. Fucking. Time. Motherfucker just kept coming, and I hadn''t even hurt it. It threw its monstrous strength behind every blow, repeatedly pulverising my body. Even as I was turned to red mist and healed, I was thinking of what to do, and... God forgive me. It wasn''t dying, like the plants or animals I''d fed from in recent years. Hell, I wasn''t even sure it was a real being, rather than some reptilian homunculus. I certainly couldn''t hear a heartbeat, or any other organ working inside its body. But it was alive. It had a body, mind and soul, and its lifeforce was like a raging ocean. I grasped it, and drained it until it turned into a desert. The albino didn''t show any pain as I drained it of life. It just slowed, blows becoming weaker, its red eyes narrowing briefly, perhaps in surprise. It died silently. Even if we hadn''t been in space. I doubted it would have made a sound. It hadn''t, during the fight. It was stupid, but...my strigoi side, the side that revelled in bloodshed and torment, was sad to see the passing of such a mighty opponent, even if it had tried to kill me, even if its life had fed me. The dead albino''s eyes were now pink and glassy, its face a mask of blank incomprehension. It didn''t look scared, or angry, or even frustrated. I hoped that, wherever I had sent it, it would find peace. I wracked my brain for something to say, but it was as deaf as any corpse, and there was no air to convey my words. Even so... ''You fought well,'' I mouthed to the corpse, then turned away and flew back to Mars. This was not over. And, somehow, I doubted it would get any easier. Interlude: Liam
AN: This chapter will be focusing on Liam the lich, who will likely play a major role in the following books as well. It''s taking place at the same time as David''s fight with the Unscarred, the albino reptilian. *** He had come prepared. However brash Ryan considered him to have become after undeath, he wasn''t the type to rush into dangerous situations headfirst. And this ?was dangerous. Maybe not for him, maybe not even-not directly-for mankind, but it was scaring the world, and that never ended well. This wasn''t like refusing to join the Army. He was helping the world as a whole, not just Australia''s interests. And he didn''t have a death wish, no matter what his husband often grumbled under his breath. Liam felt something would go wrong before it happened. It wasn''t precognition, not really; he was just close to death, and knew of things that could bring it. The albino brute was the first to make a move, going for the Romanian showoff-Silva. At least he was smart enough not to give his full name to a mage. He might have been untouchable to non-holy powers, but it never hurt to be safe. Liam knew their clash could bring death, and would definitely bring destruction. In the instant it took the big bastard to disappear and reappear, he focused his magic, grasped the others with aethereal hands, and whisked them away. Most of them would have healed from the damage-anyone save the priests, really. But there was no point to sticking around. As the two clashed, Liam went intangible, letting the shockwave pass through him. He flew away and upwards, knowing this wasn''t his fight. Maybe he could draw another of the scaly bastards away-or even both- and kill it. It was the grinning weirdo, the one shifting colours every moment, who came for him. Liam wasn''t sure what it could do; it wasn''t a mage, at least. He felt no active mana from it. But he knew it was unna- Space shifted. One moment he was an immaterial whisp, floating in the sky, the next he was solid again, and in some sort of cave. Liam glanced behind him. The cave''s mouth was laughably tiny, like it had been carved by ants. He could go through the stone itself, but he had a feeling he wouldn''t get away too soon. Grinner was suddenly in the cave with him, shifting in and out of reality like a bad recording. It stared at him, eyes narrowed in amusement, but made no move to attack. ''Smart move, separating me and the strigoi,'' he started, tilting his head to one side. ''I suppose one could see us as the heaviest hitters...though, one should also be careful not to bite off more than they can chew. What can you do?'' That shit only worked in manga, really. But maybe it was cocky enough to spill something about its powers, or at least what it and its buddies were planning. ''What can''t I?'' it replied in a scratchy voice. And suddenly, Liam''s body was covered in wounds: joints broken open, stomach torn apart, neck hanging by a thread. He wasn''t hurt. He hadn''t been able to feel pain in decades, and it only took a pulse of magic to heal his wounds. But...what had it done? ''Familiar? Those were old wounds, Liam Marvin Lloyd, ''it rasped. He shrugged off the shock at the fact it knew his full name, and tried to think. ''Interesting fantasy. But I''ve never gotten fucked up like that.'' ''But you ?could have,'' it said, laughter bubbling under its words. ''Is every thinking being aware of your body''s state? No. And isn''t reality defined by what the majority thinks?'' Liam tried to reply, but realised he had no mouth to speak of...or with. Or a body, for that matter. It was gone, unmade on such a level he was only aware of its absence. His spirit was now fleshless, unbound, observing the physical realm from the shadowy expanse where life ended and death began. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. With a mental grunt of frustration, Liam wrought a new body for himself. This bastard wouldn''t shut him out, whatever its powers were... Its powers. It had dropped some stuff about possibility and consensus while it had been busy kissing its own arse. But it was not a mage... Liam''s magic was death. He could kill living beings, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. He could kill inanimate objects too, making them fall apart and crumble. He could kill communication, making people incomprehensible to each other. He reached out to the reptilian, and stopped its heart, crushed its neck. It staggered for a moment, then faded out of reality. And returned. Looking just as healthy as before, with an even wider grin. Liam''s staff cracked and shuddered, then burst apart in a shower of enchanted stone and wood. The focus of his will, gone. And- And his body was gone, too. Again. Fucking cunt. Liam reformed again-slower, this time, without a staff to shape his powers around. The reptilian was crouching casually, arms folded lazily, like it was watching a dumb animal try and fail to do a trick. Snarling, Liam reached out for its mind-and gasped, despite himself. He saw an existence chipped away at, until it could only be while observed by someone else. He saw that same existence cut open and displayed in front of endless eyes, eager to see what the strange experiment could evolve into. It had become real. More than real, perhaps. Uncertainty, possibility itself, shaped into a scaled form and set loose to stride through the universe. Liam tore away. He didn''t give a damn for its sob story. It had forfeited any right to live when it had helped ruin the attempt to shape a new world for everyone. Liam grasped its will to live, to exist. It was a cold, detached thing. Alien, in every sense of the world. The reptilian''s body flickered, as if it wasn''t sure what was happening, then faded. And reappeared. Liam grit his teeth as the thing grabbed the quantum strings of his being, and twisted. He wouldn''t let himself be destroyed once more. Liam pitted his magic against the thing''s will, and it was enough to exist for the time his gambit needed. If this didn''t work, either, he had little else to try. He... Liam stretched his magic into realms he had rarely ever touched in his sixty years of life and unlife. He found the chance of this abomination of science existing-and killed it. The death he commanded laughed joyously as it seized and tore at the core of the reptilian''s existence. The experiment that had made it so powerful had also left it a wound in the meat of reality, a frayed thread in the fabric of the universe. A paradox. And the universe abhorred mistakes. Liam unmade the reptilian, on the most fundamental level. He made it impossible for the thing to manifest in reality again. In time, those with unprotected minds would forget it had ever existed, as well the fact that something like it could exist, in the first place. The reptilian screamed as oblivion came for it-but there was a note of relief under the horror. Weary joy, at the end of a nightmarish mockery of life. Liam snorted. Like he was one to talk... The lich remained in the cave a little longer, to gather the remains of his staff and make sure his enemy was truly, finally gone. And it was. That, or he''d scared it so badly it wouldn''t show its face anymore. Same thing, as far as he was concerned. Time to break out of the cave, rendezvous with the others, and take care of the remaining scaly douchebags and their stone soldiers. Cold Blood, Epilogue
Calling Olympus Mons a mountain is like calling Dravich an arsehole: a ?huge understatement. I''ve heard it compared to some American State in size-Arizona, I think- and seeing it from space, I had to agree. I flew down, covering thousands and thousands of kilometres, until I was floating face to face with the tiny, hunched reptilian. An instant later, Liam appeared behind it in a flash of pale green light. I gave him a brief, approving nod. We had it caught between us. If the rest arrived as well... The Yoda wannabe was still smiling blandly, like it had just seen its face in the mirror and realized how dumb it looked. It was making no move to attack, nor to put up defences between itself and us. I narrowed my eyes, focusing my senses. Reptilian physiology was strange to listen to; human enough to feel familiar, alien enough to feel strange and unsettling. But I had learned to listen to it and analyze the sounds made by the organs. This guy, much like the big bastard I''d just killed, didn''t have anything to listen to. But, unlike it, it didn''t smell like anything, either. I frowned. What? No, wait- The sound I''d mistaken for the Martian wind was coming from it. Oh, it sounded just like the wind, and even reached my ears at the same time, but now that I listened, I realized the second, subtle layer over or under the howling wind. ''Construct,'' Liam said coldly at the same time I reached my conclusion. ''Soulless. You are not really here, if you ever were.'' His flaming green eyes burned black for a moment. ''Are you mocking us, or trying to save yourself? Both will end badly for you.'' I wished ?I had such a ghastly voice. It was perfect for threatening people, and- Dumb distraction. Ugh. ''Your fellow aberrant is right,'' he midget said quietly, not blinking, still smiling. Aberrants was the term reptilians used for anything outside the bounds of mundane science. ''But he does not comprehend two facts. One, we actually am here. Among many other places. Two, neither of you are a threat to us.'' ''Bet?'' Liam raised his staff, mana coiling around it. ''You nope rope by-blows have made me ?real creative. Necessity is the mother of invention.'' ''And the death of smug arseholes,'' I added. ''You were clearly the reptilian leader-even if not, you''re the last one on Mars, which makes you representative by default. Why did you do this?'' Its smile thinned at that. ''Some sort of aberrant mental affliction. It affected all sapient beings that fit the reptilian archetype. We have almost fought it off, which is...concerning.'' ''It''s concerning that you''re fighting it off?'' ''Yes. It shouldn''t have affected us in the first place. This form only resembles my first incarnation due to...I suppose you could call it nostalgia. Or attachment. Sentimentality.'' ''Ok, Thesaurus Rex,'' Liam said tersely. ''So, you don''t know squat beyond what the whole damn world knows?'' ''Rejoice in this moment,'' the reptilian said, turning to look at Liam over its shoulder. ''It is the only time we am not better-informed than you.'' While the two traded barbs, I thought about the reptilian''s words. If it wasn''t bullshitting us, it was some sort of reincarnated being, and probably something with multiple bodies too. And what was that damn noise? ''We can compare sizes later,'' I said, cutting the two off. ''You said you''ve almost fought the madness off. Why didn''t you stop your fellows earlier? Before Yamada called his Security forces back, or at least when we arrived.'' ''We could not,'' the reptilian said, sounding frustrated. "We have never been suborned to anything other than our own will. We were unable to control ourselves earlier.'' It got a thoughtful look on its face. ''Your dead-and ours. You would like them back, yes?'' ''No shit.'' I crossed my arms. ''But we''re not going to dabble in necromancy.'' The expedition personnel had not been criminals. Their bodies would be left undisturbed. Maybe we could pray for a mass resurrection, but... ''No need for such practices,'' the reptilian spat, making "practices" sound like a curse. "Science will provide the answer. Behold!'' At first, nothing happened. Then, I realised the air around the reptilian was darkening. Something like a cloud of flies, though the dark shapes were round and much, much smaller. I had to strain my superhuman sight to pick them out. ''We gathered them into this large clump so you could see the fruit of our engineering.'' Large clump? What? "Yoctomachines! One yoctometre in diametre. Able to enter and meld with any material. Those stone constructs that appeared to oppose you? Our machines, bonded with this mountain and controlled by our will. We put them back into the mountain when you," it nodded at me. ''Clashed with the Unscarred. You have likely neutralised it by now-through some aberrant method, no doubt. It has never even been slowed down before.'' I crossed my arms. ''Get to the point...'' If it even could. At least it wasn''t inverting its words. Really annoyed me, that would have. ''What are you proposing? That you put your machines in their corpses or remains, so you can have puppet spies in every country? Hell no.'' It smiled pityingly. ''Yes...because there is so much you surface-dwellers know and we do not. Bah!'' A section of the cloud broke off, then scattered further. The yoctomachines were a barely-visible blur to my eyes. I was surprised they didn''t turn into energy from the sheer speed. It didn''t take long before the mountain and the devastated ground around it began shaking, as every fallen reptilian gathered around us, their bodies driven by the machines inside them. The giant albino appeared by the tiny reptilian''s side, and I had to stop myself from jumping at it again. ''See? No manipulation of intangible, aberrant factors. No breaking of physics,'' the midget said, gesturing at the corpses. ''Yes...you should return to Terra, aberrants. The Collective has lowered its defences and is attempting parley with your governments. W think you would not want to miss something.'' ''How do you know that?'' Liam asked, sounding like he wanted to tackle the reptilian to the ground and search it for communication devices. Its pitying smile remained. ''We have selves in many places. We are never separated, except by distance. Goodbye.'' And it burst into a cloud of yoctomachines. The Unscarred''s corpse, eyes glassy, disappeared and reappeared next to the other dead reptlians, who had gathered into a circle. It grabbed one''s shoulder, which grabbed two other reptlians, until they were all linked. Then, the group teleported away. I blinked one, twice. Then, I looked at Liam. ''Was that...magic?'' The lich shook his head. ''Just bullshit, mate.'' We quickly left the mountain behind, travelling to Mars'' north pole, where Liam had sent the rest of the taskforce away when I had clashed with the Unscarred. We would give our reports on Earth, the colonel said. Being pushed to the side had annoyed him, as well as some of the others, but they knew they couldn''t have done much to help me or Liam. The Japanese undead hadn''t even fought before they''d been whisked away by Liam''s spell. A giant, half-buried skeleton told me, in detail, what it could and would have done to the reptilians. Liam and the ARC mages teleported the taskforce to Earth, then followed. I retraced my steps, so to speak, flying until I reached the Moon, then flying down to Earth. I didn''t want to jump this time. My early enthusiasm was gone. I had a bad feeling that things were only going to get worse from there. *** The Cold Madness-as it had been dubbed by the media after (they hoped) its disappearance- had ended, but its effects were still present. Eventually, the afflicted, or formerly afflicted, had been allowed out of the ARC facilities, or those of their country''s supernatural agency, but they weren''t allowed freedom of movement. Not really. Most of them, the least dangerous ones, were allowed to move in designated areas around their homes and workplaces, but they were watched. The most dangerous ones were asked (very politely, of course) to submit to what was, essentially, house arrest. Reactions were...varied. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. On the bright side, after the hole in Siberia was filled with water, they got a sea. Sure, it was cold as balls, and few people wanted to go there to swim or fish, but at least it was there. My ARC consultant prep course having ended, I was invited to either become a full operative, or return to the civilian sector, after being sworn to silence. I could return for the first option any time I wanted, they said. And, eventually, I did. But I spent the remaining months of the school year as a teacher. My students had so little left until graduation, and I wanted to be there for the brats. Not all of them were allowed to attend physically, and I tried to visit those who learned online. My favourite scaled headache was among them. I learned so many new jokes about private tutoring, I just had to make sure the guys I wasn''t about to talk to ever learned about them. Lucian and his older brothers had among those placed under house arrest, but, thanks to Aaron pulling some strings(prowling the Black Sea and sinking anything that looked funny at Romania brought some perks with it), they had been quarantined, for lack of a better term, together, in one of Aaron''s houses. This one was located on the outskirts on Bucharest, because the dimensions would have made it awkward if it was in any of the city''s residential areas. I started the video call, and it was Luci who picked up. His bottle-green scales looked polished, and his long, black mustache seemed to have been groomed. I could tell the confinement was getting to him. He only cleaned up like this when bored out of his mind. Lucas was sitting on the armrest of an immense stuffed chair in the background, smoking like a chimney. He noticed me and waved without enthusiasm. ''Yeeees?'' Lucian drew the word out. ''Finally got curious about the madhouse, eh?'' ''Maybe. You three getting along?'' ''We''re still alive, aren''t we? Aari has only threatened to brain me twelve times.'' ''Huh. That is impressive.'' ''Today.'' ''..Ah.'' That made more sense. At least they were still normal. ''Hey Luc, can you hear me from there?'' ''What?'' he bit out around what looked like the bastard lovechild of a cigar and a torch. ''Do you need an assistant at work? Once they let you out, of course.'' He looked at the phone skeptically. ''You into tattoos, Silva? You don''t seem...the type.'' ''That might be because I''m not. No, it''s for an...acquaintance.'' ''Ah,'' Lucas was grinning now. ''The very friendly one, right?'' Did everyone know about that? No, forget it. I didn''t need to know the answer. ''Little brothers,'' a new voice rumbled, and I swear my phone''s screen cracked a bit. ''What are you screwing around with now?'' A pause. ''Give me that, Luci. The way you''re holding it, I won''t fit into the frame.'' You know how some people are said to fill rooms when they enter? It''s a figure of speech-Aaron didn''t fill his living room when he entered, but only because it was bigger than a football field. All zmei were tall, but Aaron was huge. Lucas was twice my height, a metre taller than Lucian, and he wouldn''t have reached his older brother''s knee. I mentally laughed at the image of Aaron taking the tiny phone into his hand and holding it far enough to fit in the frame. The old zmeu had scales the colour of burnished bronze, and wings that would have looked at home on a plane. He had a torso like an old oak, six legs and six tails, one of them split from halfway down-a result of a fight he shouldn''t have entered. His nine heads bobbed and shook constantly, like a nest of snakes, looking at me with unblinking red eyes. Each of them was only half-visible, due to a massive red beard and moustache. ''Silva?'' he started in a confused tone. ''Why aren''t you watching the news?'' ''Why, are they showing the horoscope?'' ''You''re hilarious, boy. Now, turn on your TV. They''ve been showing the footage over and over since the live transmission ended. And think about what you see and hear. Analyse it. That''s what the three of us were going to do before you called.'' ''Sounds serious. Which channel?'' He grunted. ''All of them,'' then, he turned to his brothers. ''Get your game faces on, brats!'' Luci leapt from the floor to land on Aaron''s shoulder. ''See you soon, David.'' ''I hope so.'' After I ended the call, I turned the TV on, and Odin was talking to me. No, I wasn''t having a trip. I didn''t do drugs, not that they''d have worked if I did. ''...know how Nidhogg was slain. He admitted-shamelessly! He regrets nothing! This was never fated or predicted. It should not have happened. Shouldn''t have been able to happen.'' Seemed like I''d caught him in the middle of a rant. He was unstoppable once he got started, but Aaron had said there would be reruns. ''...While fascinating, that does not answer our question, Allfather. If you don''t mind-'' ''I do mind, human.'' Odin''s scarred, one eyed face wrinkled in distaste. ''You do not understand. Nidhogg gnawed at the corpses of rapists and oath breakers-now, they are without punishment, for finding a replacement may unravel the threads of fate even further.'' He shook his head, beard swaying. ''And it does answer your question. Do not be small-minded, human. The dragon was torment and pain and venom, every thing that gnaws at the soul, ruining it. When it was cut apart, its vile blood spread beyond the World Tree, and poisoned the mind of any that could be called kin to it. It carried the pain that was its domain, and brought madness.'' ''And who was it who...murdered Nidhogg?'' Odin spat. ''Why don''t you ask him? I''m sure he''s still shouting it from the battlements of his castle, like he did at the gates of mine.'' ''We will be sure to get his side of the story too, Allfather. But who-'' ''In Dagda! The Dagda!'' Odin shook his head again and spat once more. ''Fool. He knows the gods of different realms must never cross each other, lest we all be drawn into war. But he did. He snuck beneath the ash''s roots like a knave, like a thief, and cut Nidhogg apart with that thrice-damned sword.'' ''But the Dagda is... he is said to be a great teacher and sage, like you, Allfather. Why would he do this?'' If Odin cared about the compliment, he didn''t show it. ''Damned if I know. He''s bound to fertility and agriculture, like my thundering ox of a son. Perhaps the creature''s nature offended him, and he sought to end it.'' ''But...you do not know? For sure?'' ''My ravens might as well be chickens, with what they tell me. And the fool only told me he "should have done it earlier"." Odin scoffed. ''If it wasn''t for the sword, mayhaps we could have dressed the dragon''s wounds, brought him back to life. The Norns would have allowed it, I''m sure. They loathe everything that goes against the destiny they weave. But all our runecraft and lore cannot heal wounds inflicted by the Answerer.'' ''Fragarach?'' the reporter asked, receiving a curt nod from Odin. ''This...is indeed a conundrum, Allfather. But, if things are still unclear, why didn''t you consult Mimir?'' I wondered that, too. Odin was said to keep the severed, speaking head either in his vault or on his person, and seek advice on the rare occasions his wisdom didn''t suffice. Odin grinned mirthlessly at the question. ''Because we are missing more than Nidhogg at the moment.'' Dead Head, Prologue
Father ''I wish I had been on Mars with you.'' I raised my eyes from my crossword puzzle. My awkward conversation with Andrei had reached a point resulting in a not-at-all comfortable silence, only for him to break it in a way that almost gave me whiplash. ''Your pardon?'' The werebear just stared steadily at my question. What did he mean? Was he talking about his were instincts, or just plain old human urge for violence? He hadn''t really fought since his Securist days, only working as a bodyguard or bouncer. Andrei rubbed his clean-shaved chin as he considered his next words. So young, you''d have thought if you saw him on the street. Judging by our faces alone, I could have been ?his father. ''You could have died there, David.'' I scoffed. ''How?'' ''The reptilians might be atheists, as far as we know, but what if they weren''t? What if they had holy powers? Or allies with such powers?'' Aaaah...that was his fear? ''Then we wouldn''t be talking right now. And, if they did and you were there, you could have, what, saved me? Here''s a hypothesis of my own, a much more likely one: what if they had silver?'' The were smirked darkly. ''Then we wouldn''t be talking right now, I suppose.'' His order-the usual, as he''d told the waiter-arrived, and I wasn''t surprised so much at the size of the keg as I was at the smell. ''Honey with your drinks? Really? Way to avoid the stereotypes...'' He shrugged. ''I''ve already abandoned my cub,'' I cringed. ''As male bears are wont to do. Why not go all the way?'' Shrugging again, he knocked back enough mead to stop a human''s heart. ''Andrei? If you ever call me "cub" again, I''ll have to kill you, everyone who heard, and then myself. After I cut my ears off.'' ''Hah! Fair enough...'' A few more minutes passed, the bar unusually quiet for a Saturday night. But then, Andrei had ordered so many rounds for everyone it was a surprise they weren''t snoring. ''Do you know ?why I didn''t come with you to Mars?'' I looked at him sharply, wondering if the drink had got him maudlin. But his black eyes were as sharp as ever. Not that weres could get drunk, or even buzzed. ''It was a job for the dead. The people-depending what country you ask-no one would miss.'' ''You really think anyone would miss ?me, David?'' Andrei asked drily. ''The reason I didn''t-couldn''t-go has little to do with what I am, and much to do with ?who I am.'' Leaning back in my chair, I gestured for him to continue. Taking another swig and nodding, he did. ''When I met Simona,'' we both winced at my mother''s name, though, I imagined, for different reasons. ''I didn''t know she was a minor. More fool me-what good are these senses if they can''t help me see disasters coming? But, just as foolishly, I carried on, and only learned the truth several months into the pregnancy. Maybe her fear of what could-and did-happen made her talk.'' Andrei gripped the steel tabletop, his-only human in appearance-hand crushing it like silly string. ''Damn her for lying and riling me up, and damn me for letting myelf be led on.'' He lowered his head, raven hair shadowing his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was a rasping whisper, edging into a growl. His eyes were just as dark and beady as the beast''s he became. ''Damn us both for not thinking ahead.'' ''...What does this have to do with Mars?" I asked, not knowing how to feel about this...apology?'' Andrei snickered sardonically. '' "Comrade Dravich, a ?child? How could you? The apparatus will not be stained by the memory of your reckless advances". That black mark is ?never going away, David. You can be sure all my employers since then knew who they were hiring, and felt I was the right man. But ARC didn''t. Indiscipline like that is not tolerated within their ranks, it seems...good for them. Once you put on that uniform, remember what it means. Don''t be stupid like me.'' *** Friend (?) In the years since the Cold Madness, I quit teaching for the second time, and the first in my unlife. Not immediately, of course. After my generation at the time graduated. I still met with Eric and Bogdan sometimes, when the vamps patrolled as Supernatural Servicemen. Romania''s supernatural law enforcement organisation was relatively new and thinly-spread, so they needed all they could get. And my other students still greeted me when we crossed each other on the street, which was all I could ask for, really. At least I hadn''t been one of those boring or forgettable teachers. Because I was still in my training period, ARC didn''t have me on a base all the time, so I found different ways to fill my free time. And, if I could help people both at work and outside it, and kill time while doing it...well, what more could I ask for? The pantheons were still in a cold war, glaring at every suspicious move the others made, and ARC, and its national counterparts, mostly acted to mediate skirmishes and misunderstandings. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. I sometimes played veterinary, treating supernatural animals, but mostly, I worked with my hands. Strong and untiring as I was, overseers wanted me almost as much as workers felt I was showing them up. And, since I couldn''t work without getting paid or people would cry undead slavery, I had to be careful not to hog jobs. I was moving debris, both physically and by manipulating air, while my colleagues for the day demolished an old city block straddling the edges of Bucharest''s old centre and the Haunts, the quarter populated by undead. I didn''t expect her there. Mia had grown even taller since graduation-not as tall as Lucian, but I still felt short next to her. Her orange-yellow scales, usually reflective, glimmered dully under the dust covering them. ''Lucas doesn''t have me at the counter everyday, David,'' she grinned, tossing an I-beam into the truck like a multi-ton pillow. "Says my presence is "disruptive to a serious workplace environment".'' As she quoted her boss, the zmeu mimicked chewing on a blunt, eyes narrowed in disapproval. ''And having me hang around when he''s greeting people doesn''t help his blood pressure, so...a girl''s gotta keep herself entertained.'' With how many jokes she cracked about working the stick when he made her mop, I imagined he loved these days when she was away almost as much as he hated me for suggesting her as an employee. ''It''s good to see your generation helping out,'' I nodded, tossing a car-sized slab of reinforced concrete on top of the steel beam. ''Don''t listen to those grumblings about apathetic youths.'' As we cleaned out the place, I mostly ignored her flirting or responded with sarcasm. Much like we used to do in class. Unlike in class, however, there was another flirty joker here, and he thought he was hilarious to boot. ''We should clean each other later, scales,'' the wereowl chuckled as he threw down a a mostly-compacted fridge down at her. ''We can wash too.'' ''Oh, good idea!'' Mia waved up at him with a fanged grin. ''I''m rarely covered in white stuff like this, mind. There''s usually a ?lot more of it...'' The steel pipe I was holding turned to metallic dust in my grip. Another worker, a purple, four-headed zmeu, saw my scowl and put a hand the size of a trashcan lid on my shoulder. ''Dude,'' he whispered. ''Don''t get wound up. We''re all like that...'' ''I know you''re all like that,'' I said. Dammit. ''But there''s this thing called self-control, which you have and she clearly doesn''t.'' Then, turning to the owl, ''Piss off, hooters! Horny clown around my age leering at college girls? That''s the reason everyone thinks our generation just swung it around.'' ''We''re just playing, strigoi,'' the owl scowled, though it was hard to tell with the wide eyes and beak. ''Don''t get so-'' ''Wound up, yes. And you!'' Mia raised an amused eyebrow as I pointed at her. ''Don''t encourage such people, and don''t talk like that, it''s improper.'' Her eyes glazed over as I got into a long rant about Aaron, Lucas and the dignity zmei could achieve, if they wanted. The owl threw his wings up at my rambling, while the purple zmeu retreated, bushy goatees swaying side to side as he shook his heads. Mia asked me to hang around for a bit after the gig was done, saying she wanted to talk. ''You know, David, I always found it cute that you tried to raise me and the others, not just teach us. I, personally, really appreciated that. You were my first parent, in some ways,'' the said as she slipped off the overalls. The original owner would likely have found them baggy, but on her, they had looked almost skintight. I blinked as the clothes underneath were revealed. Nothing overly-exposing (shocking, for her), but... Damn. I didn''t have abs. Not that that was an excuse to notice hers. ''But,'' she continued, red eyes narrowed in slight annoyance. ''I think I can choose how and who I talk with, ok? You might not have noticed, but I''m a big girl now.'' ''Oh, I noticed, alright,'' my dumb mouth blurted before my brain could catch up and slap it. Mia smiled. ''And speaking of adults...I think I''m old enough now for you to consider me one in reality, not just on paper.'' She had actually been an adult even in high school. Having started out school an year later than most, she''d been nearly twenty upon graduation, three years ago. The zmeu scratched at her bony, spiky crest. ''How about we clean out the air between us? Your affronted daddy instincts are kind of funny, but only up to a point.'' ''It''s a date.'' Fuck you ?again, mouth. Dead Head, Chapter 1
''Why so offended?'' Mia asked as we continued our stroll through the Bites, Bucharest''s were quarter. Most of the inhabitants knew me as Dravich''s son, even if they didn''t know me personally, so it was a relatively safe area. Both for me, and for them. ''Why shouldn''t I be?'' I shrugged, weighing how much bullshit I could spew before she got offended herself. ''As you said, I was there to watch you grow-'' ''Oh? I thought I was being followed sometimes.'' ''Ha, ha. I remember when you were...'' I almost held out a hand, then remembered she''d been taller than me in her early teens as well. ''Younger. I''d have reacted like that if any of your classmates was in you place.'' ''Hmmmm?'' ''Yes, really,'' I sighed. ''But I just didn''t like how that were was talking to you. And, again, you really shouldn''t play along with such people...'' I trailed off as she stopped walking, giving me a weird look. Had I said something wrong? Or... ''David,'' she said, leaning down so we could look each other in the eyes. ''One of the first things I learned as a zmeu is that, when everyone gets your motor running, you''ll attract unwanted attention. I know how to handle that type. And...'' she smiled conspiratorially. ''Hypocrisy isn''t much better than possessiveness.'' I blinked at the non-sequitur. ''Your pardon?'' ''Would I be wrong to say we grew closer during the Cold Madness?'' I shook my head. ''Because you helped keep me sane. You might have missed it, but your presence really helped me hold myself together. So I got attached to you. Call it gratitude, or imprinting, or whatever. Maybe it''s just my missing daddy complex,'' she rolled her eyes. ''But I think it goes both ways.'' ''...I thought about killing you that day.'' The zmeu cocked her head to one side, like a curious bird. ''I thought that, if you went mad, I''d have no way to stop you without killing you.'' ''You couldn''t have,'' she said bluntly. ''Stopped me without harm, I mean. And...I''m sure that tore at your heart, didn''t it?'' How could it have not? One of the children I''d never have, slowly losing herself in front of me, and I was powerless. Mia blew out a breath after I told her this. ''It''s sweet there''s at least one guy who sees me as his daughter, but I really don''t need a paranoid father scaring off potential squeezes. Keep that shotgun tucked, ok?'' She squeezed my right shoulder. ''Or, we could just hook up, and you''ll be able to stop worrying. About the random flirting, I mean. All my exes tell me I''m enough to worry about,'' she grinned.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Before I could reply, my phone shifted subtly, making a sound inaudible to humans. Mia pulled away from me, nose slits scrunched up. ''Who''s that call from, the nails on chalkboard union?'' I shook my head, fishing it out of my jacket pocket, and saw the white shield and arc on black. No rejecting this call. ''Something like that...'' *** Monster During all my missions up to this point, I was supervised by a senior ARC agent-usually undead from the Crypt division-and this time was no different. So I told myself, at the start. Loric Szabo was a strigoi of average height and more than average girth. With his shoulder-length grey hair, bushy beard, plump belly and wide smile, he looked like the uncle who always made you laugh. Or could have, had he been human. Szabo spoke with a lilt, his Hungarian accent giving a sing song quality to his words. You could have thought he was a poet, but his family had been tailors for generations. Szabo had killed himself out of boredom. Deciding his death, at least, would be memorable, for his life hadn''t been, the man had jumped on chainsaws, one tearing a ragged hole through his chest, the other splitting his head in half from the nose up. His brain jiggled when he moved. When we met in the sky above the Urals, Szabo called out to me, arms open wide to hug me. I hesitantly smiled back. Then saw his clothes. The black shirt with the ARC symbol was the only thing signifying his allegiance. It was covered by a jacket made of discoloured leather strips, roughly sewn together. So were his pants and boots. ''Don''t touch me with that shit,'' I warned him, a fist raised, the other hand''s nails shaped into claws. Szabo chuckled. ''Little brother in death,'' he intoned. ''Do you not like leather?'' ''Look at you, how shocking. I''ve never seen a strigoi make use of human resources before.'' Szabo shook his head, still smiling. ''And here I thought you''d appreciate the tolerance...one from every race, so no one can say I''m bigoted!'' Szabo clasped his hands in front of himself. ''Ah! You have no idea how it feels to eat a flayer, David! The dears so often have skins prepared for you. It''s like when you rip open a woman and see she''s pregnant! Twice the joy for half the work!'' ''What''s the mission?'' I asked tersely, wishing to beat something to death before he made another dead baby joke. ''I received no briefing or text.'' ''Of course not. She can pluck things out of minds, and minds out of heads! We must keep everything related to this operation quiet.'' Szabo turned, jacket crackling, and I barely stopped myself from ripping it off him, then shoving it down that foul throat. ''We are untouchable to her power, mind, but it''s better to be careful. So our leash-holders say.'' As we touched down at the edge of a snow-covered village, I couldn''t help but ask. ''Why hasn''t ARC killed you?'' ''You think I''m crazy! But mad dogs become pig feed, and I''m no slop, no-this world is my trough!'' Szabo threw his head back, laughing. ''You''re insane, Silva! You think acting like a hairless monkey and whining at a god that hurts you will make the voices stop!? Talking back only makes them louder!'' ''I can tell you''ve never talked back,'' I said, walking away from him and towards the objective. He laughed even louder this time. ''I''ve been screaming along for decades!'' There were many monsters in Siberia. Most hidden. Some unknown, like the one we had come to stop. And then, there were the ones like my "brother in death". Dead Head, Chapter 2
The village''s name meant "child of the peak", as it had been built at the foot of the Urals, like so many others. Unlike the others, however, it was inside an inverted pentagram. Just like the shape could bring demons to Earth, its mirror image, invented by Solomon, could both summon and trap-even bind, if the maker was skilled enough-them. With the right adjustments, it could trap other things too. It was well below freezing, so the mages standing at each point of the purple, glowing pentagram were almost invisible under their thick clothes. Russian Strangeguard, their winter uniforms sporting a haloed soldier standing over a multi-coloured, chimeric monster, stabbing it with a bayonet. Each of them held chains, ropes or other bindings. And far above the centre of the pentagram, their leader stood on air, clutching a pair of shears that could have cut a man in half. Nodding down at me and Szabo, the white-haired, matronly woman mouthed a spell, then spoke as if we were next to each other. ''We are sorry for calling on you, strigoi,'' she said, not sparing me a glance. Szabo grinned, waving up at her. ''Aw, it''s fine, baba! I wasn''t doing anyone at the moment,'' he giggled as her subordinates made sounds of distaste, and I swear I heard her mutter "we are not sorry to you..." ''You are the junior?" she asked me, still keeping an eye on my supervisor. ''Strigoi are always useful. We need as many Tunguska Beings as possible to take down another.'' The Russians classified supernatural threats into four levels. Bogeyman for threats to buildings or large groups of people, Tunguska for city-killers. I didn''t know the last two, like most people outside the Strangeguard. But...the village was sealed off. The monster was already inside, or why would they build a pentagram? Were we too late? Were we here to exterminate, not defend? Was there no one to save? ''This village has been enslaved,'' the old woman began bluntly. ''Little Sofia''s parents never got along, and her magic awakened in response to a desire for peace and quiet.'' She clicked her shears once, twice. ''Mind control, growing more refined with each enthralled mind. First the parents were made to play nice, then the neighbours...'' the old witch smirked sardonically. ''Whole place is like a damn dollhouse. Eerie.'' ''We''re hemming her in,'' one of the mages on the ground, holding a pair of birdcages, spoke. His red beard was beaded with frost. ''Keeping her mind here, so it doesn''t drown the country.'' Ah, that explained their trinkets-foci. Magic was enamoured with symbolism, and focusing mana through bindings made for good wards. ''And I''m cutting off her influence,'' the leader hefted the shears. ''At the village''s edge, her power ends.'' I heard what they weren''t saying, too: binding and severance, harnessed for a spell, called to the aether and shaped the symbolism of united, opposed forces into power. And Szabo and I were the hammer to their anvil. We would walk in, and... And what? Kill this stupid girl, who was probably insane too, now? For having the misfortune of being born somewhere with no one to teach her how to control her power? A child cried out. It was not the little witch. The boy in coveralls came skipping out of a windowless house. His smile was happy, so happy, and almost as wide as his eyes were. As empty, too. There were almost no teeth left in his mouth, only bleeding holes, seeping filth. His skin was almost as pale as mine, and one of his ears had fallen off. Frostbite. The witch pouted at me with her puppet''s mouth. I didn''t understand her words. I just heard the meaning in my mind. ''Mommy always said the strigoi would come to take me if I was bad,'' Sofia said. ''So why are you here?'' I took a sharp breath as Szabo grinned in anticipation, then nodded at me. ''Your mission. I''m just here to pull you out of the fire, brother mine.'' He casually leapt backwards, landing nearly two kilometres away and three up on a mountaintop, smashing through the stone like glass. Hands on his knees, he looked down, gesturing for me to go on. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. I turned back to the wretched boy. He was still pouting. ''Why did you take over, Sofia?'' I asked, trying to look into those hollow, doll-like eyes, not at the gaping wounds. Sofia blinked in incomprehension, then spoke slowly, maybe worried I was dense. ''Don''t you get sad when people make each other sad, strigoi? I do-well, did. Now, no one in the village is sad! I knew we could get along.'' ''You''re forcing them to...get along, Sofi.'' I tried not to spit the words, walking closer to the pentagram''s edge. ''Didn''t you get mad when your parents made you do stuff? Didn''t you feel they were being jerks?'' Sofia nodded. ''Yeah, but. But I''m makin'' things better! No one cries or cusses or drinks. It''s good! I can feel what they do, you know? Everyone feels as happy as I do.'' Because you feel happy, I thought but didn''t say. ''Well, anyone would be happy to have nice friends! But what about other, everyday things? Don''t they get tired, or hungry, or thirsty?'' The puppet boy stared at me once more, then giggled. ''Silly dead man! Friends don''t share dumb stuff like that with friends!'' An instinctive safety measure on her magic''s part, maybe. Sensing things through other''s senses, but not the weaknesses of their bodies. The perfect puppeteer. ''Even so,'' I squatted down, and the boy stepped back. ''You should take more care of your friends. Look at the one I''m talking to. He''s clearly not dressing warm enough. I''d say he should go inside, but his house seems open to the elements.'' The boy shrugged, shifting from foot to foot. ''Dunno how to fix stuff like that. Grown-up thing.'' ''Then,'' I tried to smile gently. ''Wouldn''t it be really nice if you let everyone be, and the grown-ups made sure everyone had a nice, warm house? They''ll get along, I promise. I''ll tell them.'' The thrall''s mouth hung open, then closed with a snap. ''You just want to take them! You think we''ve all been bad, but we''re friends! Stupid strigoi! Stupid stupid stupid-!'' The boy''s bare foot stamped down until it was a ruin of blood and mangled bone, no matter how much I screamed at Sofia to stop. ''You''re hurting him, dammit!'' I snarled. ''Again! Just like when you tore his teeth out-why even do that? Or his ear, did you force him to stay outside? He could have died!'' The thrall stopped, and Sofia growled thinly at me. ''Ivan never wanted to play with anyone! Always cooped up inside with his dumb books, but I showed him!'' ''And the teeth?'' I pressed on. ''He was such a bad friend, he felt sorry and gave them to me, for the Tooth Fairy!'' she giggled again, pus trickling slowly down the thrall''s chin. ''Just you wait, strigoi. I''ll make everyone in this dumb world love each other, and freaks like you who can''t be touched will be thrown aside!'' It was then that we realised she didn''t control minds. She projected her mind into people, and things. Any thing. The air above the village spun into a storm, and an ivory lightning bolt came at the floating witch, well over a thousand times faster than sound. She raised her shears so fast plasma blazed around them, and cut the bolt in half, harmlessly dispersing it. But dozens of other bolts struck at the ground, blasting craters into the snow, setting houses on fire...and breaking the pentagram. It had been drawn with telepathy in mind, not control over the material world. The mages fell back, swearing and brandishing their foci, as the village''s hundreds of inhabitants came out of their ruined, blazing houses. Some were dragging along broken limbs, while others were burning alive, fat crackling under skin. And there was not one person among them not smiling. They were friends, after all. Dead Head, Chapter 3
The thralls were chaff. A few blades among them-knives, hatchets, axes-a few old guns, their bullets frozen in midair to my eyes, but nothing that could actually threaten the mages, let alone me. And I had a feeling Szabo was far, far more dangerous than he seemed. The binder mages drew circles around themselves in the snow, raising transparent, shimmering forcefields. They words they spoke bent the frozen snow and air around the thralls, dragging them to the ground in chains forged from the elements, but the puppets kept moving. Wriggling, breaking their bodies in the attempt to free themselves. And why would they not? They weren''t thinking like people anymore, if at all. There was only one mind in all those heads, and it seemed to feel their pain almost as much as it felt pity for them. The old witch dropped down next to me, shears still smoking after stopping the lightning bolt. She didn''t look at me when she spoke, focus held above her head like an executioner''s axe. ''Break the storm, strigoi! I will cut their strings!'' Nodding, I pushed my will into the lead-grey clouds, only to find another one already there. I had thought Sofia had simply made the storm by moving air, then abandoned it, but she still seemed to be holding onto it. I frowned. If enslaving human minds sharpened her focus and broadened her range, what did taking over the environment do? I was only thinking about that with half my mind, the other half trying to wrest control of the storm from the little witch. I could feel her childish frustration in my soul, hear her shrill, soundless screams. In her mind-her inhuman, ravenous mind-I was the monster at the window, come to take away her friends and ruin her nightmarish little world. In the end, neither of us prevailed. I staggered back as the storm broke above us, clearing the sky impossibly fast. As I blinked, out of habit rather than necessity, my arcane sense slipped over my sight, and I saw as mages did. The trapped, struggling thralls were bound by thin strands of pale white energy, like a spider''s web, like a corpse''s fingers, which spun and wrapped around their hearts and spines and brains. Not truly, for the mana was immaterial and invisible. Just my still human-in the ways that mattered-mind''s attempt to make sense of the unseen world. The old witch''s power manifested as shears over each string, but, each time they were severed, they remade themselves, even tighter-wrapped than before. The shears'' frustrated snapping filled the aether. The strings also passed through the air, seemingly attached to nothing, and the buildings, though it did not truly touch them. And at the centre... Ah. Clever girl. I raised my hand to stop the hill-sized fist when it was scant metres from me. Sofia had not placed herself at the centre of the metaphysical web. Indeed, I hadn''t truly seen her, or the shape of her magic, yet. The thing I''d thought I had seen at the centre had been a concentration of mana and will, and my dead eyes barely caught it before it plunged into the ground, then the mountain behind me. As a strigoi, and ARC agent in training, I regularly had to deal with immense-as far as baseline humans were concerned-weights, distances and speeds. As a result, I had gotten pretty good at judging them. The mountain that had torn itself out of the ground, given only the roughest humanoid shape by the witch''s will, was around four kilometres tall, judging by the clouds halfway across its ''chest''. As for the weight- I slapped the hand aside, and the shockwave turned the snow and ground beneath it to superheated steam for kilometres. The mages'' forcefields rippled like someone had thrown a grenade into a still pond, while the matronly witch, not looking, held up two fingers glowing with mana and snipped through the shockwave as it reached her, leaving herself untouched. The mountain, eighty billion tons of now-scorched rock, stomped down with blocky feet, so hard lava shot past the clouds. It would take an eternity, from my perspective, before it hit the ground, raining down like Hell''s tears. I shook my head, stealing a glance at Szabo''s viewing spot, but the older strigoi was nowhere to be seen. Of course, I thought with a sneer. Cruel bastards like that always run when faced with an actual challenge. I jumped up to the mountain''s chest as it futilely tried to slap me away, flames forming around me. Would this shake the witch''s control? My punch turned the mountain to eighty billion tons of steaming dust. To avoid damage to Russia-or, hell, the world at large-I focused my weather control power around the dust cloud, trapping it into a spinning sphere of air, condensing the particles until they formed a roughly human-sized lump. And, while I was admiring my handiwork, Sofia reached out with her will, and grabbed at my lifeforce. The raging ocean I had drank upon killing the Unscarred was both the first and last to go-after it slipped from me like sand between fingers, I clamped down on my remaining lifeforce with a growl, locking it into a metaphorical iron cage. Clever, clever girl, indeed. I wasn''t sure how much Sofia really knew about strigoi, but she was obviously aware of one of our weak points. While she could not affect me directly with her power, sufficiently skilled mages could take away a strigoi''s lifeforce, leaving them as ''weak'' as if they had just risen from their grave. I tried to grab the Unscarred''s life, but it slipped away once more, then poured into the dusty lump. With a flex of nonexistent muscles, the lump dispersed my air sphere, then was reshaped once more into a humanoid form. This one was much smaller-only twice my height-and more compact, but it still weighed as much as before. It fell straight through the lava upon landing, but quickly made its way back to the surface, jumping at me so fast its rocky form glowed white-hot. The land around shook so as far as I could feel, and I would later learn all of Eurasia had. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. It was starting to look like the Unscarred, too. Same long, spiky tail, same muzzle. Did Sofia know about the reptilian or my fight with it? Or did her magic simply inform her about the things she pushed her will into? It was not as fast as the albino had been, though. The little witch must have still been getting the hang of it. Still... I caught the hypersonic punch with one hand, and the resulting flash was only scarcely less overpowering than the sound it preceded. That day, people had their eardrums blown out from Mongolia to Ukraine. Thank God for His priests, and for those who healed, though they did not follow Him. A mountain''s weight packed into that relatively tiny frame was nothing compared to what would happen once the witch learned to fully control the Unscarred''s lingering strength. It had turned me to red mist dozens of times when it had seriously hit me, despite the fact enough force to turn mountains to gravel couldn''t even bruise my skin. Leaning to the side to avoid a headbutt-the witch might have not known how to fight, but I wasn''t about to take her minion for granite- I wrapped both arms around the monster''s torso, and with an earth-shattering, crashing sound, threw it skyward and flew after it. Then, I cocked back my fist and struck it square in its faceless, triangular head. It flew away from me like the world''s heaviest rocket, and I followed, faster than lightning, wary of another trick. But none seemed to be coming. The rock monster crossed Siberia so fast, it parted the land kilometres beneath itself like a ship breaking through ice. It kept flying, then landed in the Pacific like a skipping stone on steroids. Japan''s national ward, extending far beyond its borders, seized the waters just as the ocean threatened to turn into a geyser, and forced them back into stillness. Completely unharmed, the monster leapt back at me, as fast as the albino had been. I braced myself, but, when it was only a metre away from me, I saw red. I didn''t lose my head, or something. I literally saw nothing but red...then dust, again. Turning in disbelief, I saw Szabo floating where the monster had been, a satisfied grin on his face. And, extending from him and far beyond the horizon, was a series of scarlet afterimages. Redshift. The bastard had reached us despite our headstart, and jumped between us almost as fast as light. Furthermore, he had turned something as heavy as a mountain, and maybe as durable as the Unscarred, to dust with one strike. I looked at the strigoi with new eyes. Literally. His aid had pulped the last set as a side-effect. ''Congratulations, little brother! You are almost strong!'' *** Where the village had stood, there was now nothing but a jagged obsidian plain, the lava forcibly cooled by the same mages who were now securing the former thralls. The destruction of her strongest minion, into which she had put so much will and focus, had shaken Sofia''s concentration enough for the old witch, codename Anastasia, to sever her connection to both her thralls and her magic-though the latter would not be permanent. The girl would be taken away for containment, therapy and rehabilitation, as would the villagers, until we could be sure they were once more normal people, not sleeper agents. Sofia had been put into cuffs, but she did not want to go into the armoured Strangeguard van. Instead, she sat on the ground, a gangly, shivering mutt wrapped around her. The dog-the only being in the village she hadn''t taken over, for it had always been nice to her-had been preserved by her magic, and did not want to leave her side, either. ''Allow me,'' Szabo smiled, a hand on the stiff Strangeguard officer''s shoulder. Smile widening, he walked to the little witch and her dog. The child who had broken five hundred minds looked up, thin blonde hair falling into red eyes. ''I don'' wanna,'' she croaked, throat raw from crying. At what, she herself hadn''t known. Szabo nodded as he squatted down in front of them. ''Aren''t you hungry, Sofi? Come with us. There''s nothing to eat here.'' She shrugged. ''No. Not without him,'' She jerked her head towards the mutt. ''Well, of course! But don''t worry, love. Uncle Szabo will solve both of your problems, at the same time.'' *** Subject Illych, Sofia (age 10, mage)-suspected food poisoning after trying to swallow raw dog meat for unknown reasons. Agent Szabo claims insanity, but we know his inclinations. I Suggest fast-tracking Silva''s training. We need a balance to that grinning monster. -[REDACTED], Head of ARC''S Crypt division, to [REDACTED], Director of the Romanian Branch. *** -Attention, citizens of the Russian Republic: A classified, but lamentable event involving an atrocity perpetrated by a young, rogue mage has occurred in the Ural Mountains. Using the blood spilled and the symbolism of the acts that took place there, Chernobog has gained a foothold into our world, manifesting himself where a desecrated church once stood. The Black God claims Odin''s mishandling of Mimir''s head is a sign of incompetence, irresponsibility and lack of interest that threatens the world as we know it. Chernobog is ready to do "anything I must, to restore order to the neutral ground of this world. My rivals of the other realms can stand at my side or die at my feet, but there will be war. We have been too lax in dealing with the uncaring Aesir. Chaos will not reign." *** -''WAR BETWEEN THE GODS?! For more information, check out page... Dead Head, Chapter 4
''We will speak on the road.'' Flavius Marcus didn''t look at me as he spoke. The short, wiry ghost had his back turned as he put on his war gear, which he capped off by holding up a lantern that glowed bone-white. Marc''s eyes had stopped needing light long ago, but he still needed something he could follow when travelling. Ghosts, being completely unbound by physics, could move fast enough to reach any place in the universe instantly, or even travel backwards or forward through time, if they weren''t careful. The lantern''s spectral light would keep him focused. The Crypt division''s Romanian base was under Omu Peak, the hollow section still appearing completely solid from the outside. I bit back a curse at his dismissal. ''How is that bastard still walking free, or even walking, for that matter? Why the fucking hell is he in ARC, rather than a name on our list of kills?'' ''Those are the wrong questions, Silva.'' Breathe in, breathe out. Pretend you''re human, David. Both will help you keep your patience. ''Why did nobody tell me about Szabo until I met him?'' ''Ah,'' The Roman glanced over his shoulder with a kind of bitter amusement-revealing an old in joke to a newcomer, except the joke had never been funny. ''Why do you assume you needed to know? Or, to sound less insulting...you''ve done good work, Silva. You could have certainly toured most of the archives several times by now-if you wanted to.'' I let out a sharp laugh. ''That''s it? The monster in the closet was left as a surprise because I assumed we didn''t have one?'' ''You know what they say about assuming?'' Marc was suddenly in front of me, a transparent hand on my shoulder. To me, ghosts were actually solid. Strigoi were closer to the spiritual world than to this one, after all. ''Why think ARC is all glory and honour? Because we defend the world? Sometimes, you need a monster, to do a monster''s job. But don''t underestimate Loric, Silva. He''s smarter than he looks. If he just rampaged, we-or the Church in his country, or someone-would have killed him decades ago. But he''s made himself useful, while still able to indulge himself,'' the legionary, who had killed more people than I''d met in my life, sneered at the mention of said "indulgences". ''Has he told you that analogy with the mad dogs? He rambled like that when we met. If not...'' ''Yes,'' I said curtly. ''But, since I''ve apparently been asking the wrong questions until now, why did you say we''d speak on the road? Where are we going?'' The legionary held up his lantern with an excited grin, like a boy about to go on a road trip. ''You haven''t since the Crypt''s central headquarters, have you? Be bold, revenant! All roads lead to...Giza.'' Marc blinked. ''That sounded much less wooden in my head. Oh, well...you had to meet the mistress, sooner or later.'' I didn''t know why, at the time, but the way he said it sent a shiver down my spine. *** Marc insisted we pour some wine before setting off, so that the libation would bring us fortune on our journey. As the most senior Romanian Crypt agent-well, he hadn''t actually been born there, but he''d died there before being brought back by the Shattering-he normally didn''t leave the country, as our colleagues grumbled while we passed by them through the halls. But a few quick mentions of "Giza", "the mistress", and "Szabo" brought nods and "ah"s, grins and grimaces, respectively. I wasn''t sure which I liked the least. ''How are your powers developing, Silva!?'' the legionary hollered as we flew up to the opening at the top of the base. ''I could''ve just passed through the rock if I was alone, you know! Can you do that yet!?'' ''I''m not sure I can do it at all!'' I replied, having to scream to be heard over the rushing wind. ''Ha! Not with that attitude, friend!'' We were out and away in moments. At the time, my speeder/flying licence only allowed me to move at superhuman speeds and in Romanian airspace-I was still a junior agent-but Marcus'' would cover for us both, while our ARC legitimations doubled as passports. Szabo had covered for my flight to Siberia, before I got his call, but I wasn''t about to thank him, given the freakshow he''d turned the mission into. You had to be careful about such things. Take the time my friends tried to stop my withering, for example. If Mihai hadn''t been licenced to practice magic "as long as no sapients were permanently harmed", that stunt with the moon would have caused us both a headache worse than the way my head had literally split. The mage had rewound time around the crater that night, but it still had caused a few very pointed questions, and a fine on his part. I had been deemed insane at the time, thus unable to answer for my actions or those of others that I got bloodily involved in. Maybe, one day, when I had time, I''d write down the little happenstances between world-shaking events. ''No passing through things! No making pests speak and spy for you! No raising and binding the dead by word and grave! Gods...are you at least able to tell the names of the dead just by looking at them?'' I frowned. Actually, I hadn''t thought about that in years...nor had I been able to use that seemingly passive ability since learning of it. While meeting Marcus, coincidentally. ''Now that you mention it...was it a one time thing, perhaps?'' The legionary waved me off as we flew over Egypt, the light changing from the difference between time zones. ''It comes and goes, then. You''re still developing.'' A bearded, grinning face flashed into my mind, and I gnashed my fangs. Develop...how long had he been a strigoi, I wondered? As we touched down in front of headquarters, nestled beneath the sand halfway between the Great Pyramid and Giza, I focused my dead eyes on the city. No fires...no intentionally-started ones, at least. The Shattering had brought Egypt''s old gods back into the world, and tensions between their worshippers and the Muslim population sometimes escalated quite a bit beyond spirited debates. No, I did not worship them. I did not pray to them. I wasn''t sure what to call them, but "gods", was shorter than "theomorphic entities", and I''d do penance if a grammar Nazi priest disagreed. My strigoi side felt kind of disappointed at the fact there were no fights between shabti and djinn ripping up city blocks, though. Even I had to admit those had been kind of cool. At the entrance we had chosen, Marc stopped to mutter a quiet oath, and press two denarii to his eyes. There was no Charon to take him across the Styx, but the rite had to be observed. My admittance was infinitely less dignified. So, one of the ways to hold off strigoi, evil spirits and so on is to scatter piles of small things before us. Dust and sand works sometimes, but rice is the most commonly used. I was used to the white grains by now, having to go through this whenever I returned to the Omu base, to prove I was still thinking straight, rather than ranting and raving after getting my blood up in the field. The rice shot from a small hatch in the bank vault-like door and into the air, then scattered, mixing with the sand-and why not? Silva could have it easy otherwise, God forbid that-and I crouched down to count the grains. Oh, I knew how many there were from glance(three thousand, two hundred forty seven) but my nature compelled me to scrabble through the sand for each, the pile them up in a neat little mound, being careful not to damage any. My strigoi side wouldn''t have been able to stand it. ''You''re doing Ceres'' work, Silva. We''ll make a farmer out of you ye-'' That was when Marc learned that, while God had asked men not to kill, He hadn''t said anything about kneecaps. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Rubbing his knee with an annoyed grin, the legionary nodded, then gestured for me to enter first. ''Good to see you''re keeping that temper leashed...'' Headquarters'' halls twisted and turned as we walked, and that wasn''t a figure on speech. The hieroglyphs carved into the white marble signified confusion and hesitance, change and inconstancy. Far closer to Isfet than Ma''at, which our, and I quote, mistress was the champion of. But, while ARC was many things, afraid of using its enemies weapons wasn''t one of them. After what might have been a second or a weak, we arrived at a set of marble doors, with the hieroglyphs for ''closed'' blazing over them. The guard shabti, falcon-headed, khopesh-wielding men on sphinxes glanced at us for a moment with unblinking, blind eyes that saw more than any human''s. I could see the webs of power weaving in and out of them, and the symbols for clarity carved around their eyes. Then, they nodded stiffly, stone grinding on stone, and stepped to the side. The hieroglyphs over the doors changed to ''open'', then ''enter''. Install a bell? Why, do you think we hated being dramatic? The office of the Crypt division''s Head was just as strangely-angled as the base''s corridors. My eyes crossed trying to make sense of where everything was (the hieroglyphs blazing with the power of every god from Ra to Thoth to Bes'' nephew''s cousin twice removed), but I finally saw something that looked sane and stable. I was beginning to think whether every damn piece of furniture in the Crypt''s headquarters was marble when I caught sight of the desk''s owner and her fiendishly deadly guests. Somehow, the desk was shaped so I could see all three''s faces at the same time, despite the fact two of them had their backs to me. Szabo was slouching, the amused, close-mouthed grin on his face wholly at odds with the warning glare in his eyes. The strigoi looked like he''d been enjoying a joke which was now getting taken too far. The Crypt''s Head wore a black sleeveless jacket, the Crypt shield above a headstone enter appearing in white several times, over her bandaged form, slim arms closed. Her headdress swayed slightly as she nodded and me and smiled slightly at Marc, who nodded back rapidly. I was surprised at the exuberance...then saw-really saw-her face. Some people just naturally projected authority. Others were so beautiful, or charismatic, you just wanted to listen to them. The mummy''s dark features may have been full once, but the years and return from the grave had weathered them. Her lips were scarred, her eyes surrounded by bags I would later learn had nothing to do with physical exhaustion. She was still beautiful, but like a statue that had been left in the rain too long. My dumb brain didn''t give a damn about that, though, because I felt a sudden urge to stand at attention and ask for orders. The power of Ma''at clad in dead, embalmed flesh. My strigoi side balked at the thought of being placed within a hierarchy, and the holy power backing the impulse to obey wasn''t helping its mood. The room''s third occupant worried me the most, and the fact they weren''t from ARC was only one of the reasons. Atlantis may or may have not existed and sunk, millennia ago. Maybe the Shattering created it from whole cloth, or rewrote the past, but we were still finding new ruins every day, and the Watcher Over Horror stood guard over each. At the same time. We didn''t know what had happened to Atlantis, but the aura of dread surrounding the ruins was enough to send most supernaturals running, whether they had been spawned in the depths or on the surface. The Watcher certainly did their part in keeping people away, though. Over thrice my height, the Watcher was humanoid in body, their-what little I could see of it- figure androgynous, and clad in silver, lobstered armour covered in fishlike scales. Subtle, I know. The last Atlantean-one of the few claims, or statements, period, it had made- wielded a shield that changed shape every moment, from buckler to kite to tower, every moment, and a shapeshifting weapon in the other. The harpoon-like spear became a trident as its featureless helmet turned fractionally in our direction. ''Agent Silva,'' the boss started in a warm, smoky voice, still smiling, and I tried to catch my jaw. Alright, the desire to obey was something, but what... ''Agent Szabo was just being reprimanded for overzealousness in pursuit of duty when you and agent Marcus entered. "Dogfood", indeed." She held up a wrinkled report, which she''d clearly been perusing, and not gently, for some time. ''You do not lie in official documents, Loric.'' ''No lie!'' The strigoi held up both hands, smiling innocently. It was then that I noticed the hieroglyph for "truth" that had been burned into his tongue. ''Ma''am.'' ''For the third time, you cannot expect me to believe that girl was possessed by a sudden desire to eat her pet.'' ''She was hungry,'' The hieroglyph didn''t burn. Did that mean Szabo believed it was true? Was the magic objective, or subjective? ''But insane! As I wrote-'' ''Yes, you claimed she was insane, Loric. And then told me you fed it to her, by hand. I received several statements that corroborated that, along with complaints, from the Strangeguard.'' ''I helped her eat, yes, but who told the girl to swallow? Honestly...'' Szabo chuckled. ''What kind of heartless, unhinged child would eat a dog? I am grateful that my actions helped set little Sofia back on track-'' ''To an asylum.'' ''-and will assure that Russia''s therapists have an understanding, pliable subject. No need to thank me.'' ''...No, you are right. No need.'' New hieroglyphs burned into the strigoi''s flesh, and he pulverised his marble chair as he fell to the floor, thrashing and writhing. The mummy looked straight ahead as she spoke, ignoring him. ''You are removed from field duty, for the time being. Director Kovacs will email you your patrol routes through Hungary. Be sure to give her my regards.'' A gaping, glowing pit appeared in the floor under him next, and Szabo managed a hateful parting glare before he fell. Sighing, shoulders falling, the boss nodded apologetically to the Watcher, who tilted their head to the side. She then turned back to Marcus and I, smiling again. Bet she had all the boys calling her "mummy". ''Agent Silva...I have called you here because your training has become a significant interest to me, several of my colleagues, and some of my subordinates. I think we have kept you on the reserve bench long enough, yes? The pantheons are making waves-'' ''Atrocious,'' the Watcher said, running an armoured finger along the edge of a serrated blade. ''You do not have to deal with every sea god, nymph and spirit who thinks the ocean is a bathtub. Distractions, all of them.'' ''That was not meant to be a pun,'' the mummy said smoothly. ''But I apologise, nonetheless. I know how demanding your duty is. On behalf of ARC, and the world, you have our thanks for keeping the old madness buried.'' ''...Hmph.'' ''The gods are becoming bolder,'' she continued, golden eyes boring into mine. I''d say I didn''t gawk back like an idiot, but I try not to lie. ''Mine are urging me to take a side. Odin''s handling of his own possessions is a sign of laxity, disinterest, weakness. He has let things wander off the path of fate. Nidhogg should not have died. Mimir''s head should be theirs. They will guard the knowledge, make good use of it.'' Another sigh. ''And so on. Agent Silva, Agent Marcus, we have several predictions for when, where, how and why this godly staring contest will become a skirmish, then a war. You must make sure these possibilities do not become reality. Your next assignments are...'' Dead Head, Chapter 5
''...I think I''m a creep, man.'' Lucian didn''t look up from his bucket-the alleged mug. He just chuckled under his moustache. ''You know...if you insult yourself, you''re doing half my job. Though at least my insults actually make sense.'' The zmeu lightly shook the glass in one hand, and its contents changed from clear to red, plum to grape. ''What''d you do this time? Or-dare I presume?- is it "who"?'' I was only hanging out with him at his palace and wasting my time on this jealous nonsense because my current mission was to hurry up and wait. The only gods in our country, besides God, obviously, were the Dacian ones, and we barely knew more than their names. If they manifested at all, they would be very weak, probably confused to boot. And, after scouring the country from Teleorman to Suceava and from Timi? to Gala?i, Marcus had told me to take a break from the stake out slash hunt slash god watching, or whatever we''d file it as. If we survived. The filing cabinets definitely would; they were as impossible to get rid of as the cockroaches who''d probably inherit them, one day. So, I''d made up some lame excuse about searching zmeu country in case there were any spiteful deities hidden here, and Marcus had pretended to agree and be concerned at the "possibility". In truth, my only other alternative was going home (and my carpets had formed an union to sue me after all the holes I''d paced into them) or lurking around the Omu Peak base like Orlok''s Romanian cousin. Lucian was home that day, luckily. And, among my social circle, he was the best suited to help me deal with whatever was going through my smooth brain. I took a moment to contemplate going to talk about women with Alex''s disembodied, single arse(just as single as mine, in fact) or with pops, who dabbled in romance the same way I washed with incense. Mihai had advised me to ''take thing slow'' after a few questions I''d have liked to consider oblique, citing his decade-long courting of Adriana and the domestic bliss that had resulted from it. "Dude,'' I had texted. "I don''t even know how or if I really feel anything, alright? I''m not asking for anyone''s hand." "Really???" had been his reply. "So you haven''t gotten tired of yours yet? Damn, Adi will hate losing that bet..." Then, after half a minute, "I''m just shooting the shit, David. I can only tell you what I''d do in your place, but maybe I''m overly cautious. Your choice." So, Lucian. Who was still guffawing as I finished my retelling of my little fit of jealousy, or protectiveness, however you want to see it. ''Aaaaaahh~'' he stopped to draw his tongue over his teeth, with a sound like knives rasping on stone. ''A pipe? Were you imagining crushing something else, perhaps?'' ''Not my fault,'' I shrugged, trying to appear less irritated than I was. ''That guy thought he was a hoot.'' And the guffaws returned. ''Fine, fine, but...look,'' he put the glass down on the gold table, drawing himself up with a surprisingly clear look in his eyes. I wasn''t surprised that he wasn''t drunk, or even buzzed-even the weediest zmeu could knock back the world''s booze supply without any reaction; they needed special brews to feel anything. I was surprised he was serious. ''David. This isn''t dumb lust, if that what you''re scared of. Dumb lust is what you''d find next to a picture of me, if you looked it up in the dictionary,'' Luci smiled self-deprecatingly, finger-long fangs barred. ''You know my kind are beholden to passions. That''s a polite way of saying we''re looking to get our rocks off all day, every day,'' he held up a clawed finger in warning. ''I''ve hung out with Mia before, you know. At Lucas'' shop. Only damn interesting thing there...anyway, she''s not any different. If you do get together, don''t fool yourself into thinking it will last forever. Yes, you''re both unaging. But zmei aren''t made for settling down. Sheer monotony and lust will steer us towards a different partner, after a century, or ten, or a hundred.'' I slouched in my chair as he turned his wine into a tar-thick, purple substance. Distilled from the grass around his palace, by smell. The vapours alone would have killed a man twenty times over. ''It''s not that,'' I said after he drained half of his glass, which refilled itself. ''I mean...it''s...it''s that too. But, it''s the age gap I''m really worried about. And...the power dynamic. Former power dynamic,'' I corrected myself as he raised a thick, bristling black eyebrow, seemingly waiting for me to go on. ''Look, Luci, I''m twenty-six years older than Mia, alright? Old enough to be her father.'' ''Well, that will make coming up with pet names easier,'' he grinned at my annoyed look, and waved me off with his free hand. ''Lots of supernaturals are older than their partners! Just ask, ah, almost every vamp who ever put it out. Those who stick it in the food, anyway,'' he shook his head, still grinning. ''Age gap? David, you know I''m in my mid-sixties, right? Closer to your pops than you. Just ''cause I don''t celebrate every birthday doesn''t mean they don''t exist. And, wanna know a fun fact? Some of my flings could call me grandpa, though most stick to daddy. They could call me father, too.'' Another laugh, this one shaking the mountain-sized palace. ''As for the, whatchacallit...so you''re her former teacher? So what? That''s good, means you know each other already. Not like you started hitting on her in high school or something,'' he rolled his yellow, black-slitted eyes at my doubtful expression. ''Mia likes you. Yes, she likes almost everything with a pulse. Lots of things without one. Maybe it''s just a phase. You''ve been to college, she''s in it. Experiment.'' ''Maybe I will,'' haven''t been looking for my spine so hard since my fight with the Unscarred. ''We, uh, we talked after my tantrum. She kind of made the same offer you did-'' ''Woah! Offer? Easy there, buster. I don''t swing both ways, unlike your other scaly friend.'' The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ''Fine, hypothesis. Whatever you want to call it,'' I steepled my fingers in front of me, staring down at them, looking like the world''s most senile mastermind, I was sure. ''You say you meet at the Raised Scale? Regularly?'' ''Yeah. Gotta make sure my little big bro hasn''t switched his glue with blunts and started eating them.'' Smirking a little guiltily (Lucas deserved all the praise for growing up with Luci as a younger brother and surviving with apparent sanity), I leaned forward. ''Well...please keep an eye on Mia, Luci. Tell her to focus on college. Won''t be long before those art classes reach arcane symbology, and it wouldn''t do if she was distracted from that by a dusty old man.'' ''Sure,'' he held up a fist, and we bumped. ''Any...particular reason?'' ''I was there when she almost went crazy. Could only wring my hands like a moron and pray I wouldn''t have to kill her. At least you had your brother.'' ''Hell of a consolation prize, Lucas is,'' he sneered, but fondness was palpable under the derision. ''So you still feel the need to protect her? You know she can walk straight through magic and punch mountains to pieces, right?'' ''Right. Just...keep her on the straight and narrow, please. For her sake.'' *** Constantin was alone with Him again. They were never apart, not truly, but human perception still hobbled him. This wasn''t his long dead father, but his Father, after all. Constantin stood in the Garden, on the mountain-the mountain where the Tablets of Law were sent down, and the one where a father almost sacrificed his son in the folly of blind faith, before the Lord Himself stopped him, and declared no such sacrifices will ever be made in His name. He stood on the hill where the Son of Man had bled, and at the foot of His Throne as Revelation was prepared. Perception. ''Forgive me, Father,'' he began, hands clasped, head bowed. The floor-the thorns, the rocks, the blades shining with golden flames that swallowed light- tore through his habit and cut his knees. But Constantin had never been afraid of pain. ''For I have failed in the duty and office You entrusted me. I...'' he grasped for words. The Lord was silent, for turning His face alone unmade mountains, and His Voice...His Voice...''The beings some call gods. I know not whether You made them, or whether they are divine-'' ''BECAUSE THAT IS NOT YOUR PURPOSE, CONSTANTIN SILVA,'' The Lord-Maker, Watcher, Redeemer, Three-In-One and One-Through-Three-spoke. ''YOU TEND TO YOUR FLOCK. THE LAMB THAT WAS CAST ASIDE AND YOU SHEPHERDED, THOUGH HE PASSED THROUGH THE GATES OF DEATH TWICE. THAT IS ENOUGH.'' ''Father!'' he could not believe this. ''They...they are planning a war! On Earth! Your flock will die, whether targeted or not. Even those who have turned away from You, or have never kept You...'' he lowered his head until his brow met the harrowing floor and split shallowly. Maybe this would open his mind. ''I should have turned them from this course by advice or promise of violence. I...I ?have failed You.'' ''WE SHALL BE THE JUDGES OF THAT,'' he Lord, who was not pretending to be One at the moment, sounded faintly amused. ''YOU WOULD RUN YOURSELF RAGGED, CONSTANTIN, TRYING TO HELP EVERYONE, EVEN THOSE WHO DO NOT ASK FOR OR DESIRE YOUR HELP. THAT IS CONTEMPT FOR THE BODY WE HAVE WROUGHT FROM CLAY. THAT IS ABUSE OF YOUR JUDGEMENT. THAT IS NOT WHY WE GAVE YOU FREE WILL.'' Constantin crossed himself, grimacing at his presumption. Of course-why had he believed he knew the Lord''s mind? ''How will I know what to do, Father? I must-I ?will-defend my world.'' ''WE ARE THE LIGHT AND THE WAY. FOLLOW THE TRUTH OF OUR WORDS, NOT WHAT YOU BELIEVE TO BE THEIR MEANING.'' And then, the church doors opened. *** Pops was prostrating himself before the altar when I entered, and rose to his feet clumsily, blinking bleary eyes. I help up my hands apologetically. ''Trance?'' ''Indeed, my son. But, do not worry. I am fine. Why...'' he trailed off as his deep brown eyes took in what I was wearing. Or, rather, what I wasn''t. ''Your scarf. Did you lose it?'' ''Tossed it myself,'' I said quietly, tracing a hand that burned along the icons as I walked to him, the other caressing my noose marks lightly. ''There is a war coming, pops.'' His nod, rather than determined or dismayed, was resigned. I pursed my lips. Whatever he had been been shown had clearly been no joyous revelation. ''The Dagda started this, and I doubt he will just stand by and watch. He is not thinking straight anymore, or else Nidhogg would be alive.'' ''Are you expecting to fight what some call a god, David? Did you come to me for advice?'' Constantin tilted his head, tone slightly droll. ''I would offer some on why you shouldn''t, if you would listen.'' ''Come on, pops. Do you really think I''d kill myself twice? You know I''m always on the lookout for new experiences.'' My bleak grin quickly faded. ''The Fae. They will sally out of Britain and Ireland, whether because of the gods there or despite them. And I...have no way to truly, permanently harm them, if we clash.'' And I explained why I had come. Constantin nodded along, face growing more and more concerned as I spoke. ''That will put you in constant pain, David. Your flesh will sting and burn, and never heal. You have only felt pain briefly, rarely, in the last eight years. Do you even remember what it''s like?'' ''Unpleasant, I think,'' I said with forced levity. ''I need this, pops. Iron, and silver too. The shape will be my weapon against my kind, and any other who fear it.'' ''..As you wish, my son. It will be ready in seven days, for such things drawn auspicious numbers to them." Pops clasped his hands in front of himself, mouthing a prayer. "And then, it will be your cross to bear.'' Interlude: Hex and Nacht
13th of October 1904, Berlin, Germany A boy is born, and does not cry. So quiet and pale he is, in fact, that his mother fears stillbirth. But he lives. He does not cry because he never will, and the shadow of his future reaches back through time, into the past, seizing his voice and silencing it. But the night cries. This is the first time it heralds his arrival. It will not be the last. 1920, Berlin, Germany Emil Strauss has never been able to feel anything in his sixteen years of life. It upsets his mother Hilda almost as much as the country and empire getting chopped up does. Emil does not understand her sadness at either fact. Neither is in her power to change. His father Johann''s reaction to his ''coldness'' is mixed. The crippled soldier watches with quiet pride as his son shrugs off insults and bruises from the neighbours'' children. But his detached reaction to all his attempts at bonding drives Johann mad, almost as much as his memories of the Great War they lost. The War to End All Wars. At the moment, these outbursts of violent panic, separated by periods of grim silence and distant stares, are known as shell shock. Emil supposes it is fitting-his father certainly seems shocked-as he watches Johann stumble around the house on crutches, stubbornly refusing help while cursing his twisted legs. And the English. And the French, and their Treaty. And the Americans, swooping in at the end to hog all the glory. (Emil once remarked that the Kaiser riled them up, so the reaction was expected. Johann beat him, allegedly to teach him respect for fallen heroes. In reality, he was hoping his quiet son would show fear, or anger, anything. Emil did not. Pain was a physical sensation, and the body was the slave of the mind.) 1922, Berlin, Germany Johann dies of alcohol poisoning. The money for his service keeps coming, in concern for the widow, but it does not heal Hilda''s heart. Emil finds herself in the corner of her room she uses for weaving, arms covered in cuts. He cannot believe it. "You should not have done this, mother." He explains, pulling on a pair of gloves. "You could have slashed the wrists. Just a little deeper, and it would have been enough." Taking a knife in hand, the young man explains to his mother''s corpse how she should have killed herself. 1933, Berlin, Germany It is the eleventh anniversary of his parents'' cremation, and Emil can only think of the National Socialists. He supposes it is an ironic name. He, at least, cannot see the ''socialist'' part. But this Hitler fellow is charismatic, in that way that ensnares people and leaves Emil baffled. He also supposes that they could have a worse leader. Herr Doktor Strauss has been practicing for some years now, hoping to make himself feel something by satisfying his curiosity about living things. It is not working. Dissection, vivisection, surgery, electric experiments...they all leave him just as apathetic as any other activity does. The data is correct, yes, and useful, but not enjoyable. So, when the regime calls upon all folks with useful skills, Emil steps forward. Not like he has anything better to do. 1943, Auschwitz ''And you, Herr Doktor? Have your experiments revealed the secrets of the Aryan bloodline?'' Emil does not tell the Fuhrer he is delusional. There is no bloodline, save perhaps in the dreams lurking inside that brown-eyed, dark-haired head. He is not silent out of fear, or even respect. The Thule Society does not need to lose funding right now, though. It is bad enough when Himmler''s tattooed cretins drug themselves into thinking they are wizards. Digging through bodies, sometimes even dead ones, for magic is not enjoyable, but at least it gives Emil something to do. ''Not yet, my Fuhrer. It must be an elusive bloodline.'' Hitler frowns. ''I do not appreciate your sarcasm, Herr Strauss, nor your lack of conviction. Has this not been performed,'' he gestures at the works he finds good. ''By our superior race?'' Emil nods. White, black, brown, yellow...I do not care, my Fuhrer. All people are red, if you cut deep enough, he thinks, but does not say. 1945, Berlin, Germany The city is falling down around their ears as Hitler gives his most insane order yet. The gathered trivia and trinkets of the Thule Society, he believes, will change reality, and make their ideals into truth. As Emil and his fellows perform what will later be called the Shattering, he thinks this is the first and last time in his life that hypocrite has been right. 1954, Greenland It only took magic to make Emil feel a fraction of what most people could without any power. Hunting down his former colleagues is entertaining, too. He does not do it out of malice, for that is still out of his reach. Nor does he do it because he believes in the cause of the Global Gathering, who currently hold his leash. Emil wonders if they will fare as well as the League of Nations did. He supposes the fact they kept down the fairytale monsters for nearly a decade, and repelled the invasion from Mars-Wells had been more right than he had thought- is a testament to their ability. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. He helped, too. Vapourising holes the size of Germany that tunneled through the red planet; the bluntest, least useful aspect of his magic. Reversing time was more cerebral, more refined. The Martians might have been gone, fleeing the Solar System in impossible ships, but mankind still wanted Mars intact. They could use it. As Emil closes in on Kruger''s hideout, he muses that his former Society fellow is more original than the rest. They had all seemed in love with South America. Kruger had been an eager, competent researcher, but he had also been infected with Hitler''s nonsense. In truth, Emil had always found him annoying, inasmuch as he could. As the little man raves and rants and shrieks, throwing his magic against him, Emil wonders how they had ever been able to work together. Kruger had also become a mage in the wake of the Shattering, with dominion over the elements. Emil''s primary magic was making the worst happen. As such, it just happens that Kruger loses control over the environment, or stumbles into his own attacks. This is not a spell. It is his magic, passively protecting him. Emil looks down at the half-broiled, half-frozen wretched in front of him, and taps into his power. The worst that could happen... Emil screams, for the first and last time in his life, as the night reaches down into him, ripping him open at the joints. His tongue shrivels in his mouth, twisting like a maggot, and his eyes run down his face like bloody candle wax. Then it gets worse. Nacht, the being that binds itself to him, is darkness: the absence of light, and the darkness in the hearts of men. Every brutal, petty, twisted thought. It laughs in time with Emil''s silent shrieks, filling his body and mind and soul, turning his flesh and hair white as chalk. The worst happens. To whom? 1960, ??? ''Don''t be so sour, Kraut,'' the thing on the table wheezes jokingly, something like a tortured grin peeking out from beneath mounds of tentacles, from between cancerous growths. ''The worst...is almost past. Let''s beat me into shape, eh?'' As Hex seizes its essence, grasping its body with one aetheric hand, and its selves across the past and future with the other, Nacht reaches into the Outer Void, beyond the Gates, to grasp its archetype. ARC''s greatest weapon is forged in an accident labelled an experiment. It is hideous and awkward, briefly. But Fixer never ceases being an eyesore. 1986, Hungary Hex finds the rogue mages'' bodies splattered over the road like discarded clothes. His mother used to scatter rags like that, when she got angry at something. The author of this spectacle, however, had worked with joy. They had been petty criminals: bodyguards and leg-breakers, working magic without licences. Perhaps not deserving such a fate. Hex, Nacht speaks in his mind, a grin in its shrieking storm of a voice. That one, do you see? Two for one. Practical... As it trails off, snickering, Hex focuses his senses on the mangled, maggot-ridden woman. The fetus doesn''t look much better. He looks up at the grinning strigoi, blood trailing from his lips to his bristling beard. ''Why?'' Hex signs, not caring to use his silent voice around the dead man. ''Cycle of life,'' Loric Szabo speaks in a sing-song voice. ''The maggot I found had so many eggs, and nowhere to settle and feed! Do not worry, Herr Hex. The darling was already dying before I put the lucky tenant in her mouth. I''m sure she understood-a mother to another.'' Nacht laughs in approval, even as Hex clenches his fist. Something like disgust flares inside of him, something like when he first beheld the ovens. He contemplates trying to end the strigoi. But the world can always use monsters. ARC was founded around those like him, gathering pliable freaks like the mundane agencies did with promising Nazi thinkers. So, he opens his fist, and extends his hand to Szabo. ''You will never do such things again,'' Hex signs, and Szabo laughs. They both know how true that statement is. 2001, ??? The Threefold''s struggle with their human consciousness and the demonic pseudo-minds is inspiring to watch, in a way. Hex ''only'' knows Nacht, but that is more than enough, he believes. Its tarlike abyss of a self is almost cloying to his sterile mind. He does not show this. Beneath his white longcoat and slouch hat, his stitched-together lips, limbs and eyes are silent, unmoving, and watching. Always watching. 2030, Norway Hex inwardly sighs in exasperation as the einherjar touch down, descending to Earth on rainbow light. They are all powerful, far more powerful than the average human. Far more flamboyant, too. How could they have once revered such blowhards? Immortal until fate decreed they were not, and fate had been cut loose and sent falling by Fragarach. He is more powerful than them, completely discounting his magic and partner. With them, he is a match for any deity Scandinavia''s legends could drum up. As the sky shakes with thunder, and the air fills with the bleating of goats and the rolling of chariot wheels, Nacht laughs. The universe just loves to challenge his assertions. Dead Head, Chapter 6
You know how, in the stories, when the hero needs this weapon to slay that monster, it''s never finished or there before he fights the monster? Either it comes for him earlier than he expected, or he sets on his journey and forgets the weapon, or loses it, or it breaks. Luckily, it didn''t seem like I would need my bladed cross for the next mission. ARC would have preferred being able to make their own holy weapons, but the world''s various Churches had a monopoly on that, and anyone who knew how to make what I''d asked pops to forge was already in the clergy. So, outsourcing is only fine by necessity, though it makes them grind their teeth. At least Constantin was known and respected, even as an outsider. Fifty years of service and protection freely given will do that, even if it will also make your brothers in faith question why you are so tolerant of the pagans and the unbelievers. Not to mention the monsters, in appearance if not essence. ''The Sognefjord,'' Marcus'' translucent finger hovered over the map of Norway, so that it seemed to actually be touching the King of Fjords. ''We are...surprised, the Aesir are only making their move now.'' ''Permission to speak freely, sir?'' Rivka Peretz''s fangs made her sound like she was always holding in a growl. That, and her permanent shark grin, clashed with the long, dark braids and watery grey eyes, which did little to make her look friendlier. But you could have worse problems, as a ghoul. Rivka''s family had come to Romania after the Revolution, when we were still politely debating whether the Party should be replaced with a democracy, a meritocracy, or if we should just go ''fuck it'' and throw ourselves at the mercy of the nicest supernaturals. And, as Romanians are wont to do in the rare occasions we don''t have a yoke around our collective neck, we tried all three and managed none. The Meritocratic Mage Party was still getting hyped up these days, as far as I could tell whenever I hated myself enough to watch politics. Let the most skilled, competent and powerful rise to power, and maybe if they''re nice too, we won''t end up in a magical oligarchy. The fact most of them looked human probably didn''t hurt, either. Maybe I should run for President sometime in the future, to balance this anthropocentrism. The Peretz family had traveled to Romania because the patriarch had been a pretty big fanboy of Benjamin Fondane-Barbu Fundoianu, if you''ll forgive me for not using the Frenchsona-and his wife hadn''t trusted him to watch himself out of Israel, however short his stay was. But one thing turned into another, then they had a girl, and by then, they really weren''t in a hurry to go back home. I didn''t know how Rivka had become a ghoul. I wasn''t sure what the process in general was, or if there even was one, and it would have been rude to try and guess. I had once barred my swollen, veiny neck to her, to show I wasn''t shy about the way I''d died, but she''d just told me some undead liked to keep their former lives to themselves. ''Well,'' I had said. ''At least you''re not the shapeshifting desert demon version, then. What do those turn into again? Hyenas?'' ''Think I''d turn into an animal for you, Silva?'' she''d laughed, and- ''Yes?'' Marcus cut into my microsecond-long musing. ''Are we really supposed to believe the Norse gods, being the Norse gods, have been sitting all quiet and nice for three years without their favourite talking head?'' She took Marcus'' frown as an encouragement to go on. ''I know agents are like mushrooms, kept in the dark and fed sh-'' ''Yes, beautiful analogy, agent Peretz.'' The Legionary held up a warning hand at her widening grin. ''This might surprise you, but one of the Aesir''s two best planners is a paranoid, shapeshifting consummate liar, and the other is Loki. They''re not all screaming morons, jumping headfirst into impossible fights.'' "All the time" went unspoken. ''If you believe ARC has been fighting a shadow war without your knowledge because we do not value your opinion, I am happy to let you down. When we don''t tell you about shadow wars, it''s for completely different reasons.'' Marc smirked as the other Crypt agents in the meeting room-all ghosts-muttered in agreement about compartmentalisation and need to know bases. ''You might have noticed we have been advertising our presence, in every country, like the worst cheap movie billboard these last three years? To let the pantheons know the Earth is held by men, for men, and they can''t just waltz in and walk all over us.'' Marc was putting on a brave face for us, acting all impartial, because he had to give an example. He had confessed to me that he feared being denied entry to Pluto''s realm for not aiding him or his family. ''ARC is calling all hands not dealing with the chaos caused by Chernobog''s manifestation.'' This was new to me, at least, and I stood up straighter in my chair. ''When it''s not his worshippers showing their devotion through chaos, it''s people fighting against them, or using him as an excuse for doing whatever they like. The Black God walks the world! This was never foretold! The end of days is coming!'' The ghost didn''t roll his eyes, but only just. ''Perhaps I am poor at reading, but my goat entrails have been showing no apocalypse any time soon. Anyway...we have been lending a hand to most national supernatural law enforcement agencies-FREAKSHOW, Strannyy Okhrannik, Dingdan Baoliu, O Circulo Bizarro-who have been doing likewise to us, and their smaller counterparts.'' I was about to call Marc out for showing off his "multilingualism" (he''d never been the same since possessing that dictionary) when he tapped an unseen button with his left hand, and a section of the whiteboard behind him projected a life-sized, holographic rendition of the events at Sognefjord. Oh, gods. *** I had nothing to gear up with, a thought that had me bitterly swearing at the lack of a cross in case we bumped into some Unseelie Fae on the way to Norway, but my colleagues did. To have a way to truly interact with the world, the ghosts possessed the safesuits ARC had received from Yamada Inc, as a favour for us cleaning up Mars for mankind, but really because Kenji wanted to see his inventions tested by lab rats whose injuries and/or deaths he wouldn''t have to answer for. Each safesuit was simultaneously tougher than a mountain and more flexible than silk. Painted black with white trimming, with non-reflective black visors, each safesuit could take the punch I''d used to first pulverise that mountain golem in Siberia with only a cracked visor, and that was their weakest point. The fact they were this durable meant the ghost could move them as hard and fast as they wanted, giving us thousand of fighters physically on par with me. Rivka put on a safesuit too, because, as a ghoul, she was the squishiest member of our impromptu regiment. She could slap rounds back at a railgun, take tank shells with a bruise and break a speeding train with a tackle, but none of that was worth squat when dealing with even einherjar, let alone Thor and his sons. The safesuit''s toughness, backed up by her ghoulish ferocity and knack for violence, would still make her a valuable asset on the field. We left Omu base with Marc leading us in a safesuit customised to make him look like a centurion ("Because I always wanted to be one", but also because its appearance would help us distinguish him if his voice was drowned out in a hypothetical fight). Rivka tried to hoof it first, running down the mountain fast enough to melt the stone, but one of the ghosts, Albert, picked her up as he realised her plan. Yes, she was more than fast enough to run on water and leave steam in her wake, but we didn''t need to charbroil everything between us and Sognefjord, and only she seemed to want to. The ghoul had grumbled and invented several curses by the time we had reached Norway, with Albert stolidly taking everything in stride. ''Look,'' she told him after stopping to think up new words, and not because she needed to breathe; an ability all ghouls agreed was wonderful when swallowing, and even when eating. ''I''m not-I''m really grateful I flew with Albert Airlines for free, but this is demeaning. Can''t we...'' ''I might have an alternative,'' I suggested after she trailed off. Rivka turned to me, and I could see her curious expression through glass that would have been opaque to humans. ''Leap of faith?'' Shrugging-even if she fell, from orbit, she''d heal- she muttered to Albert to let her go, and her boots hit nothing but air...which became solid when shaped by my will. I didn''t solidify all the air I could perceive-that would have been both excessive and dangerous to the environment in ways I wasn''t qualified to analyse-only the sections she needed to run on. With a whoop and a thumbs up, she started running on the invisible bridge, so fast a sphere of flames formed around her. It was like this that we made our way to Sognefjord. *** Heimdall, as Thor patiently explained to us, grinning cheerfully like we were all out for a beer, couldn''t find Mimir''s head with his farseeing gaze. As neither Odin''s runes, nor his ravens, could find the head, either, the Allfather had ordered his greatest son and warriors to scour the Earth until they found the head, or never return. With a world-shaking laugh at this newest challenge, Thor had called upon his own sons, Magni and Modi, and servants, Pjalfi and Roskva. They had mounted his chariot, drawn by Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjostr, at the head of ten thousand einherjar. Yes, I can into Wikipedia. I can even write down long Norse names. Everything, for a lollipop. As Marcus tried to argue that Aesir presence on Earth was distruptive, riling up both their worshippers and the rest of the world, the Thunderer just smiled and nodded along, like my math teachers whenever I was called to the board. We could all tell how likely he was to agree by the end. ''We share your concern!'' Marcus said, holding out a hand. ''The weft of fate should not have been able to be severed, let alone like this. We will help you find Mimir''s head and set things right, but I beg of you...return to Asgard. The world is already chafing under the presence of the Black God. It cannot take more-'' This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.Thor cracked his back and neck, sighing into his long, wild red beard. Rolling his broad shoulders, the god gestured at himself. ''Unarmed. Beltless. No gauntlets. I come in peace, revenants.'' Funny. I didn''t know Sif went by "peace". ''You,'' he told Rivka, winking. ''Are the first woman to see me not gripping my hammer.'' His stormy grey eyes then turned serious. ''But if you seek to turn us from our course, and bar us from taking back what is rightfully ours...you shall die again, and truly. So swears Thor.'' And the clear sky flashed with lightning, before the frozen fjord cracked open from the teeth-rattling thunder. Because, when gods speak, the world listens. As I stepped forward, to say my piece, I could only think this hadn''t been how I''d expected to spend my November. The einherjar, who had ditched their Iron Age armour for golden, rune-covered plate that left nothing uncovered, stiffened at my approach. One of them, leaning against a round boulder six meters tall and three wide, lightly struck the stone with one elbow, turning it to dust. His way of getting his fellows'' attention, which worked better than expected. Magni and Modi, standing at their father''s sides, stepped out of the chariot to intercept me. The former had his mother''s golden hair and father''s long beard, the latter Thor''s shoulder-length red hair, though he was clean-shaven. They were both so tall I only came up to the base of their bull-like necks, and their arms were thicker around than my thighs. I help up my hands to show I wasn''t going to do anything stupid, but they stood their ground. That was when Hex made himself known. The second most powerful member of ARC''s Salem division, the watchers over magic, Hex had been in the Thule Society in his youth, and had then become one of ARC''s founders. He didn''t hold a candle to his superior, or so the rumours went, but he had still been skilled enough to conceal himself from my strigoi senses. The black mass that streamed out of his white long coat, from under his slouch hat, made me want to gag in a way even meeting Fixer for the first time hadn''t. It grinned as it shaped itself into weapons, the infinitely-sharp blades cutting rents into reality that were sealed shut by Hex''s power. ''They have told you to leave. The ghost has begged. That is unworthy of him, and unworthy of ARC.'' The old mage didn''t move his stitched lips, and my ears registered no sound, but we all heard his voice in our minds. ''We will not ask again.'' ''Making threats, sorcerer?'' moody Modi sneered, drawing a two-headed axe, covered in runes of destruction, from thin air. ''Only promises,'' was the last thing Hex said before he was sent flying. The Einherjar who had snuck in behind him, impossibly fast and quiet, had produced a mallet, then slammed it between the mage''s legs, sending him out of even my sight. His armour scattered like old toys thrown by a disappointed child as he flexed, revealing a long-haired, muscled redhead. I only had time to frown like a moron at his mischievous grin, then he was suddenly in front of me, scarred hand on my throat. And then, I saw stars. *** Loki smiled as he let the glamour fall away, being sure to pet the goats for bearing his presence for so long. Looking like their master hadn''t helped. If anything, it had made things worse, more confusing, and the poor things already had tooth problems. They still bleated in relief when he hopped out of the chariot to stand on water. Bastards. ''The first undead to reach Alpha Centauri without a spaceship...'' the Trickster mused, twinkling eyes easily tracking the Christian strigoi-sounded like a paradox he would devise-far longer than this drab''s universe''s laws should have allowed. ''And that patchwork dabbler is gone, too. I didn''t like his parasite much, either.'' ''Not as much as you still love your voice, obviously,'' Thor scoffed, shaping lighting into a cage to hold ARC''s members. Neither their armours nor undead natures would save them if they attempted to cross, but he didn''t want to kill them if he didn''t have to. Yet. They were all protectors of man, dammit. ''Me wearing foot soldier''s armour was the only worthwhile idea you had today.'' ''Well, if you didn''t want to cross-dress again...'' Loki shrugged, smiling. ''It didn''t have to end like this.,'' the ghosts'' headman, wearing Rome''s history like a king''s rags, called. Then, he reached for an unseen device on the armour, and all Hel broke loose. When ARC evicted the reptilians from Mars, the aliens didn''t ask for recompense for their dead. After all, they were all genetically-engineered and modified, and could build an infinity of reptilians if they wanted. Instead, they had been thankful for being stopped before relations between the Collective and mankind could deteriorate beyond mending. The loss of their quantum experiment at Liam Lloyd''s hands had stung, but only spurred their scientists on. And their remaining star experiment-the extreme labour/combat unit designated "Unscarred" for its extreme physical endurance- had been improved as a result. Drained of lifeforce, the mindless albino was now moved solely by yoctomachines, controlled by the gestalt consciousness that would have been known as the Shaper, if it had ever deigned to name itself to mankind. And now, as the Collective looked to rebuild their image in the eyes of the surface world, its master cried havoc, and let slip the dog of war. The Unscarred teleported right atop Loki, landing a lazy backhand on the Jotunn that smashed him through the water, and then the fjord''s bottom. He did not stop there. The Trickster would later be found in China, nursing a numb nose in a mountain-sized, steaming crater. Magni and Modi were the next it struck. The gods raised their weapons so fast light and space bent around them, and Norway was rocked by the explosion that vapourised Sognefjord and blinded people as far as Denmark. But they were not fast enough. When Heimdall looked for them, he was surprised to learn you could swear in the sun''s core, if you were angry enough. The einherjar cracked their armour and broke their feet and fists, shattered their mountain-splitting blades and island-sinking bludgeons, on its pale, scaled hide. The Unscarred walked through them, turning them to red mist and chunks of golden plate. Thor grinned. ''A worthy opponent! Our battle will be lege-'' he braced himself with one hand as he landed on the moon, pulverising a crater the size of Russia. The reptilian teleported above him an instant later. ''What are you, DreamWorks'' lawyer-?'' Thor did not feel its next punch either, laughing in the vacuum as the moon shattered like an egg under him. Mani would have a cow over this later, as would the other moon gods, but...oh, well. Even the god of fertility couldn''t please everyone. Thor leaned aside from a red-glowing punch as he closed his left hand around its tail. Black spikes sparked against Jarngreipr when he stopped the tail whip. ''Aberrant!'' a rasping voice screamed, and the Thunderer laughed as the incongruence between its thinness and the lizard''s body. Then, he realised it wasn''t coming from its trunk-like throat or barrel chest. ''You recklessly damage this system''s astrography and assault its foremost law enforcement agents-'' Ah. Its master, speaking through its toys? Thor could see the infinitesimal machines with his godly sight-little puppets, moving a bigger one. All at a coward''s fingertips. ''If you spent half as much time helping us as you did yapping,'' he growled. ''Everything would be fine now!'' A gauntleted backhand smashed the albino through Mars, splitting it in half harder than Ares'' spine did when confronted by a real enemy. The Unscarred jumped out of the exposed core, shattering half of the red planet into fist-sized chunks. That was when Thor began worrying. This construct wasn''t evil, nor was its master. But they were stupid and blind, for all their skill in craftsmanship. They couldn''t see they were ruining things even further than that moron from the Emerald Isle had. As such, he had no reason to kill it. Furthermore, he was defender of mankind, and, it seemed, so was it. So, Thor pulled Mjolnir free of Meginjord, creating a hurricane between the humans'' world and the destroyed celestial bodies. Wind screamed into the cold void around the moon and Mars, holding them in place, preventing meteors while he thought of other possible dangers. The big bastard''s scales sported only a tiny hairline crack after he broke Mars in half with its face. These reptilians built well. Maybe he could have them meet the dwarves, and teach them not to be so damn stolid? A little ale never hurt... As the Unscarred hammered his face with punches that would have shattered planets and kicks that would have shaken stars, Thor sought a way to end this pointless, if entertaining, distraction of a brawl. Then, he saw where they were. ''Stupid drake! You''ve given THOR the greatest storm under the sun!'' Hoping to his ancestors that Odin would find a way to fix this-lately, he''d only been worried about getting head from that beheaded old man, despite being married, but he was still the greatest runecaster he knew-Thor tapped into his power, and wrapped Jupiter around Mjolnir, condensing it until it was barely larger than its head. And then, he brought the hammer down. The Unscarred flew faster than most spaceships, turning Saturn into a thin cloud. Uranus and Neptune were barely even visible after it passed through them. As for Pluto...well, no one would be thinking about that as- The Unscarred''s head sported the most gorgeous goose egg Thor had ever beheld, white scales split open to reveal bruised, leathery skin. Its eyes-placid pink at the start of the fight-were now red as blood, and its muzzle was set in a -ha!- thunderous scowl. It didn''t compare to the coterie of angry gods floating behind it, though. Zeus, Poseidon, Hades-and not beating each other bloody, progress!-, Artemis, Mani...and more moon gods than he knew, or could count. That wasn''t the worst part, though. ''Thor,'' Odin''s brow was so furrowed, it was threatening to turn into a trench. "What in Surtr''s flaming bowels are you even doing?!'' Dead Head, Chapter 7
I didn''t know where the hell I was, besides from far, far away from Earth. Maybe even long, long ago? I''d never really been into astronomy, so I couldn''t name the stars around me, at least off the top of my head. Instead, I spun around in the void, trying to fix my superhuman sight on something, anything I could use as a...spacemark? To get back to Earth. I was thousands of times faster than sound, could reach the moon in minutes, but deep space doesn''t care about that sort of speed. So, unless I happened across something I could drain of lifeforce to boost myself, without being crushed under guilt, it looked like it would be a long way home. That was when I spotted them. Hex looked about as well as anyone could after a nutshot from Mjolnir. The old mage''s white coat and ARC uniform were tattered and covered in soot, likely from the speed he had traveled at, and his slouch hat had been lost somewhere along the way, revealing close-cropped, chalk-white hair and equally pale, bland features. Except the stitches, of course. Nacht, darkness itself, roiled and spun around its partner-master?-like the universe''s scariest concerned dog. It sensed my approach, as the dark images flashing across it were replaced by a face made out of storm clouds, with fangs of lightning. ''Silva. You should not be here. No matter.'' Something like jealousy, maybe even concern, entered its screeching voice. ''Hex is hurt. You cannot see me healing him. I will send you to Earth, then follow, once he is safe. Did Thor hurt you, too?'' I blinked at the question, then considered. Thor, like some supernaturals, had such control over his strength that physics obeyed it, rather than the other way around. I had once mentioned supernaturals trying to stop vehicles and being sent flying because they were light. The ones who do that are rookies, amateurs. Experienced ones can do things like lift mountains, or hurt beings tougher than them without affecting the environment. This extended to speed and durability too, allowing them to move faster than lightning without creating sonic booms or setting things on fire, as well as taking immense hits without being sent flying, despite the force. I wasn''t on that level yet. Not that it would have helped, against the Norse god of strength. But...hurt? I rubbed my neck where Thor had gripped me. It had burned, yes, but he was a god, so of course his touch was harmful to strigoi. But, besides that? Thor had thrown me to another star system without breaking the Earth, or me, as a side-effect. If he had hit me, let alone with Mjolnir, I would have been truly dead now, as he had promised. ''I don''t think so,'' I replied. ''But...I can fly, you know. Unless you have a way to speed me along?'' Nacht scoffed, and explained how it was all forms of darkness, allowing people and objects to travel between shadows. ''But before you leave, Silva...you saw what those brutes did, just to get back what they lost out of negligence. They cannot be allowed to have Mimir''s head back. Even if they don''t use his knowledge for revenge against ARC for trying to stop them, they are clearly not fit to watch over it.'' I honestly wasn''t sure about that. Was Nacht, despite its love of destruction, going to propose that ARC should, what, confiscate a pantheon''s possession and keep it because they were incompetent? The suggestion alone would insult the Aesir, never mind doing it. ''I''m not sure I like where you''re going.'' ''Don''t be a fool, strigoi! We must find Mimir''s head and guard it until someone who can and should have it comes along. I know you and Hex have never worked together, but we must help each other in this crisis. If you find the head, or even learn of its location, you must share it with us.'' I thought of Szabo, and how ARC had never mentioned him until I had met him. Were they really in a position to ask me not to keep secrets? No. This was stupid. Nacht was a monster, but bound to Hex''s will. They''d been defending the world since before pops had been born. So, as I approached Nacht''s form, which had shaped itself to show a shadow leading into the Sognefjord, I gave it my answer. ''I promise I''ll help you find the head.'' *** As the strigoi left, Nacht straightened up, grinning. Antlers grew out of its head as its silhouette was reshaped, becoming humanoid. ''A promise...it''s lovely, when you receive things you didn''t even ask for, on top of what you want,'' Chernobog mused to himself, clasping his hands and making Hex dissolve, the bait fading into mana and stardust. ''So obliging, today''s youth!'' *** The Aesir had returned to Asgard by the time I returned from Alpha Centauri, Odin restoring the damage done by his son in his fight with the cyborg revenant that was the Unscarred. The Shaper, as the yoctomachine controller called itself, greeted me as "aberrant Silva" and promised the Collective would not cease its efforts to restore logic to the world. While Odin went to eat crow before the other pantheon leaders for his son''s rashness, my colleagues and I returned to headquarters, where our Head, Aya Reem, congratulated us for the attempt to resolve things peacefully, while doubtlessly cursing the Aesir in her head. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. We were given leave, to a degree, allowed free time and traveling were we wanted as long as we kept an eye out for rumours of Mimir''s head or other godly incursions. That was why, when Szabo came at me like the world''s ugliest comet, I was in the Raised Scale, chatting with Mia. Lucas was at an art gallery in Bulgaria, so she was holding down the fort. The strigoi slammed his hand through my skull up to the wrist as he dragged me out of the shop, Bucharest amd onto the stretch of road between the capital and Urziceni. I didn''t even have time to ask what the fuck was wrong with him, besides everything, when he slammed me down and began tearing me to shreds-you say?-while calling me every synonym of "idiot". ''I thought you were only blind when it came to your nature, David,'' he sneered, my blood and flesh slashing up on his ARC shirt and flayed skin jacket. ''But you are truly blind. Speaking as you wish when you''re a civilian is one, but when you''re ARC? Compromising us?'' Mia flew at him from behind, so fast the ground turned to steam beneath her. Szabo didn''t even look as he backhanded her away, the zmeu''s landing creating a mountain-sized, steaming crater. Even from where I was, I could see her jaw hanging by a strand as she cradled it with one hand, glaring daggers at Szabo while it healed. I saw red. I prepared to drain every fucking blade of grass of lifeforce, and give Szabo a taste of his own medicine, but Lucas did it first. The zmeu was wearing a pair of dark blue sweatpants with white lines running up the sides and a white sleeveless shirt whose back was narrow so it could fit between his wings. He was also wearing Szabo as a glove. Lucas'' clawed hand was buried deep into the strigoi''s chest, wrapped around his spine as he held Szabo four metres off the ground. ''You are assaulting an agent,'' Szabo hissed. "This is official ARC business-" ''If every bloodthirsty bitch could throw on an ARC uniform and be an agent, the world would be up shit creek without a boat,'' Lucas said calmly. ''I could hear your shrill rant from the next country over. Leave Silva alone. And...'' two pairs of blue eyes left Szabo to take in Mia, still healing, yellowish skin forming over torn muscles. Those eyes were shining with blue flames when they returned to the strigoi. ''Her?'' ''She was aiding a rogue element within ARC-'' ''She''s goddamn harmless.'' I didn''t have the heart to call out Lucas for blaspheming. ''So is Silva. I don''t know what he does at work, but if you tried to kill him, then hurt my employee, when she jumped in to help him-'' he was baring his fangs now. ''You know what would have happened if you hadn''t pulled that slap?'' Lucas drew back his own hand, to demonstrate. When the bloody mist coalesced back into Szabo, he didn''t look too pleased. ''Fucking...I need a smoke,'' Lucas grumbled, taking a blunt the size of a cat out of his pocket. Then, putting it in his middle head''s mouth, he gripped Szabo''s jaw with his free hand and tugged lightly. Lucas drew the strigoi''s fangs over his neck''s scales, sparks jumping. He smiled when a fat white one caught the end of his cigar, lighting it. "Ahh...much better." He blew out a ring of smoke into Szabo''s already-healed, bloody face. ''Forgot my lighter in your mother''s cunt when I left to drill your sister. Want this back?'' he waved the mangled jaw in the strigoi''s face, who bared his fangs, saying nothing. Lucas shrugged, crushing it into paste with a twitch of his trashcan lid-sized hand. ''Weird. Judging by your getup, I''d have thought you were into recycling.'' ''I think he got the message, little brother,'' Aaron rumbled, suddenly standing behind Lucas, Szabo now in his hand. The nine-headed zmeu looked like he''d found a slug in his salad. ''Didn''t I promise I''d kill you if you came to Romania?'' ''Know him?'' Lucas grumbled around his blunt. ''Oh, yes. From back when our countries were comrades. Still remember that gruesome "cravat" of his...'' Aaron trailed off as Szabo opened his mouth, glaring. ''Yes, I was retired. On retainer, actually. Ready to re-enter service, if needed. And they called me back. I was in Constan?a before I smelled your foul carcass.'' Aaron''s building-sized body was clad in a Navy Admiral''s uniform covered in so many medals, I was sure they''d have crushed a human. At his joints, bands of bronze, linked by nigh-invisible wires, gleamed. His war-harness, able to shapeshift, enhance his body and create any tool and weapon he could need. I dearly wished he''d put a cross through Szabo''s skull. ''I doubt your superior likes you crossing borders to assault colleagues, Loric. Should I throw you to Giza, to have a talk?'' ...Alright. Enough of watching the byplay like a slack-jawed moron. ''What the fuck is going on here?!'' Aaron gave me a series of avuncular smiles, with all heads. ''You should check your aura, Silva. Darker than I-or you, I think-believe you''re used to. But besides that...Romania''s legends are being called to war, lest the gods break the world. Have you ever wanted to meet your heroes?'' Dead Head, Chapter 8
''If you give in to that darkness,'' Szabo sneered, pointing a clawed finger at me. Aaron had released him from his grip. ''And slaughter the world, I''ll never forgive you for stealing my spotlight!'' I tried to scowl furiously, but incredulity stopped me. Though, perhaps, I shouldn''t have been surprised. This guy had killed himself using one of the most ridiculous methods I had ever heard of, simply because his human life had been unremarkable. And, considering his theatrics in the field...of course he was obsessed with leaving his mark on history. But I wasn''t. ''Thanks for the warning,'' I said coldly. ''But, unlike some people, I''m not ruled by my strigoi impulses. I''ve been holding them at bay for years, and I won''t lose now.'' Szabo slowly, hesitantly lowered his arm, like I''d just argued how the sky was obviously green. He moved his incredulous eyes from me to Aaron, brow furrowed. ''Is he the only one here who can''t see...?'' ''It''s faint to me,'' Lucas grumbled, stubbing out his purple-glowing blunt against a scaled palm. ''But...it''s there. And it''s new. Your spiritual self has never been this dark, Silva. Aari?'' The older zmeu shrugged. ''I suppose his true sight isn''t at its best yet,'' Then, apparently having gotten bored of talking about me like I wasn''t there, he studied me with nine pairs of crimson eyes. ''Have you been anywhere spiritually-toxic lately, Silva? Or met anything or anyone...twisted?'' Was Nacht''s nature really so pervasive and...contagious? Was my soul tainted merely from interacting with it? If yes, I couldn''t imagine what Hex''s looked like, if he even still had one. I hadn''t looked. Come to think of that, I hadn''t looked at mine lately, either. At least, not since meeting it in Alpha Centauri. My arcane sense slid over my sight, and I turned it inward, but my soul looked the same as always: ragged and grey, and wrapped around and through my body and mind infinitely tighter than any human''s. Dark flecks drifted in and out of it, but they always did-my strigoi instincts, coming and going. There was no surrounding darkness, whatever these three were seeing. Although...they all had more experience and sharper senses than me. Or was I merely blinded to whatever was wrong with my soul? Nacht was the darkness inside men, and would never miss a chance to twist or break unless stopped by Hex...who had been unconscious during our meeting. But even so, Nacht shouldn''t have been able to affect or corrupt me by esoteric means. It was not a deity. It didn''t have holy powers. ''Return to Giza, Loric,'' Aaron was now looking down at the strigoi, thoughtful frowns on his faces. ''Or wherever you came from. Silva, I''d advise you to call your Head. Romania''s Crypt agents are gathering in Constan?a, as are a few people I''m sure you''ve read about-'' ''Why not one of our bases?'' ''Joint op.'' Aaron''s frowns deepened at my interruption. He was slipping back into the officer''s mindset, thought it was highly debatable if he had ever left it. ''You think Greuceanu or Iovan Iorgovan would trust an organisation with allegiance to no nation over the descendants of their fellow countrymen?'' I tried to suppress the dumb smile that threatened to split my face at the mention of my childhood heroes. Judging by Aaron''s soft-barely louder than most gunshots-snort, I was only partly successful, if at all. But before that... ''Szabo,'' I tried to ignore the strigoi''s nakedness as he spun around to look at me, and prayed he''d stop to buy some clothes before flying to Egypt. ''Why take care not to wreck Bucharest while you beat me? You even dragged me out of the city. And...Mia?'' I grit my teeth as I glanced at the zmeu who was shakily getting to her feet in the crater, still glaring at Szabo. ''Why not just kill her, rather than slap her away?'' Szabo''s incredulous look briefly returned, then left as quickly as it had come, replaced by a broad, fanged grin. ''You know nothing, David Silva~'' he quoted, scratching inside the hole in his chest with one hand. ''Any murderer can drown a city in blood-who''ll remember that?! And killing a woman out of callousness? Cliched,'' he spat the word like it was the vilest insult he could imagine. ''Loric Szabo kills killers and torments monsters until they break! That is how the world will think of me as it wails my name, eons from now!'' And with that little dramatic proclamation, he was gone, faster than I could see. Aaron snorted again, this time much louder, eyes fixed on something I couldn''t see. ''Still obsessed with his legacy...you''d think a family would be enough for that,'' he shook his heads, leaving the air rippling with heat. ''Come on, Silva.'' *** [REDACTED] ARC Facility, Greenland, 2030 Aya Reem felt bone-weary as she sat down in her chair, and the meeting hadn''t even started. It had been a pain to even get there effectively: Geb and Nut, contemptuous of her neutrality in the pantheons'' struggle, had refused to help her travel by land or sky. She also had the vague feeling they were having a lovers'' spat. It had been Thoth, who claimed to have forgotten more than Mimir who ever learned, who had helped her tread Duat to arrive safely. ''Of course, child,'' he had laughed, beak somehow twisted into a smile. ''I''m happy you''re such a simple girl. Lets the sages show why they are sages.'' And she had smiled back, and bowed, because eating shit from the gods was what being their champion meant. ''Smile more, babe,'' a voice alternating between a growl and a lilt spoke. Aya looked up to see Samuel Shiftskin drop from the ceiling with a grin, somehow landing in a slouch in his chair at the round table. The wendigo''s body, nearly three metres tall, was barely visible under the skins he wore to shapeshift into humans. His power took care of everything else. ''You will deepen those bags around your pretty eyes~'' The former skin-walker crooned, face rippling in the shadows of his leather hood, from human to deer to hawk, but always fanged. ''And...I think I''ve reached my daily quota of misoginy.'' ''Harassment, too,'' she said primly. Then, to keep the tradition alive...''Who are you wearing?'' Sam grinned like the world''s most bloodthirsty child, grabbing and lifting his patchwork cloak. "Charlie M.", "Son of Sam"-"for the irony, natch"- and dozens more names were formed by yellowed teeth stitched into the leather. His face was covered by a stretched, scarred mask that had been hideous long before Sam had torn it off its former owner, on that fateful night in Springwood. ''Why are you sad? Really. Tell me, and I''ll go shopping again.'' The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. The Head of the Salem division doing that for her was not exactly on Aya''s bucket list. But...''Loric.'' ''You can''t have an attack bitch and whine when he bites, mummy.'' ''Not my bitch,'' Aya sighed, wishing their colleagues would arrive faster. ''Cut the mummy jokes out. I just wish he wasn''t so impulsive...'' ''Did he turn that city into collateral?'' That brought a dry smile to her lips. ''You know he doesn''t do that. Every monster can, and he wants to be special, remembered.'' ''I think his grandkid remembers him, out of self-defense if nothing else. And his kids...do they know him? I forget.'' ''That''s because you''re always thinking who to mangle next, Shifty!'' a bass voice harrumphed as Leon Gilles entered. The Luna division''s Head was in his hybrid form, his golden gryphon eyes taking in the room in an instant, looking at the corners for bugs and wards. He tried to smile amicably at Aya, who, at one metre seventy, was less than half his height, but the blood on his beak ruined the image. ''Coyote made a fake moon over Toronto, and everyone in headquarters busted out the fur, feathers and scales! Some chitin, too. Felt like Benedict from Captain at Fifteen handlin'' ''em,'' T=the weregryph shook his head, folding his wings as he took his seat. ''Sorry I''m late. Just flew in from Canada-'' ''And boy, are your arms tired!'' Sam grinned-his petty revenge for the "shifty" comment. Then, his face turned more serious, and was replaced by an ox''s dully-glaring visage. ''What''s your treasure at the moment?'' ''Myself. That way, I''m untouchable long as I''m safe.'' And due to his nature, no one could harm Leo while he was defending himself. ''In case ya were thinkin'' what to break.'' ''And why''d I be thinkin'' aboot that, ya hoser?'' ''Are they courting each other again?'' Ying Lung snickered, slipping through a wall like light through a window. The celestial dragon''s intestines hung from his slim, split ivory belly like lank scarves, and he spent a few moments wrapping them around himself, to prevent distraction. ''Ne Zha''s way of asking why a child of Heaven would put earthly matters over his home''s interests. You should''ve seen my answer...'' another snicker, whiskers twitching. ''And don''t get me started on the headaches in Drake. They brought up family loyalty, too.'' Ying shot Aya a meaningful look, pulling his ivory pipe from an aetheric pocket and his gourd from another. He rolled his white, black-slit eyes at her disapproving glance, coiling up like the world''s most satisfied snake. ''It''s ?tea, my lotus flower. The only things I drink on the job are my enemies'' tears.'' ''Careful with the flattery. Sam will feel you''re muscling in on his turf.'' ''No! How could he compliment you in front of Gilles?!'' The banter and bad jokes continued, the Heads trying to ignore their anxiousness as the rest arrived. Tamar Thousandhands, burned, hairless flesh barely visible under Kabbalistic patterns and pentagrams. Israel to Greenland was just a step, from his and his legion of demons'' perspective. Elsbeth Crane, today a glowing, antlered silhouette. The Scion Head had asked her power how to best battle the Black God, and it had turned her into Belobog, or at least something with his power. Amara al-Hazred, as grim as her ancestor and twice as mad-or Mad, depending whom you asked. Her colourless robes concealed a belly bearing the stretch marks of spawn she had never asked for-a gift from the human side of her family, trying to push the limits of mankind''s tolerance to being loved. The serene cast of her olive features showed little of a madness so sharp, it had reforged itself into focus in Miskatonic''s halls, remaking the Head of the division also bearing that name. Gerald Reyes, of Camelot, was the last to arrive, though not the last of their number. The English mage muttered "this room shall be imperceivable", then sat down, the law active. Running a hand through his close-cropped grey hair, he adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles with the other, before clasping his hands in his lap. Smiling slightly at the absence of his usual pain in the neck, he nevertheless gave Aya, the first to arrive, a curious look. ''Where''s Johnny?'' Leo and Sam both opened their mouths, causing Ying to rap his pipe on the table. ''Don''t,'' he told Gerald with a distressed grimace. ''Give them material.'' ''Gaol John is treading the paths of the dead,'' Amara whispered, lips unmoving. ''All his selves are looking for traitors and moles within ARC. Internal Affairs are running themselves ragged looking for religious zealots and pantheon-supporters. As are External Affairs, regarding our alleged allies and informers,'' she preempted his next question. Gerald nodded, preparing his announcement. ''My esteemed colleagues-'' ''Skip,'' Sam yawned, crocodile jaws cracking. ''Gerry Mander.'' If Gerald could kill with a glance-at the moment- the wendigo would have had a hole burned through his head after this breach in protocol. But the mage had always been able to put rules aside, when necessary. Regaining his poise, he sat up straighter. ''After long, if not patient, deliberation, the pantheons have agreed descending to Earth as they want, ignoring their rivals'' wishes, is counterproductive to the maintenance and future positive development of the Syncretic Treaty.'' Silence. ''The ?Dagda said that?'' it was Leon who broke the ice. ''I''m paraphrasing!'' ''Ya know, paraphrasin'' is supposed to make things shorter...just sayin''!'' he added at Gerald''s look. ''As I was saying,'' Gerald bit out. ''They have agreed to work together, if only because they still want worship, even if they''d rather break and remake Earth than be careful. So, they''ve agreed to send champions in their names. They are gathering at the following spots...'' after he rattled off the list, Gerald glanced around the table, looking each fellow Head in the eyes. ''Liaison proposals?'' Interlude: ARC at war
Toronto, Canada, 2030 As his silver gauntlet came down on the werebeetle''s head, Leon Gilles sighed. Not because this was tiring or boring, but because he had to beat his subordinates. With eyes that could count the hairs on a fly on the horizon, Leo looked up at the moon that was not a moon. Coyote, like many of his counterparts, often flouted the Syncretic Treaty to stay off Earth, as tricksters were wont to do. However, he, usually, didn''t come this far north, preferring to skulk and lurk in the States, looking for evil to punish and fools to mock, in painfully ironic ways. It was only the trickster''s power that helped prevent a worldwide, and worse, catastrophe, for the moon he had created out of nothing was just as large and heavy as the real one. It was also his power that somehow kept it in the confines of the city''s airspace, despite the fact that it was the size of the bloody moon. Coyote had cited ''some bet with a Raven'' as the reason for his arrival, but he hadn''t yet explained what the bloody hell he was trying to do- ''Lion-bird!'' the trickster called down to Leo, standing on air as he spun the moon on a clawed finger. The weregryph didn''t even want to imagine what would have happened if the thing obeyed physics. ''A wager-if you can stop the moon, I''ll tell you why I maddened your pack! Deal?'' "Stopping the moon" was probably going to be one of those stupid metaphors whose meaning he only realised after the story was over. Leon flashed back to his nana, shivering. But... Weres lost it under the full moon, their human side overcome by animalistic instincts. Only the most disciplined, a category he would place himself in, at the risk of puffing himself up, managed to keep calm (and carry on) long enough to isolate themselves until they wrestled their wits back from their beasts. Just to be sure, though, he had used his gift to fully shield himself from any influence. Gryphons were often thought of as guardians of treasures, and, for some reason, Leo could designate a being, object, place or even concept as his treasure, and become invulnerable while defending it, untouchable to even silver, the moon''s touch, or a god''s wiles. It didn''t enhance his strength, not really. At most, he could exert his body to the max without hurting himself. But he didn''t need more power. He was strong enough. ''Deal,'' he muttered, bracing, and Coyote grinned, lifting the moon overhead like he was preparing to spike a ball. Over seventy-three sextillion kilograms of rock came down at Leon at nine-tenths of lightspeed, and he knew that, for all the laws of science were crying in the corner at the moment due to Coyote bullying them, the planet would be obliterated by such an impact. That was why, Leon decided, it would never land. With a wingbeat that shattered glass across Toronto, Leon rose to meet the moon that was glowing red from the speed, and, drawing his head back, smacked it a good one. His headbutt sent the satellite flying upwards even faster than it had come down, and Coyote laughed, stopping it easily with a finger, like they were playing volleyball. ''The wager was to stop the moon, lion-bird, not push it back! I should teach you to watch a trickster''s words, but...bah. You''re good for a laugh. Almost like that werephant who tried to cool Africa down!'' The lunatic had tried to drag the continent to the North Pole after tying huge chunks of it to himself with his own tendons. It would have broken under his reckless strength if not for...well. That was a story for another day. ''Here is today''s wisdom: only the stoutest children of the moon can keep their minds while their mother shines full. Know whose will is feeble, Leon Gilles.'' Then, with a thought, Coyote erased the fake moon from existence. Humming thoughtfully, he glanced at the real moon, raising two fingers so that he looked like he was pinching it between them. Still humming, he spun the moon, until it became a crescent. ''Aren''t you glad Geirtir brough the heavens back after his son broke them with the drake''s head? Now, I''m sorry to say I must leave. Got a world to save, and a war to prevent!'' ''As do I,'' Leon mutters, watching the trickster skip away on moon beams. ''As do I...'' *** [Redacted] jungle, Honduras, 2030 Camazotz had never been a beloved god. He had never cared much for humanity, either, not since those twins had blundered into his realm with their ridiculous antics. But that didn''t mean he''d leave this world defenseless, if it was imperiled. Take the old monster before him, for instance. There were some among mankind, bless their little beating hearts, not that he ever would, who truly believed their Shattering had only changed the future, but Camazotz saw time from both sides, with a god''s eyes. The past had been remade, so that it had always been. If one were to return to the peak of the Maya, they would find the monsters in their stories treading the mountains and jungles, for all that such beings had only come into existence during the Second World War. (An absurd name, if Camazotz had ever heard one. Like there hadn''t been so many before it...) So it was that vampires had always existed. The monster who looked like a man-a tiny, hunched, chinless, hairy, blocky-faced man, but a man nonetheless-was their father. Primus, so named by others, because names, or words, hadn''t been a thing during his youth, had been cursed after drinking dry the daughter that had been meant to be blessed by all the gods and ancestors their tribe had worshipped in primal, grunting rites. Cursed to always thirst, Primus'' desire to lead and protect his people had been twisted into the urge to rule and crush his thralls, just as many of them were twisted into his first "childlings". Primus, in the rare occasions he became dimly aware of his spawn, viewed them as a scorpion would: small, weak, annoying emergency food. Or maybe a hamster was a batter analogy, given his looks, Camazotz mused as he tackled the first vampire out of Honduras-he usually didn''t come this far south, preferring to unknowingly play Chupacabra in Mexico- and into the sun. It wouldn''t turn him to ash, as the bastard was too tough for that, and sunlight didn''t kill vampires, anyway. It merely locked away their esoteric powers, and that was what Camazotz sought. They landed in the sun''s core, raining blows upon each other that shook the star, making its surface ripple like a puddle in a monsoon. Camazotz''s touch, holy for all it was dark, couldn''t slay the vampire. He was still weak to blessed things, as all his kind were, but far, far mightier than any descendant of his. It was the reason the pantheons had preferred to let him be, as long as his predations were kept modest. Primus pushed him away, a coarse curse on his lips that was silenced by the airless, crackling roar of the sun''s core. Camazotz grinned mirthlessly into that pinched, beady-eyed face, creating bats around himself like a mortal might wrap a cloak around his body. They spun and spun as they gathered, forming silently-shrieking spheres larger and heavier than all the worlds around this star combined; grasping them with his will like a warrior would a spear, Camazotz threw them at the grimacing vampire, while taking a deep breath. Plasma filled his godly chest, blazing harmlessly, and Camazotz exhaled darkness. It rushed out faster than the light whose absence it was, for darkness was always there first when light arrived, and erased a chunk of the sun out of existence, leaving a screaming gap that could swallow worlds. Primus huffed in confused annoyance as the darkness surrounded him, but his vampiric nature made his existence a fact of reality. He wouldn''t be erased, but that was just fine; Camazotz merely sought to dull his senses while his bats, guided and protected by his power and will, flew through the void to tear at him. Let Primus be eaten alive for once. See how he- A languid swipe turned the bat spheres into clouds of gory mist, and Camazotz scowled in annoyance. The old freak had hoped to use the confusion caused by this-no pun intended- head hunt to sate his thirst with a continent or five, maybe turn the survivors into slaves. And the bat god would have none of that. Maybe he could finally gain some worshippers who weren''t just edgy manchildren...? Musing over enlightened self-interest, Camazotz nevertheless kept an eye on Primus as he rocketed out of the void, space bending around him while light was left behind. It was only Camazotz''s divine senses that let him perceive- Nothing. The bat god blinked as he willed himself back into existence. His mind had been erased too, but that was not an obstacle for a god like him. A quick look told him Primus had suffered the exact same fate, judging by his bemused frown, but the first vampire was nearly as hard to put down. But who... ''Please cease this conflict, or I will have to take serious action.'' The newcomer''s voice was velvet-soft, thin, androgynous: a scholar in a library, afraid to disturb the peace, or an ingenue at her first ball. The ARC uniform did not help with identifying the speaker''s gender, nor, to his confusion, did Camazotz''s senses. They were tall and slim, with dark skin, curly raven hair and features that could have belonged to either a man or a woman. Primus stared at them like a jaguar that had stopped to drink, only to see a crocodile snap out at it. The Nightraiser smiled back, meaninglessly. ''The pantheons are calling for a ceasefire, old bat. Go, and choose your champion, if you would have one in the struggle to come.'' *** Noite Tranquila clinic, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 1973 The child does not remember its name. It does not remember its gender, either: partly because it has willed itself to forget, after the latest time its mother had loved it, partly because it has cut out anything that could help anyone identify it as a boy or a girl. The child hopes it will not be punished for that, but knows it is a vain hope. After its father died-complications from too many donated organs, greed for money and favors masked in altruism-its mother has made sure to love it, every night. It is the only family she has left in the world. The child remembers its mother''s hands, and mouth. They are the only things it can remember here, down in the darkness. It is not aware that no child should ever have to know such things, before they have even learned what lust is. If it were able to exit the basement, ascend the stairs and see its home, it would learn its mother is seen as a cheerful, respectable doctor in the city, never letting herself be distracted from her purposes of helping those who cannot help themselves. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. That night, the child stares into the darkness, waiting for its mother to come, wondering she will do when she see it has removed the parts she loved he most(what were they? What had it been?). And the Darkness stares back. The Darkness is nothing, and less than nothing. Indeed, it is the gaps in the dreams of creation, the uncertain shadows at the edges of its maker''s sight. Years later, the child will meet a colleague bound to a laughing, joyfully malicious, infinitesimal facet of the Darkness. As its mother comes down the stairs and flicks on the light, gasping at the wounds before beginning to rant in outrage, the child closes its eyes. It is so, so tired... The woman is erased from existence, so thoroughly only a few select beings will be able to remember she ever existed. So is everything in the child''s line of sight, once its eyes are closed. The house collapses, but the child is not harmed. For the Darkness has touched it, and everything it is not aware of is erased. The debris is unmade just as thoroughly as the mother who has never been as it falls towards the child. Later, the being who would become known as the Fixer, but is currently known as the Handyman, leans over the confused survivor of this strange disaster. Hands on hips, or as close as such a being can come, sees the yawning void that has crawled inside it, binding itself to the child''s perception. The Handyman scratches at his centre with a shapeless appendage. This child is the carrier, maybe enforcer of the absence that is, if not the enemy of the All-In-One, then certainly its opposite... ''What did you do, little one?'' he asks softly, hoping not to frighten it any more than it has already, lamentably, been. The child looks up at the being that is not yet-as much as such things can apply to his ilk- the Fixer yet, with black-on-black eyes. ''I blinked,'' the Nightraiser answers. *** Deep space, 2030 Gharghalos, briefly and fearfully known as the Forgetful in the languages of many former civilisations it had incorporated into itself, starting with its native one, was not a cruel being. It was created with the purpose of remembering, for its makers had been beings of flesh and blood, prone to growing old and senile with the passing of time. The machine that stood at the centre of its core had been created to memorise, to record, to store, and given enough intelligence and free will to decide for itself what things were worth remembering. So, it had ate its world, and its creators. Their knowledge was sometimes available to it, but it kept slipping out of its mental grasp. Travelling the cosmos, Gharghalos had come into contact with an anomalous entity that could only be described as a void in the fabric of spacetime. Possessed of a rudimentary sentience, the being had felt something akin to constant hunger, or greed. The need to take more and more into itself. Gharghalos had consumed it, and so had the being, in turn. They had become one, but the emptiness of the being, for all the power it had given it, had made fulfilling Gharghalos'' original purpose all but impossible. That insatiable greed tore at its memory, at its cogitators and organic brains, so that memories and records slipped in and out of its mind, vexing it to no end. Worse, Gharghalos had also gained the being''s appetite, and now always vied for more. Viewed from afar, Gharghalos would have looked like an enormous, amorphous, multi-coloured cloud of flesh and metal and light, the size and weight of a thousand myriad galaxies. Gharghalos is too large to perceive the Milky Way with its optical receptors. Instead, it senses, on a small world in one of the galaxy''s spiral arms, an anomaly, much like the being it had once encountered, but worse. Gharghalos does not know this, but Atlantis died on Earth, and its death, for all that it is kept at bay by its Watcher, scares even the oceans'' greatest abominations. But the Forgetful feels only the fascinating imprint of the disaster, and the knowledge contained in the ruins. It desires them for itself- One of Gharghalos'' eyes trembles and shakes as a projectile pierces halfway through it. Such weapons would usually be laughably outdated, were this projectile not a former galaxy, remade to be denser than neutronium, and hold itself together while moving close to lightspeed. The Watcher Over Horror tilts their head to one side, thoughtful as they examine the newest would-be plunderer of their lost home. The giant undead knows everything pertaining to their charge, and is present wherever they must be to defend it. Their throw should have been enough to get the monster''s attention...ah. A raised gauntlet stops a tentacle that can only be likened to a solid galaxy cluster, and the universe trembles. The Watcher pushes back, and Gharghalos rockets to the edge of observable space, and beyond, the Watcher leisurely keeping pace. It raises its weapon, preparing to deal Gharghalos a death blow, when the ARC agents butt in. As they always do. Equilibrium has cultivated enough that she can now perfectly balance anything. For example, giving herself strength and stature equal to the Watcher, so that they are balanced in status. An open palm strike splits Gharghalos in half, making space bend. Li Xiu, growing up surrounded by opium addicts, watching all her children and grandchildren die as the First and Second World Wars came to feed them to the furnace of death, has never been able to find peace in the material world. Even so, the cultivator would not have looked out of place in any town of her homeland: the small, plump woman, white hair arranged into buns, only stood out due to her ARC tracksuit. Ying Lung, drawing upon the powers of Heaven to enhance his size, if not his power, comes at the monster from beneath with a roar of "Milky Way flowing!" as he devours Gharghalos as a shark would a minnow. The celestial dragon gives the Watcher a jaunty wave as he pats his belly, shaking the universe from here to Earth. The Milky Way has traditionally been seen as a river, and Ying Lung has traditionally been seen watching too much sentai while shaping his fighting style. And the Argument Engine, created to reason and having evolved far beyond that-to most beings, the acausal machine has created itself, by talking the multiverse into believing that it has always been, but the Watcher knows and sees better- can talk almost anything into anything. ''No one has observed our confrontation with the creature,'' it begins, Turing''s placid tones somehow echoing in the vacuum. Its creator (it has never been created, for such a marvelous machine would never fail to stop its father from killing himself, no; it has always been) has made it to be charismatic and articulate, things he had never seen himself as being. ''As such, no one can say it happened, for they have no proof. Therefore, it did not happen.'' And reality remakes itself, convinced by the Engine''s reasoning. There is no damage left-no disturbed superclusters, no gravitational anomalies, no tears in spacetime- from the fight that has never happened. ''If a monster dies in space,'' Ying snickers at the Engine, blowing a grinning steam dragon out of his pipe while returning to his normal stature. ''And there''s no one to hear it scream, does it truly die?'' The Engine looks like a featureless, polished chrome sphere surrounded by a myriagon. Even so, its frown is palpable. ''That is one of the stupidest thought exercises I have ever heard. If I didn''t know better, I''d say you came up with it. Sir.'' The Engine was not placed in Internal Affairs for its charm or respect for superiors, but for its power and suspicion (not to mention abysmally low opinion) of everyone besides itself. ''Now, now, Engie, honoured Lung,'' Equilibrium smiles, wagging a finger, as the Engine starts ranting that they don''t even know if Gharghalos could communicate verbally, let alone in vacuum, so the thought exercise is thrice as dumb as the one with the tree. ''Discord among the ranks is like worms in apples. It might make things meatier, but not better. Sun Tzu.'' ''Sun Tzu never said-'' the Engine would shake its head if it had one. ''You''re starting to sound like the dragon, old hag.'' ''This banter is hilarious,'' the Watcher lies. ''But, may we ask why two thirds of ARC''s shock squad and the Head of the Drake division have decided to drop in, uninvited, into a a fight we had under control?'' ''We know it is your purpose to defend Atlantis,'' Equilibrium says, clasping her hands and bowing. ''And we-'' ''Yes, Aya Reem thanked us for that. That was not our question.'' The cultivator looks pained at their brusqueness. Good. They hadn''t asked to be helped during a bloody warmup. ''The answer to your question, you tunnel-visioned monomaniacal asshat,'' the Engine replies. ''Is that we helped-it''s a favour, try looking it up, if you can, with that bucket on your head-so that you would listen to us: the gods are ceasing hostilities, and we do not need you tossing sea gods or their representatives out of the ocean because you believe they might be dangerous to that ghastly shit-hovel-'' ''What Engie means,'' Equilibrium cuts in, eyes annoyed to match her twitching smile. ''Is that you have been thorough enough in removing possible dangers to Atlantis, whether they intended harm or not. But things have calmed down now. You can stop. As for why we are here...Engie and the Nightraiser will likely be part of the taskforce sent to scout Yggdrassil for Mimir''s head. The Aesir have failed to find anything, but perhaps outside perspectives will help. The rest of the "shock squad"-goodness, are people really calling us that? We''re considered special for our powers and skills, but we''re not a team, let alone a named one- are too busy too attend. The Fourfold is hunting, we''re still looking for Hex, and Fixer...'' Equilibrium''s tone as she trails off makes it clear she is trying to appear unsure whether she should reveal his location, even to an old ally. She does not succeed. She sounds terrified. ''Fixer is directing a flute performance at the blind care centre,'' the Engine says, not quite managing to hide the horror beneath its sarcasm. If the Dream is so close to fraying that Fixer had to go before the Black Throne and help the players go on... The Watcher understands. But, when they return to Atlantis, it is with more questions and fears than they would have liked. Dead Head, Chapter 9
I almost nodded at Aaron''s words, then remembered I couldn''t leave just yet. ''Wait,'' I held up a hand, and the zmeu''s tense wings relaxed infinitesimally. His faces did not; at least, not the four that turned to glance down at me with a mix of disbelief and exasperation. "Is this how ARC prepares its agents? Getting caught with their pants down just when we should get into gear?" must have been his thoughts, or something along those lines. Yeah, well, sorry, old man. We haven''t all spent decades on the Black Sea''s shores or a warship''s deck, ready to blast Turkey to superheated steam with a breath if they made one shady move. Still wondered if his tail was split during one of those staring contests. And I wasn''t at my -horrendously low bar incoming-mental best. Szabo''s gentle treatment of me hadn''t been the problem (though the fact it hadn''t been was probably a problem in of itself. My strigoi side, less of an alternate personality and more of a really loud subconscious, relished violence and mayhem, which meant events that would have left my human side either screaming or staring off into the distance, were just things that happened) as much as his reason for it, vague as it was, if he even had one. He''d rambled about me saying things I shouldn''t as an ARC agent, but what had he meant? And what was that darkness him and the older zmeu brothers had seen? My pop culture sense tingled, mildly notifying me that this had every chance to turn into some beautiful soap opera misunderstanding, subtype: tragic, if I didn''t ask what the hell had everyone so clenched. ''I should have spoken to Szabo before he left,'' couldn''t believe my words, either. ''But I guess I was too stupid to remember until after. Going by his words, and yours, do you think I''m...possessed, or something? I can''t tell.'' I couldn''t keep the worry out of my voice, but at least I didn''t stutter. All of Aaron''s faces turned to me, a few blinking slowly, eyes closing sideways, as they only did when he was thoughtful, from what Luci had told me. Lucas was fingering his pockets for another blunt, two of his heads looking up at his older brother, one biting its lip. His middle head turned to glance at Mia in worry. Zmei never really bonded with their children as humans do, or at least should, but Lucas had never mated. I guess he had adopted her, in a way. ''I think you are still yourself, David,'' the Bronze Boyar said carefully, and I almost gawked. This was the first time he had used my name. ''Whatever that shade around you is, it''s not corrosive or cloying, like the possessions I''m used to. It would take a god to possess a strigoi, anyway...'' Three heads shook, and I found myself nodding. The only gods I''d ever met were Thor and his sons, and they weren''t known for staining people''s souls. ''As for why we can see it, but you can''t? It''s either wrought so it''s hidden from your sight, or our senses are simply keener than yours. But, if you want a fourth opinion,'' Aaron''s tone lightened almost imperceptibly as he jerked his head at something behind me. ''I think there''s one incoming.'' Mia''s jaw still looked raw when she touched down behind me, yellow flesh covered in angry purple bruises that were slowly being hidden by patches of yellow-orange flesh. It didn''t stop her from grinning toothily at me, though her eyes were concerned as they roamed over me. Then, her gaze moved from me, to her boss, to his older brother, and she chuckled self-deprecatingly. ''Am I even allowed to hear whatever secret shit you''re gossiping about?'' she rasped. ''Without getting silenced later, I mean.'' ''Perhaps not all of it, hatchling,'' Aaron said in a surprisingly gentle voice. ''Mr. Silva-I think you are acquaintances, if I remember correctly?-has hit a rough patch at work, and it''s left its mark on him. We were wondering if he seemed...different, to you?'' Mia''s attention returned to me, and her eyes changed shade slightly, from gleaming scarlet to a deeper red, like old blood. ''Nah, he still looks good enough to eat,'' her tone was droll, but I could still feel her spiritual eyes moving over my soul. ''About as ragged and grey as he imagines he is, but...whatever is that shitty ink blot? And why is it shaped like that?'' ''Yes, I wondered that too,'' Lucas chimed in, apparently having chosen not to smoke. ''Denser, for lack of a better term, around the head. Hmm...'' ''This can''t be a possession, then,'' I said, annoyed at standing around like an idiot while I was examined. ''No demon, or god, or whatever, would leave such obvious evidence that even Mia could see it.'' ''Ouch, teach!'' Her right hand closed over her heart, index finger tapping her flat chest. ''You''ll have to make up for that later...'' ''I meant that you haven''t exactly been training your arcane sense to spot spiritual traces,'' I said placatingly, before my voice became firmer. ''As much of a rotten shit Szabo is, he was right: even if he didn''t figght back and hurt you, you''d still be guilty of assaulting an ARC agent. What the hell made you jump in?'' ''Helping you,'' she shot back, clenching her jaw. The action drew a pained whine from her, and I winced in sympathy. ''Busting into the Raised Scale like that without a warrant? Assaulting an off-duty colleague? And besides, what the fuck did you expect me to do, stand aside while he ripped you apart?'' ''You-'' No, Mia hadn''t seen Szabo in action. But, dammit, even bullrushing me like should have been evidence that... ''He''s much stronger than me. You couldn''t have done anything to him.'' Mia''s expression turned wry, like a child with a secret. I saw the magical power inherent to zmei well up inside her, concentrating into her right hand, which splayed, drawing a glowing cross on thin air. My eyes burned at the sight. ''You might be surprised. Luci told me you brought up my Symbology classes. We don''t only paint and talk during those, you know?'' Mia grasped the cross like it wasn''t made of light, gently tapping it against my chest, over my heart. I cursed at the slight burn, taking a step back. ''Should have put this through his skull. I just didn''t expect him to be that damn fast...'' Mia shook her head, the cross dispersing, and looked at Lucas. ''What about you, boss? Expecting problems for fucking up an ARC agent?'' ''I reiterate my point about the uniform,'' Lucas said, slightly more relaxed now that his employee was recovering. ''Should have told Silva to come with him for disciplinary action, or whatever he felt was the problem.'' "Disciplinary action" reminded me that Szabo had been confined to predetermined patrol routes through Hungary. Had that changed? Had he disobeyed orders just to come at me for... I suppressed an involuntary shiver-of pleasure. My strigoi side crooned at the thought of that old monster putting himself in danger just to hurt us. Images of me shoving pops'' iron-silver cross through his exposed brain flashed through my mind. ''Was that all, Silva?'' Looked like it was back to the usual with Aaron. ''No, sorry. There''s something I must really get from my father,'' I began explaining, but he waved me off halfway through. ''Better to have it and not need it than the reverse. I''m faster than you. Where did you say you live?'' I gave him my address, and the giant zmeu was out of my sight and over the horizon faster than I could see. *** ''...your son insisted, Father Silva,'' Aaron finished, squatting down in front of the Our Redeemer Christ church. It had been built on the space where the old church had stood before the town''s devastation decades earlier, and designed to accommodate larger supernaturals. But, as both Aaron''s former lovers said and his younger brothers joked, he was larger than expected. ''I presume he expects to meet Old Scratch as he scales Yggdrasil, but, as I told him...''The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Constantin nodded, not looking up from the altar he had repurposed as a forge. The Lord had given him the flames and heat to work the metal without any tools, but he still harboured some doubts. David had never been eager to hurt himself, not before...well. That had been a failure on both their parts. Far more on his for not foreseeing and preventing it, Constantin believed. ''Of course, Admiral,'' Constantin agreed as he added the white-glowing chain to the cross. ''You also said something about a darkness around him?'' ''Indeed. I believe David was touched by a corrupting being or place, though he does not seem to remember anything unusual. Or, if he does, he is a very good dissembler.'' ''Actually, he couldn''t lie to save his life-so to speak.'' Constantin held up the cross before his face, took a deep breath, and blew, turning the metal cold as death. Only fitting. DAVID''S MIND IS HIS OWN AND ONLY HIS OWN-THOUGH HIS EYES AND AND EARS AND THOUGHTS ARE NOT, the Lord spoke into Constantin''s mind. BUT DO NOT DESPAIR. I SHALL BE AT YOUR SON''S SIDE, AS I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN. LET THE BLACK GOD BELIEVE HE IS THE ONLY ONE WATCHING THROUGH HIM. Constantin drew a sharp breath at the declaration. As he passed Aaron the cross and watched him fly away, he wondered how much the old zmeu really knew and saw. Father? Constantin thought. Why would he leave such an obvious mark of his passing that the zmeu could see it? Surely he is not that amateurish? AN AMATEUR WOULDN''T MAKE SURE EVERYTHING DAVID DOES AND SEES IS LITERALLY SHROUDED IN DARKNESS. HIS FELLOWS WILL SEE THE SHADOW, TOO, AND HARBOUR DOUBT. HOW MUCH IS THE STRIGOI CHOOSING TO DO, AND HOW MUCH IS HE MADE TO DO? DOES HE TRULY NOT SEE THE MONSTER BEHIND HIM? HAS HE BEEN SENT BY CHERNOBOG TO SABOTAGE, OR SPY, OR DESTROY? PERHAPS ARC IS AWARE AND DOES NOT DO ANYTHING, BECAUSE THEY ARE ALL CORRUPT. Are they? THEY ARE INDEED AWARE, CONSTANTIN. LORIC SZABO''S EYES SEE THE SHAPE OF THE MARKING, NOT JUST THE RESULT, FOR HE IS CLOSER TO DARKNESS THAN YOUR SON. BUT HE IS RECKLESS, AND BELIEVES HE SEES THE CLEAREST. HE DOES NOT. AYA REEM SEES THE ADVERSARY GRINNING ACROSS THE BOAR, NOT JUST HIS UNWITTING PAWN, AND MAKES HER MOVE. AND THERE ARE OTHERS, WHO WILL EITHER BE TOLD BY HER OR SEE THEMSELVES. THE REMAKER, FOR ONE. HE TOOK YOUR SON TO THE PLACE WHERE HE BEGAN TO FORGE HIMSELF INTO THE DEFENDER HE WILL BECOME, AND HAS A KEEN INTEREST IN GUIDING HIM TO THE END OF THAT PATH. *** After Aaron came back with my cross-ordinary but for two details: its end was sharp, for stabbing, and its edges were bladed; and it was so heavy the weight would have torn off a human''s head, to prevent mundane thieves-we said goodbye to Mia and Lucas, we flew to Constan?a, two hundred or thereabouts kilometres covered like a walk to the corner store. I, let alone Aaron, could have made it there in a moment, but I didn''t have enough control over my speed not to mess up a lot of the country by flying that fast, while Aaron could tell the laws of physics to go fuck themselves, and they''d ask how hard. The resorts had been emptied, the staff sent home to make way for the Army, Navy and Air Force people who had moved in from bases around the country, as well as those close to our borders. Vamps, weres, and even a few strigoi-no human soldiers; the mages hung back, ready to play artillery, but weren''t on site in case Chernobog or any of his merry counterparts from other pantheons dropped in. This was all heavies-though they stood aside, milled about on the beach. Above, zmei in Air Force uniforms mingled with their Bulgarian zmey counterparts, who had used their powers over weather to bring about some sunlight and warmth, not that it helped anyone''s mood. While Aaron met with his opposite numbers to coordinate, I spotted Flavius Marcus gesturing at me to come to him. He was standing apart from the soldiers, though not alone. I recognised the people around him from my story books. Iovan Iorgovan with his mace, Pr?slea with his bow and wry grin, Greuceanu with the scimitar that held his power. Other heroes too, from other countries. Marko Mjnarcevic, attended by a grinning, hairless man with skin like rock, who was so tall the Bulgarian hero barely came up to his ankles. Marko nodded earnestly at my approach, lamb-sized black moustache fluttering. I would have said his dark eyes looked cunning and shrewd, if his wolfskin cap didn''t keep falling over them. The ispolin chuckled gravelly at Prince Marko''s enthusiasm, body naked but for a loincloth and vest made from blackberry bushes. ''Yes,'' the ispolin rumbled at my questioning frown. ''The weakness of my kind. Had an elder brother once who tripped and fell over a blackberry bush. Bled out until he was white.'' ''What a horrible way to die,'' I replied, thinking of something less bland to say. ''Oh, certainly. The poor bastard was lucky the axe in his skull had already killed him,'' the giant chuckled to himself, not noticing or caring about my expression, Iovan''s disgusted scowl-the Bludgeon-Armed hero had almost unknowingly married his sister, and so despised mockery of family-and Marko''s roared pleas not to be macabre. ''But, see, if an enemy sees me like this, they''ll think I''ve grown past my weakness, or I''m insane and, as such, too dangerous to fight,'' the ispolin concluded, tapping his head. ''Please, cousin giant,'' Pr?slea began in a way that suggested he''d have liked to hear the giant talk some more, going by the amused gleam in his green eyes. ''Your family is fascinating, but mayhap our newest comrade ought to learn why we have been gathered here, at the edge of the fruitless sea?'' ''Thank you, Brave one,'' Marc said, his white, transparent form shimmering in relief. ''There are heroes gathering at agreed-upon points in Hungary, Ukraine and all over the world. The nations'' armies will remain to guard their lands, while their heroes, aided by ARC, will search for what the Aesir have failed to find.'' ''I get you being here, then,'' I said, trying to hide my enthusiasm at meeting my childhood heroes. ''But me? I''ve only been in ARC for three years, and I''m convinced you''re only keeping me around for my power, unless someone has their eye on me.'' ''Yes, unless.'' A corner of Marc''s mouth twitched upwards, then he was back to his stoic expression. ''Maybe you should work more on sensing emotions, David. It is your least used ability. Anyway...you and I will be ARC''s liaisons to the pantheons'' chosen. Well, to our third of the taskforce, that is. Nightraiser and the Argument Engine will liaise with the other thirds.'' He said those names like they were supposed to mean something to me, but I could only stare blankly. Probably senior ARC agents, whose existence was revealed on a need to know basis, then. ''Heimdall should drop the bridge for us any-'' Rainbow light. A sensation of falling upwards, of standing still as the world sped away from you. Darkness so bright it blinded, and silence that deafened. ''Moment.'' The Legionary''s sigh told me exactly where he believed the god should shove his dramatic timing. Uroarbrunnr was not a large well, but the sight of its waters still made me weep thick, cold blood. It was nothing compared to the three old women sitting around it, though. The Norns took one look at me and my teammates, pursed their lips in resignation, and turned to the wolfishly-grinning, raven-haired, scarred god standing a little ways from them, leaning against Yggdrasil''s root with his arms crossed. Tyr nodded appreciatively at Greuceanu, and winked the giant, causing Marko''s head to swivel between them, the Prince sputtering as he tried to keep his cap in place. ''Welcome, brave heroes,'' he began. ''And everyone else. I am here to guide you along the most blessed furnace-fodder there is, and make sure you do not die accidentally. My brothers are, in theory, going to do the same for the other teams. If you need a hand, please, tell me, for I share your problem. We can look for handouts together.'' Oh, yes. We were going to get along like worms on a corpse. ''Now, while we wait for the last of our number to arrive, feel free to think of names for our little group. Every gathering of heroes needs one! We will be like those other fellows, ah, what were they called...the Band of the Band?'' ''The Fellowship of the R-'' ''Thank you, dead man. Speaking of dead men, did you know this cosmic circus will only end when Mimir''s head will be touched by death? So the honoured ones have told me.'' Tyr tilted his head in the direction of the silent Norns, who still eyed us curiously. It was Verdandi, though I only learned her name later (and couldn''t tell them apart at the moment) who broke the silence. ''He is here.'' The adamantine-booted feet shook the well, and all of Yggdrasil and its worlds, when they slammed into the rune-covered rock platform. Clad in gleaming white plate that showed no joints or openings, the newcomer towered head and shoulders above me, and was over twice as broad. In fists that could and had turned worlds to dust, he held an adamantine mace that would never break, and an ivory greatsword that could cut anything, leaving wounds that would never heal-Fragarach''s Olympian mirror, forged to slay Titans. The skin of a lion, indestructible to everything save the beast''s claws and teeth, which had been fashioned into a dagger that hung at the giant''s hip, without any support, was wrapped around his shoulders, the head covering his helmet like a cowl. And on his back, he bore a bow and quiver, filled with arrows so vile their smell alone would heave a human thrashing in pain. The newcomer put his sword on his hip, where it remained as if stuck. A gauntleted hand flipped up the visor-I only realised there was one then, but couldn''t see any hinges or mechanisms to move it- revealing an olive-skinned, dark-bearded face, deep blue eyes shining with resolve. ''Fear not,'' Heracles beamed at us. ''This strife ends now. Take me to the guilty.'' Dead Head, Chapter 10
Heracles'' roving gaze took us all in, the god of strength''s brow furrowing at me; he also shot Marcus a scrutinising look, as if unsure whether he had seen him before. Finally, his blue eyes settled on Iovan. ''Do I know you?'' the god rumbled, his smile returning, though it was now tinged with a wary curiosity. Like when you see a mirror in a haunted house, and are unsure whether it''s a real mirror, or the distorted reflection is a monster waiting to jump you. God, sometimes I wished I was a vampire. That way, I''d turn off my reflection and, and never have to waste precious microseconds judging whether I''m looking at myself or not when rooting out shapeshifters. ''I know you.'' Iovan hefted his namesake bludgeon over his broad shoulder. Aside from physique, height and choice in weapons, they appeared quite different. Heracles was clad like he was going to the Gigantomachy again, while Iovan looked like a shepherd, or an outlaw: loose white shirt and tight breeches, with dark green, scaled boots, and a wide-brimmed black hat, half-hiding his face in its shadows, so that only his bristly black moustache, and the fierce gleam in his dark eyes were seen. A thick woolen coat hung around his shoulders, supported b nothing, Maybe it just thought it looked too cool to fall off. ''They tell me my legend was shaped by yours. Reshaped Cerna and the mountains ''round it smashing the Corcoaia.'' He smiled at Hercacles'' questioning look. ''You might have called it a hydra, at a guess. Beat the damned thing until it got tired of growing new heads, then killed it.'' ''Huh,'' Heracles looked thoughtful. ''I should have tried that with mine. Maybe it would have worked. Or it might have grown so many heads, it would have become unable to lift its necks! Ah, how easy to slay it would have been then...'' ''Sadly, you can''t kill the monsters you''ve already killed.'' ''Truer words have never been spoken, my friend...'' I could tell these two were going to get along famously. Judging by Tyr''s amused look, he shared my thoughts. And, judging by Greuceanu''s pursed lips as he ran a hand through his long, straight black hair, and Pr?slea''s twitchy smile as he shook his head, blond curls swaying, they also agreed. To their regret. ''But ''tis not the time to swap stories!'' Heracles suddenly cried out, receiving a determined nod from Iovan. ''Nay, ''tis the time to make stories-history, in fact!'' The god leapt to the top of Yggdrasil''s root, landing easily several metres above Tyr, hefting his club. ''Know three hosts of heroes set out this day, but only one shall return victorious-us!'' He stomped forward, leaning to look down at us-or, well, in the ispolin''s eyes-mace also on his hip now, a hand on his knee. ''The first host is led by none other than the Third Lotus Prince! Odin is likely feasting Ne Zha and his companions in Asgard''s golden halls right now, for that is where their search begins-aye, each host shall scour three worlds of the nine Odin and his brothers wrought. And, like those brothers three carved the giant''s corpse into realms for life to flower or wither in, so we shall carve open this shadow of confusion that lies over everything. I said this strife ends now, and Heracles never lies. Let this be my thirteenth labour!'' As great as it was to get a pep speech from my favourite Greek hero, there was something to consider... ''Excuse me?'' As lame as I sounded, at least I didn''t raise my hand like I was in the class, and not the classes I used to teach, either. Heracles jerked his chin towards me, so I forged on. ''I assume you are to be the leader of our...host, then?'' ''Assuming makes an ass out of you and me, revenant-but not this time! Aye, lead you Heracles shall, for he was once mightiest among men, and is now mighty among gods as well.'' As boastful as that sounded, I couldn''t find a reason to contradict him, even if I had wanted to. He had accomplished the most, and most impressive, feats of anyone here. The experience alone... ''Then may I ask which realms we are to search?'' ''You may.'' Heracles stood up straight, stretching his arms behind him as he adopted a more relaxed posture. ''Ne Zha leads heroes from his homeland to the Island of Tin-their host is largest, and guided by the Thunderer, though greatness is a matter of judgement.'' Heracles smiled to himself, before his eyes briefly darkened and he sighed. ''So many I would have liked to meet again...but, nay. May the fates be so that we can reunite in better, happier days. As friends, not suspicious rivals.'' He shook his head, and he momentary gloom that had come upon him as well. ''They shall search Asgard, Vanaheim and Alfheim, then return to the the golden kingdom if they are successful. Or, if they are not, wait there until we or the others need their help.'' The fact Odin was kissing up to most of the other pantheons by giving their champions the easiest task was not spoken, but we all heard. Though, gods being gods, it was equally likely one of them would feel slighted at this underestimation of their chosen''s ability and start Ragnar?k earlier than expected, not that the Norns held much sway now. ''The Jaguar Twins lead the second host, and Baldr guides them.'' He had started going exclusively by that after all the "balder than whom?" jokes. The jokers had stopped after realising mocking Thor''s nearly as strong, nigh-invulnerable brother was bad for your health. ''I have heard rumours Camazotz pushed them forward so that they may be destroyed in this quest, but that is foolish talk! A god like him would never try to indirectly kill anyone.'' Another shake of his head, and a laugh at the idea of that charming rascal Camazotz indirectly killing anyone. ''They are not mighty in power, compared to us-but they needn''t be. They are to search bitter Niflheim, mountainous Jotunheim and teeming Midgard, and these tasks call for stealth and cunning, not might.'' I suppressed a wistful sigh at the revelation we would not be going to Midgard. Life in the pantheons'' Clusters fascinated the researchers of our "neutral" world, for only their worshippers left Earth for its counterparts under the gods. Was Midgard flat, as it has been depicted a few times? Or was it round, with the same continents as our world? The gods guarded such details jealously.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ''And us? We, my friends, have received the greatest honour Odin could provide! We shall prowl sunless Nidavellir, fiery Muspelheim, then dive into Hel itself in search of Mimir''s head!'' Note to self: ancient heroes had different ideas of what "fun" and "being honoured" meant, compared to sane people. *** ''If I may speak...'' I had the sensation Marcus was trying to scream over the wind lashing Nidavellir-Svartalheim, Sturlusson had called it-but his ghostly, always-echoing voice reached my ears as a whisper. Impossibly, it could still be heard, despite the wind and distance between us. ''Is our band of the band,'' yes, Marc, keep feeding Tyr, I could practically hear him grinning. ''Not a little, how do the youths say...top-heavy?'' ''It''s my chest, isn''t it?'' I said in my best bitchy girl voice, then flitted over to Marc, trusting my arcane sense where my eyes, which could see through any shadow on Earth but were completely useless here, failed me. ''Are my tits too big for you, Flavius? Are you jealous? How could you call me ''top-heavy'' here, in front of everyone!?'' ''Ignore him,'' the Roman hissed. ''He''s insane.'' ''No, I''m David!'' ''David is right!" Heracles'' booming bass almost sounded like an indoor voice in the choking darkness. "You are all too focused on your chests and arms! Why, a true warrior knows to value and trust every part of his body: his legs, his buttocks-'' ''Sage advice, mighty one!'' Marc said reverently, clearly as eager not to get into the buttocks-heh-as I was. ''But I meant more in the terms of our illustrious presence. Do you not outmatch everyone else here, even if we were to pool our might?'' ''His arse doesn''t hurt. You can stop kissing it,'' Tyr muttered. If Heracles heard, or was offended, he did not give any sign. Instead, he answered the Legionary. ''You might think so, and rightly! The truth is, besides myself and honoured Tyr, none of you are beloved or valuable enough to the world that your losses would be mourned. Hence the most dangerous worlds being given to us.'' And, with that cheerfully grim pronouncement, we reached the cave entrance Greuceanu had argued must be somewhere on the mountain, unless the dwarfs swam through stone like fish through a river. Heracles was the first to enter. We quickly discovered that, being sized for dwarfs, the mineshaft was short, tight and narrow, like the women who often walked it. So, as we worked the shaft, we bumped out heads dozens of times, and swore hundreds more at the critters that assaulted us. The dwarfs, or black elves, knew we were coming, but hadn''t bothered to arrange a welcoming committee, a red carpet, or even a damn row of torches. The ispolin had flipped head over heels thrice, and turned into a little man, small enough to ride in Prince Marko''s cap. Even being covered by it, though, was not enough to silence him. ''I don''t trust this place, your Highness,'' the little giant said. ''Why keep it dark all the time? They are blacksmiths, they must work with light and heat.'' ''That they do, my friend!'' Even in the dark, I could picture Marko''s fierce eyes darting wildly, looking for enemies when he couldn''t even see his nose. ''They must be planning to waylay us, and take everything of worth-mark my words!'' ''Heaven above,'' Greuceanu muttered. ''They are not going to rob you just because they are black-'' The sound of something small and furry hitting flesh, shrieking, and being slapped away. ''Elves. Lord take these bats...'' ''I concur.'' Pr?slea''s careful steps were supernaturally light. Even I could barely hear them. ''They might ask for hefty payments for their work, but it is always worthy.'' The shaft got smoother and smoother as we came to the end, growing larger and opening into a round, brightly-lit forge with no visible ceiling, only smoke in all colours of the rainbow that swirled and spun to form a kaleidoscopic cloud over our heads. The dwarfs barely glanced up from their work, but that was understandable. When I got all (metaphorically) sweaty handling my hammer, I couldn''t be bothered with people either. One of them, working what looked like the bastard spawn of an anvil and a 3D printer, moulding a lump of twisting metal that seemed to devour light, looked at us over his shoulder, then at his project in disappointment, and put it aside. Sindri smacked hands like baseball gloves together as he came forward to greet us, the top of his balding head barely reaching my waist, but his arms alone packing more muscle than I had in my whole body. ''Yes, I know,'' he gestured at each of us, then at the room itself, and beyond. ''And I know. Let''s get to work.'' *** Despite the dwarfs'' senses being accustomed to their impossibly-dark home, they did not find any trace of Mimir''s head, nor did us, even when I tapped into my arcane sense, expecting to spot what should have been an aetheric supernova. I got the feeling Sindri believed we had crimped his people''s style, as he glanced askance at us whenever he felt we weren''t looking. We were back in the forge, and, despite it being as bright as you could get in this world, I felt just as blind as outside. So did the others. Unsurprisingly, it was Pr?slea and Marko who came up with an idea to-feel free to groan-lighten the atmosphere. To thank our hosts for the help, futile as it had been. The hero launched into an enthusiastic account of his search for the golden apples, his claim to fame. About halfway through, at his fights with the zmei, though, he realised that, first, the dwarves were used to this kind of talk from their neighbours, so they saw it as boasting, and second, they weren''t interested in the subject itself, either. ''Well,'' he said, hands on his hips. ''I did say I''d brighten your day, didn''t I?'' And he flipped thrice, turning into a roaring flame, as he had during his fight with the fiercest zmeu brother, when they had fought as fires. The dwarfs stared blankly at him for a few seconds. Then, their stony facades cracked, lips twitching and eyes narrowing and brightening. Seizing the chance like he seized his wolfskin cap every time it threatened to slip off, much to the protests of its newest occupant, Prince Marko leapt into the middle of the room, not even bothered by the fire pit that could turn steel into smoke. ''That he did! We said we would brighten your day, and for that, we must make light!'' And he launched into an account of his battles against the Turks, completely uncaring of whether or not it would be well received. Shaking his head in amusement, Sindri turned to Heracles. ''Leave these jesters two here, would you? We would thank them for the farce...we are a grim people, as you might have noticed. And...we have a device in mind, that might help with your quest. But it will take time to make, and it will need to be tested once it is done. Surely they can remain for that?'' I wasn''t sure I liked splitting up the gang, even for a good cause. ''So you''re saying you''ll need to test its mettle?'' Sindri''s bemused smile reversed quicker than any boomerang. ''Get out.'' And with that gently-worded request, we left Nidavellir, heading for Muspellheim. Dead Head, Chapter 11
We left Nidavellir as we had arrived: in a shower of rainbow light. It was obvious to any hidden enemies, and its divine nature made my eyes water, but...at least we travelled light, eh? As we were whisked away to the realm of fire, I couldn''t help but wonder about the nature of our transportation. ''Isn''t the Bifrost meant to be a rainbow ?bridge?'' I called to Tyr over a sound like diamond blades scraping against each other. ''Aye, and it usually is'' the one-handed god called back. ''But Heimdall can shape it to fit his whims, see?'' ''Ah! And this is faster than the bridge form?'' ''Nay! He just watches too much sci-fi with beamers.'' ¡­Maybe Heimdall and I could sit down to talk about series we liked, after this was over, but Tyr was shattering my mental image of the Aesir. Muspellheim looked like the angriest raw wound you could imagine: viewed from afar, it was like a bowl of fire rising out of Ginnungagap, burning without fuel and without even singing Yggdrasil. The latter, I realised as the Bifrost deposited us onto a sea of glowing lava (safest place we could land) was more due to the World Tree''s sturdiness than lack of heat on the flames'' part. Greuceanu and Iovan''s clothes turned to superheated steam in less than a microsecond after we arrived, leaving the two heroes naked, red-faced(though more from outrage than the temperature) and standing barefooted on lava, as the molten rock was too dense for them to sink into. Heracles and Tyr sank to their waists in the lava, the latter''s gunmetal gray suit of plate armour somehow retaining the blood spatters that looked suspiciously like handprints. Heracles laughed, taking in the inferno with an appreciative grin. ''Reminds me of the time I went down to Hades! Much more lively, though-look! They''ve come to welcome us!'' The god of strength''s eyes clearly saw farther than mine, but, before I could ask who "they" were, my line of sight was filled with dancing, crackling fire. I clapped my hands with a sound like clashing mountains, dispersing the blaze and staggering the giantess that had risen from the flaming sea. She was broad, with thick limbs, clad in obsidian armour covered in white-hot cracks, and tall enough to wrestle the mountain golem Sofia had made in Siberia, before it had been reshaped into a mirror of the Unscarred. The giantess looked down at me like she had swatted a fly and it had unexpectedly punched back. I grinned back and up at her. ''Girl like you, I bet you''re used to size being everything, eh? Both ways-'' Before I could finish my taunt, Marcus blurred into existence at my side, face set in a mask of determination, eyes unblinking, glowing with cold light like graveyard lanterns. His glare turned the giantess'' armour grey and brittle, covered in crack-riven frost. She spat a booming curse, alongside a glob of lava that could have drowned city blocks, and reached behind her back, raising a two-headed obsidian axe overhead. The heads were shaped like gaping dragons, and actually roared as she brought it down, billions of tons of sharp, enchanted rock moving faster than lightning. Marc calmly drew his gladius, swinging it up to meet the axe. It would have looked absurd, if the Roman''s blade had not lengthened until it would have reached the horizon if Marc had set it down on the lava sea. The insubstantial blade went through the axe like a knife through mist, splitting it as neatly as if it had been cut with a laser. It didn''t stop there. The giantess was bisected neatly from armoured crotch to dreadlocked head, her savage features locked into a silent roar. Her rictus was only visible to me for an instant, though, as Marc decided he wasn''t done. Gladius back to normal size, the Legionary grinned wolfishly and disappeared from my sight. Then, I saw a pale blur pass through the giantess'' halves at the waist, sending them flying. The quarters were split into eights in a flash, the ghost hacking and slashing faster and faster. By the time he cut her into dust, I couldn''t see Marc at all anymore. He coalesced back at my side to watch the dust fall, though. ''Been a while since I''ve put my back into it...'' Marc muttered thoughtfully, before looking at me. ''Just in case you had been wondering what I want to do to you and your quirky colleagues all day, every day, David.'' ''You couldn''t even scratch me.'' ''That''s exactly why I''m so damned pent up-'' Before Marc could finish confessing to his murderous urges, we learned that the giantess had not been a guard dog. She had been bait, to make us show off our abilities. The real guardians came at us from below, and I only noticed them when one was throwing my spine away like yesterday''s garbage, its fangless jaws snapping close over my unbeating heart. The drake was a crimson flame shaped like a wingless dragon, its "eyes" diamond-shaped black-slits. It was only the size of a large wolf, maybe a horse, but it was still doing much better against me than monsters thousands of time its size had managed. It was ripping me apart, in fact, its claws tearing at my torso every time it healed. But, since it''s easier than the average zmeu to be brave when you regenerate and can''t feel pain (look at me, playing hero), I decided to taunt it. ''Oohh~'' I grabbed its jaws, straining my arms until my bones turned to gravel from the pressure, healing constantly to let me hold its maw open. ''Be gentle,'' I breathed, batting my eyes. ''You''re the first bad dragon I''ve had inside me-'' The dragon was so flattered by my request that it gave me a kiss. I could tell it was putting its heart into it, and mine somewhere between my shoulder blades, but enthusiasm couldn''t hide its inexperience. It was all tongue and jaws, and some flames too. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. By the time we were done sucking face, my head turned to steam, but healed instantly, in time for me to headbutt the drake as it drew its head back. Normal matter would have just passed through it, but my strigoi nature allowed me to wrestle the fire monster as if it was flesh and blood. I didn''t have to do it for much longer, though, as Greuceanu decided to cut the fight short. The drake, too. The hero was covered in minuscule scratches, and his black mane was slightly singed, but he was otherwise fine. His scimitar cut the drake in half lengthwise, and the flames dispersed lifelessly, blending into the environment. ''I don''t trust you, strigoi.'' The crackle of fire punctuated each word of his warning-threat? ''Fighting against your nature is admirable, as hard as the fact is to believe. But don''t think I can''t see the other shadow inside you.'' ''Yes, well,'' I sneered, slapping his hand aside and raising to my feet myself. ''Everyone is tripping over themselves to tell me it exists, but nobody seems able to even guess what the fuck it is.'' ''And you think I know, and am hiding the secret from you? To what purpose?'' His deep brown eyes stared unwaveringly into my ink-black orbs. ''I once brought back the sun and moon when the zmei stole them, to spare our people from eternal night. You think I wouldn''t chase away the darkness in your soul, if I could?'' ...And there I went again, being a jackass. Before I could apologise, though, Greuceanu shook his head, pointing at the rest of our group, who were finishing off their drakes. Marc and Iovan stood side by side, bringing their weapons down onto a flickering drake, turning it into a shower of sparks. Tyr yanked a wicked-looking broadsword out of a fallen drake, and the blade glowed red, drawing the monster inside itself. It briefly glowed with inner light, and I caught a glimpse of countless other creatures, twisting past their death throes inside the weapon. I...didn''t remember that from the Sagas. And Heracles simply drew an arrow from its quiver, holding it over the drake thrashing in his other hand. Thick, steaming green blood gathered at the tip. A drop, just a drop, fell on the drake. It didn''t turn to steam, as I had expected. Instead, the flames became pale green and sickly, sputtering into nothing, while something like a shrill scream, strangled by pain, ripped through my arcane sense. Then, the hydra''s last gift went back to its holding place. *** The guardians, Surtr claimed, had been meant to test our prowess and resolve: for, if we could not best them, or hesitated, or turned away, why were we even on his quest? The fire giant was so tall Olympus Mons would have barely come up to his ankles. Even seated on a throne that looked like it had been carved from a country, he would have dwarfed any structure on Earth, save for the reptilians'' hypertech spires. ''Your presence is amusing, but superfluous,'' Surtr explained, mouth barely moving under a beard that, if dyed green, could pass for a jungle. ''I know every nook and cranny of my realm, and what you seek is not here-unless you seek your doom.'' He was on his feet, sword going from resting on his knees to his right hand, so fast I didn''t see anything, despite his enormity. Muspellheim shook, and a tiny corner of my mind whispered that all of Yggdrasil had. The blade hungered for the death of worlds, and was no longer coal-black, like it had been at the start of our meeting. Now, it glowed brighter than the stars it would one day burn away, and burned hotter than all of them together. It was only Surtr''s will that kept most of us from being turned to nothing by his sword''s heat, but even so, my flesh steamed. ''Fate is gone.'' The giant''s smile was disturbingly human and joyful, like he had woken up to see his best dreams had come true overnight. ''The bitches three can spin their stories, but they decree no more. Why should I wait until Ragnar?k to burn that damnable twig and the worms squirming inside it? Why should they keep me confined to my realm, waiting and sharpening my weapon until the end coming because it must?'' I only realised he had swung at us-laughable, really, the sword was far too large for beings our size-after Heracles blocked it in a clash that spun the planet-sized flame that was Musspellheim into a frenzy. The Olympian grinned fiercely, Marmyadose raised overhead to hold the end of days at bay. Surtr scoffed, and Heracles barked a harsh laugh, pushing him back. ''Go!'' the hero roared at Tyr, who was already dragging me and Marc away, drawing his club from his waist with his free hand. ''We will hold them!'' ''Them-'' For the second time time that day, my dumb surprise turned to dismay. Flames leapt from Surtr''s black-on-black eyes, forming into drakes that leapt at the god of strength, or skittered down their creator''s body to surround Iovan and Greuceanu, who were trying to topple Surtr by striking at his feet. Their efforts were yet to result in anything more than bruises on the giant''s grey skin. ''But-they- fucking damn you, Tyr!'' I snarled, trying to push away, but Tyr already had us under his arms, and was leaping into the air for the rainbow beam to catch us. The Aesir glared balefully at me, but I only growled at the slap that left my ears ringing and my head spinning. ''Leave them,'' the war god whispered harshly. ''Dying against a monster to save your comrades, and buy all life a chance? That is all a man could ask for.'' Marcus nodded solemnly, staring through the past at something I had never been able to understand. The rest of the journey was silent until we arrived on the grim, frozen plains of Hel. ''Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise,'' Tyr said quietly, letting go of us. ''Two dead men, and their Aesir guide. Mayhap the others...wouldn''t have been welcomed here.'' Dead Head, Epilogue
Oh, yes, Tyr. A blessing in disguise. Hel was such a nice place, I bet people were dying to get there. Just the kind of place I''d like to be in after losing our heaviest hitter. ''Marc,'' A quick side glance of acknowledgement. ''Do you feel as strange as I do?'' ''I don''t know exactly how you feel, David.'' Well, that only made sense. We were both guys. ''But...this place is for those who die shamefully, as the Norse understood it. I died in battle, so I am unwelcome here, as far as the realm is concerned.'' You, on the other hand, should feel right at home was left unsaid. My lips twisted into a sardonic smile at what the Norse would have thought of my death. Oh, look at Silva, never having to kill and fight to survive, whining because people don''t read his rags. Getting a rope tie because strangers won''t acknowledge him. Laughable... ''Come, you two.'' Tyr''s ravenous sword was now sheathed across his back. ''We must reach the gates.'' Much like the forest near Urziceni, time and distance in Hel seemed dictated by drama, as opposed to logic. We were moving, as far as my senses could tell, but the landscape, dead grass covering dry, grey hills like funeral shrouds over corpses, didn''t change. Marc tried to scout ahead of us a few times, claiming he''d been dead far longer than me, and Tyr was too valuable to lose, but his ghostly speed, unbound by the laws of reality, didn''t get him anywhere. Each time, he stumbled back at out sides, looking for all the world like a bird that had smacked headfirst into a window. I hope Hel found it hilarious, because he definitely didn''t. Frustrated by the bleak, unchanginc environment, and Marc''s pointless attempts to help us in any way, I decided to badger my other companion. ''Say...which of your hands did that wolf bite off? I forget,'' I smiled at Marc''s warning look. What the hell was Tyr going to do, kill me? Good job losing potential help. I''d have thought it would burn bridges with ARC too, but I doubted anyone in the organisation gave enough of a damn about me to ask for recompense from the Aesir. ''Remember the one I smacked you with? The other one.'' ''Ah, I see. I''m glad you''re all right now.'' Tyr smirked. ''You have no idea how much we have mellowed out in this day and age, strigoi. In another time, I would have bitten your head off for that.'' ''Sorry, not into that.'' I faked a long yawn. ''You know how some strigoi return from death because they still want to live?'' ''Are you one of them?'' ''No, I did the hemp pirouette of my own accord. But you should really bring those threats of yours when I show you the field in which I grow my fucks.'' Marcus stepped in between we could start trading more than words. ''Lord Tyr, are we any closer to the gates?'' ''Yeah, are we there yet?'' I bared my fangs at Tyr''s irritated smirk. ''Because I''m ?this close to draining that overgrown worm-fodder of life and sending handyman back home to daddy in screaming pieces.'' The god shook his head, chuckling. ''Why are you even so angry at me, Silva? Is it because I honoured Heracles'' request to leave them behind? Or are you just shaken because I hit you and you felt it?'' I forced myself to laugh. ''That''s it? You think I''ve forgotten what pain is like? Or did you just cream yourself at the fact you''re no longer fated to become dogfood, and your brain got rattled-'' Tyr''s hand was suddenly crushing my neck, but I wheezed straight into his face. ''Kill me now, or I''ll eat you, right after a snack.'' ''You are right, strigoi,'' Tyr said thoughtfully, ignoring my offer. ''I am indeed no longer fated to die to Garmr. Maybe I should take a leaf from Surtr''s book, and rewrite my destiny.'' I bet Surtr read as much as Tyr wrote, but I was too busy landing on my feet after he dropped me to point that out. ''You asked why I''m so angry at you?'' I called after the war god, who was purposefully stalking ahead. ''Maybe it''s the fact your pops dragged everyone into this shitfest because he couldn''t keep track of his stuff. Or maybe it''s the fact you abandoned those three to die, despite the fact I''m fucking unkillable to whatever that walking coal mine can do! I should have stayed to hold Surtr off! Why the fuck did you listen to Heracles?'' ''Why doesn''t your god snap his fingers and make everything alright?'' he replied without turning. ''Why is he doing nothing to stop this crisis?'' ''How should I know His ways-'' ''Think, Silva. Why have none of the gods mightier than my father done anything to end this strife? Free will. Why is your god acting through you rather than intervening himself? Free will. Why did I honour a friend''s request?'' His gimlet stare pierced my soul as he looked over his shoulder. ''Free will. One day, you may learn we can only accept what others want.'' It was a quiet walk to Hel''s gates after that. They appeared out of mist that was nowhere near enough to hide them. I supposed it was because we''d all poured our hearts out and were now best friends forever. The slabs of black iron were almost as tall and broad as the mountainside they were set in, carved to look like-no. Not carved. The skeletons that stood out in relief were real bone, melted together and covered by iron. They were nowhere near as grim as the thing guarding them, though. Garmr didn''t look like much, physically, though Cujo would have felt insecure next to him. But metaphysically, he was dripping with the thick, cold blood of every dead man who had tried to get past him, and was wearing their gore like armour. The hound raised his head at Tyr''s approach, fur bristling in wariness. The war god hummed, tapping his fingers on his hip. ''Go ahead, you two. He''ll let you in, and I''m sure his mistress will welcome you. I want to try something.'' *** ''I am glad the giant told you. I will not reiterate the facts.'' I thought Hel''s living half was beaming, though it was hard to tell with the dead one''s permanent rictus meeting its expression halfway through. The goddess was half beautiful, fair-skinned and fair-haired, and half hideous, with paper-thin skin than clung to prominent bones where it didn''t sag, or hang like ragged curtains to reveal shriveled organs. She stood on a throne of yellowed bone, surrounded by every coward and wretch who had ever died believing in the Norse gods. But those things, we had expected. They weren''t what concerned us. One of the problems was her big brother, prowling around her throne with his fangs barred, looking quite prepared to huff and puff, and blow Odin''s house down. The other problem was her even bigger brother, who had slunk away from Midgard after deciding he wanted to and could. I wasn''t sure how Jormungandr was positioned around and through Hel, but his head was definitely beneath us, given the scaled, shifting floor. ''I do not know where the head is, either. But fear not,'' That phrase always calmed people down. ''If one of you gives all he is to me, I will be able to achieve the clarity needed to help you find it.'' Before I could tell her to wait just a damn moment, or at least go over her offer with Marc, I realised I was alone. The Legionary was now standing on the steps of Hel''s throne. The goddess'' hand, gaving parted his ghostly plate, was now gripping his heart. Marcus turned to look at me, a shaky smile on his face, which was becoming vaguer and vaguer while his body came apart. ''Told you...lived long enough, played at it...far too long. See this through to the end, David. That''s...an order...'' Not trusting my damned mouth, I leapt forward, barreling straight through the ghosts trying to stop me. My friend tried to push me away, still smiling, while Hel lay back in her throne, eyes rolled into the back of her head. I gripped Marcus''s arms, as if I could pll him back together and put myself in his place. ''You damned fool,'' I hissed, pointlessly directing my will at his unravelling self, trying to heal the spiritual rips, push my lifeforce into Marcus'' form. "N-Not...not even asking for my fucking opinion, eh? Just went ahead and sacrificed yourself?'' ''If I didn''t do this,'' Marcus rasped. ''I''d be telling you that...instead...'' I was never able to tell him he had been right. Marcus was only the first to go. Hel''s ghosts were drawn to their goddess like iron filongs to a magnet, and she shuddered as she consumed them, smoke rising from her flesh where bones broke through it. Hel spoke in tongues, in a language I didn''t understand but which made my ears bleed. I tried to keep my footing as the throneroom shook in the throes of the goddess'' oracular trance...and in the end, it was all for nothing. The last thing I heard before my ears began ringing was that, despite the ritual that had burned up so many millions of ghosts, including one of my few friends, as fuel, she had been unable to see Mimir''s head. Then, I saw black. *** My first thought after I came to was that, damn, Thor looked really angry gripping Mjolnir like that as he stood above me. My second thought was, when the hell had he gotten there? How long had I been out? ''...to answer your question,'' the god ground out. Damn, I didn''t remember asking anything, but that wasn''t a reason to get mad. ''With one of my own, strigoi: how could you do this?'' I looked down at his gesture, at Fenrir''s dismembered carcass scattered over Jormungandr''s cracked-open skull. At Hel''s corpse, split in half at the chest, which I was standing in. I stumbled and fell on what had once been a paw, scrabbling against cracked scales to avoid landing on my face. H-How...when...? Thor...Thor had always hated the snake and wolf. I doubted there had been any love lost between him and Hel, either, but...f-fuck. Was...was I trying to justify this? They had not done anything, except... except- ... My focus returned to the thunder god''s rambling. ''I don''t mean, how could you have the gumption to do this, Silva. I mean, you literally should not have been able to.'' He shook his head. ''We knew the Black God would use you to do something reckless, but...we did not expect this.'' ''No, you did not,'' I agreed, letting the glamour over my hand fall away, revealing claws that dripped venom-Jormungandr''s first and last gift to me. My hand plunged through the gullible moron''s chest and heart before he could even think to dodge or block. I laughed in his rapidly-paling face, leaping away to see him stagger. He dropped the hammer first-expected. Then, he managed stumbled towards me, before falling at my feet. Where they would all end up, one day. ''Nine paces, Thunderer,'' I crooned. ''It seems that, in the end, you didn''t have the heart to defy destiny. Just like poor Tyr...who never had a hand in his fate. Did you see him and the dog when you arrived? Don''t worry. You''ll meet them soon,'' I promised, patting my belly with one hand, while raising the corpse to my widening maw with the other. Now...it was about time little David got to see his handiwork. Unlike other gods, I never claimed the credit for my servants'' accomplishments, be they unwitting or willing. *** The divine remains still possessed enough distinguishing features to make me dry-heave when I finished retching. My throat burned from the god flesh that had passed through it, and felt raw even before I began spitting blood, trying to make sense of...of... I ate people, a small corner of my mind whispered distantly. Like a strigoi would. That small corner of my mind-which, in truth, was my truest self, and had never been small; in fact, it had been growing smarter and larger since my undeath-twisted my face into a broken grin. I began chuckling as tears ran down from my wide eyes, running down to mix with the blood, mine and theirs, spattering my chin. My laugh, like jagged shards of glass rasping against each other, was answered by a joyous, booming, equally-twisted one. Then Chernobog was looming above me, and everything became clear. ''Killing gods of other faiths without mercy or thought...a true man of Christ, David.'' Chernobog grasped my chin, forcing me to look up at him. His other hand lightly touched my iron-silver cross, turning it to a cloud of metallic dust. ''He suspected, you know?'' The Black God nudged half of Thor''s face with a clawed foot. The thunder god''s glassy, storm-grey eye was still narrowed in angry defiance. ''They all did. Let me coil up inside you, like a wasp larva in a caterpillar. Watched while I raped your mind...'' His featureless face split to reveal ivory teeth, bared in honest amusement. ''They knew I would reach out through you, and did nothing. Too concerned with peace and balance, the cowards will whine. Or they wanted me to strike down their rivals, or act as their proxy, others will admit. But...does that truly matter to you, David? I had you for so, so long...owned your body more completely than any woman ever did.'' He didn''t let me spit, either blood or insults, instead lifting me to his eye level with a clawed and around my abused throat. "Should I tell you what madness possessed the Dagda to kill the dragon? To drive the cold ones mad, and push everything into motion? He has always been a lover of nature and innocence. It was all he could do once he passed by those who had been maimed by Nidhogg, in revenge and the name of justice...just, don''t tell him the dragon never left Ygdrassil''s roots, let alone harmed anyone. It might drive him mad permanently, this time." He whispered, dropping me a heavy wink. ''Y-You-'' I managed to choke out before he shook me. ''No, David. I am just the lead of this play, not the playwright. I was the one who stole the head while everyone was losing theirs over the Dagda''s deed, though.'' ''Then why?! If you''ve known where it was this whole time, why-'' His slap knocked two front fangs lose. I would never regrow them. ''Because the Aesir would never allow me, in person, to even come close to their tree. You and the other expendables, though? I must thank you for carving my path. And, you want to know the best thing?'' Chernobog leaned forward, wide mouth next to my bleeding ear. ''I just dropped it back in its well.'' And then he tossed me over Hel''s edge, never stopping from talking. ''The knowledge contained within its waters blinded them, for it was brighter in the aether than the one who once drank from them. Food for thought, David! You have all eternity to mull it over! Wouldn''t want you to get bored in Ginnungagap!'' Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. After the echoes of Chernobog''s last taunt faded, I fell for what felt like days, but I knew I couldn''t trust my senses in this not-place. There was nothing but shadows and silence, for as far as I could see. I couldn''t fly, though I didn''t know why. It was like a dream of falling, except this nightmare would never end. *** Having drained the knowledge contained in the old god''s head, Chernobog decided to head to Earth, while everyone else were still wrapping their heads around it. He didn''t know if Thor had come to Hel based on a hunch, or if he had been the first sent and the others were coming; and, truly, he couldn''t pretend to care, either. Even if they all dogpiled and killed him, he might as well give their beloved neutral world something to remember him by. Starting with that city David loved so much... To Chernobog''s shock and disappointment, the first sight to greet him as he arrived in Bucharest were not screaming mortals, but his old, nearly-forgotten rival, blade raised to strike him down. Chernobog blocked Belobog''s sword of light with a blade of shadow, putting Mimir''s drained head on his hip, letting it hang there from a knot of solid darkness. This cost him a dozen wounds, glowing tears in his black hide that light streamed from. ''Elsbeth Crane?'' he guessed. It was just like Zeus'' latest whelp to always expect the worst...spineless bitch. ''Is this how your power told you was the best way to fight me!?'' With a grunt, he broke through the sword, expecting the Belobog facsimile to fall apart under his strength, and reveal Crane. Maybe her rapist father and slut mother would want her back in pieces? The White God fell apart, indeed, but there was nothing beneath the bright facade. Because there had been no facade. Chernobog glared up, and Nacht beamed down at him, laughing in the voice of a content murdered flaying a newborn at midnight. Hex stood on air, his partner''s dark form passing through and out of him. His stitches had been torn apart, and Night, in its purest form, filled his joints. Wide, black eyes twinkled with amusement, while a toothless, tongueless mouth spread wide, dripping darkness. ''Forgive the clich¨¦,'' the Black God began. ''But this is impossible. I destroyed your human bitch while you were still reeling from Thor''s strike, in the void. Without him as your link, you cannot manifest in the universe.'' ''Indeed! You left me alone with naught but my fears and hatred, Chernobog...cruel, cruel soul that you are. But I am the darkness in men, not just the absence of light. Fear, hatred, greed...and so, so much more. I can bring them all out, but I never truly tried it on myself until you left me...indisposed. I must thank you for that!'' Hex clapped slowly, sarcastically. ''I have never loathed or loved a man as much as I do Hex, you know? He is...the darkness inside me. It was the easiest thing for me to reach for what darkened my heart, and bring him back from oblivion. With him returned, I was free to act again!'' ''If you''re done gargling your own cock,'' Chernobog tilted his head. ''I have a question. Two, actually. Are you controlling him now? Have you switched the literal strings for metaphorical ones? And...Belobog. Did you search for the darkness in my heart, and brough forth the object of my loathing?'' ''Those were three questions, Black God~'' Hex grabbed his white long coat, opening wide to reveal darkness no light could ever pierce. A white head, featureless but for a pair of antlers, emerged from it, followed by Belobog''s body and sword. Chernobog scoffed. If all they could do was bring back his rival whenever he was destroyed, he- Another White God strode out of the darkness, crossing his sword over the first one''s. Then, two more. Eight. Sixteen. Thirty-two. Chernobog backed away, cursing, spinning in place to keep track of the thousands and thousands of White Gods Nacht had spun from his fears, each as powerful as the last. ''I would question your bad luck, Chernobog, but...you should have never harmed Emil,'' Nacht leered, moving Hex''s right hand down his side, to his hip, then lower. ''He is my chain and cell and jailor, and I will break him one day. But he is mine.'' The leer dropped off Hex''s face, the impossibly wide smile returning. ''But enough about fear! What if the possibility you hate the most came true?'' ''Do it, bastard,'' Chernobog breathed, fending off half a dozen Belobog clones as they circled him. Power that would have turned stars to nothing was shackled by their godly wills, so that even this dingy side alley was left untouched. ''Bring the pantheons here. They will trample you to nothing fighting over what I bear.'' Nacht laughed. ''It seems you are dimmer than I remember. Or...not? Hmm...more short-sighted, perhaps. I am talking about David Silva, Black God~ or, rather, what he will become.'' Hex leaned forward, hands on his knees. ''You saw the shadow of his destiny, and tried to snuff it out? A god, of all things, should know that never works. Should I reach forward through time, and bring him here and now? No...I think I shall not. Wouldn''t want the Fixer feeling I am threatening his prot¨¦g¨¦...'' *** I fell through a shadow, and down onto Bucharest''s streets. I didn''t know which area, exactly, but I knew the city''s smell. Before I could get my bearings, though, Chernobog was on me. ''Damn you,'' he snarled. ''That thing and its puppets will kill me, but before...before...'' A mad grin split his face as he raised a shrunken head with his free hand. Despite the grey skin and blank eyes, I recognised the face of the god of memory. But before I could speak, Chernobog pressed its forehead against mine. ''You should have died. You will regret living. If I am to pass tonight, I shall happily do so, knowing every god and man will hunt you for what you are.'' The head began cracking in his grip. ''I took away what it knew, not what it does. It cannot think anymore, for it is dead, but it knows everything about everything it sees. I wonder if seeing the world like that will drive you mad before the gods cut you apart for your knowledge.'' And Mimir''s head shattered, its godly perception flowing from its eyes into mine, showing me the truenamesofeverythingpastpresentfuturewhatcouldbewhatshouldneverhavebeenSTOPSTOPSTOPTHISISNOTASTHINGSSHOULDBE- *** Lucas put a comforting hand on his apprentice''s shoulders. Zmei never felt cold, so any shudders from them were usually theatrical, but...he had the feeling Mia was not fooling around. ''Someone just walked over my grave,'' she hissed, fangs clenched. ''I m-must...'' Mia was out of the shop before she finished her sentence. Cursing, Lucas bounded after her. *** ''He passed Mimir''s sight along,'' Hex mused, kicking Chernobog''s remains aside to squat over the wild-eyed, babbling strigoi. ''Nacht...Silva was a gullible fool, but he does not deserve this. Do you have a way to cure this...madness?'' ''I do not, Hex. But she might.'' Normally, Hex was loath to involve civilians in what they did. But when the zmeu girl, claiming to have felt ''something wrong'' in their current location, began making crosses out of thin air, he decided to make an exception. Now, if only she could stop crying enough to do whatever she believed would save her friend... Turned out, Silva was more loved than Emil, or even the strigoi himself, perhaps, knew. A bigger, three-headed blue male zmeu touched down a few metres from the female, two heads taking in the scene. The middle one raised a questioning eyebrow. For the first time in his life, Hex did not know what to do. *** There was no light at the end of the tunnel for me. Only darkness, and two figures, both painfully bright, both vaguely humanlike, floating in the void. I knew what this was, without needing to be told. Though I hadn''t been judged like this after my first death. But they knew everything there was to know about me, without needing to ask anything. ''TAKE MY HAND, DAVID,'' the first figure said. ''YOU WILL GO WHERE YOU HAVE ALWAYS BELONGED, AND KNOW NOTHING MORE OF THIS WORLD AND ITS STRIFE. I ASK ONLY THAT YOU FIND PEACE.'' ''TAKE MY HAND, DAVID,'' the second figure said. ''YOU WILL BE RETURNED TO LIFE, FREE TO SHAPE THE WORLD AND THE LIVES OF ITS PEOPLE. I WILL RESHAPE YOUR MIND TO FIT CHERNOBOG''S UNASKED-FOR BOON, AND MADNESS WILL LEAVE YOU. BUT YOU WILL NEVER KNOW PEACE, FOR MAN AND GOD ALIKE WILL HUNT YOU FOR WHAT YOU ARE AND KNOW. YOU WILL NEVER SEE THE AFTERLIFE. BUT YOU WILL SEE AS MIMIR SAY, AND POSSESS KNOWLEDGE AS NO MAN EVER HAS. I ASK ONLY THAT YOU LET ME WATCH EVENTS UNFOLD.'' After that, it was obvious-both my choice, and the identity of the beings. I took the second figure''s hand, turning to scowl at the first. ''That shining disguise cannot hide what you are,'' I said warningly. ''INDEED, DECEIVER,'' the second figure told the first. ''YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN TOO ENAMOURED OF YOUR MASKS AND PAWNS, PEOPLE WHOSE HEARTS YOU DO NOT TRULY KNOW. TAKE THIS ONE, FOR EXAMPLE. YOU TOLD ME HE BELONGED TO YOU.'' ''ALL MEN HOLD YOU IN THEIR HEARTS. THE GREAT ONES FIRST AMONG THEM.'' The second figure shook its head, amused, then leaned forward, letting me see its horns. ''I LOVE YOU HUMANS,'' he said with a crooked smile, morningstar-bright eyes shining. ''YOU NEVER REFUSE KNOWLEDGE!'' And then, there was light. *** Mia''s worried face, scales gleaming with tears, greeted me after I...after I came back to life. The second time. She held a needle and thread of golden light in her claws, praying to whatever gods listened to let it work, dammit, while she stitched my head back onto my body. Her eyes weren''t the usual red, but a white so bright it hurt. The first figure reaching down into the world, for His opposite already had. The guiding light left her eyes only after the stitches circled my neck. They burned briefly, before fading into my pale flesh. I rubbed my neck, feeling the old, reassuring texture of my noose marks, before taking in the devastated sight that spanned city blocks around us. It looked like a mage army had gotten high, then tried to LARP while using the Necronomicon as a guidebook. Nonsensical colours, impossible shapes and tears in spacetime, leading to places man had never been meant to see, for hundreds of metres around, despite the ARC agents hard at work cleaning up the new eldritch landmarks. The result of me speaking, with Mimir''s inherited perception telling me the true name of everything I saw, and making me speak it without thought, for my mind hadn''t been able to deal with it. I turned to Mia, determined to avoid starting my new life-dealt with the Devil, my strigoi side snickered in my mind, sounding clearer than ever-with a lame line. ''Crying doesn''t suit you,'' I rasped, forcing myself to sit up, bones cracking. Clearly, Mimir hadn''t been a god of knowledge pertaining to being a ladies'' man. But she hugged me, and, when she told me to shut up and preserve my face, they still weren''t sure whatever had happened to me, she didn''t sound exasperated. Look at me, so much game I was a...a... Blackness, again. *** ''I can''t believe you killed me,'' I told Mia for the third time, staring at the whitewashed ceiling of the ARC infirmary as I lay back in bed. Her provisional uniform-killing an agent, even for his own good, not to mention getting involved into the the Headhunt mess, as it was called now, from her own volition, meant she either had to work with us for a time, until she was proven trustworthy, or accept a silencing enchantment being placed on her- wrinkled from all the times she''d fussed over me, not to mention the numerous occasions she''d fidgeted with it when I didn''t need anything. ''I know, right? That wasn''t how I imagined taking your head,'' Her smile didn''t reach her eyes, which were darting over the room for something, anything she could use to help me recover from my skull-splitting headache, or the numbness that spanned my whole body. ''But at least I learned to add bladed edges to my constructs. Only way to keep you down, really, until...'' ''Necessity is the mother of invention,'' I agreed. ''Never cross me again, though. Please.'' Mia growled to mask her snicker. ''The fact you''re abed is the only reason I''m not folding you in half for that pun.'' ''You''ll have plenty of time for that later,'' I joked. ''Let''s stick to kissing for now, alright?'' ''Implying we''ve started,'' she scoffed, before her eyes softened. ''David...I don''t want you to feel you "have" to be with me because I helped you, or something. Or...'' Mia snorted, laughing at herself. ''The fuck am I even saying? You''re barely able to think straight again, and here I am with this bullshit. Like my teasing isn''t enough.'' ''I don''t mind that,'' I blurted out, unknowingly sealing my fate. ''And...it''s not because of that. I am grateful, yes, but...I think we should give it a chance. Being grateful is as good a basis as any.'' ''You asked for it,'' she said in mock warning, sitting down on the edge of my bed. My room-cell, really-was covered in crosses, metal, carved and painted alike, in case the strigoi went crazy again and ARC had to keep me contained before they out me down. They were far more busy fending off the pantheons these days, though, when they weren''t working together to heal Yggdrasil. Several gods wanted me dead (and Loki hadn''t gotten over his children''s deaths at my-Chernobog''s-hands, not that I could blame him; I should''ve never been so damned stupid as to be made into that bastard''s sock puppet) so working for them, and I''d even gotten some marriage threats-er, offers. Odin had proposed having me on loan, as an advisor and liaison between Asgard and ARC. The division Heads, and the Directorial Council, the faceless black suits overseeing each country of the Global Gathering ARC operated in, were still discussing that idea. But, before that... ''So,'' Mia smiled, pushing my covers aside with one hand, the other grabbing my hair as she leaned forward so she could look into my eyes-scarlet with black slits, boring into my once-black, now blank, ivory orbs. ''Kissing?'' ''It''s a start.'' Sidestory: Fae Play
At first, I needed to pass through Ireland. The Fae have always been uneasy around outsiders, even if those outsiders are guests they invited themselves. Perhaps especially then. And if the guest is similar enough to the Fair Folk to invoke familiarity, but strange enough to to make them uneasy? Even worse. I have been told that, from their perspective, iele are like peacocks with no feathers, trying to sing like people. I was extremely flattered at the comparison. As such, the Fae couldn''t accept one such as me entering their territory directly. Luckily, the Emerald Isle was neutral ground, at least when it came to supernatural politics. Purely because the locals hated their neighbours so much they couldn''t go to war, or everyone would lose. ''Are we there yet?'' I asked, not looking at my guide. The barghest growled. When I''d first heard who would be guiding me, I''d expected an oversized, monstrous dog, not...this. But the word ''barghest'' supposedly formed as a combination of "burh" and "ghest". So, town-ghost. The translucent, stocky man floating ahead of me seemed to be in a perpetual bad mood. But, perhaps I shouldn''t have been surprised. He was British, after all. And dead. "You feel like we''re there?'' he asked in a gravelly voice. First time he''d talked since my arrival. ''Well, no. Not really...'' ''Then we ain''t.'' I swallowed a cutting retort. No need to waste my voice on this grump. I needed it at its best for my upcoming performance. The Fae were holding a celebration, though you would be hard-pressed to get an answer if you asked why. Personally, I think they''re grateful the Royal Army hasn''t sprayed all of their holdings with iron dust. And this time, they wanted a foreign element, someone with a new talent, a new perspective. The Fae also had singers who could jerk emotions around like puppets on strings, so that wasn''t why they asked for me. After the Shattering, their realm, Faerie or Elfhame, was one of the first to solidify into being, because the legends about them were so old and widespread. It sent the Brits running from the mainland back to their island. You can''t help beat the Nazis down when the Wild Hunt is tearing up your backyard. Heavens, I hoped the Hunters wouldn''t be present too. The Hunt''s leader was always a vile bastard, whoever held the mantle at the moment, be it Odin, Gwyp ap Nudd or the Devil. At least Herne and the Erlking were getting brushed aside more often nowadays. If you thought personality disorders were a pain, you should see that mantle getting jerked around. The barghest plodded through the wet, misty moor, while I floated alongside him, my human mask discarded for the time being. Perhaps after this was done, I could pretend to be a lost woman. Then, when some monstrous creep came for me, I could turn the tables on him. There were far too many of those in Northern Europe. Eventually, we reached the Lughstone. When the Romans had come to Britannia, the Tin Isle, they had interpreted the local gods, as they were wont to do. And so, Lugh was associated with Mercury, and people started seeing him as a god of travelling. The stone, placed by Lugh himself, could grant quick passage to any realm the god knew of, if your will was strong enough. He found the whole thing pretty amusing. Whenever he came out of the Eioch Cluster, to walk the Earth, Lugh claimed that there were worse things to be associated with than travel and Mercury. He also claimed the Romans had been smart not to equate him with Apollo, or worse, Jupiter. The Shattering had changed the fabric of reality, just when Einstein was starting to understand it, and teach people about it. And so it was that, besides the mundane universe we lived in, there were also an infinity of alternate realities, as well as higher dimensions, with each transcending the one beneath it like a human is beyond a drawing on paper. And then there were the dimensionless things beyond that, born of Lovecraft''s mad genius. Thankfully, most of them were too vast to perceive dimensioned space. There were also the Clusters, macrocosmic structures that reflected the beliefs of theists. Creation could not contain so many conflicting cosmologies and supreme beings inside a single realm, so it split itself apart. You would be surprised how many ancient people believed the world was a flat expanse of land surrounded by ocean. Though, I suppose they did not, could not, know better back then. But the old stories remained, so the Clusters formed. Named after their creator deity or force, they existed alongside our universe, linked but separate. The Kaos Cluster, the Odin Cluster, the Ra Cluster... I had asked David, once, if he would like to visit the Yahweh Cluster. He''d claimed he was unworthy. Still, it made one think about coincidences. About patterns and the collective unconscious. Why an underworld, middle world and world above, in so many cultures? Why so many world trees and pillars and turtles and elephants? How could ancient civilizations that had never met one another think so alike? Perhaps there was something behind the scenes, guiding and shaping mankind''s thoughts. Maybe Constantin''s theory, of a multi-faceted supreme being, was not just a theory. The Lughstone was a representation of Lugh in his triple aspect: three faces, three manhoods. There was a reason he was such a popular god. Or, rather, several reasons. ''Well?'' the barghest asked gruffly. ''Grab it.'' ''Of course.'' I turned to him with a sarcastic smile. ''Is there a certain part I should grab, or...'' ''If ye wanna shag stone, be my guest. But do it on yer own time. I''m supposed t'' drag yer arse to the Fair Folk, and I''m gonna do it.'' I touched one of Lugh''s faces, and it seemed to me like it smiled. The Lughstone began to shine like the Sun, and we were gone. Faerie was just not as I''d expected. It was greater, in every detail. The air was sweeter, the grass greener, the sun brighter, the people happier. Because not all Fae are cold monsters obsessed with mischief and mayhem. The common people are similar enough to mankind, with much of the same fears and joys, hopes and worries, for all that they are immortal. The Fae peasants nodded and smiled at me as I walked through the city. Their rulers must have passed along the news, because no one stopped me to demand answers from the strange, floating woman. The barghest and I walked to the middle of the city, and through the garden leading to Oberon and Titania''s castle. High in the sky above us, I could see the bottom of the Hill that rose above Faerie. Symbolism made fact. ''Here''s where we part,'' the barghest said when we reached the unguarded, multi-coloured gate. It was so tall I couldn''t see the top, even if I craned my head up, and the towers of the castle rose far higher, piercing the cloudless sky, and perhaps even the bottom of the Hill. ''I have not been in Faerie before,'' I said, trying not to sound nervous. ''How am I supposed to find my way to the ballroom?'' ''The monarchs will send someone fer you.'' ''You are wrong, frowning one,'' a new, amused voice cut in. ''They already have.'' We looked around for the source of the voice, until the clearing of a throat drew our eyes downwards. Oh, Puck. The little Fae, straight out of Shakespeare''s play, as he liked to present himself. Oberon''s informer and wetwork specialist, when he wasn''t moonlighting as court jester. Puck was looking up at me, eyes glinting with amusement, bearded face dominated by an earsplitting grin. I could not tell what he was wearing, except that it was sheer, and at times, he looked like he was naked. "Come on now, lady mine. ''Tis coming, your time to shine." He said, turning around and walking towards the gate with a spring in his step. It opened by itself, because even doors knew better than to cross Puck. "Since when do you talk in rhymes? You don''t, in the stories." I said, pacing myself not to leave him behind, though I fully knew he could outrun me, short legs or not. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. "Ah! ''Tis, how you say, a... fleeting passion. A trend! Yes, a trend. You see, I learned of this Gaiman fellow, who was writing comical books about gods. I do not understand the term, since they were more grim than comical, but you know how humans are...anyway, this lad''s works introduced me to the world of comical books! There''s this one about a demon who talks in rhymes, and is appreciated by few, though he does good work. It resonated with me..." As we travelled twisting, shimmering corridors, Puck regaled me with tales of his favourite comics, and asked if I wanted to see his Etrigan collection. I told him that maybe I would, after the ball. The ballroom seemed to appear out of thin air as we turned a corner. The floor and ceiling looked like they were made of a myriad of giant butterfly wings, which beat when you looked at them from the corner of your eye. Fae lords and ladies gathered in cliques, taking food and drink from silver trays born by pixies who were visibly straining under the weight. Sometimes, they took the pixies themselves, and ate them alive, smiling as they screamed. The remaining pixies were then chastised for letting trays drop and dirty the floor. My lip curled. None of this was new to me-you cannot live with my sisters and remain thin-skinned-but that didn''t make it easier to stand. Maybe my songs could touch their hearts, and help them become better. I turned to look down at Puck, but he had already left my side, moving through the crowd and mingling with everyone. Like a shark among minnows. I realized the ball itself hadn''t started, because the Monarchs weren''t present. Neither was Mab, or the Cat Sith, or any god. Or any Hunter, thank the heavens. I looked around, unsure where to go, who to talk to, when a raised stage flashed into being in the middle of the room. Oberon and Titania were standing on it, smiling, in all their finery. They were both tall and lean, pale and fair, and there was nothing human in their faces. Oberon had curly, short dark hair, and looked like he was laughing at a joke only he understood. Titania had long, straight, copper-coloured hair, and was looking at her subjects with a mix of affection and pity. ''My friends!'' Oberon began. ''Tonight, we have a iela among us. Coming from the wilds of Dacia, we hope her voice will bring a short succour in our long lives. After all, what is immortality, save endless time to contemplate boredom?'' Dacia? He knew very well no one used that name anymore. The crowd laughed, toasting their King, eating a few more pixies. Oberon''s smile then thinned, and he spoke in a voice affecting regret. ''Sadly, the brightest stars of our court will not be attending...'' "Mab is walking mankind''s dreamscape, all over Britannia." Titania said. "The midwife is performing her duty, helping give birth to man''s dreams. It is said," Titania leaned forward, conspiratorially. "That she has grown tired of her kin, and now finds comfort amongst humanity..." The crowd shrieked in outrage at that, screaming accusations, tearing at each other with nails and teeth, with cutlery and shards of broken glass. They cursed their fellows for driving Mab out with their foolish antics, with their boorish behaviour. By the time they were done, only half the crowd was standing, and none of them was unwounded. The monarchs looked upon their work, and found it good. I find it necessary to mention that these were the Seelie Fae: the champions of good, mankind''s allies in the fight against the Unseelie and the monsters in the dark beyond the fires. But, while the Seelie could be kind enough to men, their bottled up viciousness had to be unleashed somewhere. And why not other Fae? Without another word, the Fae rulers, floated off the stage, and I reluctantly took their place. Dammmit. The ball was just starting, and I was already shaken. But I couldn''t show weakness. I couldn''t bleed in the water with so many sharks around. I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind, and began singing. Not human songs-they had not called me here for that. For all that the Fae acted like we were still living in the Iron Age, they fully understood electronics. If they''d wanted human music, they''d just have looked up something on YouTube and put it on loop. More channels than you might expect are Fae fronts, and more internet trolls actual trolls. I sang to touch their ears and minds, because I did not have souls to work it. I sang of good and kindness, courage and charity, but they just nodded and hummed along. They were Seelie, and they understood such things, when they needed to. They wanted something more...lurid. Oberon and Titania brought forth a child, barely a teen, in a white dress and red slippers. My heart sank at the sight of them. I knew what they meant. This child had been stolen from a dangerous household, they said, and a changeling left behind to torment the callous parents. She was much happier here, for how could she not be? They asked for lurid songs, and promised child would dance to them. And I sang. I sang of war at home and abroad, of the Ottoman yoke and the Impaler''s cold justice. And the Fae tore at each other, while the child danced and danced, until her feet bled, until they were redder than the slippers. And they roarer, and urged me to go on. I sang my throat hoarse, and the child danced and wept, until she could not stand anymore, could not catch her breath. She fell to the floor, but still tried to dance. When I could not sing anymore, I excused myself, blaming my raw throat, and the Fae lamented, but still applauded. With a shaky smile, I floated off the stage, and hurried out of the ballroom. The Fae cried out behind me, asking me to stay for the rest of the ball, or at least take Puck with me, if I wanted to leave. But nobody tried to stop me. Somehow, I found my way out of the castle and into the garden. It was night, and the city was quiet as a tomb, with a cold mist hanging over it, filled with will o''wisps. On one of the ornamental carved stones, the child sat and wept. She was not wearing the red slippers anymore, because her feet were gone. I rushed to her, taking her hands into mine and asking what had happened, when had it happened, and why. ''Because I could not dance until the end.'' And she spoke no more. She did not seem to be bleeding, or in pain, but I could not leave her here. The Fae did not mutilate valued servants, so she might as well have had ''banished'' written on her forehead. I gathered her in my arms and rushed to the Lughstone, flying high over the city, riding the winds. I would find her a place in the human world, if it was the last thing I did. We reached the Lughstone, and I grabbed one of the faces so hard it cracked. In moments, we were back on that misty Irish moor. The child was laughing, and at first, I thought she was laughing in joy. Then, I looked at her face, and saw the mad grin, the feverish eyes. ''Such a bleeding heart,'' she crooned in a broken voice that made my skin crawl. I tried to throw her away from me, but she clung to me like a spider. ''You thought this dreary world held the key to my joy. You though you could take me, without my masters knowing and allowing your folly. Oh, you stupid girl...'' And she laughed and laughed, aging before my eyes, until I was holding a hideous, toothless crone. ''Faerie was the only thing keeping me alive,'' she hissed, sticking her wrinkled, gaunt face into mine. "I was taken seven of your decades ago, and kept young only by that realm''s magics. Now, time has caught up with me. I hope you are happy, murderess." And she laughed again, a sharp, mad sound, as she died in my arms, turning to dust, until I was holding a cracked, grinning skull. Damn them. Damn the Fae and their pointless, twisted games. Sidestory: Of Events Past and Things to Come
??? ...And a good day to you, too, comrade General Secretary. But I can tell, by your eagerness, that you are far more interested in my file than my manners. Dare I do something outrage- *recording faulty? Several crashes and indistinct sounds* A-Apologies...f-for the joke in poor taste. P-Please call them o-off... A-Ahem... You might be unsurprised to learn that comrade Aaron comes from humble origins-as humble as possible for a creature like him. This might explain his lack of respect towards protocol, almost apolitical tendencies, and other traits that are barely compensated for by his competence and power. This...is what we managed to gather... [Redacted] forest, Bra?ov, Romania, 194x[redacted by order of the General Secretary after perusal of the file] The zmeu is hunting. That is not a surprise. In all his years-the whole handful of them-he has never met one of his kind who was not a predator. Manipulation, extortion, maneating...then there are the ones who prefer to favour flesh in rather different ways. He shares these urges, of course. However, he has not heeded them, so far. He does not know the others like him, here in the mountains, are pariahs, even among their newly-formed society, which is itself prone to extremes. The zmeu is not a member of society, either of his kind or the greater Romanian one. Nor does he know his parents. This is not unusual, either. His kind are not attached to their children. What is unusual, however, is the strength of his father, and the nature of his mother, who was a zmeu only long enough to bear him. And the brothers he has not met yet. The zmeu is not hunting out of hunger. He cannot starve to death, though hunger is annoying. He is hunting-animals-to prevent himself from doing something worse. The bear has torn apart a young, overconfident hunter. A human unsettled by the changes brought by the Shattering, trying to calm himself down by killing something he knows, something that makes sense. The hunter used to read while resting. As the zmeu tears the bear apart, he notices the book fallen on the grass, next to the hunter''s corpse. ''A-Aron Pum-nul...'' he speaks haltingly, parroting the big, bold letters on the cover. The stern, wise-looking human on the cover, he thinks, looks admirable. So far, the zmeu has only heard human curses. He is still learning Romanian. He does not know this, but the man on the cover has helped bring the modern language into being, along with his students. His works will now help the zmeu master it. *** [Redacted], Bra?ov, Romania, 196x Aaron has met his parents once-entirely too many times, in his opinion. His father spends his time in zmeu country, for his voice alone would shatter the Earth. The behemoth, with his myriad mountain-swallowing maws and rainbow scales, is everything they say about their kind. If he came to sleep around the world, he''d sleep around the world, provided he did not pulverise it by twitching. His mother is far, far worse. Aaron used to think his father a coward for having and abandoning him, but... His eyes cross and bleed as he remembers a fraction of her form-all angles and no curves. Where did the old lizard find the insanity to...to... Aaron shakes his head. One of his brothers is near, and the other not too far. He knows, as surely as he knows the fire in his blood and the fangs in his jaws. His brothers hatching in his stomping grounds is pure, stupid coincidence. Perhaps the two old monsters have a favourite mating spot here, though it''s hard to imagine his father-Maws, he decides; his whole name, really a description of his body, is a mouthful-shapeshifting to become small enough to fit anywhere on Earth, let alone mating without wiping out the sun and everything around it. As he hunts, his instincts briefly hesitate. No, both brothers are near. And... Aaron bursts through trees, breaking them into kindling, to see a little green zmeu-barely more than a hatchling, really, smaller than some human children-held in the three maws of a bigger, blue one. Aaron tears his youngest brother away with one hand, backhanding the blue zmeu to the ground with the other. ''Why?'' he demands in a growl, holding the mewling hatchling close to his chest. The bite wounds are already healing, but... The zmeu who will become Lucas sneers. He does not know how to speak yet, but his growl says ''rival'' as he glares at their younger brother with blue eyes. What a family he has...well, he supposes his teens are not too early to raise children. It''s not like he''s their father... The hatchling wraps around his hand, purring, while the blue one bares his fangs, crossing his arms in a huff as he stares up at him. No. He is definitely their father, in all but fact. *** New Centre, Bucharest, 1992 Lucian strokes his goatee as they walk into the club. It''s his second time staying in Bucharest, and far happier than the first, at the moment. Miri would not have been found anywhere near a place like this before the Revolution-she is a vampire, and a woman of class besides-but, with the regime change, people are unsure, experimenting. Lucian has been getting into vampires recently. He likes them, too, or so he tells himself. Lucian was raised by a brother who repeatedly told and showed him zmei who give in to their impulses are executed. The images of preventive castration, in the cases of zmei with insatiable appetites, improper orientations, or just dubious personalities(they will have to come up with new terms, now that the reds are gone) were not really necessary to get the message across, but they helped. Aaron beat self-control into him, and he''s thankful. There''s a iela singing tonight, and every night, the posters promise. Lucian takes one look at her, alone on the stage, and wearing a shift so sheer he''s not sure it''s there, and admonishes himself for his thoughts, then realises that''s stupid. Thoughtcrime is not a thing anymore. He''ll still have to tell Miri, of course. For penance. The vampire tears open his neck(his kind cannot be turned, so there is no danger besides pain, and he regenerates in moments) for every improper thought and action. He tells himself she keeps him honest. Soon, Lucian will look back on this relationship, and realise how unhealthy it was. ''I''m surprised you agreed to come.'' His wings rub against the holes in his leather jacket with a sound like knives on skin. ''Of course!'' She favours him with a radiant smile. No fangs, of course. He knows it''s fake. She''s only happy when baring them, and vice versa. ''The owner is an old friend, you see...'' ''Yeah?'' He takes in the smoky room, and realises how bland it is, besides the posters about the iela. Are the walls even painted? They don''t smell like it...and why are there only humans inside? ''Indeed. In fact, I believe he will soon become a friend of yours, too.'' If the owner is a vamp, Lucian thinks it''s extremely likely the only friendship struck tonight will be between his fist and the leech''s face. Then the iela begins to sing, and he realises what is wrong: everything. Lucas, in-between his "walks" and painting sessions, has taught him to hone his arcane sense. For survival, of course, though Lucian has mostly used it to play hide, seek and find with ghosts. But, for the first and last time in decades, he thanks his brother. The iela''s song is chaining the patrons to the club. Not physically, nothing so blunt. Rather, to the idea of it, and the suggestion that they like it. With the Security dismantled, ARC still setting up shop and no national agency at the moment, there is no one to notice such crimes, besides people like him. But this is so obvious he''s almost baffled. If he, with the arcane sight of a myopic rhino, can spot this, why the hell hasn''t some supernatural with enough power and something vaguely resembling a moral compass closed this down? Lucian narrows his eyes, and notices the iela is chained too, also to the idea of the club. Controlled, too? A puppeteer having her strings pulled? The zmeu is eating concrete one moment later, Mirela straddling his back in a way more unpleasurable than even their usual, lamentable romps. Is she in on this shit, or being driven crazy (er), or what? ''We knew you''d be distracted, you bleeding heart,'' she croons, one clawed hand around his throat, the other over his heart. She''s trying to tear through his scales, get at the blood. The first option, then. He always picked "a" on tests, anyway. "But do not worry! We know you cannot be brought into the fold, by force or not. I have given you so many little deaths," only about three real ones, but he''s good at faking. ''Let me give you the true one, too. You walk around here too often to be allowed to live.'' As she taps into her inner gloater, the other vampire comes into the room out of a door behind the stage, running like a bat out of...heh. Both of them are skilled enough to use their full strength without collateral damage. Good. He is, too, though he''d likely lose in close quarters to two peers unable to feel wounds or exhaustion. Good thing he always has his mace. He''s never unarmed, either. Lucian summons his mace in hand as they drag him down, and realises its enchantment, wrought by the Mother of the Forest in exchange for his and his brothers'' services (flames, his crotch still ached just thinking of that hag) will not be able to permanently destroy the vamps. He could reduce them to quantum foam, or nothing at all, and they''d heal instantly, because his weapon is not holy. Then Lucian peers through the windows, and sees a church in the distance, far beyond where the patrons could see, even if their perceptions weren''t addled. He glances at the iela, at the anger beneath her smiling mask, and sees the aetheric chains extending between the tall, stocky male vamp''s eyes and her neck. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The zmeu resolves himself. Recently, he''s been reading about some American batting sport, and looking for a chance to try it. Well, Lucian thinks as he swings his mace through the vamps with the intent to destroy them, he might as well take them to church. He and the iela do not become a couple. Neither of their species is built for constant relationships, and they do not have the temper for sharing themselves with anyone besides each other. She is only into men half of the time, anyway. But Bianca, a human name he suggests to her as the vamps are burned with holy fire and the thralls taken away for rehabilitation, is not deterred. As she explains that night while they explore each other, out of nothing but curiosity and lust, they tell themselves, they can still be friends. Many years later, they will meet three young men: one gloomy and descending into despair, one still recovering from the demands of distant parents and looking to form his own family, and one who has been walking with death since birth, and will continue long after his death, which, as far as everyone will know for a long time, will be due to the asthma he had been born with. They will also meet an old bear, who will be as much of a father to them as they will be older siblings or surrogate parents to their younger friends. He will take a long time to be a father, rather than a parent, to his own blood, though. *** Muspellheim, 2030 Odin does not arrive by means of the Bifrost. The runes are his to speak and carve, and the tree he has raised is his to walk. As such, he simply moves, without moving, from his throne room to this blighted, stifling realm the moment his ravens, who have remembered they are supposed to be useful, inform him everything is going wrong. His ragged travelling cloak has been discarded for armour as grey and weathered as he is. In one hand, he clutches Gungnir. In the other, he holds destruction, shaped into a glowing rune and ready to unleash at any moment. His ravens perch on his pauldrons, their eyes seeing even more than his can. Not that he needs sharp sight to spot the fire giant, or the victims at his enormous feet. The Romanians have been torn apart, and burned-he is not sure which is which, even their souls are charred. The Olympian brat has been cut to pieces, still snarling defiance at his opponent as Surtr sneers down at him. ''We should have ripped you apart, too!'' Odin calls to get his attention, raising Gungnir. ''Though I''m not sure even my brothers and I could make anything worthwhile from your carcass. At least that frozen moron was good building materials.'' ''Borson,'' Surtr rumbles in response, a grin shining through his jungle of a beard. ''I did not know you were masochistic, or suicidal. Coming here?'' ''Took the words right out of my mouth-as I''m sure nobody has ever told you,'' Odin smiles back. ''Do you think yourself my better?'' ''I think you are no longer fated to die in the wolf''s jaws. There is no destiny anymore, One-Eye!'' The giants lunges, and Odin lets him swing, raising Gungnir like a quarterstaff to block. It does not pierce the spear, as Surtr realises, despite the shockwaves and flames unleashed by the blow turning Yggdrasil, all the words on its roots, trunk and branches and the stars in its leaves to nothing. Smile widening, Odin speaks the name of time backwards, and all is restored. Enforced by the Allfather''s will, this will be unremembered by any walking or climbing the world ash. No one, but Surtr, for Odin intends to anger the giant, just as his nonsensical slaughter has angered him. ''No!'' Surtr growls, pouring his will into his blade, stoking the flames until they are hotter than all the stars in the mundane universe put together. ''You cannot bring it back! I have burned it!'' ''I think you''ll notice...I just have.'' Odin pushes the blade aside with one gauntleted hand, sending Surtr sprawling across his blazing domain. ''Why so surprised, giant? You burn the tree to nothing, yes-in Ragnarok. But I have been told recently that...there is no destiny.'' Surtr roars in rage, but only briefly, before Odin closes the distance, throttling him with one hand. ''Be silent! I have lost face before the other pantheons twice-once when Thor lost his temper, once when I humbled myself by allowing the taskforces free reign to walk my Realms. And you strike them down because...what? It''s the first time you feel unburdened? You have been polishing your sword so long it has become tedious, and you want to draw attention to yourself?'' Surtr cannot answer with the Allfather''s hand crushing his throat. Odin does not want him to. Glancing at the burned corpses and Heracles'' remains, everything is clear. He will send the former to their Lord, preachy hypocritical bastard that he is, and the latter to his perverse lout of a father. It would not do to deprive Olympus of another incestuous fool. Surtr is far denser than any natural material on Earth, and heavier than any star. This does not stop Odin from throwing him out of Muspellheim, up Yggdrasil''s trunk, past its branches and leaves, and past the eagle who now has no rival. Veorfolnir startles between his living perch''s eyes as the Allfather and his foe pass by, far faster than light. Odin has outpaced Surtr''s flight, floating on nothing above Yggdrasil''s tip to catch Surtr as he reaches the apex of the throw. One of Odin''s arms is wrapped tight around the giant''s neck, the difference in size rendered meaningless by his powers, and the other around Surtr''s wrist, holding his arm extended and his power shackled so that he cannot use his sword. ''Do you think Frey will be jealous?'' Odin growls, teeth bared in a wolfish grin. "You even burned down the tree...he''ll feel like I''m stealing his role!" With a hateful roar and a burst of strength that shatters his body, Surtr frees himself, spinning to face Odin and bringing his sword down on the Allfather''s head. Odin raises Gungnir, its tip clashing with the sword''s flaming edge, and shattering it, the void shrieking as it closes for Surtr''s grimacing face. It pierces his flesh and skull and brain, bursting out of the back of his head, but Odin is not unmarked. A shard, still flaming, leaps at his eye, burying itself deep within it. Even as it burns, hotter than anything in the universe, Odin smiles, gripped by a rage fiercer than any since...ha. He cannot remember. He will have to ask Munin. ''You will die, Borson!'' Surtr screams with the last of his strength as he falls down into Ginnungagap, steaming blood forming a curtain around and above him. ''And when you choke on your ashen tears, you will wish you have died like your bitch of a son!'' Odin smirks, until the end of the taunt. With a thought command, his ravens blur over Yggdrasil. He not know how Surtr knew about Thor''s fate-perhaps the Black God shared a plan with him, and he was merely expecting it-, but by the time Hugin croaks sadly in his ear, Thor is dead. Tyr, too, a braver warrior than he had ever had a right to ask for. And...his blood brother''s little monsters, as well. ''No fate, indeed,'' Odin snarls, his godly sight searching Ginnungagap without the need for eyes. He is not sure if he could take the Black God-it has killed Fenrir, whether by surprise or fairly. Could Odin have done the same? Perhaps. He could have pushed himself far past his limits with his runes, but, during Ragnarok, fate would have done the same to the wolf, so he would still die. But fate...is no more. ''I will not be the one choking on ashen tears,'' the Allfather muses to himself, a wisp of a smile twisting the corner of his scarred lips. He has found what he was looking for, far past his Realms. It is unsure and formless, without its anchor. Odin does not give that back to it-he does not want to be an accomplice to whatever it may do once returned-but he helps. Just a small flicker of runic light, a beacon, a lure, pointing towards the Black God who crippled it. An old monster looks across endless darkness, and smiles. And, though it has no face, Nacht smiles back, and promises pain and horror, as it always has. *** ''Grandfather! Where are...'' It is Magni who meets him as he strides back into Asgard, after this phase of the war (against what, Odin wonders? Perhaps chaos itself) ends, and a false peace descends. His grandson trails off at his eyeless face, but his expression, he knows, hurts far more. As Modi and Vidar gather around him, and so many citizens watch from their windows and doorframes, Odin can only think how Frigg will take the news. Sif, he knows, will be... No matter. He has always been able to harden his heart. ''Split them however you wish,'' Odin says hollowly, putting Thor''s panoply in Magni''s hands and striding past him as Vidar calls for him to return, and Magni and Modi throw their heads back and wail-roar? He is tired, so tired...he cannot tell anymore-in grief and disbelief. Grasping his ravens in both hands, Odin tightens his grip, barks the harsh spell he has put together over the return trip, and snaps their necks. Knowledge flows into his mind, no longer filtered and limited by the bond between master and familiars. Already, he knows the whereabouts of his sons'' lingering souls, and how to make them coherent, so that their shades may return, at least in Asgard. Fate is gone. The old ends are no more. And, Odin swears as his raven''s eyes fill his sockets, and their insight and memories fill his mind, they will never be caught blind again. Empty Tomb, Prologue
''Why not him?'' I had suggested, flicking my knife at the black one. As always, Hogge had skulked deeper into the shadows of his pen, eyes flashing yellow above gleaming tusks. His piggish face had somehow seemed to be grinning mockingly. "Look at me, how scared I''m pretending to be." Pops had shaken his head. ''There are others, David.'' ''That one is unnatural. Hell, he''s been around since my childhood. What the hell kind of pig lives that long? Besides the magical ones you insist he''s not.'' ''I do that because Hogge is not a magical pig.'' I had sighed. One day, we were going to address the swine in the yard. But, clearly, not today. Tempted as I was to just look at him with Mimir''s sight, and see whatever pops was being oblique about. Maybe I''d finally find out my father''s dark secret. All weirdos needed a good parent with a dark secret, right? The town librarian had said so while we were discussing novels, and dammit, she might have been a crazy cat lady(as in, a werecat who believed she was human), but she was trustworthy. No mud touched pops'' faintly-glowing rubbers boots as he paced through the muck, orange flames streaming from his open palm and turning the slaughtered pig''s skin a rich brown. Mihai had offered to do it himself, but pops had declined, claiming the aetherically-sensitive would taste his magic''s residue while we were eating, and faithcraft was faster than a burner. The old man wore a pair of thick grey pants-a gift from a retired friend, who''d worked at the car factory in Mioveni-and a black jacket he didn''t need to protect him from the cold. On the back, a golden image of Christ wept red tears, smiling plaintively with his arms outstretched. "DO NOT" was written above the Redeemer, and "CROSS ME AGAIN" beneath. A tasteless joke, in my opinion. But then, pops often received dubious ''gifts'' from his parishioners who wanted to see if they could rattle old Father Silva, or shake his faith. He kept them to prove they did not. I leaned against the wall next to the cellar door, one hand toying with my new cross. Pops had forged it after Chernobog had turned the last one to dust during the Headhunt. In truth, I wasn''t wearing it, because it would have made me sink through the concrete. Instead, I was shaping the air around it, creating a supernaturally-strong current, that, while small, could still keep it floating a few millimetres above my skin, preventing the thousand-ton cross from cratering the ground. The weight had been a suggestion of Rivka Peretz during a particularly frustrating sparring session. The ghoul had kept coming at me, however many times I''d reduced her to stray atoms, after running out of curses and taunts, we''d started talking. ''God,'' I had sighed, holding her above the ring in a sphere of spinning air. ''I wish I had something to just...pin down angry, unstoppable midgets like you with.'' ''Watch the low blows, Silva!'' Rivka had said, before performing a gesture that I was sure wasn''t encouraged by the Tanakh, or even common manners. ''Why don''t you just ask your daddy to make you another eyesore paperweight, if you want to pin me down so much?'' A comment I hadn''t replied to, not even jokingly. I had a girlfriend now, for the first time in over a decade. And so, the second cross. Still made of iron and silver, though I wasn''t sure if pops had simply made a shitton of the materials and compressed it, or just made the cross heavy despite it not physically massing much. It also had bladed edges, just like the first one. Mia squatted next to me, or maybe she was kneeling. With zmeu legs jointing backwards, they were pretty much the same thing. Even like this, her head was still above my waist, but I''d gotten used to the height difference, while she was using the height difference. ''Sure you don''t want me to lend a breath, Costi?'' my girlfriend asked, arms folded across her thighs as her tails fiddled with the strings on her red hoodie. ''Thank you, my dear,'' Pops waved her off. ''But your flame''s power would linger on the meat, just like Mihai''s magic. It''s...almost done, anyway...'' Mia had grown close enough to my father since the beginning of our relationship that she refrained from cracking a joke about the meat, just smiling. She knew he found her humour "quite energetic", but not really his type. In turn, she held her tongue around him, and opened up around me. She didn''t refrain from jokes, either. When pops was done, Andrei approached the pig, boots making the tarp it was on creak. The were was wearing a thick black long coat over a dark green shirt and blue pants; the coat was a holdover from his Securist days, proof against silver blades and so heavy it would have broken a human''s spine. His calloused hands became the paws of his beast form, fur running up to his elbows and filling his sleeves. He drew a claw the size of my index finger across the pig''s back, opening it up like an envelope. Then, he wisely jumped back, clearing over a dozen metres and landing in the back of the garden, and I joined him an instant later. Petru and Pavel were tied to one of the apple trees, just a few metres away from him, and both dogs growled as he touched down. Being moved from their usual places was usually great, especially when pops took their leashes off, but the presence of strangers annoyed them. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Andrei, like my other friends, came by when pops and I were away, to feed the dogs, the "neighbours'' cats" that seemed to live with pops, and water the plants. This didn''t stop the dogs from barking their lungs out whenever they smelled the werebear. Maybe they just sensed the animal in him, and couldn''t stand it. He loved them, and, since most of his work consisted of working as security for bored rich people or tearing up people in the supernatural fighting circuit, sometimes along Lucian, he had a lot of free time. So, he had spent a lot of time with the dogs. They just didn''t like him. Mia stood up, dusting off her tights as Lucian and his brothers dropped out off the sky, making us jump into the air. Both Lucas and Aaron flipped before landing, shrinking in size until they were hardly bigger than their younger brother. We didn''t really have enough space for Aaron, so... ''I wanted to help with the guts.'' Andrei wasn''t pouting. He just sounded like it. ''Don''t woooory,'' Mihai smirked, slouching against the fence. ''If you want to gut a pig so much, just get in trouble with a cop.'' ''Ha, ha,'' Bianca smiled sarcastically, then quickly covered it with one hand in mock-embarrassment. ''That was pretty bad, man,'' Alex said quietly, rubbing his hands together out of reflex. He hadn''t felt anything since his death, but he still acted human, even shaping his ectoplasm into winter clothes. In fact, the ghost''s bluish-white face was barely visible-only his eyes were, really-under his thick "woolen" hat and scarf. ''Agreed,'' Andrei replied. ''Even by my standards. And I love making bad jokes-just look at David.'' ''Hey!'' I spread my arms in disbelief. ''Do accidental jokes count?'' Alex adjusted his scarf, sounding thoughtful. ''I''m a rapper, I swear,'' I turned away dramatically, fist clenched. ''Catching strays for no reason...'' ''What''d your name be, Lil'' Moody?'' Bianca raised her eyebrows, giggling. ''Stick around until the evening, and maybe you''ll find out. Mia and I are going caroling.'' Pops couldn''t come. He was looking for a new verger, wanting the church to be fully-staffed until Christmas, for reasons he hadn''t shared. Over the decades, pops had sometimes had helped, but they either died or quit, and he could handle almost all duties himself, between his enthusiasm and faithcraft. ''Ah...'' the iela twirled a blonde curl around her index finger, smiling sheepishly. ''Can''t. I''m singing at several senior centres in Bucharest tonight. Next week, too...well, until after New Year''s Eve, really.'' ''If you have to sing for old people, you''d rather be paid, eh?'' I asked, nodding sagely. Understandable, understandable. ''Gotta stay on my grind.'' She flexed a slim arm that could have flattened a tank, grinning. ''And she''s not singing for them!'' Lucian called out to us, turning to look over his shoulder, mouth and moustache red and dripping. ''She''s singing at them. Bia only sings for me.'' Well, it was really nice that their tempers had aligned enough for them to be together for the holidays. ''He hasn''t looked like that since my last period,'' the iela whispered theatrically, leaning towards me. ''Oi, don''t eat while you''re working, you arse!'' Andrei yelled. ''If you can''t be serious, get over here and I''ll take your place.'' ''Let me show you where to shove that suggestion-'' Lucas smacked his brother upside the head before he could demonstrate. ''Sooo...'' Mihai stuck his hands into the pockets of his green tracksuit. ''Caroling? I''d come too, but the girls are coming back tonight from Adi''s mom, and I wanna greet them.'' ''Making sure your mother-in-law hasn''t opened their eyes about you?'' Alex rasped, eyes glinting. ''What''s that supposed to mean, Gasper the Unfriendly Ghost?'' ''Hey,'' Bianca turned to me. ''Heard there''ll be a lots of bears and goats this year.'' ''Bah! Those are for young men. Besides, only the two of them?'' Andrei said, waving a hand dismissively. ''Oh, I don''t know,'' I said, looking him up and down. ''If you come with us, I think we''ll be able to go with the bear...'' ''Hilarious.'' Mr. "I love bad jokes" bared teeth that had become fangs in dry amusement. ''You need a costume for that, smartarse.'' ''But if you go hybrid, you''ll be so ugly people will be convinced you''re costumed!'' I insisted. ''I know it''s unusual, but bear with me...'' We bantered for a bit more, as the morning sun rose higher, and Mia and the zmeu brothers finished their agreed-upon part, the former gathering the guts and jerking her head at Bianca for the iela to come help clean them. The rest of the day was so blissfully normal, I should have known something bad was coming. After the pig''s alms, the zmei brothers hung around a bit more, to help make the sausages (Aaron insisted it helped with his blood pressure, which I think was a first time for pork), then left for their country. Their parents had reunited for the first time in decades-not for Christmas, as their father didn''t celebrate it, and their mother didn''t understand most aspects of our reality, but through sheer coincidence-and, going by their excited apprehension, they really wanted to capitalise on this. This was the beginning of what should have been a time of joy and charity. Let me tell you, instead, of the Fright Before Christmas. Empty Tomb, Chapter 1
''Still say we''ve got it worse than you, teach.'' Eric grinned, all fangs, leaning back on the bench and running a hand through his mop of brown hair. He''d never stopped calling me "teach", even after graduation. Bogdan nodded sagely in agreement, short raven curls swaying. ''Yeah. Can you imagine being eternally thirsty?'' ''Moron.'' Eric ripped off an index finger to flick at his friend''s forehead, sharp green eyes narrowed. ''Why would he have to imagine something he lives with?'' Bogdan turned to me, a doubtfu; look in his blue eyes as he put a hand on my shoulder. He tilted his head this and that way, humming, before coming to the wrong conclusion. ''Are you always thirsty, David?'' Eric groaned. ''Come here before you infect him with something.'' Shrugging, Bogdan rose from the bench we''d been sharing and flitted to sit down next to his friend and partner. ''I meant his girlfriend, you little savant you.'' ''Oh, yeah!'' Bogdan grinned toothily, eyes brightening. ''Mia''s pretty thirsty. I just thought you meant literal thirst.'' ''Well, maybe I did,'' Eric smirked at me, rubbing his chin with one hand, the index finger healed. ''She still thirsty, boss?'' ''Oh, definitely. Just glad she''s not a vamp, otherwise she''d be sucking me dry twice over,'' I replied. ''Ah, well, we can''t all be looking for blood,'' Bogdan replied, before leaning closer to Eric. ''Probably has saltier tastes,'' he mouthed. ''I bet,'' Eric said, his smirk slightly annoyed. ''Before you derailed me, though, I wanted to clarify what I meant. I didn''t say vamps have it worse than strigoi-'' ''I don''t know, man...'' I said in my best philosopher voice. ''Vampires suck.'' For my troubles, I was caught in a shower of sharp words and sharper gestures. ''I meant,'' Eric said finally. ''That us two have it worse than you when it comes to our jobs.'' ''Oh?'' I said curiously, taking in our surroundings as he gathered his words. We were in the Haunts, Bucharest''s undead quarter. Specifically, the Belfry, the area with the highest vamp concentration, where the inhabitants had thick blinds over every window and pooled their weather manipulation to keep everything under permanent dark clouds. There were lots of blood banks, too. Artificial blood was in far higher demand from vampires than normal people, even though, at thirty-two million, vamps represented barely more than a thousandth of the world''s population. But then, normal people didn''t chug blood like water. I kind of agreed with him. I loved what I did. Liked my job, too. ''Well,'' Eric leaned forward, fingers steepled. The one he''d severed had been crushed in his grip and the remains placed in a bag that would be obliterated. Such things were never left lying around. ''I meant the uniforms, mostly...'' He gestured at his dark blue pants, yellow shirt and red tie. The tricolor. ''ARC dresses you up like a chessboard, yes, but black goes with everything, especially white. We look like someone sneezed, had a nosebleed, then dipped the tissue into ink.'' ''The fuck, dude?'' Bogdan punched him in the shoulder, shooting Eric an incredulous look. ''Keep that nasty shit to yourself. I don''t wanna hear comparisons like that before drinking.'' ''Well, the Supernatural Service is fairly new,'' I said placatingly. ''I''m sure your superiors just want to show they have the country''s best interests at heart, hence why the colour scheme is a little...on the nose.'' ''On the nose,'' Eric repeated, a deadpan expression on his face. ''This is not on the nose, David. It''s a brick between the eyes. Not even Breakout from the States dresses as her flag, patriot that she is.'' ''Actually,'' Bogdan said in a snooty voice. ''She wears a balaclava with the stars and stripes, and used to wear a sash like that, too.'' ''Oh?'' Eric glanced at him curiously. ''And why are you so well-informed about FREAKSHOW''s favourite wrecking ball? Studying the opposition, are you?'' ''Wake up, man. Freedomland ain''t been "the opposition" for decades.'' ''Talk like this could have you taken away, comrade! Don''t make me send you to the Canal!'' ''The one I dug through your mom, or...?'' I smiled as they bantered, happy they had finally found something to fill their unlives with, something they had chosen. Romania was a little better for every supernatural who pledged their powers for the people, or the country, or even money. Hell. Just not being a supernatural criminal was nice. None of us were off-duty-in fact, all of us were patrolling, looking for suspicious supernatural activity in case anyone was using the holidays as cover or to draw attention away from themselves. I didn''t remain with them for much longer, though, as I was soon recalled to Omu base. *** Since the Cold Madness and the Headhunt, ARC and its national counterparts had grown sick of being caught unawares. As such, a regime of training against every type of conceivable opponent, as well as some inconceivable ones, had been established. In ARC''s case, this meant agents from different divisions were pitted against each other, as well as whatever construct the people from Salem could cook up. The Air Force even lent us some-doubtlessly outdated-drones to train against, to hunt or be hunted down by. The spherical machines were barely bigger than a football, but tough enough I broke my hands hitting them, fast enough to fly circles around lightning bolts, and able to raze Romania in seconds with their lasers, plasma bolts, railguns or missiles. The drones, like many forms of power armour, were powered by a network micro-wormholes leading to the sun and other stars, the energy being funneled through so that the drones would never run out of power, or sunlight to strip vampires of their esoteric abilities with. I had just beaten a werelynx named Radu, who had come from the Luna division base over in Bra?ov, while Rivka Peretz had gone in his place, to cross claws with our were colleagues. Incensed at her perceived uselessness during the Headhunt (like she could have done anything to Thor!), and at how easily I''d incapacitated her during the spar before I''d gotten my new cross, the ghoul had taken to eating thousands of times her weight in lab grown meat, her power growing to the point where her movements became a blur to my eyes when we fought, and she could tear through me as easily as the Unscarred had done on Mars, years ago. She was not as strong as the albino currently was, but, between her power and the ferocity that only grew even as her hunger was sated, I doubted it would be much consolation to the weres. While Aya Reem and Romania''s Director Gelu Malea discussed who would take over as Romania''s senior agent after Marc''s...after Flavius Marcus had gone missing in action(they still spoke as if Marc was somewhere out there, merely lost), an experienced Crypt agent had been brought from Spain as a temporary replacement. We just...couldn''t tell what he was experienced with. As I dispersed the air sphere around Radu, the werelynx fell the thirty metres to the ring with his legs coiled, landing on his paws easily. ''Nice move, Silva,'' he growled as he turned human, fanged smile becoming merely toothy. Unlike most weres, who preferred to fight in their hybrid forms, gaining power and sharper senses while retaining their voices, Radu fought as a lynx, claiming anything you wanted to say during a spar, you could express through actions. He still went hybrid on missions, as far as I knew, but, in training, he chose to mangle people on all fours. ''But I''m not a hamster,'' he continued, his ruddy face screwing up in distaste. ''If you put me into a ball again, I''ll tear out your balls and swap them with your eyes.'' Pussy! My strigoi side snickered in my mind. It had developed a sort of pseudo-sapience since the Headhunt. Less of a separate personality and more of a really loud, really coarse subconscious, it had been awakened by the tiny quantities of lifeforce I had consumed from dying animals and plants. A strigoi eventually began talking to their instincts like this, if they consumed enough lifeforce, but...after the bullshit Chernobog had pulled in my body, I wasn''t keen on having someone else on my head, even if it was still "me". We should tear out that rough little tongue of his, human, it whispered, a smile in its false voice. And shove it down his throat. Do it again and again and again as he heals, until he bloats and falls apart! Then, after he stops being a pile of gore, we will do it again, with a different body part~. Its suggestions didn''t help. Especially since I knew, deep down, that it only reflected my darkest desires. It got real interesting when I was with Mia. ''Alright, me lads!'' Marc''s replacement clapped twice as he jumped down between us from the bleachers. My ghost colleagues, as well as a few necromancers and the ogre corpses they animated, looked down at us with curiosity from one side. On the other were Radu''s colleagues from Luna, as well as a balaur from Drake. Thundertail, as he insisted we call him, had haggled with all of us over "old things" for his hoard, because he "knew from experience" that dead people gathered knickknacks around them. I had felt attacked. I was dead, not retired. Now, the balaur glanced at us with mild amusement, his electric-yellow body, larger than most passenger planes, sprawled across several tiers of bleachers, muzzle propped in one claw. Thundertail was just as strong, fast and tough as me, healed as fast without any holy weakness, and his lightning breath could and had vapourised me. When balaurs, and dragons in general, were killed, it was because their killers were favoured by gods or fate, or just had absolutely monstrous weapons. ''Radu, go clean yourself up. You can even use the showers, if you want,'' Diego Cortez said, his grin just as sharp as the werelynx''s, who packed more insults in that smile than I could in most sentences. Nevertheless, Radu nodded in agreement, as his body was covered in blood and guts, his still steaming, mine as cold as ever, from when we''d torn each other apart. The Spanish vampire hummed to himself, spinning on one foot to look at me with blood-red eyes. Diego (I was sure his last name was just as fake as his claims of having sailed to America with the Conquistadors; the Shattering might have been an acausal headache, but this guy didn''t act like he was centuries old, even if he dressed like he was) had skin as white as his poofy-sleeved shirt, which was tight across the torso, opening to show a chest covered in wiry black hair. Over it, he wore a black and white, unbuttoned ARC vest. He also wore black leather pants, waist encircled by a brown leather belt with a gold buckle. High-heeled, shiny black shoes-he only came up to my chest, even with the added centimetres- and a wide-brimmed black hat with peacock feathers in every colour of the rainbow completed the flamboyant ensemble. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. ''Now!'' He pointed at me, dramatically turning his face to look away, his other hand on his hip. ''There is bad blood staining the Crypt''s floors. My kind are often called leeches, and, ah, Dios! What a poetic comparison! For the noble leech drains away all is foul and corrupt, leaving the body healthy. Loric!'' I almost gawked at him, but opted to instead turn and look as the wall of the training room shifted to allow in the strigoi I had never wanted to see again. Szabo looked just as fat and jolly as the last time I had seen him, though there was a faint annoyance in his gleaming eyes, in the lines of his face. He had loathed being restricted to patrols through Hungary alone, I imagined... But the old bastard had somehow managed to get a new set of ''leathers''. ''Szabo?'' I began by way of greeting, crossing my arms. ''Please tell me you got those from corpses, at least.'' The older strigoi giggled. ''Why, David...I only handle dead meat when touching myself~'' My strigoi side laughed approvingly in my mind. Great, now I''d have two groady bastards living rent-free in my brain. ''Why is he here?'' I asked Diego, not taking my eyes off Szabo, or his broad smile. He was faster than I could see, but it was the thought than counted. The vamp clicked his tongue. ''David, David, do you listen not?! To clear the air between you! I know you and Loric have your differences, but that is no excuse for dissent among the ranks. Why, I remember once, when my men mutinied against me...it was the summer of sixty-three, that is, seventeen sixty-three, and the grog had run as low as their patience...'' Szabo listened and nodded at the appropriate moments, still smiling, to my bafflement, but I didn''t miss the tension in his stance whenever Diego moved. Was he...was he scared of this guy? ''As such!'' the vamp exclaimed after finishing his anecdote. ''Loric will explain why he attacked you, David, and you will explain your disapproval of him. You can do it before, as, or after you spar.'' ''That''s it?'' I asked. ''We shake hands then part as friends?'' ''You can kiss too,'' Diego wiggled slim, black eyebrows. ''But remember: do not become ?too friendly. We are, after all, professionals. Besides, I''m sure David''s spitfire of a darling would get mighty jealous, and we wouldn''t want that, would we?'' Before I could ask when or why he had learned about my relationship with Mia, Diego was gone, and Szabo was ripping me apart. Both events had happened faster than I could see. *** ARC''s training rooms can simulate virtually any environment. Whether through magic, technology, or both, they could create spaces as large as a city, planet or universe, which were still contained in the room. For today''s exercise, Omu base''s training room used wards crafted by mages specialised in bending space, creating a copy of the universe equal in size to the original, but simultaneously small enough to fit in the room, which was only the size of a few football stadiums. The objects in the replica were made of hardlight, each just as durable as the real thing. Something I could attest to as Szabo smashed my face against the ground, breaking both it and Germany into tiny chunks. The strigoi threw me away, disinterested, and I split the Atlantic with my passing, landing to rip through the States, breaking them in half. My body healed just as fast as it was damaged, unlike the fake Earth, but I was still losing. Badly. Szabo was on me before I could move, stomping through my neck to turn the southern USA into dust. With a pitying look, he kicked me away, and I vapourised several mountains with my passing, each impact bruising my back, managing to stop myself in midair somewhere at the border with Canada. Szabo was floating in front of me instantly, shaking his head, and I flew away, until he was just a dot on the horizon, whipping the weather into a frenzy with my will. To distract him, I created a sphere of ink-black storm clouds around him, bombarding the strigoi with hailstones that would have crushed cars and rain that would have flayed humans alive. A snap of his fingers dispersed the clouds, and I summoned lightning, looking to cover him in layers and layers of bolts, hoping to blind him. When the bolts, well over twelve hundred times faster than sound, were milimetres from his skin, he disappeared, only to reappear kilometres away, behind me. So damn fa- ''I am sorry, David,'' he said, one fist smashing through my chest to grip my spine. ''Not for neglecting to explain myself to you. You should have seen through Chernobog''s ploy, no matter what he looked like-'' ''Then why are you sorry?'' I snarled. Every microsecond, I punched the strigoi several times, each strike packing enough power to vapourise the mountain golem I had merely pulverised in Siberia. My fists broke on his nose and eyes-the softest parts of his face, fucking dammit-leaving him unharmed, if filthy. Szabo flicked my chest, to get my attention, turning me into red steam. ''Why are you sorry?'' I repeated when I healed, trying to fruitlessly harm him once more. ''For hurting Mia?!'' ''Who?'' his brow furrowed in confusion, and I roared, summoning a storm fiercer than any that had ever ravaged America, making thousands of lightning bolts tear through the sky every microsecond, and drawing them all into my hands, until I was sure that...that... Baring my fangs, shaping the lightning into a crude blade, I raised it overhead, and Szabo shook his head at my approach, but made no move to dodge. I split him in half from exposed brain to crotch, and he healed almost as fast as I cut through him, before flicking me into steam once more. Szabo sighed as I healed once more, rubbing his forehead. ''I am sorry you make yourself so weak, David.'' ''The fuck are you saying?'' ''Let me tell you...three things.'' Szabo held up three scarred, calloused fingers, then was gone from my sight, as was everything else. By the time my eyes healed, I was in high orbit, looking down at a world with no continents. ''One: in the time it would take a human''s heart to beat once, I dragged you around the planet seven times, shattering the continents with your body,'' Szabo whispered, suddenly behind me. Before I could turn, his hand ripped through my skull, squeezing my brain, and throwing me at and through the moon. My constantly-regenerating body carved a tunnel that would have swallowed Germany from one side of the moon to the other as it smashed through countless tons of rock. Szabo was there when I flew out of the ruin, kicking me from the moon through Mars, ripping up an area the size of Europe, and into Jupiter''s Great Red Spot. I tried to gather my bearings until he reached me, but he harnessed a fraction of the great storm that was Jupiter to keep me in place, trapped in a hurricane of orange clouds and yellow lightning, moved so fast by his will I was turned to charred pieces several times. ''Two: you are slow. You do not move quickly, either,'' Szabo said after he flew to me, gripping my throat and forcing me to look at him. ''And three...you fight like the weakling strigoi you were, not whatever impossible freak you became during the Headhunt. What will it take to motivate you, David?'' ''I don''t know how to use Mimir''s power,'' I protested, angry at myself for feeling the need to justify myself to Szabo, for losing to him, for- ''No,'' he said firmly. ''It is my fault, I am sure. Perhaps you need someone else to motivate you~?'' Szabo giggled as his skin turned ebony, features fading while antlers began to grow from his...his... ''Go to hell,'' I growled hoarsely, striking him with all my strength, turning my limbs to paste, but sending the grotesque son of a bitch out of sight. ''Oh, David...'' a rich, deep voice rumbled as black arms wrapped around me from behind. ''Did you think you could ever escape me?'' I roared, thrashing in Szabo''s grip as he laughed, unable to dislodge him. Why...w-why... Why the fuck was his touch burning me!? Finally, his grip loosened, and I kicked the Chernobog-lookalike deep into Jupiter''s clouds and out of my sight. I w-was hallucinating, clearly. C-Could strigoi do that? I had...h-ha...I had imagined that he was burning me, like a god would. H-How fucking scared could I get? ''That was better!'' Szabo''s normal voice rang out, and I broke my spine with how fast I turned to glare at him. The fucking bastard was smiling, like he hadn''t just...just...how fucking ?dare he? ''But not good enough...'' Szabo trailed off, looking at me, nonplussed, as I broke my body trying to leave one, one fucking mark on him. ''David? What did you do while I was finding my way back?'' ''W-What?'' I gasped, voice breaking, eyes darting wildly from his face to his head. He was...he was Szabo. Not... ''Your chest...how did you burn yourself like that? And why aren''t you healing?'' ¡­fuck him. Damn him and his fucking, twisted joke. I didn''t know how he was doing this to me, but I lost it. A sound like a blade slashing through air, on an unimaginably greater scale, brought me back to my senses, and I blinked newly-healed eyes to see Diego floating between us, his sharp features set in a thunderous grimace. In one hand, he held a one-edged sword dripping with ruby blood that didn''t dry or run out, its gilded scabbard hanging on one hip. His intervention had reduced both Szabo and I to scattered particles, separating us. And turning Jupiter into a shapeless cloud, spanning the distance between Saturn and Mars. ''End simulation,'' the vampire said tersely, his goateed chin trembling, one hand clenched tight on the sword. A small corner of my mind distantly wondered how much blood he had drank to become so powerful. He was certainly the strongest vamp I knew of, even stronger than that blue whale that had destroyed Australia, barring a few unsettling rumours from South America. ''No!'' I screamed, and Diego turned his piercing stare on me. ''I will kill him! The bastard fucking burned me! I don''t know how, but-'' ''THAT''S THE BLOODY PROBLEM, SILVA!'' Diego barked, silencing me. ''What just happened-and we''re not sure what it was-should not have been possible. We must look for glitches in the simulator, or intruders, or-'' The simulation ended, but not with the created space fading into nothing. Instead, it twitched and writhed like a dying man, before disappearing in a blinding flash of colourless light. Diego, Szabo and the other agents were on their feet, back to back, when my sight recovered, Thundertail encircling us, wings raised and lightning crackling in his yawning maw. Every light in the room and beyond was shattered, every device in pieces, or rusting. And, through the darkness, fey laughter rang out to fill our ears, carried by wind that had not been there before. Interlude: Glimpses
Mihai Codrea returns home by teleportation. It''s a fairly nice apartment in the Spheres, Bucharest''s mage quarter. Everyone wil give you a different answer if you ask for the name''s origin and meaning, which is only fitting, when magic is involved. The wards, which would normally prevent such an esoteric entrance, recognise their creator and let him in. So far, so good. Then, Mihai realises he is alone. This is not what unsettles him. He expected to outpace the girls. What is unsettling is the fact that all the lights in the house, which should have turned on at his arrival, are out: the lightbulbs broken, the magelights-spheres of sunlight he crafted in case of a blackout, which he is beginning to think this isn''t-snuffed out. Then, someone almost kills him. Mihai''s reflexes are boosted by his mana, a necessity in the presence of his rowdy friends, with the supernatural bodies they take for granted. Even so, the blade leaves a shallow, thin mark on his throat as he teleports away, cursing. The line doesn''t heal. This is when he gets scared. Mihai puts his body, mind and soul in a timeloop set to rewind him to perfect health, however disastrous his death. This is paired with an automatic teleportation spell, set to place him a far distance away from the cause of his latest death. Both of these things are, again, a necessity when around his friends. None of them has killed him, not even accidentally...so far. This doesn''t mean it won''t happen. He is only human, which means he is frail and paranoid. Mihai gathers power as he sees his attacker, tall and lean and barely visible under a shroud of shadows. It is smirking, white teeth gleaming in darkness. His eyes dart to the knife in its hands, a dull, almost blunt-looking thing. But he feels the absence within the blade, not just lack of mana, but its opposite. Antimagic. Mihai proudly considers himself too boring to have enemies, so he''s not sure why grinner over there is trying to give him a new mouth on his throat, but the enthusiasm is neither appreciated nor wanted. Mihai tries to stop it from advancing, but it walks through spatial distortions that should have flattened it into nothing, and spots of twisted time that should have made it never exist. It deflects his projectiles with its knife, and leaps when he tries to bend the living room''s floor around its feet. Then, when it is in midair, Mihai creates a portal in front of it, then another above near the ceiling. It is followed by a third on the floor. Mihai dispels the first after the wannabe assassin blurs through it, leaving it falling from the second and into the third, over and over. Mihai blasts, not its knife, but the wrist of the hand holding it, sending the weapon flying out of its grip and reach. Still, he feels it reach out with its will, trying to take control of his portals. With a scoff, Mihai shuts down its attempt. He''s had enough of people taking his things since his arsehole parents removed every ''distraction'' that could prevent him from reaching ''true prowess in every domain''. The times they locked him in the cellar, with no light and stale air, were pretty memorable too, if not exactly nice. Mihai doesn''t know this fucker, but, if his parents are the first people it has made him think of, he doubts he''s going to like it- A thin scream, that quickly becomes a gurgle, fills his ears. His heart almost sinks as he imagines his...no. It wasn''t his wife''s voice, nor one of his daughters''. Just... "Just" a neighbour whose name he''s never managed to remember, despite seeing her every day. Before dashing out of his home to help, Mihai takes a good luck at the would-be killer, and smiles coldly. People like it always need some iron in their blood. He might as well give it a present, before going to meet its friends. Christmas is coming, after all, he thinks as he stabs the Unseelie through the heart with a created iron knife, walking ''on'' the floor portal like it is solid, before dispelling it and letting the Fae''s corpse fall. Mihai does not think about this now, but he has just killed a thinking being for the first time in his life. *** Andrei''s current employer is a young rich girl, with a foreign-sounding name. Miranda...something. Her parents were landscaping mages, and left her a fortune when they died. She has all the vices he expects, given her age and wealth. No worse or stranger than any of the gold-digging ''friends'' she clubs with. It''s supposed to be a nice, boring bodyguard job, so, of course, it goes wrong. ''Predictable'' things always go wrong. Like when he was assured someone would take him from the orphanage. Or when they told him the bear attack had left no wounds because he had imagined it. (The were turned him before it began tearing him apart, so he could heal and survive everything it did to him.) Or, why not, when he was given a choice between tirelessly working at the Canal and raising monuments, or a silver blade through the neck. It took him some time, and killing several dissenting coworkers, before the Party realised he''d do better as an attack dog rather than a mule. Those were the years, he thinks drily, remembering all the dead protesters, the children taken away for stealing food, the soldiers and politicians who were too successful and popular, who stood out. But it was kill or be killed, really. He got to disappear some real monsters too, some of whom he worked alongside in the Security, until his little mishap with Simona got him a black mark. Not because anyone had given a damn about a teenage mother dying in childbirth, or even that he''d slept with a minor without realising, like a moron, but because they had thought he couldn''t control himself. Maybe they''d been right. It had been a stupid, stupid storm of pent-up lust, and a truly bizarre attempt to get at his father Misha by sleeping with a willing woman, proving he wouldn''t become a rapist like him. It seems every son in their family, Andrei thinks, smiling to himself as he wonders what David is doing, is better than his father. After the regime change(the people got sick of it, as in, rich foreigners wanted in, and a ravaged, hungry, revolutionary population, would provide good workers and buyers. Almost like the forties over again...)he was smart enough to keep his head down, so they let him fade into obscurity. Security in obscurity is a phrase that will never cease making him laugh his head off... Andrei tenses, glaring in concentration as his senses try to find what his instinct tells them is there. It takes him an instant, but he jumps away from the sliver-covered fist that comes out of nowhere, rolling with the blow so it just breaks his nose. This will never heal, and dammit, it''s not like he doesn''t already look like shit, as several people told him in his childhood. Back then, it didn''t mean anything as harmless as being ugly. It had more to do with being a "crow without a murder", as some charmingly put it. The Fae grins at him between raised hands covered in silver gauntlets, and he tries to remember when and how he''s drawn the enmity of the elves off the shelves. He comes up blank, instead focusing on dodging jabs half a dozen times the speed of sound. Then, someone hits him from behind-not with silver, it barely hurts-, sending him flying through the club''s ceiling, pulverising a hole in it, and continuing up, into the cloud layer. Another Fae suddenly has his head in its fist, and pushes him down face-first through the club, turning it and the city block around it into a crater. Bucharest shakes. And, as bloody mist sticks to his clothes and broken, quickly-healing face, Andrei realises the Fae only refrained from using silver so he could remember being used to kill thousands of people. A tool for murder, again? As his beast takes over, and he stands a metre taller and two hundred kilos heavier, Andrei swears to eat one of the Fae alive, spit it down the other''s throat, and drown them both in molten iron. *** His husband, Liam Lloyd realises uneasily, is not responding. Not to texts, or calls, or scrying. This is strange. Ryan is a meticulous bloke, has been since they hooked up at the mage academy in Yulara. He also knows what a worrywart the lich is. Coupled with the fact his magic consists of placing his mind in devices, this...should not be happening. Liam touches down in front of their place, nervously fingering the hem of his t-shirt. ''Milk for the Khorne flakes'', with a cartoonish version of said Chaos God standing with a spoon raised overhead. The guys at the tournament thought it was a tired joke, but screw ''em. It was funny when he got into the hobby, and it still is. Everything inside their house is off. Not just in the sense no device is running, another impossibility when Ryan is around; everything feels wrong. The Fae turns to smile mockingly at him as it tries to stab Ryan''s heart with a knife that makes the lich''s dead stomach churn just from its looks. His husband is not a strong guy, as one can tell by the beer gut and noodle arms, but he is boosting himself with mana, though he still needs both hands to hold back the Unseelie''s extended arm.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Ryan grins as he sees him enter(he''ll have to make a joke about this later, cheer him up), his ruddy face split by a broad grin. Sweat is running from his forehead to his grey beard with effort, and his green eyes are narrowed in concentration. ''Die,'' Liam rasps at the Fae, his magic killing the chance of it living any longer. In the kitchen, an iron knife falls from its place, ricocheting off the floor, then the table leg, the walls, the living room ceiling and walls, until it is close to the Fae, who laughs, expecting to casually dodge the slow projectile. But even as it laughs, it breaks Ryan''s grip and raises its knife to dash at Liam, whom it sees as more dangerous. "Dumb cunt." Liam grins skeletally at its confused, offended expression. Then, with a burst of mana, Ryan knees it in the crotch, sending it flying into the air just in time for the knife to pierce its skull. Liam doesn''t have time to high-five his husband, though, because the neighbourhood is soon filled by the sound of exploding lightbulbs, crashing cars, dying gurgles and cold, fey laughter. *** Aaron is off-duty at the moment, and meditating, but not relaxed. As such, when the Fae appears out of nothing above him, intent on splitting him in half with a kick, he leans back, all six legs tensing to leap away, out out of the Black Sea and into the air. It disappears in a burst of shadow just as dark as its hairless, muscular body, reappearing in front of him and punching him in his third head''s throat, ripping it off. The impact sends him flying off Earth, past the other planets, and headsfirst into Pluto, which shatters. Aaron barely feels it. The Fae appears again, but he''s prepared now. With a thought, his war-harness becomes armour, and a punch that would have beheaded him again does nothing, the Fae''s fist crunching against his faceplate in a mangled mess. Normally, the Unseelie''s presence makes all things built by civilisation fall apart, for they are bringers of chaos, but his armour was forged and enchanted by the Mother of the Forest, a hag just as wise, if not as powerful, as Merlin or Yaga. As such, blows that would have pulverised the Earth fall harmlessly, soundlessly, as Aaron watches with faint amusement. Snarling silently, the Fae creates a blade of shadow, and Aaron only stands still until he feels it split his armour. It laughs at his perceived retreat, reshaping the blade into throwing knives, so Aaron decides to make it choke on its laugh. His harness can create any weapon or tool. And, in this modern age, robots and constructs are often thought of as such. The armour peels off, leaving only a thin layer that, through the Mother''s magic, restores itself, becoming armour again. The discarded material becomes an automaton, identical to Aaron in shape and strength. The Fae scoffs, then growls as the process repeats, both Aaron and the construct shedding a layer to make two more automatons. Then, four more. Eight. Sixteen. Tens of trillions of automatons quickly fill the void between Pluto''s remains, growing more numerous every instant. Aaron knows he could drown the universe in constructs if he wished. There is no need for that. Both he, without boosting his strength, and they are powerful enough to punch the Earth in half, or turn it to ash with a firebreath. Grinning under his helmets, Aaron turns his armour to iron, while its enchantment keep it just as durable as before. The constructs mirror him, rushing the Fae as it screams in frustration and anger. *** The problem with aberrants, the Shaper seethes as it directs the Unscarred towards the intruder, is that they always have to play by their own rules. Take this ferroallergic specimen, for example. It entered the Collective''s domain despite the invisible anti-teleportation screens, the shield that splits unauthorised visitors infinitely and scatters them across the multiverse, and the defenders and drones. It seems immune to esoteric effects. That is not a problem. The Unscarred is, too, a reversal of the quantum experiment making its existence and nature an unchangeable fact. So is the rationaliser project, meant to ground out magic and its effects in large areas. The Unscarred teleports next to it, fist raised and clenched, striking hard enough to shatter Earth and shake the sun from core to surface. The Fae turns, grinning, punching its arm to red mist, and leaving an immense hole in its chest. Aberrants, the Shaper thinks as it shakes its metaphorical head. The Collective''s realm is built on, in and around Earth''s core. As the Unscarred''s machines shape themselves into a new arm and filling for its chest, the Shaper wonders how moronic you would have to be, as a Fae, to fight on a sphere of iron, which its yoctomachines are already harvesting and shaping into weapons. The Fae''s smirk fades at the Unscarred''s new body parts. ''We were not told...how did you do that?'' ''Yoctomachines, aberrant!'' *** Breakout grins under her balaclava at every punch that rocks her. The dickless bitch she''s fighting is swinging hard enough to make poor abusive Mother Earth a new asteroid belt, but that''s no problem. Breakout has always risen to the task. Her power is breaking free of restriction, anything preventing her from doing something, and it works passively. What is preventing her from surviving its strikes? Body too weak? Become more durable. Breakout is always strong enough to stomp the States into dust and outpace lasers, but this pointy-eared fucker is way stronger than her baseline. Stupidly faster, too. So, her power made her better. It has always saved her ass, back when she was a dumb lil'' bitch in a neighbourhood where a mouthy black chick being the strongest around rubbed people the wrong way. She bullshitted herself into being with an older white mage, to bury the hatchet and lower the tensions. That had been a few decades after the Shattering, with racism still rampant. The guy had promised she''d become unable to live without or keep her mind around him, and had put a spell on her that had almost made that promise reality. Her power had manifested to remove the restriction of her life and mind depending on him, in time to smash his skull in. Since then, she''d entered FREAKSHOW (Federal Resources for the Elimination And Killing of Hostile Supernatural Organisms and Weapons-they''d come up with the acronym first) to prevent such things from happening to anyone else. She was really thankful when people had stopped letting stupid shit like race, gender and religion separate them, and instead focused on integrating supernaturals into society, and killing the bad ones. From outside, the fight looks almost absurd: a dreadlocked woman of average height, if obviously fit and muscled, wearing thick boots, jeans and a ragged blue hoodie, wielding a metal pipe against a muscular Fae so tall she barely reaches his chest. The pipe is another thing her power helps with, making it durable enough to withstand her strength, so she doesn''t have to fight unarmed. Breakout has smashed the walking refrigerator to red mist several times, and that''s when her power gets off its ass to remove the restriction preventing her from winning: her pipe isn''t made of iron. The yamadium pipe changes makeup just in time for her to break the long-haired cocksleeve in half with a laugh. Then, before its halves hit the ground, Breakout pats her jeans pocket, and realizes someone, somehow, lifted her wallet when she was returning from work. "Can''t have shit in Detroit..." she grumbles, stomping her way through the Fae, pipe slung over one shoulder. Breakout is angry. This is nothing unusual. She is, however, about to live up to the epithet tattooed on her knuckles. It''s ambiguous whether ''worst bitch'' refers to herself or the people she punches, but then, they''re left pretty ambiguous themselves. "Yo, rat fodder," Breakout flips the Fae''s mangled torso onto its back with a yamadium-toed boot, looking down into its asshole of a face. "Whatever fuckwit sent you should''ve remembered this real quick, after they were done jackin'' off to themselves: I''m like a philosophy book. Whatever bitch meets me suffers an existential crisis." Then, smashing him into paste, for real this time, Breakout saunters off, whistling tunelessly. *** The walls of Hades are larger and tougher than any planet. This does not prevent Asterion from pulverising a hole dwarfing Earth through one as he dashes through it, giving Cerberus a curt nod. The dog yawns, tongues hanging out, knowing there''s no stopping the man-bull, and there hasn''t been for millennia. Asterion-not the minotaur, not the bull of Minos, he has never been his son or property-spent his first life as a glorified walking stage prop in the play of Theseus'' story. After the demigod killed him, he got sent to Tartarus, where he tormented and was tormented in turn. Eventually, Hades saw his skill, and made him a torturer, letting him eat cannibals and maneaters, in a fit of irony. Asterion glutted himself on the evil souls, becoming powerful enough to punch planets to dust and brawl with Heracles, but that was only a quarter of the transformation. Minos has absorbed the powers, skills and memories of those he has eaten, becoming a mage, were, and so, so much more. He has also become able to dial up his strength, speed and durability endlessly, on a whim. Finally, he has become so suffused with sin only people without evil in their heart can harm him, the evil failing however strong or esoteric their attacks. Asterion''s first deed after Hades ''accidentally'' opened the gates of the Underworld for him, centuries ago, was to find and punish the gods responsible for his existence. Poseidon, for his rage at Minos not sacrificing the Cretan Bull to him, and Aphrodite, for making Pasiphae fall in love with him, like a...a... Asterion shakes his head as he leaps a distance that would take an anvil nine days to fall in a hundredth of a heartbeat. His mother is dead and happy, sane. Let her rest. The guilty have been punished, though not made humbler. They are gods, after all. Asterion is a member of the Aegis Adamantine, Greece''s supernatural defence agency. It is Eidolon, one of his oldest colleagues, who calls him to Earth through the bond they formed decades ago(even after turning to eating criminals, he never got over, heh, eating women). Minos arrives on the shores of Crete to see a woman who is not a woman. Eidolon looks up at him, her clasically pretty marble features made even more beautiful by her genuinely fond smile. ''Aster,'' she says, already using her copying power to imitate his traits. Two iterations of his powerset are always useful. ''Eidi. The emergency?'' ''It will not arrive for a few minutes. When it does, it will be in Athens.'' ''It always is...'' ''Are you getting cold hooves from visiting your enemy''s city?'' she teases, head tilted to one side, smile widening. ''Pah! It''s always nice to see where his father fell to death after the moron forgot to replace his sail.'' If you put Aegeus'' organs in a new body, would it be a Father of Theseus Paradox? ''Why''d you call for me? Lowering your standards again?'' Eidolon shakes her head, shoulder-length locks swaying as if they were hair. ''Don''t put yourself down again...'' ''I''d always go down on-for you,'' he replies, dropping a heavy wink. Honestly, a freak like him making a woman smile in exasperation as opposed to scream in horror is reward enough. The fact she was built to help people only makes him more self-conscious. The last time one did, it was Pasiphae before his hunger, unable to be sated by her breast milk, human food or grass, had driven him to eat her guards and his minders. ''I''m sure. You look...different.'' ''I do?'' He thinks he looks the same as always. Head and shoulders above humans, broad, body covered in coarse black hair. Backwards-jointed, hooved legs. A tail that is always swishing in anticipation of bloodshed, or in joy at it. Ivory horns covered in the blood of the youths he has eaten, which will never dry. One of them was broken in half by Theseus, and Asterion wouldn''t heal it if he could. He can and has healed from far worse, including his body''s quarks being scattered across realities, but the reminder of his defeat remains. A spiked nose rings twitches at every-unnecessary-breath, making sure Minos is never truly calm or unhurt. His torturers put it on when he fell in Tartarus, and, just like the broken horn, it cannot be altered. ''Yes. Your eyes are...blazing.'' Ah. It is because of the recent batch of cannibal tribes he has eaten. The Tartarus Engine, as he is known for his ever-growing power, sometimes shows when he has eaten recently through such unintentional displays. ''All the better to see you, my dear,'' he purrs huskily, leaning forward to place a hand on her waist, and lowering it. Eidolon''s stone dress is part of her body. She feels every touch on- ''Seconds until arrival,'' she says curtly, walking away from him. Already, she is tapping into her copy of his powers, and imitating several other beings. His arcane sense can tell: the Nemean Lion, the Lernaean Hydra, Typhon... Much like Samuel Shiftskin, one of his few and best friends, who can imitate and combine the traits of any beast, Eidolon is a signatory if the Syncretic Treaty. Even existing at her strongest is seen as an act of war, unless creation is under attack from overwhelming outside forces. ''Iron, Aster,'' she adds, not looking at him. Asterion nods, asking for an explanation. With a pulse of magic, his flesh becomes iron, while retaining its might. But, as they dash towards Athens, Asterion can only wonder what is so dangerous, that Eidolon is channeling such power without the pantheons coming down on her head... Empty Tomb, Chapter 2
The Seelie Fae, depending who, how and when you ask, will tell you their name is derived from or has inspired the word ''silly'': happy, carefree, harmless. Whether they are being ironic when they say this is up to debate. They have also been known to claim their name and the word evolved together, but separate, without influencing each other. At the moment, I wasn''t sure which version I agreed with. The Unseelie didn''t look unhappy, and definitely didn''t sound sad. Almost all Fae were inhumanly beautiful-as in, inhuman and beautiful. Barring Puck, and some of the more monstrous Unseelie, most Fae had to shapeshift in order to appear anything other than perfect. Not a problem I''d ever shared. Some people suffer from success, others without it. Most of the Unseelie who filled the training room, walking from the ceiling to the floor on air, or stopping halfway through to stand on nothing, were grey-haired and grey-skinned, like me, and black eyed, like I used to be, before the Devil gave me my mind back, and threw me out of limbo and back into unlife, though not after I mistook God for him...to His face. Not my proudest, or smartest, moment. When I concentrated and strained my pure white, godly eyes, I could see one staring back with cold amusement, yellow and black slit like the serpent its owner had once shifted into. "One eye on you, one on the world", its unblinking, gleaming stare seemed to say. Not all Unseelie looked like pointy-eared strigoi, though: some had dark-green or black, cracked flesh that resembled wood, with emerald mana shining through the gaps, toothless mouths spread in permanent smiles, hornlike branches rising through manes of leaves. And these were just the humanlike ones; I could point out at least half a dozen redcaps, looking closer to red-skulled, shaved, needle-fanged chimps than anything human, clawed hands closed around the hafts of blades or scythes. A nuckelavee, the taloned hands of its human torso brushing the floor while the horse half paced, skinless flesh twitching, glared at us with a single, balefully-glowing red eye set in the centre of its metre-long skull. That was not the worst, though. In the middle of the Fae, between the nuckelavee and three redcaps, something that resembled shadows they way I resembled corpses stood. The featureless, almost oval silhouette did not move, but every time my attention shifted even slightly, it seemed to come closer to me, or... No, wait. Was the room getting smaller? I blinked, shaking my head, then looked with my new sight, remembering Szabo''s jabs. His words had irked me, too. Mimir''s sight revealed a whole bunch of frankly useless information. I didn''t need to know the ancestry and childhood of every Fae present, how many people the redcaps had bled to live up to their names, or what the nuckelavee didn''t do to people it caught(very few things; in fact, given how drooled dripped from its horse head''s mouth, and how something that was definitely not drool dripped from the other head, it was pretty excited to get its claws on us). But the shadow... You know those ''nothing to see here'' signs people sometimes ironically place around? Mimir''s sight might as well have been showing me one, for all I learned. In fact, according to my godly sight, the shadow not only had no future, it had no past, either, nor was it even present in the multiverse, the aether between realities, where the dead who prayed to no god went, or anywhere else. I could only see what it...wasn''t. It was Diego who broke the Mexican standoff. His sword, wide as my hand, its edge dripping ruby blood, trembled in his grip, as if he''d been seized by uncontrollable rage. With clenched fangs, he lowered it, the tip pointing down, a scarlet droplet gathering upon it, milimetres from the floor. ''I can''t believe this...'' the vamp said in a heartbroken tone, head lowered, face hidden in the shadow of his hat, before he stood up straighter with a snap, eyes glowing red as they bored into the Unseelie. ''Do you have any idea how much we''ll have to pay these bums extra for repelling an attack right before Christmas?!" And the blood drop fell. The Fae looked at him in disbelief for half a microsecond. Then, before the other half elapsed, they leapt at us, moving so fast lightning a lightning bolt would have looked sluggish. I knew, because I created several in an attempt to slow them down. My strigoi nature gave me dominion over weather, and, over the years, my skill had grown enough that I could summon aspects of it without manipulating the weather around me itself. Nearly thirteen hundred times faster than sound, the bolts flashed electric-blue or ivory-white as the streaked through the air, only for even the slowest Fae, the human-looking ones, to casually sidestep them when they were a hand''s breadth from their skin. A few of the smug fucks even backflipped over them, and one, using the connection with the natural world all Fae had, whatever their Court, waited until a bolt was nearly touching her black eye, then, smiling, leapt above and onto it, running towards us on the still-flying bolt like an acrobat on a tightrope. Alright, new plan. I''d hoped to at least blind them, even for an instant, until someone faster than me got something made of iron we could use to beat them to death with, and make it stick. I cursed myself for letting my cross behind in my room before coming to train, not wanting to give my partners a chance to snatch it away and use it against me. There was probably a metaphor for everything important to me, somewhere in there. I leapt at the acrobat Fae just as she willed the air around her into becoming armour. From the corner of my eye, I saw Radu, this time in hybrid form, holding off four of the redcaps, while the fifth, short legs wrapped around his spine, alternated between punching his skull to splinters or ripping away chunks of flesh the size of dinner plates every microsecond, for all that the were was just as durable as me. Fangs gleaming, Radu jumped onto his back, trapping the redcap between his body and the yamadium floor, while tearing at the other four Unseelie with his clawed feet and hands. The sixth redcap had jumped into the midst of the other Luna agents, and was currently in the middle of ripping a wereotter in half every time the agent tried to get her paws on it, while its stubby legs kicked a group of wererats to pieces whenever they tried to tear at it. The weres healed just as fast as they were destroyed, but were making no progress. Meanwhile, the nuckelavee, who was either a jailbird or a football fan, had decided to knock the biggest motherfucker''s block off, as a result getting into a ripping and tearing contest with Thundertail. Though far smaller than the dragon, the nuckelavee gave as good as it got, hooves and fists clashing with claws, wings and a trainlike tail, every exchange packing enough power to vapourise mountains. It was only Thundertail''s will that kept the hundreds of gigatons in every strike from damaging Romania as a side-effect, though I''d be damned to say why the Unseelie was worrying about collateral. Eventually, the dragon, having had enough, flexed the belly the nuckelavee had ripped a bus-sized hole into, sending the Unseelie into the air. Before it could use its powers to make a foothold, Thundertail spat a bolt of unnaturally-powerful lightning at it, blasting it to vapour, just like he had done to me during our spar. It didn''t do anything, of course. Unless hurt by iron, Fae could regenerate from being erased from existence, having the quantum foam making them up divided across endless realities, or even being retconned from the timeline, just like strigoi could, unless harmed by holy power. However, Thundertail''s breath attack meant the nuckelavee regenerated in midair, only to be blasted to steam once more. Grinning with satisfaction while his belly healed, Thundertail looked ready to keep this up all night. I was almost close enough to touch the Fae by the time I processed all of this, but it was not to be. Instead of the grey-armoured female I had expected to clash with, a black gauntlet smashed into my nose from somewhere, sending me through the sparring room''s ceiling, as well as every other floor between it and Omu base''s hollow mountain peak, then the rock itself, and into the air, where my passage dispersed the thick clouds filling the night sky for tens of kilometres around. And, dammit, my nose wasn''t healing. It actually hurt, too. The fu- The gauntlet smashed into my back this time, sending me flying faster than my dead eyes could process. By the time the blurs left my sight, I realised I wasn''t on Earth anymore, given the thick, yellowish clouds I split with my passage, before smashing through several volcanoes, the force turning them to clouds of dark smoke. This was not how I wanted to get acquainted with Venus. The planet was infinitely uglier than the goddess it was most commonly associated with, (not that I used to have a crush on her...oh, shut up. Everyone did, especially since she stopped being a vain, vengeful hellion) and my impromptu, unasked-for makeup session didn''t do it any favour. The bruises my head got from vapourising the volcanoes healed instantly, but the pain between my shoulder blades didn''t vanish. The reason for it quickly appeared to stand a few metres before me. ''David Dravich?'' the Fae asked in a melodic voice, a smile quirking his lips in such a way I could barely wait to rip his tongue out and swap it with his junk. So tall I barely reached the bottom of his broad, black-armoured chest, the Fae''s long, silver hair was pulled back by a simple obsidian circlet, framing his grey, angular face. His voice was as beautiful as any human singer''s, despite the fact Venus'' atmosphere, not to mention the roaring volcanoes in the background, should have made it inaudible. ''Who the fuck told you to call me that?'' ''Ah. It is true, then. The truth angers you.'' ''Your mom, I see. Tell her only she''s allowed to taunt me, and that''s if she asks my girlfriend first. Don''t worry, they''ll have time to talk while Mia pegs her-'' The punch broke my arm, and almost tore my shoulder out of its socket, so I forced myself smile up at pretty boy. "Aww, jealous? Calm your tits, I''m sure you and mommy will get to maintain the family wreath when my zmeu is done fisting you-" A spiked knee broke my jaw, so my laugh was decidedly uglier than usual. ''It''s fine! I don''t kinkshame, bro...''The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. ''You know I could kill you any moment.'' The Fae sniffed. ''Have you heard of me, Dravich?'' ''Didn''t I see you behind that gloryhole at-'' His slap sent half my fangs flying, along with flecks of congealed blood. I landed on all fours. ''Man, you sucked, and not in a good way. I thought maybe I liked guys too, but you convinced me I don''t. Guess you scared me straight!'' ''Quiet,'' he snapped, one moment looking down at me from several steps away, the next hefting me above him with one gauntleted hand. Its touch burned me, the jagged symbols carved into it so dark light was drained into them, but it was nothing compared to the pain of my ruined face. Not that I''d let this bitch see it. I wouldn''t give him the satisfaction of beating me mentally, too, fucking dammit. And where the hell were Szabo and Diego, anyway? They were our heaviest hitters. As it turned out, while the vamp would only tell us what he went through after the Fright, while we were counting casualties, the strigoi wasn''t far away. ''I''ve never been able to stand creatures like you.'' The Fae closed his eyes with a weary sigh. ''Acting defiant when they can''t achieve anything...what are you hoping to do?'' ''Certainly not you, but can I ask for your name?'' I wiggled bloodied eyebrows, and my half-toothless grin widened when one of his eyes twitched. ''In the crude language of the Island of Tin, I would be Coldhold, Count of Greyreach. A county, I suppose, in our realm.'' Coldhold snickered to himself. ''Speaking to a dead man, who''s about to die again...I swear, I am turning as stupid as you, Dravich. Would you prefer to die like a worm, or on your feet? But remember: whatever your answer, I can kill you with my hands behind my back.'' Coldhold only gripped my throat for a fraction of a microsecond longer, before I was sent flying from his grasp, and he turned, staggering, arms severed and gauntlets shattered at the elbows. They had been turned to red mist, but healed even faster than mine would have. ''What a coincidence~'' a lilting voice said, and I couldn''t believe I was thankful to hear it. ''I can kill you with your hands behind my back, too!'' And, as a demonstration, Szabo leaned to one side, giving Coldhold a good look at his severed appendages. The Fae stared at him with disgust for a moment, before his face became a mask of disbelieving hatred. ''How?'' he asked. ''The shadow should have killed you!'' ''Oh? The Bleeding Edge is taking care of it. They don''t call him that because he''s new, you know?'' Szabo dropped me a wink, shifting from one leather-booted foot to the other. Snarling, Coldhold poured his will into the world around us, while leaping at Szabo with clenched fists. But, without his holy gauntlets, it seemed he had no other means to damage the strigoi. Punches that would have shattered my skull only resulted in broken arms for the Fae, while spikes of rock, shaped from a country''s worth of stone and shaped to an impossibly sharp and fine point, smashed against Szabo''s eyes so fast they glowed white from the heat, only to shatter, not even piercing them. Space bent to reveal portals into churches, mosques and sites of worship so alien or unholy I had to avert my gaze, while Coldhold grasped the air inside them with his will, sending holy objects flying at Szabo, who laughed, disappearing and reappearing faster than I could see, hand buried into the Fae''s neck to smash his face into the holy projectiles instead. Cursing in outrage, the Fae tried to bend time and make himself faster, only for Szabo to punch him to mist every time, shattering his concentration. Attempts to erase the strigoi from existence only left him standing, naked and laughing, in huge, unnaturally-smooth pits that extended past the horizon, his nature making Szabo a fact of existence. Finally, Szabo reached into the hole left in his chest by his suicide, grabbing something I hadn''t seen until then, something that gleamed dully. Smiling, Szabo flashed around Coldhold several times, smashing my cross over his face, flattening it until it was uglier than mine. Then, he cut the Count''s legs in half at the knees. ''No need to have you bleed out. You have answers I just know you are eager to share,'' Szabo muttered, looking down at the mutilated Fae, who spat at him. Coldhold spat up at the strigoi, who, laughing, used his wind manipulation to send it back the Count''s throat. Before Coldhold could even grimace in disgust, Szabo smiled widely, grabbing his tongue. ''You want to swap fluids~?'' the strigoi asked, before ripping his tongue out and shoving it down Coldhold''s throat. Then, not giving him time to spit it out, Szabo did it again, and again, until the Count''s bloated throat burst, allowing a mass of bloodied grey tongues to fall onto his chest. ''Should I kiss you again, darling?'' Not waiting for Coldhold to regenerate his throat and answer, Szabo grabbed the Fae''s silver hair, ripping more and more out each time it healed, and wrapping the clumps around the Count''s leg stumps, to slow his bleeding. ''I know it''s a hair-thin excuse...for bandages. But...'' Szabo shrugged. ''Dare I hope you will tell me how and why you attacked Omu base? I know the Unseelie can ignore any defences or means of detection created by civilisation, for you are bringers of chaos. But the wards? The spells?'' ''Why don''t you ask your toy over there?'' Coldhold jerked his head at me, causing the strigoi to laugh. ''He seems to have an answer for everyone, and a need to talk and talk.'' ''Oh, my...'' Szabo giggled, eyes closed, smacking my bloodied cross against one palm. ''You think I see David as a source of amusement because I try to make him stop pretending he''s a hairless monkey? Can you, truly, be as stupid as you look? Have I found the missing link between dense and misinformed fools?'' ''Mock me all you want. In the end, you will die as you fear, skinthief-unremembered by history, let alone anyone worthwhile.'' Szabo laughed even louder now. ''Look at you! You can only attempt to hurt me with words, and are failing even at that. Now...my question again. Will you tell us why and how you assaulted us? We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the haaaaard way~'' ''Go to the hell you claim not to fear.'' ''And here I thought you had that dog in you, like me. But I was wrong. You''re a bitch.'' And, with a swipe of one arm, Szabo shattered Coldhold''s remaining armour, leaving him defenceless but for a gambeson-like garment. That didn''t last long, either, Szabo quickly shredding it into dust. Shifting shape into something that made my eyes cross whenever I tried to look at or away from it, Szabo grabbed hold of the bare Fae, my cross held in an appendage the likes of which I''d never seen on Earth. Coldhold didn''t stop screaming for a long, long time. *** The shadow, Diego decided, was much like common supernaturals: a law unto itself, telling the universe how it worked. While ordinary matter was erased when it passed through it, Diego''s vampiric nature and sword let him touch and knock it around as if it was made of flesh, even though each touch left burns that did not heal. Kind of like that song about skin. It was far less cheerful than the music Diego usually listened to, which was just a sign of how badly things were going, if he was thinking about it. Though the shadow shifted mass constantly, Diego currently estimated it at about twelve trillion tons, given how it had quickly turned a mountain and the land around it into gravel by dropping onto it after he tackled it out of Omu base. As if such weight mattered to any monster worth their salt... With a cheerful grin, Diego rushed the shadow, kicking it off Earth before it could attempt to erase him. Then, when it was close to the moon, Diego intercepted and tackled it into the sun, for all that it weighed more than a hundred mountains, so fast light would take more than an hour to catch up to them. Sunlight sealed away his esoteric powers, but he needed somewhere he could cut loose against this unbeing. Besides...he had some tricks up his veins. Diego''s healing, much like his senses and physical prowess, was always at his disposal. So, when he cut his gut open, the cloud of gore hanging in the void, it closed up instantly, just in time for him to repeat. Diego leapt, legs crossed under him, allowing a tendril of shadow to pass harmlessly, erasing hundreds of thousands of kilometres of solar plasma. What a dim fellow... Diego cut himself open again and again, until he was surrounded by a sphere of gore that shielded him from the sunlight. Then, his powers returned, Diego grasped hold of all his blood at once, drawing it out only for it to refill instantly. Then, again. And again. And again... Vampires gained power by drinking blood. However, even when losing it, they regenerated just as powerful as before being harmed. It was not the liquid''s presence in their veins, but the act of consuming, that increased their powers. Which meant that, when Diego was done bleeding enough to cover the sun, turning it red, he didn''t lose anything, and gained much. The shadow tried to erase him or his sea of blood, but Diego, using his weather manipulation, grabbed hold of the solar winds. It didn''t matter that they were hardly a real weather phenomenon. It was all about symbolism. Spinning the star''s surface like a disc, Diego mixed the plasma with his blood, beginning to shape his weapon. The shadow lunged at him, thousands of times faster than light, and the vampire raised his sword, grasping it in both hands. Then, he dispersed he blood he had shaped to look like himself, and struck the shadow from behind. The force of the strike was such that its shockwave split the sun, sending the halves millions of kilometres away. The sun gods would be mad, but...he was saving the world. They''d understand, or kill him, thus freeing him from worries. While the shadow spun in the void, reeling from the strike, Diego grasped the blood sea he had shed, spinning it into a spear that glowed with veins of plasma. The blood would allow it to touch the shadow, and the plasma...would add a little power. Diego''s projectile smashed into the shadow''s ''head'', splitting it like a rotten melon. But, before the creature dispersed, it flung a part of itself at Diego, faster than it had ever moved before (had it worked itself into a rage?), cutting him in half at the waist. As he spun in place, drifting towards nothing and bleeding out, Diego laughed drily to himself. This was like back when he''d been left stranded on that nameless island off the coast of South America, before his sire had turned him to save him from dying of thirst, instead giving him an endless one. But, really, the vampiress just hadn''t wanted to entertain herself with a dead man. She liked them lively, as she had told him. His sire had never asked for his consent, especially once his pleas and prayers, followed by curses, had made it clear he hadn''t given it. It had taken him decades to feel human again, let alone like a man. "Smile and wave, nino," his mother used to tell him. "You are not smart, or strong, or brave. But you make others laugh. Do not let them see your tears. No one likes a sad jester." Sometimes, Diego wondered what had become of his sire. Now, he just hoped he wouldn''t be found by another monster. *** ''Gerald Reyes, you say? And Sir Ronald, too?'' ''The Dragonlayer, yes.'' The old, captive mage''s wrinkled face twisted into a smile. ''Grandfather bless him and his wife.'' ''For giving you research subjects? I mean, unofficial grandchildren?'' ''I love all my Knights, and their children, too, uncle.'' ''And why were they here? Both ARC and New Camelot, I mean. Talk about rivalry...'' Especially when the UK''s supernatural defence agency had been founded at roughly the same time as ARC''s Camelot division, exacerbating the problem caused by similar names, chosen in ignorance of each other. ''The aim is actually collaboration, I think. They plan to break Nimue''s prison, so I may walk the world once more.'' The mage''s human mask slipped, his true features casting no shadow, for even the darkness was afraid of some things, even when-especially when-they had turned away from it to serve the light. ''That would be something to see. Maybe you can get rid of the ghostwriter, and finish the Hero''s Handbook yourself! It''s hilarious, really. I''m sure the Roundhouse would agree.'' New Camelot was nicknamed thus both because of how their headquarters looked, and to differentiate between them and the ARC division meant to integrate supernaturals into society, like Arthur''s knights had once done. The mage chuckled. ''Perhaps. But tell me more about your new favourite, uncle. I see all there was, is and might be, and your eye is always on him.'' ''My mark, too.'' ''Indeed. So...?'' ''So. He is interesting. Makes me laugh almost as much as little Faust did, when I sent him Mephistopheles as a poisoned gift.'' ''Are you planning to paint a bedroom''s walls with this one''s remains, too?'' ''Why, do you want him?'' ''...Hmm.'' ''And you say he should be worried about me...'' A great, horned head shook fondly, before its owner squeezed his nephew''s scarred hand with something a human might have perceived as affection. ''Goodbye, Merlin.'' ''For now,'' the greatest cambion mage to ever live agreed, knowing his father was seething at his son''s closeness to his lord. ''Interesting, indeed...'' The mage smiled to himself, morningstar eyes twinkling. Almost as interesting as when his uncle had taken the name of an old, petty king no one remembered anymore, save as his. There was a lesson to be learned there. He just hoped David Silva wouldn''t become a stepping stone for someone greater before he truly opened and learned to see with his old friend''s eyes. Empty Tomb, Chapter 3
Say whatever you will about Coldhold: he never once screamed in fear as Szabo''s monstrous form worked him over. He screamed in pain at the cross'' touch, and cursed the strigoi in disgust, but received only laughs and comments in a conversional tone. ''Thank you for screaming! If you stayed silent while I touched you, I''d have felt like I was with Csilla again. And trust me, you''re way too skinny to remind me of my wife...'' ''Do you know sign language? It''s for the interrogation, see? I''m meeting my great-grandbrats this Chrismas, and I want to give them your ears! I''ve been bringing body parts home for years, and I hope we''ll get enough to build something soon...'' ''No, no, stay on your side. The writhing looks better this way...'' ''David, want to get in on this?'' Szabo smiled at me without turning, instead forming a mouth on something I supposed was his shoulder. ''No thanks. You seem to have things well in...under control,'' I said, trying to ignore the voice in my head screaming for the Fae''s torture. My strigoi side was being pretty insistent, too. ''Oh, brother...'' Szabo was now looking humanoid enough again for me to tell he was shaking his head. ''You have literally nothing to lose.'' ''Yeah, well..'' I winced, getting to my feet with a creak. Damn, but I actually sounded my age. My broken bones still sent stabs of pain through me with every move, but I noticed that, for example, brushing the ground with my broken arm neither exacerbated nor lessened the pain. My flesh was still numb to sensation, besides the parts the Count had shattered with his gauntlets. ''Maybe I''d get over there if twitching didn''t make my brain riot,'' I told Szabo, looking at the bruises mottling my grey skin with dismay. In the last eight years, only a couple things had managed to leave their mark on my body. The noose I used to hang myself, for one. Chernobog''s slap, which had knocked out fangs, for another. Well...the second one had come with a silver lining, I suppose. Mia had once claimed she could give me a French kiss without me parting my teeth, before showing how flexible her tongue was. But, now? Now I was not only as ugly as my worse half, I was also half a cripple, and you could have flown a paper plane through my mouth. What a great Christmas gift for everyone. I was sure they''d love to see me getting fucked up permanently like this. ''What, is this the first time you''ve been truly wounded?'' Szabo asked, now back to his human shape. ''I''m baffled, with how insufferable you are.'' I gave him the most deadpan look I could manage with my messed-up face, receiving only a steady stare and slight raise of his eyebrows in response. ''The cause is the cure, David,'' Szabo said after a few moments, rubbing his belly. If not for everything else about him, his round gut, covered in wiry grey hair, would have looked comical. ''The hell? Are you saying this bitch''s gear had a healing function? The gear you shattered?'' Szabo looked at me once more, then at Coldhold, receiving a cold, hateful glare. Thankfully, the Fae now looked as bad as I did. Then, he pursed his lips, clasping his hands in front of himself. ''I will pretend he knocked your brain loose, brother.'' ''The fuck''s that supposed to mean!? Szabo!'' I called after him, walking closer, broken arm swining limply at my side. ''Don''t you dare pull that cryptic bullshit on me again,'' I growled, putting a hand on his round shoulder. Szabo held my gaze, worrying his lower lip with his fangs. Was he keeping his anger under control? Or his laughter? ''You know what happened the last time people withheld something important for me,'' I continued. ''When you learned who your real daddy is? I think I want to hear that story again.'' There was no point to trying to wipe the smile off his face. Even on my best day, and this was turning out to be one of the worse ones. ''Yes, it''s almost as funny as living through it. I meant when you, Reem, and every damn god out there looked at Chernobog coiling up inside me and did jackshit.'' ''Well said, every damn god. I''m glad you''re starting to damn yours, too.'' Szabo''s smile widened when I staggered back, claws digging through my palms s I clenched my fists. ''That''s not...you know fucking well I wasn''t including Him-'' ''Why?'' I searched for words a few times, trying to say anything that wasn''t chockfull of invective. ''God doesn''t intervene in the lives of His people because He values free will.'' Look at me, deftly ignoring his question. Szabo nodded. ''Ah, right. The fact the Headhunt resulted in a rather ardent worshipper of his gaining Mimir''s perception was just a happy little accident, as Ross would''ve said.'' ''Are you scared He''ll ask me to use it on you?'' I taunted, trying not to sound angry. ''Terrified. But tell me, if he is all-knowing, all -powerful ?and all-loving, how come there is suffering?'' ''I told you, free will-'' ''Hmm? He knows the pain everyone will go through and does nothing? Even I could respect that callousness. Or maybe he''s just strong enough to seem almighty, but only knows so much? Are you happy praying to an overpowered idiot?'' ''You have children, right?'' I asked. ''They died long ago. Though not because I stood by and watched when I could have done literally anything to help.'' ''But you were a father. If you saw your child about to make a mistake you knew would hurt, would you stop them, or let them learn a lesson?'' Coldhold, who seemed to have grown bored while we debated the Problem of Evil, opened his mouth, only for Szabo to stomp down on it without looking. ''Your example does not work. And you know why? Because it''s insane to punish a child for something you knew they''d do and which you could have prevented. Go find Adam''s soul and ask him, or ring up old Scratch. He''s got his eye on you.'' ''These examples don''t work either. God-'' ''Sends people to Hell because they commit sins he knows about, can prevent, and condemns, sins which, allegedly, only became possible because of something he also knew would happen and could have prevented.'' ''We''re going in circles,'' I shook my head. Maybe, on another day, I-shit! ''Szabo, were the Unseelie dead or incapacitated when you left Earth?'' ''My stars, David! You finally remembered you''re supposed to protect your world and colleagues after you stopped being offended at your god''s hypocrisy being pointed out!'' Szabo clapped thrice, slowly, but I slapped his hand down when he began to crookedly cross himself. There was only so much blasphemy I could take. ''Don''t make me find out what these eyes can really do,'' I warned him, gripping his wrist. He didn''t stop smiling. ''Using a false, pagan god''s power to crush Christianity''s enemy? Ah, the beauty of religious appropriation...'' *** Szabo, I learned, needed just over three minutes to fly from Earth to Venus. He gripped Coldhold by the throat as we flew, and me by my healthy hand, because I was far too slow to keep up with him. I bet I was more embarrassed than the Fae. And not just because of how much Szabo had rattled me, again, without actually doing anything horrifying. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Was my faith that weak? Or was I a moron for thinking enough faith left no room for doubt? But God ?had intervened, in the end. He had...had offered to send me to the afterlife. Was I special in His eyes, for some unfathomable reason? Did every dead Christian get a second chance at life? And if not, why was I more deserving? The thought made me feel almost as guilty as the one that maybe it wasn''t so bad if God had influence over the user of Mimir''s power, rather than another deity or pantheon. I...I''d have to talk to Aya Reem. She had experience balancing work and faith. After Szabo dropped me off at the remains Omu base-the Unseelie had been killed or driven off, but only Thundertail, drooling bloody froth, and a wild-eyed weredeer had survived. The rest lay in twisted poses, impaled by silver blades or spikes, or crushed under silver bludgeons. The necromancers and their servants had been torn apart, never to rise again. ''Take him to a Mobius cell in another base, balaur,'' Szabo said, tossing Coldhold to Thundertail, who snapped up the Fae with a vengeful look. Mobius cells simulated the dimensionless Outer Void, and became more harder to break out of the more a prisoner tried. There was nothing to strike or warp, and teleportation and portals simply failed. It was rumoured Fixer used them as brainstorming rooms, because mundane reality was too malleable for him. I could believe that. The Fixer spent most of his time outside the multiverse, because he could turn it into an eldritch nightmare, or nothing, with a stray thought. ''Szabo?'' I asked after he blurred back into my line of sight, in a new set of leathers over an ARC shirt. I had to wonder if he had gone to Hungary to get dressed, since Omu base had been destroyed, the mountain cracked open like a rotten tooth. ''Is there anything I can help with?'' ''Yes,'' He adjusted his coat''s collar. ''Grit your teeth, brother, or find a way to heal those wounds. We''re doing cleanup.'' ''Where? All of Ilfov?'' ''The world, David.'' *** The Happy Cemetery, the dust of the dead remade as golems to tear apart their families. The Redeemer, reshaped into a fiendish monstrosity that destroyed half the churches in Brazil, before a joint effort by ARC and the Circle Bizarre had stopped and returned it to its proper state. The Great Wall, cracked open to let out the vengeful echoes of the walled-in, sacrificed builders. Krampus and his counterparts, manifesting to rampage. And so, so much more...so much worse...Aokigahara appearing over east Asia again, the things under the pyramids rising up in the desert, in the jungle, under the sea... By the time I got home while the higher-ups tried to get their act together, I could almost fool myself into thinking I was physically tired. I didn''t have to fake mental exhaustion, though. Mia looked worse than I felt, which was saying something. My zmeu''s temporary work for ARC had turned into a job, though I''d be hard pressed to say if she was in for the thrill or to help people. Not that I dared press her at the moment. Mia had learned harnessing the magical power inherent to zmei to create constructs and powers by drawing shapes on air. I guess she hadn''t found time to heal herself, though. ''Hey,'' Mia croaked, leaning down to kiss me with a mangled mouth. Her single eye gazed at me with worry, nerves growing in the other, empty socket as I watched. ''Don''t worry,'' she grinned, all fangs, because there was nothing else. ''You should have seen the other bitch.'' ''Are you sure you weren''t poisoned, or cursed? Or-'' Sigh. ''They checked me, David, before sending me home. Didn''t they do the same to you?'' ''Even so...'' ''I''m fine,'' ?she insisted, lips beginning to grow back. "As you so often tell me. Healthy, too." ''As I so often tell you,'' I joked lamely. ''The Drake base...how did you manage? Are you allowed to say?'' I added, just as she shook her head, then sighed, shoulders sagging. ''You''re alive. That''s enough for me.'' ''She just gotta be female, preferably alive,'' Mia grunted in a mock-dudebro voice, her contralto lending itself to imitating men. Her voice went from simply deep to "motorbike", depending on her excitement, as my neighbours and I had learned. ''I mean, I wouldn''t mind if you were undead, either...'' ''Reaaaaly. What kind?'' ''Hmm. Not a braineater. I don''t have one around you, anyway.'' ''One head is sometimes enough, David,'' Mia smiled, putting a hand on my hip. It didn''t stay there long. ''Why, thank you...um. I''m really happy to see you-'' ''I can tell~'' ''-but...is there something wrong with your power? Why not speed up the healing?'' ''I''d rather try to heal you, darling.'' I wasn''t sure she could. That time she had sewed my head back on had been, well...a miracle. Both God and the Devil had been involved. Mia had essentially dropped out of college, though her ARC training made up for both her studies and lost job. I wasn''t sure about her salary, but mine was well over a dozen times bigger than when I was a teacher, not counting the hazard pay for certain missions. Lucas would have happily let her remain an employee and check in when she could, if not pay like she was working full-time, but Mia had refused, not wanting to get tangled up in too many things. ''Well,'' I smirked. ''I''ve got this swelling that needs hands-on care. Anything you wanna watch before you play doctor?'' ''You, stripping.'' *** ''Merry late Christmas, love,'' I muttered, standing up to stretch. The cleanup had taken up all of Christmas Eve, Christmas, and most of the following day, so that it was midnight by the time we got home. Mia, lying on her back with her muscular arms crossed under her head, didn''t reply, instead spitting a fireball that reshaped itself into a heart near the ceiling, briefly lighting up the dark room before being snuffed out by her will. ''Merry Christmas, David,'' her smile quickly became sardonic. ''As merry as I can feel sitting here like a moron while you limp around like a gimp.'' ''Mia...'' ''Oh, shut up. What''s my excuse for not being able to pull it off twice?'' ''Not having God''s help?'' Mia looked like she was about to say something very biting, before looking away. ''What will you do while waiting for orders?'' ''You, preferably...'' I leaned to one side while I winked, dodging the thrown pillow. ''I''ll have to make up to my friends for missing Christmas. Pops, too.'' ''I wanted to meet Lucas before this clusterfuck.'' As good a word for it as any. We weren''t sure how many millions had died in the Fright Before Christmas, as it was quickly becoming known, except several, probably in the double digits. ''I think he and his brothers will be together. They celebrated with their parents, remember? Maybe when I go to Lucian and Bianca, he''ll also be present. I''ll pass your thoughts along, if you''re too tired.'' ''No. I want to come.'' It took me a few moments to realise she wasn''t just talking about the visit, and by then, I was on my back. Again. If only all my problems were like this... Empty Tomb, Chapter 4
''Shit-!'' Startled, Mia rose off me, allowing me to roll over onto my back, then sit up. My zmeu''s scarlet eyes darkened, a sign that she was looking at me as a whole, not just my body. Well. Literally, I mean. She wasn''t masochistic enough to be with me for my looks. I had firsthand experience with her tastes. Secondhand, too. However, it seemed Mia didn''t find anything wrong with my soul, because her eyes quickly returned to normal, even though they were still worried. Hell, I was just glad she had both eyes back. If I could swear, there clearly was nothing wrong with me besides the usual. ''The sun...'' I began, leaning awkwardly to try and gesture at the window, though it was kind of hard to do it around Mia''s body. ''It''s night, David,'' she said hesitatingly, as if worried I''d finally gone the bad kind of crazy. ''The sun will be up in a few hours. What...?'' ''When I was being mangled,'' should I have been worried by how hot I found her angry growl at the mention of me being hurt? ''I saw...God, I''m not even sure I can say I saw it. My sight isn''t that good. Not yet. Maybe I should eat more lifeforce...'' ''David...'' ''Right. Sorry. So, I think I saw something black flash over the sun, and remove a part of it, or-no, wait. I didn''t.'' ''So you didn''t see anything?'' Mia asked, confused and more than a little frustrated. Not by my bumbling attempt at an explanation, but by the fact it seemed there wasn''t anything she could do to help me. ''No, I didn''t see it,'' I did, my strigoi side whispered smugly, its shapeless face becoming a half-smirk in the back of my mind. And it was right, in a way. I hadn''t seen or paid thought to whatever had happened on the sun, not consciously, but...but it had. Like when you glimpse something out of the corner of your eye, only for it to disappear when you turn to focus. Except, it seemed, I had an entire part of my mind dedicated to this. But why hadn''t it said- ''Why didn''t you ask?'' it taunted, standing in front of me where my unlife had begun. Ghencea, or, rather, the facsimile of it my worse half had built, looked blurry and indistinct, becoming featureless past the cemetery walls. Above, black shapes wept darker tears into a blazing white sky, while a shattered grey moon danced with itself and laughed, laughed, laughed, rocks the puppets of the nameless, unnameable thing that had crawled inside its core and hollowed it out. It looked up at me as it lowered its head, and nodded down at my strigoi side while it raised its body, returning its attention to its shell. ''Are you ever going to tell me what that is?'' I asked, thumb pointing sideways at the moon besides us, and the shape that walked the sky beneath. ''Is it some remain of Chernobog? A parting gift?'' ''We are the only thing allowed inside ourselves,'' my instincts said, as if daring me to challenge them. Then, that smirk returned. ''Except the zmeu, of course.'' ''Of course...'' The fact it hadn''t tried to do anything to Mia in our intimate moments unsettled me almost as much as if it had. But, despite its urges to break and dominate, my strigoi side had been surprisingly quiet, almost as if it was bidding its time. ''I didn''t ask because, dammit, we soon had so much more bullshit to deal with.'' I didn''t cross my arms. It would have made me seem defensive and whiny. More than I already was. ''But why didn''t I remember? If you saw it, and we''re one, shouldn''t I have seen it too?'' ''Do humans remember to breathe? You don''t pay attention to all of ourselves, human.'' Chuckling to itself, it stepped out of the shadow of the tree on which I had hanged myself, shifting shape just in time to disgust me. Instead of the usual white-eyed, ivory-fanged black silhouette that appeared in my mind, it looked like a twisted approximation of my dying human self: tall, gaunt and tired-looking, with bloodshot eyes and a face that had darkened from lack of oxygen. My tattered grey suit hung off it loosely, while my noose hung from its neck like a tie. Short brown hair fluttered in a sudden breeze that sounded like the moans of the dead, but I knew there was no one here besides us and the thing in the moon. The graves were just decorations, props. My cracked headstone was the only one with anything close to detail, and I knew that, if I looked into my grave, another mockery of my human body would have stared up with empty eyes and a grimace locked by rigor mortis. ''I saw the sun die,'' my strigoi side whispered with an excited little grin that made my human face far uglier than it had been in life. ''It is not long from now, human. Just a few eons...what is that, to what we will become?'' ''Oooh!'' I held up a hand, wiggling my fingers mockingly, sick of its smug gloating that somehow revealed nothing. ''Whose crystal balls did you lick, that you can see the future? And how did you do it without me noticing?'' ''You are an idiot,'' it replied, now back to its usual inkblot appearance. Hands sunk into the pockets of a barely-discernible jacket, while the noose swayed over its chest like a pendulum. ''We have a god of knowledge''s eyes, and yet you barely use them to look beyond the present. But the sight is here, buried in the core of our being, and am I not so, so close to that? I would bet I''m better with Mimir''s perception than you''ll ever be by yourself.'' ''Then what happened to the sun?'' ''Nothing that wasn''t quickly undone. You might have noticed the solar system not falling into disarray. Remember the thing wielding that little vampire? You can thank it, from a distance, if you hate yourself.'' ''What? I don''t understand-'' -anything? I blinked, back in the physical world, and no time seemed to have passed. Mia was in the same position before my little trip to the centre of my mind, wearing the same expression. ''Sorry...again,'' I said, scratching the back of my head like I was posing for my clueless shonen protagonist portrait. ''Just...um, just had a discussion with the other guy. So, when the Fae raided Omu base, I thought one of them might have done something drastic in space. The other guy, who was apparently paying more attention to that than I was, explained that the damage was quickly fixed. Sorry for scaring you.'' Mia took a deep breath (you''d think having a non-mammal girlfriend would mean I''m less distracted when she does things like this, but you''d be wrong), before leaning down to press her forehead to mine. We didn''t kiss, or speak. Just thanked whoever was listening that we were both safe. ''That other guy of yours is pretty perceptive,'' Mia smiled as she broke the silence. ''If he can calm you down during moments like this, I think I''ve found another reason to like him.'' ''You mean, besides how eager he is to play vampire and thrall?'' ''David, your neck even has marks showing me the best parts. Stop complaining about love bites.'' ''Chomps,'' I corrected. ''Chomp, chomp~'' *** After Mia was done taking me down a peg (though that was definitely not what I''d call it), and having received no orders except to hurry up, wait and keep our eyes peeled for anything suspicious, we decided to make up to our friends for our lost Christmas. It was, from a certain point of view, such a stupid, petty thing. Millions had lost their lives, not just their free time, and here we were, worrying about wasted occasions like some spoiled...no. You know what? Back when I regained my will to live, I swore to try and see the bright side of things. So, after visiting Mihai, and helping him make sure the Unseelie had left no surprises around his apartment, I went to Andrei, and we shared a laugh at the fused iron and flesh sculptures he had made from his would-be assassins, but I had a feeling he was hiding some guilt at the crater that had quickly, quietly been refilled and the new block built over it. The people wouldn''t be coming back. Putting minds in constructs or uploading them to the net was all fine and dandy, and even resurrecting bodies was allowed in certain regions where voodoo dominated, but to truly bring someone back, you''d have to drag their souls back from their afterlives, and....Jesus. Anyone willing to contemplate that wasn''t someone you wanted to revive people. Just look at the reason why I was walking again. And, yes, I was aware of the irony of mentioning Jesus in that context. He was the Son and most human part of God. The point was, only he and his counterparts had the right kind of mindset to judge whether someone deserved a second chance at life. Alex and a bunch of his ghost neighbours greeted me hefting iron shanks, but I noticed there were fewer of them than last time, and the ones present sported ragged tears in their ectoplasmic bodies. ''It''s alright, David. I''m just killing time,'' my ghost friend shrugged, tossing an improvised knife from hand to hand. ''The world would, once again, not lose much if I kicked it.'' ''Don''t talk like that...'' I put a hand on his shoulder, touching him like he was solid, and he smiled. ''Remember eight years ago, when you said you thought I''m only asthmatic, not retarded?'' I winced. Alex had already explained that, after meeting my mother in the aether, and listening to her story, he had gone to Andrei on a hunch, and the were had confirmed his suspicions, before asking him to keep quiet until it was time to reveal it to me. ''If you''re still mad...'' ''Of course I''m not. Everyone uses medical terms as insults, you depressed bum.'' ...''I''m no longer depressed, though.'' ''Glad you''re not denying you''re a bum.'' ''Well, how could I? Mia won''t shut up about my a-'' ''David! Ugh, dammit, why are you turning this talk into one of those?'' ''Those?'' ''Those!'' *** ''I was starting to think this was some sort of slow-burning revenge scheme of my sisters'', to get back at you for that time,'' Bianca said, leaning back against Lucian''s broad chest, feet dangling above the floor. The zmeu''s tail was wrapped protectively around her, though, save for a few black scars threading through her true form, Bianca''s physical body was unharmed. The Unseelie hadn''t got far before Lucian had used his control over his domain to fill their guts with carnivorous iron maggots. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. He was almost as creative as me when people close to him were harmed. ''But...'' the iela continued, blue-on-blue eyes staring at the corner of the living room Lucian had conjured. ''I went to them after. They were as oblique as ever, but maybe...maybe this is one of those things when you threaten to do something to someone, have nothing in mind, and just laugh as they drive themselves crazy, imagining worse and worse scenarios.'' ''Even they aren''t dumb enough to shack up with the Unseelie, Bia,'' Lucian rumbled, caressing her long blonde hair with one hand. ''Besides, the attack was global.'' ''Even so...'' ''Yes, David was hurt. But, I don''t think the Fae were prompted by anyone, let alone targeting him, specifically. Or he''d be dead,'' Lucian didn''t look at me, nor did he apologise, instead toying with the haft of his mace, whose spiked head somehow didn''t tear through the deep purple carpet. ''Hmph,'' Bianca looked to the side sharply, crossing her arms. She was wearing a red dress trimmed with white fur-the two had been preparing to open their presents when I had arrived-and had discarded her frumpy human form. ''Maybe. I just want...'' ''Someone you can blame and kill?'' I suggested, feeling it was the right time to chime in, the two having let out their worries. ''Yeah,'' Bianca agreed, shrugging off her current lover''s arm and dropping off his thigh and to her feet. She covered the twelve metres to the opposite wall so fast the sound only reached our ears endless seconds later. Both Lucian and I, being thousands of time faster than sound, could, of course, easily track her. Then, one marble-white, slim hand slid through the enchanted gold, which I knew for a fact was tougher than steel, like it was warm dough. With an easy tug, Bianca ripped out a spherical chunk of gold bigger than her and heavier than a pickup truck. The iela bounced over three tons of gold up and down in her palm like it was a beach ball, not looking at us as she spoke. ''Though I sure hope they''d be nice enough to stand still and let me get a weapon. Maybe even kill themselves for me.'' Lucian and I looked at each other awkwardly. Back when I was human, I often complained like this in front of my friends, but Bianca had decades of experience with being talked down to by every supernatural stronger than her and able to resist her power. So, almost everyone. ''Fairy...'' the zmeu tugged at his moustache. ''You couldn''t have done anything. They were too fast for me to physically stop, let alone you. If it wasn''t for reality here responding to my thoughts-'' ''I''d have died. Yes, Luci, thanks for reminding me how useless I am.'' With a sarcastic laugh, Bianca clapped her hands, pulverising the chunk of gold. Well over twice the energy needed to vapourise a human, in such a casual action, and yet she felt-was-powerless against so many. It was even worse for mundane humans. ''You know...there was once this sale, books from other realities, in the mid-nineties. David probably doesn''t remember,'' the iela tilted her head, humming a low note that reversed time, turning the dust back into gold and smoothly repairing the wall. ''Quickly shut down after a dormant Necronomicon equivalent woke up. I flipped through a few of them, about supernaturals, and guess what? In some of those worlds, I''d be a physical powerhouse.'' Bianca turned back to us with a dry smile. ''I can slap bullets out of the air or let them bounce off me, stop a speeding train...you know those tanks most countries keep around to test supernaturals? See how many megajoules they can laugh off, how easily they can react to hypersonic shells and how many tons of steel they can shatter. In my case, hundreds, easily and several. And I''m a wimp.'' The iela sighed. ''Sometimes, I wish we had fewer overpowered bastards...'' ''Now, Bianca,'' Lucian was behind her faster than she could see. ''Think about the reverse. I sometimes imagine you stronger. In fact, I keep having this dream where we...'' Welp. That was my cue to leave them alone. *** ''I''m glad you''re alive, girl.'' There was nothing erotic in the way Lucas embraced her, pressing her into his chest. No matter how many times she''d joked and teased him over they years, she knew he only saw her as the bratty little sister or daughter he''d never had. '' ''s''alrigh, Luc. I couldn''t leave you alone with only Major Disaster and General Principles to annoy you, anyway,'' Mia reached up to pat his left neck. Lucas'' middle head dipped lower with a huff, probing the air for blood, poison or curses, and finding nothing. He knew he had no right to try and stop her, if ARC was what she wanted, but... ''Please, don''t try. Let''s just be happy we''re speaking,'' Mia cleaned her throat after a few minutes of comfortable silence, and the older zmeu opened his arms, allowing her to leap off him and into the air. Lucas'' domain in zmeu country was a field of snow-white and steel-blue flowers, surrounding a silver shape that resembled an orrery they way a jet resembled a paper plane. It changed shape, size and weight every time time Mia''s attention drifted, eternally remade by its master''s will. In his youth, Lucas, like most zmei, had been violent. His power and mindset had assured him a spot as a thug for the Party, before he had settled down to paint with something other than red, hanging up his morningstar. Not many knew it, but the zmeu brothers'' weapons had names, given to them by the Mother of the Forest. Three Moons Falling, as its name suggested, was thrice as heavy as Earth''s moon, and hit hard enough to shatter the world, when swung at full strength-about equal to a kick from Aaron. That wasn''t its noteworthy trait. Three Moons thirsted for blood, and gave its wielder the abilities of those he had harmed. On a whim, Lucas could obtain a strigoi''s healing, a mage''s power, or a iela''s voice, among many, many other powers. He hoped he would never have to use any of them, let alone all. ''I know we''ve both thought it, but...I really should''ve told you earlier.'' Mia crossed her legs, hovering, looking down at her former employer. ''You''re like the father I''ve never had.'' ''Aw, piss off, hatchling,'' Lucas said gruffly, fishing three blunts out of his pocket and lighting them with a firebreath. ''Don''t you start with the daddy jokes, or Silva will get jealous.'' ''Should I talk about your weapon instead?'' ''No. No working the shaft, yanking my chain, or playing with my...tch,'' Lucas turned his right head''s blunt to ash with a snort. ''I''m not good at this emotional shite. But...thanks.'' ''You''re welcome.'' There was a brief pause, then Mia spoke again. ''I can feel him, you know?'' ''Who, Silva?'' Lucas furrowed his brows. Yeah, he bet she felt him all the time... ''No. My father. It''s faint, kind of like...like those times you told me you could feel where your brothers were?'' ''How far is he? Want me to fly you to him?'' Lucas offered, half-jokingly. If he was in zmeu country and she wanted to talk...well, he wouldn''t butt in. But taking her to her father would be no problem. ''A hundred fifty million klicks, east,'' Mia pointed with her tail, shooting him a challenging look. ''How many seconds would it take you to fly that far?'' ''One,'' he said simply. Knowing how fast you could get to the sun was always useful, just in case you got into a scrap with a stubborn vampire and needed to remove their esoteric tricks. ''So? Are we flying or not? My parents will get together again at this rate.'' He just hoped they''d still do it in zmeu country. Maws could shatter Earth with a word and punch stars to nothing, but that did little to explain how he had survived their mother... Repressing a shudder, Lucas took his former apprentice under one arm, and tensed his wings. *** Mount Meru was large and heavy enough that, in the mundane universe, neutral by Treaty, Earth''s sun would have orbited it. That was nothing to Hanuman. Large enough to swallow the sun as a child, unless he altered his size, he could heft the mountain with one hand, handling weight equivalent to the Milky Way like a human waiter with an empty plate. Despite his strength, and body even Indra''s Vajra could not harm, Hanuman was worried. Not for himself, but for his worshippers, reincarnated before their time due to the actions of chaotic fools. What had the Seelie been doing while their opposites rampaged, anyway? ''Han,'' his friend''s voice interrupted his brooding, drawing his attention to a small monkey that was so much greater than most. Sun himself was not present, of course. The Buddha Victorious in Strife did not personally dabble in earthly matters anymore, but his avatars, created to protect those who walked the Middle Way and nudge them to enlightenment (and which, amusingly, retained some of the Monkey King''s personality before he had attained Buddhahood), did. ''You are beyond such worldly things as rage.'' Wukong''s orange, diamond-pupiled eyes shone mischievously. ''But if you want a brawl, old Monkey can sock you one. Hmm?'' ''Tempting as it is to add a new adjective to your beads,'' the Buddha adjusted the heavy red beads encircling his golden-furred neck with a haughty sneer. ''I must ask, where are the others? Oberon and Titania have some explaining to do-'' ''Unless they send Puck,'' Wukong said thoughtfully, twirling Ruyi with his tail. ''Puck,'' That would be a good for a laugh. ''Besides the pantheon heads...have you heard anything? Is Heracles alright? Is Gil coming?'' ''You sound like Enkidu!'' Sun said in mock-admonishment, tossing his golden-hooped staff into the air and landing to balance on its tip on one foot. ''Are you so nostalgic, Han?'' ''More like wishing for peacemakers in case fighting breaks out. If you''re my only help, then I really need help.'' ''Oi, pudding-eater! What''s that supposed to mean, besides "beat me bloody"?'' The divine leaders and Seelie Royals were not the only people they were waiting for, though. Several unaligned signatories of the Syncretic Treaty to share Earth-Samuel Shiftskin, Eidolon, FREAKSHOW''s Armament-along with Elsbeth Crane, Aya Reem and, it was rumoured, a disgruntled Ying Lung, were also expected. Empty Tomb, Chapter 5
''...Mia,'' Lucas began, making the younger zmeu stop staring forward and look up at him as she stopped to hover in midair. ''Don''t look down.'' Mia did not. Not because she was particularly inclined to do as told without being told why, but because she knew Lucas hated beating around the bush. If he was trying to be tactful and take things slow, then... Zmei, as a rule, did not form attachments with their children they way humans did. Lucas could attest. Neither did they instinctively feel anything towards their parents. Mia had never even heard of hers, let alone seen or meet them, so a subdued reaction was understandable-expected, really, she told herself. Or maybe, a voice whispered in the back of her mind as she walked closer to her parents'' remains, she was so shallow, she wouldn''t have felt anything even if they''d been murdered in front of her eyes after raising her. She certainly couldn''t brag about her ability to form attachments. Take her relationship with David, for example. What did loving him, when they were together, however long that lasted, mean when she''d eventually have to switch partners, lest she go mad? Even if she never grew close to anyone else, would it truly be love? She hadn''t talked with David about it yet. Hadn''t wanted to ruin the happiness of a relationship he could enjoy, one that didn''t consist of her partner burning her, not even metaphorically. She had, she supposed, fooled herself into thinking they were both truly, completely immortal, with all eternity to look for a solution. That had been before she''d come home with half her head a wreck, to find him limping around, ecstatic at seeing her, not at having survived. The worst part was that David would probably go along if she told him. Blazes, she could practically hear him... "It''s...it''s fine, really. We all have our needs. Not like you choose to...not like you can control yourself." Yes, David, she thought to herself. Just smile and nod as this floozy bitch puts horns on you. Fucking dammit... She was jealous, really, of those people who didn''t need to sleep around every once in a while. Cheating because you wanted to was....well, "a luxury" was probably the wrong way to put it. But not something she''d do if it was her choice, she believed. There was, of course, the other extreme. David was one of the chillest Christians she knew, and had never even joked about any bullshit like choosing for her, or not allowing her to do something, but would he draw the line at...hell, what would she even call it, when the time came? Polyamory? A harem? No, definitely not that. She wouldn''t let herself bond with someone else like that while abusing David''s tolerance. Either way, it would end with him as a cuckold, and she was scared of how it could end for her. His strigoi instincts, she knew, had become stronger, louder, gaining a sort of pseudo-consciousness, like they did in all his older kindred. The "other guy" hadn''t tried to harm her in bed, but would he always remain so calm? She just didn''t want to wake up to David ripping her throat out, whether it was him or his worse half at the wheel. ''And now I''m wondering whether my boyfriend would murder me or not,'' Mia grumbled. ''I fucking hate this shit.'' Good thing the corpses were there, she thought sarcastically. A surefire way to distract herself. Her father had been a yellow, five-headed zmeu with half-lidded purple eyes that had glazed over after death. Somewhere between Lucian and Lucas in height and bulk, he lay on his back, wings shredded and scattered across tall grass that left grooves on her scales. His lungs had been torn out to be placed on his wingless mate''s back. Her seven-headed, orange-scaled mother was much larger than her father, so he was hardly visible with her lying on top of him. The killer had ripped their chests open so they could bend and twist the incredibly strong zmeu bones together, like a twisted cat''s cradle, and their organs had been placed, seemingly at random, across intestines positioned to form a heart around them. The cherry on this gore cake, however, was the way the bodies had been left. The killer had come for them while they were mating, like the killer in a slasher movie, and left them like that, with her mother on top of her father. Mia took one long look at the parents she had never gotten to know and now never would, lowered her head, and looked away, shoulders shaking. Lucas hesitantly walked closer at her thin, hollow laughter, wondering if it was too much. Perhaps he should''ve just torched the miserable scene from the sky, leaving nothing and pretending there wasn''t anything to find. Mia''s instincts were just wrong. ''Girl?'' he asked, as softly as he could manage, tail coiled up with tension, not touching her. ''Why are you laughing?'' ''Oh, you know,'' Mia said in a deceptively light tone, forcing herself to giggle while waving at the corpses with one hand. ''Just thinking...about whoever was not only edgy enough to come up with this bullshit, but also strong enough to do it. Must''ve had a lot of time on their hands. And blood!'' Lucas didn''t laugh. This gallows humour was unlike her, and he didn''t like it. ''And the best part?'' Mia said, eyes wide in mock-excitement. ''I can''t even dredge up a damn tear at this shitshow, because I never got to know these people, never mind love them. So, I can''t help but wonder...why the fuck leave them like this for us to find?'' ''You assume they were left for us-or, indeed, anyone,'' Lucas said carefully. ''I''m not sure you should.'' ''Oh, really!?'' Mia turned to look up at him, hands on her hips and a wide, fake smile plastered on her face. ''Gee, boss, that makes perfect sense. I''m sure some murderous rando just wanted to get their rocks off in this super special way, then left the toys lying around.'' She shook her head. ''Come on, Lucas. Even if I, specifically, wasn''t meant to find them, you don''t do things like this unless you want attention.'' ''Maybe,'' he said grudgingly, still not liking the thought. What kind of spiteful freak hated Mia enough to try and shock her like this, whether they knew it would work or not? He dearly hoped he wouldn''t have to wait long for an answer. Silencing Three Moons'' howls for blood and paying back whoever was responsible at the same time? Really, he had nothing to lose. Then, another thought struck him. ''Girl. You say you don''t really feel anything about your parents? Besides disgust at how they died, maybe some pity?'' ''I think anyone would feel that,'' Mia replied, smile fading. ''Be honest. You don''t have to play tough for me.'' Lucas said, maybe coming off across harsher than he''d intended, judging by her frown. Not that he''d ever expected to be halfway decent at expressing his feelings. ''Do I have to repeat myself?'' Mia asked stiffly, marching past him, jabbing his side with a wingtip. ''Let''s g-'' ''If you''re only appalled, as anyone would be,'' Lucas said, putting a huge hand on Mia''s shoulder, stopping the zmeu in her tracks. ''Then why do you sound so angry?'' Mia stood silent for a few moments, then that empty, ugly laugh returned, setting his fangs on edge. ''Hey, Luc...how the fuck do you handle your urges?'' ''What?'' he asked, confused. ''Why do you...Mia, if you''ve gotten bored of Silva, that''s your business. But don''t try to come onto me, please.'' Her laugh was warmer as she shook in his grip. ''Fucking...Romania''s most eligible bachelor, aren''t you? Blazes, Lucas, that''s not what I meant. I meant, how come you, and your older brother, now that I think about it, act like the polar opposite of every other zmeu I know?'' Normally, Lucas would have told her, or anyone else, to piss off. But...there was clearly something bothering Mia. And, judging by the way she had tensed when he''d mentioned Silva, he had the feeling something had gone wrong between them. ''Don''t tell anyone this,'' he began, lightly grabbing her crest between two fingertips, pulling her head back so she could look into his eyes. ''But the Mother of the Forest didn''t only give me my weapon. She also took away some things, at my request.'' ''And Aaron?'' Mia asked, not showing any reaction towards the reveal. ''I don''t know,'' Lucas lied. ''Now...you were right. Come on. I''ll treat you to something. You can tell me what''s bothering you, too, if you want.'' Mia didn''t respond, lips pursed, worrying the ground with her tail and claws. Groaning inwardly, Lucas let go of her arm, reaching into his pocket to take out a blunt, filled with a thick, dark blue powder-the grass that grew in his domain, and could intoxicate a being immune to poisons able to wipe out billions of humans. ''Careful, girl: this is the second time today I do something I never thought I would. If this goes on much longer, I might get sappy or something, too. I''m scared.'' Smirking weakly, Mia took the cigar in one hand, then sliced it in half with one claw. Putting one half in her mouth and lighting it with a puff of orange flame, she gave the other back to him. Surprised, Lucas nevertheless took it, ashing it in one surprised breath. Sloppy. Another thing he''d never thought he would do. He''d have rather been sappy than waste good grass... As he wrapped and arm around Mia and took off, Lucas turned one head to look once more at the mangled corpses. Focusing his arcane sense into his side, he saw...nothing. No traces of magical power, or wounds they had taken in life. Like the zmei''s bodies were the only things left of them. Come to think of it, how come they hadn''t healed from their wounds? Zmei could heal head-sized wounds through the chest in moments, never mind some twisted bones and missing organs. They could even reattach their heads, as Aaron had been forced to do recently, for the first time in decades. A part of the blue zmeu wanted to burn the unnatural husks to nothing, and forget they had ever existed. But he knew ARC, or whoever else was going to bring the killer to justice, would need all the information they could get. If he didn''t find them himself first. As he took in Mia''s blank expression and faraway eyes, Lucas mused that he had always wanted to see how long he could keep someone alive in zmeu country, anyway. Maybe he''d even teach her to warp reality herself. *** The only texts I''d received so far were more vague warnings about staying on guard, as well as a creepily-cheerful message from Szabo, who wanted me to meet his family. It wasn''t the offer to teach me how to raise corpses and bind spirits that weirded me out, though, but the other one. "Think as long as you need, brother! I know you and your zmeu love each other, as baffling as the thought two beings like you can is-this is not an insult. It is truly memorable, though do not think you will be remembered above Loric Szabo, David! But, once you drift apart (you know it will happen; either the voices in your head will drive you mad, or her whorish behaviour will), you should know my great-granddaughter is young and single. I take no small pride in having helped raise a family consisting of sane, stable people, as opposed to mad sadists, as one may expect from a strigoi. Indeed, it is such things that separate the great from the mediocre..." I wasn''t sure what made my cold blood boil more: the implication I''d ever let my distaste at Mia''s needs cloud my love for her, or the fact he''d called her a whore. I had half a mind to go just to kill Szabo, and was pacing in the yard when my zmeu touched down, mouth surrounded by a mixture of ash and what looked like Lucas'' smoking powder. Smiling at my raised eyebrows, Mia approached me, staggering slightly. I almost moved to support her, but she waved me off, a somewhat dazed look in her eyes. ''Hey, David?'' Mia rasped, grabbing my right hand and squeezing slightly. ''What would you be willing...to forgive me for?'' ''Anything...'' I said, uneasy. Was she high? Fuck, what had Lucas even done? He was more serious than this. ''Mia, what''s wrong?'' ''Should I tell you...or show you?'' I gently pushed her away as she tried to bite at my noose marks, not liking where this was going. ''I''d rather you told me, thanks. Come in. After you calm down a little, we can talk about whatever you want.'' Mia''s smile turned to bitter ash she shook her head. ''Tell you...huh?'' *** Zeus scowled at the book in Yahweh''s hands. No god present had been allowed to bring weapons (not that they needed them, with their powers), and personal effects, such as crowns, had been placed at the centre of the round table balancing on air above Mount Meru. The book, however, was not even a Bible. So, what... ''The reports of my death,'' Yahweh said, as if reading his thoughts, white, long beard swaying slightly beneath a featureless face of light. Abraham''s God held a copy of Thus Spake Zarathustra-an old and cherished one, judging by its weathered, well-thumbed appearance. ''Are greatly exaggerated. A minor spoiler, if you intend to read it.'' ''Tch.'' The Olympian patriarch crossed his olive-skinned, muscled arms, lighting crackling in his beard-grey when he had arrived, now black as his eldest brother''s realm. ''If I wanted to hurt my eyes with Friedrich''s ramblings, I''d dare Borson to scribble while drunk.'' ''You want your eyes hurt, lecher? ''Tis a pity I could not bring Gungnir, but we could try a more hands-on approach,'' Odin said: a cold, amused whisper, runes flashing in and out of existence across his black eyes. Zeus had heard rumours that his pet ravens were no more, and neither was he, as it seemed, famously one-eyed anymore. No coincidence. It was unfair, really. Not only had the warmongering bastard escaped his fate, a state of affairs some gods could only dream of, but so had all his bootlickers. Not just unfair, absurd! What had the Aesir lost, besides a dead old fool''s shrunken head? Even now, Odin pushed his worshippers to fight among themselves in grand tournaments all across the northern hemisphere, raising the brave dead as einherjar for his army, to be rallied around the ghosts of his sons. ''Watch it, weakling.'' Zeus narrowed his eyes, and Mount Mheru, heavy as the Milky Way and more durable than all matter in said galaxy put together, was blasted to subatomic particles by his power. Then, with a thought, it was remade, the particles rearranged so it stood even prouder than before. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. ''Destruction should serve a purpose. That was unnecessary, lord Zeus,'' Shiva replied with a moue of slight distaste, four purple hands clasped together. At his side, Vishnu nodded, red lips set in a serious line, while Brahman hummed in agreement, stroking his four white beards. The Trimurti did not sit on chairs, instead levitating in the lotus position, or, in Vishnu''s case, lying on his back across Shesha''s hoods. The King of Serpents'' hoods were large enough to hold all the mundane universe''s hundreds of septillions of planets, and he was strong enough such weight was barely felt, but such was Narayana''s size and weight, even Adishesha strained. Nevertheless, he would never refuse to bear his friend, whether on Ksira Sagara, or in this place of neutrality. The serpent was uncoiled, keeping time flowing across the universe mankind inhabited. Were it to coil up, reality would be snuffed out like a candle. ''It was not, destroyer,'' Ares smirked, leaning down over his father''s throne to place an arm on his broad shoulder. The war god''s scarred, tanned face was split by a lazy grin that fooled no one present. All could see the bloodlust raging beneath the forced nonchalance. ''The weak-especially weak enemies-must be reminded of their place.'' ''Both you and your father forget-as expected, for small minds think alike-that, with fate gone for me and mine, I am no longer limited to my baseline power,'' Odin said calmly, smiling as Ares'' expression turned murderous. To his surprise, Zeus did not throw a tantrum at the insult. Immediately. ''I would kill you myself, old man, if the others weren''t here to stop me. You and your ilk...not even immortal. You sicken me.'' ''So, you do not strike me because you know you would be overcome? Thank you for admitting your weakness. Or...is it cowardice? Should weak cowards be reminded of their place, too?'' Ares'' fists-accustomed to holding a brazen spear not even his father''s thunderbolts, able to blast the universe to nothing or vapourise enough water to fill it-could break, closed around nothing. ''I can create dozens of stars with a thought, and remake them the same way. All my half-siblings can. What can you boast of, wretch?'' ''A family tree that doesn''t look like a crossword puzzle?'' ''You foul-'' ''Brother,'' Hermes drawled, leaning on his caduceus at Zeus right, smirking slyly in the shadows of his winged hat. ''He is mocking you. And, while it is hilarious...'' ''And working.'' ''Begone, Thoth!'' Ares growled, receiving an amused looked from the ibis-headed god. ''And working, yes, thank you, lord Thoth...it is not the purpose of this meeting. Speaking of...lord Dagda?'' The nature god did not speak immediately, his bearded face hidden by the hood of his green cloak, one hand toying with the lorg anfaid. Lately, the club''s wielder had contemplated using the killing end more often than in the last five centuries together. ''I am a fool.'' On his left, Morrigan scoffed, pacing on air in raven form. Lugh, sitting on his friend''s left, smiled at him encouragingly with all faces, his shining, brilliant white skin making the sun appear dim. ''Before all else, I must apologise to lord Odin,'' the Dagda''s nod was not returned by the Aesir. ''I should not have intruded in your domain, even if Nidhogg''s existence was not linked to its fate. I should...I should have remembered our Treaty, to keep mundane reality neutral, and not intervene in each other''s realm on a whim.'' ''Why did you do it, druid?'' Yudi asked, his voice far more subdued, perhaps, than one would have expected of the Jade Emperor, though no less benevolent. ''You have never been rash. What madness could possess you to...?'' ''Madness, indeed!'' Sussanoo harrumphed, black beard and moustache whipping in the wind created by his fierceness, ignoring his sister''s exasperated look, if he was even aware of it. ''According to David Silva''s testimony of Chernobog''s claims-'' ''Are we willing to believe Yahweh''s dog after he was gifted what should have been our prize by his master''s misbegotten spawn?'' Shango thundered, paying as much attention to Obatala mouthing that he stay silent as Susanoo did to Amaterasu gesturing for him to stop wondering about the Dagda''s possible mental afflictions out loud. ''Ah, your prize,'' Odin nodded with a dry grin. ''I''m glad you do not even pretend not to have desired my lost possession.'' ''Thunder does not dissemble! Thunder screams the truth into the ears of liars, just ask the pervert over there!'' ''Silence!'' Zeus bellowed, sphere lighting crackling around his fist as he stood up to glare at the boisterous Orisha. ''Do not lump me in with yourself, fool! My results are visible to all, and have brought nothing but peace to the universe,'' the Olympian retorted, pointing across the table. ''I like to think I have succeeded in life despite my heritage, father,'' Elsbeth Crane replied, expression blank. Zeus'' incredulous glare almost unmade the elaborate braid her hair was in, but the Scion Head did not even blink. On her right, Aya Reem sighed, not meeting Thoth''s eyes, despite the god of knowledge being the only representative of her pantheon. Osiris could not leave the underworld, and Ra was fighting Apophis, as he did every day, alongside Horus and Set. Samuel Shiftskin put a reassuring hand on the mummy''s shoulder, his strength almost denting the enchanted golden pauldron. Aya''s neutrality in the Headhunt had left her with nothing except her (admittedly impressive, for she could move fast enough to make tachyons appear stationary, and nothing could stop her strength if she put her mind to it) physical prowess and ability to order the physical world and the Duat, as a champion of Ma''at. But the blessings of her gods were gone. For someone who had left behind a home torn apart by conflict between a Muslim father and a mother who kept the old gods, it was almost as devastating at the thought something she would need those powers to prevent would happen. Aya knew her gods were not so petty or spiteful to keep her depowered in such a case, but... A few seats away from the ARC Heads, Armament, as Hans Miller was known by FREAKSHOW, looked to his sides, blowing a raspberry at Asterion''s earnest expression and Eidolon''s literal stone face. Hans was a blond, blue-eyed man of average heigh, muscled in a wiry sort of way that his his white sleeveless shirt helped to emphasise. Black suspenders reached across shoulders that could bash continents to gravel, and his arms-both covered in eagles, the bald ones on the right grasping the stars and stripes in their claws, the golden ones on the left holding the black, red and yellow. His mixed ancestry was almost as much a point of pride for him as the ability to become any weapon, mundane or divine, real or fictional, that had given him his name. It was the ability to create endless copies of such weapons that had resulted in him being asked to sign the Syncretic Treaty, swearing to never do so unless creation was overwhelmed by invaders. Much as Eidolon and Sam were not allowed to copy or transform into certain beings, unless that was the case. Hans was a man of action, as he liked to say. Growing up in Texas hunting rogue weres, he had entered FREAKSHOW to shoot and blow up people and things legally, and even be paid for it. A power like his, backed by a mind like his, was not exactly reassuring for the gods. Hans might have tattooed the brain'' areas and his purposes across his shaved head, but no one who knew him believed he actually used his. Take, for example, the Excalibur copy he had created and was now tossing up and down like a knife, catching it by the hilt each time. The Sword of Promised Victory could cut almost anything (save for, Hans thought with a grin, the other swords that could cut anything, or certain indestructible artifacts, like the Nemean Pelt), and warp reality so its wielder would always win, if not live after, unless it was paired with its scabbard, even if thir opponent was infinitely stronger, faster and smarter than them. ''Unmake that,'' Amaterasu said, her pale, soft features already taut with irritation from her brother''s antics. ''No weapons, mortal-'' ''Aww, then you''ll have to disarm me, babe,'' Hans flashed the goddess a wink, before tossing the sword in the air and kissing his biceps. ''I can''t help it if ''em guns deadly...'' Amaterasu held back a smile as the cocksure human tilted his head back, catching Excalibur''s hilt in his teeth like a rose. She would have never admitted, but humans had gotten more and more amusing these last decades. ''We should give everyone of y''all one o'' these,'' Hans claimed, moving Excalibur from his moth to his right hand. ''Then every good guy alive, so we can never lose.'' ''I agree with the mortal''s outrageous idea-to a degree,'' Ne Zha said from besides the Jade Emperor. Having lived like a human himself once, something Wukong never hesitated to remind him, the Third Lotus Prince took every chance to point out others'' mortality. ''Or, we can simply match the strongest ones so they can breed strong children, as they do in my country. Just look at our cultivators.'' ''Eugenics?'' Sam sneered, his beady shark eyes gleaming. ''You know, I might be biased, but I hate your idea. In fact, I think you should remove yourself from the gene-pool before trying to control it like that.'' Shiftskin''s reaction was understandable, if tactless. As a child in the Navajo Nation, his skinwalker parents had flayed him, then taken him while wearing his skin, so he could see his own face while he learned to love himself-an attempt to coax out his magic through self-loathing, if his mind didn''t break. The young skinwalker had flayed them in turn, then wandered far north, where he had eaten a murderer''s heart out of hunger combined with hatred. Not long after, the young wendigo had gained the power to transform into any and all beast, from kitsune and Garuda to Typhon and Tiamat. Then, he had spent years as a murderous, manflaying vigilante, before Aya Reem had captured him, giving him a choice between ARC and prison. Perhaps interested in more than her power, Shiftskin had grinned, saying he was very eager to serve alongside, or even under her, if she asked. ''I can''t believe I''m agreeing with the maneater,'' Ying Lung muttered, more to himself, as he refilled his pipe. Today, the dragon was in his pale-skinned, white-haired human form, white eyes gleaming through sunglasses as his thin moustache twitched in disbelieving amusement. ''Prince. You can try to kill me again, if you''re offended. I have the guts for it, so to speak.'' ''Indeed,'' Wukong chimed in. ''I saw them hanging last time. His guts, too.'' ''What side are you on, monkey?'' Ne Zha asked in distaste. ''Your right, his left,'' Sun replied, pointing at Ying with his tail while accidentally poking Ne Zha in the eye. The Prince struck the Buddha hard enough to unmake all matter in mundane reality, but left only a bruise that healed instantly on his smiling face. ''This circus has dragged on enough,'' Thoth said, though with no small amount of amusement in his voice. ''Lord Dagda?'' ''I should not have taken my brother''s sword to kill Nidhogg.'' The Dagda lowered his head in shame. ''But these...these women...they were Seelie, you see? I was returning to Bru na Boinne one day, and saw them sitting down by the road, covered in weeping sores. They told me they had gone to tour the Yggdrasil, and the dragon had mauled them for not reason. I was seized by such a rage...rage like I had never known. But, you must understand...they wept and sang like no Fae I had ever known...'' As he spoke, the Dagda slowly clenched his fist around his club, before blurring over the table, smashing Thoth out of his chair. The god was sent flying by a blow that would not have shamed Odin, his ibis head changing to a baboon''s, then a shapeless, featureless black mass. His body soon followed. '' "Thoth", you say,'' the Dagda snarled, hefting his club. ''So nice, so arrogant, to dangle a fraction of your name before us, thinking we would not notice! Messenger!'' The black shape seemed to smile for a moment, before vanishing. The Dagda sat down with a huff, preempting any pointing of fingers or demands for answers. ''We have been compromised,'' he said bluntly. ''The things in the Void have learned to imitate our shapes, our mannerisms, enough to fool even godly senses-'' ''How do we know you aren''t one yourself?'' Sussanoo demanded, drawing the Totsuka Blade. ''Because you blew that one''s cover? Perhaps it was to draw away attention from yourself!'' ''I know, because I think I have been tainted by it once...the madness you spoke of, lord Susanoo? Now that my mind is clear, it felt quite similar to the aura of that being. And...I am starting to think Chernobog spoke true. Nidhogg''s "victims" might have been a trap to bait me into rashness, after all. Perhaps they were working together with the Crawling Chaos." The silence that followed was deafening. If one looked with a keen enough eye, though, they would have been able to see the so-called supreme gods'' auras bordering and overlapping each other, like coloured light coming out of a prism. Indeed, the way the Unmoved Mover was separated by perception was quite similar. Even the Blind Idiot God, whose messenger crawled in the screaming void beyond all Gates, was one such aspect of it. ''Before the others arrive, and we begin guessing at a purpose beyond chaos for the sake of chaos, or childish amusement,'' Odin broke the silence. ''Lord Dagda...where are Oberon and Titania?'' The Dagda let out a self-deprecating laugh. ''You know how the Wild Hunt is formed from the Fae who chafe under civilisation''s laws...? Of course, you have led it yourself, lord Borson. Imagine the surprise of everyone in Otherworld when we learned that, to end their unceasing, bloody rivalry, the Seelie Royals went to the Unseelie, and proposed a Hunt consisting of both Courts, as well as every unaligned Fae and supernatural they could cajole or pressgang. Bonding through atrocity, I suppose. We...should not expect the Seelie to strike against their opposites-for, truly, I do not know if such distinctions exist in their minds anymore.'' As silence returned, some gods mused that, perhaps, not only the Dagda had been touched by the madness from beyond. Empty Tomb, Chapter 6
''I''m fine.'' ''You sure are, love, but you''re not alright,'' I joked, one eye on Mia, one on the living room clocks: analog, digital, magical. In case of something breaking, a breakout, or a mass dispel, we''d hopefully be covered. Since she''d moved in, there had been some changes around o-my house. For example, one of the guest rooms had been converted so my zmeu could safely practice her constructs, drawing and painting in it, which meant it was covered in everything from burn marks and acid holes to patches of frost and crystal. Not to mention the projects she often left lying around unfinished when her whims took her and she started a different one in the middle of another. My girlfriend was disturbingly good at drawing organs. Almost as good, in fact, as we both were at drawing them out of bodies. Despite my doctor''s handwriting convincing many people my hands were dead and numb long before my undeath, I was, actually, not completely clumsy in this regard. I coul sketch the anatomy of most supernaturals that actually have one, a skill I learned by necessity in college, and which I had hoped would make my books more interesting, back when I was a writer. It didn''t work, but, well. you already know that. Sometimes, I wondered how writers with ideas as uninspired and unsuccessful as mine find the will to not only keep writing, but keep living. Maybe I should just have gotten a foreign publisher, like so many mangaka did? Kishimoto was fairly successful in his adopted country of Brazil, despite claiming that, back home, his manga would have never gotten off the shelves, due to being heavily inspired by Japanese legends and folklore. Then there were people like Oda, Togashi and Shimabukuro, who only referenced such things and simply dreamed up their own grand, adventure-filled worlds. But...I was trash at drawing anything besides anatomy sketches, dammit. Or I''d have written a fashion comic or something, like Kubo. Mia, who often flicked through the tankobon I was just thinking about, still had her apartment in Bucharest, on a street straddling the Old Centre and the Spines, the supernatural reptilian quarter. She had also started working on her domain in zmeu country, though it was far from complete, according to her. She wanted it to be perfect before we wrecked it for the first time. The thought made me smile briefly, but I still wished the others would get there faster. While Mia sat on my reinforced grey couch, an arm behind her head, I paced holes into the carpet. Before describing my house even vaguely, I must warn you my tastes arr offensively boring: my floors were all brown parquet, my walls were all white (give me that cheap, cheap paint) and my ceilings were grey. My bathroom, which is only ever used by other people (the times we used it when showering together notwithstanding) had some pretty nifty navy blue tile. Still white walls and ceiling, though. While I was musing about my bland rooms, I heard two sets of approaching footsteps: one accompanied by the tinkling of icons and crosses, the other weighted down by the burden on his shoulders. Andrei''s coat was pretty heavy, too. Pops entered without knocking, knowing my door was always open to him. My father had recently become sixty-nine, a birthday I had missed due to work, as it was on Christmas Eve. But, he had assured me, I wouldn''t have found him home, anyway. A demon had appeared, turning every inanimate object in Jilava into its opposite, and he had been sent by the Patriarch to work together with the city''s senior priestess and the Supernatural Service to banish it. "Doing good unto others is the best gift one could ask for, David," he had said. Andrei was wearing his black longcoat, still paranoid after the Fright. The floor creaked as he entered and sat down opposite Mia, in a recliner that, thankfully, easily supported him and the equivalent of a horse. Pops, dressed in a white button-down and grey slacks, sat on the other couch, so he could keep both Andrei, my girlfriend and I in sight. My living room is arranged pretty simply. Being the first room you enter through the front door, part of it is dominated by the staircase leading to the second floor, containing Mia''s studio, our bedroom and the smaller two guest rooms. The rest is split between bookshelves, the TV, and a table surrounded by the couches and recliner. While pops smiled reassuringly at us all, Andrei looked between Mia and I like we had declared the cake was a lie, the reason for my request to help with a delicate problem now clear. The only reason I hadn''t elaborated had been because of time constraints, mind. When Mia had come home, half stoned out of her mind, half ready to break down into tears, I had...panicked. Stupidly. Or, well, hadn''t trusted myself to handle her alo-damn, I''d have to make a joke about that later. So, maybe overreacting, I had reached out to someone I trusted and respected, and Andrei too. ''Guys...'' Mia sighed, rubbing her eyes with the heel of one hand. ''There''s...no need for you to be here, alright? I guess David called you for advice or whatever-I get it. He values your opinions. Great. But this is between us two.'' She gave me a meaningful look, and I stared back steadily, but held out a hand for her to grasp. At first looking surprised, Mia shook her head with a small smile, then grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. I had managed to convince her to wash off Lucas'' smoking powder-by herself, despite the offers to join her; I didn''t want her when she wasn''t thinking clearly, which I guess made me a hypocrite. She never objected to the voice in my head, but I''d rather be hypocritical than take advantage. ''I promised to talk all you want, and we will, as soon as they leave. But, if you''re feeling unsure about us, I thought you should hear from a man who once made a mistake bigger than any we may or may have not made so far combined.'' ''He''s talking about himself,'' Andrei piped up, reaching into one of his coat''s many pockets for a flask. I could smell the wolfsbane-vodka mixture from metres away, and, though I knew it was harmless to him, I had once asked him why he would drink something so foul. "Well, you see..." Andrei had started. "One day, during the Long Watch, I met this American werefolf in London..." I had no idea if his duties had really seen him sent so far abroad, or why. And, of course, after talking my ears off for hours, telling me about every mauling and rooftop chase, he still hadn''t mentioned why he drank that. Bastard. ''But,'' the werebear''s boyish, eighty-five year old face grew sharper, more serious. ''I don''t think I ever told you about it, girl. If David has...well, I guess I''ll bore you for a while. But I still think it''s worth it to hear it from the horse''s mouth...so to speak.'' *** ''And that is how babies are made!'' Andrei finished, sarcastically spreading his arms. ''No storks, no cabbage patches, just two horny idiots with too much time and too little brains.'' Mia didn''t reply right off the bat, instead resting her head on my shoulder, arms wrapped around me as I sat in her lap. Being undead, I couldn''t feel her breath, but I knew it was warm and, thank God, now steady. Her system was clearly working out whatever Lucas had given her in an attempt to help her relax.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. ''Did she like it?'' my zmeu muttered finally. To a human, it would have been inaudible, but to Andrei''s hearing, even in human form, it was as clear as thunder in a library. ''She liked everything until the pregnancy reminded us how reality works.'' After another, shorter silence, Mia kissed my neck, lightly brushing my noose marks with her fangs. I could tell she was smiling slightly, and I almost pumped my fist. ''Hmm...she sounds really adventurous. I''d have loved to meet her...say, David. How do you think she''d have reacted to learning you call me mommy, too?'' Pops chuckled before I could reply. ''I am sure you''ll have all the time to discuss that once you are alone, my dear. But first, why don''t you tell us what is bothering you?'' And Mia did. *** ''So...'' I began carefully. ''It wasn''t your parents'' death that bothered you? You were just...worried about me?'' ''Not just about you,'' Mia replied, her arms briefly tightening around me. ''I''ll tell you more, but, please...you said you''d be willing to forgive me for anything. Don''t...don''t put what you think I want before what you want.'' Pops rapped his fingers on one thigh while I tried to come up with a reply, before lowering his gaze, smiling self-deprecatingly. ''Have I ever told you why I became such a boring old priest, David? Seemingly no flaws, no vices? No excess of zeal?'' ''I once heard you wanted to diddle some choirboys, but the Catholics cut into line,'' Andrei said, tilting his flask at Constantin with a knowing smile. He was joking, of course. Overly zealous or corrupt sects resulted in vengeful angels descending to punish their members after stripping their priests of power. Several movements and schools of thought-having as many children as possible, even shunning birth control or abortions, believing faith will make you wealthy and prosperous, or disinterested donations will get you into Heaven-had been shut down this way. ''Alas, they were too fast for me,'' pops said, before sitting up straighter, eyes glowing with an inner light. ''Hear ye, then...'' *** ''Mommy,'' Costi says one day. ''Why aren''t we rich?'' Elena, running a hand through her close-cropped grey hair, does not look at her son, who is chopping wood in the muddy yard alongside her, but she smiles, as warmly as her mangled face allows her. A strigoi once tore out her right cheek and eye after she refused to be with him. In response, he took her in front of her husband, breaking his legs and cutting off his eyelids to make sure he''d have no choice but to watch, cursing himself, the strigoi and God as he cried and tried to crawl closer to no avail. That was over seven years ago, when Constantin was little. But, though his mother does not know this, he remembers. He cannot forget the night he stumbled to the window on stubby legs, drawn by the screams of his mother and the laughter of a man he did not know. Then, he hadn''t sounded human. Definitely hadn''t sounded like his father, who had screamed such things as Constantin had never heard him before or after. What should have been a younger sister became a miscarriage, the fetus mangled by the force that had laid her mother in bed for weeks after. Constantin was not surprised to hear this later, when he grew. He is now twelve, and has seen his parents cry for every lost sibling, heard them wonder what they are doing wrong when they think he is not listening. Constantin does listen, though. He knows, as surely as he knows Jesus Christ is in Heaven, that he is the first and will be the last child of his parents. ''We are poor because...'' Elena tries for a lighthearted shrug. ''Everyone is, baby. But don''t worry-that won''t last long. As soon as the comrades in Bucharest get things going, we won''t even need money anymore. You''ll see.'' ''The comrades,'' Costi echoes. ''Not God?'' Elena shrugs again, not so flippant anymore. ''I don''t think He is going to help anyone, my boy.'' Constantin does not mention that, in his opinion, God should reward them with wealth for their faith. They pray every night, attend church whenever they can, help their lame, blind or deaf neighbours...his father, Costel, cannot walk, but scrimshaws for anyone interested, for he has nothing to occupy his time with, sitting in bed all day. Elena, bearing the name of an emperor''s mother like her son bears that emperor''s, never learns this opinion of his. Both her and Costel die that night, and their son wakes up to a nightmare, wearing the face of a smiling man. When Constantin open his eyes, his parents'' bodies-they sleep together because the bed is small, and they need all the warmth, for all the weak heat of their stove-are cold and unmoving. His father''s eyes are dead and glassy, mouth open in an eternal, silent scream. His mother was, perhaps, smiling in her sleep when she died. Now, she looks hideous, like a mannequin whose mouth and face were carved to mock humanity. The doctor, for who else could the man in the white coat be, smiles pityingly at the boy, hands clasped behind his back. He explains about hypothermia, about shock and old hurts and ills coming home to roost, but Constantin is dead, willing his father would stop screaming, his mother would stop smiling and the Devil would stop laughing in his soul. The doctor nods his head in sympathy. He understands the shock, and will take the boy to his clinic, where he will get the life he deserves, like all the other children. That morning, the strigoi takes the spawn of his old toy to his car. But, before they drive away, the boy has a question. ''Why didn''t God kill me as well?'' ''Why, Costi...'' he ruffles his hair. ''If God wanted you to die with them, do you think you''d be with me now?'' They drive to the Southern Carpathians, to a village the boy doesn''t know is false, built by the strigoi for appearances and populated by smiling, raised corpses. That night, the strigoi returns to play with the woman once more, and, why not, the father too. Their boy will soon follow, though he likes them warm rather than cold. By then, the other villagers have found the bodies, drained of lifeforce, though they do not have long to scream before they meet the same fate. The next morning, the false village gets new inhabitants. The clinic, Constantin quickly realises, is not a place of healing. It is a madhouse. Quite literally, too. The madmen who alternate between laughing themselves to bloody tears, smashing their heads against concrete walls when they do not prowl the blood-spattered halls in search of victims, are not the only tenants, though. There is a thing that was once a woman, but now sits in the corner of a room, morbidly obese and featureless, womb churning as it spits out things never meant to touch human flesh. There is a man whose limbs were cut off and replaced with blades, and now he prances around, singing to himself as he looks for people to maim. There is a woman whose feet and hands have been melted together, and who dances, dances, dances. Constantin has meet them all. The strigoi wants his family to know each other, he tells Constantin one night, trailing kisses down his neck. They boy has song since ceased reacting with horror to his affections, for it only spurs him on, and instead resorted to praying silently. "''Where is your God now, my dear?'' the strigoi asks, annoyed at the lack of reaction, squeezing him so hard Constantin cracks his teeth as he grits them. But the Lord answers. An angel of His descends, and she is terrible and beautiful, burning down the nightmare place. Constantin can only ask her why she is so late. God''s servants, she explains, can only interfere so much. But such horror could not stand. She can train him, help him sharpen his faith into a weapon, if he wants to prevent such things from happening to anyone else, though. Constantin accepts, and the angel, whose name he never learns, becomes the object of his love. It is absurd, really. The lesson of the Nephilim''s failure is fresh in Heaven''s mind, and she is more like a mother to him, even though Constantin, guided by rage, is not empowered by God for years. He tries to convert the people of other faiths, and condemns atheists as blind fools, can''t they see God exists and saved him? One day, the angel throws herself in front of a demon summoned by one of the young man''s many enemies, and dies. Constantin weeps, and burns the demon with holy fire. It is the first time he does this. It will not be the last. He realises how pointless forcing your beliefs upon others is, and how love can blind one to the desires of the one they love, desires thay may not even include them. *** After pops left, Andrei promising to treat him to something, Mia and I sat to ruminate what...what we''d learned. It seems my kind never ran out of fantasies to act out. But, as disgusting as that experience had been, it had resulted in pops meeting his angel...and beginning their doomed love. ''I don''t want us to end like that,'' I whispered hoarsely to Mia, hugging her as hard as I could without hurting her as we laid in bed. "I don''t want to do something for you without thinking, and hurt you, or lose..."I gulped. ''So please, tell me, is it my fault? Did I upset you?'' Mia looked almost ready to cry, again, and my heart sank. My fault, wasn''t it? Fucking damn it all- ''You''re willing to give me everything, David,'' she said softly. ''When I can''t return your favour. I...I cannot. So...here is the best I can do. I promise to love you as much as I can, as often as I can. And...I hope, the rest of the time, you''ll find it in yourself to forgive me.'' You won''t be surprised to learn I started crying before her. ''Hey, hey...'' she rocked me, trying to sound her usual saucy self. ''I just don''t want you to rip me apart in anger, alright? At least do it the fun way.'' We did not have more to discuss or make other promises, though. I was called to Giza, with a specification I''d be sent to the UK after, while Mia was called to a classified location in the Pacific. Interlude: Monsters
Szentendre, Austria-Hungary, 1900 Loric is playing to win. He does not play to win because he is particularly good at tag, or even because he likes the game. He likes it about as much as he does anything-that is to say, not at all. He does not ?dislike tag, or the other children, all street urchins like himself. He just...does not feel anything about them. Loric does not know the word ''apathy'' yet, for he is four and has never seen a book, but he would likely say it fits his feelings, or lack thereof, towards the world. Suddenly, Loric falls to the ground, yelping. The baton''s blow was softened by the dog skins (skins them himself, mostly old strays too weak to defend themselves from a shiv through the neck) he wears, but it still hurts, driving the breath out of his lungs. Loric does not know this, either, but the reason he is always short of breath has nothing to do with physical effort. The man who struck him is tall and stern, with steely eyes shining in the shadows of his cap, which hide half of his clean-shaven face, all hard angles and lines. Staggering to his feet, Loric notices his friends are all gone. This does not hurt. He wonders if they care as little about him as he does about them. Before Loric can ask why he was struck, the uniformed man-Janos, as Loric will later learn- points to a side alley. He and his rat friends were blocking the main street, he says, and the villagers don''t need or want to see orphans. Loric asks what an ''orphan'' is, and the explanation that it is a child with no parents results in a blank stare, for he does not know what a parent is, either. Janos shows him his pistol, but still has to hit the boy with the butt for him to get the message. *** Szentendre, Austria-Hungary, 1912 Loric learns about Janos'' funeral from a friend, who curses the man and mutters ''good riddance'', crossing himself mockingly. One less pain in the arse, he says. That day, the teen watches it from a distance, and sees Janos had no family, or at least none that came to tell him goodbye, for he devoted himself to his duty. A miserable fate, in Loric''s opinion. That grubby headstone is going to fall apart in years, he knows, ground away by wind and rain. Still, trying to put himself in the history books the way he does is...not advisable. Loric only notices the woman halfway through running at the thug with a knife in one hand and a torch in the other, but it just makes things even better. It''s like something out of the fairytales. He''ll be a hero! Loric''s legs never heal properly, for all his human life, but the thug runs away, not because he''s scared of him, but because he''s scared of drawing attention. The woman eventually thanks him for his courage, after berating him for his stupidity. She takes him to the village doctor, and here, he learns her name is Csilla, she is four years older than him, and she works as the doctor''s assistant. Given how diminutive and mild-mannered the man is, Loric bets the square-faced, heavyset woman does all the hard work, though he keeps his opinion to himself. Csilla is burlier than him, not that that''s a high bar. From the doctor''s records, Loric also learns his family name, and that he comes from a family of tailors. The Szabo patriarch, father of half a dozen children, threw his last son away, unable to provide for one more mouth, for the work only paid so much. Loric asks the doctor how come he hasn''t met his parents yet, as the village isn''t that big, and learns they died over a decade ago. Disagreement with the law, turned into a brawl. Loric shrugs. ''Can''t ask anything from the dead.'' Csilla snorts. Neither knows how wrong that statement is. Yet. *** Szentendre, People''s Republic of Hungary, 1958 As Adalbert returns home, Loric cannot help but muse that they really shouldn''t have named him ''noble''. He and Csilla married after it became clear he wouldn''t die in World War 1, at least on the front, crippled as he was. They had children late, though not so late that their son didn''t get to fight in World War 2. He doesn''t know where Zoe is nowadays. His daughter''s inclination towards women makes her about as popular as Bence, who avoids public places like a bat avoids light. Bence is not a true "changeling", as they used to be called before the Shattering brought true shapeshifters into existence. Still, having three children, including two strange ones, is memorable, and this is all Loric could ask for. He killed himself two years ago, when the Revolution failed, and it became clear his country would never be remembered as anything but a sattelite. Loric doesn''t want the Soviets writing history. Hungary''s story should be its own. Csilla was horrified at the change, and died shortly after. From stress, he supposes. She considered herself a widow until her dying day, with children who didn''t come to sit by her deathbed. ''Father,'' Adalbert tries to not to look smug, and fails. He always had his mother''s poor control of expressions, and the magical power received during the Shattering hasn''t helped. ''They sent me to kill you.'' ''Hmm,'' Loric nods. His son is wearing the uniform of some service or the other, he can''t remember all the secret police''s names or branches. His mother''s raven hair is cut short under a green hat. ''Did they tell you why?'' ''To prove my loyalty to the state, as oppossed to my family-'' ''No, you little idiot,'' Loric waves him off, laughing. ''Did you really think they care about an old tailor? Or couldn''t you imagine them wanting to get rid of an overly-ambitious, gullible fool?'' He drops his human disguise, and has Adalbert''s crushed throat in one hand before his neurons can fire. Draining your would-be patricidal son of life...truly memorable. *** Siberia, 2030 Szabo cannot believe the new strigoi. There is clearly some trauma at work here-religious household with violent parents? He hasn''t read the history section on David''s file yet, but why else would his brother hold on to faith in the only thing that can truly hurt them? He does not have long to wonder, because the little bitch they came to stop brings her puppets out to play. Szabo is extremely unamused by children who try to kill her parents, and Sofia might as well have, given the braindead vegetables that are restrained by the Strangeguard. When it becomes clear David won''t put down her golem anytime soon, Loric steps in, slapping it to dust. Then, he looks for something to teach the girl a lesson, sees the dog, and smiles. Yes...even if they censor him again, ARC will remember. It will be almost as memorable as that time he filled that pregnant witch with maggots! *** Arizona, 1950 Dibe is on all fours, breathing heavily. Not because of the effort, as he is not doing anything, only enduring, but because of the pain. His father likes him like this. Yee naaldlooshi can become the beings whose skins they wear, but Dibe can only wonder if his parents are beasts wearing human skin. He once asked them that, to their amusement. No, they replied. The only human skin they have ever worn is his, so he can touch himself without doing anything. Aren''t they generous? His mother is working him over today. She is something big and heavy, perhaps a buffalo or moose, though he wonders where she found the skins, and it hurts so, so much. She always picks the skins of males, animals or otherwise, because she likes feeling the changes almost as much as what they let her do. This is all so he can awaken his magic, his mother grunts in an inhumanly deep tone, and Dibe does. Their plan works, perhaps, better than intended, for his burst of mana turns their hut and bodies into ashes. *** New York City, 1976 Berkowitz, Dibe muses to himself, is, like most serial killers, a perverse idiot. He does not know why they are all so obsessed with sex, either having or denying it. But then, he''s had his share of women and men for ten lifetimes, so maybe he''s jaded. The Son of Sam smirks to himself as Dibe walks into the warehouse, the skin of the dead hooker snug across his body, not that Berkowitz sees it. All he sees is another stupid victim. If the manhunt outside hasn''t found him yet, why not profit? That night, Sam gains a new name, and his second human skin. *** Ontario, Canada, 1980 Sam does not know the murderer''s name. He doubts the savage moron even had one, stalking the woods as he did for his whole life. The idiot had even less contact with civilisation than he, supernatural vigilante that he was, did. From what Sam could gather, he had never gotten out of the forests, instead stalking hikers and hunters, before making them wish an animal would come and maul them. The problem, and Sam knows this is a problem, is that he''s hungry, and will never stop being so. With winter keeping almost everyone in the cities and most animals in their dens, he has little to eat, even with the herbivore skins on his back. Maybe it was the hunger, maybe it was the spite, but Sam ate the bastard''s heart, and wore his guts for as long as the warmth lasted. By the time he makes it to the cave, which he swears sprouted out of thin air, Sam is nearly three metres tall and six hundred kilos, but gangly, potbellied and thin-limbed. The body reflects the soul, and the wendigo is ever-hungry. Sam enters the cave out of...fear of discovery? Punishment? Maybe it''s just his repressed urge to hibernate, he thinks drily. Two things are waiting for him inside the cave, just as they are waiting inside the core of his being. One of them is ever-shifting, from bird to reptile to fish and things that have no names and never will, every moment. It greets him with a shriek that makes his soul shrivel. The other is human, at least in shape. Small, sexless and hunched, the thing''s leathery skin is wrinkled and cracked. Its thin, wispy white hair frames its face like a curtain as it grins at him with a toothless, tongueless mouth, fondness gleaming in empty eye sockets. It loves him, and wants to have him inside it, forever. The Beast recognises this, and bellows in challenge at its newly-revealed rival. Hunger laughs breathlessly to itself, and beckons Sam to come closer, so it may consume him. Sam walks in between them, and the Beast tears him as part just as Hunger bites down on his flesh. Their powers slip over each other like oil and water, but, with all of his dying will and power, Sam grasps them, and draws them into himself. Samuel Shiftskin emerges from the cave that never was, healed through the Beast''s power, only to be bound by chains of order that shackle his power even more securely than his body, and pulled down facefirst into the snow. A golden, armored heel grinds into his neck, and Sam grins. Smells like woman. Is she one of those who like stepping on people? Well. There could be worse deaths. "Dibe of the Navajo Nation. Postcognition confirms you are guilty of fifty-three counts of murder, twenty-five counts of identity theft, four hundred seventeen counts of unauthorised magic use, and-" "Add ''cannibalism'' to that list, babe,'' he chuckles, though it turns into a wheeze when she presses down harder. "Thank you for the honesty, vigilante. Would you like some broken bones with your sentence? Case like you, no one would bat an eye if you resisted arrest." "Bullshit! Maybe if you were that weregryph with a telephone pole surgically inserted up his ass, but..." Sam is given an offer between execution, or ARC service. He smiles when he asks Aya if he''ll serve under her, so of course they end up in different divisions. *** Salem, USA, 2030 Sam is playing when Szabo and Faith arrive in his wood-panelled, leather-covered office, the former humming to himself, the later weighted down by her latest acquisition. "We are going to the UK," he preempts any questions. "Joint op with the Roundhouse. I hope you believe in fairies, my darlings...hello there. Who do we have here?" "A black heart and a darker mind," the Fivefold replies, smile twitching spasmodically. She glances at him for permission, and Sam nods. Her aura briefly darkens, then one of his basilisk skins blackens and fades out of existence. "That will be very useful for disposing of evidence," he says brightly, fingers steepled. He doesn''t like the lack of self-control, though. He''ll have to inform Tamar, if he doesn''t already know. There are some demons like that lovesick fiend that calls herself Fernandez''s wife, and then there are obvious pricks like this one. Maybe he could ask Fixer? Ned was the one who first helped her manage multiple trains of thought without losing her identity, and there''s still some lingering affection, even if the attempt at matchmaking fell flatter than Faith''s chest. "Any questions?" he adds, rising from his seat. It''s covered in the skin of a particularly-annoying weredonkey, who repeatedly told him to kiss his ass in their fight. Sam decided to turn the tables on him. "What were you playing when we came, sir?" Szabo asks, rocking on his heels with his hands behind his back. "You came upon seeing me? Aw, shucks. Didn''t know I was ?that loved..." Sam shakes his head, as if shocked. "As for what I was playing?" the Salem Head gestures at his instrument with a flourish. The lungs, bones and intestines are meant to resemble bagpipes, but Sam clearly has no Scottish blood in him, because it sounds like the building materials wailing. Which, while lovely, was not, perhaps shockingly, his intention. "Organ music." Dammit...and the thing was still steaming when they arrived. Sam hates it when good flesh goes to waste. *** Sparta, Greece, 2030 ''Lord...'' the empousa breathes, kneeling before Asterion''s shrine. She has sacrificed a bull, placing the best parts on the Black Hunger''s altar, while eating the rest in a display of humility. She has slit her wrist, too, and let her blood drip at the hooves of his brazen statue. She will heal. Asterion''s cult is not large enough to have its own temples. As such, the Bull Rampant shares houses of worship with Zeus Cthonios. Hades has gained popularity in recent decades, while his relatives have lost some. The ebony temple is not as large as Ares'', but it is large enough to hold the shrines for Hades himself, his wife, and his champions. ''I am driven to deceive and consume men. Is it possible to overcome one''s hunger, like you have?'' ''If you think yourself worse than me, I fear there is little I can help you with.'' The empousa looks up in shock. She had spoken to herself, and her senses, mundane and arcane alike, have detected nothing. And yet, the brass statue is now looking down at her, arms crossed and onyx eyes blazing. ''Are you...are you in the statue, lord?'' ''I have been in the statue, though not this one. Sorry. It''s an...'' Asterion flashes a fanged grin. ''Inside joke. I am merely speaking through it. As for your question? I can answer it, though you will have to listen to a story first. Will you give me some of your time?'' ''Of course, lord!'' she says excitedly, still kneeling despite him gesturing for her to rise. Asterion shrugs. ''Then, if I may be so brazen...'' The Tartarus Engine, the empousa realises, employs rather unusual methods of verbal torture. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. *** Hades, 1990 ''Leaving again? Going to eat some children, are we?'' Minos asks, chin in one hand, the other tapping on his Judge''s desk. The dead demigod''s blonde locks have become almost white in the sunless underworld. ''Sorry. I''ve grown used to them being sent to me. Why don''t you do that again? Or do you need to demand tribute from a loser first?'' Asterion does not look at his mother''s husband as he strides past him, nor does he wait for his reply. He briefly considers bumping into him, accidentally, but that would be too petty. Hades'' throneroom is utterly lightless, but Asterion does not need his eyes to see. His king blazes like a trillion galaxies to his arcane sense, and that much is, indeed, within Hades'' power to create or destroy, with but a thought. Still nothing compared to his youngest brother, but Asterion considers him a far worthier king. ''Zeus spoke to me today,'' Hades'' mouth barely quirks in his dark beard, and Aster wonders if he''s going to suffer through another of his master''s attempts at joking. Judging by how tightly he is gripping his obsidian throne''s armrests and how his inky eyes are narrowed in his chalk-white face, he is probably just angry, though. Persephone is on Earth, so... ''Through Hermes,'' Hades continues, and Aster nods. The messenger is always bringing souls in, and often drops by to try and cheer up his dour uncle. ''Zeus asked me, through him, to ask you to find a certain child.'' ''A demigod?'' Asterion is about as masochistic as any regenerator, but Hera is not someone he wants even vaguely interested in him. The woman''s spitefulness makes Demeter seem forgiving, which no underworlder can say with a straight face. ''I think so. Hermes spoke obliquely.'' ''Did he give a description, my king?'' ''No.'' Hades leans back in his throne, and Aster realises he''s not angry. He''s waiting for the anvil to drop, like in those bizarrely violent human cartoons, and holding in his laughter. ''He dares not even look for them, he says.'' ''Then...'' He''s going to be the chump of this story. He just knows. ''Then how am I supposed to find them?'' ''Given how concerned Zeus is,'' Hades gestures, and something darker than any shadow on or beyond Earth floats down from besides his throne to Asterion''s side. ''They must be powerful. Either his or the Earthshaker''s.'' ''That is hardly helpful, my king,'' Aster complains, and Hades blasts his body, able to withstand Earth-pulverising force with hardly a bruise, to subatomic particles with an annoyed look. The minotaur regenerates a fraction of a nanosenond later, hands up, palms out. ''I''m just saying.'' ''If they look like they belong in a brothel, they''re Zeus''. If they look like they belong in a zoo, they''re Poseidon''s. Now take my Helm, and go.'' Asterion grabs it out of the air, and it moulds to fit his horns and muzzle, removing him from perception, mortal, supernatural or divine. As far as creation is concerned, he does not exist. That is how Elsbeth Crane, so named for her favourite kick, is rescued from the fighting ring Hera made sure she would end up and hopefully die in. Her mother was only too happy to sell her, afraid of the goddess'' wrath. *** ''...but, lord,'' the empousa''s brow furrows. ''That...how does that answer...?'' ''How? Do you think the minotaur,'' Asterion sneers. ''Would have obeyed his king, or saved a child as oppossed to eating her? A child that might have been the god''s who arranged for his birth and the way his mother''s life fell apart? Events which, as you well know, are linked? Now...please, return home. I have been dividing my attention between Earth and...'' *** TOI-849b, 2030 Heracles is fighting a monster. This is not unusual. What is unusual is that this monster is his friend, and, according to some, his chthonic counterpart. The planet Asterion and Heracles are fighting on is several times larger than Earth, forty times heavier and orbits a sunlike star. By all right, it should be a gas giant, like Jupiter, but it has almost no atmosphere. This bothers neither of the warriors. They move around the planet hundreds of time faster than light, covering well over a hundred metres every nanosecond and circling it thousands of times every heartbeat. Each of their strikes has the power to shatter this world, yet their strength is directed only at each other by their will, so the planet is undamaged. So far. Heracles was sewed back together by Hephaestus himself, and healed by Apollo, yet a darkness hangs over his soul, visible as the stars to Aster. His friend is not one for brooding. Heracles'' mood swings from boisterous joy to murderous rage, but he is not inclined towards dwelling on things that upset him. ''Wait,'' Aster says after Heracles heeds his gesture to stop. ''This fight was meant to lift our spirits, but I feel like I''m sparring with Thanatos here.'' ''It was meant to sharpen our skills for the coming war with the voidspawn,'' Heracles corrects. His loincloth is ragged and his beard long and wild, but his eyes are the worst. The deep blue is almost black with... ''Will you tell me what is bothering you?'' A sigh. ''I wish Thor was still here.'' ''I heard his father brought back his gho-'' ''He should not have ?needed to be brought back!'' Heracles tugs his brass nose ring, and Asterion grabs the back of his head in turn, before smashing him facefirst into the planet, shattering it and propelling the fist-sized fragments in all directions at near-lightspeed. When Heracles shakes his head, unhurt but exasperated, Aster huffs, before punching him to the sun and rushing after, running on nothing. He is on Heracles half a second later, and pummeling him with punches that make the sun shake and ripple. ''Only one person can do that,'' Aster says conversationally. ''And you are not her. Are you feeling better?'' ''My nose felt almost numb after you shattered that planet with my head,'' the god of strength replies. ''But I''m better. Why?'' ''Put on your armour. I''m going to punch you.'' ''So?'' ''Hard enough to mangle your father, eventually.'' Aster grins, raising a clenched fist. ''Armour up.'' Shrugging, Heracles summons his adamant full plate around himself. Then, Asterion wills himself to be stronger, and strikes him so hard the shockwave obliterates the star and atomises TOI-849b'' remains, even as it loses strength traveling. The Olympian is sent flying thousands of lightyears away, faster than he can react, but Asterion has willed himself to be faster too, so he catches up instantly. The minotaur''s next punch sends Heracles flying out of the Mily Way, destroying thousands of red dwarfs on the galaxy''s edge, and into a spiral galaxy twenty-three million light years away. Asterion closes the gap in a blink, before punching his friend out of the observable universe, with such force the nameless galaxy dwarfing Andromeda is erased from the face of reality. ''This is what will happen if you don''t fight back!'' Asterion bellows, lifting Heracles by the gorget with one hand. ''Surtr overcame you because he was stronger. So what? Thor died. So what?! He is still with us, and would beat you himself if he saw you like this, you long-faced bastard. And don''t get me started on Hebe-'' ''Fine, fine!'' Heracles tries to growl, but ends up laughing. His push sends Asterion careening into a rocky planet larger than any gas giant, which becomes gravel, before being turned to dust by the minotaur''s laugh. ''Just stand still, you overpowered prick...'' Asterion spreads his arms as his friend summons his bow. The arrow, tipped with hydra venom, would reach Earth''s sun from the blue planet''s surface in a second, but to his eyes, which make a mockery of light and its laws, it is frozen, unmoving. Nevertheless, the arrow pierces Asterion''s body, for all that it is tougher than anything and indeed, everything in this universe. The venom unmakes him on such a level that the quantum strings making him up are destroyed, as completely as if Atropos herself cut them. Then, Asterion wills himself back into existence, smiling. The clapping is unexpected, though. Asterion does not recognise the newcomers, except from stories before his time. ''Impressive show, m''bull,'' Solarex looks similar a golden statue of Sol Invictus, and is just as insufferable, though he lacks the self-awareness to realise it. His body, golden and muscled, shines brighter than all the stars in the universe, which empower him, combined. ''Indeed! Ischyros is delighted to meet a friend who can choose how powerful he is, like itself!'' The grey alien bounces up and down like a child, six ham-sized fists clenched in excitement. Its headless, fat body has no genitals, and its voice is androgynous. ''Hello? How and why did you two find us?'' Heracles asks, friendly but wary. ''Well, y''know how it is...'' Solarex drops what he must think is a roguish wink to Asterion, who stares back, blankly. ''The Watcher asked for some outside expertise. You know, for when the voidspawn come to fuck your pretty little blue world sideways, and every other way too.'' ''The Watcher?'' Aster echoes. *** Atlantis, 6000 BCE ''We will die together, my love,'' Zhalkhos gurgles, eyes barely visible in his mangled face, as he stares up at his limbless, weeping wife. All their works-their empire-are gone. Falling down around their ears, just as the continent itself is falling into the world-spanning ocean. It has already covered the mountains, and is still growing. The last two Atlanteans, just as they were once the first among their people, do not believe their last gambit will work. It was only natural, they believed, that the greater should rule over the lesser. Like the gods themselves, who treated them as peers, until the landwalkers stopped praying for their overlords'' mercy, and started praying for salvation from gods the world over. They had walked the Earth before this flood, the Flood, was sent to wash away the sinners. And the greatest of them all... Xilema laughs bitterly at the old saying. Her body, once flawless, is covered in tiny silver scales, and thrice the height of a landwalking woman. She does not feel like the "greatest" anything anymore, except the greatest fool. In response to the gods'' punishment, the Atlanteans bent all their knowledge and craft to create a monster that could destroy them. The Horror unmade this reality, and all others, before the Unmoved Mover denied this catastrophe, reversing the events and sealing the Horror away. As the king and queen of Atlantis are dragged beneath the waves, they drown, byt not in water, for that, they can breathe. No, they drown in horror, and Horror. All the suffering inflicted upon the landwalkers, the humiliation, the fear of the Empire Endless crushing them out of amusement, rushes into their minds and souls. Their beings fall apart at the seams, but their love holds. They are offered a choice, or perhaps not. Perhaps they have always been like this, and are waking up from a dream of life. But they accept, and finally, truly become one, to Watch over the Horror they wrought forevermore. *** ''Indeed,'' Solarex replies smoothly, golden teeth shining in his beard. ''They know skill when they see it. I think they are still tickled after my first visit to Earth...'' Solarex sees through every star, like Nacht sees through shadows. When Primus attempted to put out the sun, he intervened, to the dismay of the first vampire, who had the worst day of his unlife as a result. Solarex would have killed him, if not for Earth''s gods telling the alien King Sun to mind his own business. ''And Ischyros will always help a friend!'' the six-armed alien adds. It was named "mighty" by Zeus himself, after a battle where the King of Olympus blasted a dozen realities to nothing, while uterrly failing to even scratch the grey alien, much like everyone else. Its strength and speed are limited only by its will, but its body is, as far as anyone can tell, invulnerable. ''Mmm. I wonder what prize I will be given for my selfless aid,'' Solarex does not seem to realise, much less mind, the irony of his words. ''Earth has such gorgeous breeding stock! Is the little vampire still around? After I modify him, he will make a great stud and broodmother!'' Asterion grimaces, and is sure that, behind his faceplate, Heracles is doing the same. ''Don''t you have enough breeders?'' the Bull Rampant asks with distaste. Solarex laughs. ''You can never have too many. My son!'' The Son of the Sun is half-machine, half-alive. One of Solarex''s many children, he serves as his father''s ship, centre of operations, and favourite house of worship. A golden shell, denser than neutronium, surrounds and dwarfs a purple giant star from another reality, which makes UY Scuti looks like Mercury. It is only Solarex reality-bending will that prevents the ship from disturbing the universe. Especially when traveling from one of its edges past the opposite one in less time than a human would take to blink. The structure houses countless octillions of worshippers, aliens who fell at Solarex''s feet out of gratitude for helping their worlds, or fear, or in defeat after oppossing his whimsical will. All of them utterly adore their god, their every breath a prayer. Many of them, male, female, both and neither, have borne King Sun''s children, the Solarians: the power of a hypernova in a godlike body. ''I get so bored of them...'' Solarex whispers, then draws upon every star in this universe and innumerable others, channeling their power into a beam directed at his son. The ship, which has weathered Big Crunches with no damage, is vapourised. Solarex''s servants moan in ecstasy as their god destroys them, their rapture, pain and terror bringing a brief smile to his face. Then, he snaps his fingers, and recreates his godly court. ''See?'' He turns to Asterion. ''Boring. I do this so often, it...'' King Sun shakes his head. ''You two are almost as gorgeous as you are powerful. Do you want to sire life or bear it first'' ''You will ?not lay a finger on any inhabitant of Earth,'' Heracles snarls, summoning Marmyadose. Asterion snatches it out of his hand faster than he can comprehend, putting the unstoppable tip at Solarex''s throat. ''The Watcher does not speak for Earth. We neither need nor want you, you damned-'' ''My! But what do you have on that dreary rock that''s so precious? Don''t worry. After I break both you and them, you can love me together~'' Asterion almost thrusts the blade forward, but Solarex places a golden hand on his arm, stopping him, and another on his waist, before lowering it. ''So powerful~'' ''You damned murderous freak-'' ''Friends!'' Ischyros is suddenly between them, two hands holding them at bay, buried deep in their unimaginably durable chests, which heal instantly. A third clutches Marmyadose by the blade, as if it is a foam sword. ''Ischyros senses you are not about to battle with joy! Please, stop this!'' ''Whatever,'' Asterion grunts, ripping the blade away once the alien slackens its grip, then glaring at Solarex, who blows him a kiss. ''I will have words with the Watcher, who feels entitled to call shameless maniacs and utter fools to Earth''s defence. In the meantime...many broken realities overflow with monsters, let alone the Void. Why not purge the chaff before the true horrors arrive?'' Empty Tomb, Chapter 7
Camelot division headquarters, Birmingham, 2030 Gerald Reyes is a meticulous man. Pay attention, lad. He is a cautious man. Good. Cringing when shown the back of my hand is how any son should act. He does not make mistakes. Do you want to be punished again? Do you want to feel the pain and shame of everyone who couldn''t do this, along with yours? He grew up surrounded by rules. Of course his magic is to make laws. Nature versus nurture? Nonsense. I will mould even a failure like you into something halfway resembling a man. The others broke, but you ?will bend. The protection of Earth is being spearheaded by nearly two hundred national supernatural defence agencies, and, of course, ARC. The world''s armies, usually sent to purge eldritch monsters in their lairs, are waiting to meet them at the gate today. Gerald is not nervous about what he has been chosen to do, no matter how high the stakes, and consequences of failure. I swear on the dead gods dreaming, boy, you''ll fear me long, long after I am gone. Gerald...does not lie to himself. Anymore. "The people of this world shall be sent to the afterlives of their faiths, or to the aether, if they follow no gods. They shall be placed into a trance-like state, starting now, and until the world is safe once more." Nearly seventeen billion baseline humans are whisked away by his magic, beyond mundane reality and into the Clusters. Even some supernaturals are affected. But not all. Across the multiverse, Earth, this Earth, is seen as an impossibly dangerous backwater. Not only are some of its inhabitants faster than lightning and strong enough to pulverise mountains, they are also immune to esoteric effects, barring specific powers or materials. These, however, are not his business. His fellow Head, Alemoa Elga of External Affairs, will deal with them. Gerald, personally, thinks EA has long since outgrown its remit to liaise to instead become a political circus. There are ARC agents giving interviews on TV! Only non-classified information, of course, and some of it still has to be censored, but...no one wants Gaol John coming after them. Gerald shudders at the thought of his colleague. Even here and now, preparing to defend Earth from chaos itself, he can still feel John''s cold, dead eyes burning through him, all the way from the Internal Affairs headquarters inside Uluru. John...terrifies him. And not just because of the sheer hatred he feels for him and every countryman of his. The Head of IA began as a gestalt formed from the souls of Australia''s long gone prisoners, those who had never found peace with their gods, but...no one can really tell what John is, nowadays. Perhaps not even, or especially, himself... Gerald''s head snaps up as the ocean under Australia ripples, followed by the crust and the mantle. Something like snapping jaws, like a serrated beak, like a closing flower or a hand of shadow, is closing around the continent- Clang. There is a sound that is not sound, chains whipping flesh until it is raw and bleeding, then dropping onto a stone floor. Then, the chains twist, and the flesh tears. The monster John caught is larger than the planet, and would eat all worlds, given the chance. John gives it none. The chains tighten, and a scream that would have shattered the Earth or reduced all its mundane inhabitants to gibbering wrecks, is silenced by a door slamming closed, forever. For John does not let the guilty escape. He never has. He never will. John''s gaze moves away, and Gerald lets out a breath he only just realises he has been holding. Foolish. He does not need to breathe, nor would his colleague harm...him... The world really ?is going mad, if he''s thinking like this. ''Gerry,'' a bubbly voice, usually brimming with amusement at the irritation it brings him, fills his dark office. It is filled with concern, and that almost scares him. Alemoa Elga is like something out of the Third Reich''s propaganda pictures, all curves, blonde hair and blue eyes. She hates the comparison, so, despite the delight she takes in needling him, Gerald never mentions it. ''Elga,'' he does not turn, looking out at the window at the still-lit city. So full and peaceful it looks, for an empty soon-to-be battlefield. A microcosm of the world. A pair of cold, ghostly arms wraps around him, and Elga buries her face into the crook of his neck. Her touch makes his blood curdle, but he does not push her away. This time. ''Thank you,'' the ghost whispers. ''The evacuation went perfectly. Now, my agents can concentrate on those your magic can''t touch.'' ''I''m just doing my part, old bird,'' Gerald stuffs his hands into his suit''s pockets, like they''re on that disastrous first date as recruits again. His gold-rimmed glasses are all fogged up, too. He supposes the universe wants to recreate that moment. Elga does not answer, instead reaching through the mage''s chest and gently squeezing his heart. Gerald takes a sharp breath, but stands still. In her own way, she''s just as awkward at him, though for different reasons. He is, he thinks, the only man who has been with her and lived. ''Can you say something inappropriate? I would kill for some normalcy, before it all comes crashing down,'' he jokes. Elga hums, a sound like wind through hollow bones, and twitches a finger. Her telekinetic grip reaches across the world, stopping a falling dropship aping the shape of a meteor in its tracks. Force that would have shattered South America is rendered harmless, and a pulse of Elga''s will throws the ship off Earth and into the sun, so fast the alien captain might be forgiven for thinking the warp drive has been activated by mistake. An instant later, he and his crew crash through a dozen solar flares, before beginning to sink towards the core. It will be a long time before they die. ''Inappropriate, for me?'' The ghost grins. ''I''m just doing my part.'' *** Giza was only thirty-two hundred kilometres from Urziceni, which meant a fairly short flight, from a human''s perspective. From mine, seconds passed millions of times slower than they did back when my heart beat. Still, you''d think not much could happen in one and a half seconds. And yet, I got hit by a shaped sandstorm somehow strong (say that six times fast) enough to flay my face off, almost got tackled by a squad of Nigerian army werecrocs who were doing long jumps across Africa, and got a power washing when something that looked like a rainbow chestburster slips into the Nile and reshaped it into a water golem reaching into orbit. Before I could even stare drily at the bullshit, a watery punch hit me like the world''s biggest jet, sending me out of Egypt and to the North Pole, which became two islands as my body smashed through it. Thank God Reyes emptied the underground habitats...hope he''d fix this, too. I was back, angry, though, thankfully, no longer drenched (high speed flight will do that), a few seconds later, but the monster was gone, as was the possesser. I''d have liked to think it fled, cowed by my righteous anger and the image of virile, warlike masculiny I presented, but the truth was that my boss took care of it, or so the postcognition inherited from Mimir insisted, showing me the strange creature getting ripped out of its watery construct and torn apart by invisible hands, before the river was redistributed across the continent. Wasn''t it always that way? Behind every strong man, et cetera. I touched down in front of headquarters, went through the rice-counting test, and went to Reem''s office as fast as I could through the twisting corridors. Her marble guardians didn''t twitch, but I could practically hear them rolling their eyes. "Look who''s entering like he''s at home''" Reem wasn''t really undressed (and I''d have to thank my worse half for that mental image-Mia would like it-later, after I slapped it), but she felt like she was. I knew that feeling of being vulnerable before the world. I saw it in the eyes of my reflection, sometimes. In the mirror, too. So, as a mummy, Reem was always wrapped up in linen, covering her from toe to neck. Now, she was wearing a suit of golden armour, the helmet held under one arm and her thin, stringy salt and pepper curls reaching down to her shoulders. I briefly wondered if it was the death mask from her sarcophagus. That wasn''t what struck me, through. Reem''s eyes were gone, empty sockets turning my way when I entered. Her face, looking even drier and more cracked than usual, slowly gave way to a smile. I hadn''t realised her eyes were an illusion, but it made sense. During the process of mummification, everything but the heart was removed. I wondered what had made her stop keeping up appearances, though. ''Agent Silva. Agent Szabo left shortly ago, to rendezvous with Head Shiftskin and agent Faith.'' The smile widened slightly. ''And, if I know Sam, they''re already in the UK by now, and he''s carping about you being late.'' ''I didn''t receive a deadline, ma''am,'' I said, maybe more gruffly than I had intended. ''Nor any information about the mission. Which, I presume, is why I was called here?'' Reem nodded. ''With Cortez incapacitated, we have no time to look for another Romanian senior agent. As such, I will be debriefing you.'' ''What happened to that vampire?'' I asked curiously as Reem sat down, setting her helmet, with a faceplate that resembled her features, if they were made from gold, with sapphires for eyes, on the desk. ''You will be coordinating with New Camelot. Their Grandmaster is expecting you, but not expecting you.'' Her look would have probably been meaningful if she hadn''t been eyeless. Maybe it''d have helped me realise why she had ignored my question. ''I fully intend to make the most of your strange new ability, Silva, and the best place to grow is in the field.'' Was that a fucking farming joke? No, wait, don''t grin, what if she was serious? ''However, that does not mean you should reveal it to our opposite numbers, unless it is absolutely necessary. Unlike the gods, if they want to exploit your power, they can just join ARC and rise through the ranks to become your superior.'' This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Inter-organisation politics? Oh, just kill me again- ''No can do. We need you, Silva.'' Damn, was I awful at concealing my thoughts. ''And on that note...'' Reality rippled, falling away to reveal a realm of colours that had never existed on Earth. Reem reached through it, ignoring energies that would have reduced Szabo to nothing, and pulled out what looked like a scroll. ''Is that a list of our, ah, opposite numbers'' weaknesses, ma''am?'' I asked, while she pinched the distortion in space between two fingers and closed it. ''Close. You might or might not be aware of the ARC equipment lost during past joint ops with the Roundhouse-minor supplies, guns that refill and aim themselves, things like that. Since none of your teammates have the temper for it, I would like you to request them back.'' ''Huh,'' I blurted out before my brain caught up. ''So they follow the British Museum''s approach to acquiring stuff? Dangerous. What if they steal me and put me on display?'' Reem gave me the most deadpan look I''d ever received from an eyeless person, which instantly endeared her to me. ''And what would you display, Silva?'' she asked in a voice drier than the desert outside. ''I can''t believe I''m saying this, but maybe I should ask Sam.'' The instant Shiftskin''s name was mentioned, the world shook, and reality lurched sideways. A huge ivory triangle, dwarfing any mountain, pierced thousands of kilometres every second, before coming to a halt. My jump saw me end up in high orbit, though I quickly flew further away. The thing that had just pierced Earth, almost as thick as the planet, was just one fang in one of the many mouths of something that resembled an octopus the way Aaron resembled a gecko. Other fangs had skewered the rest of the rocky planets, outright turning Mars and Mercury to dust, while a tentacle the colour of blood lazily swiped through the gas giants, dispersing them. I only perceived this by tapping into my sight to the point everything slowed down to merely blindingly fast. The monster''s body was wrapped around the sun, which was slowly shifting from plasma to a tumour-riddled, fleshlike substance wherever it made contact with it. There were many beings on Earth whose power blinded me, by being either too bright to look at or too dark to see through. And they were all tensing in anticipation, waiting to see if Reem could pull this one off or if they''d have to step back from the incursions they were fighting. The star-sized monster''s body twitched once, twice, before cracks that glowed a blinding white spread through it-its insides, revealed to the universe. A circular shape covered in beaks and glassy, lidless eyes turned to nothing as Aya burst through it, before grabbing hold of the monster with gauntleted hands. The mummy spun on her heel, twisting her torso until the armour creaked, then let go, throwing the thing that outmassed the solar system out of it. The Oort Cloud became atoms as it smashed through it, not slowing down. In fact, it seemed to grow faster and faster, through the sheer, impossible speed reduced its body to almost nothing as it left our universe, and kept going. I turned my eyes to Reem, who had put her hands together and started muttering an incantation that made my bones shake. Space folded, then regained its normal aspect, the planets reappering in their orbits. My sight, though, showed me the shape behind the curtain of reality, its throat bulging up to spit out the things that looked like worlds, but were not. Its eggs, perhaps, sent to our universe to grow by feeding on the inhabitants they tricked into living on them. Aya sneered, hands on her hips. ''No, you don''t. Gilles!'' A black and white blur flew at and through the false Earth from nowhere, smashing it to smitheerens. A moment later, it was on the sun, now a sphere of cancerous flesh. ''Aya! Think you can make a new one?'' the weregryph asked in a booming voice. At the mummy''s nod, he gripped the sun, arms flexing, and threw it so it smashed through all of the fake planets, before continuing in its flight. ''Now...time to restore the proper order of things,'' Reem said, more to herself, before putting her hands together again. I couldn''t tell you if time was rewound, or if she just made a new solar system from nothing. My sight fluctuated, when it came to precision. Or, maybe, I just couldn''t make the most of it yet. Either way, I was back on a restored Earth moments later, pulled back to the mummy by an irresistible force whose touch burned me. Reem smiled as she looked at me, still with the list in my hand like a chump, and I told myself it was just the aura of order she radiated that made me want to ask what she wanted, then do it. ''Now that distraction has been dealt with...please do request the listed items back from the Roundhouse, agent Silva. Oh, and be sure to give Sam my regards,'' she put on her golden helmet, regarding me from behind a face just as unblinking as her natural one. ''That will be all.'' *** ''You''re Silva?'' Shiftskin asked as I landed on London''s southwestern outskirts. ''Hmm...'' ''That''s me, sir,'' I said, not sure whether to shake the towering wendigo''s ever-shifting hand. I didn''t want to brush against his hooded leather cloak. Fucking hell...did he really have to spell his victims'' names out in their teeth? Ask him how he maintains them! Fuck you, you Mr. Game and Watch-looking arse. We''re not going to do that, I thought back at my strigoi side. ''You look like your voice sounds,'' the wendigo sighed, before running a hand through his shoulder-length hair. His face changed from a flayed old man''s, to white-furred and apelike, to a fanged, grey elk muzzle, but the hunger never left his eyes. Szabo smiled and waved at me from Sam''s left, while the Fourfold nodded from his right. The woman had to be sixty-four by now, but, save for a few streaks of grey, her hair was still black and thick. ''We are not four anymore, David.'' I blinked, but nobody had spoken-out loud, that was. Unable to directly speak to my mind, she had instead spoken into the aether, letting us hear her. ''Then...'' I began. ''You and the Fivehold will have time to compare mindmates later. Hell, have a tea party. We''re going to the Smoke, after all,'' Shiftskin crossed his arms, cloak rasping. ''You went to Aya''s office before coming here, Silva. My candies. Do you have them?'' I stared at him, unsure if I was being made fun of, but this guy was insane. Had Reem forgotten to give me something she''d promised him? And if yes, would he take his anger out on me? ''She didn''t give me any, sir,'' I replied carefully. ''Well, I would hope so. I haven''t been getting any lately, either.'' Shiftskin was one of those guys people were too scared of to know whether their jokes were jokes, and if yes, whether they should laugh at them or not. We saw why moments later. Picture an universe where Freeman Dyson''s dream became reality, then surpassed his imagination a septillion times over. An universe where every stariwas encased in a mechanical sphere, all energy harnessed to serve the purposes of that reality''s masters. Now, picture a septillion stars being converted into energy, then shaped and focused into an energy beam the size of our Earth, barely small enough to fit through the sky-filling breach in space. The beam flew down at us as fast as light, intending to shower Earth with a frankly disgusting amount of overkill. Or, perhaps, given some of the beings that lived on pur world, those aliens should have armed for wendigo. The Hunger intertwined with Sam''s being rushed to the fore as he opened his fanged mouth in a broad grin, nearly unginging his jaw, before swallowing the galaxy-destroying energy beam like it was water. He didn''t stop there. While, I imagine, the aliens were elbowing each other and mumbling their equivalent to "you seeing this shit?", Sam swirled enough power to reduce the Mily Way to a memory in his mouth. Then, with a deep breath, he drew in all the heat out of the other reality, stopping every particle''s motion. Snickering to himself, the wendigo opened his mouth and spat a fusillade of energy beams through the tear in reality, which curled around each other to make sure no Dyson Sphere remained that wasn''t molten debris. With a satisfied hum, Sam shifted his neck into a snake, before stretching upwards. From my perspective, it looked like his fangs clamped down on the portal''s edges. Then, Sam closed his mouth, and the portal disappeared, filling my ears with the clanour of a million shattering mirrors. Shifting back to his default form, Sam sketched a sarcastic bow before the laughing, clapping Szabo and the approvingly-nodding Fivefold. It looked like, unlike me, they had both expected...this. Maybe they''d worked with the Salem head before. ''Wanna become Crypt Head, Silva?'' the wendigo asked me, smirking. ''Maybe I''ll convince the mummy to retire and let me take care of her. Then, you can deal with shit like this on a...well, not a ?daily basis. But often enough it will feel like that.'' ''You don''t seem overly bothered, sir,'' I noted, trying to keep my voice from wavering. ''What?'' Sam scoffed. ''If I let Gilles'' uptight ass show me up, I''d have to kill you all for knowing, then myself out of shame. Motherfucker threw the sun! I''m sure Amara had to erase that thing before it evolved into something...don''t know how his wife can stand him. I''d call her a trooper if she wasn''t already in the army.'' As fascinating as the wendigo''s ramblings were, we still had a job to do. I suppose I was excited to meet the Round Table''s heirs. ''Oh, and Silva?'' Sam asked, taking point, his long legs covering what I would in two steps every stride. ''This is a joint effort by the Global Gathering. Hope you liked working with the Circle Bizarre, because they''ve sent someone too. So has FREAKSHOW, the Karma Delivered...'' And...everyone else. Empty Tomb, Chapter 8
Travelling a city the size of London was laughably easy at my speed, especially with no traffic or bystanders to slow me down. And yet, I was by far the slowest of our little party, only able to keep pace with the Fivefold, who, I got the feeling, wasn''t trying her best. Out of curiosity, I focused my mindane senses on her. I didn''t want to use Mimir''s sight and see her soul-that would have been violating. And, it seemed, my senses were far sharper than eight years ago. From a dozen metres away, the Fivefold''s heartbeat was as loud to me as a lion roaring in a normal human''s ear would have been to one. And yet, it was not the sound that caught my ear. That honour went to the wet ripping and tearing, combined with the slurping and dry cracking, like someone was folding an autumn leaf. Interesting. I couldn''t see anything on her exposed skin, and her suit wasn''t bulging, so... ''Not all demons can be placed in seals, David. Some must be bound in a rather cruder manner,'' the Fivefold said, without looking at me, while walking on the Thames. Seemed she was still better at reading me than the reverse. ''I''m sure you won''t leave me hanging on a hint. Maybe you can tell me, after the story of how you met my father.'' ''The fact Constantin hasn''t done it himself should tell you how boring it was.'' ''Right. Boring.'' Something told me the thing making that strange sound-probably that demon she''d said was immune to everything but simple strength; did that include holy seals and inverted pentagrams?-was connected to the way they had met. Perhaps even the cause. The Roundhouse (that is, New Camelot''s headquarters) floated along the Thames, doing a tour of the city all day, every day. The tall, yet somehow squat-looking building was circular, with square watchtowers rising from the sides, like a medieval recreation of the Colosseum. "Um, yeah, David, but what do you mean by ?medieval? Early Middle Ages? Late? High?" I''d have to be high to answer that, yes. Wouldn''t wanna embarrass myself more than usual. For me, "medieval" meant when Roman marble was swapped with grimier, grittier brick. Feel free to bury me again for how wrong I was. Just tie me down, this empty head might make me float away. At the moment of our arrival, the Roundhouse was close to Buckingham Palace, which was empty but for the Beasts of Britannia guarding it: the lion, the unicorn, the red dragon. Each strong enough to rip Earth in half like a rotten apple, not to mention fast enough to make me look human. It wasn''t their physical prowess that made them impressive, though. It was their nature. Plato had been, if not right, at least closer to the truth of reality than other philosophers. Just like a square was the shadow of a cube, which was the shadow of a tesseract, and so on, for there was an infinity of dimensions, there was a realm beyond the multiverse and the aether, which were its shadows. This Realm of Ideas, if you will, was both the bedrock of creation, on which all was built, and its beak, from which all grew down, like an inverted tree. But how did the Outer Gods and other eldritch horrors fit in with all this? Well, how could a grim, nihilistic writer half-glimpse this realm, beyond everything and empty but for the blueprints of reality, and name it anything but an Outer Void? Thank God such ideas, whether sentient or not, lost much of themselves when manifesting in the multiverse. The Beasts on Earth were infinitely lesser than their true selves, that is, the dimensionless, unchanging things beyond time and space: the image of the United Kingdom, carved into the wall of creation''s cave. Which meant that, as long as that idea existed, they could heal from any damage, any maybe increase their power at will, or even clone themselves, if the rumours were true. The Roundhouse''s wall, white as ivory and only looking like brick, shifted to form a locked gate, which, if you ask me, was kind of redundant. The wooden scales that rose out of the Thames were more interesting, though. For a moment, I thought I saw a pale hand let go of the scales, and a flawless, inhumanly pale face smile at the sight of my eyes. I guess she didn''t limit herself to lakes, anymore. Kind of strange she would appear so close to her trapped, former lover and teacher, but Nimue had never been shy, especially when it came to taunting Merlin. My musing was cut short by a quack. Such an incongruous, mundane sound, after everything, that I almost stopped hovering and fell into the river. Going by Sam''s grumble, and Szabo and the Fivefold''s smirks, they had caught my blunder, and I''d bet the wendigo was annoyed I hadn''t fallen. So, the Round Table. You wouldn''t believe how many adaptations of Arthur and his knights had been made before the Shattering, and even a few after. Some overflowing with supernatural elements and actors, others with barely any at all(those tended to be more liked; after all, if you could ger good special effects without magic or supernaturals, it meant you were skilled, and knew when people wanted something new). Out of them all, the Monty Python version was my favourite, to the surprise of no one who had even a vague impression of my attempt at a personality. Merlin''s too, it seemed. ''Why is there a duck on the scale?'' I asked, almost to myself, aware of how incredulous I sounded. It was then that the Knights made themselves known. The gunmetal-grey armour of New Camelot''s Knights wasn''t worn: it was part of them, as much as their flesh and souls. It could be summoned or dismissed with a thought, but automatically appeared when a Knight was threatened, and allowed them a range of abilities, from walking on any surface, regardless of density, gravity or lack thereof, to surviving in any environment, planetary, otherworldly or void of anything we could describe as real. As such, when the Knights leapt over the outer wall to land in squads, they landed on the water like it was solid ground, before marching towards us. Most of the Knights were human, at least in size and shape, but I saw a few hints at other species: the insect-like gait of a Fae or hybrid, languid when not bursting with speed and dashing all about; the weightless, stiff movement of ghosts; and, of course, the Knights that weren''t even similar to humanity, and made no attempt to hide it. The armoured dragon that filled the sky above us was so large, it should have never been able to fit in the Roundhouse. Either it shifted size when inside, or the place was a TARDIS moonlighting as a building. I wouldn''t have been able to tell if the building had grown to let the dragon pass, or if it had become larger after exiting-it moved too fast for me to see. The Knights that drew my attention, however, stood aside from the others, and not just because of their size, though they were huge(she said), if small compared to the dragon above. One of them was one hundred-forty metres tall, and almost as broad, with six wings covered by an armour so fine every feather stood out in relief. The Nephilim''s androgynous figure burned my eyes, bringing tears of thick, cold blood to them, which crawled down my cheeks like tree sap. In one gauntlet, they held what looked like a shepherd''s crook, if made from a radio tower. It was the third time I had seen it. Auspicious. The Knight at its side was far smaller, merely thrice my height and several times broader, but no less impressive. The armour covering its amorphous body looked more like a sheet of metal, for it showed no features to suggest separate parts. The cambion smelled like death, literally, for all the distance and the river. Corpses let to rot in a swamp while flies feasted on them and maggots filled their hollow bodies with eggs, or tossed into a desert to dry under the sun. The sludge that somehow dripped through the armour was thick and a dark so green it was almost black. The lidless, bloodshot eyes swimming in each drop of sludge stared at us with desperation, and I- Please. Kill us again. Death is no release. Merely respite. Pain, pain to forget, we are BEGGING- They all lied to us. This is not how things should be. They are lying to you, too. Closed the ears of my mind to them. The cambion giggled discordantly at my disgust, an armoured tentacle rising from the central mass, the end shaping into sickeningly human long fingers that waved mockingly at the Fivefold. She didn''t wave back. ''Please, brother,'' the Nephilim said in a melodious, tired voice that held an undercurrent of...fondness? Resignation? The fact I had trouble telling the two apart said a lot about my relationships. ''Do not start something I will have to end. At least, not until this crisis is over.'' The Nephilim''s featureless helmet then moved to look down at us. The Knights could see through the metal of their armour like the clearest crystal, though it immediately darkened or remade itself to protect them from blinding or mind-blasting sights. I doubted the Nephilim needed such protections, though. ''Welcome to London, agents. I pray you shall not be as cold to us as you are towards your own countries.'' It held up a hand to preempt any reply. ''I find that rather admirable. The realms of grasshoppers come and go like sick mayflies, lasting scant millennia at most. Only a bleeding heart would attach themselves to such ephemeral existences.'' ''I think the segregation based on species is worse than our nonexistent patriotism, Master,'' Shiftskin said, muzzle twitching as he gnashed yellow rat teeth. ''Indeed, Head Samuel. Not all forms of stupidity are equal...thank grandfather.'' As the Nephilim''s faceplate drew back into the helmet, I noticed the Knights were staring at us, unspeaking, unmoving, if relaxed. Perhaps it was a test, like I was sure the duck would be, too. Of our patience, maybe. The Nephilim''s steely eyes were as grey as its armour, unblinking storm clouds in a face that could have been male or female. Its expression remained pitying as it took us four in, though the disgust in its eyes grew with every movement of its head, reaching its peak when it took in Szabo. Every orifice of the strigoi''s face was gushing blood while he grinned up at the Nephilim, who hummed in what sounded like consideration. ''I am the Master of New Camelot''s London Chapter, working directly under Grandmaster Bedivere,'' the Nephilim said, hefting the crook I realised was its staff of office. Most Masters preferred batons, but I guess it was making a statement about shepherding. ''You may call me Vyrt, as my brother mangled "virtue" while we were learning English, in a childish attempt at mockery.'' The weary fondness had returned to its voice. ''Tonight, provided we do not have a resounding success or failure at breaching the wall between realms, you are to rest.'' ''You came at a beautiful moment,'' the cambion giggled in a silky smooth voice wholly at odds with its slimy appearance. '' "Understand, the only way to reach the monsters we must put down is to march through Ireland unopposed. We swear it will go better than the last hundred times!" .'' ''The actual proposal was longer, and even polite, but, essentially, the same,'' the Nephilim replied while nodding to the Fivefold. ''Agent Faith, know that my brother has not gone senile. We share your disappointment.'' ''We are ready to face him, and greater than the last time,'' the Fivefold replied, face blank, hands clasped behind her back. ''So I can see,'' Vyrt smiled thinly. ''Hello, Christine. Xelkhe. Ylvhem. Zhannar. Greetings to you too, uncle. Have you chosen a name?'' A howling blackness filled my sight, physical and arcane alike, before it was dispersed by Vyrt''s bell-like laugh. ''It would be easier to erase your sins than me, uncle. Stand down!'' The Nephilim thundered at the Knights, who had summoned all manners of weapons into their hands at the demon''s unexpected attack, from maces and war hammers to wide-barreled rifles that hummed as they glowed a metallic blue. ''Agent Faith is a greater asset than she is a threat...the same cannot be said for her fifth self, at the moment, but you will control yourselves. Unlike my uncle, you are able to,'' Vyrt said, then turned to me. ''Agent Silva, I would have words with you.'' Sigh. ''After you go through my cousin''s absurd test, of course.'' ''Is this one of those tests we fail by asking about details before it?'' Sam smiled, eyes narrowed at the scales. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ''No. You step on the scales to prove you are not an eldritch abomination in disguise. If you are a supernatural inhabitant of this reality,'' the Nephilim continued, eyes dead. ''You will weigh as much as the duck.'' *** As I paced on the desk in Vyrt''s cavernous office-you could''ve fit my hometown in here, with space for a few villages; more points to the TARDIS Roundhouse theory-, I took in the skyscraper-sized portraits of Knights past, from the first Round Table to their heirs across the twentieth century. Damn me, but I''ve never been able to understand the obsession so many leaders have with looking sternly constipated. It''s like they''re trying to say "I''m too stressed to smile, too proud of my work to frown, and not bored enough to look neutral. Hold on, let me clench my cheeks. The ones on my face, too." I''ve seen it with everyone from politicians to gods to portraits of the voivodes. ?epe? has one where he looks fairly serene, though, or maybe just contemplating what stake to use next. Someone should make a vamp porn flick with that theme, one of these days. Call it "Stakeholders" or "Rising stakes". Vyrt''s arrival was not preceded by anything, nor did I notice the Nephilim until it sat down in an enchanted tungsten seat larger and heavier than most buildings. The clang caused by it sitting down almost drew my attention away from its clothes. I hadn''t expected it to keep its armour, but this looked like a bathrobe- ''It is, David,'' Vyrt replied, leaning forward, hands clasped on the desk, shoulder-length curls, the same colour as its eyes, swaying. ''I am off-duty, at the moment. If you expected the me who saw comfort as sin, you will have to travel back in time.'' ''Sounds fascinating, sir. May I ask why you wanted to speak with me?'' I smiled. ''You know, I saw you twice, when I last came to London. You were hovering above the Roundhouse, looking over the city.'' ''Actually, you saw me thrice. I was at that con you were, as the Doctor.'' Wha- ''There were...a ?lot of Doctors there, sir. Which one were you?'' ''All of them,'' Vyrt smiled self-deprecatingly. ''Apparently, I look too masculine for the Thirteenth and too feminine for the rest. The things you learn...'' The Master trailed off, looking past me and the dumb look on my face. ''But how? All Doctors? Did you change costumes mid-con, or...?'' Instead of replying, Vyrt jerked his head at something behind me, and I turned lightning-fast at the shadow that suddenly fell over me. Another Vyrt, this one armoured, stood behind me, clutching his shepherd''s crook. Both of them then cleared their throats and pointed at another pair of Nephilim, who had appeared beneath a portrait of Gawain, standing triumphant over a slain knight. Soon enough, the office was filled with armoured half-angels- and, according to my senses, they were all as powerful as the original, who felt like...like Odin, that time he''d come to me after the Headhunt to suggest I should become ARC''s liaison to Asgard. Between Vyrt and the hundreds (more? Their presence was blinding) of copies, I was positively drowning in power. ''I take after my father and grandfather,'' the original spoke, making me turn to him. The others had disappeared, lessening the pressure on my soul. ''I create. I build. I strengthen. I can,'' he gestured at the now-empty office. ''Replicate myself ad infinitum, each copy as powerful as me, and with the same abilities. You can imagine the demands I receive, when I can do this...using it for harmless entertainment, rather than filling every place in every moment of this universe''s past and future with Nephilim, is what I would do, if it were my choice.'' ''That''s a creative use of power.'' See? I was so slick, I made puns without even trying to. ''Thank you. But, as I was saying, this is the fourth time we meet. Please do not look for patterns in everything. Or are you the type to see shapes in clouds, too?'' ''Sometimes,'' I said defensively, not crossing my arms. I was ?not feeling called out. ''So...this meeting?'' ''Aya Reem hopes you will grow in power and prowess, David. I intend to help you. If you are uneasy about my opinion of you, calm yourself. I am used to working with loathsome creatures.'' ''Wow,'' I scowled. ''Thanks for the fucking honesty.'' ''You are welcome. Your existence is only half as disgusting as the fact a being like you bears a name like yours.'' ''Well, forgive me for not seeing my suicide while in diapers, and choosing a fitting, evil name,'' I bared my fangs. ''Is this why you called me here? If I wanted to listen to someone insult everything I am, I''d talk to myself.'' ''Choice...fascinating, isn''t it? And so, so burdensome. Sometimes, I wonder what God was thinking when He created it. Animals are shackled by their instincts, but people? Angels, fallen or otherwise? I always thought grandfather gave Samael too long a leash. If He had imposed His will, there would have never been a rebellion.'' Vyrt''s eyes darkened, white flashing in them. ''There ?should have never been one.'' Alright, discussing theology with someone closer to God than I''d ever be, even if he was way too honest when it came to his opinion of me, was not the worst way to spend my time. ''God has always valued freedom.'' ''You are a mayfly, David. You do not remember the hundreds of millennia before the Flood, the slaves, broken in body and essence alike. So few who walk the Earth do...you should ask the young Watcher, someday.'' Young? Hundreds of millennia? ''How old did you say you are?'' ''Ah,'' the Nephilim smiled. ''You think the Shattering started everything. How do you know events before it weren''t directed by beings like me? Were you there?'' ''Well, were they?'' In response, Vyrt plucked a feather from one of his blazing wings. Larger than me, it was surrounded by ivory fire that left strobing afterimages whenever they flickered. ''What is this? A feather? A gathering of atoms? A construct of holy power? So it is with time.'' The Nephilim let go of the feather, which blurred out of his hand to seamlessly move back into its former place. ''Alas, however the past might be viewed, one thing is certain: we all chafe under the yoke of free will. Can you imagine, David? Can you imagine the Lord''s mind filling our bodies, directing our every action and thought? We would never know doubt, or fear, or sadness, for the Lord does not feel such weaknesses.'' I didn''t like the feverish grin on the Nephilim''s face, but I couldn''t exactly escape, either. ''I do not know. I have heard...theories, about us all being dreams in the mind of an unfathomable creator.'' ''Those theorists are more right than they are wrong. What do you think about their ideas?'' I shrugged. ''Even if all I feel is fake, I might as well enjoy it, for it feels real to me. And there are worse lies to live with than love.'' '' "His greatest lie was convincing the world love is real",'' Vyrt quoted wistfully. ''You are indeed right, David. My wife tells me this whenever I start acting, and I quote, mopey.'' God bless that poor woman, having to brave this creepy zealot''s ramblings every day. ''You might meet her after she finishes tearing down the aetheric barrier alongside her fellows. I think you would enjoy it. You see, she follows the teachings of a rather fey woman, whose name we try not to say in these halls,'' the Nephilim said with a conspiratory grin, before lifting one hand to show me a gold ring you could have probably driven a car through. ''She sounds lovely.'' ''Oh, she is.'' The wistfulness was back. ''Loves tearing things down, for that is her magic. Calls me a man, though she does not treat me like one. In private, that is.'' Riiiight...''I-'' ''Your stance on love is the reason you are an admirable person, despite being a vile creature, David. Much like my brother. Well, half-brother. Can you believe Vykt and I share a mother? He took all her good looks.'' I wasn''t touching that statement with a barge pole. ''Strange to hear someone like you say this about a cambion,'' I said, sticking my hands in my pockets. Unlike Vyrt, I didn''t have a multi-story, fluffy white bathrobe (woe, woe!), so I was still in my black ARC shirt, pants and boots, with the grey headstone inside a white shield Crypt symbol on both shoulders. ARC was going through a few changes in looks at the moment, and we weren''t sure what we''d end up looking like. Vyrt''s eyes were disappointed as he shook his head. ''If you cannot separate who people are from what they are, David, you might as well crawl into your empty tomb and stay there.'' ''Um...you mean grave. My death wasn''t exactly planned for, so nobody had time to build me a tomb. And we haven''t made any modifications since.'' ''Ah, linear time,'' Vyrt put his chin in his hand, smiling crookedly. ''Were I able to sin, I would envy your innocence, David. Briefly...hmm. The skin of what you call reality is going to break in short order. Keep calm, carry on, and open your eyes.'' I felt something like a flick across my face, then saw the solar system as if from outside, except the sun was far closer to the Earth than it should have been. In fact, I could see the planet''s surface superheating into plasma, as the black-veined sun opened in the middle, becoming a slit black eye. It wasn''t a patch on its owner. The worm that filled my sight could have eaten that octopus Reem had thrown out of our reality without opening its circular mouth fully, and its segmented, sickly yellow body surrounded the solar system countless times, the pull of its unimaginable weight beginning to tear apart the planets. Being so big and heavy, it probably wasn''t expecting Vyrt to fly straight through it, splitting flesh far tougher than yamadium for light years on end. The Nephilim burst out of the cosmic maggot, its puslike blood not touching him, and grabbed it by its shredded tail with one hand, before tossing it out of my enhanced sight. The last glimpse I caught of it was the maggot flying straight through thousands of stars, turning them to nothing or causing them to explode. The resulting supernovas couldn''t even harm its dying body, unlike Vyrt''s strength. Before I could breathe in relief, the stars in Earth''s skies also split open, black veins bulging as a swarm of thousands and thousands of maggots tore through the Milky Way, perhaps driven by hunger, perhaps by the desire to avenge their dead kindred. I could hear their brutish thoughts as they covered thousands of lightyears every heartbeat, see images of Vyrt torn open and filled with their eggs, dead but alive, screaming eternally as their larvae ate their way out through his heart and eyes and mouth. The Nephilim''s aethereal laugh drowned them out. A blazing white streak smashed through the cosmic swarm, splattering them and sending chunks covered in yellow gunk flying across the galaxy, which had been turned into a diffuse cloud by the clash. ''Such simple desires...'' Vyrt muttered to himself, putting his hands together. Then, new matter flowed into existence out of him, filling the holes in the Milky Way, before quickly being moulded to remake the galaxy''s former shape. It must have moved at trillions of times the speed of light, because otherwise, how could such quantities of matter covered such immense distances in seconds? And yet, Vyrt was relaxed as he fixed the damage. With a snap of his fingers, the nephilim removed the eye-bleedingly bright tear in space that had swallowed the galactic core, through which only madness could be seen. Spinning a finger, he bent space, recreating the supermassive black hole at the Milky Way''s heart. Then, he was back on the Earth he had restored, moving a hand across the empty sky and recreating the stars. A smile made the sun blaze into existence at the centre of newly-wrought, familiar planets. ''What did you see, David?'' Vyrt asked, sitting down like he hadn''t just played Minecraft with the galaxy. ''You, probably terrifying every alien observing us?'' I snarked weakly. ''Actually, they are familiar with Earth. Hence why they stay far, far away. I meant the worms. What did you ?see?'' ''They were big, but...'' ''They were worms, David. Also known as bait.'' Vyrt smiled mirthlessly, showing teeth bright as the sun''s core. ''Shall we see what is biting?'' Empty Tomb, Chapter 9
Cosmic fishing, much like Earth fishing (whether for food or compliments) seemed to consist of a lot of sitting around, trying to make boredom look like concentration. Or, at least, I thought so. Like the angels of the Third Sphere I had once seen in a bestiary of pops'', Vyrt''s features differed from a statue''s only by colour. He didn''t blink, didn''t breathe, despite the perfectly healthy organs in his body. His immense heart, for example, didn''t beat. If it did, it would have probably drowned out the thousands of others in the Roundhouse-between the London Chapter and the auxiliary staff, I could hear thousands of hearts, spread over the spatially-warped equivalent of kilometres beating in eerie unison, like an army marching. I''d heard rumours of how the Knights drilled in order to match each other''s movement as much as different physiologies allowed, but this was... Huh. They actually breathed and blinked at the same time, too. One had to wonder how much the telepathy their armour enabled was really necessary, with such cohesion. ''You do not have to stay here, David,'' Vyrt spoke eventually, mouth unmoving, no air entering or leaving his lungs. He was so concentrated, he''d forgotten to fake human mannerisms. ''Unless, of course, you wish to. Mimir''s sight could be helpful with spotting things mine might miss. He always saw things clearer than most...'' The Nephilim sighed. ''Ironic, isn''t it? He could see the future, but not his own death in time to warn the Aesir.'' I nodded along while Darth Vyrtgueis talked, only watching him with one eye, the other moving from portrait to portrait. C''mon, stare back. The paintings'' eyes always move in the cool places...I''m looking at you, look back. Eye for an eye... ''That is, of course, assuming Mimir didn''t simply accept his death, or even helped bring it along. After all, we still do not know how Chernobog managed to steal him away from Borson. Perhaps he left himself, using his knowledge to hide until he reached the Black God''s grasp.'' I turned to give Vyrt my full attention, staring up at him incredulously. He sounded like he knew more than he had been letting on-would inquiring cause him to spill more? I wouldn''t even have to fake interest. ''Those are certainly possibilities, Master.'' ''Thank you for using my rank, David. Be careful not to roll your eyes any harder, they might fall out.'' ''I did not-'' ''Metaphorically. I see you are still feeling called out, though.'' ''Mimir?'' I asked gruffly. ''Chernobog?'' ''They are both gods associated with the Northern Hemisphere...oh, you meant what I was talking about. Yes, that is interesting too. Mimir could have chosen to die, knowing the chaos it would cause. Perhaps, tired of being used as a glorified search engine by a knowledge-monger, he chose to make sure as many gods as possible died.'' Vyrt shrugged. ''I have seen less productive suicides.'' ''That would mean the Headhunt was all a sham,'' I said warily. ''That...'' ''Would it not be heartbreaking to learn you ate people while your mind was raped, because an old man was feeling spiteful?'' The Nephilim smiled. ''I''m certain Odin would be devastated if it turned out everything he built was almost torn down out of pettiness. Such rage would take him...I have not seen him truly mad in millennia, you know.'' ''Unless you want to, I would argue not telling him about these theories.'' ''But of course.'' Vyrt raised a grey eyebrow. ''Odin hates having his ideas repeated to him. It makes him livid, truly. Why, the only thing worse would be if he learned the responsible were still at large.'' I will not lie: the moment I saw Vyrt''s smile and the gleam in his eyes, an image, of white teeth in a black, otherwise featureless face flashed into my mind, and I stumbled. ''Stop talking,'' I whispered. ''You are trying to scare me.'' And then I left, jumping off the desk and-I will not lie-running out of Vyrt''s office. His chuckles followed me for a long, long time. *** I didn''t know the Roundhouse''s layout, let alone where the others'' rooms were, and I didn''t trust myself to open Mimir''s sight. As luck would have it, after minutes of walking around corridors lined with the armours of dead Knights, standing eternal watch under their late owners''s portraits, I found my wall into a chamber of worship. It was an interesting change of pace after the countless dead ends and the staring, mournful eyes of Knights fallen in the line of duty. Few of the human ones had been old. None had died peacefully; I knew, for their portraits showed the moments of their deaths. They all looked like they were judging me. Their eyes had followed me, too. The chamber I was in now could not be called a chapel, for it was larger than most churches I had see, and Christianity wasn''t the only religion represented. I saw Jesus and Buddha, Amaterasu and the Trimurti, Odin and Zeus and Cernunnos. I saw gods of war and peace and death, and even a group of humble-looking deities deities I didn''t recognise, before seeing the ''we will never forget you'' plaques left by said Knights'' descendants. Ancestor worship? Or just attachment? ''At what point does one become the other, strigoi?'' a voice like hailstones on wood drew my attention. I turned to look into Cernunnos'' shaggy, green-eyed visage. After everything, I was less surprised at the god manifesting, and more at the fact he''d pulled the clich¨¦ of stepping off his statue''s plinth. ''I suppose it depends, as so many things do, on faith, and how it is shown,'' I replied, adjusting the cross that had started stinging more than usual, for some reason. ''Indeed it does. Answer me this, then: do you believe in me, David?'' I blinked at the odd question. But, judging by the Celtic god''s warm, earnest smile, he was being serious. ''Do I believe...?'' ''In me. Do you?'' ''Well, yes. In the sense I know you are real.'' ''That is the correct answer, David. I ?am real.'' A black blur, claws around my throat, and Chernobog was pressing me up against a wall. I gaped at him for half a microsecond, then glanced frantically about the room. Cernunnos'' plinth was empty-what the fuck?! This wasn''t an illusion? Had the Black God come back, ?and somehow snuck into the Roundhouse? Why? How? Or were the Knights in league with him? Vyrt''s talk of hidden alliances, bargains struck to watch the world burn, came back to me. But why would the Nephilim point my thoughts in that direction, if he was in cahoots with Chernobog? Fucking dammit. I was doing half his job, driving myself insane like this. ''You are already mad, David,'' Chernobog said, voice just as warm as it had been in his disguise as Cernunnos. ''Who would worship the thing that hurts them, but a madman-'' I spat in his blank, ebony face. ''Szabo already rambled about that,'' I sneered. ''And he was worse than you could ever be.'' ''Is that a challenge?'' Chernobog sounded delighted at the prospect. ''I''ll be sure to take you up on it. But first, let me show you the face of your saviour.'' Another blur, and my back smashed through the thick cross that bore Jesus'' statue. The Messiah''s cracked image fell on me, robes falling apart like they were cloth rather than stone, showing a rotten spear wound in his side. His features had gone from serene to a silent scream, mouth parted in a grimace that revealed rotten teeth. The crown of thorns on his head pulsed in rhythm to Chernobog''s shaking shoulders, pressing into his forehead, but drawing only a thick pus, rather than blood. ''He was afraid, in the end,'' the Black God said softly, squatting down and nudging the statue with one finger. ''Of death. Can you ?imagine that? An aspect of the thing that called itself God, like it was the only one! Live enough among humans, and-'' ''What? You''ll become scared, like them? You must''ve lived an awfully long time among humans, what with how Nacht killed you.'' I tried to smirk, and move the statue, which felt heavier than the world, off of me, and managed neither. Chernobog snickered. ''Says the one too scared to stop hiding behind jokes. But...I should not be surprised. It is a sign of deceiving oneself, and you ?are Christian, after all. You have all convinced yourselves your god is not a bloated tyrant, toying with you out of boredom, then devouring your souls. But observe...'' With a deep, rattling breath, the Jesus statue shuddered to a mockery of life. Bloodshot eyes were wide with horror that almost eclipsed the horror blazing feverishly within them. ''I have seen the truth,'' it said in a broken voice that was all the uglier for how beautiful it must have been once. ''D-Death...is only the beginning. But there is no ?life after it. There is no Heaven. Hell is a lie. They...t-they all are...'' it gibbered to itself, sludge-like tears slowly trailing down gaunt cheeks; I realised, to my disgust, that they were worms, transparent and bloated with eggs that pulsed within them, even as they crawled out of the statue''s hollow eye sockets and through its flesh, eating it. ''I must partake of you,'' the statue and the worms spoke in unison. ''Give me your body and your blood, so I may stave off death.'' Before I could do anything, the worms rushed forward, dashing down my throat. One wrapped around my lungs and dead heart, growing as it fed, filling my throat so I couldn''t talk. The other moved lower, into my stomach, devouring its lining as it grew and grew, until my abdomen burst. Then, they began laying their eggs. All the while, Chernobog and the statue looked down, beaming; then, the latter unhinged its jaw, and bit down on my chest, shattering my cross. I didn''t scream. I couldn''t. *** When I came to, it was in a small, dingy room, a bare lightbulb hanging from the dirty grey ceiling. And yet, even the meager light hurt my eyes, like I had lived my whole life underground. ''He''s awake.'' The cold, detached voice drew my gaze to the man in the chair. My father had never smiled so darkly, in all the decades I had known him. His clothes were shabby and torn, showing patches of pale flesh covered in blotches. Where had his muscle gone? Where were the scars? ''You gave us one fuck of a scare, there,'' the man said, leaning forward, rubbing his bearded chin. I gaped at the swear word-Constantin would never talk like this-, then saw my mouth was hanging open my itself. My lower jaw dangled from a series of thin metal strings bolted into my skull, and my teeth and tongue were gone. Constantin grinned-my expression must have been hilarious-, and turned to speak over his shoulder at someone I couldn''t see, someone in the hall beyond the room. ''Did you record that? That juice really feeds your imagination. Though I guess I shouldn''t be too surprised. Ever since I adopted the little fuck, he came up with some shit even ?I wouldn''t have thought of. Guess he thought if he contributed himself, it''d hurt less.'' This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ''Won''t you ever get tired of him? It''s been decades,'' the person in the hall spoke, in a flat voice that held only the barest flicker of curiosity. Constantin laughed, the folds of his belly jiggling. ''You fucking kidding me? The meat might not be fresh any more, but he''s still good to go until he dies. And-why not?-a lil'' bit after.'' His eyes narrowed with malicious amusement. ''Turn off the painkillers.'' Instantly, tubes I hadn''t even seen ripped free of my flesh with wet pops, flooding me with pain. I screamed until my throat was raw, but couldn''t move, couldn''t even thrash in place: my limbs were gone, and the phantom pain was killing me. ''Enough of that!'' Constantin parked, clamping a thick collar around my neck and attaching a chain to it. ''They wanna use my toy to test their shit? Fine, long as I get paid. But that''s over and done now! C''mon, David. We''re going home.'' Whistling, he dragged me out of the nightmare hospital bed by the chain, not even slowing down when I fell to the floor with a wet thud, tears mingling with the blood from my stumps. As he dragged me out into the hall and towards the exit, the last thing I saw was a woman, who looked exactly like Andrei had described my mother, except decades older than when she had died, her curly brown hair almost grey. ''Why didn''t you die, too?'' the corpse asked, trailing a skeletal hand down its distended, stretched belly. *** Darkness. ''Can you believe he lasted this long?'' Mihai asked, sounding far, far away, yet deafening. ''Fucking putz had an epiphany; finally caught on to how sad he was making everyone''s lives by being in them,'' Lucian rumbled. ''Any of you curious what I could do in his body?'' Alex suggested. ''Not like anyone''ll miss it...'' ''Oh, I would ?love that,'' Bianca breathed. ''He never even realised I was eyeing him. It would''ve been a pity fuck, but he was funny. In a sad away.'' ''Throwing that rat away was the best idea I ever had,'' Andrei chuckled, before taking a swig of something. ''Too bad he didn''t die of frostbite before you came home, Constantin.'' ''Alas. I would have rather burned that little body than raised such a disappointing man. All those hollow prayers, and for what? He couldn''t even faithcraft. And killing himself? Even if I had ever considered David my son, this would have been the end of it.'' I heard him clasp his hands and kneel on my grave, two metres above me. ''God, forgive me for keeping this wretch within my home. May You smite his place of rest, so the world may forget him, as we shall...'' *** ''So many nightmares...some of them quite nonsensical,'' Chernobog said, striding around me as I tried to stay on all fours and not drop to the floor again, dragging the tip of one claw around my neck. My blood pooled around the edges, oozing down slowly, like tree sap. Drip. ''And you call ?me afraid, David? I should kill you, spare the world your existence.'' Drip. Drip. ''Do it, bastard,'' I rasped. ''You can only hurt me with my own fears-you think I give a fuck if you break my body? Go ahead and kill me. Admit you can''t win.'' I smiled, showing my mangled mouth. ''At least I knew some love on this Earth, unlike you ever will.'' Chernobog didn''t reply for a while. When he did, his voice was as empty and cold as the razed Siberian village where he had manifested before the Headhunt. ''I regret I could not make you give up your grinning mask, David. But do not worry. One day, I will show you, and everyone else, what you are.'' ''Sounds fancy,'' I said, not looking at him. He didn''t deserve it. ''I only regret that Nacht didn''t keep you alive as its toy. We could use some jokes in ARC...and I''ve yet to see one bigger than you.'' ''I never died, David. Nor will you. I will keep you alive, forever, until you forget how to beg for death.'' He stomped down on my head, pressing it into the floor. ''And then, I will teach you true suffering.'' ''Experience is always useful,'' I said, releasing the bundle of will I had gathered in my eyes, which snapped open, showing me the room''s aetheric incarnation. ''Begone!'' The black shape wavered like smoke in the wind, before dispersing with an agonised scream, briefly filling the room, then disappearing. My mundane sight returned, and I chuckled breathlessly to see Cernunnos'' statue was back on its plinth. The samsara wheel-shaped clock mounted on one wall showed no time had passed since my arrival. A hallucination. Nothing more. Vyrt''s words had stirred up old fears, and my mind had spun horror out of them. I was sure that, once I took a trip to the centre of my mind, my strigoi side would bark a cold laugh at how it had fooled me. ''Um...look. I get that you want to show reverence to Christ. I respect that. But this place is not for private worship, so, uh...would you mind ?not telling me to leave?'' I tried to turn in surprise, but ended up crab walking-I was on all fours before the Messiah''s statue, and the sight of it whole and unblemished brought tears to my eyes. I wasn''t Protestant, I was used to icons, but... ''Hey...you alright there? Silva, right? The strigoi with god eyes?'' Now that my wits were back, I could tell the newcomer was female, with a voice used to being obeyed. Armoured boots briefly filled my vision, then the Knight squatted down to look into my eyes, tilting my chin up with one hand. Her nose had been broken several times, and her left cheek was dominated by a fist-sized gouge that showed glistening bone under pale-green skin, but she was still beautiful. Jesus, Mary and Joseph-anyone would have been beautiful after...after... Emerald almond eyes regarded me with concern, brown furrowing beneath a shock of copper hair. ''I am Lady Theo, Castellan of the Roundhouse,'' she said in a calming voice, like I was a startled animal. ''I lead when the Grandmaster and Master are away on business, and maintain the castle the rest of the time. Are you alright? Do you need medical attention?'' I tried to speak, but ended up with something between a hiccup and a cough. The demifae wasn''t reassured when I shook my head, either. ''You look like shit, agent. You didn''t even hear me when I entered, and didn''t respond when I nudged you. What...what were you even doing?'' ''What do you mean?'' I finally managed to ask in a thin voice. ''You were prostrating yourself before the statue, but...you weren''t praying. You...I had half a mind to throw you out of the room for blasphemy. We weren''t told you would be like this,'' the broad-shouldered woman said, before reaching into the metal of her armour and pulling my cross out through it. ''Took this away. You could have killed yourself with it-'' ''Thank you,'' I hissed, wrapping my arms around her knees, not caring how pathetic I looked. ''I...I don''t want to die again. Not yet.'' The Castellan briefly froze, hands in the air, then awkwardly patted my back. ''Dust yourself off. The colonials sent some bumbling twats to trip us all up, and I think you could use a laugh,'' Theo said with forced levity, gently prying my arms off of her, pulling me to my feet, and gesturing for me to follow. ''And a psychiatrist...'' I didn''t hear her say it. But my eyes showed me it was what she thought. No matter. The hallucination was gone. Drip. Drip. Drip. *** ''Brother! You were praying all night, you pious little bastard, weren''t you?'' Szabo taunted, slapping a meaty hand on my shoulder when I arrived in one of the courtyards. It was indeed morning. We had arrived before eight...yesterday, but I hadn''t felt time pass. I was so fucking grateful for what passed for normalcy in my unlife that I wrapped my arms around the older strigoi, lifting him off the ground in a tight hug. Judging by the Fivefold''s parted mouth and Sam''s uncomprehending expression, they were half as surprised at me, put together. Szabo didn''t speak for several moments, remaining still. ''David?'' he finally asked. ''If you''ve decided to embrace me as your brother in death, I am flattered. If not, and this is a bizarre attempt to kill me, know it will not work.'' Laughing, I put Szabo down, then put my hands on his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. His expression grew more stumped with each moment, but I didn''t care. He was ?real. They all were! I moved to Sam and the Fivefold, but neither was feeling sentimental. ''Watch it, Silva,'' Shiftskin grumbled. ''There''s only one dead mouth I let touch me, and it ain''t yours. Europeans...'' the wendigo muttered, glancing aside. ''Let us imagine you did it, and move on,'' the Fivefold said with a sheepish smile that begged me not to make things weird in front of the Knights. I nodded, grinning at them, and looked around the courtyard. A tiny old man, wearing nothing besides loose white pants and the white, black-striped sash of the Karma Delivered around his narrow waist, floated in the lotus position amidst a group of Knights, manipulating a distortion in space like a touchscreen. He was trying to view the Unseelie realm, or rather hunting grounds. ''Awwww, dun'' harsh his mellow, Shiftyyyyy~'' a voice thick with drink slurred. Its owner was wore a three-piece suit and pair of heart-shaped sunglasses in all the colours of the rainbow, which shimmered like fireworks when he bobbed his head. His diamond-bright teeth were a stark contrast to the mop of raven hair, but not as much as the man he was standing next to was a contrast to him. He was over two metres tall, but not whipcord-lean, like some humans his height were. Instead, he was covered in slabs of muscle, visible even under his brown leather longcoat and dark blue button-up shirt. His pants, boots and hat were of the same make as his jacket, and older than some countries. ''Shut yer yap,'' Dust Devil mumbled, adjusting his Stetson, during which I caught a glimpse of old, old steel-grey eyes. ''No one wants yer opinion in the rare instances yer sober, let alone now.'' ''Awww, but Clyyyyde~'' Randy-name and description-whined. ''The dude''s in a bad place! He''s hit a snag and it ''it ''im back, can''t ya teell?!'' Randy burped, gesturing in my direction with an exasperated grimace. Dust Devil scoffed, fingering his holstered revolvers. Neither of them was ever at peace, though for very, very different reasons. ''Ooooh...'' Vykt''s voice filled the courtyard, as the cambion''s presence did soon after. ''What a shame~. Now Vyrt will never blow that gasket...I was hoping FREAKSHOW would send either or both of the raging meatheads, not the dumb one and his minder...'' ''Ha!'' Randy barked, crossing his arms so triumphantly he almost fell forward. ''See!? E''en Jabba over there knows you''re angry ''cause you''re stupid!'' ''Mephistopheles was right,'' Dust Devil said, struggling to glare at both simultaneously. ''Hell ?is other people.'' Empty Tomb, Chapter 10
''Ack!'' Randy grabbed at his chest, making something in his left breast pocket jingle. The FREAKSHOW agent stumbled on shiny black pointed shoes, but it was all theatrics. I could tell, even without using Mimir''s sight. The man had more strength in every finger than I had in my whole body. There were very, very few things on Earth he couldn''t walk through, never mind trip over, and the Roundhouse''s tiled courtyard was not among them. ''How could you say that, Clyde?'' Randy gasped, lips trembling, a single, shining tear trailing down his right cheek. ''You are lucky Hans wasn''t here to hear you. But I''ll tell him, oh yes I will. He doesn''t see himself as Hell, he-'' ''Identifies as "a fucking threat! My pronouns are try/me!" '' Dust Devil said with the air of someone quoting something he had heard far, far too many times. After fiddling with his left revolver, he stuck a liver-spotted, thick-fingered hand in one of his long coat''s pockets, taking out a toothpick and putting it in his mouth. I wasn''t fooled by his appearance, either. He, just like Randy, Armament and Breakout at her baseline, was just as powerful as Szabo, able to turn continents to dust with single strikes and move at lightspeed. He might have appeared old-and probably was, given the claims of him being ?that Clyde''s son, not counting the stories of him predating the robber by decades-but he was not weak, in body or spirit. Dust Devil caught me looking at him and stared back blankly, until I caught the hint and looked away, causing him to smirk thinly around his toothpick. ''Where''s Brazillion?'' the gunslinger asked, both hands on his pistols. ''Not that I give a damn ''bout ''im, but I''d rather not be whined at ''cause I didn''t wait for everyone promised.'' ''Careful, "human",'' Vykt burbled, sounding amused, especially once the old man gave him a look that could cut steel. ''With talk like that, you might end up with more companions than you can stomach.'' ''Indeed,'' came a baritone tinged with a faint Welsh accent, sounding like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere. Then, Bedivere was suddenly in the middle of the yard. He hadn''t teleported, or arrived through a portal. He had just entered the courtyard faster than I (or, judging by their suddenly-stiff stances, Szabo and the Fivefold) could see. Sam and the FREAKSHOW agents stood up straighter, but didn''t seem shocked, nor did the Knights, though I''d argue the latter were simply used to this. The Grandmaster of New Camelot didn''t look too impressive, when seen with physical eyes. Muscled enough, but a head shorter than me, and wearing the same armour as his Knights, only distinguishable by his Union Jack cape. And, of course, the famous missing hand. But, metaphysically? Bedivere was a font of faith-not just in God, himself or the country and ideals he fought for, but in humanity itself, and I don''t just mean the species. Hope, clean and bright as a torch in a dungeon, radiated from his aethereal self. It was said that, after returning Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, the old knight had retired to a monastery, to contemplate God and the life he had led. No one knew how he had survived to modern times, as he wasn''t a faithcrafter, mage or any kind of supernatural, as far as anyone could tell. The old man spoke of faith and clean living when asked, always with laughter bubbling beneath his words. ''Let us not tempt fate, gunslinger. She is fickle, after all. I am sure our mathemagician will arrive soon.'' ''You are wrong, Grandmaster. I''m already here.'' The man suddenly leaning on Bedivere-which looked fairly comical, given he was two heads taller-was tanned, wearing black boots and dark green fatigues, with Brazil''s flag over his heart. The mage had a Brazilian, which represented a third of his triple pun of a name. Brazillion: the Brazilian with a Brazilian, who could multiply or divide anything, from matter, objects and people, to concepts and the potency of abilities. And something told me his arrival had been an exercise of his magic, going by the aetheric ripples, which would have been imperceivable to me without Mimir''s sight. ''Actually!'' Brazillion said, holding up a finger a few centimetres from my eye, causing me to look up in surprise. The mage smiled toothily down at me, brown eyes crinkling. ''I just slid iiiiinnnn...you dig? I''m just as fast as either of them,'' He pointed over his shoulder, at Dust Devil and Randy, with a thumb. ''When I''m not boosting myself. Speaking of...'' ''Why isn''t Clara here, anyway?'' Brazillion asked, pouting, head tilted to one side as he leaned towards Dust Devil. The older-looking man snorted, putting a hand on the mage''s aquilinine face and pushing him away. ''We could do with some powers that ramp up ?passively! Mine''s thought-based. If some big ugly offs me, it''ll be because I was too slow too react, and then y''all will be in big trouble.'' ''Oh, yeaaaaah~'' Randy grinned, putting an arm around his colleague''s shoulders. ''We won''t know what to break out first!'' Any of the three could rip Earth''s mantle off like a flimsy tablecloth, so I''d like to think my worry at their standoff was understandable. And then, Brazillion''s pursed lips began trembling, while Randy shook, as if shivering. Dust Devil lowered his hat with a grin, pushing his hat down while biting harder on his toothpick. As they began laughing in unison, I realised it had all been posturing. ''Clyde!'' Brazillion put his broad hands on Dust Devil''s shoulder after unsubtly shoving Randy away. ''I haven''t seen you since Collechio!'' The mage looked him up and down, then wrinkled his hooked nose, sniffing. ''You''ve got old.'' ''I look half my age,'' Dust Devil replied. ''And, unlike some people who need to multiply their lifespan, I''m honest-to-God immortal.'' ''Too bad you can''t multiply your qualities...'' ''I''d need some first, wouldn''t I?'' *** After the meet-and-greet was done, Brazillion, Dharma-the little old man from Karma Delivered- and the FREAKSHOW agents wanted to kick back and swap stories of their time in the World Wars, but Bedivere reminded them that they were here for a job, then summoned them and us to his office. ''I''d be helping our mages open the way into Faerie,'' the Grandmaster said as we alternated between ascending and descending a spiral staircase, with the walls pressing in so close even the Fivefold''s shoulders brushed against them. The bigger ones had to walk sideways or shapeshift, if possible. ''But after I came in and tried kicking down the door-metaphorically-they more or less told me to go sit in a corner and take my meds. I don''t even take any...'' the Knight sighed. ''Heeeeey, Braz~?'' Randy cooed. ''How come you were so laaaate? You used to always be the first in and out...'' ''Yes, well, women scare me,'' the Brazilian said, hands in his pockets. ''I would have come faster, but I ran into Bushi in the aether.'' ''Bushido from the Rising Suns?'' Szabo asked, having thinned himself to the point we actually looked like we could be brothers, an interested glint in his black eyes. ''Mhm. He''s never been a good fit for a defence organisation, but Kenji keeps old war friends around, especially when they don''t want to leave,'' Brazillion chuckled. ''He''s the reason I was thinking about escalating powers, actually. You know how it is, you get shot and start dreaming about bullets...I think you''d all enjoy meeting him, if you haven''t.'' The guy who thought not being Japanese was a disease only curable through cavity searches and decapitation, not necessarily in that order? I fucking doubted that. At least most paranoid bigots couldn''t cut Eurasia in half ?before jumping in power by orders of magnitude when pressed. But then, that''s the Bushido spirit for you. When such an idea empowered a maniac like Hunger and Beasts did Sam, some extremism was expected. ''Did he fight you?'' Vykt asked excitedly, crawling along the underside of the staircase. ''He tried, yeah,'' Brazillion winced. ''Claimed there was no way to know I wasn''t some eldritch monster in disguise, so I best bend over and spread ''em, in the name of glorious Nippon.'' The mage wiggled a hand at the looks he received. ''I''m paraphrasing. And...censoring. Anyway...no, we didn''t fight. I managed to convince him there were enemies ?far worthier to be slain in honorable combat than I was, out there in the multiverse and beyond. In truth, I was hoping he''d run into Breakout and they''d tie each other up, like they usually do when they meet.'' ''Thaaaat didn''t happen, pal,'' Randy snickered, his glasses'' rainbow, heart-shaped lenses taking on the appearance of a mirror''s surface...or a telescope, maybe. ''Clara busted some gribbly heads, then ran into this guy who just keeps getting stronger and angrier...uh, so does she, but she''s naturally pissed.'' ''Stronger and angrier...what, the green one again?'' Dharma asked, brow furrowing as I half-turned to look at them in disbelief. ''Nah, naaaaaah~... another one...apparently a dragon, though looks human. Damn if I know ?why they''re fighting, though...they''re both nimrods with bleeding hearts, who can''t stand to watch the lil'' guy get hurt...honestly, they should be fuckin'', not fightin'', but dragon boy doesn''t have the equiiiiiiipment!'' Randy threw his head back and laughed, receiving a clout behind the ear from Dust Devil that shook the entire staircase, creating ankle-deep cracks that, thankfully, quickly repaired themselves. Given the fact that, due to the Roundhouse''s space-bending interior, the enchanted marble staircase was hundreds of thousands of kilometres long, enough to wrap around the Earth several times, that was pretty impressive. ''Owiieeeeeee~'' Randy whined, rubbing a small bruise that healed as I watched. ''Could''ve just told me to stop, Clyyyyyde...'' ''Could''ve not talked. Y''know Breakout hates that shit.'' ''Yeah, yeah, married to the country...'' ''I meant that she hates when people talk about ''er private life, you glittery bozo.'' ''Well, screw both of ya! It was a joke-'' ''Forget that!'' Szabo thundered, grinning. ''Is this ''green one'' who I''m thinking of?'' Don''t steal my thunder just because you''re curious too! *** Bedivere''s office was on a lake. No, this was not one of those newfangled "open to interpretation" movie titles the youths spoke about to scare innocent old men like me. It was the truth. The mirrorlike surface of the lake extended beyond either horizon, far further than I could see with my mundane sight, and, even though the water was clear as crystal, I couldn''t see the bottom. It was almost impossible to distinguish from the cloudless, sunless yet somehow blue sky. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. ''And here we are...for all our sins,'' Bedivere said, tilting his helmet slightly at the sky, then began to sit down on nothing. Halfway through, water rose up and shaped itself into an armchair, which left both his armour and his cape dry. The Grandmaster took off his helmet for the first time since I''d seen him, revealing deep green eyes shining in a lined, pale, hollow-cheeked face. His white tonsure and bushy beard made him look more like a monk than a Knight, though, in truth, he had been both, at various points of his life. ''Vyrt is conferencing with the other Masters,'' Bedivere said, not looking at any of us. ''He''s not going to..."Mum and Dad are fighting again"?'' The Grandmaster closed his eyes, sighing. ''Please do not call them that, Lady Theo...however accurate it is. And stop distracting me.'' The old man glared down at the lake, tapping his foot on the surface. ''You two! Stop "fighting"-and this better not be an euphenism, or so help me God-and come here! We''ve already lost any semblance of professionalism, let''s at least try to fake dignity!'' I was about to ask if Merlin wasn''t really imprisoned, when the mage himself appeared put of thin air, warping the lake as he arrived. Water became loam covered in dark grass, from which rose twisted trees, with leaves so green they looked almost black, covered in patches of throbbing, shifting moss. Merlin wore a pair of dark blue pants and a shirt that mimicked a human torso, with a grisly, gaping wound reaching from the navel to the left shoulder, half of the guts gone and the rest in the process of spilling. In the upper right corner, the Black Knight stood, armless, claiming it was just a flesh wound. Bedivere''s face fell at the shirt, going through an interesting range of colours, but the Grandmaster said nothing. Over it came a coat that looked like the void of space, stars and nebulae slowly drifting across it. The mage''s skin was leathery, pale after fifteen centuries away from from the sun, and crystal chains were wrapped around his ankles, wrists and neck. An inverted pentagram, I realised. That was the shape the chains made, two rising from the ground, two passing through trees and bushes, and one stretched into infinity above Merlin''s head. The symbol that bound his half-kin, evoked by the magic he had created and his student had perfected. Merlin''s eyes were blank and blazing white-his uncle''s eyes, on some days. He took us all in before his burning gaze settled on me, and his mouth began twitching in his long white beard. His hair, just as long and white, and actually intertwining with the beard, swayed when he shook his head. ''Ahh...'' Merlin grinned, rubbing his forehead with two fingers, head bowed and eyes closed as he grinned. ''If it isn''t my future other headache. Say nothing, David. Please.'' I wasn''t about to oblige his request, but the next arrival, who parted the waters as she rose, quickly drew all attention away, including the mage''s. Depending who you ask, you''ll hear Nimue described as a fairy, the goddess of some lost, pre-Flood civilisation, or an alien. The Lady of the Lake said people got farther from the truth with every theory-so please, keep them coming. The Lady was taller than me, though a head shorter than her former teacher, and just as pale as him, with deep blue eyes, no pupil or iris and long, wavy black hair. She wore a dress made of the lake''s clear water, but which revealed nothing. I heard Randy blow a disappointed raspberry at the sight, and saw Merlin shoot him a glare that probably ?would have killed most people, sealed power or not. It slid off the American like water off a duck''s back. ''The path is almost open, Grandmaster,'' Nimue said. ''My students are doing as much as can be asked. Unsurprising, of course-they had a good teacher.'' ''Too bad she''s delusional,'' Merlin stage-whispered, cupping a hand around his mouth. ''Not even I could teach her to be good.'' ''So, the Sword is not needed?'' Bedivere asked, ignoring the cambion mage. Nimue''s smile was more relieved than smug when she answered. ''I have not given it back, and hope I will never have to. On that note...'' The Lady looked at Randy, then changed her mind and settled on Dust Devil. ''Tell your colleague to never, ever suggest mass replication of Excalibur again. The consequences for causing such an imbalance of power would be...literally unbearable-for everyone.'' Dust Devil chewed thoughtfully on his toothpick, which was half-gone by now, for several moments. ''I suppose hoping we could just win every conflict with the swords'' victory power would be too much?'' ''Arthur won at Camlann, and died shortly after. So, yes, it ?would be too much, even disregarding the butterfly effect,'' Nimue said, folding her hands in her lap after sitting down in the chair that formed for her. ''I ?did tell him the scabbard was worth ten swords,'' Merlin said, sitting down, chains shortening, but not slackening. ''But he never listened to my advice when it mattered. Then again...neither did I.'' He glanced at Nimue, who smiled enigmatically back. ''Anyway...the sword is too powerful to be tampered with or replicated. Forging it was the only worthwhile thing the watery tart over there ever did.'' ''You admit you are worthless?'' the Lady asked, raising an amused eyebrow. Merlin bared his fangs. ''I will find whoever made "doing" an euphenism for fornication, and-'' ''Are you sure you couldn''t free him?'' Sam cut in, looking at Nimue while pointing a talon at Merlin. ''We could use more power. And freeing him in the first place would-'' ''While I did build Ambrosius'' prison,'' at the sound of that other name, the cambion rolled his eyes so hard they actually came out of their sockets, flying in a blazing arch through the air before taking their former places. ''It has grown beyond my power and knowledge. Much like the Sword of Promised Victory.'' ''Everything you handle becomes too much for you after you let go,'' Merlin said with a condescending smile. ''You being the exception, of course.'' ''Damned-'' ''Enough of this circus!'' Bedivere snapped. ''This is taking me back to the bad old days. Now, to business.'' Fairie, just like zmeu country, was a magical realm (did we dare we enter it?) of infinite size, whose environment, flow of time and laws were subject to the inhabitants'' whims. And, while we might have had some information on the Seelie Court''s strongholds, the Unseelie, being consummate anarchists, moved across the endless landscape constantly, building nothing. And, with both Courts working together, everything in Fairie would be working against us. The fact they seemingly hadn''t tried to stop us as we battered down their gate had everyone convinced we were walking into a trap, but there was no other alternative. The eldritch monsters would keep coming until we purged their lairs, but the Fae were a finite enemy, and closer to us in thought: they could be threatened, bribed, negotiated with-the order of what we would try, actually. Although... ''Excuse me,'' I said, leaning forward, elbows on my knees, not liking the weird, jelly-like feel of my water chair. ''But why isn''t the Fixer living up to his namesake and ending this mess? He''s a Miskatonic agent-dealing with breaks in reality is his specialty...'' I trailed off, as my audience''s expressions varied between blank incomprehension, confusion, and attempts to see if I was joking and/or crazy (yes, and yes, but the question was legitimate). ''What?'' I asked, irritated. ''And before you ask, yes, I read his file, or tried to. There was only "I fix what should have never been broken" on every page. Mimir''s sight showed the same thing.'' ''You think information about Fixer is...recorded?'' Szabo asked, sounding like he found the idea hilarious. ''Would you blow up the sun to get rid of a termite infestation, Silva?'' Sam asked, his face human and set in a serious expression. The "let me see what you think so I know what to say" type. ''Because that level of overkill is infinitely less than what you are proposing. Look at the multiverse.'' I did, but...''I don''t see anything unusual. Should I?'' ''Ah, so there ?is a multiverse to look at. That means Fixer is doing his job.'' Shiftskin leaned back into his chair. ''A job that actually requires his attention. The voidspawn he thinks into nothing would erase every reality and the aether by approaching them, Silva. These puny extrauniversal pests? We''ve been handling them so far, while the Black Hunger and his merry band of misfits hunt them in their homes, aided by a joint force of armies, human and divine alike.'' The Fivefold smiled reassuringly at me before I could attempt to wrap my head around that. I knew Fixer defended the multiverse and could warp reality, but... ''We are safe, David,'' she said. ''And, if things became bad enough to need Fixer''s attention, none of us would be around to know it. So, don''t worry.'' Well, ?that was fucking reassuring... *** ''So, Monty Python?'' I asked Merlin as we walked through Broceliande. The others had drifted into discussing possible scenarios if the Fae slaughtered or sealed us away from our universe, and Sam had at one point told me to go talk with the mage and keep my eyes peeled. I didn''t know if this was advice wrapped up in a bad joke, but I couldn''t see all the eye comments in a good light. ''Indeed! It portrays Arthur as kind of an idiot, and that''s always important. You have already seen my favourite character...'' he indicated the Black Knight on his shirt, and I nodded. ''Well, I''m not sure which of my first Knights he''s supposed to be based on, but he''s dumber than them put together-and that''s a tremendous feat, let me tell you!'' ''Thank you, hypocrite,'' Bedivere said sharply, voice sounding like it was coming from half a world away. ''Don''t feel called out! As always, Gawain and Lancelot contributed the most to it...'' At one point, while Merlin explained that Broceliande was not a place, but a concept, which meant he could go anywhere in the multiverse, but his prison would tag along, still stunting his powers, I tried to look into the future, and see how this would end. My sight distorted and shifted from Broceliande to Faerie, Earth, then nothing...then, I was looking at Merlin, grinning darkly at me from between two gnarled trees, chains shattered. ''Eyes on the present, Keeper,'' Merlin said, then flicked my eyes, causing them to burst. Interlude: War Stories
Atlantis, 66666 BCE The cambion is amusing himself, as he always is. And why shouldn''t he be? After all, the Empire Endless (it''s getting so hard to say that with a straight face, nowadays...) is a place where labour is performed either by constructs or by lesser clay monkeys, when it''s performed at all. The Atlanteans may be overgrown fish apes, but they know what''s good in life. He can''t wait for the moment they choke on their pride and joy. The cambion has not chosen a name for himself, yet. Not a permanent one. Today, he is Kemuel. Mocking his grand bastard just by introducing himself is always good for a laugh-he knows the old hypocrite won''t intervene unless he does something utterly outrageous, and he is not aiming to exert himself today...or ever. The cambion is pale and tall, covered in lean muscle. Ivory goatlike horns rise from a mane of hair in every colour of the rainbow, while his eyes blaze like the star they will one day name his uncle after. Honestly, he is ?bored. There is only so much eating and drinking and maiming and killing and fucking you can stomach before you satisfy your inner animal''s petty urges, and he is reaching the limit. Coincidentally, he has learned that he prefers women. Or, at least, castrating men who attempt to be on top, then feeding them their own manhoods. Several times. He is able to rewind excrement into what it began as. Truly, he could easily go down to be worshipped by the dust-eaters, make himself feel like a god. He will, one day. But, at the moment? He is looking for more cerebral pleasures, not that the things who built this floating land can be attributed anything approaching intelligence. They just clumsily ape it, like ants. Like the monkeys they are. He has beaten every Atlantean game master, including some inventors of their own games. He has talked hundreds into humiliated suicide with a smile, and killed dozens himself, before erasing all evidence of their games. And if other players had to go for them to be truly forgotten? Well...Atlantis believed in might makes right. If you were weak or stupid enough to suffer, you deserved it. Kemuel sits back and smiles. The whore in whose lap he''s sitting-kin below, but she''s a whale on legs; he supposes she''s shapely and beautiful by the standards of the morons who''d fuck a mound of shit if it had a hole, but she''s too large for him, and he''s not shifting size for such a dull experience-smiles back. The one who will be Merlin cringes. He''s seen apes baring their blocky teeth, and they''re always uglier than usual, but this? The needle teeth look like someone smashed the fat bitch''s face in a sewing kit. Disgusting. What''s he even doing? Kemuel pushes her away with a finger, caving in her chest. She-why is he assigning her a gender? Tools aren''t gendered-hurts, oh she hurts. But the wound heals in seconds, and her heaving breasts are back. Atlantean women are naturally flat, but this one went to a fleshsmith after Kemuel vaguely implied he wouldn''t want to fuck a board. The change hurt her even more than the wound he just dealt her, and was more expensive than this session, too. Kemuel isn''t paying the prostitute, of course. His expression at the suggestion had her paying him to take her, and hopefully not kill her. Such stupid fears. As if fearing something you can''t control or affect helps. ''Forgive me. How did I offend His Lordship-'' she begins, gingerly cradling her healed chest, before he stomps her head into the floor, shattering her jaw. That will heal, too. ''Your petty worries and wants are battering at the walls of my mind. Shut ?up, woman,'' he says tiredly. He knows far more about her than he''ll care to remember in the following minutes. How she wants to be a mother, but is considered unreliable and untrustworthy due to her profession. Some rougher patrons have even tried to break her body, permanently. It''s dulling even the so-called skills she should have employed to entertain him. ''You want to give birth? I''ll give you all the spawn you could have,'' Kemuel promises, and warps her flesh with a thought. Withing moments, she''s both bloating and thinning, her body consuming itself as it is wracked by sudden, monstrous pregnancy. She still lives long enough to feel the unnatural spawn eat their way out of her, before breaking out of the room to do the same to the brothel''s other employees and patrons. Her dreams of motherhood were devouring her focus. It''s only fitting to make it literal. As Kemuel walks out, whistling, he telekinetically whisks a gaggle of landwalking slaves, cowering around behind their Atlantean master, as if the narrow-minded worm could protect them if he wanted to. ''I saved you,'' the cambion begins, and fuses their mouths shut at their stupid smiles and insufferable mewling. ''To show you how stupid your beliefs are. Do not misunderstand-I don''t actually give a damn what you think. You''re just good props to amuse myself with.'' The pimp is speciesist, like all his kind, as if they aren''t all hairless apes. The future Merlin can''t help but laugh at such ideas. He is a numinous being, human only in the appearance he can change with a thought; those who have accused him of hypocrisy have been told these words, before being made to beg for Hell. As such, Kemuel warps his body, twisting and spreading it, fusing it with the six women''s bodies. They all have different skin colours, some of which will not survive the next few millennia. Their owner had a diversity theme, something about all landwalkers being equally inferior. Bringing so-called superior beings to the level of their lessers is one of Kemuel''s pleasures. He knows of a species of fish, with females much bigger than the males who stick to their bodies, being consumed until they become nothing but a pair of testicles on their mate''s body. The Atlantean being much bigger than the landwalkers, this fusion is quite...different. But at least the women all have male ?and female organs now, or at least fractions of the former. They also have the man''s scaled skin growing over and under theirs. Clearly, they are now part of the superior species! ''You should call yourself the Halfbreed Harlots.'' Kemuel flashes them a grin as they either go catatonic or fall to the ground, writhing in uncomprehending pain...oh. The spawn are going to reach them, too. Well, at least they got to feel Atlantean purity for a few moments before being eaten, and were taught a valuable lesson by him: all apes are worthless in the eyes of the powerful. And yet, their screams do not sound like cries of joy. Ungrateful bitches... *** Above the waters, 6000 BCE ''You must stop, cousin,'' the one who will become Vyrt says. ''You are going to end up below at this rate, and not on a throne,'' the one who will become Vykt adds. ''The Halfbreed Halkfin, moralising? Why do you even believe that''s true? Did the bitch who shat you out after being tricked by a demon ?and an angel make sure you landed on your heads? Not you, Vykt-you look like the pile of putrid waste you are.'' Vyrt sighs. ''I am not going to try and force you to see things my way, cousin. We are equally powerful, and equally stubborn. But Vykt might succeed.'' ''Have you ever thought about the pain your playthings feel, spellslinger?'' the amorphous, rot-green cambion asks. ''I have felt it, too. Don''t tell me you''re planning to "redeem" me by sharing their pain with me, like that cosmic puppeteer did with the last fishlings. I know you''re stupid enough to be that unoriginal, but stupid enough to believe it will work?'' ''Why are you so damned proud?!'' Vyrt demands, unable to rein in his temper, like they''re not all hundreds of millennia old. Honestly... ''It''s the parent problems, brother,'' Vykt burbles. ''Poor cousin doesn''t know whether mommy died at birth or just abandoned him-and this hurts his pride, too, for he should be able to learn whatever he wants with his clairvoyance. As for daddy? Showing him and eeeeeeveryone that they were wrong did not help.'' Merlin grits his teeth. His father is a member of Lucifer''s court, one of his favourites. After taking his mother with disinterest, and leaving her, he was offended at the thought of a hybrid son even comparable to him. He tried to drag Merlin to Hell, and use him for breeding until his body and mind shriveled, and his freakish power was thinned out. Merlin utterly humiliated him in front of his court and lord, and felt absolutely nothing at such an easy triumph. He could have easily done to his father what the demon had threatened to do to him, even reshaped him into a female and raped him himself, but...that would have implied it was worth the effort. ''Get to the point,'' Merlin growls at Vykt. ''What are you going to try, slime?'' ''Did you know that, in the end, so very few of your victims hated you?'' The other cambion''s body opens, and the remains of long-dead things, once human or supernatural, crawl out of it, swarming over Merlin. "Such power, used for evil? Why?" "Oh, One God, I care not that you torment me. Through your power, I have enough to feed my family..." "He could be a good man, I know. He just needs guidance." "I am sorry for whatever loss made you this way." The voices are not stopping. They''re growing louder. Beneath the waves, Merlin imagines he can see the hollow eyes of the dead, looking up at him with joy; he is beginning to understand how he is seen. Merlin, tears-of rage, he tells himself-running down his face, looks at Vyrt''s pitying expression and Vykt''s vindicated one, and cannot face them. He flees. *** Logres, Southeastern England, 470 CE ''Why do you want to be king, lad?'' Merlin asks softly. Uther''s boy looks at him so earnestly, his heart almost breaks. The youth does not know the mage before him helped with his birth, having foreseen the future he would-had to-shape. ''I am sorry for our land, because none of these great men,'' Arthur-not Pendragon, not yet-says, gesturing at the gathered lords, who are fuming after failing to pull the Sword from the Stone. ''With all their skills in ruling and warfare alike, seem to be worthy of the Sword''s blessing. It is strange to me...and yet, if I happen to succeed, I hope I will have advisors to guide me through my callow youth. Men like them. Or you.'' Merlin has already sworn an oath to him, before his birth, even. Men like Arthur will become-men like Gilgamesh, like Theseus, like Romulus-have taught him inhuman power is, sometimes, not even needed to bring mankind''s worth out into the light. Arthur is the Once and Future King. He ?will succeed. ''Is that why you seek the crown? Pity?'' Merlin asks with feigned harshness, as if he doesn''t understand. ''No!'' Arthur shakes his head, mop of blond hair swaying, blue eyes wide. ''Our land is plagued by bandits, invaders and monsters! With this sword...with this Sword, I can...'' the boy gulps, not meeting his eyes for a few moments. ''You might call me mad, but the Lord God came to me in a dream, a fortnight ago, and told me I could save England, if I...'' Merlin sees it as a sign of growth that lying and being called "God" do not bring him pleasure any more. Neither does mocking his grandfather, even unintentionally. What is the world coming to? Perhaps, the cambion thinks as we watches Arthur pull out the Sword and lift it overhead, to overjoyed cheers and disbelieving curses alike, a brighter future. *** ''You are placing a great burden on him,'' Nimue mumbles into his chest some time after. They are in one of her manses, and not needing to breathe is very helpful. For surviving underwater, too. His friend is drawing shapes on his chest with one pale, slender finger, and Merlin groans inwardly. It''s either going to be a mortifying question, or an outrageous request. ''I know,'' he says gruffly. ''What do you want this time?'' The Lady smirks up at him. ''You know, I have something of a son myself...'' Ohoho, it''s one of the headaches. Luckily, he''s prepared for this. ''No. Sorry, Nim. I know you love him and, for some reason, think he''s the greatest thing since me,'' kin above, but even her eyerolls are...focus. ''But we don''t need a lecherous simp-'' ''Lancelot is not a simpleton!'' Nimue argues heatedly, suddenly in his face. Normally, Merlin would be all for this, but right now, he just wants to smack her upside her pretty head until she listens. ''I''m using a future word,'' he explains. ''Means he''ll be liable to do what women want, even if...never mind! Look, in all the futures I''ve seen, he and Arthur tear the kingdom apart after your boy sleeps with the latter''s wife. And every time I try to intervene, I die. Do you want me to die, fairy?'' His face is horrible for pleading, but she bites her lip, seeming to reconsider. ''The future isn''t set in stone...'' the Lady finally says, sounding unsure. Of course, by the end of the night, she''s convinced him what a wonderful idea it would be to introduce their surrogate sons to each other. They''ll be like brothers! Like Cain and Abel, or Romulus and Remus, or... Sadly, none of these examples come to mind until it is too late. This is the first great folly Merlin agrees to for Nimue. It will not be the last. *** ''I am sorry, teacher.'' She actually sounds like she is, too, which just makes things even worse. Not as bad as the fact she''s saying "teacher" the way that makes him feel like an old man, but still. Merlin smiles drily from within his prison. Nimue had clearly been planning this for some time. How long, though? ''Can I at least ask why?'' ''Power.'' She shrugs, a dress made of blinding white mana rippling with the movement. ''Knowledge. I wanted more, and had nothing to lose by going to the easiest source. But understand, Mer: this is for your good, too. Everyone''s, in fact.'' ''Oh?'' the cambion asks dangerously, and she steps back. Even now, even ?now, it hurts to see her scared of him. ''You have always been led astray by your lust,'' the Lady says curtly, then her sapphire eyes soften. ''For example? You were so eager to distrust your instincts for me. What do you think someone evil could do after your instruction?'' ''Imprison an old, gullible fool?'' Merlin sighs. ''Please...civil war is coming, if it hasn''t already. We failed, everywhere. The marriage and the brotherhood are broken. The incest child is rampaging, green eyes on the throne. Try...try to preserve as much as possible. I couldn''t stop it from coming to be, but...'' She closes the distance, and they kiss. ''I promise,'' Nimue says softly, one hand on the chain around his neck. The position is familiar, though the context is not. ''I do not know if I will ever feel safe enough to free you, or whether I will even be able to. But know that this is an act of love. I do not want to hurt you, Mer. I never have and never will hate you.'' ''I love you, too,'' he says, perhaps not even lying. *** Oregon, 1888 Darren Clyde is riding. For the first time in his life, he is not riding into danger, but away from it. Darren didn''t have one of those twisted childhoods that left people all monstrous-like inside. He was a good, happy kid. His parents were fur trappers, and he was never cursed with siblings, so he always had their attention, right up until they passed away. Daddy''s wounds from the War Between States (just one of the many names being flung around these days) finally dragged him down, and after he got on a train to jump state, mommy stopped responding to his letters. He didn''t know if she was dead or didn''t give a damn because he''d refused to continue the family tradition in order to enforce the law, but God will put things in order. Darren knows. Darren actually used to have a firm view of the world. He knew what was wrong and right, possible or not, and though his moral compass ain''t broken yet, he''s fairly sure his brain is. The thing that''s chased him halfway across America had seemed like some unhinged fuck at first: someone stealing negro kids and usin'' ''em for...well. Even before the War, there had been some limits. The thing, looking like a bald, red-eyed gray man, casually tugs at his horse with one hand, dragging the poor beast down and crushing Darren''s legs. He doesn''t cry out. Instead, he aims his pistols and fires, hitting it square between its piggy scarlet eyes and doing nothing. "Do you want to go to Heeeeeell~!?" It coos. Up close, it looks less like a man, and more like some gray, fanged fetus. Its limbs are tiny, misshapen things, and its bulbous head sways on a neck that looks like it should break. "Ohoho~you do, don''t you? You are just too shy to ask!" It nods to itself, breaks his crippled horse''s neck with a twitch. The horse falls limp, then, impossibly, stiffens, rising to its hooves and dragging Darren along, suspended by his tangled, broken legs. The thing cuts him free of his leather bindings, then makes the wight-for that is what all things killed by vampires, unless bitten on the neck, become-trample his legs, then his arms, breaking them too. It makes the wight do other things, too: to Darren, to it. At one point, it turns into an identical horse, so Darren doesn''t even know which one is tormenting him any more, except when they both are. "You are still alive? Still sane!?" it says through an elongated human mouth growing vertically across its horse head. "Let me teach you something, you illiterate toy: Hell is other people. One of its great lords once said it. And you? You are already in Hell." Its smile softens, a disgusting sight on such an unnatural visage. "Thank you for rekindling my faith in mankind. I honestly thought you would break from this..." "Why do this?!" Darren wheezes. "Who...what the fuck are you?" The vampire lowers itself to whisper into his ear. "I am the true face of God''s love~" It draws back to see his reaction, and receives a wad of bloody spit in its grinning mouth, which quickly twists into a frown. "What? Not gonna drink it, vampire?" Darren grins mockingly. The vampire leaves soon after, taking the wight with it. Perhaps it is afraid of the Lord''s wrath, or perhaps there are people out there who hunt things like it. Darren is found by a group of hunters soon after, who take him to their lodge, giving him food and excitedly listening to his story. Until he begins insisting it happened. Then, it becomes an endless succession of insane asylums, where he sees the human mind at its lowest, limbs healed but numbed by medicine and experiments. When the electric shocks come in, he''s just happy for the change of pace, honestly. Eventually, he begins lying, even to himself, saying he imagined it, and everyone else is right, and so kind for suffering his ramblings... When the Great War comes, he goes to fight, no longer with fisticuffs, knives or pistols, but from afar. The sniper can''t stand people touching him any more. By World War 2, his kill count is in the hundreds, and his circle of friends nonexistent. He''s either mad or cold, depending who you ask. When the Shattering comes, turning him into the living archetype of the gunslinger, Dust Devil welcomes it. His bullets can hit target in any location or moment in time, or change their power and makeup at his whim. He becomes a boogeyman, helping found FREAKSHOW while gunning down anyone opposing the status quo-both the mundane and supernatural ones, which are slowly but surely melding. By the end of the Long Watch, Clyde can say he has more American blood on his hands than any single Red; he often jokes about being redder than them. *** ??? Residential School, Canada, 1900 Migizi defines his life by what he knows, and what he does not. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. For example: he knows his name means ''eagle'' in the language of the parents he has never known, who lived ''somewhere around the Great Lakes''. This answer used to be spoken with derision before he wised up enough to stop asking. Migizi has heard some people define their lives by what is good or bad, lawful or unlawful, practical or useless. Good for them. He is honestly happy other people have enough freedom to think in such ways, and hopes they will never share his fate. Migizi has never stayed in a home, or even a single place, for a long time. He and some of the other problem children (they are all problems, he knows, those children who refuse to or can''t kill the Indian inside them) have been moved across Canada, between different schools, for as long as they can remember. Not because the teachers, sisters or caretakers particularly care about them, as Mizige doubts anyone would make a fuss if they were killed and thrown into a lake, but because the schools want to compare methodologies. Migizi has heard and seen the other children being beaten with sticks for speaking their native language. Those were the lucky ones, in his opinion. There are some who were given medicine until they fell asleep and never got up, or started smiling and never stopped. Migizi does not want to ever become that tired, or happy. The woman they are with now is called Nana-that is, she insists they call her that. She is not anyone''s grandma, or at least Migizi hopes so, or he''d be very cross with his friends, and very sorry for himself. Nana is here to help them forget. ''Like the medicine?'' one of the girls, Angela (she''s already accepted her proper name, and is getting fewer beatings) asks. ''Exactly!'' Nana smiles toothlessly. She is a corpulent woman, with a severe grey bun, who wears thick brown dresses covered in beige flowers. Migizi thinks she looks like a fat, hairy pig, but he keeps his mouth shut. Nana is pretty bad, but nobody gets too tired or happy. Some go on walks and never come back, though. Nana helps them forget their languages and names by filling their heads with new things. Horror stories, mostly. Like what the Indians did to the poor settlers. Migizi does not want to believe his ancestors were such cruel, perverse, murderous slavers, but he does not have evidence against it. ''You must let go of that ugly name, yes dear? Eagles are not nice birds. They kill all the pretty, singing ones, and people name bad things after them. For example-have you ever heard of blood eagles'' Migizi has not, nor does he understand the meaning of the story after Nana finishes reading it. Those people were punished because they were evil, lying thieves, like the Indians, the woman says, smacking him with the book. When the boy wakes up later, bleeding head wrapped up, a nice old lady is by his bedside, asking him if he knows what "Migizi" means. ''Is that...a word?'' the boy asks sluggishly, as if he is chewing mud. The woman-his nana-shakes her head. ''Oh, it''s just some nonsense I read in the paper...confused little old me. I thought a clever boy like you might now, but it seems we''re both stumped.'' Nana slaps her knees with a self-deprecating smile. ''Until you feel better, do you want to learn more about your name?'' ''Yes, please!'' Leon Gilles says. He never remembers his parents, or his heritage. When the Empire goes to war, twice, he fights alongside the men who will become Dust Devil and Randy, Dharma and Fixer. But, for the time being, they are just Darren, Raj and Ned. Randy stays the same, but that is not a surprise. There is one night that stands out, though... Leon is limping around in front of his tent, his squad smoking and playing dice and cards. They''re all natives, like he apparently used to be. He has the skin tone, yes, but... He remembers the time they tricked the jerries by throwing rocks into the trenches, then switching back to grenades. Left them in stitches, it did. ''Sarge? D''you see that in the sky?'' one of the men, called Dam because he swears like a sailor and looks like a beaver, asks, pointing at the night sky. Leon is pretty shit at remembering the constellations, but...hold on. ''Ain''t a plane...its wings are beating.'' ''Bird that big? Here, this close to the ground?'' ''I heard the gases call to them...like, they make this sound we can''t hear...'' ''Shaddup ''bout that,'' Leon barks, craning his neck to get a better look. Just then, one of the camp nurses-Becky, with her red hair and eyes so blue they''re almost black; she''s sweet on many of them-comes to see what the racket is about. It''s a slow day, given they''re gawking at...birds... ''Holy ?shite...'' Leon gasps, seeing the lion-like body attached to the eagle head and wings, before quickly learning why you should keep your mouth shut while looking up. Moments later, he''s sputtering and cussing, Rebecca is laughing her sweet arse off, and every moron in the squad is joking about what a pottymouth he has. Leon cusses them out, too, but the creature never leaves his memory. One day, he goes searching for it, drawn by some irresistible impulse, and is mauled to near-death. Becky does not expect him to return home as a weregryph, but he''s always been good at surprising his wife. Whether this will be good or bad will depend on whether she lets him in bed or sends him to the couch. Well, Leon thinks to himself, in full gryphon form, as he perches in one of the maples on their ranch. This is awkward. Of course, once Becky is turned by a werefox, and they can go at it like animals anywhere, anytime, any awkwardness disappears. *** Osaka, Japan, 1910 The problem with living in Osaka, Kenji mutters as he stomps his way through the streets, is that everyone was a greedy arsehole, which means he barely ever gets anything, and nobody is put off by his attitude, which had helped scare off some kids, at least, in the towns he and Ren had previously lived in. Even bigger ones! Ren is his big brother. Not by blood, but he is an older family friend, so, to the preteen, he might as well be. Ren is like some kinda samurai stepped right outta the stories. He''s strong and smart and isn''t afraid of anything. He took Kenji in and has been raising him for as long as the boy can remember. As to his parents, his father might have been anything from a yakuza, to a would-be smuggler who had attempted to play both sides in the war with the russkies, to an octopus-fucker. The last, Kenji does not believe. He can''t fit in buckets or under doors, and he''s tried. There''s no way his mom was an octopus. Besides, Ren told Kenji she slit her belly after learning who his dad was, so she must''ve been human. Octopi might have been able to hold blades, but they didn''t have bellies. And, according to his big bro, they had both been good people. Ren looks fondly at him as he storms into their house, grumbling about jackasses everywhere. His bro favours every moment together, because he knows, in his blood, that it won''t last much longer. Ren used to be an orphanage kid, and, according to himself, used to lead a pretty shitty life, which Kenji finds unfair. The gov shouldn''t just be able to put you where they want just ''cause you don''t have parents! Ren laughs such comments off, and tells his little brother not to get into too much trouble. Then, a few years later, Ren goes to war, and returns a changed man, to find Kenji a delinquent. They drift apart as Ren praises discipline and patriotism, declaring they saved his life, while the younger man scoffs, claiming his bro has turned lame and is stifling his spirit. No brawls, no booze, no girls-what? At one point, Kenji gives Ren a black eye, and the former soldier doesn''t hit back. Kenji is shocked, because he never expected such spinelessness, and screams for whatever yokai is wearing Ren''s skin to give his brother back. When Ren tells Kenji to get a job or move out, the teen rages at the perceived betrayal of their formerly-shared carefree ideals. He waits for his big bro to return home from his police patrol, and demands he stop acting like a dog, or they''ll stop being friends. Ren laughs at the perceived joke, so that he misses the brick aimed at his head. He wakes up a simpleton, good for manual labour but little else, remembering only that Kenji is his little brother, and they''ve always been together. The brothers are separated, for a time: one goes to prison, the other to a madhouse where he almost dies. When Kenji returns to take Ren back home, he tearfully prostrates himself at his confused brother''s feet, and swears to take his place. Then World War 2 comes. Kenji goes to war, venting his anger on the incompetents under him, the schemers around him and the gaijin in front of him. He doesn''t take pride in what his men do, doesn''t give a damn how many babies they use to drill with bayonets, or how many Chinese and Koreans they take as comfort women. He just wants to kill people without having to think about the aftermath, and the universe indulges Lieutenant Yamada, for a time. In the end, they lose. The Germans Shatter the face of the world, and every story comes true. Hirohito is burned alive by Amaterasu herself, and his entire line is disowned by the goddess, for their cruelty and incompetence. Japan is in turmoil as Generals and Admirals become warlords, exploiting the chaos to carve out fiefdoms, fighting against yokai or alongside them. Kenji just wants a country to return to, really. A nice one, where he and his brother can live in peace. But for that, he needs to rebuild Japan, and cure Ren. He forms a mercenary group, with himself as the only human. The yokai, he names himself. Because they''re always laughing at or looking down on him, he gives them simple names. Rai, the oni, is a house-sized wall of muscle, with grey skin, an electric yellow mane, and tusks that wouldn''t shame an elephant. As Kenji sees in several pocket and parallel realities, he can turn continents to clouds of steaming dust with a strike or summoned storm, or burn them to ash with lightning. Kage, the tengu, has a manlike body, but the feathers, wings and head of a raven. Always wearing green trousers and red sandals, the tengu can slip through shadows to emerge through other ones, as well as throw things through them. He can even become and create shadow, and his blades ignore mundane matter. Or, at least, no moon, planet or star has stopped them yet. Yuki, half of her species'' name, is physically and metaphysically cold, and speaks little. That is good. The pale, blue-haired woman is not here to talk their targets'' ears off, but to freeze them and however much of their country is necessary to win. The kitsune''s story is longer, not unexpectedly. Her kind grow a new tail, jumping immensely in power, every century. By the time they have grown nine, they must ascend to Heaven. So have things been, since time immemorial. The Heaven-Spurning Elder, who has more tails than some countries have citizens, remembers when Earth looked like Venus, and vice-versa. She liked the material realm, and messing with her lesser, conformist kin, too much to leave. By the time the gods felt the need to press the matter. She was already a match for ant of them-any ninetails could destroy stars or move across the galaxy in seconds, never mind her. And their kind could also copy the powers and appearance of any other being, which, coupled with the omniscience that came with their ninth tail, made them exceedingly dangerous. The Elder broke every record, of course. Who knew kitsune could eventually copy multiple beings at once? Amaterasu conceded to give the whimsical Elder her freedom, on the condition of sending any ninetails to Heaven herself, if they wouldn''t leave. The old kitsune happily agreed. Yua, as Kenji named her in a moment of sappy mockery, was, as some Americans said, stacked while in human form. The tiny woman, with her turtlenecks and round shades, was all but unnoticeable, except for her golden hair, and the fox ears rising from it. (Did she have human ears too, while looking like this? A mystery, Rai said one night, to Kage''s sagely nods) There were, of course, the eighty-eight million tails unfurling from her metaphysical self, but those were not for everyone to see. When Kenji returns to Japan as leader of the Nippon Five, he subjugates the country. With a fox who can crush the universe like a snow globe and cross it like a street without using her most dangerous power at his side, no one can deny him. For long, anyway. He builds his company to sell weapons to foreigners, then to provide security forces to them-mercenaries, trained by him and his inner circle. All the while, he searches for a cure for Ren, something that can not only heal his friend, but raise him beyond what he had ever dreamed. For Kenji is a greater man now. And so, one night, on the wall of Plato''s cave, he finds the spirit of Bushido itself. Many of the bodies he creates and controls, by means of magic, tech or chemistry, are sacrificed to drag it into the material realm, but he succeeds, and Ren gets back his wits, his love for his country, and power to match any god''s. Bushido is born, and joins the Nippon Five, who become the Six. Amaterasu recognises Kenji''s dedication, his humility in fighting for foreigners and his desire to protect his family, then recognises him as her heir and steward in front of the country. Now established, if not content, Kenji guides his country into a better future. And, to prevent him from becoming a smug, boring old man, Yua begins hanging around him longer and more often. The Yamada CEO barely has time to realise their wedding isn''t a dream, nor a nightmare. And, decades later, they have a delightful, if dense grandson, named Ritsu, who joins ARC''s Goetia division after binding the Sake-Drinking Lad''s spirit to himself. The less said of their children, the better. *** ???, ???, ????!!!???#??/- Fixer is a cheery fellow, really. When you''re a composite of yourself, you can''t help but feel the vibe. He couldn''t, in the youth of his human self, the Ned he remembers as "himself". That Ned grew up to be a helpful man, always fixing things ''round the neighbourhood, or trying to. Dunwich in the early nineteen-hundreds wasn''t exactly used to negros helping without demands, ulterior motives, or attempts at stealing. He did better in the Royal Army. Sure, he had to swallow the jokes about his ears being big enough to read braille through echolocation. Or that time one of the blokes saw some monkeys when they were fighting the Nazis in Africa, and the Sarge congratulated him for finding Ned''s family. They even brought one of them to him that night, in a dress and makeup. To keep it in the family. Where was he going...? Ah, yes, the Wars. That time in the trenches with John was memorable, if only because Somme was too damned long and bloody to forget, and the bloke was always talking about what he''d write. To think they both made Lieutenant... Fixer was happy when John stayed home for the second War. They had been orcs enough in the first, he had said. Fixer had been there when they''d stormed Berlin, and the Yanks quickly changed their mind on where they''d drop the Bomb. Once to burn the monsters, once more to cleanse the ruins. Ned helped capture the Thule Society, and decades later, Emil and his...hmm...Hex and Nacht helped make him who he was. From the earliest hominid craftsmen to the most eldritch alien technicians, they were all facets of the "helpful" Archetype in the Outer Void. They were all him. Because Ned has to be helpful. His parents hadn''t been, and look at them-always hanging out, in the wind, dead to requests. Sometimes, he feels like he is in that bunker again, during the Blitz. The only one who knows what to do and sees what is happening. But now, all of reality is his bunker, and mother, they are dropping stars, not bombs. Sometimes, Ned regrets he cannot not do more to help without tilting the balance too much, allowing the Crawling Chaos and its ilk to retaliate. Then, he remembers what happened after gaining his powers and deciding to indulge himself. *** Ned stares at nothing as he broods on his throne. The multiverse he is in is an exact copy of the original: infinite realities surrounded and separated by the aether. He has made his every dream reality. Parents alive, happy childhood? Check. Squad mates obliterates and recreated endlessly, the pain getting worse every loop? Check. Meshed well with the reality were the whites were the oppressed race. See how you like monkeys now... Britain victorious alone, heart of an Empire spanning infinite realities? Check. And more. Equilibrium, in a world where opium doesn''t exist and her descendants don''t go to war, where a misfit Sergeant doesnn''t have to rescue her from the Japanese. A multiverse where every being is united in shared love and understanding, one where they all adore him as their god-king, every action and thought a prayer, another where they do that, but also live in constant heart-stopping fear and teeth-grinding pain, just because... So much power. No challenge. Why... ''Why do I feel so empty?'' he whispers, tears streaming down his face. ''Hey,'' a voice comes from his right. He doesn''t look, but he knows: it''s the old man from the nrighbourhood. The one...from every neighbourhood his selves had lived in. ''Why don''t you help that girl?'' Fixer slides back into mundane reality, to see the Twofold shily shifting her weight from foot to foot. The recruit is adorable, really; the fact she isn''t insane or possessed, instead merely struggling to tap into the demon''s power, is incredible. She is untrained, after all. ''Agent Faith?'' he says gently, putting a steady hand on her shoulder. Christine''s eyes water as she looks up at him, bit she purses her lips. ''Do you want to learn how to handle multiple trains of thought at once? I''m afraid some of your Goetia colleagues have lost touch with their, ah, single-minded selves.'' She punches his arm at the joke, then realises her mistake, stepping back with wide eyes, and it takes all of Ned''s willpower not to hug her and tell her it''s alright, he''s not mad. That would be condescending, and probably misogynistic too. By the end of it, she''s leaning against the training room''s wall with a roaring headache, a wolfish grin, and Xelkhe''s illusions at her command. She tries to wrap up Fixer''s eldritch form in a hug, and kisses what she thinks is his cheek-he awkwardly constructs a face made of something resembling matter-and he hugs her back. ''Thanks, sir,'' she says, thinking that he didn''t have to do this, and she doesn''t have much to give as thanks. But he can feel the love-it''s platonic at this point, and will flare up into more before simmering down again-and gratitude, and that? Brings a smile to his face. *** Ah, right. Fixer grins, remembering that honest smile, and the joy at regaining self-control in Christine''s eyes. That''s what I''m fighting for. And then, he looks at the shapes circling that small, precious warm bundle of reality, feels their jagged thoughts and confusion at one like them opposing its kind while thinking like a dimensioned being. Why? Why is he stopping them? Why does he not join them? Why does he care? Why does he not stand aside? ''Sorry, gribblies,'' Fixer''s grin widens as he spins an appendage like a certain burly sailor. ''But my heart bleeds, so that theirs never will.'' Hey, Fifi? Are you watching me? I''d hope you succeed in your own mission, but...I already know you will. And, David? Everything that hurts you is reshaping you into what you need to become. I am not sorry for nudging you along, but would be if you broke. And I wouldn''t be the only one. Hold your head high, my boy. Empty Tomb, Chapter 11
My eyes weren''t permanently gone. Merlin, for all his sheer power, was farther from divinity than even I was. As such, though I staggered and almost fell, it was from shock rather than pain. ''Why did you do that?'' I hissed, hands around the present Merlin''s chained throat. I couldn''t hurt him, of course. Leaving aside the fact that he was far too durable for me to scratch, the nature of his imprisonment made it so he couldn''t be damaged or altered by forces from outside or inside Broceliande. ''And how?'' ''You are asking the wrong questions, David.'' The cambion smiled blandly, limp in my grip. ''That is, the simple ones. Don''t you loathe people who ask questions with obvious answers? You want to berate or beat them bloody, and your more honest side has such interesting ide-'' My backhand turned his head, wiping the smile off his face. Hurt your pride, did I? Surprised you have any after your girlfriend turned your last BDSM session into permanent cockblocking. ''Just because you can hear my thoughts, it does not mean you should comment on them,'' I said, my smile almost as full of forced calm as my voice. ''Answer me.'' Merlin let out a suffering sigh, exasperated at my, what, thick-headedness? ''Think, David! Think! I cannot do anything except scry the future and teleport myself in this state, and doing the second drags my prison along. I cannot harm people. My future self,'' he spat the words in a way that made them sound absurd, like "flying pigs" or "nice surprises". ''If you want to use such hobbling terms, apparently won''t be, going by that telekinetic pulse he used on your eyes. That is how he was able to affect you.'' ''But that wasn''t really your future self, was he'' My hands lowered from his neck to his shirt collar. I knew everyone in the meeting could hear us, and if they weren''t eavesdropping, or were listening but not intervening, they clearly saw no problem with my treatment of the mage. ''You-people like you and Vyrt, and your inhuman parents-don''t perceive time linearly, nor do you live like us, do you? Was that you from the future truly different from the you I''m holding?'' ''Considering I haven''t blasted you off me,'' Merlin said drily. ''Maybe a smidge.'' I stared into his lidless, flaming orbs for a few moments, eyes narrowed, then let go of his collar, shoving him away with a scoff. I caught his smirk as he stumbled, and put out a boot to trip him. Petty? Yes. You could say I was the eye for an eye type. ''Why did you call me "Keeper"?'' I asked after he got back to his feet. ''What am I keeping, or going to? Does it have anything to do with Mimir''s sight?'' ''You would rather ask about my friend''s sight than use it to gain the answers you desire?'' Merlin retorted, hands in his coat''s pockets. I didn''t really give a damn about the fact he and Mimir had apparently been friends-with the dead god''s possible motives before the Headhunt, and Merlin''s stunt, I could see several things they had in common, though. Things like "useless arsehole who knows too much and does too little". ''You ?just popped my eyes like fucking balloons for ?trying, jackass,'' I reminded him, my strigoi side stirring in the back of my mind with an anticipative chuckle. ''Are you going senile, or have you always been this stupid?'' ''Do not cast mountains in glass houses, agent Silva,'' Merlin said, all familiarity gone from his voice, replaced by coldness rather than the offended anger I had expended. ''I told you to use Mimir''s sight-who mentioned the future? Besides you, so you could talk yourself into finding a reason to insult me?'' ''You mean, another one?'' I asked sarcastically, pointing at the blood around my healed eyes, a dark so red it was almost black. ''Are you saying I am "keeping" something in the present? Or that I did it in the past?'' ''No, Silva.'' The cambion sounded weary. ''I am saying that, if you look close enough at the now, you will see what you will Keep. But you must not look at the future. Not because of that, but because you cannot afford precognition past the current crisis...at the moment.'' Merlin shook his head, frustrated at the way he was stumbling over words. ''My future self used the title he is-will be-accustomed to calling you by, in an attempt to both get your attention and taunt you with future knowledge. But he did not want you to look into the future, just like I do not.'' ''Well, you''ve both done a bang-up job.'' I applauded quietly a few times. ''Poor communication kills, you know?'' Our staring contest-I didn''t know what more to tell the mage at the moment, and beating on him would have solved nothing; nor did he seem inclined to talk any more-was interrupted by Bedivere calling for us, and saying it was time to go to Faerie. *** Neither Merlin nor the others spoke of our altercation, though I caught Shiftskin pursing his lips contemplatively when I or the cambion looked at him. Mages are both the most common-two billions worldwide, a tenth of Earth'' population before the evacuation- and some of the weakest supernaturals. Sure, iele, common Fae and ghouls who ate little were only a few million times stronger than baseline humans, and certain small species were actually weaker than them, but they were the exception, not the rule. Most mages could control matter in all its states, boost their bodies and minds, read those of others or move objects telekinetically; some could control spacetime too, like Mihai (one of the strongest civilian mages of my generation), or erase things from existence. But, compared to species who started at turning mountains to clouds of dust or steam, and only escalated from there (strigoi, vamps, weres, zmei, dragons...) ?and who were mostly immune to esoteric effects, regardless of power, barring certain weaknesses, being able to see the future, blast tanks to shrapnel, throw around buildings and bend nature to your will starts looking pretty lame. Not to mention that, while mana never ran out-mages were limited by how much they had, an amount that could increase through improvements of the body, mind or soul which, through synchrobisation, gave birth to mana-their physical and mental stamina was limited, which often proved a problem for those not adept at restoring themselves. Even so, no one could deny mages were also, overall, the most ?versatile supernaturals. Besides the magic all of them had access to, there were many rarer, or even unique types, like Liam Lloyd''s ability to kill almost anything, from organisms to metaphors(I say almost, because Lloyd''s power, not being holy, would do jack and shit to me or to a vampire; or, for that matter, a were, or an on-guard zmeu; again, blanket resistance). Teleportation and portal creation were some of the more common "subtypes" of magic. Traveling was easy, as long as you had a vague idea of a location: its appearance, its name. Even if the appearance had changed since a mage got a description, they could still teleport there, or make a portal, if they wanted. Magic automatically adjusted to prevent telefragging, but mages preferred to be careful. Travelling between realities wasn''t any more challenging, because distance, whether finite or infinite, was not an obstacle to magic, which didn''t travel. Even going to or "through" the aether, that realm that spanned the multiverse, separating its realities from each other and best equated to a wormhole made of mana and filled with dead agnostics, was possible. Why, then, was multiversal travel uncommon? Why didn''t we set off on a glorious crusade in the name of Mother Cosmos, and smite the savages of other universes, or grind them beneath our heels? Well, three reasons. One, we had almost anything we want on our Earth, or in the wider universe, if we''re feeling adventures. The appearance of magic, and supernaturals in general, hds solved a lot of problems mundane society, analysts claimed, would have still been struggling with. Pollution, global warming, natural disasters and overpopulation stopped being scary the moment Ion Gheorghescu down the street could develop magic and the ability to reshape the world, create pocket realities, or erase unwanted stuff from existence. And, when you have two or so billion mages working together, or at least not against each other...well. People are lazy. If they''re feeling content and safe, they''ll most likely stay home. The rest, the daredevils (Not you, Murdock, you''re cool; Christian bros, even though yer a filthy Cat''lick), either set off by themselves to seek thrills, or ended up in prison. Two, most realities besides ours were either literally empty or really, ?really inhospitable. Places where the monsters Vyrt had killed were about as impressive as earthworms were here. Colonising the empty ones, or taming the eldritch ones, ran back into the problem of laziness. Even that dustup on Mars had left a lot of people yawning and shelving colonisation of the Red Planet for the future. Admittedly, the godly cold war predating the Headhunt, and its aftermath, hadn''t helped. Third, and this had to do with our current endeavour, some realities, whether inhabited or not, were sealed off from the rest of the multiverse by more than just the aether. Wards, placed by gods, the most advanced species(there was was often overlap) or both, against invaders eldritch and mundane alike, stood around them like the Iron Curtain had towered over the tallest mountains in the USSR and its allies. We didn''t have the stomach to approach such heavily-defended universes. Maybe we would, in the future, extending a friendly hand. But, for the moment, we had our own problems. While Faerie was indeed shielded and full of booby traps, not to mention defence mechanisms, the most challenging aspect of its defences was the glamour that spanned the realm. Which would have been useless against any member of our raiding party, between our natural or artificial resistances, but that hadn''t been why we''d taken so long. The Fae, probably the Seelie Court, as building things up went against the Unseelie''s nature, had beefed up their realm''s wards against extra-universal intrusions by a lot. Not enough to slow down New Camelot''s mages by more than half a day, but that said more about them than the Fae, especially with Vyrt''s wife Miranda having destruction magic backed up by a horrible temper, which was only encouraged by the Lady of the Lake, who had also helped with the breaching. However, the fact we had started, never mind finished tearing down their walls had everyone walking up walls. Even the Seelie on their nicest day took an extremely dim view of unannounced visitors. Now, with both Courts mad, allied and seemingly in the throes of a Hunt? Honestly, the fact we''d gotten this far without resistance was almost as baffling as the fact Ireland''s emergency government had let us in the country, and even then only because we actually had an explanation for the Irish'' stance. After the Shattering, gods briefly descended to Earth to look into the countries of their past or current worshipper, resulting in things like Amaterasu incinerating the Japanese Royal Family and Anu proposing Gilgamesh as a ruler of a reunited Mesopotamia(negotiations that went nowhere for decades, and were on hold until the current crisis was resolved, as the First Hero was leading a strike force consisting of his people''s descendants to put down would-be invaders before they could cross the aether into our reality). The Tuatha de Danaan took one look at Ireland, then at Britain, and more or less went "Welp. You two need separation and long, long-distance reconciliation". The Brits went home, because they couldn''t do anything else at the time, and the reconciliation has resulted in a chilly acknowledgement of each other''s existence, but no wars. That was something. Nevertheless, the Irish weren''t keen on Brits traipsing through their country for any reason. Other foreigners were sometimes fine, sometimes not; the reason we had gotten through was because the Druid Matriarch had been encouraged by the Dagda, Morrigan and Lugh to speed our passage, and had in turn leaned on the Irish Minister of Defence, who had agreed not to have the Emerald Isle''s runic walls or drone defence network blast us to nothing from afar. Vyrt and Vykt had remained at the Roundhouse, along with Theo and a couple hundred Knights, because there was no way something nasty would miss their absence, let alone do nothing. Bedivere had been chosen to lead the mission after a short argument between him, Sam, Dust Devil and Brazillion, who had deferred to the Grandmaster''s experience, preferring to use their greater power to crush what he couldn''t out-think. ''We will wait here until you return, Grandmaster.'' Vyrt''s wife, Miranda, was half a head shorter than me, but more muscular, with dark skin and short, curly raven hair. I only saw this for a few seconds, then her helmet flowed back into place, hiding the skintight mana forcefield from view. She was a bonfire amongst the candles of her subordinate mages, and each of them felt like a walking nuke just based on mana, not taking their armour into account. ''Hold the gate open, and prepare another expedition should you fail.'' Whether to rescue or avenge us remained to be seen. That was probably the second, unspoken reason Vyrt had stayed at the Roundhouse. Four fifths of the London Chapter-eight hundred Knights-had followed the Grandmaster, as had a hundred fifty thousand Knights gathered from the other Chapter across Britain. Less than half of the organisation''s strength, but Bedivere hated putting all his eggs into one basket, and leaving the country defenceless was inconceivable. We would make do with the power at our disposal. The only thing I could think of as we walked through the portal on top of Newgrange''s grass-covered roof, though, was that I really hoped nothing would happen to damage the ancient burial site. It was older than the pyramids, and proof people built things to last back in the day. Probably not enough to bear our combined weight, though, which is why we didn''t risk it, and instead entered in groups, with Sam and the FREAKSHOW agents taking point, followed by countless ten-Knight squads, Bedivere, with Brazillion, Szabo and the Fivefold acting as extra bodyguards in the middle, followed by more Knights, and Dharma and I bringing up the rear. So I could make the most of my sight, I suppose, though I wasn''t sure what the old Indian specialised in. Not because his powers were shrouded in mystery, but because they were extremely versatile. Dharma could gain new abilities depending who he helped, or who trued to harm him. Helping someone keep warm decades ago had given him pyrokynesis. An attempt at poisoning had resulted in the wannabe assassin rotting into sludge. And so on. In Bedivere''s place, I''d have put him in the front or middle, but it wasn''t my place. I was still a probationary agent. After the first three years in ARC, I ?should have been made a full agent, given access to the organisation''s forums, full archives(well, the parts open to the grunts) and threat-assessment scale, but the Headhunt had resulted in extended probation, because people now wanted to get a feel of my new powers and see if my personality had changed. Faerie was infinite in size, but seemed fairly limited in topography. Plains and lakes leading to forest leading to mountains repeated every sixty kilometres (a distance any of us could cover in a fraction of a second, while taking it slow), but there seemed to be no deserts, no tundras, no volcanoes or jungles. Even after Szabo took away at lightspeed and returned after an hour, claiming this had to be the biggest, blandest national park he''d ever been to: over a billion kilometres of nothing but wilderness. ''Right, that tears it,'' Sam rumbled in a voice like a lion''s roar, so he could be heard by everyone, adjusting his cloak''s left side. ''Silva, look for the nearest Fae settlement or outpost. Fivefold, find its weak point.'' We both nodded, though I snuck a curious glance at the American agents. I doubted Sam just wanted her opinion on Fae defences. More likely, we were about to witness one of her demons'' power in action. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. I closed my eyes, forced a deep breath into my unmoving lungs-entirely unnecessary, but a good way to focus-and opened them again. My sight swept across the landscape far faster than light, and realised it was getting nowhere after a few microseconds. Everything was the same, like a house of mirrors, or a network of trenches. Perhaps the Fae''s way to discourage us from scouting while they hid and prepared themselves. My sight then lowered, before moving through the ground, perception getting faster and faster as trillions of kilometres of loamy soil were analysed in seconds, only to reveal nothing. ''Stop looking lower,'' a soft, deep voice said to my left year, which meant Dharma was standing on his tiptoes, or floating. ''I feel you are wasting your time.'' I didn''t say anything, not wanting to risk breaking my focus, but my inquisitive grunt was enough for him to understand what I meant. ''One of my powers,'' the little man said. ''Reveals when something is a good idea.'' I grunted again. Suggestions? ''Stop where you are,'' Dharma replied. ''Move forward for, hmm...a dozen billion klicks.'' I did as told, but saw nothing except for earthworms, moles, and bronze statues of Fae in triumphant poses, in both armour and robes, which must have been old, but looked pristine, despite how long they must have have been buried. ''There! Stop there!'' Dharma gripped my right shoulder excitedly, pulverising my upper torso. I healed so fast my cross was still hanging in midair, around the cloud of cold blood that had been and quickly turned back into my neck, giving the Indian a sidelong deadpan look. He grinned back, revealing teeth whiter than his chest-length beard. ''I only did that because I knew you could take it. Come now, David. Let an old man have his joys.'' ''You ruined my shirt,'' I complained without any real heat, looking at the bloody shreds on the ground. The yamadium weave was just as durable as my body, which said a lot about Dharma in his excitable moments. ''That,'' Dharma held up a finger. ''Is also necessary for the mission. Now, listen. Stop looking where you are. Have you...? Good. Now, turn left and keep going.'' ''Why don''t you lead us there yourself?'' I muttered, but nevertheless followed his advice. After a few minutes, I saw a honeycombed structure made of cold iron, built into the ground, as Fae didn''t need air, covered in runes that had never been used by mankind. The slits in the hexagon''s walls were big enough to accommodate a few ordinary Fae, or one of the bigger ones, like a nuckelavee. This must have been a frontier prison. There were only a dozen billion slits in the walls surrounding some sort of courtyard, and even the Seelie Court numbered nearly five thousand times that, let alone the much more numerous Unseelie or unaligned Fae. The Fright Before Christmas had seen the appearance of a few billion Unseelie on Earth, and such small forces, by their standards, were a sign of bizarre restraint from the chaotic Fae. And where were the guards? Each cell was full, but unbarred and unguarded. ''Good find, Silva,'' Sam said after I described the apparent prison. ''We''ll use it to get their attention. Threaten to kill the prisoners. If this turns out to be a small prison in bumfuck nowhere, we''ll carry on after we''re done, find another place, and repeat until we bring them to the table.'' ''What if they call our bluff, sir?'' I asked, unsure how to feel about his plan. If these guys were wretched enough, by Fae standards, to be imprisoned underground, they ?probably deserved death, but... Twelve billion. By hand? ''Bluff...? Oh, right. Like we called their "bluff" to raze every settlement on Earth. Well, we''ll kill them, obviously.'' The wendigo nodded to the Knights, who covered their weapons with a layer of iron. Those wielding guns adjusted them on their shoulders, or where they were wardbound to their armoured thighs, and I saw Dust Devil unholster his revolvers and spin their barrels once, twice, with an empty-eyed grin on his face. Before we could tear the ground open and descend into the prison, though, it tore open by itself. The tallest mountain in the Solar System is Olympus Mons, at twenty-five kilometres. Next to the mountains that ripped themselves free of Fairie''s ground, reshaping themselves into bulky humanoid shapes, like Sofia''s golem on steroids, it would have looked like a hill, not even coming up their ankles. The walking mountains were over four hundred kilometres tall, as tall as Surtr. Next to the giants of white rock covered in forests, shapes covered in false muscles formed from the soil itself rose. These golems were covered in city-sized patches of moss, and veins of ore ran through their bodies, giving the impression of a flayed human made of dirt. And they moved almost as fast as me. But that was a given. Around two hundred-fifty thousand times as tall as a human, they also needed to move as many times as fast to look like they were running at ''normal'' speed. Which meant that, when I flew to clash fists with twenty-six trillion tons of rock, I did so at thirty-six hundred times the speed of sound. And was unceremoniously splattered. See, that much weight moving that fast is enough to give the Earth a pretty brutal makeover, and while I was more durable than most things on the planet, I wasn''t durable enough to take a punch that would have razed its surface or wrecked the moon. I healed while my cross, preserved by the power pops had woven into it, was flailing wildly from the speed of my flying remains. The golem had punched me the equivalent of a few Earths away, which meant it was beyond my sight, but I could still sense the furnace-like source of mana animating it, even without Mimir''s perception. It took me nearly a minute to fly back, time I used to tap into Faerie''s atmosphere, bending it to my will. Countless lightning bolts arched down from cloudless skies, stopped in midair by my mental command, before wrapping around me like armour. They say lightning never strikes twice, and that''s true: no strigoi would be content with so little. The golem that had punched me away had gotten into a fight with what looked like some wereinsect Knight, given the oval, armoured wings rising from their back and the extra arms sprouting from their abdomen. The Knight was spinning six broadswords, their modified feet allowing for more gripping appendages, and avoiding the golem''s punches at such speeds, they disappeared from my sight with every moment, visible only in the fractions of a microsecond they hovered in place to swing at the golem, splitting hundreds of kilometres of rock with every strike, sending bulky arms and bisected torsos flying, but the giant healed almost as fast as it was slashed apart. I could only imagine how the fight looked from its perspective, if it even had one. The golem was not only fast, it also had extremely keen senses, or the equivalent of tracking systems, given how it had hit me with far more precision than I''d have been able to punch a microbe flying as fast as I moved. The insect knight caught my gesture to move aside, blurring out of sight and leaving my lightning-wreathed form alone with the golem. Let''s see if it could heal after being reduced to st- A stream of stone, thousands of kilometres long and dozens wide, like an onrushing ocean of granite, flew at me from the golem''s outstretched fists, filling my sight. Grinning under a mask of lightning, I flew on, and the jet of rock became vapour at the contact with my lightning construct. I covered the distance to the golem in seconds, burning through the rock, then smashing a glowing, smoking crater through its chest and out of its back. The giant didn''t stumble, or slow down when it turned to crush me, but it didn''t heal, either. Laughing in my head, as I was moving a few thousand times too fast for the real thing, I took the lightning armour off me like it was a cloak, reshaping it into a crackling, supercharged white bolt, then hurled it at the golem. What do you get when about twenty-five trillion tons of rock are rapidly vapourised by a lightning bolt? You get a blast that would have ruined a lot of days back on Earth. The closest comparison would be have been the Permian Extinction Event, given the immense plume of superheated smoke that filled the landscape to the horizon and far beyond, but even the Siberian Traps'' eruption paled in terms of sheer power. The insect knight suddenly appeared next to me, giving me a thankful, appreciative nod. ''Huh. I guess I can see what the buzz is all about,'' she said, a voice that would have been smooth underlined by a crackling sound, like static. ''That pun was pretty fly,'' I grinned at the groan. ''By any chance, would you happen to bee a-'' ''I''m a dragonfly,'' she said, spinning her swords again as she looked for another target. ''And no, that doesn''t mean I spit flaming mucus.'' She was gone, then reappeared on an earth golem, before I could tell her I hadn''t even thought about that. As I gathered bolts from clear skies around me once more, I took a look at how the others were doing. The Knights, having realised there was no point in dicing or shattering the golems, had drawn back, moving just as fast as me, and raised guns with glowing barrels. Bedivere stood in the middle of one such squad, holding but not lifting an unadorned, simple-looking spear. But then, Rongomyniad didn''t need frills. Hundreds, then thousands of coruscating beams flew from the guns, but not at the golems, instead meeting in midair and forming pulsing, city-sized spheres. They then opened up like blooming flowers, thick energy beams flying at the golems faster than I could see and blasting dozens to steam. There were still hundreds left, but, shit-the Knights had Power Rangers team attacks? What the hell was I training for!? Szabo flitted around a rock golem faster than it could react, a silent laugh on his lips, blurring hundreds of kilometres away whenever it was a hair''s breadth from touching him. After every missed hit, the strigoi then hovered in place long enough to meet an Earth-razing punch, and kick the offending arm to pieces. Eventually, he got bored. But, rather than rip off my lightning trick, Szabo opened his fanged mouth wide, draining the golem''s animating energy into him, and causing the inert construct to tumble to the ground with an earth-shattering fall. The Fivefold wasn''t as fast as him, but she didn''t need to be, either. Her movements as she tracked her golem were just as fast as mine, but, rather than dodge, she simply disappeared from the path of its stomping feet and crushing fists, reappearing beyond its reach. To Mimir''s sight, it looked like she was dropping in and out of reality, pushed away and pulled back in by a shrouded, cloaked demon. After getting its measure, the Fivefold nodded to herself, and the golem''s mana its body, before gathering in a shimmering, colourless sphere in front of the hellbound, who snuffed it out with a touch. Dharma stopped forward, bending one leg and extending one arm, palm out. A wave of not-force rushed out, leaving a milky-white emptiness as it erased everything in its path, finishing with the golem, before looping back to the caster, sealing the hole in reality along the way. I saw Dust Devil shake his head at the tensing Brazillion and the deceptively relaxed-looking Randy. The Brazilian mage mouthed an annoyed curse about glory hounds, while Randy grinned, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels. Then, the gunslinger''s body seemed not to move. The next instant, a hundred fifty golems became black silhouettes, like giant nuclear shadows, before fading. Dust Devil spun his guns to disperse the smoke, before holstering them once more. Bedivere glanced at us, then the remaining hundred-plus golems, raised his dead king''s spear, and threw it. Rongomyniad flew faster than I could see, passing through the golems without damaging them, or tampering with their mana. Even so, the constructs settled back on or in the ground, assuming their natural shapes once more. Mana still flowed through them, trying to reshape them into the prison''s guardians, but failing. ''Now,'' the Grandmaster said, turning to Shiftskin and catching the spear that flew at him from behind, so fast its passage distorted light, without looking. ''Your idea, Samuel.'' *** It turned out we didn''t need to perform a mass execution whose body count would have outstripped any war on Earth''s. Our descent into the prison triggered some sort of aetheric silent alarm, and before long, a beleaguered, but seemingly sane Oberon was leading us to his palace, flanked by a host of trillions of Fae and other, less identifiable supernaturals. '' "Count" Coldhold is a sham, unloved and disrespected,'' the Seelie King explained, the colours of his crystal armour changing as often as his appearance. ''The people he led to your world during this so-called Fright Before...Yule? What ?are you calling it nowadays?'' ''Don''t change the subject,'' Sam warned from his left, something making his cloak bulge and shift. ''Why should we believe you didn''t authorise this attack, or know about it?'' Oberon sighed. ''This is ?not about plausible deniability, Two-Mantled Lamb. Please, do not attribute to evil what is born of ignorance. Do you see these?'' Oberon gestured at the crucified bodies lining the paths leading to the Seelie capital. They were not human, or any supernatural or alien I recognised. Not reptilians, or Grey One''s people. They weren''t the compact, beetle-like citizens of the Honoured Kratocracy, either, nor the ever-shifting forms of the Unity Stellar. ''What of them?'' Bedivere asked, using Rongomyniad like a walking stick. ''You would not believe how rotten some civilisations can become, young knight...or, perhaps not. I always thought your kind should have thinned the herd around that Industrial Revolution of yours. No matter.'' Oberon shook his head, shifting eyes becoming black and steely. ''My darker kind long to bring down any organised nation. Titania and I thought it was time to bury the hatchet, even help them channel their impulses into something good, and they agreed! This purge of the wicked-you will notice the multiverse is a much cleaner place, should you care to check- was their way of sealing our deal. Alas...while we were doing that, the force left to guard the hearths-misfits and weaklings, led by a joke of a Count we shouldn''t have relied on, even for this-slipped their leash, and fell upon Earth.'' I could see absolutely no hesitation or agitation from the Seelie, nor any metaphysical indicators that he was lying-but that only meant Oberon thought he was saying the truth, not that he was. That, or he just was better at spinning lies than I was at seeing through them. ''That''s awfully convenient, Yer Majesty,'' Dust Devil grunted around his toothpick, a few paces between them. ''Did ya happen to find these acceptable targets by yerselves?'' ''Oh, no!'' Oberon was so pleased with his exploits that he showed no irritation at the American''s tone, unlike his subjects. ''A god showed them to us! He-'' ''One of the Tuatha de Danaan?'' Bedivere asked, eyes narrowed. ''No. And do not interrupt me, knight, or I may have to get cross with you,'' the Fae warned coldly. ''A god from a colder, bleaker realm. He found his way here after the Headhunt, scared and scarred, and pointed out those deserving destruction, before retreating into a slumber. Apparently, he was being chased at the time, so he channeled his considerable power into hiding himself.'' ''Very altruistic, this runaway,'' Sam remarked as Oberon''s palace crested the horizon. ''Indeed! We were as shocked as we were pleased by Chernobog''s generosity!'' Oberon smiled brightly. Empty Tomb, Epilogue
Dharma''s gnarled hand was on my shoulder before I could even twitch in shock, let alone speak. ''Measure your response, Silva.'' The Karma agent didn''t speak. Instead, his words travelled through the aether-not into my mind, as telepathy didn''t work on strigoi, but the realm of raw mana itself, and my aetheric hearing was keen enough to pick them out. ''We are in the presence of royalty,'' the Indian continued in an ironic tone. ''By which I mean, we do not want to start a war with the Fae right now.'' ''Didn''t you hear what he said?!'' I thought back. ''Yes. That''s why I told you to watch yourself.'' Dharma didn''t move his head, so as not to draw attention to our silent discussion, instead just glancing minutely at me. Judging from everyone else''s lack of reaction, he was somehow masking our thoughts, too. ''I am aware many agents died engaging Chernobog''s cultists and supporters. But it is not the time for...Silva?'' I was shaking again, and that was always a horrible sign when it came to me. Not because I was some unflappable prick, but because, as a walking corpse, I didn''t breathe, blink, twitch, shift my weight, or do any of the little things humans do without realising. I need to do them myself, which sometimes necessitates shapeshifting. Shaking, then, was a sign that I was either so scared I wanted everyone else to see it, which I never did, or that I was so disturbed I was unconsciously using my powers. Going by how my flesh rippled and twisted, trembling on my bones, this was a case of the latter. I was out of Dharma''s grip and in Samuel''s without seeing either of them move. The wendigo was holding me like I was a cracked vase, his leather cloak moving to hide me from view, and he was addressing Oberon. ''The strigoi is unwell. We would halt until he recovered, or hurry to your palace, and...'' ''I understand,'' the Fae King replied in a voice so faint, it was like he was whispering from a thousand kilometres away. Because I wasn''t focusing on them. I was back in that chamber of worship, taunted by a god hiding behind another''s face...no. I was in Hel, with the blood of gods on my hands and in my throat, after my friend had sacrificed himself for nothing, nothing at all. I- Was- Speaking the- TRUE NAMES- OF THE FAE WHO HAD BROUGHT THE NIGHTMARE BACK AND NURSED HIM AT THEIR BOSOM- THE BASTARDS WOULD DIE AND ACCOMPLISH NOTHING. JUST LIKE MARCUS HAD. *** Diego was spinning through the blackness, while his body drifted through the void of space. In his four decades of life, and four centuries of unlife, the vampire had often heard people talk about the palace of their mind, the mindset they retreated into when they desired to think, meditate, or even relax. Diego often said he had a hovel of the mind, but that was a lie...ah, no, a ?joke. Yes. He remembered jokes. His mother had once told him to make as many as possible. He would have prayed for the woman''s soul, had he remembered her name. Or, at least, her face. Diego''s mind was not a hovel. It was a charnel house. Vampires, like their lifeforce-drinking cousins, inevitably began talking to themselves as their power grew-that was, their instincts became louder and louder, achieving a sort of pseudo-sentience. Some vampires'' instincts took majestic, awe-inspiring forms. Diego knew Ilsa, a top agent in Austria''s Slaughtering Shield, spent her days in the company of a blood-drenched she-fiend, who spoke to her in her own voice. Ragnar, from Norway''s Hearthwatch, saw his thirst as a gaunt berserker, who exhorted him to find the fiercest enemies, and drain them of life after glorious combat. Diego often wondered what it would be like for his thirst to be...anything else. In his mindscape, the vampire was a limbless torso, tarlike blood congealing on the edges of his stumps. Worse than his current bisected status, but not as bad as it could have been. Diego lay on a carpet of gaunt, pale corpses-everyone he had ever killed, and turned into wights. There were humans, of course, thousands and thousands, and mages in their hundreds. Weres and undead if all stripes, including his own kind, wounds left by blessed silver still smoking. They had all been justified deaths. So Diego had convinced himself. Because, if they hadn''t been...if they hadn''t... A soft sound, like knives cutting old paper, drew Diego''s attention. His thirst was approaching, its bladed legs tearing through the mental representation of his victims. Its lower half was a leech''s segmented, bloated tail, the angry purple of a bruise. Blood and other, far less wholesome fluids dripped from it as it was dragged along, covering the wights in layers of foulness. Its upper half had six legs, pointed and edged like broadswords. From the waist up, purple became a pale red, almost pink. A mosquito-like body, covered in hair like razor wire; multicouloured wings, like the feathers of Diego''s hat, sprouting from its back. Its multifaceted eyes were white as milk, unseeing as a mole''s-for his thirst was blind, and did not distinguish between friend or foe, which was why he had never fed it, and, God willing, never would. A proboscis, so long and thick it resembled a small elephant''s trunk, tapered to a circular, razor-toothed leech''s mouth. ''You are dying, liar,'' his thirst said. Its mouth could not form words, instead opening and closing, twitching at nothing. It spoke through thought alone. ''Will you choose to be sincere, in your final moments?'' Sincere? So very few people ever asked him to be that, and even fewer lived long enough to regret it. But...he doubted his thirst would survive long enough for that. It would die with him, after all. ''Your lower half reminds me of my wife''s,'' Diego said, not needing to fake the huskiness in his voice. The pain did that for him. ''And that arouses me.'' His thirst''s face could not express emotion. Even so, Diego could practically feel its exasperated frown. In truth, he had never compared his thirst''s appearance with Clio''s, because the lamia deserved to be described in much grander terms. But looming death made men think strange things, though there were far, far worse things to think of as he died than Clio. If he somehow survived this, he knew he''d have all the time in the world for that. He doubted ARC would send him on a mission anytime soon...or ever again. ''You cannot trick me with that empty smile. Have you forgotten I am your true face, vampire?'' ''Now, there is no need to be cruel,'' Diego tried to coo, but it came out as a wheeze. ''Everyone tells me I look like Banderas, not the Human Fly...'' His thirst shook its head in frustration, half-skittering, half-crawling across his mindscape. ''Do you not regret never drinking anyone? Seeing life leave their eyes under your fangs'' ''Blood is blood,'' Diego said simply, raising his bare arms-he was naked in his mindscape, for visiting it was like being in one of those embarrassing dreams, except lucid-and looking at the wrists he had bitten open to drink from so many times. His pale skin was unmarked, for nothing a vampire could do to themselves under their own power would leave scars. Unmarked, except for the ragged band of flesh across his throat. Diego had seen, in some early, pre-Shattering movies, vampires with two tiny points on their necks, as if their sires had pricked them with pencils. It was not impossible for one''s turning mark to look like that, as long as their sire was a good shapeshifter who took care to lengthen some fangs, and only use them, but... Diego''s sire hadn''t been careful about anything except her thirst. For his blood, for ?him. Her fangs had torn his throat open just like her claws had ripped apart his manhood-in her excitement, she had forgotten how frail fledglings were. Luckily, he had healed in seconds, beyond pain, except that caused by divinity, after his soul spilled out alongside his blood. ''Blood...is blood,'' Diego repeated, darkness filling the corners of his vision, obscuring his thirst as it paced. Among vampires, "bite your tongue" meant much, much more than just "don''t speak". They quenched their thirst and grew their strength through blood, but it did not have to come from anyone else. They could bite down on their tongues or limbs, feeding on themselves, though most vampires saw this as a sign of being too poor to afford artificial or donated blood, while criminals saw it as proof of weakness and cowardice. Diego was not ashamed to die a coward, if that was true. Long, long picoseconds passed, stretching like taffy, while the darkness obscured everything. Even his thirst''s muttered curses faded away, and then...silence. Diego stirred. This was not how he''d expected Hell to be. In his hand, the thing that wielded him, the thing that looked like a sword, trembled and growled, a not-sound that filled the void where his soul had once been and made his hackles rise. The vampire opened blood-crusted eyes. It is approaching, the Throat of Thirst spoke. The mirror-sibling-rival. Its host. Samuel Shiftskin took a fraction of a heartbeat to leap from Earth to the ruined sun. The wendigo walked on plasma, looking down at the bisected vampire with a mix of pity and curiosity. Are you going to live? Do you want to? And if yes, why? ''You did a good job, Cortez,'' Sam said. ''Szabo tells me they''d have all died if you hadn''t drawn the ''shadow-thing'' away. Judging by your wounds...I''m inclined to believe them. Was that thing holy?'' ''I am not healing, sir,'' Diego replied. ''Maybe its hits were just so persuasive, my body decided to stay like this.'' ''Allow me to offer a counterargument, then,'' The Salem Head crouched over him, cloak filling his vision, like he was a priest taking Diego''s confession. ''This is just the beginning-I can feel it, in my bones and water. The beasts flee from the high places, seeking refuge beneath the ground. It will not save them.'' ''I can still fight, dammit,'' Diego gurgled, blood beginning to fill his throat and mouth, drip down his face. Sam nodded. ''Do you want to? We could still make use of you. If you don''t...I will let you die.'' The wendigo smiled. ''Should I eat your corpse, or take it to the lamia?'' The Throat of Thirst roared, breaking reality like cheap glass and erasing the aether beneath, behind and above it across the solar system. Like many of Earth''s strongest supernaturals, Diego was bound to a concept. He was not fused with it like Armament or Dust Devil...or, for that matter, Shiftskin, who had somehow bound two to his will. But Thirst-for blood, for pleasure, for wealth and power and more-was his, just like he was its. In many ways, Thirst and Hunger were extremely similar. They both allowed their wielder-tools to drain and consume almost anything, and exacerbated their already monstrous natural-so to speak-appetites. The difference was that, while Hunger had been able to manifest freely since time immemorial, Thirst had once made a mistake, and been bound in a nameless temple in a withered jungle, crumbling despondently under a cold sun that ate light. That was where Diego had found it. In brighter, more ignorant days-not innocent, for Man had not been innocent for millennia-, he had travelled to America as captain of his own ship. In the country that was now known as Mexico, his men had been picked apart by a tiny, but nevertheless unstoppable monster-Chupacabra, the locals had whispered. Enraged by their captain''s failure to protect them, or even predict the attacks, and driven beyond the breaking point by his insistence to remain, his men had risen up, beating him bloody and abandoning him on the island where his sire had found him. Diego had easily found his way back to the mainland after that, foaming at the mouth for revenge. He had torn apart his rebellious crew without a second thought, then wailed as he stood amidst their wights when his wits returned. Angry at them and himself alike, he had sought the trail of the monster, and a means to defeat it-for, even after he drank enough of his own blood to turn planets to dust and rip apart stars, he knew, just as he knew sunlight would seal his esoteric powers and anything holy could kill him, that Primus could not be defeated through mere strength, even if Diego were stronger than him. And his great-grandsire had drunk far, far more blood than he had. Even after he ripped the Thirst from its stone prison, unheeding of the atavistic horror it radiated, he had been unable to wound Primus. Cleaving the sun in half was far, far easier than scratching the First Vampire, and the scratches never stuck. Sam opened his mouth wide, drawing the Throat''s roar into his gaping mouth, and devouring the holes in reality it had created. ''Reversing destruction, sibling,'' Sam mocked the Throat in Hunger''s parchment-dry tones. ''Can you do that?'' Stolen story; please report. Hissing at the taunting challenge, the sword ripped itself free of Diego''s hand, then cut through his flesh, placing itself alongside his spine, forcibly holding his halves together. Unhurt, for the sword was an embodied concept, rather than a holy weapon, Diego rose to his feet in surprise. The pain was gone. What...? ''So, you have chosen...life,'' Sam said, his light tone failing to fully mask his wistfulness. ''It cannot reverse the damage-at least, not without altering creation itself on a fundamental level. But it can keep you alive.'' ''I am ready to return, sir,'' Diego said, one hand tracing his waist. The shadow had cut him in half impossibly neatly, but it hadn''t actually left any marks. ''Are you?'' Shiftskin asked, head tilted at the ravaged sun. Pursing his lips, Diego pushed his mind against the sword, feeling the Thirst''s desire to prove its sibling wrong, then break and consume it. Drawing upon a fraction of its power, Diego sought another main sequence yellow star, one with no inhabited worlds to be harmed by alterations. Then, like he was drinking blood from his own veins, the vampire moved the plasma across light years, far faster than light, adding it to the sun and moulding it until the star was back to its original shape. ''I believe I am now,'' Diego clasped his hands behind his back. ''What now, sir?'' Sam grunted. ''There will be consequences, of course. We will strike back at the Fae. You could be useful in this endeavor...though, I would rather they believed they killed you, so we could surprise them.'' ''Understood. I''ll get my trench coat and shades.'' He already had the goatee. He could hide. ''May I ask why it was you, specifically, who came to check on me, sir?'' Sam shifted awkwardly. ''Aya...the mummy respects you, but she was busy. She chose a trusted friend to go find another, and save him if possible. We''ll go to Giza first, then get to brass tacks and plan the incursion into Faerie.'' ''Your dedication is appreciated, as is Head Reem''s affection,'' Diego gushed, just to watch the wendigo grumble. ''If I may say, though...it is rude to be married and not show it in any way, sir.'' ''Aya is not my wife, you old goat.'' ''Of course not, sir,'' Diego said soothingly. ''The shadow hit me upside the head several times.'' Youths these days... these two, especially, were in denial far more often than when they went swimming. He firmly believed it was work getting in the way. Retirement would do both of them some good, even though Shiftskin had always been an old man at heart. *** I came to the sensation of being waterboarded with acid. I hadn''t fainted, not really, but I ?had lost the ability to think straight. The mention of Chernobog had triggered my...it had... I was a liability. If I could lose control over something so minor, what good could I do in ARC? They''d be better putting me out of everyone''s misery, so I couldn''t have a fit in public and kill people who actually deserved to live... Hah. But we never get what we want, do we? The Fivefold pressed me facedown into the holy water, holding my thrashing body still with strength equal to mine-another demon. Not the trickster or the finder of weak points. Her grip never slackened, even when I realised what I had done and stopped moving. The Fivefold slowly, cautiously pulled me out of the puddle of holy water she had summoned, even though I wasn''t resisting. That demon of hers had searched for my weakness and brought it here. Standing around me, the agents stared at me with stony expressions. Even Szabo wasn''t smiling, for once, instead giving me a considering look, lips pursed. I couldn''t see the Knights'' faces, only their hands on their weapons, but Bedivere looked like he had awoken from a nightmare, only to see reality was worse. But was that not the story of Camelot''s failed defenders? And around them, impaled on iron spikes, were the twitching, still steaming bodies of Oberon''s host. The Seelie King himself stood stock-still, hands clenching and unclenching, face quite literally changing colour as his rage drove his shapeshifting into a frenzy. Before I could ask what had happened, Oberon dashed at me, gauntleted fists raised, crystal armour a red so dark it was almost black. With Mimir''s perception still lingering at the edges of my mind, I could perceive things far faster than usual, as well as with greater accuracy. Oberon, by himself, was as powerful as Thor or Heracles: a destroyer of worlds, a ravager of stars, hundreds and hundreds of times faster than light. Boosted by the mana he drew from the aether as he dashed at me, his power grew exponentially, jumping by orders of magnitude every fraction of a nanosecond...no, of a picosecond- If two galaxies colliding had a sound, it was unlikely to be too different from the one made by Shiftskin as he tackled the Fae King off-course, then tried to wrestle him to the ground. ''Let go of me, you fucktoy of a mongrel!'' Oberon shrieked into Sam''s rhino face, crystal tears streaming down his cheeks. ''I will break that revenant until he forgets how to beg for death! Bastards! Attacking under parley! Slaughterin m-my-'' But I wasn''t listening to Oberon''s sobbing rant. His words had drawn another memory to the forefront-a beautiful one, for all that little David had not appreciated it, instead almost fooling himself into believing it had been a hallucination. Ungrateful. I had made him face most of his fears, and for what? Nothing. He could not even fall asleep to be tormented by his nightmares, instead needing my attention to experience them...tsk, tsk, tsk. But then, when indoctrinated into the religion of hypocrisy, what could I expect? I rose from his body like a mortal from a bed, letting the strigoi slump into the demon whore''s grasp. Honestly, the wretches deserved each other. A shame that she had chosen that jumped-up monkey, rather than his much, much better mirror... David''s eyes widened in disbelieving hatred as he stared up at my floating form, mouth opening and closing, but no words coming out. Aw, unsure how to swear? Let me help you. ''Hello, old toy. Did you miss me, like Nacht thought it didn''t?'' I morphed my face into a smile at his hateful grimace, crushing him inside a field of invisible force before he could do anything. Now...onto business. ''Oberon! You can thank me for thinning the herd. I can assure you, mankind and its lapdogs would have been far, far less thorough.'' A construct of solid darkness pushed the Fae onto his knees, holding him in place. Another ungrateful worm. I should have killed them all, but that was more than Merlin had asked of me, and I didn''t want to help the bastard for free. The menagerie of freaks tensed, ready to jump at me, or unleash their powers, to no avail. They would not succeed here. My side was making its move, bringing us closer to the endgame. As such, when tentacles of chaos crawled out of the Void and into reality, they were unable to escape or destroy them. They were opposing a power far greater than their combined, and its equal and opposite was far away, pursuing his own duty. ''Do not wonder how I slipped past your guard,'' I said conversationally, ripping the Throat of Thirst out of Diego Cortez'' flesh and letting the vampire fall apart-should have never stopped under Shiftskin''s cloak, little leech. To show I wasn''t killing more than the deal had asked for, I pushed my godly will into his body, fusing his halves together. ''I will explain once I finish what I swore to do. You can all thank me...in a few moments.'' I dragged the thrashing, swearing David into my free hand, twirling the Throat with the other as I sped across Faerie, waiting for my partner to meet me halfway through. Merlin''s arrival interposed his prison over the vibrant wilderness of the Fae realm, drowning it in gloom, but the cambion''s smile was as bright as the eyes it reached. A burst of my power left David trembling in pain, as close to unconsciousness as his kind could get. There was no need for him to learn of these proceedings...yet. ''You have the Thirst,'' Merlin said by way of greeting, nodding towards the apparent blade. ''It won''t be able to consume your prison,'' I replied. ''But it will erode it, weaken it enough that you will be able to exit...'' ''As long as someone else takes my place,'' the mage finished, seeming almost regretful as he looked at the future prisoner. Stupid. Had he not asked for this, in service of what he claimed was a good cause? Humans...even their halfbreeds were sentimental. ''Indeed,'' I said, then placed the Throat of Thirst on the chain around his neck, pressing onto it with all my strength and will, until the blade cracked with a despondent wail. Its incarnation obliterated, its greater self in the realm of ideas was not crippled. It would have only taken a few more years, perhaps decades, for it to goad Diego Cortez into a feeding frenzy. Somehow, I knew ARC would be just as ungrateful as David. The chains looked as strong as before, but they were brittle, loose. So, as Merlin slipped out of them, hovering on the threshold of freedom, it was the easiest thing to throw the strigoi into his bindings, which tightened around his grey limbs like spiteful snakes. ''I thank you for keeping your word, Black God,'' Merlin said in a neutral tone, not looking at his cousin when the nephilim warped into existence between us. ''You are welcome,'' I said, then turned to Vyrt. ''And you did a good impression of me, back then. Scratching a mark into his neck was a little too obvious, though.'' ''He convinced himself it wasn''t real. Why pay it attention?'' Vyrt shrugged, then his eyes narrowed. ''You will not win, Chernobog. Nor will your master.'' I bristled. ''I have no mas-'' ''This is merely another stepping stone on David''s path upward,'' the mongrel went on, as oblivious to his pompousness as any self-assured "hero". ''An opportunity to grow. What does not kill him makes him stronger.'' ''Then I''ll just have to avoid that, won''t I?'' I bared my teeth in a grin. ''But let us not speak of the far future, now. Cambion?'' ''With the Fae''s army out of play, they will be stuck rebuilding their forces, not to mention the trust between them, for a long, long time,'' Merlin chuckled. ''And let us not forget their reputation! No Unseelie will follow Oberon after trillions died under his nose, nor will anyone treat him as a capable, watchful leader any time soon.'' ''As for Earth...well,'' Vyrt smiled thinly. ''Many were calling for genocide against the Fae after they tried to do it to us. I think this will silence those voices for a while, allowing cooler heads to focus on strengthening the world''s defences. The eldritch incursions so far will increase...as I am sure you can promise, Black God.'' ''As sure as I am that mankind will appreciate the kidnapping anarchists being taken down a peg,'' I said lightly. ''You can thank me for the slivers of my power I passed onto their Everdark. Without them, the death toll would have been lower.'' As would have the hatred, resulting in a smaller expedition, and...well. We would not have been here. ''You mean the things that mutilated the Unscarred and the Bronze Boyar? That is too pompous a name for attack dogs,'' Merlin scoffed. ''I was more impressed by that shadow you sent to Omu base. If it hadn''t crippled Cortez...'' Vyrt trailed off. If that shard of me hadn''t, the Throat of Thirst wouldn''t have been focusing on keeping its wielder-tool alive, and it would have been much harder to remove it, and thus pave the way to Merlin''s freedom. ''Do you think your Knights will take this in stride?'' I asked, crossing my arms as the two glanced at each other. ''I pray they will,'' Vyrt said finally, brow furrowed, clearly hoping free will would stop existing, thus making things simpler. ''If not...it will be quite a chore to alter so many minds,'' Merlin added. I nodded. ''Give the Lady of the Lake my regards, cambion.'' You deserve each other, you petty schemers. *** Breaking news! -Merlin free? World''s greatest mage helps with cleanup and returning billions to their homes. Read more at... -Fae genocide begins? Multi-organisation joint effort, spearheaded by ARC. Are the civillians next? -King Oberon and Queen Titania call for recompense and aid from the Global Gathering... -Are Fae people? ARC agent David Silva, killer of five trillion Fae-Seelie, Unseelie and unaligned-allegedly claims them to be ''monsters''. Possible religious angle to hypocritical accusations? Constantin Silva denies teaching his adoptive son to see Fae as servants of the Devil. More details at... -Chernobog returns. Cults in dozens of countries reveal themselves, and publicly pray for the arrival of their "alien kindred in darkness"... Sidestory: Wrong Stars
(Or, what Mia did during Empty Tomb) *** Mia didn''t know where the States'' Drake base was, exactly: halfway through her flight, she had received order to fly through an opaque portal, after which she had been informed she was "on an island in the Pacific", where she and a few fellow agents would liaison with "certain allies eager to improve the public''s perception of them", then head to another unspecified location in the Atlantic. As Mia waited for said allies to arrive, sharing food with a few dozen dragons who had left the old world, she thought about her recent faux pas. Lucas hadn''t encouraged her to smoke, not after the initial blunt, which had been a stopgap measure to prevent her from dwelling too much on hers parents'' death. He hadn''t told her to stop, either, because he''d believed she was mature enough to know what she could and couldn''t handle, that she''d knew what not to do. And in the end, she''d proven both him and David wrong. Oh, her boyfriend wasn''t upset with her, and Lucas probably wouldn''t be for long, but she knew he''d be as disappointed as David had quietly been. A small, stupid part of her had hoped David''s strigoi side would be enticed enough by seeing her vulnerable like that to hesitate to kill her once he saw her with another partner. Mia buried her face into her hands, sighing, causing the dragon who had extended a pipe to her to draw his hand back. ''Hey, now,'' the grey-scaled, white-maned lightning dragon frowned, lighting it with a spark and taking a long drag. ''Could''ve just said no, rookie.'' ''Wha...?'' Mia stopped rubbing at her eyes, and gulped involuntarily at the sight. ''Oh. I was actually just remembering a shitty moment involving...something similar. So, thanks, but no.'' ''Suit yourself.'' The rai-ryu shrugged as much as his gold-streaked, serpentine body allowed. After chewing on the pipe for a few moments, mangling some of the jade decorations, the dragon took it out of his mouth, gesturing as he held it in one hand. ''Personally, I believe no pleasure is bad, as long as no one is hurt.'' ''Ha...'' Mia leaned against the base''s wall with her arms crossed. ''Tell me about it.'' ''That''s what I''m doing, yes.'' The dragon''s long, ivory whiskers twitched as his nostrils flared with amusement. ''Don''t worry. Back in my day, getting stoned off your ass meant something far more painful than it does nowadays.'' The zmeu let out a snort, which became a brief, weak laugh. ''I bet it did.'' The dragon nodded, extending his free hand for her to shake. Up close, it looked nowhere near as puny or absurd as when seen from a distance. It might have seemed too small for the dragon''s bus-sized body, but it was pure muscle, like a kangaroo''s or t-rex''s. Not that dragons actually needed bodies to use their strength. ''You can call me Hiro,'' the dragon said. ''Ah.'' Fake name, then. ''After a friend of yours?'' ''No, after this movie character I like. It''ll still feel weird to use it until I find a fluffy robot, but we do what we must.'' Mia nodded absentmindedly, smile not reaching her eyes. ''Do you know where we''re going?'' ''Away from here, probably.'' The dragon did not even glance at her expression. ''The Head will tell you more when she arrives. Maybe.'' ''She...? Isn''t Ying Lung leading?'' ''Ying and one of Tathagata''s avatars are...taking care of something. Too dumb to be affected through esoteric means and very...well. At a certain point, "big" becomes an understatement. They grew to full size, jumped down its throat and are now moving inside its body, slowly tearing apart the equivalents of its veins and arteries." ''Full size,'' Mia repeated in a deadpan tone. ''Inside its body? They''re both trillions of light years tall at their biggest.'' Not to mention Tathagata could hold universes in his palm like marbles, and crush them to nothing with a twitch. ''Yes, and...? There''s always a bigger fish. Anyway...'' Hiro''s tail looped under his belly to scratch at his chin. ''Talking about Ying, have I told you he was my mentor for a while? I''ve picked up some of his mannerisms.'' ''We''ve barely met,'' Mia reminded him, eyes on the horizon, looking for anything that might herald a Head''s arrival. ''That''s not an excuse to be strangers! Let us share things about ourselves. I''ll start: I have been senior Drake agent for the Philippines for seventy years.'' ''You could have told me that before I said something I shouldn''t, sir. We don''t exactly have rank signifiers,'' Mia said, turning to him with a tired look. ''Don''t worry, you haven''t offended me so far. Also,'' Hiro leaned forward, whispering. ''The lack of signifiers is meant to confuse snipers and the like.'' Then, drawing back and speaking louder, he put the pipe in his mouth once more. ''By the way, I only smoke this when stressed. Having over three hundred million people to look after makes sure I''m a living chimney, though.'' ''I''m lucky,'' Mia said, looking back at the horizon. ''I only have a boyfriend so far.'' ''Ah,'' Hiro glanced at his pipe, then her, before putting a hand into an unseen pocket of the black scarf, rummaging under the flaming shield symbol of ARC''s Drake division. ''I think you might need a smoke more than me, then. And a drink.'' ''Thanks, but...I''m not really in the mood for either.'' *** Amara al-Hazred did not travel, as most people understood the term. She did not cross the distance between two locations, nor spend time moving across it. She destroyed anything between her and her objective, from spacetime to obstacles, with a thought, giving the appearance of something not quite like teleportation. Everything erased was recreated in the wake of her "passage". The Miskatonic Head was, for once, not alone. Or, rather, she had a companion other than the voices in her head and the monsters in her void of a soul. The raven-haired, olive-skinned woman was not human in anything besides appearance. Not fully. Her mother might have come from some nameless Arabian village, but her father had been of the Void, passing more of his nature to her than to any of his other spawn. That had intermingled with the legacy of the Mad Arab she bore in her blood, giving rise to her family''s greatest creation. Amara had been one of the lucky unwilling participants, really. She had been born after mith of her half-siblings, the ones that had been pushed to breed with each other in order to distill and preserved the knowledge their parents had been convinced Abdul al-Hazred had left sleeping under their subconscious. It hadn''t worked, of course. The desired results had never been reached. The line of the Mad Arab cared nothing for genetics, which meant that, while the resulting children had been deformed, it hadn''t been because of incest. They hadn''t been weak or ill, either. In fact, they had all been healthy, bodies and minds alike constantly assuming shapes mankind should have never dreamed of. Amara had merely been subjected to repeated impregnation from various aliens and voidspawn, testing the limits of humanity''s capacity for interbreeding. She had been strong enough to live after her spawn had eaten their way out of her, amd their caretakers had even stopped their attempts to mate with their mother. Incest clearly wasn''t going anywhere. Amara didn''t regret her slaughter of her family, on the occasions she thought of it. Her companion was a pale, redheaded New Englander-the Whateley seed had spread far, after that fateful night in Dunwich. Wanda Whateley was about as human as her ancestor, or Amanda, for that matter. Just like her, she only wore a human shape out of combat, to prevent teality from drawing back in shrieking horror. If one were inclined to classify the Outer Gods as siblings, Amara might have then been a distant aunt of Wanda''s. Nevertheless, they shared blood, however little, and knew its power and significance. Luckily, they had realised their relation only a few years after their first meeting, after Wanda had confessed her ancestry and while they had still been at the making out stage. Otherwise, it might have been more awkward, and not just because of human taboos. ''He is still asleep, you know,'' Wanda said, hands clasped behind her as they arrived on the island, blood-red curls hiding her milky, heart-shaped face and watery grey eyes from view. ''Our intrusion might awaken him, instead.'' ''I know all about tempting fate and self-fulfilling prophecies, my dear.'' Amara put a reassuring hand on the taller woman''s shoulder. ''This feels different.'' ''If you say so,'' The younger Miskatonic agent allowed, though her heart wasn''t in it. Amara didn''t frown at her niece''s hesitation-she thought it far more useful than the recklessness they had shared a few decades ago-but she didn''t like it, either. The Sleeper Under the Stars stirring at this moment was pure bad luck, or, in other words, like calling to like as the Crawling Chaos laughed. They had to make sure he remained slumbering. Amara took in the gathered Drake agents, acknowledging the flying bow of Ying''s protege with a curt nod. The little zmeu, the one who had beought Silva back from the dead, giving ARC a new asset and several problems, was standing to the side, not mingling with the dragons. Behaviour entirely at odds with how her file said she acted around her lover, friends or...anything not entirely disgusting. Amara preferred not to read other''s minds unless necessary-it both brough back and let her see too many bad memories-but she picked up Mia''s unease without even meaning to, and it had nothing to do with the mission. Anxiousness, about Silva''s reaction when her instincts came calling. Guilt, because of some recent mistake she felt had disappointed him. Amara didn''t want feelings compromising the mission. She also hated seeing young girls let something she had never felt slip away. With a discreet pulse of her will, Amara erased the cloud of self-doubt and the shadow of intoxication lingering at the edges of the zmeu''s mind. Mia didn''t even realise it had happened, and, not willing herself to be immune to esoterics, was susceptible to such effects. Some would have said it had been an invasion of privacy, a violation of free will in the name of efficiency or a heavy-handed attempt to help. Amara would have agreed, then done it again. Besides...if even half of what Ned said was true, Silva would need everything that could ground and tie him to humanity once he came into the fullness of his power, and this zmeu always came up whenever he talked about it. When Mia stood at attention upon the Miskatonic Head''s arrival, her eyes were a little brighter, her mind a little lighter. Amara allowed herself a small smile. Humans always wanted what they couldn''t have, and she was still human enough that she wished for happiness-if not for herself, at least for others. ''I see the Goetia quartet isn''t here,'' Amara said, clasping her hnds in front of her as Wanda flitted across reality to reappear among the Drake agents. ''Let us hope they will arrive at the same time as the aliens and Japan''s sledgehammer, so we won''t have to wait more.'' *** The Reptilian Collective had never gone to war in its current incarnation. Certain skirmishes might have left the overworlders believe they knew their full capabilities, but they did not. The reptilians sent to Mars before the Cold Madness had been the equivalent of a few drunk construction workers, the Unscarred an excavator (the Shaper had read reports of an incident involving a vengeful human going on a rampage in a bulldozer, and the comparison fit). Even its return during the Headhunt had been a favour to the Global Gathering, not the beginning of a mobilisation. That would have been unwise, and escalated things needlessly. The quantum reptilian could not be easily equated to anything, but that was only to be expected. In the youth of their species, back when they still reproduced naturally, the reptilian had stripped their homeworld bare, in wars with the nascent Unity Stellar and the tribes that would eventually form the Honoured Kratocracy. That had been billions of years ago and trillions of light years away, beyond the universe mankind saw. The reptilian who formed the core of the Shaper had led her people to victory-a victory so final and disastrous no species involved had been willing to continue. Seeing red, the reptlian had returned to her palace and beaten her harem to death with her bare hands, hissing in anger at the civilisation falling apart under her nose. When her wits returned, she led the survivors into space, to search for a new homeworld. The reptilians found Earth before life appeared on it, and deliberated upon a course for their species until the first single-celled organisms formed. At that point, the reptilians swore off their warmongering past, vowing to become scientists and observers. Reproduction became a matter of genecraft, sexual characteristics a things of the past as more efficient methods of creating new reptilians were sought and found. When the cultovorous aberrants-the ones the overworlders called ''gods''-took an interest in Earth, they made a deal with the reptilians, to keep the world stable. The Collective agreed, and, for millenia, hunted and put down any danger to the Syncretic Treaty, assassinating the worshippers of alien gods before they could start cults or infiltrate those of Earthbound deities, using their devices to remove deviations from reality before they could etch themselves into mankind''s collective unconscious. And yet, even with the conflicts between gods, even with the Shattering bringing the supernatural fully into reality, the Collective had never gone to war. But it looked like it might have to, soon enough, if the strange Unseelie''s attack was any indication. The Collective''a realm might have been built with Earth''s core as a foundation, but phase-shifting meant it existed detached from the rest of reality, with an untouched core visible to everyone not inside the artificial phase, which contained a separate core, covered in arcologies connected by wormholes and tunnels that spanned thousands of kilometres of molten metal. It couldn''t have been any other way, really. With how many octillion stars the Collective had stolen from across creation, their realm surpassed their native universe in size, while spatial folding simultaneously kept it smaller than Earth. The reach of science. If only the aberrants could stop trampling over physics for one moment, they could even teach mankind how to do this. Alas, they all seemed more interested in ways to violate leverage and conservation of mass than learning how reality truly worked in order to achieve nigh-identical results. The Shaper shook the Unscarred''s head as it watched its armies form up. It had grown attached to its creation in the last three greater cycles, bot literally and metaphorically. Humans. Truly, it had contemplated simply destroying them the moment their ape ancestors had started walking and using tools, but they had grown on it. Like moss. At the start of 2030, the Collective had consisted of eight hundred-eighty octillion reptilians, only a fraction of which were ever seen in the universe, for there was no need. The average, unmodified reptilian could move over half a dozen times faster than sound, and strike with enough force to level small towns or shatter hills. Extensive genetic modification had removed the capacity for pain, fear or exhaustion, though that could easily be adjusted, if needed for certain experiments. And, like their animalistic, Earthborn cousins, they could see heat, stick to any surface or regenerate, as long as even the smallest chunk remained, though being ground into dust necessitated outside help for recovery to be achieved. That would not be enough for the upcoming extrauniversal aberrant invasion, let alone-every analyst agreed, much to the Shaper''s unease-the much worse incursions that would follow it. It would not be enough against the Unity Stellar''s inborn control over the universe''s fundamental forces, or the Honoured Kratocracy''s hyper-reactive metabolism, which could push them from ''mere'' planet-breakers hundreds of times faster than light to far greater monsters, without, it seemed, any upper limit beyond a conflict''s duration. It would not be enough against the Multitude of Minds the alien humans called Grey One had been once part of, before its telepathic link to the whole had been severed by an aethernautical experiment. The Shaper watched through its yoctomachines and the Unscarred''s unblinking pink eyes as the Collective''s soldiers were fitted with power armour by the drones that outnumbered them trillions to one, and which would follow them to war. The armour''s yamadium yoctotubes increased the wearer''s strength and durability to the level of the Unscarred, or a baseline Kratocrat. Their reflexes hovered just below lightspeed, for the Collective still couldn''t go faster than light without wormholes. Generators usually used for the generation of the Collective''s method of interstellar travel were fitted on and into the armour, right next to siphons that greedily drained the energy drawn from the Collective''s trapped stars and through the micro-wormholes in the armour. Enough power and heat to blast Earth to ash was absorbed and stored every second, for there were certain aberrants immune to either heat or blunt force out there. The drones charged up the same way, if in far greater numbers, scanning their surroundings for signs of more Fae. None came. ''Today, we go out into a world that has been slipping into madness for as long as we have known it-longer, in fact. We must not, cannot and will not let the tides of insanity and ignorance snuff out the flame of reason. The beings we share our world with have remained our friends, even after the event that shattered both their and our image of ourselves. We shall repay them.'' The Shaper wasn''t usually one for long speeches, or any, for that matter. It supposed it was letting the enthusiasm of its first mind''s youth return. ''There are things coming to this world that would destroy all life with their mere presence, or in their unthinking thirst for mayhem. We will not let them win.'' There was no applause, lukewarm or otherwise, nor any sniggering at the unprepared speech. The reptilians merely parted their fanged maws in acknowledgement of their greatest scientist, put their helmets on, and marched into the myriad wormholes opening into other, hostile realities. At the same time, they activated the rationalisers in their armours: for as far as the wearer could perceive (perception that spanned worlds, between reptilian senses and armour sensors), active application of aberrant powers or equivalents-"magic"-could not be used. There had been some suggestions to name rationalisers "antimagic field projectors", but the Shaper had refused, declaring it would have been gauche. Its irritation at the rationalisers'' failure to supress passive aberrant powers-regeneration, senses, physical prowess and the like-might have played a role in that. More soldiers than there were stars in each passed through every wormhole, accompanied by enough drones to drown galaxies. Satisfied that the first wave had successfully departed, the Shaper made the Unscarred teleport outside the phase-space and on the island whose coordinates Abnormal Combat and Research had sent it. Behind it followed ten thousand soldiers, each accompanied by a hundred drones. Liaising with ARC, especially given the ominous hints in the message, was always useful. *** Ritsu Yamada wore an ear-splitting grin as he slowly lunged across the Pacific, black slippers barely touching water. "Slowly" in the sense he crossed hundreds of kilometres every second, as opposed to hundreds of thousands, as his human form could when he was actually exerting himself. But there was no need for that yet. The Yamada heir wore a black sleeveless shirt, with the Goetia''s division symbol, an inverted pentagram surrounding a shield, in white over his heart. His hakama pants were also black, as was the headband pulling back his shoulder-length hair, which was currently an electric blue with yellow highlights. One thing Ritsu really appreciated about ARC was that, as long as you wore something black with the organisation''s symbol, you were more or less tacitly allowed to customise your uniform. It was like being being in the Marines from One Piece! Except they weren''t fascist assholes serving a bunch of inbred fucks puppeted by a secret king. Um. He hoped. ''Why do the pricks always get the cool outfits?!'' Ritsu lamented to himself, arms raised to the skies. At the speed he was going, it was only his control over how he interacted with the world that allowed him to heal himself. Shaddup, Shuten-doji growled inside his soul. Ritsu could practically feel the oni shifting his fat ass as he turned onto the side. Nevertheless, he shut up. Drink, the oni added, seeing his partner was being tractable today. Shrugging, Ritsu raised the sake gourd he wore on a leather thong around his neck to his lips, taking a small gulp. The gourd couldn''t be broken, and it constantly refilled itself, which made it perfect for his...their fighting style. Dammit. Why couldn''t he snag something cute, like his colleague, as opposed to an overgrown, old oni frat...boy? Man? Geezer? Ritsu himself was forty-four, but he had a feeling Shuten-doji had been an old man since birth. ''Trouble in paradise?'' Miguel Fernandez asked as he ran alongside him, small grin widening as his coworker flipped him off. The probability mage wore a three piece suit, black except for the white coattails and gloves. His dark-skinned, bearded face was made for smiling, as he told everyone who asked him why he did it so often(especially when he was quietly laughing at the person asking him), and his curly raven hair somehow swayed in the wind, despite the fact it should have been blown backwards by the sheer speed. ''Fuck off! We don''t all have the luck of being married to our partner, alright!? Not that..." Ritsu gestured at the flaming heart tattoos on his biceps, containing the words "Laugh. Love. Leave". ''I''m made for that kinda life!'' ''Not with ?that attitude...'' Miguel''s demon purred as she half-slipped into reality to float alongside her husband, who smiled at her, squeezing one of her clawed hands. *** Sklaresia had been born in Hell, after Lucifer''s rebellion. The purple-skinned, six-armed demon had displayed an aptitude for healing only a few centuries after birth, which, coupled with her tolerant temperament, had seen her assigned to a shelter for the rebels'' traumatised, wounded veterans. Of course, even her powers had been unable to heal the emptiness at the core of their being, resulting in countless millennia of being at the mercy of demons with appetites rarely as mundane or harmless as lust or sadism. Now, the demon was on a dingy side-alley on Earth, trying to reconstitute her corpus after a narrow escape that had nearly destroyed her-which, at least, beat the assured destruction that would have resulted from remaining in Hell. Klare wasn''t sure in which country she was-she hadn''t aimed for one. Going by the aetheric currents, probably somewhere in Chirstendom...did they still call it that? The human who approached her, dressed in a shabby pair of jeans and a ratty denim jacket, was flipping a coin-a rather blunt statement about the nature of the magic dripping off him. He probably considered himself slick, too, Klare thought with an amused smile. ''Oh? Hello there, darling. Why is a pretty lady like you crying on the ground?'' Miguel asked, tilting his head, brown eyes crinkling with concern. Sklaresia laughed weakly. "Because I''m too hurt to stand. But I''m sure you could help me, stranger. Perhaps by giving me your name as a start, so I know who to thank." ''I''d rather give you some mana, so that you could finish healing yourself,'' the mage said carefully, catching the coin between his right hand''s thumb and index finger. ''And then, maybe you could tell me what happened to you.'' ''You''re not going to try and banish me?'' Miguel shrugged. ''You haven''t started destroying everything, despite choosing not to hide yourself. That''s strange enough to warrant some...well.'' ''Perhaps I am merely biding my time.'' ''Perhaps. But I''ll take that chance.'' Miguel was a pettier man, in those days. It was not long before he challenged her to a contest that would result in the winner owning the loser, half coveting her power, half terrified at the thought of her being hurt again to the extent she had been during their first meeting. Sklaresia had been touched enough by his concern for her wellbeing that she had let him keep his free will. And, over the decades, their contract of ownership over mind, body and soul-''I see you care for both me and this world. As long as you are mine, I shall fight for it.''-had become something like a marriage vow. Then, Tamar Thousandhands had found them, and offered them a place in his division. He was interested in an apparently healthy relationship between human and hellspawn(and, perhaps, just a little dismayed at the unhealthy ones between humans), wanting to see if it could be replicated. *** ''Oh, get a room, you two.'' Ritsu rolled his eyes. ''I don''t even swing that away, and Shuten-dumbass wouldn''t be my type if I did!'' Then, without another word, he accelerated, covering the last few thousand kilometres of the journey in a fraction of a second, leaving the couple behind. Miguel frowned at the tide Ritsu had left him as a present, then reduced the chance of it existing to zero, causing the water to fade into nothing. With a pulse of will, he oncreased the chance of him being spontaneously teleported to the rendezvous point to a hundred percent, causing an aetheric current to sweep him away and to the island in an instant. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Sklaresia looked at her husband''s magical trail, shaking her head and sighing fondly. ''Boys...'' Beating her batlike wings, the demon sped after him, the light briefly catching her long orange hair and black ram horns before she slipped into the aether. *** ''We are not going to Atlantis, are we?'' To Mia''s surprise, she hadn''t been the one to ask. Instead, Rockfall (she had noticed dragons mostly named themselves after elements of nature, much like zmei used their features. David hadn''t blushed upon learning her zmeu name, but only because he couldn''t. The memory always made her smile) had been the one curious. The brown-scaled, emerald-eyed dragon was dozens of kilometres tall even on all fours, his mouth alone dwarfing the mountains he often devoured, only to replace them with new ones. People didn''t know whether he spat new rock in place of the eaten one, or if he recycled it, and most didn''t want to find out. Or dwell on the matter. Amara did not look at him when she replied. ''Of course not. Besides the Watcher''s allergy to outsiders, nothing we can do would be helpful if they faced anything they couldn''t handle.'' Rockfall nodded, relaxing slightly, as did everyone else. The relief only lasted until they realised where exactly in the Pacific they were going. ''That''s Point Nemo,'' Miguel said as they approached the sunken city, toying with a silver coin. Amara nodded. ''Close to it. Both interpretations are almost correct, by which I mean, completely wrong. The city is indeed the farthest from any landmass-that is, it is the farthest from "the human world", what we perceive as the order of reality.'' Wanda, on her aunt''s right, swept her gaze across the ARC agents. ''The Fixer''s efforts mean we can talk about eldritch abominations and invoke their names without fear of madness, mutation, or other repercussions-but that only applies outside their domains. Most of us are immune to such effects, whether passively or by willing ourselves to be. Nevertheless, I would advise everyone present to avoid namedropping.'' ''Bushido will meet us above...beneath the city. Or, perhaps, parallel to it.'' Hiro, on the Miskatonic Head''s left, clicked his tongue, bushy white eyebrows scrunching together. He was a creature of the natural order, which meant such places fell outside his comfort zone, and not only literally. ''As will the reptilians. They are both the ace up our sleeve and our getaway.'' Soon enough, all signs of life, whether marine or airborne, disappeared, as did the clouds in the sky. What had been an overcast day became a moonless, cloudless night, the sky lit by sickly-green stars, each seeming larger and brighter than the sun. Yet, somehow, they still filled the sky in their thousands, casting no reflection in the utterly-still ocean beneath. The water, flat as a mirror, was also a sickly-green, though it became darker and darker as one looked deeper. The shapes standing above the water had no place here. This did not deter them. The Unscarred, its right arm and torso replaced by a mass of yoctomachines that mimicked the lost flesh''s appearance, stood at the forefront of ten thousand armoured reptillians and a million drones, armours and machines alike changing colour to blend in with the environment, to the point they would have been invisible to a baseline human''s naked eye. The Unscarred bared its fangs in an approximation of a smile at the agents'' arrival. The Shaper still found it strange that humans were reassured by what most species saw as a threatening gesture, but only a fool would have considered them gullible rather than strange. ''Greetings, aberrants! We have good news and better news!'' the Shaper said, raising the Unscarred''s arms, claws splayed, in a pose that suggested madness rather than joy. ''The good news is that the rationaliser project is complete!'' Mia saw Hiro and Amara nod at this, and wondered if that was some experiment meant to make the Shaper make sense. ''The better news is, everyone you see here,'' it gestured at the reptilians behind it with one hand. ''Have volunteered themselves to test it in a hostile aberrant environment! We do not know whether the collapse of this non-euclidean location will destroy them, or if they will merely emerge unharmed into rational reality, but it matters not, either way. We can always make more.'' The reptilians whispered to each other in agreement, praising the value of new data as far more useful than their lives. Mia hoped those buckets on their heads didn''t let them see her blanch. ''Silence, callous alien!'' Bushido roared, jabbing an accusing finger at the Unscarred, his other hand clenched into a fist before him. ''Neither of those should be considered good news to you! While Nippon benefits from the self-destruction of your foul kind-the fate of all our enemies!-you should not express your joy at such cold sacrifice! Your loathsome nature will only make mankind exterminate you once you reveal it!'' Bushido paced across the water as he criticised the Shaper, the naginata and rifle slung across the back of his white samurai armour clanging against each other. His snarl matched the grimacing ivory mask he wore, and he slammed a fist into the red sun on his chest as he finished. ''You!'' he then turned to the ARC agents. ''Do not think you flagless degenerates are in anyway superior to these lizards! Especially you, Ritsu-you shame your grandfather, family and country every instant you wear that "uniform"! I should execute you right now-'' ''Bushiiiiii,'' Ritsu groaned, tilting his head back and rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm, eyes closed. ''We''ve had this discussion before.'' ''And we clearly must speak again! The instant I am done sending that squamous bastard back to sleep, I will rip your throat out with my teeth!'' Bushido promised, before cutting a portal into R''lyeh with his naginata, and leaping in. The Unscarred''s eyes became red after a few moments of staring. ''We were not sure he could do that.'' Then, it turned to its allies. ''Our people will remain here while we purge the city and execute our plan. Then, once it is safe, they will enter, activate their rationalisers and...after that, we shall see.'' ''If there are no more distractions...'' Amara began. Faintly, the sound of steel folded a thousand times tearing through eldritch false matter could be heard from both above and below. ''The Drake agents are here for their raw power, as is Yamada. Hiro, Fernandez, you two will bring the stars down when the time comes. Mia, you will aid them.'' ''But I don''t know what that means,'' the zmeu protested. ''What am I supposed to d-'' Amara was suddenly in front of her, looking straight through the material of her cloak''s hood to meet the zmeu''s eyes. ''You will know when the time comes. Speaking of what you must do will make its success unlikely, but do not worry. I know of your expertise in making constructs. And, after all, is breaking not easier than making?'' Mia bristled at the Miskatonic Head''s smile, resisting the instinct to try and kill her, or at least show her fangs. ''Yes, ma''am.'' *** The slimy, green buildings rose from streets that led nowhere, into the empty sky or the abyss beneath everything. Windowless, they sometimes grew sideways from or into bigger buildings, pulsing and throbbing in response to a slow arrhythmic heartbeat. Rectangular beams of green light shone on random spots on their facades, giving the impression of windows. But this city''s inhabitants had never needed eyes to see, and never would. And above, dizzyingly far above but simultaneously far, far too close, to the point their heat was stifling, the stars shone, somehow bigger and brighter than in the mundane universe, slowly moving, aligning to awaken the Sleeper. The starspawn-Cthulhi, some had called them-stumbled drunkenly to their clawed feet and hooves and tentacles, lurched forward on appendages that had no name in any human language, and no shape any human eye could discern. Mia saw this all. The false limbs, twisting through three dimensions like slugs caught in glass, trying to break free; the un-matter of their bodies, colourless yet showing all colours. Bodies bigger than any mountain and smaller than any newborn stumbled on streets that twisted and looped into themselves. There were more starspawn in their father''s city than there were particles in the universe mankind recognised as theirs. They did not tire. They did not hurt. Their merest touch could unmake mountains and turn islands into the impossible landmarks of their home. And they all dearly, dearly wanted the stars to be right, so they could throw open the gates and sing madness, until everything came apart. Mia raised both arms to stop a punch that would have flattened the Everest, rocking back into the air. As long as she willed herself to resist, the starspawn''s touch could gain no purchase on her. It still turned her uniform into a cloud of babbling quantum foam, leaving her naked. The beardlike tentacles on the starspawn''s face parted to reveal a triangular beak twisted into an idiot grin. Its thoughts battered at her mind, the clash between them and her resistance blasting buildings the size of islands to pieces, or turning them from blocks of stone to thick, viscous liquid, to choking gas to plasma. It wanted her, the starspawn said. That was, it wanted what she represented: a world not truly touched by their kind, to be reshaped as they saw fit. They viewed Earth as some kind of breeding sow, Mia realised, or maybe an unfertilised egg. Images of what the starspawn would turn her into, once it broke her will to resist, and fill with its children appeared the air between them. ''Sorry, squid,'' Mia said, splattering a mountain-sized hand with an elbow and flying above a trio of grasping tendrils. ''But I''m seeing someone right now.'' The Cthulhi''s laugh erased the conjured images, the air across the street, and the space around them, leaving them floating in a colourless void. Time disappeared, but Mia''s wings beat where a human would have been unable to exist, let alone act. A firebreath melted trillions of tons of slippery flesh like candle wax, but the starspawn just chuckled wetly, remaking itself around her. Its suckers grasped her body as it flowed over her face, up her nose slits and down her throat, whispering discordantly as it caressed her mind. Once they mated and her mind broke, there would be no need to fight back anymore. It would plant its seed inside her right now, it declared. Yeah? Mia thought back with a snarl as her body heated up. Go fuck yourself first. The starspawn became steam, and, before it could recreate its body, Mia tapped into her connection to zmeu country, dragging it out of the void and into her domain. With a pulse of will, she created a constant burst of mana around it, ensuring that, no matter what it tried to turn into, it would never escape. Mia grinned as she flew out of the void and tried not to think what had nearly happened. Around her, the dragons had managed to craft a herd the starspawn into mana cages, while Hiro spun to stop the continent-sized amalgams trying to crush him. Every touch of his claws burst masses of flesh that outmassed Asia, while his lightning breath turned them to steam, webs of brilliant sparks growing from his mouth to place the Cthulhi in a loop of constant destruction. Miguel focused his magic to try and reduce the chances of the stars aligning to zero, and sweat ran down his temples as a force far older than his magic inexorably pushed him back. Sklaresia dashed in and out of being around her husband, burning every starspawn approaching him to nothing with black hellfire or devouring their bodies faster than Mia could see and exhaling thick green smoke. Back to back with him, Wanda Whateley let her human mask slip, and billions of Cthulhi shrieked in disbelieving horror at the sight of a monster far greater than they had ever been. At the sight of her shapeless true self, minds infinitely more resilient than a human''s broke, and the starspawn tried to escape, to hide themselves. Some stomped and thrashed, making dozens of kilometres of rock ripple, but they were transfixed by her will. And then, the heiress of the Dunwich Horror opened the layers of her form like a flower, and billions of screams died, as did the screamers, bodies becoming inert beyond the scope of their regeneration. A sound, between a slurp and a dry gasp, filled the city, then the corpses were gone. And, while Amara held back the bulk of the starspawn, unmaking swathes of them with every successful thrust of her will through the shield of their combined alien minds, Ritsu, Bushido and the Unscarred faced the city''s master. *** The Sleeper walked through a dream of madness. In every universe it had seen bloom into being before shriveling to nothing across the vigintillions of years of its existence, there was a always someone or something mad-insane, angry or both- enough to oppose the inevitable. Entropy won. Civilisations fell, worlds collapsed, stars burned out, galaxies came apart. It could not be stopped. Just as minds broke when faced with the freedom fools called madness, the lie that was reality could not stand before it. The Sleeper knew the constraints many of this universe''s inhabitants chafed under: the doubt that plagued their minds, the desire for things, the worry about perils, the need to reason and find out why and how. The Sleeper pitied them. Soon, it would break the chains they did not know they wore. Bathed in madness, they would never think about anything again, and their bodies would become malleable, changing with every passing impulse. Freedom, and bliss. It just needed to wake up...first... The lethargy that gripped it was fading, moment by moment, and so were the shackles of its power. A body whose head would have parted the waves while its taloned feet touched the seafloor strode across its city. The house in which it lay dead but dreaming contained the Sleeper, however its body changed. Even as it grew large enough to hold the Earth in one hand, the city never got smaller... The Sleeper''s eyes darted about under its twitching eyelids, but it was, still, only half-awake. No matter. The three that stood across it could not stop what was coming. ''Halt, you gibbering idiot!'' One of them, wearing the Archetype it slavishly worshipped like a mantle of chains, screamed. The weapon it hefted might have appeared mundane and primitive, but the Sleeper knew it could hurt its manifestation. The thing in white dashed forward, as fast as light, its blade cutting a twenty thousand kilometre-wide gash across the Sleeper''s chest. A twitch of a finger destroyed it, its matter removed from the cosmos, but it willed itself back into existence, its power exploding dramatically as it returned the Sleeper''s favour. A body larger than some gas giants, and far harder to destroy, became chunks of gore as the thing''s blade struck, only for the pieces to fuse back into the whole instantly. The next hit-for the Sleeper''s mastery of reality and unreality was useless against these three-broke the white screamer in half, sending the pieces flying, but it healed as it ran back, power flaring to match and surpass the strength of the limbs that flailed at it. Hits that would have obliterated the thing an instant ago landed harmlessly as the thing''s archetype recognised a challenged and reacted accordingly. No matter. The Sleeper was a priest of the All-in-One, and it could increase its own power on a whim: a reflection of the cause it served, of freedom from logic and the dictates of creation. And yet...the white screamer''s power did not have a limit, beyond the fact it returned its vessel to the baseline once a conflict ended. They could rip each other apart until the end of time, and achieve nothing. Another one, this one bound to a being made from the substance between realities, leapt at the Sleeper. It dashed about its body, punching and kicking continent-sized holes into its skin, fast enough to circle this world several times every second. The Sleeper''s eyes, which saw time from all sides, and so much more, noted the bonds of affection that tied this two-faced thing to the white screamer. Absurd. What were the chances of these irritating mayflies being affectionate? The runner''s second face slipped over the first, body more than doubling in size, short, wiry fur bursting from its skin as its teeth lengthened into tusks. The thing grew hundreds of times faster, and every hit that landed on the Sleeper''s growing body ripped open wounds that would have swallowed planets. That was not the worst, however. The two-faced drunk from some sort of container as its ran about-childish; did it feed by suckling?-, and every gulp made it dozens of times faster and stronger. The more it ran, the more it drank, until its rate of growth was on par with the white screamer that constantly tore its torso apart. ''Why the fuck is it so hard to hurt!?'' the two-faced one bellowed, slurring slightly. ''A steamboat split its head open in the book! And why is it getting stronger?'' The third thing was also white, but shaped like a lizard and controlled by reckoning machines. It landed on the Sleeper''s head, shattering holes the size of planets with every strike as it flitted about at lightspeed, teleporting when the Sleeper''s tendrils dashed at it too far for its body to move. It was also trying to teleport the Sleeper away, perhaps drop it into deep space or the path between universes, but to no avail. Its form was proof to such tricks. Why were they trying to stop it? Besides the fact that it was impossible, did they not see the joy it would bring? Its mere existence, when awake, could shatter billions of minds and warp the reality of whole planets. All their worries would be washed away when the Sleeper remade their world. ''I also know how it is like to desire a new home, after the first was lost,'' the lizard spoke as it tore at the Sleeper''s head. How presumptuous. What did this infant, with its mere five billion years of existence, know? "That said...get off our planet, aberrant." *** The Shaper, tapping into its connection to the Collective''s machines, opened trillions of wormholes around the Sleeper, each leading to the core of a star, dousing it in heat, while two bigger ones, opening into singularities at the hearts of black holes, opened under its feet and above its head. The Sleeper walked through the plasma as it wasn''t there, ignored the gravity and unmade the wormholes with its passing, shattering them like glass. Bushido and Ritsu still tore at it, the former roaring with bloodlust as his power pushed him further than it had in decades, while the latter downed litres of sake with every gulp, matching his grandfather''s old friend in growth. But it was pointless. Nothing they did could permanently hurt the Sleeper, and it would grow stronger, eventu- A backhand hit the Unscarred like a concentrated supernova, sending it flying through millions of kilometres of rock. The hit itself caved its chest in, while the impact that carved a star-sized tunnel merely scraped off some scales. More yoctomachines entered through micro-wormholes to repair its body and form a spherical shield around it, thickening and thickening until the Sleeper''s hits bounced off. It was time to end this. *** ''Fernandez!'' Mia called as she flew at the mage, trying not to look at the thing that walked through the city, unstoppable, never slowing, never speeding up. ''I know what we must do!'' ''I''ll protect you,'' Sklaresia growled, jaws parted as lava-hot saliva dripped from her fangs. ''Get on with it.'' The zmeu nodded gratefully, then turned to the mage. ''The stars have to be right-but they also have to be here. Otherwise, Ct-the Sleeper,'' she bit her tongue. ''Will have nothing to awaken to!'' ''Are you going to blow them up!?'' Miguel asked, head swivelling between the three fighting the Sleeper and Amara as she finished off its children. ''No! I''m gonna make them go away, but I need your help! I need this to be a guaranteed succ-'' Mia ducked as a severed tentacle tip, larger than Earth, was sent flying from the Sleeper''s face by Bushido''s swing. ''Right..''" Miguel swallowed, then grasped Mia''s hands as she began dragging the stars into zmeu country. The things flared up in indignation as their false minds smashed into Mia''s, surfaces bubbling up as they sent beams of heat at the zmeu, only for Sklaresia to blast them to nothing with hellfire. Halfway across the street, Wanda cursed as she saw the stars using the way they were being moved to align. ''Amara!'' she called to her aunt. ''Leave the horde and call in the reptilians, or we''ll lose!'' ''Are you mad!?'' the Head replied, holding back a lance of psychic power that would have cut the Milky Way in half. ''Who''ll stop the-'' ''I will! Call in the reptilians, NOW!'' Wanda shouted, skittering across broken buildings and leaping through loops formed by floating streets. ''You''ll die, you stupid girl! You''ll be left here, alone with the...the...''Amara glanced at the Sleeper, and Wanda saw tears gleaming at the edge of her aunt''s eyes. ''I know,'' she said softly. ''I love you.'' Amara sniffed. ''I love you too, you idiot.'' Amara left a silhouette of darkness behind as her niece leapt into the middle of the remaining Cthulhi, breaking their minds and bodies by the billion even as a few survivors tore wounds into her form with blasts of psychic and slithered inside them, trying to fill her body body with their spawn, though contact with her being alone was enough to painfully unmake them. Amara did not look back to see Wanda die-her niece would not have wanted that. Instead, as she destroyed the stars that Mia dragged into zmeu country, her power bolstered by Fernandez'' magic-there was no knowing what letting them linger in such a mana-rich environment could lead to-she thanked whoever was listening that her Wanda would die like a heroine, not a trapped rat. And then, when the last was gone, she swept up everyone into her arms, letting a little of her true nature show in order to grab them all, and tore open a hole out of R''lyeh just as the Sleeper began slowing down, then toppling. The reptilians flew past them as they escaped on plasma thrusters, not even waiting for the Shaper''s command, followed by the drones. The portal Amara had opened collapsed on them they activated their rationalisers...as did the city, breaking apart and falling out of reality, dragging its sleeping master-for its was bound to R''lyeh as long as it slumbered-along with it. *** When Mia got back home, tired and twitching at everything slimy or even vaguely-tendril like, she did not necessarily expect David to welcome her. Missions could last longer than anticipated without everything going tits up-which, according to Constantin, her boyfriend''s had. ''I did not understand everything,'' the priest said softly as he rubbed circles on her back. ''They jumped me when I was coming from church, asked me why I''d taught David to be a speciesist murderer...I didn''t know what they were talking about, at the time.'' Mia didn''t say anything, fangs grinding as she followed Constantin into David''s house. ''My son is not guilty of this-I refuse to believe that,'' the priest said heatedly. ''I don''t know the whole story, but God willing, I will. I...I just wanted to warn you, Mia. People might come to ask you questions...if they learn you and David are together. I''m begging you, do not get angry at them-'' ''For they know not what they speak?'' Mia grinned sardonically as she sat down on the couch she and David usually used. ''Yeah...I got it, Costi.'' The priest nodded. ''We must be prepared for anything. The Lord showed me a future where David is feared by Christians as a Devil-worshipper with the eyes of a pagan god...it didn''t make much sense. I know my son is...has been touched by powers other than God''s. It matters not, as long as his heart is true,'' Constantin said, sitting down next to her and taking her larger, scaled hands into his calloused ones. ''And...I am going to ask something of you, my dear. Call it a father''s selfish concern,'' the priest laughed weakly to himself. ''I think it would help David''s heart to stay true if you were at his side. He is...'' he lowered his head, eyes dark. ''I cannot say, exactly. But he is trapped, both literally and in his mind. He believes everything that happened is his fault-even if he didn''t do it, he could have prevented it.'' ''David, blaming himself for things he can''t control? Say it ain''t so!'' Constantin cracked a small smile at her look of forced incredulity, patting her hands. ''And...if you happen to desire someone else during this ordeal...please let him know. Let him down gently, just...don''t try to hide it from him. If you did, he''d blame himself even more, and we can''t have David hog all the guilt!'' Mia smiled despite herself, hugging the old man. ''Is this the part where you tell me not to hurt your son, or else?'' ''You are the last person I would need to tell that,'' Constantin said, hugging her back. ''Andrei probably would, but...you know how he is.'' Mia nodded, kissing him on the cheek. ''And where is David now? Can I see him?'' *** ''...Hey, Mia. You''re probably wondering how I got into such a bind.'' Mia smiled at me from across the warded, reinforced window. ''I''m just happy you can still joke, love. You''re just as strong as I expected.'' Strong...me? ''Why don''t you tell me what happened? We have time.'' Don''t...don''t start crying in front of her, too... ''David...?'' I''m ?sorry...Mia, pops, Oberon...everyone. I''m sorry. I''m sorry I''m not fearless like you, Szabo. I still have nightmares, for all that I don''t sleep. I...I''m sorry I didn''t die with you, mom... ''David!'' Buried Again, Prologue
''You are here for everyone''s good, Silva.'' "Even your own" went unsaid, but Gaol John''s expression said everything. Today, the Head of Internal Affairs looked like a wiry old man, his scraggly white beard reaching down to his chest, skin leathery and cracked, back bent under the weight of his deeds and chains-which were far, far more numerous than the ones wrapped around his limbs. He wore colourless rags that might have once been a prison uniform, and his feet were bare. The only sign of his allegiance was the hollow white shield symbol of Internal Affairs tattooed on his neck. ''I know,'' I said, trying not to sound whiny. After all, I agreed, even if being quarantined-that is, detained-like this rankled, and not just because of ?why I''d been dragged to the IA headquarters in Uluru. The Mobius cell we were in was pure white, with no boundaries or distinguishing features at all, save for the patch of Broceliande my presence created. I couldn''t see, hear or smell anything besides John, who had ordered me not to use Mimir''s sight while they analysed both me and the nature of my prison. ''Then stop pouting,'' John demanded with a scowl far deeper than mine, which seemed to be his usual expression. ''I told Reem letting the Black God wear you the first time was a mistake,'' he crossed his arms, chains tinkling. ''Hoping the pantheons would kill him for us was stupid. Why''d they do that when they could just point him at rivals?'' ''Forget that,'' I said, not liking this talk of the Headhunt. ''How''d he do it this time?'' ''The Fixer''s opposite number was waist-deep in this,'' the ghost gestalt replied, beginning to pace. ''He didn''t warn us, because it would have opened a path for our enemies to receive similar info. Damn balancing game...'' John didn''t seem inclined to speak anymore, which meant it fell to me to carry the conversation-I know. I was blanching there, myself. ''How long have I been here?'' I asked softly, lifting a hand to get a feel of my face. My body was covered in burns and smoked when I moved. According to the Fivefold, who''d briefly visited me to apologise for failing to foresee this disaster, she''d pushed me facedown into holy water, after which Chernobog had snatched me away. Presumably, the Black God had burned me to amuse himself, before throwing me into Merlin''s prison. But he hadn''t known the presence of another prisoner would free Merlin. Power unchained after fifteen centuries, the cambion mage had called upon his Nephilim cousin for help, and together, he and Vyrt had driven Chernobog away. We had to take their word for it, as the same darkness that had blinded us during our journey into Faerie also prevented our postcognitives from checking the past directly. But it still felt wrong. Sure, I could believe Chernobog would want to use me as a tool for murder-though that was an understatement, this time-again, then leave me alive but unable to act, so I would suffer more. He was sadistic enough. But it still didn''t fit. Something, maybe my intuition, maybe a sliver of Mimir''s perception, if they were even still separate at this point, told me I wasn''t seeing the whole picture. And that would have driven me up the walls, if this cell had any. ''Not long,'' John grunted, shrugging. ''Still haven''t done a proper check.'' His long white hair parted like curtains, allowing me to see the voids swirling where a human would have had eyes. Countless years of of bondage and suffering floated inside the colourless slits into reality, but the images felt like oil over water, like they concealed something deeper. ''A few days. You''ve been trapped inside your own mind for decades, Silva. What''s a few days compared to that?'' His flesh sloughed away as he spoke, revealing a skeletal grin full of broken teeth. In his eyes, I saw the years leading up to my suicide, the feeling of being ignored or mocked by those who read my books. So petty, so stupid. I hadn''t even really thought about my friends and father, about how they would feel. How...how they would react if I came back as a monster. ''I see all that people are bound to and by,'' John said in a cold, rasping voice. ''You have many chains upon you, Silva, binding you to what you love and hate and believe in, to what you are and what you are going to become.'' He leaned forward. ''But you are not bound to the Black God anymore, for all that your hatred points to him. And if I am wrong, let whoever is listening strike me down.'' *** ''It is physical damage-your mind and soul are undamaged, David. I mean that only in a literal sense. I know you must be devastated,'' the demon said with an apologetic smile. Sklaresia was purple-skinned and orange-haired, with backwards-jointed knees, cloven hooves, a pair of black ram-like horns and a muscular tail that tapered to a point. Her face changed with her mood, but, at the moment, her full-lipped mouth was almost humanlike, if one ignored the ivory fangs. "Klare", as she insisted I call her ("We''re coworkers, aren''t we?") had seven eyes, six of them horizontal black slits and a vertical closed one that went from her button nose and across her forehead, half-covered by her locks. According to her husband, who was also present, using his magic to ensure his wife would be successful in her checkup of me, she had been a healer during her time in Hell. ''You are clean.'' Klare crossed her middle arms. ''Do you feel well enough to answer some questions, David? Just a few, before we try to free you.'' ''I''m not sure,'' I admitted. ''But...can''t we just throw in a zombie or construct in my place and be done?'' ''Sorry,'' Fernandez said, flipping a silver coin with his thumb without looking at it. ''But whatever allowed Chernobog to throw you in chains and freed Merlin doesn''t seem to work anymore. Broceliande isn''t... sentient, but it adapts.'' He sighed. ''I''ll tell them not to press you if you''re unwell.'' The dark-skinned probability mage looked about as frustrated as I felt, though for different reasons. ''I honestly don''t know.'' I replied, sitting down on the grass. ''I...I know, in the abstract, that I''ve killed more people than there have ever been on Earth, but...it''s just so much.'' Stalin''s quote about tragedies and statistics came to mind. ''I know this''ll sound stupid, but all I can think of is how pissed off I am at Chernobog bodyjacking me again, and Mia almost being...'' I gritted my fangs, trailing off. My girlfriend and her team had done a great thing in removing R''lyeh from the world, but damn if I could focus on that. Only being told about the true nature of missions shortly before or during them was not uncommon in ARC, especially when memetic threats were involved, but that was cold comfort after learning my zmeu had almost been raped. She''d told me she''d put the starspawned bastard in a loop of destruction in zmeu country, and I could barely wait to break out of Broceliande and have some time alone with it. It''s so great, being immortal...even when you don''t benefit from being able to recover from almost anything, people like me do. ''Sorry,'' Miguel said softly. ''I should''ve kept an eye on the rookie, instead of trying to stop the stars by myself. She came up with the solution in the end, anyway!'' Miguel laughed self-deprecatingly. ''It''s alright,'' I said, maybe a little too fast. Was I trying to calm myself down, or him? Trying to convince myself the fact it had almost happened didn''t matter now that the danger was gone? Yeah...as if it couldn''t happen again. Miguel seemed to read my thoughts, and gave me a sympathetic smile. ''I know how it feels. I wasn''t there when my Klare was...'' His fist tightened around his coin as soon as he caught it again. ''But I''d rather kill myself than let it happen again.'' The demon didn''t say anything, instead just walking behind her husband and hugging him. ''Don''t know what I''d do if someone hurt you like that again...'' the mage whispered, before smiling at me again. ''We''re just a little high-strung, David. All of us. So...should I call them in?'' *** Neither Gerald Reyes nor the Argument Engine were able to talk Broceliande into releasing me. As such, ARC switched from scalpels to sledgehammers. ''Gnawing at the chains just makes them tougher,'' Shiftskin growled, bear fangs clenched in annoyance. On his right, Ying Lung, today looking like a white-suited Chinese man, with white slicked-back hair, a thin moustache and ivory eyes with black slits, blew a black smoke ring, as dismal as his mood, out of his pipe. The celestial dragon''s attempt to break the chains through force had only resulted in me getting repeatedly obliterated as he tugged, bit, clawed and blasted chi at them-his control over reality slipped right off them-with enough force to destroy the universe several times over. ''Hmm...'' Nightraiser tilted their head at me, hands clasped behind their back as they closed their eyes. For a few moments, I knew and felt nothing more, then blinked as my healing dragged me back into existence, remaking me from nothing. The chains and forest appeared at the same time. ''Stubborn,'' the androgynous agent said mildly, running a hand through their raven hair as they opened their eyes once more, brow furrowing. I was more concerned by the fact I could be affected by their existence erasure, but not permanently. That meant their power wasn''t divine, but it still didn''t make sense, unless I was misunderstanding something. Which, admittedly, wouldn''t have been hard, with my limited knowledge. ''We could try that zmeu friend of yours. Burnished Death works similarly to my power, but perhaps it will work where I failed.'' I wasn''t sure whether Lucian''s mace would work or not, but I didn''t want him to see me like this. Stupid, I know. But I didn''t want to worry my friends. ''How about Breakout?'' I suggested, looking at the Heads and older agent. ''Her power gives her the abilities to perform any task, right? We dress it up as a joint training exercise, and-'' ''And FREAKSHOW learns our god-eyed seer is trapped and all but unable to act.'' Shiftskin shook his head. ''No dice, Silva. They tried to bribe every agent of ours they couldn''t brainwash or kill during the Long Watch. The fuck you think they''d do upon learning of this blind spot?'' ''We might have offended them by killing every undercover agent of theirs we found outside the States.'' Ying took a gourd out of a pocket I''d have sworn had been empty until then, then downed a gulp of bitter-smelling, thick green tea. ''But that was just business. We were preserving neutrality, they were trying to expand their sphere of influence where they had no place doing it.'' ''Why are you telling me this now''" I asked, not knowing whether they were bullshitting me or not. What was up with the history lesson? Were they trying to distract me? ''Just wanted you to know we''re not all friends in this.'' Sam grinned drily. ''We''ll make do with what we have.'' After they left, more agents came and went. Interrogators, counsellors, doctors, mages, precognitives and postocgnitives and necromancers. An Italian Goetia agent, bound to a demon that had been banished from Hell due to its obsession with keeping one''s word, came and used his powers to detect lies to see whether Chernobog still had control over me. He''d found nothing unsettling, except, apparently, my tendency to criticise myself, though I quickly assured him that was all me. ''If you say so,'' the agent, who hadn''t given me his name, allowed. With his demon manifested, he looked like a male version of Sklaresia, except faceless, twice my height and with a grey, vertical line going down the middle of his body, separating his black and white sides. His horns resembled a bull''s more than a ram''s, too. ''Can I ask why you asked them to take away your cross?'' ''I don''t know if the chains would stop me from killing myself, like they stop me from using my powers or exercising my strength.'' Most of my powers, that was. I could still sense lifeforce and tap into Mimir''s sight, but the chains had enough power of their own to nullify my weather manipulation and lock me in place when I tried to exert myself. ''But I don''t want to find out, either.'' I said that with a forced smile. Didn''t want to get a stupid impulse and... The Goetia agent nodded, beginning to walk away. ''We still have someone we want you to talk to. Don''t go anywhere.'' The hellbound had already turned his back to me, so he didn''t see my glare. But I bet the faceless fuck felt it. *** It felt almost underwhelming, Hex reflected, to leave the easiest task for last. He knew some people preferred to take care of their most challenging business first, and use what remained as almost a form of relaxation, but he didn''t understand it. Like so many aspects of mankind. He also knew people claimed to hate mob rule, but defined normality as what the majority accepted. Hence him being seen as abnormal. It was only the lack of challenge this task presented that had him dwelling on these matters, but it was better than letting his mind wander and meld with his partner''s. More than usual, that was. Nacht was...distracting. Hex knew people called them ''partners'' in ironic tones, all but nudging and winking at each other, thinking he was unaware. He was, but saw no need to respond. They ?were partners, both at and outside of work. Nacht still seethed at the whispers behind his back. As for those who mocked him to his face...well. Being bound to the embodiment of fear opened many ways to making people cease and desist, even if all Hex had to do was not yank its choke-chain. Compared to the things-Hex still worked as a doctor in Berlin when ARC had no need for him; he had branched into veterinarian work, too, out of curiosity, but still struggled to classify their latest kills-he and Nacht had put down in the past standard Earth days, ending the folly of the Pure had been child''s play. The Pure were a parallel version of mankind, existing in and dominating a universe whose inhabitants had never developed supernatural abilities. After spreading their influence across the stars, the Pure had sought to better themselves by removing their negative emotions. Nacht had compared the experiment to Jekyll''s attempt at improving humanity, if upscaled by thirty orders of magnitudes. Hex had been inclined to agree, for the results had been similarly upscaled. The aether had reacted violently to whatever the procedure had been-the Impure, as the embodiments of their flaws had been named, had destroyed many records, but Hex highly doubted the Pure hadn''t attempted to erase their shame too. Nevertheless, it hadn''t been his place to judge. Only to help. Shiftskin didn''t want the Impure bleeding over into their reality-more abstract emotion monsters than there were stars were the last thing their universe would have needed in a relatively peaceful period, nevermind the current one. Nacht had reacted poorly to this removal of the emotions it embodied, and had eaten the Impure to calm down. ''They were like my children, you know,'' Nacht said matter-of-factly, leaning back in midair, arms crossed over the bloated belly it had created to illustrate it had recently fed. The arms were props, too, as were the interlaced fingers. ''I suppose they could be seen that way,'' Hex replied. They were in one of the Pure Council''s palace''s many guest suites. Having removed his long coat and slouch hat, Hex laid on his back on a bed far softer than he was accustomed to, and not just because he didn''t need to sleep. He had determined early on that luxury didn''t appeal to him. ''One could compare you to a scorpion that has eaten its offspring,'' he continued, staring at the reflective ceiling. He couldn''t see the mundane world, for his eyes were long gone, but Nacht helpfully described their surroundings through their bond. ''Aww~ You don''t have to flirt with me if you want to learn my sign, Emil...all you have to do is ask,'' Nacht crooned, returning to its usual shape, a jagged, glowing white grin and pair of eyes appearing on its face. It wasn''t mocking him, he knew. Since their destruction at Chernobog''s hands and subsequent recovery (in the end, the Norse gods had seemingly helped them to win. Hex would be damned before he admitted Himmler had been anything other than a maniacal moron, though), Nacht had grown more affectionate, for lack of a better term. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. It had always acted to defend him from the few things that could bypass his aura of bad luck, but now, it actually felt almost worried when intercepting such attacks. It was, as Ned would have put it, ''bloody unbelievable''. Unlike his friend, Hex wasn''t given showing emotions, but he agreed with the sentiment. Nacht had even told him couples became closer after being separated and reunited, but he preferred not to think about that. ''Then, I would ask you to control yourself. We are going to gave a guest,'' Hex said, sitting on the edge of the bed. The Pure''s Speaker to the People, their Council''s spokeswoman, was tall and shapely, with pale skin, sky-blue eyes and blond hair styled in an elaborate braid. According to Nacht, who apparently believed he cared how women, or men, looked. He would have believed his lack of reaction regarding its attempts at shapeshifting to suit his nonexistent interest during their time off-duty would have both discouraged and convinced it of his inclinations, but it had done neither. The Speaker smiled at him when she entered, doing her best to ignore his scowling partner as she reappeared next to him using her personal teleporter. ''We have already thanked you publicly,'' the speaker said, laying a hand on his, caressing his stitched fingers, for some reason. She hadn''t removed the white bodysuit all Pure wore, but it still felt as if he was touching his skin. ''But I think more is in order.'' ''Why?'' Hex asked. ''I do not care about your culture. I only saved you because I was ordered to.'' She shook her head, still smiling, trying to ignore Nacht''s growl. ''That may be so. Nevertheless...you deserve my gratitude. You remind me of my late husband, you know...'' Ah. It was one of those situations, wasn''t it? ''I did not ask. Please leave.'' ''My people cannot feel lust anymore,'' she went on. ''But...we can still feel love,'' she finished, whispering softly into his ear. ''I will make your children eat you alive,'' Nacht whispered into hers, just as softly. The speaker''s departure rivalled her teleportation, for her people had modified themselves in many ways. She was fast, even while too nervous to use her devices. ''Thank you,'' Hex said. ''Were you planning to actually do that?'' ''Mere matricidal cannibalism, for attempting to take what''s mine?'' Nacht scoffed. ''You are far more eager to undersell than to praise, aren''t you, Emil? Don''t worry...I accept you, even like this.'' It grinned. "Aren''t you glad you''re here, to prevent me from indulging myself?'' ''It is always heartwarming to see lovers show affection,'' a new, reedy voice said. ''As well as...whatever it is you two are doing.'' Hex turned to the newcomer. ''Are you here to pass on my new instructions? Why did I not receive a message?'' Equilibrium smiled thinly, hands clasped in front of herself. ''Actually, I am here to bring you some bad news, my boy. Bad, especially, for you.'' ''Why you, specifically?'' ''Hmm? Oh, Sam knew you would react poorly. He wanted someone able and willing to clean up after you.'' ''Oh, do not try to appear mysterious, you hag. I am evil itself! Nothing you or the wendigo have to say could offend me...'' ''Chernobog is back.'' Nacht did not blink or gape. It was not focusing on aping human mannerisms at the moment. It did, however, remain still, briefly. Then, its form rippled, its cocky grin returning. ''Come now, do not lie. You know better than to imply I would ever leave an enemy alive...unless I intended to. Let alone one who tried to break Emil before I could.'' ''The Black God is back,'' Equilibrium repeated. ''And he is not alone, if he ever was.'' The old woman took a deep breath. ''He took over Silva again, and murdered five trillion Fae using his power.'' ''That is impossible,'' Nacht said patiently. ''I feel every negative thought in creation, for I am them, just as I am every shadow. I could not have missed that amateur''s petty sadism and grudge against the strigoi if I...tried...'' Nacht trailed off, its features disappearing-its version of a stony expression. ''...How...? It just came in...'' ''Nacht?'' Hex asked sharply. His partner was almost never hesitant, and on the rare occasions it was, everyone suffered something horrible. ''Of course...how to hide from darkness, except through darkness? Like magnets repelling each other...yes.'' Nacht''s features returned, ivory mouth twisted into a hideous scowl. ''Fixer better do something worthwhile, now that it''s his turn.'' It turned to Equilibrium. ''I can feel the rage and horror in your home universe. Should we return now?'' ''Probably not,'' she answered. ''Not until we handle the cleanup, and discuss what to do next. Your presence could be...destabilising.'' Nacht bobbed its head in an approximation of a nod. ''Then leave us, hag. Emil and I were just about to begin what he has really been yearning for.'' ''You are quite full of yourself,'' Hex remarked after Equilibrium left. Nacht grinned broadly, ripping his clothes off as it cut open his stitches, tendrils slipping inside. ''You are going to be full of me, too~"'' *** Vyrt, son of a seraph and a mage, wept for his sins, and those of his allies. It had been his grandfather''s will, he knew, that he help his cousin escape, at the same time tempering David Silva. His father had even appeared to encourage him, for the first time in millennia, as had his mother''s soul, bless her. He didn''t know if Miranda had been in on the plot, or if Vyrt had suspected, but it wouldn''t have surprised him. It didn''t make things better. Just following orders-suggestions, in this case-had never been an excuse. And so, Vyrt walked the Red Planet, naked, body bearing the scars of mortification and covered in dust the colour of rust. He had not scourged himself like this in centuries. The Nephilim had been angry at himself many times across his life. Children, precious wives and husbands-for angels could reshape their bodies at will, and so could he-and more, had caused him grief on many occassions. The world''s colonisation and terraforming had been abandoned, so it was a safe place for him to vent. Each of his tears flattened kilometres of ground as it fell, and his sobs wracked Mars to its core, the planet shaking in the grip of the fiercest earthquake it had ever experienced. He would repair the damage before he left. ''Why must we sin?'' he whispered, to himself and whoever else was listening. ''Why do you not You fill us with Your will, and remove the capacity to sin, or at least feel guilt for it?'' Another step. Another tear. ''Why are You so cruel to him, Lord?'' *** ''Heads up, now,'' a chipper voice said, making me look up from my lap. I didn''t recognise the agent-ruddy-faced, with raven hair so glossy it almost shone-, and I was in such a shitty mood I couldn''t even spot his division''s symbol. The newcomer looked at me, arms crossed, seemingly waiting for a reply. ''Why?'' I asked. ''Ever since the Headhunt, I''ve only gotten fooled and hurt and jerked around-'' ''Imagine suffering when you can do what we can, eh?'' He smirked crookedly. ''How do people deal with it?'' I didn''t like his attitude, nor the vibe I was getting from him. So, I opened Mimir''s sight, and my face fell. ''...I don''t even care if I''m going crazy or not anymore,'' I said. ''I don''t care how you got here. Are you here to gloat?'' I stood up, chains making a bell-like sound. ''Well?! Am I making you laugh? If you want to drag my secrets into the light, I''m sorry, Chernobog stole your thunder. Just make a cross and kill me already.'' I stared at him as I ranted, but he never blinked once, nor did the smile plastered on his face waver. ''Fucking say something!'' I snarled. ''I would advise against believing everything you see is real, David,'' he said after a while, smile thinning a bit. ''To answer your questions, no, I am not here to gloat. Yes, you are making me laugh-and many others.'' ''Well, at least ?some people are getting a kick out of this.'' I spread my arms with a sardonic grin. ''You''re all welcome, you bastards.'' I lowered my arms, snarling again. ''Why the fuck are you here? Why-'' ''Keep at it, and you''re going to wither again, David,'' he said mildly, but the words almost made me stagger. ''And then, what will the people you love do? Not help you through it again, certainly.'' He raised an eyebrow. ''Unless you believe ARC would let them come to you, or let you go?'' ''You-'' I bit my tongue. Fine. Fine. Just...calm down. I had no right to let myself go and hurt them. I sighed tiredly. ''And you wouldn''t want the entertainment to end, would you?'' ''Certainly not.'' His smile disappeared fully now, and I was suddenly on my back, a black-clawed, crimson hand buried in my throat, wrapping around my spine. ''What would make your blood boil, I wonder? Perhaps I should take your zmeu with me when I leave.'' His grin was all needle teeth, black flames flickering through. ''You have seen my niece. You know what happens to women like them down there?'' ''Don''t you fucking dare,'' I growled, smashing my fists against his arm and face, and achieving nothing, fucking dammit. The chains kept me from hurting anyone. ''She has ?nothing to do with this! She''s already been...almost been...'' ''I don''t see the problem,'' he said. ''Don''t you know women who act like whores deserve to be violated? Why, they practically beg for it! Those with natural tastes, I mean. No one cares about deviants, never mind animals that should have been killed at birth.'' I cursed and screamed and hit him, to no effect, and he nodded approvingly, black-slitted yellow eyes, colder than Lucian''s had ever been, gleaming. ''See? You would be powerless against me even without these shackles, yet you try to stop me...'' he laughed, and it was a sound of such honest joy, I almost balked. ''All for love. This...is why we sent you back.'' He tossed me away, and I managed to land on my feet, throat already healed. ''If you want me to make you laugh,'' I matched his sharklike grin with one just as hideous. ''Why don''t you break me out of this cage?'' ''I would, if it was up to me.'' He stuck his hands in his pockets, shrugging. ''But...'' ''But you can''t.'' He shook his head, still smiling. ''You cannot taunt me with lies, David. I am not you.'' I swallowed an insult, knowing it would have served no purpose. ''Why''d you come here? To give your clown a pep speech?" Or was there some other purpose to this presence here'' ''Now, now. Since when do hallucinations have purposes?'' he asked, wagging a finger. ''Do be careful, please. If you pay me a surprise visit, I might have to make your stay permanent. And, David?'' He tilted his head, one eye closed. ''Next time I yank your chain, I expect you to be immune to such...transparent provocations.'' ''Wait!'' It was a stupid question, but I wanted to ask it before he left, if only because I had nothing else to do at the moment. ''Why did you dress in our uniform?'' He snorted. ''Are you implying I don''t work for the benefit of mankind, David?'' And then, I was alone once more. But not for long. Aya Reem arrived after what felt like a few minutes, using the power of one of her gods or another to heal my body. ''It is a shame you can do nothing more than observe, agent Silva,'' the mummy said, running bandaged hands over my body, checking to see if there were any burns left. ''Yeah,'' I said. ''Sorry I can''t be the tool you want.'' Aya sighed. ''It is too late to apologise for how we used you during the Headhunt. I should have tried to remove Chernobog''s taint from you, not...'' She pursed her cracked lips. ''I know you don''t give a damn about this, but I am sorry.'' At my scoff, she leaned closer to me, so I could stare into her empty sockets. ''My gods abandoned me for staying neutral, David. If I chose to oppose them, they would have destroyed me. You are closer to your god than you realise. This is not an excuse,'' Aya held up a hand. ''Just a clarification.'' As I pondered her words, I remembered our discussion before my departure, and began laughing. It was stupid, but, at the moment, I''d have taken anything. So what if tears were streaming down my face as I laughed. ''Y-You know...with all the bullshit, I forgot to tell the Knights about your list. Guess they''ll keep your stuff for a while longer, huh?'' Aya sighed, but not in exasperation. Then, to my surprise, she wrapped her arms around me. ''It appears so. Do not worry about it, David. I should''ve just asked Sam to fetch them. He''s practically my dog, anyway.'' The mummy didn''t let go, even though I didn''t laugh. I was just crying now. ''I know it''s overwhelming, David. Everyone''s reactions-oh, yes, I''ve read the news. I''ll have some reading material brought here-, the lies, hurt even more than the facts.'' Aya took a deep breath, and I felt a pang of sharp guilt when my eyes were drawn to her chest, coinciding with the lust of my strigoi side. The dumb, perverse bastard wanted to drag Aya down and take her right there, almost as much as he wanted her to dominate him. I should have been thinking about Mia, not...''We''ll get to the bottom of this. Oberon''s incompetence and laxity haven''t been talked about much yet, but they will be. I''m sure the Dagda will be very interested in how the Fae sheltered a known renegade god.'' I nodded, absentmindedly, not really listening to her anymore. ''Why don''t you rest a little before Hex and Nacht arrive?'' I looked at Aya just as she pressed two fingers on my forehead, then I was suddenly drowsy, for the first time in eight years. ''Whuh...'' I slurred, voice thick with sleep. ''Nothing sinister, David.'' The mummy smiled. Funny. I only just noticed she''d switched to my first name. ''I am just using my blessings to help you rest. Gods know you''d just beat yourself up if you stayed awake, and it wouldn''t help you to face Nacht while agitated.'' I shook my head, which felt heavier than all mountains in the world put together, smiling drily. ''Why do you care?'' ''I care about all of my agents, David, and everyone in the other divisions too. And, you know what? The Crypt has always been full of the broken and the lonely, the abandoned and the misfits. I am here for you all.'' I didn''t know if she was tapping into her divine authority as she spoke, but I soon drifted off into a dreamless sleep. *** ''Wake up, agent Silva,'' Aya said softly. I opened my eyes, looking up at Aya''s dusky features, Hex''s chalk-white, stitched face and the swirling, ink-black cloud that was Nacht. The mummy smiled down at me, and I felt pathetically grateful for the warmth that filled me. I told myself it was just her blessings, making me want to obey and please her, but, honestly, with how starved for approval I was... ''Don''t worry,'' Nacht said, which was kind of like a serial killer telling you to stay calm while revving up the chainsaw. ''This childish excitement you feel around Reem is shared by many of your fellow agents. It''s mostly artificial, because you maudlin bastards are almost all bereft of affection, which does the rest.'' ''So you don''t have to worry about me stealing you from your girlfriend, Silva,'' Aya said in a joking tone, but squeezed one of my shoulders reassuringly as I sat up. ''I know where your heart lies. Besides, Sam would kill us both if he felt you were muscling in on his turf.'' And with that, Aya left, leaving me alone with an inhuman, unfeeling monster, and Nacht, too. ''Emil is not a monster,'' the dark being said with a sneer. ''He is far too soft for his own good. Now...let us see the darkness inside you, David Silva.'' Buried Again, Chapter 1
Aya nodded goodbye to Hex and Nacht, then disappeared. She hadn''t moved faster than I could see, which she easily could; the operators of this Mobius cell had just allowed her to leave. She needed their permission, because, rumours went, even Fixer would have had a hard time breaking in or out of a cell like this, and not just because he got excited when he got to use his powers. One day, maybe after I became somewhat trusted-as ARC didn''t fully trust anyone, especially its members-I''d ask around and try to find out how Mobius cells were made, and who had invented them. But first... ''The darkness inside me, huh?'' I sat up, folding my arms. ''Gonna cut me open, or...? I''m assuming we''re talking about the parts light doesn''t reach, though in that case, opening me up would be kinda impractical.'' Hex said nothing as he mirrored my movements, longcoat pooling around him, hat covering everything above his chin in shadows. Nacht''s face split in a white grin so enormous it was almost semicircular. ''You are so funny, David~ Both Hex and I forgot to laugh. He did it decades before you were born, mind...'' ''Talking about darkness, have you ever wondered why places like this aren''t pitch-black?'' Ignoring the freak, I gestured at the white cell, which was as bright as a cloudless day at noon, despite no apparent source of illumination. ''Where''s the light coming from?'' ''The numinous souls of cellmates like you,'' Hex said in the flattest voice I had ever heard. ''We see you are being your usual flippant self. That is not good, but is reassuring. According to Odin, Chernobog''s wordplay was much more vicious than yours the first time he possessed your body.'' My hands became fists. Odin had become able to see the Headhunt from the start after Chernobog''s apparent death, and he had asked me several questions before letting ARC take me into custody-including if I wanted to liaise between my organisation and Asgard, which I''d declined, saying I needed more time to think and believing I''d never choose to. So, why was I having second thoughts? Maybe the coward in me wanted the protection gods other than mine seemed willing to offer while He...no. Down that path laid nothing but doubt and emptiness. The fact I hadn''t been destroyed, despite what I was, despite having been touched and tainted by dark powers and other gods, was good enough. It would have been ungrateful to ask for more. ''Awww...he looks ready to cry, Hex! And the ?best part?'' Nacht giggled, moving around its partner to whisper in his ear. ''He thinks he will be weak if he does. How dare he feel anything after being used and abused and killing more people than anyone who has ever lived?'' It looked at me as it said the last, forming eyes like burning white coals. I gulped, then forced myself to smile, knowing it looked as pathetic as I felt. "Damn straight. I only like being used by my girlfriend." ''Ohhhh~'' Nacht swooned, tilting its head back and forming a hand, pressing it between its eyes. ''Such dedication, from the one and future cuckold.'' Eyebrows like stormclouds appeared above its eyes as it turned to glare at Hex. ''Why can''t you look at me like he looks at her?'' ''You''re insane,'' Hex said. Due to the positioning of his hat, I couldn''t tell whether he''d been looking at me or Nacht at he''d spoken. I wondered which of us was feeling more called out. ''So harsh...now, David. I already know your fears, and hatreds. You wear them on your sleeve, next to your heart.'' Nacht sneered, like it had found a slug in its salad. ''You and Loric-you are both pathetic excuses for strigoi. Why do you care about people and gods, whether they will remember you or not? You should lose yourself in the carnage, become one with your true selves.'' Well, we were clearly of one mind. I, too, thought Szabo wasn''t evil enough. ''That was a rhethorical question. Now...tell me your wishes and vices, David-and do not try to cheat by speaking of your strigoi side, or letting it take over. I already know them, but...'' It shrugged, grin still plastered to its face. ''I want to see you squirm, and drink your shame.'' ''If you do not wish to speak, I will make Nacht tell me, and record its words.'' Hex lifted his head, so that I could stare at his stitched lids. ''I will then compare them to the information in your personnel file, and cross-reference with your previous interrogators.''This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ''Why?'' I asked, bluntly. ''I do not care about your secrets, Silva-not unless keeping them will prevent me from learning and experiencing new things. If you feel it would take too long, I will leave, and drag the answers out of Nacht.'' I looked from the mage''s stony face to the monster''s ecstatic expression, and sighed. Here goes nothing. ''So...vices first. This should be shorter.'' I fidgeted as I spoke, tapping a rhythm on my thighs with my fingers. A nervous tic I had gotten from pops, and which, it seemed, even death had been unable to wipe away. ''I like hurting people,'' I said, lowering my eyes. Already feeling like I was doing confession with the world''s most unhinged priest, I didn''t want to see Nacht getting its rocks off as I laid myself bare. ''I''m not...I''m not just talking about...'' Criminals? No. I was supposed to be honest. ''Evil people, though I love breaking them. I like hurting other agents, too. When we spar, and I feel their flesh tear and their bones break...when I choke a mage or fill a regenerator with lightning...I feel almost alive.'' Nacht snickered. ''Many do. Go on.'' ''I like...being right, I suppose. I like correcting others and feeling like I get the last word-yes, I suppose that''s why I snark so much. Sue me. And I like fighting. I like being hurt and torn open while not feeling anything, watching my enemies rage as I heal from wounds and fight them until they tire.'' I laughed drily. ''I don''t like ?real wounds, obviously. I hate being hurt. It''s really easy to act cool and aloof when I can''t feel anything, while the people I mock have to grit their teeth.'' Yeah, look how great I was. There was really no difference between me and those little morons who acted tough while playing videogames. I''d never grown up, or I wouldn''t be moping and feeling guilty because of things I couldn''t control. ''A question: why do you think these are vices, David?'' ''What, you don''t know that, too?'' I showed my fangs. ''How the fuck could they not be vices?'' ''Indeed. How dare your humanity not remain in your grave after your undeath? You vile, vile bastard...'' I really wasn''t in the mood to get patronised by this floating turd, so I continued. Better than letting it speak. ''Should I list the ways I shame my religion? Besides the fact I exist.'' ''If you wish,'' Hex said. ''Well. I curse and I doubt God, but, apparently, not enough to be worth smiting. Guess I''m not even good at blasphemy. I...break some of the Commandments, through word and deed. I kill and...'' I was jealous of people whose partners were with them and only them, all the time. And then there were those who think that''s not enough, or cheat, or...oh, the things I''d do to them... ''I covet what my neighbours have,'' I finished. ''And you lie,'' Nacht said softly, matter of factly. I sighed again, even as my worse half paced in the back of my mind, growling. ''Yes, I lie. Usually by omission, when I''m talking about my job to people outside it, but...'' I was rambling. What else was there? Old-fashioned arseholes thought not being master of your household went against the Bible, but I liked to think that was narrow-minded. ''Um...'' Did I look as mortified as I felt? I wasn''t sure that was possible. ''I personally think "sodomy" isn''t sinful, and I''m unsure if this even counts as it, but Mia often-'' ''I will ask Nacht that.'' Hex held up a hand as his partner laughed, images appearing in its pitch-black ''body'' like fireworks on the night sky: people, laughing until they couldn''t speak anymore, until they fainted or choked. ''Yes, Emil, I can confirm that right now.'' Nacht chuckled, the images disappearing. ''Let us move on to desires now, yes?'' Aw, shit. I was going to give this bastard stuff to laugh about forever... ''It''s not fair that the innocent suffer while the guilty slip through the cracks so often.'' So many ARC agents had horrible youths, you could''ve made a whole army of guaranteed talent show winners. ''If I could, I''d kill them all, or at least make them hurt me.'' Let me suffer. I could barely feel anything, and was hardly innocent. ''Masochist!'' Nacht gasped in faux shock. ''I am almost surprised you did not list this among your vices, though perhaps I shouldn''t be. You Christians see mortification of the flesh and soul as a virtue, after all.'' And who the fuck asked for your opinion? ''The rest are...petty, I suppose, as much as they are impossible.'' Little things, really. My friends having what they wanted. Nonsense, like the past getting changed, so my mother survived giving birth to me and Andrei didn''t run away from fatherhood. Pops'' parents living and his angel surviving to be with him. ''Come now, David. Don''t be shy! Speak of what you really want.'' Nacht blurred forward, surrounding me and filling my sight. ''I can make your zmeu lust for you, and only you. Just say the word, and she won''t even feel it. She won''t notice the change.'' ''And what would you want? It''s just that my soul is too worthless to sell, you understand.'' Nacht licked its lips as it returned to Hex. ''To eat your guilt, forever, after you accept~'' ''Then I''ll be very happy to cockblock you.'' I turned to the mage. ''Anything else?'' ''Not for now.'' He stood up. ''Your thoughts are too human, in scale and nature, to be Chernobog''s. That, or the Black God is fooling us again.'' ''You bore me to death, David,'' Nacht said, in a voice dripping with pity and disappointment in equal measure. ''Oh, if only the world was kinder and no one suffered! Oh, why must my mate switch partners! Are you even really a strigoi?'' As the two walked away, doubtlessly communicating through means I couldn''t perceive, I realised Nacht had only spoken of lust. Not love. Had it meant...did it know, through its power, that Mia only loved me? "Lust for you, and only you" , not "Love and lust only for you". I won''t say I didn''t brood after their departure. But at least this time, I did so with a wistful smile. Interlude: Days In Their Lives
Alex Alexandru Horia had been named, he liked to tell himself, after Alexander the Great, even if he was only great in terms of height, not even muscle, let alone achievements. In truth, he had been even more painfully average than David-no offence to his friend, who had at least tried to write. They had met in kindergarten, before being separated until ninth grade, when they had also met Mihai. In all that time, there had been no awakenings of magic, no secret inheritance, no supernaturals willing to hurt them. Well...there were always services for that. But Alex''s parents told him changing yourself just because you wanted power for the sake of power actually made you weaker. As such, he had taken it upon himself to always help others whenever possible, and, one day, maybe follow in his father''s footsteps and go into forensics. Or take after his mother and build cameras and other means of surveillance. Just had to...ignore the asthma. As long as possible. From birth to death, preferably of old age. Shouldn''t be that hard, right? Mundane science had failed to cure him, and the doctors'' incredulousness at him not dying while in diapers had not helped with his already melancholy mood. Alex hadn''t wanted to be cured through supernatural means because, he argued, taking up the time of mages, priests and the like while there were so many others with worse problems would have been selfish. His parents and his friends alike had told him to stop being stupid, but he''d waved them off, smiling and promising it wasn''t that bad, really. As the ghost''s eyes move across the table, from one friend to another, he feels vaguely glad at no longer having lungs. The powers and ability to travel between the multiverse and other realities were nice, too. Maybe he should look into travelling backwards in time. With how long it would take him to master it, it would probably be legal by the time it was over. He didn''t exactly want to imitate the Doctor, just...see how he had died, with his own eyes. He knew death sometimes messed with memories, but he truly didn''t remember feeling tired or lightheaded, which was pretty strange for- ''Alex?'' Mihai elbows him, adding mana in order to be able to touch him, then turning his head to give the ghost a concerned look. ''Why the longer than usual face?'' What happened to David? His mother is going crazy, and I don''t even want to think what she''d do if she could come to our universe. ''Nothing,'' he lies easily, his round face still lending itself to smiling, despite the gauntness of his default appearance. ''Just wondering...do you think drinking ectoplasm is be like drinking blood, or molten flesh?'' ''The fuck?'' Andrei grunts, looking up from a raw, bleeding hunk of something. ''Oh, I have these two grave neighbours who are arguing whether they''re cannibals, or if they just like the equivalent of blood meals...'' Right. Put them at ease. Don''t burden them with your worries-you''re already dead. Let them live. *** Mihai ''And what did you do today, son?'' Marcel Codrea asks, not breaking eye contact, or even blinking, as he cuts the steak (perfectly rectangular, perfectly cooked. His wife would hurt herself as much as he did beating her if she made a mistake, for she is a proper housewife, and cannot stand failing in her duties). Mihai smiles, showing as many teeth as is proper, hoping it doesn''t make him look like he is cringing. Again. ''I had a good day, father. Answered the most questions in class, then went to the tennis field and won every match. The coach is thinking of signing me up for a competition with three other high schools.'' ''How did you return home?'' his mother, Maria, asks. Both she and her husband are honey-blond, both green-eyed, with flawless skin and teeth. Many people mistake them for siblings. She wears her hair in a long braid, and only uses makeup for special occasions. ''Did you take the bus, or a taxi?'' ''The bus,'' Mihai lies. Alex had wanted to go to this animal shelter, because he''d had a nightmare about weres being trapped in animal form, then caught and mistreated. Both he and David had considered it nonsense, but had agreed to go with him. Not wanting his friends to walk, or spend money (they had less than him, so why not help?), Mihai had hailed and paid a cab. ''Good,'' his mother says coldly. ''Then you will not mind if I check your wallet.'' Now, not cringing is even harder. Maybe he can wash the dishes fast enough to get to it first and put more money in it? Aw, dammit, why didn''t he do it as soon as he got home... ''I hope you are not spending money on frivolities, son,'' his father says dangerously. ''The bus is only needed because you are too slow to walk to school on time, and being late is lamentable.'' Marcel takes a bite and swallows before speaking again. ''It is your fault for not getting into a school closer to home. Still, at least you''ve stopped donating.'' Helping others instead of yourself, especially when it is at your own expense, is abominable in his parents'' eyes. ''Of course,'' he replies coolly. ''Why be charitable when no one is in return?'' But the people he helps are, even if some only take pity on the three of them because of Alex. ''Indeed,'' Marcel says, then puts down the knife, grabs his son by the hair, and smashes his face into the table. Mihai''s teeth rattle as his nose breaks, making the white tablecloth red. ''You will wash that, too,'' his mother says. ''And, since you are so eager to waste money, you can help with the next water bill, pay from your own pocket.'' ''You little liar,'' his father sounds more amused than angry, or even surprise. ''You think we cannot read you, especially when you try-and fail-to act like you should?'' His father drags him out of his chair, then out of the kitchen and the house, into the yard. ''We brought you into this world, boy, and trust me, we can take you out of it. Which we will, if you keep failing. Do you not even think about how you are shaming your family, you selfish little worm?'' Every word is punctuated by Mihai''s head being smashed against the cellar door. By the time the door is opened, he cannot see anything, and not just because it''s pitch-black inside. His father''s words are slurred by the dizziness as he is tossed down the short stairs, knees and elbows bleeding. It is June, so he is wearing shorts and a t-shirt. ''A human can survive several days without water. I am not sure how long it takes before isolation becomes damaging, but I am glad you will help me find out. I will not thank you, though: there are several friends down there who will love you for what you are, unlike those two leeches milking your wallet dry.'' The door slams closed, the sound painfully loud in Mihai''s ears, before he can defend his friends, or ask what his father meant. Then, he hears chittering and skittering. The boy tenses at first, then laughs nervously at himself. Rats aren''t dangerous, they''re scared of peo- ''Aaaasgh!'' Mihai shrieks, more in fear and shock than pain, as teeth like tiny pickaxes dig into his shin. Shit...what if he gets an infection? What if...what if... Alone in the darkness, thinking of every possibility and trying to solve every problem, his magic awakens. It is not unique, not special, but it is versatile and useful. Mihai survives until, what feels like an eternity later, like a few seconds later, his father returns, opening the door once more. His eyes, used to the gentle azure glow of his mana, burn painfully at the sunlight. His parents are smugly satisfied at this development, especially when it forces him to leave Urziceni and David and Alex behind and go to a magic prep school in Bucharest. Mihai meets Adriana in college, while he''s running himself ragged, trying to obtain his licence to practice magic. His future wife only has a little magic, and her specialty is reinforcement. Nothing fancy. She can, however, replenish people, objects and wards, or make them even tougher. The young woman is a head shorter than him, even in her thick-soled work boots, making them both average height, with long, frizzy brown hair, and green eyes behind a pair of black glasses. As she pins him to the wall of the empty workshop, he absurdly worries if she''s related to him, or if she''s been sent by his parents, or- ''Wait,'' he begins. She''s physically stronger than him, muscular rather than curvy, and, though he could easily push her away with magic, he doesn''t want to. ''I get that you want to help me, and that''s sweet, but I''m really busy tonight-'' Bullshitting her, that is. Mihai is aware he''s a magic nerd with few activities outside study, which only slightly pisses him off. ''I don''t believe that,'' she says plainly, looking up at him. ''I know broken things, remember? A healthy mind equals a healthy mage, and you''re not powerful enough to ignore that, Codrea.'' As she says him, she moves closer, and Mihai whimpers. He''s always been shit at keeping a poker face under, ah, pressure. ''So,'' she says with a small smirk. ''Wanna do some maintenance work?'' ''No-not here,'' he corrects hastily, eyes darting at the cameras and observation wards. ''Um...my dorm is empty right now...'' Alright, he''s bullshitting her again, but at least it''s for a good reason this time. "I share my dorm with two jokers I''ll have to throw out" is, like, the opposite of a pickup line. Just because she''s coming onto him, it doesn''t mean he should prove how much of a dork he is. At least, not this soon. ''Good to know. Let''s take a look under the hood...'' The pun is fucking awful-he''s sure she''s been waiting to make it since she first saw his new Dinamo hoodie-but, to his surprise, it doesn''t make him want to groan, unlike David''s would. They marry shortly after graduation, though the girls come much later: Adriana doesn''t want children at first, partly because she''s a workaholic, partly because she thinks they''re not prepared for that. Still, they make it work. Not visiting his dead parents (at first metaphorically, soon literally; car accident involving a taxi. At the funeral, Mihai shares his regret that they didn''t take the bus) helps with- ''Thinking about things like that?'' Andrei scoffs, pointing a finger at the ghost. ''I''m not surprised an undead''s being morbid, but really?'' ''Yes, Alex,'' Bianca smirks, rocking back and forth in a chair definitely not built for that. ''Don''t try to crash the pity party. We''re here to feel sorry for ourselves, each other, and David.''This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ''We''ll have to brood on the double for him,'' Adriana muses, leaning forward, beer in one hand. His wife is only slightly tipsy (she''s on her third bottle), but her eyes are still far away and unfocused. She doesn''t even notice how her sizable chest squishes against the table, though he definitely does. ''Oh?" The iela''s smirk widens, azure eyes sparkling. Lately, she''s been using her chubby human disguise less and less. Mihai is usually happy that she''s more comfortable with herself, but sometimes, she''s too damn comfortable. ''You''re usually too busy ?adorably worrying for each other to be sad for others, too.'' ''Well,'' Adriana shrugs. ''Everything fucking up the world aside, we haven''t really had a reason for that, lately.'' ''Hmm~'' Bianca purses her lips, then lets out a bell-like laugh. ''Did Mihai tell you about that time after we helped David out? I joked about him being alone with me and my sisters, and asked what you''d do. He said you''d join in.'' ''Oh, really?'' Adi gives him a very curious look, which means he can''t gesture for Bianca to shut up, then looks back at the iela, mirroring her smile. ''Do tell...'' ''Gladly~'' ''Andrei?'' Mihai mouths, knowing the werebear is always paying attention to his surroundings. He''s also pretty good at reading faces, so he can probably tell he''s asking for help. ''Get a load of that guy!'' Andrei says, head turned away, looking straight at a were by the bar. Wearing a tracksuit, with long, red beard and hair, the werebull (Mihai''s arcane sense informs him) is leaning on the yamadium bar, and slowly patiently explaining to the (mentally) tired, blonde vampire bartender he''s talking over that having foreign drinks in their selection weakens the country''s spirit, which is tantamount to treachery in these trying times. ''Should try saying that five times fast,'' Andrei mutters under his breath, turning back to them with a small grin, eyes narrowed. ''Guy looks like the people I used to beat up for money!'' Mihai would rather not end up on the couch than hear a story about Andrei taking bribes as a Securist, but no dice. ''Oh, wipe that look off your face,'' the werebear tells Mihai, not pouting, for men like him do not pout. ''I meant back before I was conscripted. Lots of people hated lots of other people, and I loved their money. In fact,'' he devours the chunk of meat, twice the size of his head, and polishes off the blood on the plate faster than Mihai can see. ''I''m sure I''ll get into the owner''s good graces after showing him the door. Maybe even into her pants~'' Andrei is out of his chair, by the bar ten metres away, and throwing the werebull through the automatic doors twelve metres away faster than Mihai can see, but that''s not why the mage is staring at him in disbelief. Was the last part a joke? Is he making up for Lucian''s absence...? Wait, no. He''s not horny enough for that. But, still. He got burned badly enough last time that Mihai is honestly surprised he wants to try again. Good for him. Now, if only he remembered to save him from the doghouse. Bros before- ''Oh no, Andrei!'' Bianca gasps in false shock, hiding her grin behind a slim, marble-white hand. ''Do not cause a scene~ Anyway...'' She returns her attention to Adriana. ''You were saying?'' ''So what if I did join in?'' she replies. ''Feeling threatened by a real woman?'' ''Darling, I would eat you alive. I just don''t wanna ruin you for your hubby.'' The iela turns to Mihai. ''No need to thank me. You''re just too cute together for me to steal Adi away from you.'' ''Thanks,'' he says stiffly, trying to cross his legs under the table. Dammit, now Andrei''s chatting up the bartender and his wife is, what, play-flirting with his friend? He''s not insecure enough to feel threatened by that. He knows Adi doesn''t mean it, but still, what is the world coming to? ''You''re welcome, sweetie,'' Bianca smiles blandly, reaching across the table to pat his hand. ''Yeah, sweetie,'' Alex coos, slinging an arm across his shoulder and snickering at his deadpan look. ''So follow your own advice, and stop looking so moody. The girls are just giving you a hard time.'' Oh, ha ha. *** Bianca Bianca swallows a laugh as Mihai carefully stands up and goes to the bathroom. Humans are awfully prudish about relationships, especially when more than two persons are involved, but she was just joking. She''s no homewrecker, Lucian''s palace when she doesn''t feel like giving a damn notwithstanding. Thinking about her zmeu bo-friend, makes her nostalgic. Which is absurd, really. They''d been together for nearly a month(a record) before their similar urges had drawn them apart a few days after the whole eldritch wave of nonsense had seemingly ended. Bianca looks from Adriana, who''s already starting to feel unsure about the number of buttons her orange flannel shirt has(she always tries to count things once she gets tipsy, but rarely manages anything besides pissing herself off), to Alex, who''s leaning back through his chair rather than in it, arms spread as he eggs Andrei on. ''Don''t pussy out!'' the ghost calls out across the room. ''Or I''ll tell David you admitted he has more game than you!'' ''You cannot say that with a straight face!'' the bear growls, half-turning, and Bianca sees his eyes are black and his mouth is filled with fangs. Everyone else in the bar is looking between their table and the bar, and have been since Andrei''s intervention. She supposes getting lucky with girls they help is a family thing...too bad her father never had his or David''s luck. Iele were, as a rule, both possessed of senses far sharper than those of humans, and worse at reading people, or at least emotions. They were quite similar to the Fae, in that regard. Bianca''s skill at aping mankind came from decades spend among them, with occasional visits to her sisters (by nature, not blood), rather than the other way around. Her mother had not spent any time among people between her first and last foray out of the woods. Moonlight-over-ebony-pools had not been malicious, at least by iele standards. Just...enthusiastic, and inexperienced. So much, in fact, that, while looking for the mage she had wanted to breed with, she hadn''t paid much attention whether he was a skilled charlatan, as her sisters called magicians, or a true mage. As such, the kind man, whose name Bianca had never learned, for he had forgotten it himself shortly before her birth, had been rather overwhelmed by the bold advances of...whatever he had seen her mother as. She''d been good with glamours. Better than her. She''d charmed him, in the human sense of the word, and taken him to the woods and broken his mind and body, and he had been all too eager to go along with it. His mind had remained his, for as long as it had lasted, and he had, apparently, truly loved the laughing woman with silver skin and hair and eyes. Bianca had been learning to float and sing and fashion an body of flesh for herself when the Securists had come for her mother, declaring her a rapist and dragging her away, never to be seen again. Her father had unceremoniously been shot after trying to save his wife, teaching his daughter how frail humans were. Her sisters, the older ones who had raised her and clothed her and filled the voids in her music, had told her such things were to be taken in stride, for both the world and its inhabitants were uncaring. Still, by the time she was fifteen, she had gotten bored of their...not coldness. The fact her kind helped each other as all made them far kinder than some supernaturals out there, and even some human families. Indifference, then. As Mihai returns, cussing Alex out when asked how cold the shower had been, Bianca laughed. Humans cared both too much and too little, but she loved them, for all their little quirks. She had learned to be like them, finishing what her father had started trying to teach her, over sixty years ago. *** Constantin As Constantin prepares for the convention, he is not thinking about the event, bur, rather, his new verger. Rebeca Ghinea is filled with energy, even disregarding the way her magic passively absorbs heat and electricity from her surroundings. The girl''s (he is showing his age, he knows, she is over twenty-six) black hair, which would have normally been in one of those bobs he has never been able to see the appeal of, is frizzy, practically pointing upwards, small arcs of blue electricity bursting in and out of existence along it. ''I''m just saying,'' her eyes are wide as she gesticulates at the painted and framed icons on the walls. ''That it''s not fair to leave me holding down the fort just because my beliefs might be a teensy bit, uh, niche.'' More like unorthodox, if one allowed the pun. ''It''s not that,'' he promises as he adjusts his habit. ''But someone must remain to mind the church, my dear.'' Rebeca huffs, crossing arms that almost disappear in the sleeves of her black habit. ''Then why not pray for the Lady to send an angel?'' ''Because God expects us to handle our own business.'' Constantin truly does not care about what gender the Creator assumes when talking to people. Male, female, both, neither; they are all projections, for the benefit of humanity''s peace of mind. He is used to thinking of Him as the Lord, because that is how he was raised, but he knows there are cults that worship God the Mother, or even as a hermaphrodite, though these are looked at askance. They are harmless enough, usually. He finds his verger''s passion more endearing than anything. ''If you say so,'' she says in a tone that promises the discussion is not over, then looks around, as if someone is eavesdropping on them. ''Please take a good look. Last week, I found three tiny Satanists in a flower pot. They were standing on each other''s shoulders, so they could see out of it.'' Constantin isn''t usually so sarcastic, but the upcoming meeting with his...siblings in Christ, and everyone else, makes him rather less willing to indulge tomfoolery. ''Huh?'' Rebeca shoots him a confused look as she rummages through her pockets. Must be strange to have ones large enough to contain things, he muses. ''You found three...never mind.'' She takes out a battered-looking piece of paper, shaking it until it straightens out as much as it can. ''Please show this to the Patriarch and the others? It might help attract more potential converts!'' Constantin takes the paper and only needs to peer at it for a few moments before his face falls. ''Didn''t writing this prevent you from graduating Theology and Faithcraft until you exorcised a demon without holy tools?'' ''Misogynists!'' she spits, crossing her arms once more as she glares at nothing in particular. ''They pretended not to like the way I expressed myself, but I knew the truth, oh yes I did...'' Constantin can''t present something containing phrases like "God the Mommy", unless he pretends it is a joke, which would be a lie...at least, not with a straight face. Hm... ''You know what, Rebeca?'' He asks with a smile, creating a pocket universe with his faithcraft and placing the paper inside it. ''I know several people who won''t even know how to react to your work.'' ''Yes! Thank you, Father!'' The verger grins, hands balled into fists as she bounces up and down. ''Together, we might be able to get rid of the fossils in charge!'' Constantin himself could be considered a "fossil in charge". Yes, his church is in a small town, but it is close to the capital he often works in, and he has been a priest since before David''s birth. He is actually several years older than Romania''s Patriarch, Lauren?iu Zarnea. Thinking of his son''s birth fouls his mood, which he does not need before even getting to the convention. Andrei might have come clean, in the end, but it had taken David''s near death for that. But then, Constantin isn''t surprised. The man has always been a coward. Serving the Party rather than dying and denying them a tool. Not taking the woman he had left heavy with child to a hospital. Running from fatherhood. Constantin would believe the man would go to Hell, but Andrei isn''t Christian enough for that. Truly, he isn''t sure if the werebear believes in anything. Constantin has met agnostics and atheists who at least believe in humanity and its potential, but the werebear isn''t just non-religious. He is faithless. He drinks and fights and works and hoards money like the men who''d never make it to Heaven, and for what? He just lives because he doesn''t want to die, and that makes him an animal more than his nature did. Some days, he had half a mind to take some silver and- ''Father?'' Rebeca seems hesitant. Why...? Ah. He must have let his emotions show. No need to burden the girl with his...sinful thoughts. He told David to forgive his biological father, anyway, all those years ago. He knows many who would be cynically amused by his hypocrisy. ''Aren''t you leaving?'' ''In a moment, my dear. God help us.'' They both cross themselves, then he is out of the church. Travelling from Urziceni to the North Pole takes only slightly more than a second when he exerts himself. Constantin''s faithcraft makes him physically equal to his son in all respects, even providing endless stamina when needed. The Syncretic Convention takes place somewhere else every year, but it is always a neutral place, both politically and metaphysically. No one wants to wreck the Vatican or Mecca, except, of course, everyone who does. Said people are, coincidentally, both suspiciously unlucky, always being caught in mysterious accidents, and lucky, because they always escape unscathed. As Constantin draws closer to the site of the convention-a circular area the size of Pite?ti, covered in a glamour that makes it invisible to mundane humans but is useless to his blessed eyes-he dearly, dearly hopes Angus Murphy won''t be present. Constantin crosses himself at the thought of the Irishman, muttering a prayer as he grimaced. He has not seen the Catholic in a decade, because either or both were been called away to respond to an emergency or another, but just because something is unlikely, it doesn''t mean it''s not going to happen. Actually, it is more the opposite... Constantin decelerated to a jog, taking in the gathered priests, rabbi, imams, monks and so, so much more. It looks like the reptilians had even sent an observer! And...ah. Suzana and Lauren?iu have arrived before him. The weresheep waves at him with a blocky-fingered, wool-covered hand, standing under the Romanian flag next to a square-jawed man whose severe expression is only accentuated by his mitre and white beard. The Patriarch, who has not yet started mingling with the heads of the other Orthodox churches, greets him with a curt nod, his gilded, purple-trimmed, diamond-white robes almost blinding in the sunlight reflected off the snow. Thank God, Angus hasn''t made it. He is always the first to arrive and the last to depa- ''TOP O'' THE MORNIN'', YA CUNTS!'' a cheerful voice bellows as its owner lands boots-first in the middle of the gathering, folding the North Pole in half. The halves rise by nearly ninety degrees, and begin to shatter, before the newcomer laughs, clasping his hands and sending out a wave of faith. The land restored to pristine condition, Angus Murphy grins. Bald, with a goatee red as blood and half the size of his head, the Irishman is well over two metres tall. His blue eyes roam across the gathering, first taking in the Pope, then settling on Constantin. ''Costiiii~'' Angus'' grins broadens as he spreads his arms wide. ''Missed me, corpse-fondler? God would fuck me blind if I didn''t come now! As She should do to you...'' the priest''s grin becomes sharklike as he crosses the distance to the Romanian, his green-trimmed white robes shining like fire. ''You fookin'' heretic.'' Buried Again, Chapter 2
''Hello there.'' I wasn''t startled by the words. At the moment, I told myself it was because I''d gotten used to people and beings that could bypass or evade my senses. But that was just my mind trying to convince itself, not realising it was being pushed. Let me tell you, I got pushed around and moulded a lot after my undeath. Adam doesn''t have shit on me. Eventually, the scales fell from eyes that would never be closed, but, at the time, I was still blind. The person who had entered could not be described beyond the grey suit they wore. My sight slid off their face and the skin(?) they showed, and I couldn''t tell whether their height and build were average, or changing every moment. ''Hello,'' I replied, far calmer than I should have been. My visitor smiled next, I think. ''Places like these one are not fit for the likes of us, David. But you will have to remain here a little longer-just a little.'' I nodded, neither frustrated nor impatient. Their voice was as soothing as my father''s had ever been. Still, a nudge I thought an impulse made me ask. ''The likes of us...?'' ''This is a white room, David,'' they said in a patient, chiding tone, which made me cringe at myself, just a little. ''Gray people like you and I, we do not belong here. It is, however, not a "white room". It is not a place for creation, or testing, or brainstorming. It is a cell. A white cell," their smile widened a little. ''That, like the ones in a human body, helps fight off diseases. In this case, the body is creation, and the disease consists of those dangerous enough to be imprisoned in such places.'' They got down on one knee in front of me, allowing me to see a name I hadn''t noticed before, on the suit''s left breast pocket. "Gray Mann". ''But we are not the disease, David. We are the cure, the fire burning down the forest so new trees might grow. Or, I am. But you''re getting there.'' They turned their head to the side, and I felt their amusement. ''I am loathe to even suggest a course of action, but please, remain here. Not that you could escape, but with patience, you''ll cross even the sea...you know how it goes.'' Gray stood up, straightening their suit, then did something that could only be equated to blinds being drawn. ''Wait...'' I said, feeling weirdly hesitant. ''We''ve just met. Why do you care?'' Gray laughed from behind the curtain, something I would later learn was common, both metaphorically and literally. ''This is not even the first time we''ve met this minute, David. Good luck. Try to imagine you have it.'' I....remembered Nacht''s words, smiling wistfully. The way its phrasing had, perhaps accidentally given me hope. If even a broken clock is right twice a die, I suppose even a monster like Nacht does not always bring despair to others. The fact nothing had happened since its and Hex''s departure was pretty disappointing, though. Undead could cope with boredom and sensory deprivation indefinitely, unlike humans, but, having nothing to do, I opened Mimir''s sight, and took a look at my cell. It was one of the few powers I could still use, so I might as well train it while I could. In the present, it was exactly what it looked like: an endless, white void, a canvas that would never be painted on. I wasn''t sure where that comparison had come from, but it felt like I hadn''t used it enough up to that point. Looking at its past, I saw the cell had never been occupied before my imprisonment, having stood empty since the destruction that had taken place for it to be created. And looking in the future... I saw myself looking back through the past at me, my back turned to myself, so I wouldn''t see myself looking back through the past at me, my back turned- I blinked. Alright. That hadn''t made much sense, but few things did, as of late. It had, however, been pretty concerning, given the precognition looped, or whatever I''d seen. ARC would have to know about that, that I wouldn''t be able to use my precognition. Why, though? Maybe I should just focus on my postcognition, instead. I opened Mimir''s sight, and saw myself staring back at me, back turned to myself, so I wouldn''t see myself looking forward through the future at me, my back- Dammit. What the fuck did that even mean? *** Faerie, 2030 Puck was running. That was not unusual. The little Fae, whose current form resembled a satyr more than anything, if one with antlers, often ran during the errands Oberon sent him on. But his King did not speak to him these days, nor to anyone else, even the Queen who ruled in his stead and name. He could not, nor would they be able to hear him if he did. Oberon, despite the warlike aspect he sometimes drew around himself, had an artist''s soul, and the bodies of several more. He was a creator and a preserver, not a destroyer, unless the situation called for it. He could often be seen tending the gardens and orchards in and around his palace, sometimes shapeshifting or glamouring himself to look like one of his gardeners, for he did not wish to disturb them with his presence. Nowadays, however, Oberon devoted himself fully to preservation, for he had no other choice. The Black God had planted his seed in Fairie, and- Puck cursed as he flipped over the twisted, twisting black branch. It was not a thinking plant, not like the ones they cultivated. It merely felt, without knowing, and the empty malice that dripped off it felt almost as foul as the pus dripped down the branch, not killing the grass, but making it live in death. Another one. But this time...this time, at least, it was just a tree. Not an animal, with eyes that were the cracked mirror of an empty soul, body hollowed out enough that it could only feel pain. Not one of his kind, jerked on strings of iron. The tree ripped free on the ground, walking on diseased roots that looked more like bloated, throbbing maggots, or... Tapping into his magic as he leapt around the Black tree''s strikes and blasted it with emerald flames(this one, he would stop. No more villages turned into grotesque nourishment. The things that had entered their realm treated them like they treated humans. The sheer audacity...),Puck hoped his King would be able to hold the thing growing from the heart of his domain, like a poisonous flower feeding on a dying body, at bay, for at least one day longer. He wondered if the gods knew, then laughed at his foolishness. There was no way they wouldn''t learn, anyway. And then, they would come with tide and thunder, with screams of ancient pacts and friendships broken, and all would drown in blood. If they didn''t drown in darkness first. *** Zmeu country, 25th December 2030 The Brazen Mantle, Aaron knew, was far more than a weapon, or a toolbox, or even a factory. It was a way to uplift those both less and more powerful than himself, in ways that ranged from creating weapons and tools for them to use(the Mother of the Forest, he had learned a few years after their bargain, was a signatory of the Syncretic Treaty, and everyone who used her creations to upset the status quo would result in her being held accountable) to simpler things, like spreading the armour the war-harness could grow into to them, like Lucian and Lucas currently were. His brothers were connected to the bands of bronze at his joints by wires barely visible to even his sight, and Aaron could count the hairs on a fly in Istanbul from Constan?a. He still did that, sometimes, feeling nostalgic for the days of the Long Watch, when it had been one of his favourite pastimes and ways to meditate. Aaron hadn''t been made Admiral for any particular skill in naval warfare. Zmei were made for fighting, not warring, and he often felt ashamed of his rank when conversing with officers who made him look average. He was, however, possessed of senses and reflex far sharper than any human''s and most non-divine beings. In fact, he dwarfed Lucas in speed like the blue zmeu dwarfed Lucian, nearly seventy thousand times over. Of course, that level of speed was too much for anything that didn''t involved speeding to the Oort Cloud and back in about as much time as saying it took. There had been some plans to use him as a living combination of a starship and a terraforming engine, during the Space Race, but everyone arguing about the Galactic Romanian Socialist Republic(name undecided before the project had been shelved) had been told to cool off until Earth at least was red. Aaron''s reflexes had sufficed for most of the Turkish-Romanian skirmishes during the Long Watch. Some of them had even been caused by genuine misunderstandings. Ah...dammit, he was acting like an old man again, getting lost in memories. But then, someone had to at least pretend to be an adult here, and his father definitely didn''t seem eager to try. Maws had, not too long ago, by his standards(''When did it happen? Hmmm...I don''t exactly keep count, but that dirtball you insist to stay on got oceans and air in the meantime''), been offered a choice between finally being able to negate the collateral damage caused by his starbreaking power, something he had been struggling with and now could never get rid of, or becoming even stronger, jumping in power whenever challenged, before returning to his baseline once a conflict was over. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he had chosen the latter. It had been, Aaron had to admit, a logical choice, in a way. Maws had nothing tying him to Earth, as he had only met his eldest son once, and treated him with supreme indifference; he spent his time either in zmeu country, where he could rampage as much as he liked, or working as a mercenary for the few beings willing to reach across space or other realities to hire him. Still, couldn''t he try to keep the fucking volume down? ''Weak, weak...'' thousands of heads, each large enough to swallow mountains, shook in disappointment as Myriad-maws-with-their-bottoms-scraping-the-earth-and-their-tops-piercing-the-skies, took in the sons he had never seen before. Both of them were armoured up to avoid being pulverised by their father''s voice, which, unlike a mundane explosion, which damaged objects according to their surface area, applied Earth-shattering force to everything for hundreds of thousands of kilometres around, regardless of size. Aaron himself, being more than able to punch the planet in half or kick it to pieces, was unarmoured, but his fangs still rattled with every word Maws said.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ''It is not their fault, mate-counterpart. This one senses they are at the peak of their physical prowess-capacity. They cannot improve-grow stronger,'' his mother chimed in, going for chiding, but merely sounding clinical. She was still trying to act more like them, bless her. Even if looking at the orrery of impossibly-angled shapes of unlight that was her form caused his eyes to cross. She had even shrunk down so as not to make them feel strange, even if being around her husband''s size was the equivalent of squeezing into a shoebox for her. At full size, such little things as planets were too small to see. Maws grunted, scratching his belly with his three right hands, sparks like solar flares jumping from the rainbow scales. ''Even so. Are they really even mine? The first one, the slightly bigger worm-'' ''Aaron,'' he growled. He and his brothers, who were still looking for their words after seeing how strange, respectively arseholish their parents were, stood on a planet the size of Earth and the texture of marble, which Maws had created on a whim. The older zmeu blinked like a crocodile, then laughed, turning the planet to dust. Lucian and Lucas leapt away, unharmed thanks to their armour, but Aaron felt bones break and shake all over his body as the force shook him to the core. With a curse, he armoured himself, too, just as the damage healed. ''A name! I bet you imagine you''re smart for giving yourself a human one, boy. What''s your true name?'' Maws leered, his enormous body shimmering as he turned the dust back to a planet and wrapped around it. Yes, because he had "moron" stenciled on all foreheads... ''Bronze-scaled-father-slayer,'' he spat in reply, before speeding over to his father and picking him up by the chest, all fifty sextillion tons, then flipping him and smashing him down heads-first. Steel-hard ground turned to dust for millions of kilometres around as the gigantic zmeu''s heads split the land, then was devastated even further when he roared in approval. ''You''ve got some fight in you!'' Maws grinned, turning the dust caking him to steam as he heated up his body, then narrowing his green, black-slitted eyes. ''Even if you need that cheap toy to hide behind...I can see the marks left by her hands, you know. Had her once or thrice. Worst fucks of my life. Damn If I know why I went back each time...'' ''I could do that unarmoured, you old bastard.'' Aaron crossed his arms. Each of the bands he wore was as heavy as the world he walked, enchanted to only affect him with their weight, so he would never forget the power at his command. ''You''re not as heavy as you think, despite that huge ego.'' ''Ha! What can I say, the old lady likes them slim~'' Maws dropped his wife a wink, tongues flicking out at her. She just stared back blankly, something like an oval eye in the centre of her form not blinking. ''This one would ask you to stop the baiting-posturing, mate-counterpart. This one would like to learn more about her offspring-shards, which is why we agreed to this meeting,'' the eldritch being said, and Aaron felt like a bastard for not asking her name during their first meeting. It would be so awkward now...but she had been so distracted, and he so hotheaded...ugh. Maws shrugged, beards swaying. Nine-thousand-ninety-nine were grey and long, reaching down to his chest, but the last, the one in the centre, was gold, shining like the dawn. ''If you''re asking so nicely...'' he smirked. ''And maybe get a damn notebook if you can''t talk without breaking planets,'' Lucian groused, seemingly having gotten his father''s measure. ''For a clown who fell in a crayon box, you''re pretty shit at charades.'' ''So demanding!'' Maws bared kilometres-long fangs in amused frustration. ''You remind me of that prick who woke me up rambling about light. The water was so nice, too...fine.'' The giant zmeu sat down, his mate following and their sons flying down to join them. Maws smiled, lifting up a hand and producing a projector as his wife began leaning over him. ''Just a moment...work offer, in a week from now, give or take...huh. Someone from around Rigel is sure something bad will show up there in the near future. Hope I won''t be asked to punch stuff into the past again...I always end up fighting myself. Can''t stand that. I''m too gorgeous to hurt.'' Lucas opened his mouths under his helmets, then thought about it for a bit, and sighed. At least he was starting to know who took after whom. ''Anything interesting?'' he asked instead. ''Hmm?'' Maws turned a few eyes to him. ''Oh, I can smell the old blood on you, boy, but it''s buried under...something. What do you do nowadays?'' And that was when the dam broke, and their parents, mostly their father, began asking questions. ''You draw on people? What even is this childish shit?'' ''It''s art.'' Lucas was fully aware he sounded like every jobless wannabe artist on Earth, but it didn''t matter. ''Anyway-'' ''And you say the runt of the litter found his calling before you?'' A few heads jerked towards Lucian. ''What do you do?'' ''Fight and fuck, mostly.'' ''Ha! Figures...'' Maws leaned against his wife''s shoulders, ignoring the way reality rippled and decayed around her body. ''Say...any of you got a bitch?'' All three brothers grimaced. ''I get by,'' Aaron said tersely, huffing at Maws'' "Ah, prostitutes". ''Don''t need any,'' Lucas said, wishing he could smoke through his helmets. ''Unlike Aari over there,'' Lucian cracked his neck. ''I don''t just "get by". I''ve got this iela I see more often than anyone else...see, we''d be together if we could, but we can''t stand sharing, and don''t wanna get mad at each other.'' ''Bah!'' Maws waved a dismissive hand. ''Tell me about it. I understand...half your problem. Your mother-I call her Angles, mostly, besides pet names; someone once suggested "Anglela", but that sounds stupid as all get out, and I can''t pronounce her name," the zmeu stared adoringly at his mate with half his eyes. ''Doesn''t really get the urge to sleep around, or any other urge, really. But I don''t want to upset her, so I stay far away when I need to avoid tedium.'' ''This one appreciates your attempt to resist your nature, mate-counterpart.'' An appendage rose to trail fire across Maws'' chest as his mate cracked a smile that dragged light towards it, briefly covering their surroundings in darkness. ''Only the best for you,'' he said graciously. ''But I still marked her, so everyone can see we''re married. Wanna see?'' ''Yes!'' ''Lucian!'' ''Shut up, you two!'' Aaron barked, then turned back to his parents. ''Why don''t you instead tell us how you two met?'' ''Sure, right after I answer Lazlo.'' ''Lucas,'' the blue zmeu corrected. ''Right. That question about the job offer...someone will want me to put an evicted grouch back to sleep.'' Ten thousand mouths were split by savage, gleaming grins. ''They must have heard about my beautiful voice~'' *** Strangeguard headquarters, Moscow, 3rd January, 2030 ''We are quite surprised you agreed to this, sir,'' Alexei said as he led Grey One through the featureless, mirror-walled corridor, the weredog''s paws making no sound. ''We know you are sensitive even around normal minds, let alone twisted little bitches like her.'' Grey One tried to smile at the Caucasian Ovcharka, but instead winced. The faces of its kind were not made for concealing emotions on the rare occasions they chose to physically express themselves. Even after being cut from the Greater Mind and learning to speak and gesticulate out of necessity, the alien still struggled. Grey One did not begrudge the Multitude of Minds their curiosity regarding travel through the aether in addition to wormholes. One more method to pass lightspeed was always useful, and it had been a curious being even before becoming an explorer. Its kind, lacking reproductive organs, reproduced by parthenogenesis, shedding a piece of themselves in a moment of physical and mental tranquility and desire for creation. Grey One had been an Honoured Parent-Progenitor before it had been stranded on Earth. ''Sofia is a young telepath, who had no one to teach or touch minds with her. It is understandable to lash out-expected, even,'' Grey One argued. ''I know several species that-'' ''Here we are, sir,'' Alexei cut it off, stopping before another featureless section of the hallway. Grey One couldn''t pick up any thoughts besides the were''s, but it somehow knew the young witch was behind that. ''Just remember: the moment either you or her are compromised, I''m killing you both.'' Grey One nodded. Telepathy that could reach out to and dominate nearly twenty billion humans, if the usual protections fell, coupled with telekinesis to toss Earth into the sun or compress it to a billionth of its size, and suborned by a mind like Sofia''s? It would rather kill itself. Its mind had grown worse in the decades since its crash-landing, sensitive to the pain and horror felt by its adoptive homeworld''s inhabitants. Or it would have crushed the reptilians on Mars by itself, had it not been so cowardly. Alexei beat a certain rhythm on the mirror-like wall with his knuckles, causing part of it to slid away, allowing him and Grey One to pass through. Sofia, covered in wards that suppressed her mana from her explosive collar to her ankles, sat on a floor of metal that would absorb any unexpected pulse of mana. The young witch''s manacled hands were clasped together and her mouth hanging open as she stared upwards, like she was praying. Gray Mann turned to greet the newcomers with a smile. ''Grey, Alexei! Working hard, or hardly working?'' ''Who the fuck are y-'' the weredog''s particles gathered together as soon as Gray drew back their fingertip, and Alexei growled, trying to leap at them once more. The weredog cursed as he slammed against the cell''s far wall, creating a deep dent in the yamadium. ''How the fu-'' he growled, trying and failing to move. ''Who are you and how did you enter?'' Grey One asked, sending out its mind, and feeling nothing except Alexei and Sofia. Its eyes kept sliding away from the- ''Grey, come on.'' Gray shook their head in disappointment. ''This is just like our old capers, remember? When Uncle Sam sent us to Mother Russia to take care of business...'' The alien smiled placidly as it remembered. Yes, its friend had saved its life countless times during their missions, just like it had saved it from the aether and guided it to Roswell. ''Apologies. And thanks once more for that.'' ''No problem, comrade,'' Gray snickered. ''Just like when we tweaked the pig-dogs'' noses.'' Grey One nodded firmly, standing straighter. Soon, the USSR would throw off the fa?ade of "democracy", and unite the workers of the world. ''But really, now, Sofia and I we have to go. Things to see, people to do...'' Gray trailed off as Alexei leapt at it from behind. With a sigh, they walked backwards through time, and Alexei found himself strangled in his crib by a suited, featureless figure. The weredog disappeared, then popped back into existence as his regeneration overcame the paradox. No mundane human would remember him with the timeline altered, but he would, as would supernaturals who healed like him. *** ''Who is that?'' Grey One asked, bewildered, as a weredog it had never seen appeared from thin air. ''Someone I should have killed,'' Gray Mann said, making their friend gasp. ''But...but why? Where are we? Why are we here?'' Gray turned to it, disappointed. ''Have you forgotten? You murdered him, and wanted to stay to gloat.'' *** Grey One stood over the body of a weredog it had never seen, the silver knife with which it had carved out his heart in one hand, the crushed lump of muscle in the other. It would have never managed this without its friend''s help, but now- ''Comrade Grey...'' Gray Mann whispered. ''How could you betray us?'' Grey One bowed its bulbous head in shame. Ever since it had landed in Siberia, the Soviets had cared for it like it was one of them. But now, heart seized by greed- ''What is an animal like you doing with a tool? Put that down!'' Gray Mann said harshly, and the beast that had never been Grey One dropped to all fours, biting at its flesh, and drooling. *** ''What now?'' Sofia whispered in awe, her magic going haywire as it tried to reconcile the timeline shifts. How did she know...? Why had she forgotten...?" ''Not now, Sofia,'' Gray Mann said. ''We have to get you back to school, now don''t we?'' The schoolgirl clapped in delight, jumping up and down, as her guardian smiled at her. Ever since Gray had saved her from that village in the middle of nowhere, they had always been together. ''Yes!'' ''Where do you think you''re going, prisoner? Stand down!'' Gray Man barked. Sofia slumped. The guilt from the time she had enslaved her village flooded back into her mind. She could only give thanks to Gray, who had shown her the error of her ways, and killed the strigoi who had come to terrorise her. ''Come on, girl,'' Gray Man cooed. ''Don''t you want to see your dog? Loric will be sad if you don''t.'' Sofia gasped. The old tailor had travelled all the way to Siberia to gift her the puppy-one of the greatest adventures one could set on in their quiet world-and it would not to be ungrateful. ''Sofia...'' Gray Mann chided. ''Your meal is coming back.'' The young witch choked, falling onto all fours as her dog''s remains came rushing up her throat and the fat strigoi''s grinning face flashed into her mind. Its guts and limbs, covered in fur and matted blood, came first, far too big for her small body to contain. Then came the face, staring at her in glassy-eyed horror and judgement. Sofia broke down in tears, but not for long, for her dog''s remains came rushing up her throat and the fat strigoi''s grinning face flashed into her mind. Its guts and limbs, covered in fur and matted blood, came first, far too big for her small body to contain. Then came the face, staring at her in glassy-eyed horror and judgement. Sofia broke down in tears- And Gray Mann left, whistling, hoisting the witch up with one hand. *** ''You rotten liar...'' ''Are they lies, when the world and the past change to fit my words? You have fought against schemers for so long, you think all you oppose is a lie. You have grown too used to your mirror...put it down, and see the truth.'' ''Do you expect my mind to break as my shriveled humanity falls away? I have grown past such things.'' ''We shall see.'' Buried Again, Chapter 3
''You''re good, Silva,'' Gaol John grunted, with the air of finally finishing something unpleasant, but necessary. If you added an "un" before the "necessary", you''d even have a description of me! ''Thank you, sir,'' I said, still sitting on the grass. ''I was going to fish for compliments today, but, since you''re just doing it...'' John crossed his arms. ''I meant you''re good to go, you smarmy little shit. I want your arse in Omu base as soon as possible, so you can acquaint yourself with the Crypt''s senior Romanian agent,'' wait, what? We''d gotten a new one? ''And so we can free this cell.'' ''...It''s a literal endless void. Can''t you just-'' ''Give you a cellmate? You want to stay here, Silva?'' John crossed the half a dozen metres between us faster than I could see, leaving behind a series of red afterimages. His false flesh had sloughed away again, to reveal a skeletal, sarcastic grin. ''Then get the hell out. Sensory deprivation is considered torture for people. I''ve heard they''re even considering extending that to things like you.'' Much as I hated his phrasing, he was right. Strigoi had the potential to go off the reservation any moment, which meant they were seen as undead time tombs across Eastern Europe, and killing one, if they were a criminal, was considered no different to putting down a dog. I remembered the psychological exam needed to get back into society after my undeath. But then, most undead had it rough. Leaving aside the most of us couldn''t sense the zombies that had no minds to think about how shit their unlives were, ghosts were almost always bags of issues obsessed with something, and ghouls were, well, ghouls and vampires. Eating and drinking their own flesh and blood could make them stronger, but it didn''t sate them. They retained their sense of taste, and autophagy apparently left them with an aftertaste of cold mud. Human flesh and blood tasted the best, which was why lab-grown variants were so popular with them. Yes, there were still people who thought both the providers and the consumers were monstrous and we should just kill them all, but then, aren''t there always? But... ''My, sir. For a ghost jenga puzzle, you''re pretty damn good at throwing stones.'' ''Blatter all you want, Silva. Hypocrisy is something you define when you''re safe enough you don''t have to worry about survival. Security risks like you, who can''t control their urges? I''d kill you all if I could. ARC doesn''t need chinks in its armour.'' ''It lifts my heart to see you so worried about the good of the organisation.'' ''I told Reem to just brainwash you, you know,'' he said, raising an amused eyebrow at my surprised expression. ''If she wanted to keep you around. But, damn, I''ve been telling her things like that for decades. She''s all heart. The fact we could actually put a leash on you, unlike Gilles'' animals, makes it even worse. Sometimes, I wonder if I''m the only one who cares...'' There was no way to reply politely to this, so I changed the subject. ''I''m surprised you aren''t more worried about how Chernobog can apparently just slip in and take over me-'' ''We are. Hence why I''ve been advocating to kill you more than usual-after removing Mimir''s sight, of course.'' I stared blankly at him for a few moments, causing his grin to somehow widen. ''Don''t worry, David, that was just my idea. Most of the other Heads advocated for either executing you, and damn the gods, they can get mad about the sight being lost after, or removing the sight and imprisoning you until we decide what to do.'' He leaned forward. ''But Reem argued that you can''t be blamed for being manipulated by gods. I guess she knows what that''s like. Another security risk...and Shiftskin, who begins frantically looking for his spine whenever she''s present, agreed with her. Mind, he doesn''t give a damn about you. You''re just the latest thing he can use to court her...don''t you feel honoured?'' I swallowed. ''You keep calling me "thing", and you know what? I might be a loser who felt too sorry for himself to stay dead...but you''re thousands of people like me.'' I grinned, only regretting the fact my shapeshifting was locked down, and I wasn''t naturally ugly enough to ape his face. ''You''re so obsessed with my sight? Maybe put down the restless ghost gestalt'' mask when you look in the mirror.'' John snorted, shaking his head. ''Until now, only people worth a damn knew that. Go away, Silva. I''ve bound my senses to you, so I should be able to see when the universe is winding up for the next kick to your arse.'' Ooh, he''d always be watching me? It''d be nice to get a BDSM''s expert opinion, from time to time... He stood still, hands in the pockets of a ragged ARC jacket over a prison shirt, head bowed. As I began moving away from him, waiting for the cell''s controllers to let me out, I thought to get another shot in. ''By the way, I thought you should know, as Head of Internal Affairs: your security is shit. The fucking Devil waltzed in to-'' ''Satan or Lucifer?'' ''I don''t know,'' I said, frustrated at both the fact I couldn''t tell and his nonchalance. ''He seemed angry enough for the former and smug enough for the latter, but-'' ''We know, Silva. We''ve known he''s marked you since you came back from the dead again.'' He gave me an ironic look over his shoulder, and I remembered the interrogations, how I''d spoken about...about my soul being judged. ''Don''t you think that we''d have stopped him if we could have? It''s almost like you''re not the only one being moved by higher powers. Anyway...changing between aspects in one sitting is concerning, but not unusual.'' The fact he was too prideful and angry to feel both at once, which also led him to switching between powersets, had probably saved countless people over the years. The last thing we need was a smug, literally unapproachable bastard who''d add the power of the few things able to damage him to his own. ''And, Silva? There are many people whose natures I hate, but I don''t hate them. Stay in that category.'' Sure, you xenophobic arsehole. Right after you stop hating people who never heard of those who tormented your selves just because they happen to descend from them or live in their country. *** ''It''s not because I''m the best option,'' Rivka slumped in her chair. ''I''m just...not the worst. I think I''m just filling in, anyway, until-'' ''There''s no one coming to replace you, Riv,'' I said, cheerful as ever. ''Not unless they pull an agent from another country, but that''d just create another vacuum to be filled, and we''d get nowhere.'' The ghoul blew out a raspberry, leaning backwards in her chair-it was made for rolling around, but also sturdy enough to withstand the many people who''d use it for far more-to stare at the ceiling. Milky grey eyes closed, fangs bared and dressed in a black shirt and combat pants, like I was, she looked like a resting shark. ''No, we wouldn''t,''she said grudgingly, one clawed hand toying with her thick, black ponytail. She opened one eye to glance at me. ''Gaol John sent me a message that said he''s got his eye on you,'' with how many people did, I''d end up looking like a cluster of grapes. ''So I can tell you about this. How much do you know about ARC''s internal structure, David?'' ''Not much,'' I said, annoyed. ''I''ve basically spent the last few years as a paid intern.'' ''What, and no one told me? Go fetch me something from the freezer, Silva. I''m your boss now,'' she added, holding up a finger as she shifted in her chair to look straight at me. ''We can''t just keep you sitting in one place! What if your muscles atrophy?'' ''I have muscles?'' I blinked, looking blearily at my stretched arms. ''I once had a dog we always kept leashed, and he died! Of old age. But I doubt the lack of freedom helped with his mood.'' I sighed. Sure felt like someone''s dog right now. ''Did they tell you...?'' ''Yes.'' Her eyes grew more serious, all mirth leaving her face. ''And I don''t think you''re dumb enough to think I blame you. That''d be impressive, een for you.'' ''Wow, thanks...'' ''You''re welcome.'' Her gaze softened. ''David...I can''t really do anything about the fact some overpowered bully seems hellbent on fucking your life up.'' Then her expression turned fierce. ''I can, however, smack you whenever you start moaning about how you don''t want or deserve to live. The first is utter bullshit, or you wouldn''t be here. The second? Well, you''re wrong.'' I looked down at my hands. To Mimir''s sight, they were red, redder than anyone''s I''d ever met. ''He made me kill so many people, Rivka...'' ''The Fae?'' she asked softly. ''They wouldn''t have seen you as a person even before your undeath. The Seelie might honour deals and warn people who''ve mistakenly wrong them, but they don''t see anyone as an equal. They only have servants and enemies.'' I didn''t say anything. Maybe all those Fae had been racist, speciesist bastards, but had they all been kidnappers? Murderers? What had they done in their Wild Hunts-those who had been on them? ''I know what you''re thinking about.'' Rivka had moved faster than I could perceive, as she''d been able to do since her growth in power, leaning across her desk to put a hand on my shoulder. ''And I think you''re still reeling from the scale. You''d think the possession would put some separation between the deed and your feelings on it, but it seems to do the opposite.'' She smiled crookedly. ''Here''s an idea: you have to train your sight anyway, right? I mean, it''s the only useful thing you can really do. So, why don''t you check out their pasts? You''ll get better at it, and probably at finding new ways to blame yourself, too.'' Fucking-why hadn''t I thought about that? ''Thanks, Riv.'' Then, bowing my head exaggeratedly, I added, ''The criminal always returns to the scene of the-'' Rivka''s slim, calloused hand tore through my chest like paper, wrapping around my spine and snapping it in half. ''What''d I tell you?'' ''I was joking!'' I protested, pulling back in my visitor''s chair as I healed. ''Bad joke.'' Rivka''s tongue darted out, blurring over the cold gore covering her hand and cleaning it up. ''Don''t start spouting shit like that around people who give a damn about you.'' "So feel free to do it when you talk to yourself," her tired eyes said. ''You''ll remain here until we find a way to free you, provided we don''t need to move you to another ARC base.'' Which meant I wouldn''t be seeing anyone close to me, besides Mia, until the whole mess was over. Maybe it was for the better. I wouldn''t want any of them to see me like this. Pops would... ''You were saying something about our internal structure?'' I asked her in order to distract myself. Rivka nodded. ''Your phone is being updated remotely right now, so you''ll get to read through everything yourself, but, in short...ARC holds a lot of elections. I haven''t been in any since my recruitment,'' Rivka was nearly a decade younger than me, but had been an ARC agent since she''d become a ghoul, in her early twenties. ''Because Marcus was Romania''s senior agent since shortly after ARC built bases in this country, but it goes like this: all the grunts a division has in a country choose one from among them as senior agent. These guys then choose the Heads-who, you may or may not know, haven''t changed since ARC''s founding, except for a few, shoe divisions were first headed by councils. There are only three ranks, to keep it simple, and no insignia, to confuse snipers. Many supernaturals can cross continents in second and communicate even faster, so there''s no need for an overly-intricate command structure. We say.'' She chuckled drily. ''Your probationary period would have ended before the Headhunt, if not for...well.'' Well, indeed. ''What about the Directors''" ''What about them.'' Rivka rolled her eyes. ''Each country''s Director is appointed by its government, usually but not always from among law enforcement or military veterans. Since they''re political appointees, they''re meant to make sure ARC doesn''t overstep its boundaries, so they work with Internal Affairs a lot, but make no mistake: a Director liaises between us and the government more than anything else. The senior agents handle national operations.'' The ghoul clasped her hands on her cheeks with exaggerated cheerfulness. "Which makes for such fun times in the countries the division headquarters are in! You should see Tamar butting heads with Israel''s director. It''s hilarious.'' Before I could reply, a ping caught my attention, and I took out my phone. ''Thanks for the cliff notes,'' I told Rivka. ''But it seems like I''ve got the full package.'' The ghoul''s eyebrows nearly met her hairline, and I realised my mistake. ''That zmeu''s really been rubbing off on you, huh? I suppose it was inevitable.'' ''H-Hey, I meant-'' ''It''s alright, David,'' she said airily. ''I get pretty excited when I receive full packages, too. Maybe we can go pick up guys later.'' I buried my head in my hands, rubbing my face, but didn''t groan. ''Am I really out of my internship if you just keep ribbing me like this?'' ''By that logic, you''ll never be.'' Rivka lowered her voice. ''And it''s a paid internship, chump. So go get me some meat.'' ''Yes ma''am.'' ''Maybe even a full package...'' ''Alright.'' By now, I was more concentrated on my phone than on her: a transformation even more horrifying than my undeath. I was turning into a modern teenager. I saw that new app, the ARChive, which had our white shield on black, with an open grey book inside it as a symbol, had been installed. I gave Rivka a questioning look. ''The book is grey because knowledge is neutral,'' she said in a nasal voice. ''You can leaf through the longer synopsis on ARC later. Right now, you''ll probably want to check the forum.''A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Crypt section, to be exact. I''d check the Romania subsection later. I already had a profile, with my name, picture (they''d used the one from my ID, so I looked like I was caught between life and undeath, but belonged to neither) and country already filled in. But that wasn''t what caught my eye. No, that came when I looked through the Crypt members list. Not all of them, obviously-ARC had millions of official agents, never mind the ones we didn''t talk about-but a name still drew my attention. ''Szabo is a moderator!?'' What the ever-loving fuck did that twisted bastard prevent? I raised my undoubtedly wide eyes to meet Rivka''s amused ones. ''Please tell me you treat him as an example of what not to do...'' *** ''Angus,'' Constantin said stiffly as he walked forward to meet the other priest. ''I see God still burdens you.'' At two metres twenty-four, Angus was nearly half a metre taller than the Romanian, and his laugh befitted his stature. ''Burdened, am I? How, pray tell?'' Constantin felt all the eyes burning holes into his back, and resisted the urge to roll his. ''You often have to interact with people you can''t stand. Trust me, I know your pain.'' Grimacing, Angus raised a huge, muscular hand, Constantin mirroring his move in response. Then, the Irishman brought it down, clasped around the Romanian''s. ''Costiii...'' Angus whistled through his teeth. ''Still a morose fuck, eh? We could''ve broken the bloody continent with that!'' ''There are many things we could do,'' Constantin agreed. ''For example, you could stop swearing like a sailor when you''re wearing your cloth of office.'' ''Ha! Then I can stop drinkin'' an'' smokin'' an shaggin'' too, right?'' ''If you wish,'' Constantin said diplomatically. ''I doubt God would mind.'' ''No.'' Angus drew his hand back. ''No, She wouldn''t. But there''re worse vices to ''ave, and, as long as no one''s hurt...'' Constantin knew his...friend, was extremely paranoid about sex. He only ever slept with sterile women, and even then he blessed the protection he used. An absurd use of faithcraft, if he was one to ask, but Angus only asked for his opinion (through messages, in the last decade. Thankfully) when he wanted to know what not to do. Constantin sighed. ''I know what you''re going to say-'' ''That pet corpse of yours has been getting slapped around ever since he got that hemp tie, from what the Lady tells me.'' The Catholic priest grinned harshly. ''Imagine yer suicide being the happiest life of your life, huh?'' His eyes grew steely. ''You should''ve killed him right then, Constantin. Put ''im outta everyone''s misery.'' ''And murdered my son?'' Angus drew in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, so that it sounded more like a whistle. ''Not yer son. Son of two worthless fucks, an'' a suicide. And what''s he been doing since then?'' Helping people, you lecherous fool, Constantin thought. David''s day-to-day missions, the ones that had never become known to the world at large, had been nothing but that, for three years. But, of course, everyone wanted shock and controversy, something spectacular, and... ''David has found happiness. God willing, it''ll help him overcome all future obstacles.'' ''Tch,'' Angus sneered. ''God willing, She''d smite him so the sad fuck doesn''t have to hurt anymore. Have you noticed none of us are tormented like he is? The Lady''s way of telling him to stop the mockery that is a strigoi fuckin'' praying.'' He chuckled. ''But he can''t take the hint! No hint! Otherwise why''d he have started fucking that cuckolding whore-'' The Irishman swirled his shattered teeth around his blood-filled mouth, looking down at Constantin to see the shorter priest raise an eyebrow. Shaking his head with a sad smile, he healed the damage. ''I''ll pretend your hand slipped, Costi.'' ''Like I''m sure your tongue will again, now that I''ve wet it a little,'' the Romanian replied. ''See? This is exactly the problem. You hear the truth an'' respond with violence. You raised the little hypocritical shite to think like you, an'' now he''s a goddamn walkin'' paradox! But, you know what? I won''t get angry at you. I''ll turn the other cheek-'' Angus blinked stars out of his eyes as he pulled his head free out of a pile of icy dust, watching the half of the Arctic that had been shattered by the strike drift across the ocean. ''Did that for you,'' Constantin said, wiping his bloodied fist on his habit. ''Feel free to preach when you stop shaming your cloth.'' Angus got to his feet with an exasperated groan. Blind. The Romanian was blind, like the other sects, like the pagans. Blind... ''I never have,'' the Irishman huffed, then turned to the gathered priests. ''What are y''all sittin'' on yer arses for!? We''re ''ere t'' talk about crises of faith! Is the End of Days comin''? Where the goddamn fook did Chernobog''s latest worshippers spring from?'' And, more urgently, he''d have to talk to the Scandinavians, about Constantin''s revenant, and whether or not to change their sagas. After all, the strigoi, whether possessed or not, had murdered... *** Asgard, Borson Cluster, 2030 ''Thor.'' Sif sat in a field of golden wheat under a sky full of clouds as thick as grey as lead. To a casual observer, the goddess might have appeare to be alone, but she could feel his presence, like she had always been able to, even before their wedding. As if in response, a breeze passed over her pauldrons, but she felt the wind under her golden armour, and it was more like the touch of a hand than anything else. ''Can you hear me?'' His shade only responded to Odin''s summons, when the Allfather called it to drill the einherjar. Nowadays, with fate gone, the warriors were no longer immortal, no matter what, until Ragnarok- and if that ever came, no one was sure what form it would take. But Sif did not care for Odin''s company at the moment. And she feared the spirit he summoned was only a simulacrum of Thor, a repository of his memories, jerked upon his father''s strings. ''I have asked them to make you a body, husband,'' she spoke softly to the wind, which whispered in reply. ''A body of ash and earth, of lightning and thunder.'' The sky went white for an instant, then shook, as if the World Tree was going to end. ''Loki labours alongside the dwarfs, and the foreigners.'' The device Sindri had thought would help find Mimir''s head had only been half-finished when everything had gone wrong. The dwarf had not given up, though, altering his work instead of abandoning it. ''I fear what paths his mind would take him down, without this to focus on.'' A gale howled across the field, like a sharp, mournful sigh. ''Our children,'' her voice caught a little at this. ''Have split your weapons among themselves. Magni bears your hammer, Modi your gauntlets, and Thrud your belt...'' Sif trailed off, attention drawn by a scrabbling in the ground. When she saw was the wind had carved, she couldn''t hold back her laughter. Did they give her Megingjord because she''s a girl? They know I was fatter than her, right? Yes. Her husband...could definitely hear her. *** Rigel, 2030 The Sleeper awoke under the glare of a blue giant star. Tens of times as heavy as the sun of the world it had been banished from and tens of thousands of times as luminous, it was surrounded by a ring of softly-glowing dust: all that remained of the Sleeper''s city. But...this was wrong. The stars were wrong. They were different, not aligned. The city''s destruction should have freed it, but it still felt drowsy. Why? How? A fist the size of a moon smashed into the Sleeper''s tentacled face, sending it flying through Rigel, obliterating the star. The fist-shaped indent in the Sleeper''s squamous head disappeared in moments. It had not been actually harmed, by the punch or the impact, but it had not been truly awakened either. ''Sleepy? Good! All the pay for half the work!'' Maws proclaimed cheerfully. Though large enough to wrap around Earth several times, the zmeu''s body was minuscule next to the Sleeper''s. This did not deter him. Nor did the Sleeper''s indignant shriek, which unmade reality for light-years around, replacing it with madness that erased matter, energy, space and time alike. ''Ahhh~'' Maws sighed as he flew to face the Sleeper. ''This is making me nostalgic...'' *** Sicily, Kaos Cluster, 2030 ''I thought about breaking free,'' Typhon rumbled. ''When you were running around after knowledge, like chickens with their heads cut off. Perhaps I will rip them off, and see if you act like that again.'' One moment, the monster''s face, which filled most of Etna''s interior, looked like that of a man, if enlarged to grotesque proportions, with skin black as coal and a beard as red as blood. Glancing at it, Asterion could see why he had been equated with Set. The, the face shifted, becoming swirls of white, ribbed flesh, like curled-up maggots; a ridged expanse broken only by the unblinking eyes set in the middle. Then... ''Ignore him,'' Hephaestus grunted, his soot-stained, ruddy face screwed up in concentration as he continued to cut at one of the monster''s claws. ''He does that to disgust people. Too stupid to realise I''d bring my mirror along if I wanted that.'' ''At least you were not created solely to be a weapon, blacksmith,'' Typhon sneered. ''Then imprisoned by the enemies you failed to crush, and who harvest your body like mortals do with cattle.'' Bound by chains both adamantine and immaterial, the venom of the snakes rising from Typhon''s shoulders was regularly gathered, and used to cover the Olympians'' weapons. Hephaestus shook his head, saying nothing, thick black beard swaying as he worked the adamantine file (which looked more like a saw, if anything, given its size) along a claw the size of a mountain. Ages ago, these claws had parted Zeus'' flesh and armour, before Typhon had ripped out his tendons: metaphysical mutilation, for any paltry spirit could remake mere wounds of the flesh. Now, if they could fashion them into war gear ''But then my wife spoke to me,'' Typhon continued. ''For the world''s seas and heavens cannot fully keep us apart. She reminded me that, even if I broke free...what would I fight for? The half-slumbering, half-mad mother who birthed me because she needed a tool for revenge? The father who has never spoken to me?'' The voice like a dozen avalanches softened. ''You have killed so many of our children. She was sure you would kill the rest, and both of us, too.'' Neither the Olympian nor the minotaur said anything, instead continuing to work on the nails. Typhon''s boy spanned the island''s underground, and his every movement could cause a disaster, which meant they had to be fast, but careful. ''And then, she came,'' he said, sounding wistful. Just from hearing you? Damn, Aster thought drily. Mine doesn''t like me that much yet. But that was vanity speaking. The fact Eidolon loved him at all was...well. He had never expected anything but hatred from anyone but his mother. *** Asterion ran clawed hands down his lover''s arms. Flesh that, moments ago, had been as smooth as marble was now as cold as it, too. He could smell no blood, hear no heartbeat-but the woman, the statue, moved. Gingerly, at first. As if surprised. Like him, when he had entered the world as a calf-instant, too twisted to suckle or graze, instead falling upon hiss mother''s retinue and devouring them. A fitting comparison, if his dull mind was any judge. She had, in a way, been born again. Eidolon smiled sadly, looking down at her stone body with unblinking eyes. "''t is her revenge, Aster. It is not your fault.'' But it was. Saving Elsbeth Crane and leading her into the wider world-he doubted the demigoddess that would end up leading all hybrids like her inside ARC had truly perceived him, but he was sure she had known. Her ilk always did-had made him thinking he was some sort of hero, as opposed to a monster let off his leash and pointed at a target. Hubris, pure and simple. And that never went unpunished. The woman he had saved Eidolon from had made dozens of living mannequins, flesh dolls created by mixing and matching the most beautiful parts of the most beautiful corpses she could find. In a way, she hadn''t truly hurt anyone, not even to feed her creations-for Eidolon and her siblings needed to regularly consume human flesh, lest their literally sculpted bodies fall apart. And for that, their creator found the people nobody would miss or bury. Dead or alive, though not for long, snatched from side alleys and crossroads and shallow, unmarked graves. Maneaters still, Asterion had thought with a sneer. The Black Hunger''s prey. He had put the mindless things out of their misery without any of them raising a hand in defence of themselves or each other, for they had been created to be beautiful, to please their creator by reflecting her skill back at her, not to fight. Only Eidolon had been spared. She had been the smartest of them, or perhaps the strongest-willed. In the end, the distinction had been academical. When Asterion had seen the patchwork girl put herself between him and her wizened, mad mother, he had not devoured her, like he had her siblings. Soft-hearted. Instead, he had taken her into the world, leaving the terrified crone behind, showing Eidolon what her mother had killed so her siblings could live. Eidolon had returned home to kill her mother herself. After that, there had been bliss, for a few years. He had created a glorious image of himself, as Hades'' virtuous enforcer, performing a grim, but necessary duty, and returning to the home of the woman who, though grown in body, was still learning to be human. This...should have been their first night together. Truly together. But Hera had found out about his intervention, and why had he imagined she wouldn''t? Why had he fooled himself into thinking she would stand idle? ''Eidi,'' he said, voice choked with rage, caressing her stone flesh as gently as he could. ''Can you feel anything?'' Still smiling, the statue took the minotaur''s hand, pressing it against her face. ''I can feel your love, Aster.'' *** Adam rose from sun-tanned clay, body unmarred save by a coating of dust. He remembered the Creator, speaking to him in a place of endless, colourless light, talking of his purpose, of his glorious destiny as his greatest creation...and son. Adam walked through the garden, naming all the the plants and animals he could see-nonsensical gibberish, that would only be deciphered ages later, by his descendants. Adam remembered growing wiser and wiser, lonelier and lonelier, wishing for something that would fill the void. He remembered asking the Creator for a companion-a wife-and being spurned. The pain of the rejection brought him to one knee. Bracing himself on his hands, Adam looked down into the puddle, and beheld himself. His stature was far greater than one might expect from a man, powerful, untiring muscles dancing under pale skin, marked by nothing save the stitches that held him together. He knew, in the bottom of the void he had instead of a soul, that he had outgrown the stitches the moment he had killed his father. But still they remained, marking him in both the seen and unseen worlds, declaring how he had been created. Adam snarled as he pushed himself to his feet. His body was beautiful, his hair long and dark, shining even in this alien, benighted jungle. Drawing a deep breath into dead lungs, feeling thick, black bile ooze through cold veins, Adam raised his fist, and brought it down upon the world. Trillions of light-years away from Earth, beyond the universe known to man, there was a planet that shared Terra''s dimensions, mass, and little more. The plants and animals that covered its surface were, in, truth, little more than tendrils of an unfathomably vast and ancient organism, that sought to assimilate whatever made contact with it. Neither its acidic secretions nor pheromones, its crushing vines or noxious gases left any mark on Adam''s patchwork body. His punch turned the organism to atoms, and its world to innumerable pieces, propelled countless kilometres away at speeds approaching light. He had grown stronger, he could see that now. But...how had he come here? He had ran away from that frozen land, yes, ran from the humans and their stunted little minds, beyond their sphere of influence, beyond... Their... Sphere... Adam squinted at the harsh, emerald light that could not harm his eyes, but made rage boil within the core of his being, for reasons he could not...ah. Sunlight. He had never been able to truly walk into the light, on Earth. He had hidden. The nameless green sun was larger and heavier than Sol, just as far from the former and only world that had orbited it as Sol was from Earth. Leaping off a piece of debris, Adam cleared the hundred and fifty million kilometres between him and the star in less than a second, plunging through layers of emerald plasma, and reaching the star''s core: a sphere of solid iron, dozens of times larger and heavier than Earth. With a silent grunt, Adam seized the core, lifting it overhead and tossing it through the star''s layers. Watching it make its way to the surface at a speed frozen to his dead eyes, Adam tensed, body bathed in flames hotter than any human nuke, and unharmed. Even his hair was cold when he leapt out of the gutted star to reach the core. The headbutt that shattered the core into thumb-sized shards left a small bruise on Adam''s forehead, which healed instantly. Then, standing on nothing, he turned to stare at the hateful bringer of light. Adam, no matter what humans had grown to believe, had not been animated through lightning. He did not know what force had given him his mockery of life, and doubted even Victor had truly understood. But he could feel the animus swirling inside him, hungry for anything, everything. Just like him, it wanted. Adam nodded to himself. It was only fitting for desire to form the core of his being. With a thought, Adam reached towards the gutted star, and drew it towards himself, far faster than light, faster than physics should have allowed it to move. Radiation, heat and plasma rushed to fill his mouth, parted in a joyous grin that showed perfect, human teeth. It passed through his pale skin and flesh without damaging it, coiling up inside him, for him to use and shape as he saw fit. Somehow, in his slumber, he had unknowingly begun to walk the path of the creator. *** ''Do you see him, Sofia?'' Gray Mann asked softly, one hand on their young companion''s body. The witch''s mouth was parted as she watched Frankenstein''s Monster-not Frankenstein, Gray chided her, he was both dead and (metaphorically) buried, not just dead-destroy a world and unmake a star, all because he could. ''Can you imagine, your mind in his body? You could make everyone be friends...'' Sofia grinned, a mind that could dominate billions of human rushing out of the bubble of space Gray had created for her, to sustain her and hide her from the Monster''s senses. It covered millions of kilometres in moments, wrapping around the Monster- And hit a brick wall. Nothing, The Monster was as impervious to mind control as any were or vampire, or strigoi- ''I see you,'' he said coldly, black eyes in a pale face somehow seeing her, despite her defences, piercing her soul. He had come again, to kill her friend and take her away and- ''I know what you want,'' he continued. ''I am no longer anyone''s tool. My purpose is for me to choose and fulfill.'' Unknown to Adam, on Earth, at that moment, a strigoi echoed him, word for word, as he conjured an image of a black-souled, black-hearted god. And Gray Mann smiled at both. Buried Again, Chapter 4
Irrian Kzelze, Captain, former leader of his village. Died at the age of five hundred and three, impaled on an iron pike. Laisha Gzar, Aetherspeaker. Joined the Seelie Army to escape a boring life as a public announcer. Died at the age of three hundred eighty-four, impaled on an iron pike. Asharr Nayve, sapper. Prankster turned arsonist, then offered the chance between service and imprisonment. Died at the age of six hundred thirty-two, impaled on an iron pike. Csalna Silse... I turned my eyes back to the present with a sigh. Most of the Fae whose pasts I''d seen so far had been people with, by their standards, mundane lives and names. Admittedly, I''d started with the Seelie, because their pasts were more likely to be palatable on average. I wondered if Coldhold had given me a literal translation of his name, or if it had been a title. I didn''t know much about Fae naming conventions and how they varied between factions, because they were all cryptic or misleading when they actually chose to interact with our world. Still... I''d expected worse. I''d, in a way, wanted worse. Had wanted them to be abhorrent, so that my subconscious could rest easy, despite the fact I didn''t really want to...forget it. If I ended up just taking things like this in stride, I''d become more like Szabo, or even- Forget that, human, my strigoi side spat. We didn''t do anything, not that they didn''t deserve it. I clicked my tongue, but it just kept talking. You think every parent whose child is kidnapped or replaced with a changeling thinks about the Fae''s backstories? I bet every corpse under this world''s skin you won''t find a single Fair Fuck who didn''t go along with that. We don''t know that yet. And- Yes, yes, keep searching. And don''t you start talking about how, by my logic, you''re just as bad as all our kin. I wish you believed that! I wish you acted like them! It paced around in the back of our mind. Imagine how we would be seen, if we had done everything the Black God made us do out of our own volition! How feared we''d be! How- How much Mia would hate us. More pacing. A gnashing of fangs, thoughtful, with an undertone of sadness. I don''t want that. And wipe that stupid smirk off your face, human! Pussy. We are what we eat. It shrugged. Anyway...keep looking through their pasts. Maybe you''ll convince yourself of whatever you want. Maybe you''ll even improve the sight! Get on my level, that is, it preened. You know, it would be oh so much easier to just let me take over. Go to sleep and forget all about those pesky moral conflicts. How weak was I to consider its offer, even for a moment? Even if it didn''t get worse over time, it would- I wouldn''t harm anyone you truly care about, human, it smiled blandly. Our zmeu would be safe-isn''t that enough for you? The bear would have to go, of course. You won''t truly be at peace until he dies, not if someone or something else kills him. The ghost, too-the weakling plotted with him, and you still hate that. You can''t stand the other zmeu''s boisterousness, for it clashes with your own demeanour, and are conflicted by the fact the iela never chose you. Better to tie up those loose ends too, eh? You don''t resent the mage enough for him to die, so...hmph. And then, of course, there''s the priest. Go to hell. You first~ *** Cnicht, Snowdonia, Wales, January 13th 2031 Emrys Pritchard stood nearly seven hundred metres above the ground, hands clasped behind his back, as he watched the sun set. The lich''s eyes, the cold blue flames that burned in his sockets with no fuel and no smoke, could see every blade on grass between him and the horizon, and every soul, great and small, that walked or crawled under and on them. The beasts were the only living beings around the mountain at the moment. People had frequented before he had chosen the mountain as the bedrock of his lair, though they had avoided Cnicht more and more often since then. As they should. Mere mortals had no place disturbing the mediations of a great thinker like h- ''Message! Message for the master! Message!'' Of course, before being a lich, Emrys was in his mid-twenties, which meant he leapt to check out any notification, whatever form it took. His zombie crow was just more charming than his smartphone. Alright, it also creeped the hell out of most passersby, especially when he made it eat itself from the inside out, then regenerate, but that was the point! Undead were meant to frighten and appall, disturb and shock. It...it was all those stupid sexy vampires- Movies. It was all those stupid sexy vampire movies. He was through with being distracted by her-them! Yesss....his mind was like his observatory under a cloudless, moonless night, cold and unflappable. ''Bring it, servant,'' he commanded, waving a hand and silently cursing himself for not yet buying one of those robes with long, loose sleeves. They were comfy-that was, befitting of an unliving abomination against nature like him. Until then, he''d have to do with his t-shirt. His crow landed on his outstretched hand, leaving him feeling rather stupid. He hadn''t commanded it to do that, nor wanted it to. He had only been a necromancer a few years before the death he had not accepted, thus returning from the grave. The greater power was nice, but he was still at the stage where his undead sometimes acted as if they still had free will, which often led to embarrassing situations. Still...not always. Would he miss the unexpected, comical mishaps once his mastery grew? Such thoughts tormented him on sleepless nights(which was all of them, but he was not about to let facts interrupt his train of thought). ''It is not a physical message, master,'' the crow croaked, tilting its head. ''I shall, however, recite it, if it pleases you.'' For a soulless, stupid bird corpse, it was way too much of a smartarse for its own good. He''d torn it up a few times, frustrated with its attitude, to no effect. All undead raised by necromancers regenerated from anything as long as their masters existed, and liches...liches were nigh-impossible to get rid of. As his parents could attest. They''d cited the need for him to make his own way into the world, but he was sure they''d just hated the corpse smell, the insensitive pricks. ''The message,'' the crow''s voice, a wheezing rattle only made possible through magic, seemed to waver, as if it had suddenly become capable of feeling fear. Emrys frowned in surprise. He definitely wouldn''t be missing this facet of independence once he got rid of it. Undead shouldn''t frighten each other, they should stand together, presenting an united front against an existence just as cold and uncaring as their unbeating hearts. ''Is this: we are here.'' ''Wh-'' was all Emrys managed to get out before the crow burst apart on his wrist, replaced by a grey leather boot. The lich''s head snapped up seven times faster than sound, but all he saw was the Fae smile down at him, before stomping down on his face, smashing him through the ground and into the mountain. Emrys stood up from a dusty crater the size of a bus, unharmed save for his pride. The nakedness didn''t help. Surprise stripping was never good, in his experience, whoever did it. The lich didn''t have any idea what the Fae wanted. But, judging by the drab getup-a suit of armour plates that overlapped each other like the petals of a particularly ugly flower-and the cocksure smirk, the pointy-eared fuck was probably a straggler from the Fright Before Christmas. Ugh. At least he was just fast, not strong. From what mana Emrys could sense, this Fae couldn''t do much more with magic than he could physically, which begged the question: exactly what was he hoping to accomplish, besides find out how much iron he could be stuffed with before he burst? In short order, he''d call on his other servants, and then, thee intruder... Intruders. Of course. Jackals always hunted in packs, and so did jackasses, apparently. What about jackdaws? Snickering to himself, Emrys spun his neck all the way around, flames flaring up at each Unseelie in turn. ''Thanks for surrounding me. Now, it''s impossible to miss.'' Then, both his eyes and his voice grew colder. ''You''re lucky we''re alone on the mountain tonight. Otherwi-'' Emrys growled, teeth clenched. Whatever Fae had struck him in the jaw, pulverising the rock of his porch-lair''s entrance-for metres around, had moved to him and back to their spot far faster than he could see. But that was child''s play for them. They could all outpace lightning, so why weren''t they doing anything...? Ah, of course, Emrys realised, standing up straighter, slim chest puffing. They were afraid of him, but who could blame them? Who hadn''t heard of the Lich of Cnicht? Or his servants, for that matter? The granite dome of Emrys'' lair had two dozen doors. Each hour, one opened, an enchanted vessel floating outside to catch sunlight or moonlight for spells. Now, all twenty-four slid aside, allowing dozens of bulky bodies to enter at speeds that not only belied their bloated frames, but surpassed those of the Fae themselves. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Trolls were notoriously hard to kill, and not just because it was easier to level countries than bruise one. Magic and the strangest effects science could produce slid off them like water off a duck''s back, and they could regenerate from anything that did damage them. Except, of course, the power of the sun that turned them to stone. It had been a pain in the arse to shape so much sunlight into weapons and sneak up on the bastards while they slept, but it had been worth it. It would have been just for the challenge, not just the respect of so many Welsh. Trolls were like stupidly strong gorillas who thought they were racoons. These, at least, hadn''t been sapient, or else it would have been harder to catch them off-guard. But smart trolls lurked on the internet, or under bridges, not in the dumpsters behind pubs. Emrys smirked as he floated up high in the air, grey hair free from its usual ponytail, rising over twenty metres above his ten-story lair. His death magic would be useless against the Fae, and they''d just regenerate if he blasted them apart. Either approach would result in a lifeless wasteland and a flattened mountain. Before the Fae could direct their powers at the environment, the undead trolls were upon them, pushing them down and shattering skulls and limbs every time they tried to move, with broad grins under their bulbous noses and beady eyes shining with the cold fire of their master. Muttering a spell, Emrys transmuted a tiny amount of air into an iron knife. Now...to get some answers from them, he thought, scratching his soul patch. He still hadn''t gotten over the fact their punk-ass invasion had preempted the wave of bullshit that had seen him evicted(evacuated, they had said) from his own home, and while he was trying to get it on again! That werewolf had been so cute too... Emrys touched down, twirling the knife as he approached one of the Fae. The arsehole who''d kicked him, he thought, though it was kind of hard to tell with a troll sitting on his back and repeatedly flattening his skull. ''Why are you here?'' he rasped, knife just under the Fae''s chin. ''Is this another attack?'' He''d seen some bollocks in the paper (no, he wasn''t an old man, he bought it for the jokes and the crossword puzzles) about some arsehole from ARC who''d apparently killed off the Fae army because he believed they were in league with Satan or whatever. He hadn''t paid much attention, but the prick had sounded like a Bible-thumping asshat. Fuck...was this revenge? Were they striking back? Emrys personally believed they were about even with the Fae, but he doubted people would listen to him, the fools. They never did, but he''d make them see, oh yes he would. He''d show them all! Before the Fae could answer, the troll having just paused its onslaught, a tall, lithe shape dropped between him and Emrys, causing the lich to draw back. Unprompted, the troll smashed a ham-sized fist into the figure''s left side before Emrys could get a good look at them, sending them flying. Scant moments later, the lick looked up at the moon, face falling at the satellite''s newest crater. Damn thing looked both wide and deep enough to swallow Britain. Fucking unreliable zombies-! The figure returned to their prior position even faster than they had been sent flying, and looking perfectly fine. Perfectly fucking fine, actually, if Emrys was one to say. The Fae was neck and shoulders taller than him, muscles like a panther''s under gunmetal-grey skin, and completely, gloriously naked. Her body was only covered by a few patches of shadow, which writhed and throbbed in Emrys'' arcane sight. The lich choked on nothing, his body still used to human motions. ''W-Who-'' gulping, he gestured at the restrained Fae. ''Why?'' The shadow-clad Fae giggled, then pushed him to the ground faster than he could perceive. ''Let me show you why,'' she breathed. *** Emrys stood up on legs that were still healing, pelvis regenerating for the umpteenth time. Dawn was approaching, and it seemed the Fae had grown bored, for she certainly hadn''t grown tired. ''So...'' he began hesitantly, then injected some confidence he wasn''t sure he felt in his voice. ''Was it as good for you as it was for me?'' Receiving no response, he walked closer as she drew her shadows around herself. ''I suppose they''ve heard about the Lich of Cnicht even in Faerie.'' She half-turned to him, bemused, half-lidded eyes slightly widening. ''Ah...we are swapping names now! I am Cloudshade of the Everdark, and completely uninterested in yours.'' At his gaping expression, she added, ''Oh, you can call me Shade, if you wish.'' ''Completely uninterested in...'' Emrys echoed. ''Then why-!?'' ''I was bored.'' Shade shrugged. ''Still am, but it is not yet time...hmm. Maybe I should have gone with one of your slaves. Roughly as smart, but so much bigger~'' ''You damn bitch!'' he screeched, mana flaring up around him. ''You jump me in my own home, then get your rocks off, and don''t give a fuck? Then why are you here? Is...is it that foray into Faerie? Are you going after New Camelot?'' ''Oh, them,'' Shade waved him off. ''Their time will come, too, but that is not my place, nor will it be, unless.'' She giggled again. ''Oh, but I''m rambling. As I said, I was just passing time until the proper moment. Now, can your brutes let my people go?'' ''Proper moment for what?'' Emrys asked, curious despite himself, as he made his trolls free the Fae. He had to admit, making them watch had been pretty hot. ''For going to David Silva, of course.'' Shade looked at him like he was slow, and Emrys wracked his memory, until he remembered that section of the paper. ''Silva...who, that religious fanatic who tried to commit genocide in Faerie? Do you wanna kill him yourself, or what?'' ''I would rather avoid that,'' Shade said, amused, and Emrys noticed her thighs were still covered in his cold blood and bone dust as she strode. ''Silva will help us remove the blight in our realm, or help us find a new home. He will pay in blood too, of course, but...hmm. Perhaps, not so much. He was just a tool, after all.'' ''Yeah, he sounds pretty dickish from what I''ve read,'' Emrys aggreed, though he was uneasy at the fact she''d dismissed a killer bigger than any in human history-by orders of magnitude!-as "just a tool". ''Still,'' he scowled. ''Next time, at least tell me why, alright? And the home raid was, what, an attempt to grab by attention?'' ''You could say that.'' Shade stretched, and her shadows lengthened, quickly scooping up the patches of gore that covered her. ''Not that you will get the chance.'' And then, she and the rest of the Fae were gone. Emrys tried to sense them, but felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder, cracking it in half. He tried to turn, but was forced onto his knees. ''And what,'' Arianrhod growled, gesturing at the still-visible moon with a hand just as white and pockmarked as it. ''Did your tool do to my moon above my land?'' ''I-You-'' What the fuck was the Welsh moon goddess doing here...? Was it the crater? But that had been unintentional! She had to know! She- ''Wait,'' he managed. ''How long had you been watching?'' ''Long enough to know I''d have time after she was done with you,'' Arianrhod replied. ''Unlike some people, I''m not utterly tasteless.'' *** English Channel, 14th of January, 2031 ''What now, Everdark?'' One of her misfits asked-it was getting harder and harder to remember faces, let alone names, for all that they were more important; still, she told herself, it wasn''t her fault they all insisted to be so insignificant-asked as they walked on the tides, far from the sight of any human vessel. ''We must act before the Black God strikes again.'' He had marked her and several of her kind, through methods yet unknown, but highly unlikely devised by him alone. Shade knew acting while empowered by him, however distantly and indirectly, could simply be a move in whatever game Chernobog was playing, but such was existence. If one feared the meddling of gods, one could never act. ''He would break the strigoi out of spite, and we must at least learn why, if not prevent it. His godsight would be useful, if harnessed to a proper cause.'' And breaking him and his mate, for he seemed bizarrely attached to her, would not hurt. She could have fun with both, though Shade wagered the zmeu would crack first. But Silva, weak and slow in body and mind as he was, may have still held the key to their salvation. Fairie could not be swallowed by Chernobog''s parting gift, or the Fae would bear the shame forever. And, even if Silva could not stop that, he could help them find a new abode. Of course, Shade and her entourage were unknown to the worthies who allegedly led their kin, except in the vaguest sense. This was not an official, recognised mission. She...was going out of her way, to preserve her home, rather than topple the rotting edifice that was civilisation. The little bastard better be worth her time. ''Oh, David...'' she whispered to the rising sun. ''Why be ARC''s dog, when you can be my wolf?'' Buried Again, Chapter 5
''Are you sure?'' I asked, looking at my phone rather than Rivka, and felt the air in the sparring room shift as she nodded. Usually, there were a couple ghosts smacking each other around or watching others do it. I wondered if she''d asked for it to be cleared, or if she''d even needed to. ''Gaol John gave you the thumbs up.'' And his word that he''d always be watching me. That definitely wouldn''t give me performance anxiety worse than my already sky-high usual. "And you should take a break from looking through the Fae''s pasts, anyway. Undead might be incapable of getting bored, but you said you didn''t feel like you were improving." ''Sorry,'' I sighed at the ghoul''s tight-lipped expression. I could tell she wanted me to improve my skill with Mimir''s perception, as did Aya Reem, but I guess my heart just wasn''t in it (because it was in my chest, the pesky bitch. It always got back there, no matter how much I shapeshifted, got hurt and healed). That only made sense, though: don''t be fooled by my strigoi tricks, disappointing women is my real power. Mia just hadn''t gotten the memo so far. Rivka blew a raspberry. ''I don''t need excuses, David. We-everyone in this mess; we''re in this together-know this is for both your good and that of the organisation. Shit, the world.'' The ghoul gave me a smile that was probably meant to be encouraging. I was sure it had encouraged many surfers to return to the shore and stay there forever. ''And you care too much about that not to do your best. So, it''s not for lack of trying. You''ll get better.'' ''I think I''m being gimped by my mindset...please don''t agree so fast,'' I deadpanned at her rapid nodding. ''I mean that I''ve mostly been treating it as an upgrade to my sight, when it''s actually much more,'' I rubbed my eyes, and my fingers tingled faintly at the divine power contained within. Usually, my sense of touch was so stunted that I felt like I was wearing iron gauntlets. But I''d learned to work my way around that, out of necessity. Now you know why undead were so damn morose when they weren''t edgy. Not being able to feel anything except pain(insert whiny teen music), not being able to taste anything...and that was just for those with bodies, like me. Most ghosts had it far worse, which meant the few who didn''t start out crazy quickly got there, out of sensory deprivation if the baggage that kept them on Earth wasn''t enough. ''There were times when other people activated my sight. Reem did it once, as a perception exercise.'' And, probably, to show me how easily she could crush the rest of the Corpse Corps together, if needed. At least, the members I knew of. Another memory, of Vyrt flashed through my mind, bringing a frown to my face. The Nephilim had been devastated to hear of the Faerie expedition fiasco, according to the External Affairs agents that dealt with New Camelot. Still...something didn''t feel right. ''And not only did my reflexes improve, so did my hearing. I mean, my arcane sense too, otherwise I wouldn''t have been able to hear stuff in space...not a long story. I''ll tell you another time,'' I promised Rivka, seeing her questioning expression. ''I think it enhances all my senses, or would, if I knew how to fully use it. But it''s not like I got the godsight for morons training manual.'' I had refused Odin''s invitation to Asgard, the short visit to apologise to his family notwithstanding. ''Maybe you should dig up those marriage offers. Was there a knowledge goddess among them?'' I winced. ''I...don''t remember. Most of them were from death goddesses, or gods who thought I also swing that way.'' Well, that wasn''t fully true. Such a "marriage" wouldn''t demand attraction, let alone sex, just living together, and serving a pantheon''s interests. But they''d all been off-putting. ''I stopped at the Izanami one.'' That had probably been more of a threat than an offer. The fact it had been unsigned hadn''t encouraged me. Rivka worried at her lower lip with her fangs, ripping out a small chunk she then swallowed faster than I could see. ''Maybe go to Reem and ask her to arrange a meeting with Thoth? He could tutor you...'' Thoth was...not dickish at all, by divine standards, from what I knew. I''d never met him. And he did like teaching others, even though I doubted he''d be fully open with me, what with the rivalry between Egypt''s gods and all servants of Abraham''s God, but that would be harmless compared to what other deities would put me through if they could. ''Maybe I will. And maybe it will work. But now...'' I opened the ARChive, and entered the Crypt forum, then the general discussion thread. Skimming through it, I saw dozens of pages had been added very quickly since the beginning of the Headhunt, and hundreds more since its end and the following events. ''Are they...is it safe to talk like this?'' I asked Rivka, nervous at the prospect of more people getting into trouble because of the bad luck that seemed to hound me. ''It''s as safe as we''re willing to believe anything is. Switches to aetheric waves once you get out of satellite range, so you could theoretically call anyone anywhere in the multiverse, provided you have the right number. Don''t. At least, not without checking with me and Reem first.'' I nodded, then, hesitantly, began to type. My rank, name, species and country appeared over my post. [Agent David Silva, strigoi, posting from Omu base, Romania] Hello, everyone. Just got this and wanted to try it out. Sorry for whatever grief I''ve caused you, intentionally or not. Immediately, the few hundred agents sleepily checking out the thread multiplied, becoming thousands, then tens of thousands, until a fraction of the Crypt division was online to see me. [Senior agent Liu Zhi, jiang-shi, posting from the Great Wall, China] Greetings, Silva. We have been expecting you. Please do not overly trouble yourself over your misdeeds, real or imagined. We''ll do it for you. P.S: Do not fall apart again. We cannot rebuild you. We don''t have the technology. [Agent Byron Samedi, lich, posting from Tortuga base, Haiti] Guess you can say you''re in now, huh? Speaking about that, I''ve heard about your problems with your honey. You know, I have these real pretty corpses just standing around. I can loan them when I''m not using them, provided it happens at the same time your zmeu is putting horns on ya. Keeping her around the house when she''s bored of you gotta calm you down, eh? ''Is this guy for real? Byron Samedi?'' I muttered. ''He''s half-British,'' Rivka explained. ''And fully tasteless...Jesus,'' I said to myself, about to reply, but other agents were faster. Damn, really kept you guys waiting, didn''t I? [Agent Harshed, vetala, posting from Bengaluru base, India] Who gives a damn about the strigoi''s issues? Keep blowing yourself, ''Samedi''. Silva, stop being so sentimental. It''s disgraceful. You should rather be more concerned with the religious war that''s bound to erupt around you. [Senior agent Frida, draugr, posting from Akershus base, Norway] I will take over that, if you don''t mind. Hmph, was all Harshed replied. Not really a bringer of joy, are you? Bet your parents are either precogs who love irony, or disappointed. David, Frida continued, We do not blame you for what Chernobog made you do. There are some discussions about whether you''re cursed or not, but none of my agents feel anything for you but pity. Wow. My self-esteem was going to fly off and escape if she kept at it. That being said...Thor''s death has not been made public knowledge yet. We think Odin is blunting all attempts at scrying, which continued, despite the thunder god still answering prayers. We think he has moved to a new state of existence, without everything ending in Ragnarok. But people will be mad once they find out, which will happen. Some might come after you, either because they believe you guilty, or see you as tainted by Chernobog. [Senior agent Diego Cortez, vampire, posting from Malaga base, Spain] And let us not forget the other dead god you got mixed up with...oh, hello David! I didn''t see you were still online, I''m typing as I remember. Anyhow...you do realise everyone who either worshipped or hated Mimir will want to harvest or strike at him through you, yes? I was just talking about not saying things like this..., Zhi wrote, but Diego went on. David! You should not worry about things you can''t control and which, in fact, control you. Trust me, I''m speaking from experience. Speaking of that, my wife says hi to you two. She thinks you''re so cute! Edit: You and Mia, to clarify. Not you and Rivka. She thinks she''s cute too, just not together with you. Not that you ruin the image, you just don''t fit. Edit 2: Hi Rivka! Clio thinks we should all eat out again when we have time, he added before I could ask how the hell he knew Rivka was next to me. ''Don''t question things like that,'' the ghoul in question smiled, taking out her own phone and beginning to type. ''Diego is...he''s like the ocean. Might appear big and empty, but he has hidden depths.'' Well-hidden... Thanks for the encouraging words, everyone, I finally typed when I got a word in edgewise. Does anyone know if Head Reem is online right now? There is something I need to talk to her about. [Agent Skye, sluagh, posting from Glencoe base, Scotland] Would it happen to be related to what we were discussing ? I was deeply unsettled by the fact a spirit who specialised in dropping people to death used symbol talk, or whatever it was called. I think it would be better to talk to her in private. It''s just that I don''t know if she''s busy right now, or I''d fly to Giza. The Heads are always busy, Silva. They keep the body moving, Skye replied. Also, since when do you get to go to headquarters on a whim? There something you hiding from us? Edit: Also also, there are no such things as private messages in the ARChive. Intimacy here is like in the army: imaginary. Come to think of it, so is dignity...in both cases. And, riding the wave of that cheerful note, the last person I wanted to hear from chimed in. [Senior agent Loric Szabo, strigoi, posting from Szechenyi Hill base, Hungary] Brother! Once you are done with your latest existential crisis, be sure to check out the relaxation thread! I''m posting my art as I make it! *** ''Aww...'' Diego whined, leaning back in his chair. ''Loric scared him off.'' Sighing, the vampire looked around the room with too many corners and not enough curves. The architecture of Malaga base was enough to rob baseline humans of their senses and sanity alike-a holdover from its previous occupants and decorators. And that was without taking into account the spots where pentagrams had been ripped out of spacetime, which were far, far more dangerous to perceive. Diego had seen several gophers unmade in the present, past and every possible future just by brushing against one. They were all, of course, harmless to him, or he wouldn''t have been sitting on one. His guests were similarly resilient. Talking about Crypt business with Goetia agents would have went against protocol, but it wasn''t like they''d been posting anything classified in the thread. They''d just been stabbing the piss, as the youths said. Nothing that wasn''t already known through ARC. "Oh, well." Miguel shrugged, his usual suit and shirt unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around his collar. ''At least he''ll be too busy being disgusted at Loric to be disgusted at himself...? Damn, I''m bad at encouragement.'' ''I think those two are developing a dynamic,'' Sklaresia said, kicking her legs as she sat in her husband''s lap, leaning an elbow on the table between them and the vampire. ''It could be worse. They could have killed each other by now. Several times.'' ''Tch,'' Diego pouted. ''He didn''t even reply to me! I know for a fact he''s not busy looking Loric''s art, I checked that thread. So what-'' ''Diego,'' the demon said softly, closing her horizontal eyes as the central, vertical one opened. Usually blazing with black fire, it was now like a pool of ink, though nothing was reflected in it. ''He''s grieving.'' ''I know,'' the vampire said, leaning forward to slump on the table. ''But he must pick himself up. I know he will.'' ''He''s not just grieving for his own losses, Diego,'' Miguel said, running a hand through his wife''s hair. ''He feels he should be the only one suffering, not the world at large. Emil told me on the way to Salem headquarters, after he was done interrogating David. He...he might do something stupid, either to redeem himself or end his pain. I...I wish I could help him...'' the mage said, remembering Mia''s haunted look as they departed R''lyeh''s former location. David had been even more hurt than she had been upon receiving the news. He was a good man. But good people... *** Seville, Spain, 2031 ''It''s not working,'' Miguel sighed, leaning his head back in his wife''s back, rubbing his forehead in frustration with one hand. ''David''s fortunes can''t change, obviously-he''s a strigoi, and my magic isn''t holy. But everything even slightly related to him is fixed in place. I can''t make things better, dammit.'' ''It means they can''t get worse either, love. Right?'' ''They aren''t, at the moment,'' he said. ''The flow of fate is as stable as it ever is,'' he snorted. ''I wanted to make sure there were few fights between him and his girlfriend in the future, you know? They deserve it.'' ''They are certainly endearing,'' Sklaresia agreed with a small smile. ''Especially the zmeu. For all her feistiness, she was adorably shy when she kept sneaking glances at us back then.'' ''Probably thought we couldn''t tell.'' Miguel said, unwilling to admit he''d completely missed it. Any sensation of flattery was buried under irritation at anyone else being attracted to his demon. It was stupid and hypocritical, he knew, but human. As long as they could afford to worry over such small things... ''Mhm. Maybe we should invite her over when they''re separate. Spice things up.'' ''Klare!'' ''I''m teasing.'' She pulled his head back into her lap, while leaning against the headboard. They sat in silence that, for the first time in years, was far from comfortable, for minutes. It was Miguel who broke it. This was as good a moment as any. And...he still had his doubts. And fears. ''Sklaresia?'' ''Oh, you''re full naming me. What do you imagine you''ve done wrong this time?'' She put two hands on her hips in exaggerated irritation, making him smile. ''Talking about relationships...'' ''You''re not really taking the threesome joke seriously, are you?''Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ''Of course not, sweetheart. I know I''m only yours.'' Perfect setup, if unintentional. ''Klare...Am I your slave?'' Silence, again. One of her hands descended to caress his cheek. ''You would have made me yours, if you''d won our contest.'' She had long since forgiven him for that, if she''d ever been mad to start with, but...it still made him feel like the worthless bastard Klare didn''t seem to see he was, for some reason. ''Forgive me'' he asked her for the thousandth time. ''Not that I deserve to ask this, but I ?am sorry. I was looking for power, and a being most people saw as evil wouldn''t have been missed.'' The mage chuckled drily. ''Come to think of it, I was pretty speciesist back then, too.'' ''That was only half the reason. You saw a hurt woman, and wanted never to, again. Even if you thought I could only be safe under your control.'' Miguel nodded, grimacing. ''I know I have free will-as much as anyone does-but...if you gave me an order, I wouldn''t be able to disobey, would I?'' ''No.'' Her blunt response made his heart sink, but relieved him, at the same time. ''But I would sooner rip out my heart than make you do something you don''t want to, my mage.'' Klare closed her central eye, taking a deep breath that destroyed any chance he had of concentrating. ''I will change the contract, if you wish. Just tell me what new terms you want.'' This was probably a bad time to mention his tinkering with it. Not that he wanted to get rid of Klare-the thought hurt more than being controlled-,it was just in his nature to push him luck. And, though it had always failed, it had helped improve his probability magic. ''Communication is always important in relationships. We''ll have to make sure we both agree first, though.'' The demon smiled down at him. ''Your experiments are funny, Miguel, but remember we''re married. Talk to me before trying something that could affect both of us, alright? The worst I could do is say no.'' And there she went, forgiving him again. He- ''Will you two stop being so wholesome? It''s disgusting,'' one of the shadows on the wall murmured, moving between two dart boards as it elongated. ''Intimacy,'' Miguel griped. ''Ever heard of it?'' He really didn''t want Emil''s partner, hostage, ?whatever, seeing them naked. ''Embodiment of darkness, ever heard of me? I,'' Nacht pointed a knifelike finger at Miguel as the mage pulled the covers over himself. ''Am ?always inside you. All the places in your body light does not reach are me, as is every dark thought you have ever had. I know you better than the demon, fool. And you.'' It pointed at Sklaresia. ''When will you stop doing this and start acting like a real demon?'' ''Don''t hold your breath.'' Klare smirked. ''Why are you manifesting like this?'' ''Indulging Hex, who''s humouring Shiftskin. He was so worried as we left Australia, he asked me to check on everyone I could.'' Hex, worried? About people? ''Don''t be daft,'' Nacht said, reading his thoughts. ''He knows that the worse ARC does, the fewer chances to experience new things he''ll have. He has too many enemies to switch organisations or live entirely as a civilian. Anyway...you two are clean. Disturbingly so, considering what you are, which Hex is relieved to hear. Now, if you''ll excuse me...he and my primary manifestation have sone business to attend to.'' Miguel rubbed his face, groaning, as the shadow became normal once more. He hadn''t been cockblocked like this since his days of selling luck. Ugh...no wonder Hex rarely tried to help like this, he was more awkward than a colt on roller-skates. ''Sorry, darling,'' he told Sklaresia. ''I should''ve told it to piss off.'' ''It wouldn''t have worked.'' She shook her head, smiling thinly. ''I think Emil cares more than he shows, or knows. But you couldn''t have done anything.'' ''Maybe,'' he replied grudgingly. ''Um...before Nacht-'' ''Do you want a new contract?'' Sklaresia asked. ''I can remove the obedience clause, if it worries you.'' ''Maybe replace it with sharing emotions-and thoughts, when close enough?'' he suggested. ''It would be romantic." ''Yes...'' She smiled, tossing the covers aside. ''I would love that. But first...'' First, they had to seal the deal. Funny. It almost always ended like this, with the overconfident mage kneeling before the demon, but Miguel found he did not begrudge his wife her victory at all. For she was a graceful winner, and merciful. *** Son of the Sun, deep space, 2031 ''Complaining will not change reality,'' Hex said through their bond as he walked the gigantic spaceship''s halls, unseen by mundane, psychic, mage and sensor alike. His bad luck aura, which seemed to have improved since his death at Chernobog''s hands and subsequent recreation by Nacht, made octillions of minds and artificial intelligences cloud over and become sluggish whenever they came close to perceiving him. ''You have no idea how appalling your colleagues are, Emil.'' Nacht had lately been using his first name more often than it had in over seven decades. Come to think of it...his existence might have been necessary for it to remain coherent, but his mind wasn''t. So, why had it recreated him with the ability to think at all, let alone the same mindset-which, he knew, it found stifling and boring? ''That is for me to know, and for you to agonise over~'' ''You are not interesting enough to think about in my spare time.'' ''So harsh! Come now, Emil...do you really think I''d take the easy route and remake you as a puppet? Where would the fun in breaking that stony mind of yours be, then?'' Hex had no reply. Instead, he continued walking towards his destination. The door, a hundred thousand kilometres wide, twenty thousand thick and denser than neutronium, was shaped as a stylised sun, with rays that danced and changed colour, directed by unseen machines. He did not care for the artifice, for all that, he supposed, most people would have found it beautiful, or at least impressive. Instead, he raised his left hand-Hex was right-handed, but magic always flowed better on the sinister path-and let loose a burst of mana, blasting the door to smithereens. The Son of the Sun shook for dozens of light years as pieces of the door, fast and light and bigger than his body, flew around him, having the misfortune of smashing into each other, or the worshippers of Solarex who arrived to see what the commotion was about. None of them could perceive Hex and Nacht, nor could the Solarian who arrived as fast as the flash of light that announced her presence. A shining white figure, with sun rays rising from her head like a crown, the Solarian cast her senses through the immense hallway, but perceived nothing except for the minds and souls of her father''s worshippers, and the heat their bodies radiated. The Solarian grunted in annoyance when a hundred-trillion ton chunk of the door smashed into her at lightspeed, shattering over her shining body. She strode forward, brushing against Hex without knowing. ''That is quite enough,'' a smooth, deep voice filled the corridor. ''Come here, Nacht. Bring your pet too.'' Hex entered one of Solarex''s many throne rooms, taking in the baffled expressions of King Sun''s courtiers. Their god was talking to himself, as far as they could see. ''Zivhaya...'' Solarex breathed, looking in disappointment at his daughter. ''So bright, yet so dull. No, no, no. This will not do.'' There were eighty billion kilometres between King Sun and his daughter. Solarex rose from his golden throne, ripped her in twitching halves, and returned to his seat before she had realised he was moving. Hex tracked his movement dispassionately, feeling the galaxy-ending power that always burned inside Solarex''s primary manifestation, even when he wasn''t drawing on the aether, or the stars of other realities. ''Children are so boring, sometimes,'' Solarex mused, propping his chin in one hand. He had done away with the beard for today, and a crownlike construct of light surrounded his head, but the body that was his primary manifestation looked the same as always: two metres eighty, statuesque, perfectly-contoured muscles under golden, blindingly-bright skin. ''I do not recommend having them.'' ''Then maybe you will stop using everyone you can get your hands on as breeding sows,'' Hex suggested. He did not need the advice. He already lacked interest in breeding. Solarex, like most hypocrites, was opinionated and completely uninterested in following his own advice, though, so he laughed. ''Do not be absurd! What else could I do, when I am not practicing my art or destroying my foes? Food and drink and love...you humans have the right ideas, though you worship the wrong gods.'' ''I worship nothing,'' Hex said. The jab had annoyed him more than it should have. Generalising had never sat well with him, especially since such opinions were almost always based on incomplete information, when it wasn''t incorrect. ''And the gods others worship are ''wrong'' because they are not you, I assume?'' ''Of course!'' Solarex spread his arms, grinning like a teacher pleased with a slow student''s surprisingly good answer. ''Who else pulled themselves up to godhood by their bootstraps? Why, before I made my name, I was simply another manifested Idea, like your dark master.'' King Sun tilted his head to one side, grin thinning, becoming sly. ''I know why you are here.'' Hex doubted that. Solarex could not read his mind, and Nacht had hid their intentions from its counterpart''s senses during the journey. ''Then, there is no need for me to speak,'' Hex said smoothly. They were here to dissuade Solarex from coming to Earth-the Watcher Over Horror''s presumption in calling on alien beings to defend Earth without the consent of its inhabitants had been dangerous, though the Tartarus Engine seemed to have expressed their collective displeasure. The Watcher had not apologised, of course, for such things were as alien to them as emotions were to Hex. Then, it had drawn Atlantis'' ruins into a pocket reality it had created just for that purpose, rather than let them remain underwater and fight alongside Earth''s defenders. Why? The Watcher was not a coward, and always chose the path of least effort. It certainly could not have been the danger. The invaders that had attacked Earth would have been a joke to the Watcher at their baseline. Had there been something that could have broken the seal over the Horror? Thoughts for another day. ''Oh, I don''t know. Your voice is like your body: I want to have both~'' Solarex winked, ignoring Nacht''s growl just as he ignored the bladed tendril it struck at him with. The appendage bounced off his golden skin, a fraction of the power bisecting the Son of the Sun and sending the halves flying. Reality was unmade by the shockwave, revealing the aether''s colourless, raw mana, and Solarex sighed. Spinning a finger in a counter-clockwise motion, he sealed the tear in reality, remaking his son''s body and resurrecting the septillions that had died for Nacht''s aggravation. ''Was that really necessary?'' he asked the dark being mildly. ''Yes, I know. But why should I reveal the secrets of the gods for nothing in return?'' Hex''s face had been horrible at expressing anything, including surprise, long before he had bonded with Nacht, stitching his mouth and eyes shut. He was not always grateful for that, but...yes. Playing along with Solarex, then presenting their actual intentions, could prove interesting. ''Surely you do not think anything you reveal could be used to threaten you?'' ''I am not a fool.'' Solarex slouched in his throne, arms crossed behind his head. ''Haven''t you wondered why the Black God can permanently harm those weak to holy power? He is worshipped, yes, but as a bringer of misfortune and destruction. So is the Devil. So is Apophis,'' he raised a finger. ''But you do not see them doing what he can, do you?'' That... ''We are looking into it. But we need peace, and time, to research. Your presence on our world would be disruptive.'' ''Hmph...'' Solarex pouted, then his smile returned, eyes gleaming. ''I already gave you a hint, and now you ask for more? Tsk, tsk. Not to mention the way you blundered your way through my son...I think it is my turn now.'' Before Hex could reply, he felt his stitches fall away, Nacht slipping into the joints, turning his eyes and mouth into jagged slices of darkness. ''If you insist~'' King Sun smirked. Humbling the embodiment of darkness and its slave, for both payment and pleasure? Yes...he could get used to this. *** Ischyros clapped a merry rhythm on its belly as it flew, crossing trillions of light years every second. It was a leisurely pace for it, but the universe beyond humanity''s knowledge was something that had to be taken slow to be appreciated...even if it was mostly empty. The minotaur-a friend who could recover from anything! Who could choose how powerful he was, like Ischyros!-had convinced it that waiting on Earth to beat off invaders would have been a waste of its talents, and boring besides. He had even pointed out new friends to fight with, even if playing with Ischyros had left them incapable of moving. Or anything else. Alas, most beings had that problem. Ischyros was happy to bring some colour into their sad lives. Still, things seemed to have quieted down, as they always, inevitably, did. Existence was more like a cycle than anything, or perhaps a seesaw. It had heard about that human invention, and had been eager to try one, before the minotaur had talked it into going out into the multiverse. Ah, well, it''d always get another chance. But now, Ischyros had nothing to do except find another fight. That had always been its greatest desire, for as long as it could remember. Multiverses might come and go, existence might change, but Ischyros'' metaphorical heart always sang for battle. There were smaller pleasures, of course. Like seesaws! Oh, Ischyros dearly hoped it would get to try one soon. They went up-down, up-down, up-down... Maybe it should change course and go to Earth? As it considered its options, something thrice its size, but a minuscule fraction of its speed-only four hundred eighty times lightspeed-smashed into it. The rocky planet it had been flying over split for thousands of kilometres as Ischyros smashed through it. Ah, a new friend! One with a love for surprise tackles! Even if they were slow... Giggling, Ischyros lowered its speed to match the stranger''s, and took in their appearance. The Honoured Kratocrats-Vyzhaldi, after their homeworld, though they rarely went by that-were bipedal, beetle-like humanoids, standing five metres forty tall and almost as wide. The colour of their exoskeletons, save for the yellow-white ones that hatched from eggs, depended on the manner their progenitor was wounded. As such, most were red, like the thick, sap-like substance that oozed from Vyzhaldi wounds, with crimson eyes set in a pinkish face. Orange for energy weapons, green for acids, purple for toxins... This one was red, and alone. A rare thing, for a Kratocrat: Vyzhaldi were rarely hurt only once in a battle, and the ones that grew from the severed chunks almost always stuck together. The bonds between Woundkin were as strong as the one between Broodkin, if not stronger. ''Hello, friend!'' Ischyros waved, the Kratocrat clicking his mandibles in annoyance. ''Do you want to fi-'' ''No!'' Well, that was even stranger! And rude. Had the Vyzhaldi changed so much in a few paltry billion years? ''I am sorry. Then why did you stop Ischyros?'' The Vyzhaldi beat his wings in agitation at the mention of its name. Perhaps he had an ugly one and was too shy to share it? ''You flew into me, you moron! You were moving too fast for me to dodge!'' And with that, the Kratocrat flew away, into deep space. Oh, void...maybe it really should go to Earth. Everything pointed to the wider universe being boring today. Returning to its speed before the meeting with the strange Kratocrat, Ischyros spun in place, and began flying to- More people bumping into it! Perhaps these friends weren''t in such a hurry? ''Earthlings!'' Ischyros said excitedly as it took them in. The welcoming committee? ''I was just thinking of visiting. Thank you, but I know the way!''it said, pointing at the top of its torso for emphasis. Yua took off her thick, circular shades to give Wukong a golden-eyed, amused look. ''Told you it hasn''t changed,'' the kitsune said smugly, before floating closer to the six-armed being. In her human form, the Heaven-Spurning Elder barely came up to its chest, but showed no nervousness. After all, they were equally strong and fast at their baseline. And, for all that Ischyros'' could enhance its power at a whim and with no discernible limit, Yua had some tricks of her own. ''Actually,'' she turned to the alien. ''We are afraid Earth cannot receive visitors at the moment. But, to thank you for your help,'' and keep the overgrown, overpowered child busy. Gods, she swore it was worse than her Ritsu. Why did cute dumbasses have to be so hard to manage? ''We came to spar with you!'' ''Indeed,'' Wukong said, grinning despite himself when Ischyros began hopping up and down, clapping its hands, gut jiggling. ''We heard you haven''t pushed yourself in a while.'' ''It''s true!'' Ischyros could have nodded, it was so excited. ''Ischyros went to Earth once. The young Watcher was new at the time, and Ischyros wanted to fight them as congratulations for their new position. It tried to enter Atlantis,'' the alien went on, like it didn''t sound utterly insane. ''But the Watcher wouldn''t let it! You see, they thought Ischyros wanted to fight the Horror alongside them. No! Ischyros wanted to fight ?both!'' Wha- ''Um,'' Yua began with an unsure grin. ''The thing that ate the multiverse?'' ''Yes! Something even the Remaker cannot destroy, and its guardian, whose power grows and changes in whatever manner is needed to fulfill their duty? Oh, Ischyros'' blood would boil if it had any!'' The alien clenched its fists, battle-lust radiating from it. Across the universe, a quadrillion quadrillion beings felt the pressure, and all but a fraction fainted. On Earth, supernaturals felt their hackles rise as an unimaginable force battered at their senses. Yua, who was close to the epicentre, wiped away golden blood with one hand, before rubbing her nose. Ah, shit...the dummy had made her stain her turtleneck. It was dark pink, too, ugh! The color clashed more than her foot would against its fat ass. To her right, she saw Wukong hold his head in hands that came away bloody, then blink rapidly. Right. They''d been asked to kick its ass, anyway. Or, at least, get theirs kicked enough to be funny. Gesturing like he was parting a curtain, Wukong split reality, revealing the aether. Then, he dashed towards the alien, which let itself be sent through the portal by the Buddha''s palm strike. Shrugging, Yua let her human form slip away, then bounded after them on all fours. *** Mother Wound''s Scorn flew past stars that burned like the anger that was the core of his existence in a way his heart had never been. Encountering that impervious old monster had shaken his composure, and the creature''s legendary status did not make it forgivable. He had to be indomitable. He ?had to be. Because, if he wasn''t...if his Kin were right... Scorn growled, mandibles clenched. They weren''t. If they had been, he''d had been killed shortly after coalescing from the life fluid that oozed eternally from the Mother''s chest. As soon as they had determined he lacked his kind''s ability to grow in power during battle...like the other failures. Scorn hadn''t been burned or turned into slurry for leisure eating or construction, though. The Honoured Kratocracy-honoured by the fact they were strong-had no place for weakness, whatever form it took, let alone deviance. Instead, Mother Wound, silent as she had been for the last billion greater cycles, had signalled for him to be spared, and allowed to leave and live in shame. Could a stunted exile survive and thrive in the greater universe? Scorn was not always hunted by his haughty Woundkin, or the Broodkin who wanted to kill him out of pity. But he could never be at ease, either. He had to-had to-find something, anything, he could use to prove his worth. Perhaps he would even learn whom he wanted to prove himself to. *** As Adam walked the void, away from the vexing, faceless creature and the bizarre child that tagged along it, he knew he was not alone. An atom, a single one, had preserved enough of that planet-spanning organism''s sentience to recognise him as its destroyer. Why had it followed him, clinging to his skin like a tick? ''Are you lonely, I wonder? Scared?'' he asked, voice filling the void of space despite physics. Could it even hear him, let alone understand, if it did? ''Do you want revenge on me? To absorb me, grow stronger? Feel whole?'' All things familiar to him. Perhaps it would not make a poor companion, even if it eventually did try to kill him- Adam''s journey and train of though alike were cut short as a ridged fist smashed into his right temple, sending him flying through an ice giant, leaving a hole several times larger than his homeworld. His beetle-like assailant was twice his height and almost as broad, covered in a smooth, navy-blue exoskeleton. He was absurdly reminded of a constable, and the being''s posture and voice only added to the impression. ''Attention, stranger: you have entered the territory of the Honoured Kratocracy without authorisation, despite all demands to halt, identify yourself, and state your purpose. You...'' Demands? Adam frowned. He had never done well with demands, especially when people made none, then acted offended when he did not react. ''Do you have no communication device? Then what is a primitive like you doing here?!'' Drawing upon the power of the star he had consumed, Adam floated closer to the alien, punching a hole large enough to lean through in its chest. The Vyzhaldi healed instantly, clicking her mandibles in satisfaction. Every fleck of life fluid and flesh that floated around her healed chest grew into an identical, if red-shelled copy of herself. Dozens of the Woundkin clenched fists or crossed their four arms. The instincts carved into the bedrock of their very being told them they were standing next to their progenitor and her enemy. Ignoring the Woundkin, Adam punched again, just as hard. His broken hand bounced off the Kratocrat''s chest, not even leaving a dent. Her return blow turned his torso to monochromatic mist, and he healed fast enough to see a thick leg rise to do the same to his lower half. The instant the foot connected, Adam absorbed the kinetic energy into himself. Every following blow gave him more and more power, as, frustrated, the Kratocrat grew stronger and faster every moment. Soon, her Woundspawn joined her, raining fruitless blows upon his pale grey skin. Closing his eyes, Adam drew the absorbed energy out, releasing it as a spherical pulse. The Vyzhaldi were vapourised too fast to feel anything, leaving him alone in space. Now...to learn more about this "Kratocracy". The name suggested rule by strength, which suggested stupidity, a hypothesis the border guard''s attitude had done nothing to disprove. *** Ischyros flew through one uninhabited universe after another, quadrillions of galaxies obliterated by its passage as realities were reduced to nothing. Wukong quickly followed, spinning his staff in a mirror of his clones'' movements. They were all as strong as him, and utterly unable to harm the alien. Their powers likewise fell flat against it: it had no fate or soul, nor could it be given one; whatever matter made up its body could not be changed; it could not be trapped in pocket realms or timeloops, frozen in time, or erased from existence. Still, it found his efforts-all ten billion of him-funny. Good, Sun thought with a fierce grin. He was always pleased to entertain. ''Monkey!'' Yua called out, appearing next to him. ''Stand back! I want to try a trick!'' Wukong possessed several forms of immortality and ways to heal himself alike. He, however, also possessed common sense. Somersaulting a dozen universes away, he watched as the Heaven-Spurning Elder copied his power, then cloned himself. A Yua for every star, who then copied the alien''s impervious body, and began increasing their strength. ''Ooh! Ischyros has always wanted to fight itself!'' *** ''You are pathetic, you know?'' Nacht asked softly as Solarex rose off Hex and it exited his joints. Solarex tittered. ''Do not pretend you are not impressed.'' ''Oh, I am-that you can lie to yourself like this.'' It smiled at him. ''The embodiment of light and good: kindness, generosity, courage...and yet, you act the opposite.'' ''I have been nothing but bright and kind my entire life,'' Solarex said, sitting back on his throne. Scattered around the throne room, his worshippers began to abase themselves, praising their god''s prowess, jeering at Hex and Nacht for their lack of gratitude. ''I suppose one could see it that way, if they ripped their eyes and brain out,'' Nacht said. ''It will not work, you know? This is like me, being altruistic. It goes against the nature of your being. No matter how twisted you become, you will never fill that void, except by being true to yourself.'' ''And why should I act as creation''s civil servant, championing values derided as childish?'' King Sun asked, feigning disinterest. ''Do you want to be destroyed? Rendered impotent? You will be, if you keep at it.'' ''Rich, coming from a being that can''t exist without an anchor that barely even cares about it.'' Nacht laughed, and every worshipper of Solarex fell to the floor across the Son of the Sun, hearts stopping in fear, or bursting from rage. Others, disgusted at themselves, clawed and tore at their bodies, ripping themselves apart. Some simply went mad, laughing at nothing as they swayed in place, before the darkness in the bodies swelled, dark tendrils and blades splitting them like rotten fruits. The Solarians struck at the lesser manifestations of Nacht, flares of power dwarfing a hypernova''s filling light years of space, melting impossibly tough material. And achieving nothing. Nacht''s attention briefly moved to them, and their minds, which had weathered the wave of negativity with no issue, shattered like brittle ice, as demigods that had never known unease fell to their knees, screaming until their throats burst. Nacht then impaled their shining bodies on spear-like appendages, before drawing them into itself. ''Taunting Nacht will not improve your standing with Earth,'' Hex said. His outfit, removed for the negotiations, returned around him, summoned with a thought. ''Stop, Nacht.'' With a look of supreme disdain, Solarex pursed his lips, putting the minds and bodies of his worshippers back together. Exact copies of the Solarians burst into existence as the damage to the Son of the Sun was restored. ''Do not damage my things,'' King Sun said in a voice quivering with rage. ''They might be as worthless as you are, but they are mine.'' Buried Again, Chapter 6
''No guards,'' Aya Reem said. She''d stopped using illusions to look like she had eyes around me, which I suppose was a sign of trust. Or maybe she just didn''t see (get it?) the point when I knew the truth. Either way, the unwavering, white light in her sockets was unnerving, and not just because it was divine in nature. The light somehow seemed to follow me as I leaned forward to put my elbows on her desk, despite being featureless. ''Or, rather, "no guards",'' the mummy continued. ''Nothing visible, no people following you around from a short distance.'' ''Couldn''t they disguise themselves?'' Not that I was terribly happy at the idea of being surrounded by bodyguards, but it was only fair to explore every option. And, fuck me, but with how helpless I''d been feeling recently, the thought of competent people willing and able to protect me was actually comforting, for all that it made me feel weak. ''They could,'' Aya said, clasping her hands rather than steepling her fingers. Decades of agents like me had made her wise up to anything that could be interpreted as a pyramid joke. ''But if said disguises were perceived-not even seen through-it would just encourage more people to come after you.'' I slumped in my chair at her words. I didn''t want to be hunted, but I wanted people to die for me even less. ''David.'' I raised my gaze to meet her burning one. ''I used you as a pawn once, and the only reason said gambit didn''t fail utterly was because of Chernobog''s spite. If it is within my power,'' she seemed to grow both frailer and stronger with every word, like the power surging inside her was consuming her body as it became more apparent. ''I will not let you be harmed again.'' ''Unless it is necessary,'' I said softly. Aya smiled humourlessly. ''We would all throw ourselves on our swords if it was necessary, David. You think we could do more to help, but don''t want to? I cannot speak for everyone in ARC, but at least in my case, it''s the other way around. We all have our chains, even if some look like crowns. Take Fixer, for instance. One of the weakest and most powerful beings we know of, able to do practically anything, unable to put out a forest fire without another starting in response.'' ''Alright,'' I said. ''If I was afraid of sacrifice, I''d have never entered ARC.'' Now seemed as good a moment as any for the other suggestion. I do not want to be presumptuous-or make you act presumptuously, or blasphemously-, but...do you think you could ask Thoth to...tutor me? I still have a long way to go when it comes to using Mimir''s perception, and-'' ''Why haven''t you prayed to Yahweh for guidance, whether direct or through an angel?'' Aya tilted her head at my surprised look, seeming slightly amused. ''I know Gabriel of the Cardinal Archangels is both usually free, and specialised in things like this.'' ''I...'' No point beating around the bush. We were talking about things that could affect everyone and everything. ''I was spared after my undeath. I wasn''t punished for what I am since then, and...I was even brought back. I didn''t want to act...'' ''Presumptuously?'' ''Yes. I''ve already been given more than most.'' Another chance at unlife, at lessening the burdens of others. Friends. A father. And love. ''I can and will ask. Thoth is usually leery around "foreign students", but a chance to meet the eyes of a rival and friend, even if someone else bears them, might move him.'' Aya crossed her arms. ''Now, it is my turn to ask you something.'' Oh, and just when I''d started feeling halfway relieved. I''d have even taken Odin''s offer at this point, for all I was scared of Thor''s brood shanking me and whatever bullshit Loki pretended not to have cooked up for me. ''Not order?'' ''You don''t have to be involved, though it does concern you.'' Reassuring and straightforward, that''s how we did things in ARC, folks. ''The last time my peers and I spoke about you, you were...in no shape to do anything, David. Would you like to join me now?'' ''What would we speak about?'' ''Mostly about what the two of us already have. Just expect more opinions, threats, and fights. Some might even be metaphorical.'' ''Fights...?'' ''You''ll only get caught in those if you''re bad at dodging. Don''t worry.'' Aya stood up. ''Are you coming?'' I nodded, and she gestured for me to go outside. "I have a few things to wrap up, then I''ll join you." *** Quite attached to our adoptive children, aren''t we? I couldn''t fail them more than I did mine if I tried, Aya thought back in reply. Oh, I don''t know...your ability to blunder has never failed to impress. It''s almost like it grew when your bloodlust faded! During the Crusades, which she''d began as a stupid girl, barely a few centuries dead and entombed, and finished with a taste of bitter ashes she had never managed to get rid of. Family feuds were always ugly. Identity crises made them worse, especially when both sides thought the other consisted of impostors. Perhaps it did. A pause. You understand the assignment. Request, came the correction. Yes, yes. Nothing visible, no people following him at a short distance. I have never had a problem with that. One more problem would have been too much. I am still surprised you accepted. Do not mistake that for lack of gratitude, please. Of course not. Would you stand by and let an alien, literal and metaphorical, stomp through creation as it ''ordered'' it? Shared goals only go so far, when purpose and intent differ so much. Imagine needing a reason to drown everything in chaos. No...David Silva will survive. His form and name and mind might not, but he will. *** Drake headquarters, Beijing, China, 2031 ''You seem stressed, Lung.'' Ying couldn''t stop the growl from escaping his throat as his fangs clenched around his pipe. No "sir", or "boss", or "Ying". Because the boy wasn''t trying to be respectful, or friendly. He was emphasising the name China gave to his kind, both through words and-as he leaned against the tapestry depicting the country''s formation and history-through actions. A blunt visual cue. But then, Hiro had always taken after his mother. Was this going to be another rant about ''abandonment''? ''Whatever gave you that impression?'' he asked, knowing Hiro could see his eyes through his sunglasses-narrowed in seeming amusement, not warning. Hiro, in dragon form, gestured smugly at the suited man standing awkwardly to the side of Ying''s desk. He had just been kneeling when the Drake Head''s seventeen thousandth son had entered, and now didn''t know what to do, dark eyes darting between Ying and Hiro under a mop of equally dark hair. Ying sighed. Wang had always been a gentle man, built for helping, not confrontations, let alone confrontations between dragons. It was what had drawn the Ying to him, prompting a rare addition to his harem, as opposed to a one-night stand. Surreptitiously patting his thirty-fourth husband''s hand to get his attention, Ying mouthed "go", causing Wang to nod in relief, before bowing to him and almost exiting, then remembering Hiro, and shakily bowing to him as well. After watching him leave-damn, that suit was fitted well-, Ying turned to Hiro, removing his shades to show his scornful glare. ''Proud of yourself now?'' ''Maybe.'' Hiro smiled. ''Did you send my mother away just as gently?'' ''No, you moron.'' Ying had never been able to stand scammers. Paying before sex, then being masked for more because ''it felt horrible''? Even whores got too big for their britches sometimes, he swore. ''You know that. Didn''t you see the marks on her face, or were you too dazed when she shat you out on your head?'' ''Yeah, I did. Big rings. Who''d you get them from? Other ?secretaries?'' ''If you think he''s here because of nepotism, you-'' ''I''m appalled you''d do it here and now.'' The younger dragon bared his fangs, whiskers twitching. ''Who gives a flying shit about dignity and protocol as long as the Head gets his head-'' The halves of Hiro''s skull fused back together in an instant, and he scoffed. His father, still in human form, had seemed not to have moved from his desk, but his silvery blood-covered hand spoke another story. ''Watch it.'' ''Thanks for proving my point,'' Hiro said drily. ''You-'' ''No, you listen to me. You''ve reached your sixteenth millennium and think you understand life?'' Ying shifted into dragon form, ignoring the "and here he goes on about age" Hiro muttered under his breath. ''I have saved this world more times than most of its inhabitants know, since before it was inhabited. You have no idea what Earth could have become, if the things in the hungry dark had managed to defile that womb of primal potential.'' ''Ahhhh!'' Hiro nodded in mock-realisation. ''I get it. Good deeds erase the bad ones, right? They even out?'' ''As long as the latter are "bad" and not vile? Yes,'' Ying said bluntly. ''I''ve seen people infinitely less worthy than my peers and I, with infinitely worse vices. I think such things would be forgiven, if anyone cared about them.'' ''If anyone knew.'' Ying snorted, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. ''Everyone who needs to know, does.'' ''Most of the population doesn''t even know the Heads'' names,'' Hiro protested. He knew about the importance of security, so Ying figured he was just being difficult for the sake of it, as always. ''No need to repeat my words back at me. Now,'' his eyes glowed. ''Does your presence here have a purpose, beyond irritating me and scaring another of your step-parents?'' Hiro swallowed a comment at the end, by the way his throat bulged. ''The Mandate of Heaven.'' ''Yes? Charming excuse for uprisings. What of it?'' ''We have been failing rather badly lately. A sign?'' Ying threw his head back, roaring. ''Don''t be absurd, boy! These are failures? Signs? Let me tell you a secret.'' He leaned forward. ''When I saw this galaxy appear...gods, I was young, back then. I suppose that excuses some of the excitement, especially after two billion years of nothing but empty cosmic soup.'' Hiro said nothing. Interrupting his father''s nostalgic stories only made them take longer. ''When I saw it form, many people were concerned that the universe''s stars were placed in such faraway formations, rather than a single giant galaxy." Ying took a long drag from his pipe, then blew out smoke in the shape of a dunce cap. ''Worst part about such idiots? They often have the power to make their ideas reality. Now...daddy has reassured you. Nothing bad will happen, and if it does, we''ll fix it. Now, off you go. Shoo.'' He waved his son away, blowing him a sarcastic kiss. ''There is something else,'' Hiro said through gritted fangs. ''And, if you could not be a dick about it...'' ''Listen to your advice first. I''ve seen you around others, so cheerful, so helpful. I know you''re too poor a liar for that to be an act. Why am I different?'' ¡­He really had to ask, did he? ''Have you read the stars lately?'' ''As always. Why?'' ''Then why are you not doing anything about Silva''s situation?'' he snapped, frustrated. ''You know-'' ''I know that, if he hadn''t been chained like this, he would have, at one point, end up in a situation where he can do nothing but watch, gnashing his teeth and wailing. Sometimes...you must accept that you can''t help.'' Ying shook his head, eyes going distant for a moment. Though, the fact the Black God hadn''t simply killed him was baffling. A boon in disguise, but... ''And we have done everything we can, anyway.'' ''His mate disagrees.'' ''Bah! She hasn''t even heard my reasoning, I''m sure.'' ''And the worse she feels, the worse he does, and so on. How long until something breaks, besides his chains?'' Hmph. That could be...problematic. ''It won''t come to that.'' ''Well. I''m sure you''ll be able to explain that to her better than me,'' Hiro said, rising to hover half a metre above the floor. ''There''s nothing I can''t do better than you.'' Ying took a swig from his tea gourd. It tasted like burning sewage, and stuck to his mouth and throat in a similar manner, but it focused the mind, if only by being so foul, one would rather concentrate on anything else. Hiro rolled his eyes. ''You''ll just have to prove it when she gets here.'' ''Of course.'' Ying coiled up on his desk, head in one claw. ''Do you have a single damned cheerful thing to say?'' ''Maybe. A question first?'' ''Fair trade.'' ''How did you harm me? Dragons like us are impervious to anything earthly, and a celestial being like you would heal me with a touch, not...'' Hiro trailed off as his father smirked, raising and flexing his free claw, over which appeared a gauntlet of dark bronze. ''Straight from Yanwang''s armoury. He hopes helping us on Earth will result in fewer morons stinking up Diyu.'' ''What, he hates sinners now?'' Hiro asked, eyebrows scrunching as he rubbed the place where the hidden, Hell-forged gauntlet had split his head. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ''Just stupid ones,'' Ying replied and, as if a curtain had slid back in place, the gauntlet disappeared. ''Your turn.'' ''Mhm. Something cheerful...well, there''s this French dragon checking out the country, and she says our females would be beautiful, but for the whiskers. Not her type. Says they look male.'' ''I swear, just because both their males and females are hatchling-faced...'' Ying tapped his pipe on the edge of his desk. ''Tell her to stop being so narrow-minded. Facial hair has nothing to do with gender! All of us have moustaches. Why, my mother''s is bigger than mine.'' ''Huh.'' Hiro frowned. ''Really? I''ve never met her.'' ''Oh, yes...'' Ying bent to rummage through his desk, before pulling out a life-sized oil painting of him and his jade, respectively pearl-coloured parents. ''See?'' ''I can''t really tell from the picture...'' ''Come closer.'' Ying tilted it so his mother''s face was next to his. ''They don''t compare.'' *** The seven thousand kilometres to Beijing took about four seconds of flight. Mia knew she was getting faster, closer to David''s level, but not there, not yet. Touching down in front of the Drake headquarters'' front entrance, which was shaped out of gold, jade and pearl to resemble a dragon''s yawning maw, Mia nodded at the dragons on guard duty. One of them, a dark purple male with a bronze moustache, nodded back. The other, an ice-blue female, just jerked her head at the bowl between them. Trying not to grimace, Mia approached it, then downed the tea as quickly as possible. The now-familiar taste of smoky sewer hit her like a slimy meteor, though she swayed less than last time as the entrance''s ''jaws'' parted and she walked through. They closed behind her with a boom like thunder, to announce that another one had entered. With her addled senses-the tea simply disgusted agents, but infiltrators would get burned from the inside out if they even sipped it-, it was worse than merely overdramatic. Fuck, she really hoped Ying wasn''t on a power trip today...HQ''s halls could bend and stretch away into infinity if he didn''t want you to reach his office. Luckily, he did. After nearly seven seconds of sprinting, during which she could have circled most planets, Mia came to a stop before a set of crimson, gilded double doors. Ying seemed to be talking to someone. ''Why, my mother''s is bigger than mine.'' ''Huh.'' The other voice sounded like...Hiro''s? She thought? ''Really? I''ve never met her.'' ''Oh, yes...'' A pause. ''See?'' ''I can''t really tell from the picture...'' ''Come closer.'' Another, shorter pause. ''They don''t compare.'' Stupid tea...what had they even put in it this time? *** ''Sir,'' Mia said, entering without knocking. The doors were unlocked, which meant Ying wanted to see her. She''d blame anything on her tea haze. ''Thank you for seeing me so fast. I...this is unrelated to my duties, so I know I shouldn''t-'' ''Nonsense!'' Ying beamed at her, then turned to frown at Hiro. ''Out.'' The other dragon shrugged, mouthing "good luck" as he floated past her, the doors closing after him with no prompting. ''I am a keeper of this world''s order, zmeu,'' Ying said, smile becoming smaller, softer. ''I am used to sensing disturbances. So, yes, I know why you are here.'' Mia crossed her arms-clasping her hands would have made her look weak, like she was pleading-, making no attempt to sit down. ''Hiro told me...'' Ying nodded knowingly, and she sighed. ''Is there truly nothing more we can try? Maybe the Fixer-'' ''My heart goes out to you, hatchling,'' Ying said in a tone he either imagined wasn''t patronising as fuck, or knew it was and didn''t give a shit. ''In fact,'' he began digging for something inside his desk. ''I have something that can help you two.'' The dragon held up something small and oval between two fingers. It changed colours every moment. ''Happy pills! You take one, allow it to work, and you''ll only think about pleasant things.'' He gave her a sly look. ''Maybe even Silva, when he''s not there.'' ''I already have my imagination for that, sir.'' And her fingers, among other things. ''But thank you for the offer.'' ''Aahh...you children. Kicking away every last bit of harmless fun.'' His disappointed expression was quickly replaced by a serious one. ''In this case, I have nothing else to offer you, Mia. Besides advice to stay patient.'' ''Thank you,'' she repeated, like a broken record. Except she wasn''t right once a week, let alone a day. Hadn''t been for some time. ''I...am not just concerned about him, sir.'' ''I thought this was a personal issue?'' Ying asked, spinning the pill on a fingertip. ''It is.'' No point in lying, especially after admitting it. ''But David is a good agent. He can do more than act as a goddamn telescope-'' Flames flicked out of her mouth with every word, so she snapped it shut, fangs grinding against each other. ''Apologies.'' ''I agree,'' Ying said, hopping off his desk and onto the marble post located next to his chair, to accommodate his true form, wrapping around it. ''He ?can do more than act as a telescope. In fact, I highly suspect he is improving as we speak.'' Had that been a brief, encouraging smile? ''And you know what would help him improve even more? Having you close, so he can know you are safe and calm. Your peace of mind might save his.'' Mia smiled at the dragon, the tea haze finally, fully gone. ''Thank you again, sir. I''ll keep it in mind.'' ''Yes, yes...'' Ying''s gaze moved from her to the pill. ''Are you sure you don''t want some?'' ''Yes, quite sure.'' ''What about Silva? They''re divine, they''d work.'' ''David dislikes lying to himself, sir,'' Mia said. ''Almost as much as having his mind meddled with.'' ''Tch...'' Ying smirked. ''You just want to make him happy all by yourself, girl-don''t think you''re fooling me. What, does Silva get jealous of your toys? Or devices, for that matter?'' Ugh. Seriously? Fucking condescending nope rope... Before Mia could reply, the phone on Ying''s desk pinged, the dragon reaching for it with a lazy-looking move she could only barely perceive. ''Speak of the devil...your lover''s having a date with me first, Mia. ?And all the other Heads.'' Ying looked up from the phone, with an apologetic expression so fake she wanted to slap his face off. ''No hard feelings?'' ''Depends,'' she said, knowing she was pushing her luck. ''Can I come along?'' ''So sorry, Mia. Security...you know how it is.'' *** Catalhoyuk, Turkey, 2031 ''Collapse through religious war is a likely possibility,'' Gerald Reyes said as he walked old streets rendered new and clean once more by his companion''s power. He doubted the city had ever been so clean, but...the being striding alongside him had a soft spot for old settlements. They were the most likely locations for an appearance, which almost always resulted in a temporary renovation. The other, older man, nodded, long, white plaits swaying in the dry wind. His bald pate did not reflect sunlight, for that would have taken corporeality. ''The extent depends on the cause,'' Gerald continued, with the air of someone telling a dear grandparent about their looming, inescapable death. Before the Shattering, the analogy would have probably included cancer or the like. ''Most of our projections consist of David Silva being torn apart by a throng of zealots. Angry, hateful, vengeful, jealous, afraid...these change. But it happens, whether he fights back or not.'' ''We will always go far for our gods, whether in their name, or while using it,'' his companion agreed, her girlish voice at odds with the weight of her words, as she skipped over a crack in the road, pigtails bouncing. The changes were fading. Something...was deteriorating. He dearly hoped it was just the being''s mood. ''Yes. What gods they worship change, too, but...again, the results are the same. Then there are the monsters angry over "kill-stealing".'' Gerald rolled his eyes, taking off his glasses and beginning to polish them. A nervous tic that came with the nostalgic affectation-his senses had grown sharper than any human''s since he''d started tapping mana in his twenties, to the point he now did it passively. He could have probably done it in his sleep, if he still did that. ''And, of course, the Black God, and his cults. Whether starting or inciting carnage, they appear very often, too.'' ''You make them and the others sound mutually-exclusive, our boy.'' The being''s dusky features twisted into a broad, open-mouthed grin as he ran a hand through his dreadlocked hair. ''You know what assumptions make of us.'' ''We have not discounted that possibility,'' Gerald said, perhaps a tad waspish from the implied criticism. ''In fact, a combination of the three scenarios is not out of the question.'' His companion hummed approvingly, gracefully jumping over the remains of a fallen house. Her pale body was flawless, though Gerald''s eyes did not linger on it. It would have been like someone staring at his glasses. ''The less likely scenarios...are also worse. We are talking about singularities, paranormal, technological, or both, resulting in wars that see this world''s people devouring it to slaughter each other. Or drowning in their own magic, unable to bear it. The appearance of uncontrollable psychic powers or mutations. The world as we know it destroyed or twisted beyond recognition by a disaster or monster incomprehensible to us.'' His companion sighed, his long, white beard almost brushing the cracked ground as he walked under a broken pillar, his waxy-skinned, stooped body meaning there was no need to crouch. ''Dire ends, indeed. But we already know about these, for they were predicted by humans, therefore by us. So. Why come here, to tell us in person?'' ''Oh, you know. It''s my love of redundancy at work. I''m a bureaucrat at heart. As for why here? You''ve always liked old cities.'' ''Gerald,'' the being said in a tired voice, tugging at her grey-streaked red hair. ''You already know my answer, so why ask?'' he shot back. ''Because we loathe seeing humanity scared,'' the being said, looking up at him with an infant''s deep, wide eyes. ''We thought to reassure you, and talking is familiar to you. We will not lose to these, or whatever else we foresee in the future.'' Gerald pursed his lips, looking up at his friend''s weathered, leathery face, as the being put a hand on his shoulder. ''We have survived worse when we were weaker, and we are not just talking about the Atlanteans. The Ice Ages, the plagues your ancestors had no names for, the genetic bottlenecks that followed them...we have magic now, and technology they could not have distinguished from it. Powers. Allies. We will succeed. And if not...'' The flayed warrior smiled a death''s head grin as he squeezed Gerald''s shoulder. ''We will drag whatever kills us down into oblivion with us. All of mankind''s deeds are carved into our core, whatever paths our children have walked, and how much of their beings and bodies are ours. They know not what they play with.'' Gerald nodded, trying to keep a straight face. It did not help. He did not tremble, or sweat, but a few small tears still fell from his eyes. ''I am sorry,'' he whispered raggedly. ''We should not have let things fall apart to this point. I...I do not want us to be the last generation you know.'' ''You won''t be,'' the being muttered, wrapping brawny, ruddy arms around him as she laid her head on his chest. ''You are one of our greatest champions past, present and future, Gerald. You are the Lawmaker. Do not forget that.'' He hugged him back, wishing the tears would stop. ''What shall I call you today?'' ''Logos,'' the being answered, and the universe trembled in confirmation, as a new name was added to the tally. Then, she smiled, pulling back from Gerald, favouring him with a teenager''s impish, gap-toothed grin. ''But enough of this old one''s ramblings. You are soon going to be called upon, Gerald.'' The Camelot Head''s phone buzzed just then, and he took it out to see his peers had agreed to his meeting proposal. Then, he looked at the ruins of Catalhoyuk. He had arrived at dawn, spending several hours speaking with Logos about the accomplishments of mankind and those adjacent to it, for such things delighted the being, like a parent hearing both themselves and their children praised at the same time. Then, he had begun to talk about the possible futures, and Logos'' mood had soured, for every blow to humanity left a scar on its shape. It was night now. A fire burned where Logos'' incarnation had disappeared, logs blackening and burning as smoke rose from the coal in the furnace, electricity crackling as the fusion engine hummed. And, beyond the fire''s light, he saw the things in the darkness, as hungry and mocking as they were bloated and wary. They had always been there, Gerald knew. Unless humanity changed, they would always be. And now, it was his turn to walk away from the fire, and stand between it and the shadows. Buried Again, Chapter 7
I didn''t need to fly, run or even walk to get to where the Heads'' meeting was held. In fact, I didn''t have to move at all: Aya carried me, moving far too fast for me to react. Just to be sure I couldn''t perceive, let alone remember the path, she also dampened my senses, mundane and arcane alike. After what felt like an instant of sensory deprivation, uncomfortably reminding me of the world fading away as my noose tightened around my neck, all those years ago, I found myself in what could have been any conference room anywhere in the world: cheap plastic chairs and table, no windows, and beige, beige, beige, everywhere. The forest I summoned wherever I went was the only splash of colour in the room. The other Heads were already gathered, making Aya the last to arrive. With a nod to her peers, she took a seat between Shiftskin and Gilles. Whether because she was liked by both or to stop them if they started to fight, I didn''t know. Neither smiled at her, or reacted at all. That''s when I knew shit had hit the fan. The table was a semicircle, so that no one could seat at the head and everyone could look at me as I took my seat. ''Thank you for agreeing to come, Silva,'' Gerald Reyes said, looking like everyone''s favourite headmaster grandpa. ''We would rather not take decisions involving you in your absence, after what happened last time.'' ''Let''s cut to the point,'' Gilles said, the feathers on his head bristling fiercely, piercing yellow eyes staring at me unblinkingly. ''Do you want to live, Silva?'' That caught me off-guard, though I was more composed than I would''ve been before that trip to Faerie. ''I wouldn''t have come back otherwise sir. Also, ARC cannot execute its personnel outside extreme circumstances. We just hand them to their countries.'' Were they testing me? Seeing if I was too sorry for myself to remember protocol, or care about it if I did? Well, I wasn''t. For some reason, I wanted to prove them wrong. Show I still had my wits about me, even now. ''Do not take this as a threat,'' Elsbeth Crane said, hands together on the table in front of her. ''But these circumstances are hardly usual.'' ''If you want to die but don''t trust Romania, Aya can end things right here,'' Amara Al-Hazred added, the shadows of her hood impossibly hiding her face from my dead eyes. I looked from her to Aya, seeing nothing but determination, resignation, and quiet pleading to think if what I wanted was the right choice. ''I don''t want to die,'' I answered Gilles. ''Even if I did, I haven''t said goodbye to those who would deserve to know about it. All of us have made mistakes we''d rather not repeat.'' Gilles stared at me for a few moments, saying nothing, before nodding slowly. ''I can respect that,'' he said eventually. ''But you are still a security risk, Silva. Not for reasons you can control. Rather the opposite.'' ''My strigoi side is not uncontrollable. I''ve never lost myself to my instincts.'' ''Yes, and that is admirable-'' ''Certainly a breath of fresh air compared to Loric Szabo,'' Alemoa Elga told him, flashing me a brief, reassuring smile. The ghost lacked the paleness common to her kind, as well as the transparent body. To a human, she might have even seemed alive. But I knew better. Even from a paltry ten metres away, I couldn''t hear the heartbeat or smell the blood in her veins, nor the sweat that was always present on humans, because there was nothing to sense. And that was not to mention the arcane power she radiated. It felt like I was looking at a much smaller, female Lucas. ''We might even make you the Corpse Corps'' public face, David,'' the ghost joked. ''Thanks for the offer, ma''am.'' Bleh. Hope I didn''t look or sound as constipated as I felt. The fact that I was a bad liar didn''t help with my reaction at the suggestion. ''But I have stage fright.'' Or rather, I got extremely anxious around people who weren''t evil or something for me to kill. Throw me at any monster and I wouldn''t even blink, but people with opinions, in a non-violent environment? I clammed up. My days as a teacher hadn''t made me better at it. Just better at faking it, though not until I made it, unlike all the cool people with impostor syndrome. I''d never be Ciaphas Cain. I was more like Jurgen somehow getting turned into one of the books'' main character, without Cain around to help him. Still smelled better than him, though. Low bar, but... ''Don''t drag this out, Silva,'' Gaol John grunted, sounding bored, though his face-at the moment, he looked like a dark-skinned, rough-looking motherfucker missing his nose and lips-was expressionless. ''And you stop encouraging him, Elga.'' ''Thanks, Johnny,'' Gilles said. Then, to me, ''I was boutta say that, while controlling your instincts so far is admirable, there''s still a risk we can''t overlook.'' Oh, fuck off, you overgrown turkey. ''I bet you tell all your recruits that, sir. Talking about them, know what''s the difference between us? They don''t get called out for having the same problems I do, ?and a night a month most of them go insane.'' ''The difference,'' Gilles said in a voice almost as cold as his eyes. ''Is that weres can''t be possessed, Silva.'' ...Fuck. ''I-'' ''Maybe make sure why you''re here before you start talking shit about my agents, eh? Not that lots of people don''t, but I''ve had to kill a fifth as many as I''ve sent to their countries for execution over the decades. I get a tad miffed, you understand.'' Beak quirking in something approaching an ironic smile, he turned to look down at Aya. ''Why didn''t you tell him? This ain''t the time for preserving suspense, y''know.'' ''I assumed the two possessions weren''t the only problems we would want to discuss,'' the mummy said in a small, flat voice, expression blank. ''Aw, c''mon, Aya...'' The weregryph shook his head, then huffed. ''Let''s not assume anymore, alright?'' He looked back at me. ''Silva, we can''t blame you for being possessed by a deity. The problem is that Chernobog seems to want to fuck you, in particular, over. Until we find a way to truly, permanently kill him, you''re in danger. Are you patient enough to live like this until then? There''s a way out...'' ''I want to live.'' Gilles shrugged. ''Then, let''s hope we can protect you until we finally ice the fucker, eh?'' ''Chernobog isn''t working alone,'' I said, glad we were getting close to what I wanted to discuss. ''I don''t know...that is, I''m not sure who his associates are, but I have some ideas.'' ''Nyarlathotep,'' Shiftskin said. ''The tentacles that immobilized us in Faerie match Fixer''s description, as well as the bodies of several avatars.'' ''That wasn''t the first time he intervened.'' Aya nodded at the wendigo. ''He came to the pantheons'' summit in disguise, and we''d have missed him, if not for the Dagda.''Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. What the fucking hell?! ''So he has a stake in this. Do we know why, besides fucking with existence in general?'' ''Chernobog is an useful proxy, especially if he believes himself an equal or ally.'' Amara took off her hood, revealing an olive-skinned, middle-aged woman with dark eyes that appeared bottomless. Light was drawn into then, as if they were black holes, distorting her features. ''The Crawling Chaos cannot meddle with dimensioned existence without being opposed at every step. Nodens, the Fixer...he has too many equals and enemies, or, at least, beings who do not want to share their toys.'' Amara smiled humourlessly. ''So, Nyarlathotep wants to find a way around his restrictions, without doing anything himself, because he''s...lazy? He doesn''t want to dirty his hands?'' Crane suggested. ''Or maybe he just finds Chernobog running errands for him funny. I know I would.'' Ying snorted a small puff of ivory flame while scratching his belly, making a sound like coins clinking. ''But why would the Black God agree to this? He''s an insufferably arrogant bastard,'' the demigoddess replied. ''Aye, but arrogance only lasts so long when you''re shit out of luck,'' Ying said. ''Remember when Nacht killed him? I''m not using air quotes, because it did happen. Nacht swore up and down he was dead. So did Hex. Everything I checked pointed out to the fact that the Black God was gone. I checked with the Jade Emperor, alongside Wukong and several other Buddhas.'' ''We all investigated, Ying,'' Elsbeth said placatingly, putting a hand on his left arm. ''We were all wrong.'' ''I''m not apologising,'' the dragon said. ''I''m saying we should have never stopped.'' ''Chernobog was torn apart by an army of copies of his equal and opposite.'' Crane pulled her hand back, then crossed her arms. ''Hex and Nacht said the remains of his corpus were inert, before-'' ''Before they disappeared,'' Ying said, then tapped the said of his head. ''Gods often disappear when slain.'' Crane frowned. ''You can be sure I''d have personally checked them if I''d gotten there before it.'' ''I thought we were done apologising?'' ''Better than passing the blame...'' Sam muttered, glaring at Gilles. ''Enough,'' Gerald said softly, tapping the table with one hand. ''Let''s focus, everyone. Ying, you were saying something about Chernobog being out of luck?'' ''Whether the Black God allied with the Crawling Chaos before or after his death, it doesn''t matter. Unless we find out someone else is involved, I think we can assume Nyarlathotep resurrected him, yes?'' Nods and murmurs of agreement across the table. ''Well,'' Ying pulled his pipe out of nowhere, snapping his fingers and lighting it. ''Do you really see Nyarlathotep doing anything for free? Or in a way that won''t amuse him? Even if he isn''t puppeteering Chernobog, who''s to say he didn''t bind him somehow, or set up conditions he has to obey, or he''ll keel over?'' ''You think that''s why they are working together?'' Leon said, sounding like he feared something much worse. ''Yeah,'' Ying replied in a similar voice. ''Because the thought of those two making common cause without being forced to makes my insides crawl.'' I was about as eager to break the grim silence of the room as the Heads were, but someone had to. ''I''m repeating myself after the Headhunt, but Chernobog all but said he tricked the Dagda into killing Nidhogg and starting this whole mess. I still think those "hurt women" the Dagda found were Chernobog in disguise, or Nyarlathotep, or one of their allies, if there are more. That, or their creations.'' ''We are yet to discover anything more about said women,'' Gerald said. ''But I agree with you. They were obviously impostors, whatever their nature.'' ''The Dagda''s own theories are much the same as yours,'' Aya told me. Then, to the other Heads, ''However, that will have to wait. We can''t cancel the investigation, but it won''t be our main focus. As grim as Ying''s hypothesis is, we can''t discount the possibility of the Crawling Chaos allying with the Black God, and possibly others, simply because they crave destruction. Nor can we discount the possibility of similar deities allying not with them, but with each other-or, at least, not hindering each other-due to similar reasons.'' ''Seconded,'' Sam said. ''I''d have to turn into an ostrich to stick my head into the sand that far.'' ''Lapdog,'' Leon said, with no heat. ''And proud of it. You''re just scared the big, bad gods are paling around, Gilles.'' ''I ain''t deluding myself, Shifty. There''s no reason not to assume the worst when you''re invulnerable ?and working in ARC,'' the weregryph''s voice was filled with bravado, but his eyes weren''t. I knew, as everyone else in the room did, that, just because you couldn''t feel pain or be damaged, it didn''t mean you couldn''t be hurt. ''More things to look into,'' Gerald said. ''Seems you will continue working, Silva. Anything else, or do you want to return to Omu base now?'' ''No retirement offers?'' I asked, only half-jokingly. ''Too dangerous, both for you and the world at large. Leaving aside the fact everyone and everything would see you dragging Broceliande around, Chernobog would be possessing you again the moment he felt he could get away with it. And this time, he might never let go.'' Gerald gave me an owlish look. ''And let us be honest, Silva. You would be itching to help out in any way you could. Even if you didn''t go vigilante, your conscience would be urging you to return the moment you felt you were needed.'' ''I could enter the Supernatural Service.'' ''You could,'' Gerald said, sounding as convinced I''d do it as I did saying it. ''I wonder, what party would like to take you first? I''m sure your chains wouldn''t draw the attention of other national agencies. We haven''t had a tugging match like that in a few decades.'' The mage held up a hand, flicking his wrist like he was dismissing an annoying fly. ''No, Silva. People like us don''t "retire".'' ''So, I am, more or less, being ordered to stay.'' ''Didn''t you say you wanted to live?'' Gerald raised a bushy eyebrow. ''I suppose we could always send someone to subtly shadow you. John loves using multiple selves for multitasking,'' the IA head smiled so widely I was sure he was about to start nibbling on his own ears (made even more impressive by his lipless mouth). ''Or, we could ask Nacht, whom we are waiting for. It could manifest right now, but Hex and it are on a mission, and we would rather talk to both at the same time.'' Alright, Nacht automatically violated my and almost everyone else''s personal space due to its very nature, but I didn''t want it to take extra interest in me. ''If you keep talking, you will get another playdate with Herr Personality and the second reason he doesn''t do PR,'' Sam suggested, apparently trying to beat John at psychotic grinning. Tempting, tempting... ''I think I''ll go back to Omu base if there''s nothing else, thank you.'' *** Faerie, 2031 It was like trying to hold a beast''s mouth closed and open at the same time, with one hand, while trying to wrestle it without moving. It was like trying to hold on to the edge of a pit by just his fingernails, while also trying to climb out of it. Contradictions, one after another. Such was his people''s reward for allowing the Black God within their home. Oberon had never trusted Chernobog. The suggestion alone would have shocked any madman back to sanity. But playing gods against each other they way they did with everyone else(not that they were different when it came to their kindred) could yield results as miraculous as any dangerous gamble. As disastrous, too. Oberon''s face was a mask of calm and concentration under his helmet, but none of his subjects could have missed the tension in him. His body was like a coiled spring, but paled in comparison with his mind. The Blackness Chernobog had planted before his departure to parts unknown had devoured Oberon''s palace, then the capital. He and his remaining troops had managed to evacuate most of the citizens who''d been too slow. As for the rest...the blackness could not destroy them, for it had no iron. It could not erase their selves or timeline, however much it tried. It could, however, keep their bodies in a constant loop of pained regeneration, and Oberon was loath to imagine their thoughts, and not just because it would ruin his concentration. His Titania, bless her heart, had rallied their people around her, even as they travelled further and further from the heart of Faerie. Titles like "Nomad Queen" had started being bandied around, though not in mockery. No one was that foolish, that sure they had nothing to lose, yet. Oberon took another step back, cursing. The more power he drew from the aether to contain the Blackness, the bigger, fiercer and faster it grew, as if to spite him. Drawing less power did not help, for it still grew. He had almost been trapped inside the Blackness after trying that. Something small and light as an agate-stone alighted on his left pauldron. She would often do that, when Puck stood at his right. ''They do not want me anymore, King Seelie,'' Mab said, her pale lips scarcely moving. ''The humans'' sleep was dreamless when I was away, but now, they no longer want me acting as the midwife of their minds. They prefer to let their dreams come by chance, and have put up protections around their beds and minds, to keep me out.'' That she could most likely break through said protections went unspoken. But raping the humans'' minds was unlikely to endear the Seelie to them again. And, much as he hated to admit it, they were too powerful to ignore anymore, and only growing stronger. ''Call the Dukes,'' Oberon said, grabbing a tendril of Blackness as it lashed at his faceplate and pushing it back down. ''And reach out to the humans'' realmsmoot.'' ''The Global Gathering?'' ''As you say.'' Oberon closed his eyes, feeling his realm flow through him. Infinite as it might have been, he knew, in his heart, that the Blackness could and would devour it in no time, if he failed to stop it. But the humans had many warriors with noteworthy abilities, and many more allied to their kind. Mayhap even that god-eyed strigoi. Attempting to kill him had been an overly-emotional reaction, but one he could hardly be blamed for. The humans did worse for far more foolish reasons, all the time. Besides, he would punish both him and the Black God if he could. But first, perhaps David Silva could help stop the disaster he had brought to Faerie by bearing the Black God inside himself. Buried Again, Chapter 8
''Oberon wants to see you.'' ''Feeling''s decidedly not mutual,'' I told Rivka even before looking at her. ''For all that I want to make amends.'' ''Part of that is talking with Oberon and maybe his court, David. Actually, most of it is that. Most of the other Fae are too shy to get another iron suppository, and I doubt you''d like to meet those who aren''t.'' I blew out a breath. Why was I hesitant? Because Oberon had blamed me for killing so many Fae? I did, too, to an extent, though we both knew Chernobog was truly responsible. I don''t know. Maybe we were both stupid. No, scratch that. Maybe Oberon was stupid too. ''No one told me this at the Heads'' meeting.'' ''It came up later.'' She crossed her arms, looking uncomfortable. Her expression was serene, but the way her clawed fingers dug into her sleeves told a different story. ''Did Reem tell you?'' I changed tack at the blank stare, knowing I wasn''t getting anywhere. ''Did he at least say where it would take place? Like, should I expect to be condemned on international TV or something?'' ''ARC wouldn''t expose you like that.'' Rivka''s voice made me wonder who she was trying to reassure. ''Do you want me to come with you? I''ll choose a substitute.'' ''Did he say where he wants to meet?'' I repeated. Honestly, it was sweet that she was so worried about my peace of mind-women like her and Bianca were the sisters I never had-but now was not the time for pussyfooting. Or maybe the location was just so bad she''d rather drag her feet on telling me about it? Was that why she wanted to accompany me?" ''In Faerie. Apparently, there''s a problem he''s trying and slowly failing to solve, and he wants your expertise.'' Rivka smirked, batting her eyes at me. ''If it helps, you were his first option. He''s only just started looking for alternatives.'' ''Problem, huh? I understand if he can''t get it up at his age, but asking other people to take care of his wife? I don''t exactly wanna pay locomotive to the train, either...'' Rivka slapped both hands over her face, grinding their heels into her eyes. ''I''ll pretend I didn''t hear that...thanks for the mental image, David. Now I''m going to start having nightmares. Daymares. I wouldn''t have been able to sleep after this if I were still human, anyway.'' ''Happy to help expand your imagination, boss.'' ''Ugh. Don''t make jokes like this around Oberon, you hear?'' ''What, you''re not going to come with me anymore?'' I asked innocently. ''Watch it.'' Rivka pointed a finger at me, eyes narrowed. ''I know where you live and have your girlfriend on speed dial.'' I held up my hands. ''Against such threats, what can a man do but surrender?'' *** Rivka shook her head with a smile as she watched David go. He could still joke, thank God. He was getting better. The ghoul sank into her chair with a sigh, boots crossed on her desk. She hated having to clean it, but knew it drove Tamar nuts, and it was always funny to see the Goetia Head fuss over cleanliness. ''Please sit properly, young one.'' Tamar was in David''s former seat faster than she could see. She didn''t know whether he''d hidden himself from both of them, or if he''d observed from a distance and simply moved without her seeing, but he looked like he had been sitting for hours. Tamar''s flesh was burned so badly only a few patches of skin hung over abused muscle, and they all bore inverted pentagrams, bearing the Names of God and the demons-not shedim, not foreign deities; the things bound to Tamar had little to do with his faith, and much to do with the Christians''-within. Said patches had not been spared randomly: there was skin at his joints, over his heart and manhood, on his head. Stars of David surrounded the empty sockets burning with flames, and shone where his mouth, nose and ears had been. ''So sorry, sir. I thought I was alone. You''re stealthy.'' Tamar snorted. ''When you''re trying not to wake up your grand-grandkids, you learn to be quiet, too.'' ''What about Sarah?'' ''I learned long ago that, no matter what I do, she''ll wake up and berate me for acting like a bull in a China shop.'' The flames glowed pink for a while, and the sockets seemed to narrow in affection. Rivka nodded. There were some people you just couldn''t plan around. ''It''s been a while since you''ve woken me up, so I''d say you''re doing good.'' ''It''s been a while since you''ve slept, and even longer since you''ve slept in my house. I''d say I''m winning by default.'' There was a pause after that. Rivka pursed her lips as she chose her next words, but, when Tamar began rubbing the spot where his number had been on his skin, and where it still burned with the infernal light that marked his flesh and bones, she knew she had to get his attention, or he''d become maudlin. And people who could fistfight the Princes of Hell weren''t people you wanted even remotely upset. Such events tended to be accompanied by descriptions full of words like "tragic accident", "former galaxy clusters" and "the fabric of the universe". ''How come I can perceive you, even vaguely, but David can''t?'' ''Perhaps you are smarter than you thi-wait. Not even you can be that smart.'' Rivka snorted. ''Pull the other one.'' ''I am hiding myself from him, specifically. The people around him may need to know I''m there, so that we can exchange plans in event of an emergency, but there is no need to alarm David further. He already knows John has his eyes on him. The last thing he needs is learning there are two kooky old men stalking him.'' ''Well, long as you and John hide your white van...'' ''It''s blue. Thank you very much.'' ''Your demons are getting better,'' Rivka said, slightly puzzled. ''Though even them getting around both strigoi senses and Mimir''s perception is...kind of hard to swallow.'' ''I tried to destroy the chances of him finding out about me through Abaddon, which predictably failed. Supernaturals like him cannot be so easily changed, nor can their fates. Then, Aamon birthed something utterly appalling, but throbbing with holy power, which did work.'' ''Birthed?'' Rivka wrinkled her nose. ''His words, not mine.'' Which implied the "throbbing" was all him. ''What about Orobas and Ose?'' ''They are still fighting about where Chernobog is. Or rather, fighting about where he isn''t. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, as they keep telling me when they''re not calling each other idiots.'' ''You make them sound like chumps. Still, some people,'' an uninformed onlooker could have been forgiven for thinking Rivka was making air quotes with her fingers. ''Might get upset at their absence.'' ''There are people after them now, too?'' Tamar fanned himself. ''Oh, dear. I sure hope they want them back as much as they want them gone, like everyone else.'' ''We can only pray,'' Rivka said, only half-ironically. ''Indeed.'' Tamar did not move. Instead, he was now standing two metres away from Rivka''s desk, the seat back in its place. ''Thank you, for supporting him.'' *** Despite the glamourous perception mundanes, weres and the like had of supernatural travel, it was very much like earthly traffic. Following that analogy, Tamar was a jogger, dragging several tires behind him as he went about his day. Except the tires were wrapped around his organs and bit him as he jogged on choppy water. At least nothing was biting today. Several souls had disappeared from the aether recently, and, with no god to claim or search for them, it fell to ARC and their countries'' agencies to unravel the mystery. They had long ago removed supernatural predators from the aether, not that Tamar was sure if a beast was responsible. The disappearances did not appear to follow any pattern of logic, and while that was not unheard of, it seemed to clean for the equivalent of sharks. Still, the aether was as calm as it could ever be, despite that. Tamar passed several souls, resting or shaping the raw mana around them into their own little worlds-some of them mages, some of them dead, others both. Fellow travellers avoided the light of his soul and the spheres of darkness wrapped around him. Just the Sephiroth carved across his back and into his spine would have been enough to ward most off, but if took intimidation to avoid confrontation, he was all for it. Tamar paid none any heed, especially the ones he knew. Until one of them bumped into him, that was. Tamar was never happy to see Strauss and his freak. Ironic, how he often wished the bastard would travel through other means than through its shadows, but had now run into the two. Tamar pushed them aside, and tried to return to Jerusalem, but Strauss stopped him. ''Your enmity is pointless. I am just following orders.'' Your hatred is pointless. I am just following orders. ''It will not change the objective of my mission, nor prevent me from accomplishing it.'' It will not help you escape, nor dull the pain. ''You are merely indulging a vendetta, when the past cannot be changed.'' You are merely tiring yourself out. There is no sentiment in this, from my side. Why is there any from yours? ''Do not stall me, Strauss. I have business to be about.'' ''So do I-'' ''I did not ask.'' Tamar smiled with his sockets, making the flames go through a merry range of colours. ''You are speaking without being asked more often, these days. One might almost think you''re human.'' ''I do not care about your opinion of me,'' Strauss replied. ''Nacht,'' ah, yes, the only freak in ARC bigger than him, though somehow still more human. Oddly silent at the moment, too. ''And I have successfully convinced Solarex not to come to Earth.'' ''You don''t report to me. If you want praise for doing the bare minimum, go kiss Shiftskin''s arse. He can tell you all about wanting more than you deserve.'' ''Head Shiftskin sent me to you,'' Strauss said, then reached into his long coat, producing something as thin as a sheet of paper, but made of gold. Tamar snorted. Had that cosmic pervert made a joke about gold as a conductor of magic? Seemed he could think with both heads, as long as he used one at a time. Astounding. Looking closer, Tamar saw whatever was on it had been written in golden ink, and laughed. ''This is almost as pointless as your existence. What do you want me to do, use my braille skills? I''m not actually blind. Gather up some people who are, put them in a camp for skill improvement.'' ''Someone seems to have woken up on the wrong side of the train,'' Nacht said softly. From within its depths, his childish, haggard face stared back at him, realisation struggling against incomprehension as it dawned. ''Still having nightmares?'' ''Give me that rag,'' Tamar snatched it from Strauss'' hand, without waiting for a reply. ''Follow me.'' ''Yes,'' Strauss said, as he began walking the aether behind Tamar. Then, more hesitantly (Strauss, shy? No. He didn''t feel such things. Unsure of himself, then?), ''Can I see Adolf?'' ''There''s this wonderful invention knows as the internet...'' ''Some gods of punishment might get jealous at no longer being able to pass him among each other.'' ''Maybe if he had believed in anything, that would have never been needed. Still, I''m happy that didn''t happen. This way, they can no longer complain about someone keeping him for too long, or otherwise cheating,'' Tamar said, the ever-present pressure of Goetia headquarters'' wards growing stronger as he approached his destination. ''Also, you didn''t give him back to me for years last time.'' ''True,'' Strauss acknowledged. ''The document you took from us is Solarex''s testimony-or, rather, theory, as we cannot be sure how much he truly knows, and how much he is pretending to know, or lying about-on the nature of Chernobog. Nacht and I have went over it, but we think your skills, in tandem with ours, could help detect misdirection and malice. Tamar grunted noncommittally. Besides his demons, he was bound to old, nameless things that had been burrowing under the place that would become Hell long before Lucifer and his lackeys had fallen into it. They were powerful, each as powerful as a Prince of Hell, in fact, but stupid. Hungry and reactive, like deep ocean fish. They were engines used to augment the power of his demons, or pack mules used to bear things they couldn''t be bothered with. The Goetia division didn''t only bind demons and their distant cousins. Spirits of all sizes and shapes, horrors like his brutes, and-though never for long-even angels. Some of his colleagues from Miskatonic, the ones closer to the Outer Void rather than further from it, looked at the binding of such creatures with quiet disdain, but, as far as Tamar was concerned, that was pointless. Miskatonic existed because not all manifestations of insanity were-uncontrollably-mad themselves. Nor were, in fact, those who simply fought against their ilk. Still...much as he loathed to admit it, Strauss and his monster possessed some of the keenest senses in ARC. If they weren''t sure of their analysis, he... Hmph. Perhaps collaboration would not be so pointless. *** I saw the blackness at the heart of Fairie long before I set my eyes on it. It made a mockery of things like senses, light and distance: as soon as you entered the Fae realm, you knew, in your heart of hearts, that it was at its centre, slowly but surely eating its way through it, like a magot through a dying heart. Behind me, Shiftskin and Ying Lung drew sharp breaths, the former growling in what looked like confusion and hunger. I didn''t want to know. All that I needed to know, I''d been told: Oberon had reached out to the global gathering, demanding a small number of helpers for an unspecified crisis in Fairie. It would have been an insulting request, but the phrasing had suggested he wanted people neither side would miss. I understood why Sam and I would be in that category, but Ying? Oberon did not turn to look at us, instead intent on suppressing the darkness. His rainbow, armoured boots were set down on its edge, and he was slowly, almost imperceptibly being pushed back, as if by a strong wind, or by a tide washing away the shore under his feet. His back was bent, his arms extended, and he pushed back at lashing tendrils of darkness. ''The strigoi,'' the Seelie King grunted, his normally relaxed voice taut with effort and frustration. ''The Hungry Beast. The Exile.'' His helmet tilted to one side. ''Well? What do you see, Silva?'' I opened my eyes and ears and heart, then took a deep breath, letting the realm and the darkness blighting it flow through me. Then, I knew nothing. *** 999 metres under Klyuchevskaya Sopka, Siberia, 2031 WE. AWAKE. WE. HAVE. NOT. BEEN. CALLED. UPON. NO. MATTER. OUR. SLEEP. IS. DISTURBED. THE. CAGE. IS. EMPTY. NOT. BROKEN. BUT. OPEN. THE. SPIDER. IS. GONE. WHY? THE. CULPRIT. IS. NOT. GONE. THERE. HAS. NEVER. BEEN. ONE. NO. MATTER. WE. SEE. THE. PAST. UNDONE. WE. SEE. THE. GUARD. DOG. SLAUGHTERED. MURDERED. ALIEN. HANDS. MOVED. BY. ANOTHER''S. WILL. THE. ALIEN. IS. GONE. A. BEAST. WHERE. IT. COULD. HAVE. BEEN. THERE. HAS. NEVER. BEEN. ONE. WE. KNOW. BETTER. WE. DO. NOT. SEE. YOU. FACELESS. ONE. BUT. YOU. SEE. US. BEWARE. *** Unofficial FREAKSHOW training/research facility, Alaska, 2031 Randall Henson watched the soldiers drill with their new gear, and his heart swelled with pride. Randy knew he didn''t appear the most reliable dude, at first, second or twelfth glance, but, fuck, no unit that passed inspection ever passed combat. This, he knew from experience. Back in his days as a pilot, everyone was filled with outrage after Pearl Harbor, and, Randy knew, rage made people stupid. And people were pretty damn stupid in the first place, for all that individuals were smart, himself notwithstanding. Still, he had been pretty fuckin'' flamboyant as an ''ace'', even more than his current self, to some people''s disbelief. He hadn''t been like those dickbags who''d enlisted for cash and a license to kill-rather, he''d been of the belief that, having led a privileged life, with no need to work, it was only logical to give back to his country-, but he hadn''t exactly been a model pilot either. They''d all been eager to slap a Jap, as the saying had been, and instead gotten saddled with assholes obsessed with rules and regulations. The other R&R, as they used to call it. The one everybody shat themselves in boredom while thinking of. Randy had seen combat far less often than he should have, because his boys-his planes, not the other dudes, fuck ''em-were rarely up to snuff, even when they weren''t getting thrashed in the maneuvers he pulled so he could have something to jack off to at night. Ahh...inspections. Gotta love ''em, as much as first impressions. "What''s up, roc?" The doctor gave him as exasperated a look as her features allowed. Which was to say, not much. Still, really expressive eyes, he had to admit. "Wrong. Species. Again," Bree ground out, pulling her lab coat tighter around her chest, feathers bristling. Despite being large enough to swallow an elephant in one go-as blue and big as a whale, Hans had once said, when his two and a half braincells had been on vacation-and strong enough to turn the States to dust with a wingbeat, she was pretty damn easily flustered. "Aw, but the pun don''t work with ''thunderbird''!" he said, patting one of her wings. Bree clicked her beak. "I don''t mind if it ''don''t work''. Now, will you stop distracting me?" "Sure thing. Roc on!" She wasn''t a fan of the horns, huh? Bet she only listened to bird calls...hmm. Would that be like him listening to dudes catcalling chicks? With a long-suffering sigh, for all they had only met less than an hour ago (he had that effect on people, especially ladies), Bree turned to see the boots try out the latest fruits of her labors. Her Department of Defense tag, which was larger than most of Randy''s cars, shone almost as brightly as her proud eyes in the fake sunlight of the simulation room. Getting the matter generators to make anything smaller and more complex than landmarks and terrain was proving a bitch, so the more finicky exercises had to come later. For now, the boys, girls and the rest could just have fun stomping around. Armament landed two feet to his right, whooping. Randy took one look at him and groaned. The combat pants with suspenders he was used to by now, godawful as they were, but the white shirt with ''work will set you free''? "Haaans..." He somehow managed to sound whiny rather than pissed. Like the beard and tattooed chrome dome weren''t enough... "Fuckin'' seriously?" "Huh?" Hans looked at him like he was the dumbest motherfucker on the planet. "Don''cha think that shirt goes exactly in the direction we''ve been tellin'' ya to avoid, unless ya grow your hair?" "Fuck you mean?" Hans frowned. "Work will set you free-I never feel more empty-minded than when I''m workin'' out or doin'' some maintenance on my toys." "Yeah, betcha don''t-" "Shhh!" Bree hissed. "You''re gonna embarrass us all in front of the president!" The current prez, Mary Anne Simmons, was the third successive one with paranormal powers. In her case, the ability to escape any situation and bindings, physical or metaphorical. Everyone made dumb jokes about that being the perfect power for a politician, haha, but they didn''t know shit. Randy had watched Mary grow, and you''d have to be dumber than Hans to think Breakout''s kid would be allowed to get away with anything, no matter how good she was at wriggling out of tight spots. That was probably the reason she''d turned out alright. Randy believed she got some of Clara''s good traits(because who the hell else''s could she inherit, her dad''s? Not like he''d ever gotten to know he was one, too busy bleeding out from a shattered skull), but she just brushed him off whenever he brought it up. Which was pretty weird. Not like Breakout was modest. Or insecure...in general. But, he supposed, anyone would be insecure when it came to a kid they''d never wanted or expected to have. "Hello, Doctor Bree. Agents Henson, Miller." Mary had gentler versions of her mother''s features, softened by both age and a life without fighting. They lent themselves to her smile, which said she just felt glad to meet her surrogate uncle and brother. Her gray hair, bound in a long ponytail, combined with the navy blue power suit, made her look like Randy''s lawyer''s wife, except black. All she missed was that cheap ''pearl'' necklace. "Sorry for keeping you," Mary said, her smile becoming self-deprecating. "Start whenever you''re ready." They were on a replica of the White House''s lawn, except there was no House between them. Nor was there any other building in the simulation. Randy hoped the eggheads would sort that out soon, so he could smash Hans'' dumb face through a Nazi museum and show him how much like a goddamn skinhead he looked. Bree was large enough she didn''t need to pace to get their attention. Instead, she just extended a steel-blue wing towards the horizon. "Today, we are testing the Powered Exoskeletal Adaptive Combat Enhancement Armor. Or PEACE Armor, as everyone''s already calling it." Bree rolled her eyes. "Because we bring peace wherever we go...hoo-hah. Please, no pacifier jokes, agents." "I didn''t say shit!" Hans said, only half-focused on the roc. He had created a sniper rifle so he could use its scope as an improvised telescope. He couldn''t create anything unrelated to weapons, though that was a broad enough power even a meathead like him could make good use of it. Randy? He could make things happen, as long as they were likely to. Like, ''you were blown up by a landmine'' worked on a lot of battlefields. Not as glamorous, maybe, but he was good at working his mouth. Talking was his third best skill with it. And then the show began. PEACE Armor was meant to bridge the gap between mundanes, mages and the like, and the brawnier supernaturals. So they could stop relying so much on people who often had exploitable weaknesses. Sure, the Armor had its flaws too, what with being manmade(so to speak), but it could also be mass-produced...without a legal and ethical crisis, unlike, say, weres or vampires. As he felt the Secret Service move around Mary, barely brushing against the edge of his perception (he only knew someone was there, but couldn''t hear their breathing, blinking and heartbeats, nor feel the warmth of their bodies and souls. The fact he even thought about these suggested the current bodyguards were ensouled warmbloods. Interesting), Randy wondered how long the Armor could keep going. He''d heard all about fusion and miniature suns, but what about when the main generators run out? What if the wearer got caught in an antimagic field and couldn''t absorb mana, let alone convert it to other forms of energy? "Huh." Hans lowered his rifle, blinking. "Smaller than I thought..." "Huh? It''s not that bulky, genius," Randy replied. "Doesn''t add much height eit-" Randy quickly realized Hans hadn''t been talking about the Armor, but the projectile a soldier had thrown at them. Sixty billion tons came flying at them, and hit Hans'' curled pinky at thirty miles per second. The shockwave obliterated the ground far beyond Randy''s sight, and for a significant part of the continent, but did nothing more than ruffle the hair, or equivalent, of everyone present. Mary was right as rain as her power made the shockwave and debris bend around her. Armament watched the mountain balancing on his little finger in disbelief. He knew this was just training, but... Did they really have to hold back so much? "Oi!" Hans hollered as he raised the mountain overhead, stomping forward and making lava splash into his eyes.. "These things hold together much better than the real ones! Put your damn back into it, pansies!" And with that, he flicked the mountain back the way it had come. Randy ran forward a but, to get a look at the action, and saw a soldier, their Armor blending perfectly with the devastated environment. The distortion was clear as day to him, though, especially as they raised their arm and punched the mountain to steam. He smiled approvingly as another soldier came over the horizon, reaching the puncher in a hundredth of a second. Their high-five shook the Earth''s replica to the core, sending mile-wide cracks across the landscape. Randy leapt back, nodding at Bree. "Oh, yeaaaah~ They can definitely go toe to toe with Joe Vamp off the street." Bree gave him a small smile, then clicked her beak, restoring the simulation to pristine condition. "Now, we will observe the ranged weapons. I have thought of a rather fitting vantage point. Please follow me..." Bree flew the eighteen hundred miles to Yellowstone in a couple seconds, Randy and Hans having to pace themselves to a hundredth of their speed so as not to overtake her. This gave him all the time in the world to wonder if the President had always been this fast, or if she was being stealthily helped along by a Secret Service member. They stopped on top of the volcano, seeing dozens of soldiers standing in five-person squads a few hundred feet away from its base, holding wide-barreled, dark blue pistols and rifles with light blue highlights. "Coilguns," Bree explained. "We''re ironing out the kinks in the railgun variants as we speak, but those are not a priority. Magnetic fields can be bent or unmade, with the right powers. Those''ll need more wards than the coilguns already have." "I''ve heard these shoot rounds at lightspeed?" The president asked, brow furrowed. "It is rather hard to believe that velocity can be achieved through an entirely mechanical process." Unlike the more common Gauss mass-drivers that used electromagnets, which were often deployed against lower-level supernaturals, DOD''s latest toys simply launched projectiles-two pound rounds for the pistols, ten tons for the rifles-through means of a tightly-wound metal coil, which, when released, pushed the round out of the barrel at lightspeed. The world''s most dangerous slingshots, in Randy''s opinion. "I will be frank-" Bree started. "To be Frank, you''d have to change your name, Breeee~" "I will be frank with you, ma''am," the thunderbird told the president. "Unlike our magical ''nuke guns'', these will cause immense collateral damage with every shot. Maybe our mages can add some more wards before we start spreading them across the armed forces, but you are going to see the unmodified versions." Mary pursed her lips. "We are expecting a war or unnatural disaster of cataclysmic proportions, doctor. Collateral is nothing strange." "Let us hope it will not come to that." The doctor laughed, trying to mask her agitation. "The problem with ranged weapons is that fledgling vampires and most weres move at thousands of times the speed of sound, like I do, and can maneuver as they wish at said speed. They only escalate from there. This is why most people prefer melee weapons with enhanced durability when engaging them. Lightspeed projectiles are too fast for most of them. Warded to resist disintegration, silver or blessed rounds can stop many threats in their tracks." "They can still dodge," Armament said, looking down at the soldiers. "Those mofos come with some sorta fighting instinct, gives ''em a heads-up when you''re about to smoke their ass. Unless you''re much faster than them, you can''t surprise one." "Also," Randy chimed in with an apologetic smile. "They can just look where you''re aiming, and move." "Ordinarily, yes," Bree replied. "But PEACE Armor can make any human as fast and strong as a werewolf, meaning they can keep pace. No different from shooting mundane humans." Randy still wasn''t sure-usually, people didn''t blow up their cities or states with each shot-but he supposed they''d just add the anti-collateral wards before mass distribution of the coilguns. "You didn''t mention iron," he told Bree softly, watching one of the soldiers lift their pistol. "Your pardon?" "Iron," Randy repeated, louder. "Anti-Fae rounds. That''s what we''re really worried about, ain''t it? War with the Courts and the unaligned Fae?" "Speak for yourself," Hans said, frowning grimly. "I''m more creeped out by how messed-up their infiltration plan is." Randy groaned. "Their what now?" "Think about it," Hans said heatedly. "They host the godly equivalent of a terrorist and a fugitive, knowing full well what the fucker''s done, and how twisted he is in general. Then, when he uses some poor schmuck as a sockpuppet, they cry foul, and make ARC-and us, and everyone else who was involved in that clusterfuck-out to be the bad guys, so that we''ll feel bad and let them into our world."The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. "You think the Fae would sacrifice so many of their soldiers to...gain our pity?" Mary asked. Hans gave her a humorless smile. "I think that''s a leading question, ma''am. You know the bastards don''t care about each other. Why wouldn''t they do it? Remember they were-still are, for all we know-in cahoots with Chernobog. I bet they kept you guys," he gestured at Randy. "In place just enough for him to bodyjack that Silva dude." Randy''s head spun. Of all the times for Hans to make sense- "The..." Bree''s voice wavered slightly. "The shooting demonstration is about to start." "Heh," Randy said, his smile, for once, not coming effortlessly. "Good thing we got some explosions to distract us, huh, Hans?" Armament snorted. "Fuck off, man. I don''t want the curse-casting kidnappers living across the street from us." "It''s a bad day when big booms can''t cheer ?you up." Randy''s smile disappeared. "Yeah, well...no one''s had a good day in a while." Below them, a soldier raised their pistol, and fired. The rounds were made of the same material as the Armor: not yamadium-the US used it, of course, most countries did; but old Kenji wouldn''t disclose the secret of his precious material''s creation or composition, no matter the bribes or threats, and their scientists had yet to crack it-but, rather, a recent creation of DOD. They were still trying to decide on a name. A few people had suggested paxium, what with PEACE Armor and all, but they were still debating. As the round flew with force close to a ten-megaton nuke, but far more concentrated, a mushroom cloud appeared, ravaging the terrain for miles and splitting the clouds above. Neither the soldiers or the observers were harmed, but, as Yellowstone began erupting, triggered by the nuke-like explosion, Bree gestured with a wing, and the simulation reset. "The coil pistols are not meant to be used in combat, even as sidearms-that role goes to the rifles. Melee weapons, backed by the Armor''s power, will be the main method of dealing damage. The pistols are for last resort only," the thunderbird explained. "As for the rifles...ten tons at lightspeed is the equivalent of a hundred and eight gigatons of TNT. Less than a fifth of how hard the average vamp, were or PEACE Armor user can punch, but far more concentrated. It ?is a bullet, after all." "Hyperdense rounds also means it''ll be harder for grunts to fuck around with, since they''d need Armor to budge them," Randy joked, relieved at the potential future pranks strangled in the crib. "The human ones, yes. The mages? The weres who can play volleyball with mountains across the continent? Not so much." Aaand there Bree went, shooting down his hopes like they owed her money. "Agent Henson, would you mind helping with the demonstration?" "How? I know I can dodge or catch the bullets, I''m just as fast. I''m strong enough to lift them, too..." "Yes, but it is durability I am interested in. Coil rifle rounds can penetrate most supernaturals without deforming. We want to see their effect on a much tougher target, like you. If the rounds keep their shape after smashing into the equivalent of a compressed small moon..." "Right, right. Uh, ma''am, guys, will you take a step back? Or...?" Randy shrugged when no one moved. "Suit yourselves." Taking off his glasses to reveal eyes that changed color every moment, Randy looked down, pointing at the first soldier with a rifle he saw. "Hey! Give me your best shot! Right! Here!" He tapped his right eye twice. The soldier saluted lazily, then raised the rifle with both hands, and fired. Randy''s eye stung a little as the round slammed into it, pushing ineffectually against the eyeball, kept in motion by sheer momentum. Below him, Yellowstone became an exploding cloud of dust and lava, scorching his suit. As the simulation reset once more, Randy spun the intact, burning ten-ton round on one finger. "You make good stuff, doc." "Indeed, doctor Bree." Mary smiled at her. "We should discuss the creation of larger coilguns, for national..." The President looked down at her pocket in disbelief. Not because it was ringing, rather than buzzing, despite the current settings, but because it was ringing in a pocket reality, without any satellites. Narrowing her eyes, Mary passed her phone to one of the unseen Secret Service agents, who briefly stiffened-the faint motions of the air Randy senses around them briefly stopped-upon seeing the number, then answered. "Hello, sir. Why the surprise call?" they asked with forced cheer. "We were not expecting to receive anything from Russia with love today." Randy''s eyes widened behind his glasses, every fiber of his being screaming of approaching danger. Making a chopping gesture at Hans, he dashed towards the soldiers, lifting and tossing them up far faster than they could perceive. As far as they knew, they were suddenly back in DC after being thrown through the portal created by the gun Armament had created. "THIS. IS. NOT. THE. PRESIDENT." The first world turned North America to dust and the other continents to gravel, reducing the replica Earth''s surface to ruin as oceans were vaporuised from the sheer force and the atmosphere was split apart. Despite the rapidly-disappearing air, each following word could be heard, even as they stripped the planet''s layers away. The mantle was already gone. "Nnnnnngh-who the fuck gave Tunguska a phone!?" Randy hissed, shaking his head. Every word felt like a punch from Dust Devil, and did as much damage to him: his head was numb, eyes swollen, and he could feel some loose teeth before he healed. "How the fuck-" Armament blinked, having recovered from similar damage, while Bree shook her great head. Luckily, they were all much tougher than their continent. "How and why the hell have you gotten hold of that number?" "TO. GET. YOUR. ATTENTION." Tunguska sounded far more smugly amused than the embodiment of disasters should have been able to. "WHAT. AMERICAN. PRESIDENT. WOULD. REFUSE. SUCH. A. CALL? YOU. ARE. CAREFUL. DAUGHTER. OF. THE. BREAKER. BUT. YOUR. CAUTION. IS. POINTLESS. OUR. WORDS. CANNOT. HARM. YOU." A pause. "NOR. YOUR. BODYGUARDS. THAT. IS. GOOD." "The Strangeguard usually reaches out to FREAKSHOW in case of a crisis," Mary said, knowing Tunguska could hear her. "What could be so urgent that you''d do this instead?" "Wait, ma''am." Randy help up a hand. "Tunguska, are you in the Kremlin? Is that how you got hold of that phone?" At least they knew how the call had been made. Tunguska had proved its disregard for logic countless times since the Impact that had awakened its incarnation on Earth. All other disasters in history had birthed the greater entity (well, the incarnate aspect, not the Archetype of Disaster), and fed its aspects in their planetary or cosmic wombs, but it took certain ones to rouse its fragments. "WE. ARE. ALL CONCERNED. SOMETHING. WAS. STOLEN. NO. WE. DO. NOT. THINK. IT. WAS. YOU. SO. FAR. BUT. IT. THREATENS. EVERYONE. WE. WANT. TO. CREATE. A. TASKFORCE." "To find whatever was taken?" Armament asked. Their spies in Moscow had been awfully quiet lately, and that was never a good sign. "YES. SEARCH. AND. DESTROY." And with that, it hung up. The Secret Service agent gave the president her phone back gingerly, their posture apologetic. "You couldn''t have known," Mary said, pocketing it. "I just hope agents Simmons, Clyde and Bat are faring better." *** ''You are awful at negotiating, zmeu,'' the Mother of the Forest grumbled as she paced around her cottage. Aaron was large enough he only needed to move his eyes to track her, which was good, because the hag was walking circles around him. ''Communist.'' She wrinkled her hooked, beaklike nose, shrugging as if to say "what can you do?". ''You only have servants and enemies.'' ''Not any longer,'' Aaron said. ''And this would benefit you, too.'' ''Pfa!'' The Mother made a dismissive gesture with both gnarled hands, before wiping them on her checkered, blue and white apron. Coupled with the red shirt, grey pants and slippers, and pink, white-spotted shawl, she could have passed for an old, if ugly human woman. Until one saw the leaves and twigs tangled in her long white hair, which the shawl failed to fully contain, were actually growing from it. Until one saw the pock marks covering her leathery skin looked more like holes in a hollow tree, an image only strengthened by the bugs and maggots coming out of one and going into another. ''Because ?I need meatshields, boy?'' she asked, smiling just enough to show needle-like teeth. Then, she crossed the metres between them, jumped and flicked Aaron in the centre of his chest. It was his armour that saved him. His instincts had told him to put it on the moment he had entered her forest-all of them, none at all, equally distant from every human settlement-, though he told himself she''d had used less force if he''d been unarmoured. As it was, he vapourised the ground for millions of kilometres upon landing, and found himself in a crater that would have swallowed the sun. The impact itself did no damage to his armour, for it had been forged to withstand far worse, but the flick tore Aaron almost in half, his torso hanging onto his waist by a few strands of flesh and enchanted bronze. His chest had a hole the size of a large car in it, reaching all the way through, though his zmeu constitution prevented him from stumbling as he rose to his feet, despite the missing vertebrae of his spine. Aaron huffed as his body healed. This pain was nothing compared to their last meeting. Shaking his heads, he flew back to her cottage. The Mother had flicked him some eighty trillion kilometres away, which meant a couple seconds of flight, assuring that he had time to see her smug grin before he landed. ''Did this serve any purpose? I know you''re strong.'' As strong as his father, at least before his power began to grow. ''You damaged your forest-'' ''My forest, yes,'' she barked. ''I''ll heal it. Don''t try to change the subject, zmeu. I won''t turn myself into your country''s blacksmith just because you think you standing between me and whatever is coming will keep me safe. Do you have any idea how boring it is to forge weapons more dangerous than yourself?'' ''If not for that, what would be your price?'' ''Heh.'' The mother''s beady black eyes glinted. ''Don''t think I can''t tell what''s going through those heads of yours. I''m not a whore, boy. I''m not letting the damn country run a train on me! You brought your brothers here because you wanted zmei to be the ones on a heroic journey, slaying monsters and helping people, for once. The weapons were what you thought you deserved-none of you three liked the transaction. None of you stopped to think if I''d meant that as a joke! You just went ahead, so I played along.'' She batted her eyes. ''Felt young again, at least...'' Bleeding blazes... ''Then what?'' The mother wagged a clawed finger at him, a cherry-red centipede wrapped around it. ''Do you know why I called your harness the Brazen Mantle? It''s not made of brass, after all. But it is brazen, as brazen as Burnished Death is mischievous and Three Moons Falling is bloodthirsty. Sit down, and listen-for that harness of yours would not obey even me, who forged it. It would not obey you, its wearer, either, if not for...'' *** As Andrei walked out of the fighting ring''s infirmary, he ran into a face he had known for decades, but rarely seen in this form. ''What?'' Lucian asked, moustache twitching. The zmeu''s default human form was over two metres tall, muscular and swarthy, with a wild mane of black hair that reached down to his shoulder blades. ''I don''t think I''ll ever get used to seeing you like this,'' the werebear replied, holding his medical file close to his chest. It had been updated, showing he had not been poisoned with silver-the only method that worked on weres-during the Fright Before Christmas. Lucian snorted. ''Took the words outta my mouth. I look at you, and I can only smell musk and fish, despite the way you look. The contrast is killing me.'' ''You''ll survive. Here for the update?'' He jerked his head towards the door. ''Yeah. I wanted to do one, and my brothers insisted.'' Supernaturals, as a rule, could not get sick, barring unusual circumstances. But the Fright had left everyone walking on eggshells. ''Good luck. Although...'' Andrei looked the shirtless zmeu up and down. He only wore a pair of dark blue pants. ''Alright, the contrast is killing me, too. You smell like smoked lizard. What made you shapeshift like this?'' Lucian rolled his eyes-still yellow, still with vertical, slit-like pupils-as he leaned against a whitewashed wall. ''Aari''s gotten convinced the world is going to end, and has basically put me and Lucas into a sort of boot camp, except you can''t graduate, because he''s half as paranoid as he''s demanding. I feel like I''m four again...'' ''He just wants you to survive...'' Andrei said softly, making Lucian sigh and cross his brawny arms. ''Yeah, I know. And...it''s nice he''s concerned. Fuck, he''s practically our dad. But it''s cutting into my me time! Only things I''ve been kissing lately are my brothers'' knuckles!'' ''How''s their tongue game?'' ''Oh, fuck off.'' And with that, the zmeu entered the infirmary. He came out a few minutes later, holding a file doorstopper of a file, with what looked like several notes attached. ''Why''s yours so much bigger than mine?'' Andrei asked as they made their way down the hall and to the locker room. The other men grunted greetings or waved as the two entered. They''d been fighting for more than some of the others had been alive, and everyone knew them. ''Because I''m more ?potent than you,'' the zmeu said, wiggling his bushy black eyebrows. Andrei rolled his eyes as he typed the combination to his locker on its keypad. ''I meant the file, dumbass.'' ''So did I!'' Lucian drew back with a hasp, holding the file to his hairy chest. ''Gosh, Andrei, you only think about l-lewd stuff.'' ''You have no idea how fucking unsettling it is to watch you do that...would you mind changing? ''Nah.'' Lucian closed his locker and flipped thrice, mouthing an incantation about man revealing the beast he had always been. After the first flip, his skin became green and the hair on his body and hair disappeared. The second added half a metre in height and made his muscles swell as bottle-green scales covered them. His teeth lengthened and thickened into fangs after the third, while wings sprouted from his back. His tailbone writhed and grew before a thick, muscular tail emerged, and his feet bent, the heels drawing back and up, and Lucian landed on taloned toes. ''Aaah...this must be why girls feel so good taking off their war paint.'' ''You finally found pants for both forms, huh?'' Andrei asked. ''Yeah. Heard they''re made by the same guy who makes Hulk''s.'' Lucian grinned. ''You ready?'' ''Are you telling me you actually read about your fight today, as opposed to waiting to be surprised?'' ''And what if I did?'' He patted his shoulder, then drew him closer, whispering. ''I don''t want to leave anything to chance again. Remember that mission David came back shuddering from? Why were his eyes white?'' ''You know he can''t tell-'' ''Yes, but that doesn''t stop me from worrying. I think Constantin knows more than us, but not enough. He''s been high-strung lately. And where''s David now?'' ''I don''t know!'' Andrei growled, showing his fangs, eyes blackening. ''You think I''d lose him again if it was up to me?'' ''Woah, there. You didn''t lose shit last time.'' Lucian frowned down at him. ''Listen-this is your human side talking. I never met my parents until this Christmas, and I care as much about them as I did before. Zmei don''t care about their hatchlings, bears don''t care about their cubs. David learned the truth when he was grown-up. There was nothing more to change, and he was raised by an alright guy. You should both stop being dramatic about this, and get laid or something.'' The werebear growled, trying to keep his beast from rising. ''You know what''s the difference between the two of us?'' ''I make girls gag from the size, not the smell?'' Andrei caught himself before he shared a few choice words with the zmeu. ''I don''t think giving in to your inner animal makes you happy. But...I did get some, recently.'' ''Good! And David? I bet he and Mia have taken a leave from work to get somewhere nice and private to do the nasty.'' ''Nice and private...'' Andrei shook his head. ''Like any sex involving David would shock people.'' ''Yeah, you''re right. I''m sure all of Romania and most of Bulgaria has felt Mia pegging him through the mattress. No need to hide anymore.'' The zmeu chuckled. ''Good luck with Elementron.'' "Good luck with the weres." Andrei said, watching the other men get ready. Lucian, he thought, almost sounded like he actually believed David was in a good place. *** Lucian smirked as the werehawk kicked him through the Southern Carpathians, turning mountain after mountain to steam, levelling the replica of Romania from the shockwave that shook the fake Earth. Amazing, what mages could do when they had money to incentivise them and little else to occupy their time with. It hurt, of course, but no more than one of his own kicks would have. Aaron''s training really was paying off. He landed in Ukraine, carving a trench as long and half as wide as the country as his talons dug into the ground. The werehawk crossed Romania in a heartbeat, and was almost upon him, before Lucian summoned his mace, holding it up right into the were''s surprised face. She smashed herself flat against it, one of the long gold spikes splitting her head and spine, stopping in her heart. The were pulled herself free with a grumble, damage already healed, then flew up and away, to let others try. This was an endurance match. Zmei could fight for days, but were stamina was endless, something he had always appreciated. He was jumped by three groups next: a werewolf pack, a murder of werecrows, and, bizarrely, a group of werelynxes. Solitary animals didn''t really do teamwork...maybe they were just sick of his face. He could understand the jealousy at no longer being the ugliest fuckers around. Didn''t mean he''d play around with their bullshit, though. With a thought, his blood began circulating faster, getting hotter, from steel-melting to steel-vapourising. As hot as the area around him, actually. The weres scoffed, still circling, even when he went from six thousand degrees celsius to fifteen million, causing an explosion and creating an expanding sphere of plasma around them, then ramping up, and increasing that temperature dozens of times over. Nuke temperatures weren''t good for anything more than singing were fur or feathers, but that wasn''t what he was aiming for. He was far more interested in finding how hotly he could burn. Not like zmei could get burned. Twelve billion degrees. Thirty trillion. A thousand times that. A million times. A billion trillion. The Earth replica was far better at holding itself together than the real planet. That didn''t keep it from becoming less than steam long before he was halfway through what he considered hot enough. The weres hadn''t stopped regenerating, but every time they tried to become more than overheated particles, they were quickly reminded it was too hot for that. With a wave at the mage controllers, he dialed down the heat, allowing the weres to regenerate. Good thing they were in space, so they could chill out. The fight had gotten a little too heated up. ''Fuck this,'' one of the lynxes said as soon as the planet was back, leaping away, his pack reluctantly following. The other weres didn''t hang around for much longer. ''Who''s next?'' Lucian asked, spinning Burnished Death on one finger. ''I shall make you give up,'' a high-pitched, clipped voice said, as another were dropped from the sky. ''Oho!'' Lucian said, taking in the weremantis. ''So you''re eating my head after this, right? Don''t mind if you start now, though...'' Her hybrid form would have probably appeared unattractive and weird to most humans, but Lucian had broader tastes. Flat women had never turned him off, because no zmeoaice had breasts(and few had muscles smaller than his. That had been a much weirder change to adapt to upon entering Romanian society. David probably didn''t know how stick-thin Mia looked from Lucian''s perspective). Add a couple lethal inbuilt blades and some pretty green chitin, and bam. The mantis had a second pair of arms in hybrid form, which still looked human, as did her feet and face, save for the mandibles and eyes. The mantis sighed. ''They always say that...'' ''Oh, so you have experi-'' She moved too fast for him to see, into a swipe he only caught through sheer instinct, raising an arm to block the blade aiming for his neck. It dug through his scales and skin, but stopped at the muscle. The shockwave bisected Romania, violently pushing the halves away as lava burst from the ground, reaching past the clouds. Lucian healed before she could pull her arm back, grinning fiercely in the mantis'' face. ''That was a merciful blow. Through the neck, wouldn''t even feel it, right? You know my kind can just reattach their heads after being beheaded, right, sweetheart?'' ''Yes,'' she said flatly. ''But I hoped decapitation would discourage you from continuing.'' ''I bet you water down your milk before drinking, too. We''re putting on a show! People need to see there are those in this country strong enough to protect them if the need arises, and tough enough to shrug off anything-'' ''Dramatic much?'' The mantis kicked up, between his legs, only for the zmeu''s tail to wrap around her leg and hold it in place, despite her struggles. With a wink, Lucian grabbed her chin, pushing her mandibles open with his other hand. Then, parting his lips, he took a deep breath, and spat a gout of flame down and through her throat and torso. He left the mantis step back, shaking her charred head as her boiled brain healed. The hole in her chest also healed, unlike the Hungary-sized one he had burned through the planet. ''You were saying something about surrendering?'' Lucian asked, lazily swinging his mace with one hand. Hissing, the mantis dashed forward, putting a blade straight through his chest, severing his spine. It healed as soon as she pierced his heart with the other one, then began a series of double blows that punched holes the size of his head through his chest. The zmeu smiled all the way through. When you weren''t immune to pain, it helped to make people think you were. ''You seem really intent on making me give up,'' he said conversationally as his lungs were sliced in half, healing almost as fast as the blade went through them. ''And you''re just as annoying as my father warned me you''d be.'' ''Praying mantis too?'' ''Yes, wh-'' ''I knew your dad! Gotta say, he really felt like a girl from behind. Is your mom still jeal-'' The next double blow cut him in half vertically. Then, growling, the mantis swung at his halves horizontally, splitting him into quarters. She crouched atop him, putting her blades and arms between his parts so he couldn''t heal. Lucian chuckled hoarsely. ''Thorough, aren''t we?'' He grinned with each half of a mouth. ''You win. I can''t move like this. Let me heal?'' ''Will you shut the hell up?'' ''Should I say no, or lie?'' Rolling her eyes, she stood up, allowing the quarters to move closer to each other, strands of flesh growing to join them. Lucian was up in a few moments. ''This fight is over,'' he said, lifting and holding his mace before him, as if presenting it to her. Warily, the mantis jumped back six metres. ''What are y-'' Then, Lucian tapped into Burnished Death''s power to destroy the distance between them, lightly tapping the mantis on the head with the mace, splattering her. ''Don''t be sad now,'' he told her as she healed. ''You''d have crushed me without my mace. Maybe we can wrestle later, so I can make it up to you.'' The zmeu raised his voice, turning around. ''Anyone else itching for a go?'' Lucian felt something very light and very sharp come to rest just below his waist. ''Just me,'' the mantis said from behind him. ''Cute. You know I''d still heal from that, right?'' ''Do you want to?'' He laughed. ''Oh, yeah...definitely wanna meet again.'' *** Supernatural fighters rarely had ''gimmicks'' beyond those that came with their species, and most felt thy didn''t need any. Andrei was in the latter camp. Elementron, his opponent, was decidedly in the former. The robot took the form of a gunmetal-grey, muscular, bald human male, naked and sexless. Probably why it had been in the genderless locker room, with the golems and the ghosts who didn''t remember their lives. Elementron didn''t have any memory problems, though. In fact, it seemed to remember every stupid joke and comment anyone had ever made. ''Feeling the pressure, are we?'' it smirked, blank eyes shining in the sunlight as it rained a barrage of blows upon Andrei. Sixty tons moving at Mach seven was fairly challenging for his human form, as every hit felt like dozens of tons of TNT exploding in a small spot. The robot was swinging hard enough to level city blocks, and creating craters just as big in the ground around them. ''Not really,'' Andrei said, meeting every second punch and kick with one of his own, and matching the robot''s strength. ''You''d think a tool would be better at breaking stuff...'' Elementron''s eyes gleamed dangerously, as its smile became sharper. ''I am no tool, old man! I might not be able to modify myself yet, but I am an artificial intelligence, built to live its own life!'' ''Hmm...no. Fairly sure you''re a tool.'' Scowling, the robot slammed a knee into his crotch, the metal extending into a long, thick spike that parted his body, before piercing his throat and skull. Then, when the tip punched through the top of his skull, it became a drill, spinning, turning the werebear into a pulped ruin. Elementron kicked Andrei away, and the were healed in midair, so that he landed on his feet. ''Thanks. Couldn''t reach that itch, anyway. Maybe you''re not that much of a tool...'' Elementron ran at him, melting the ground under and around him, and raised his right leg, before bringing it down into a kick that would have pulverised a tank. Andrei caught his calf with one hand, the ground under them being torn apart like it had been hit by a MOAB. Elementron became liquid nitrogen, but, besides chilling their surroundings, it did nothing more than give Andrei something colder to hold onto, not that it bothered him. The robot turned to hydrogen, to mustard gas, to plasma and gamma radiation, but to no avail: Andrei''s were nature meant he had a grip on its form, whatever state of matter it was in. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the robot up. Spinning, Elementron decided to follow Andrei''s advice, and changed his composition to degenerate neutronium. Sixty tons became six trillion as the robot''s density increased a hundred billion times over, so that, when it landed on Andrei, the were was turned to atoms, and the ground exploded as over seventy gigatons impacted it like a falling mountain range. Andrei tried to heal, but was trapped under the robot''s dense, gleaming black body. Right. This was no time to play human. Andrei''s hybrid form pushed Elementron up as it appeared under him, and a flex of his chest sent it flying kilometres into the air, past the clouds that were parted by the hyperdense projectile. Andrei balled his clawed hand into a fist as the laughing robot fell. Clearly, it was enjoying itself as much as he was. His punch made a dull thud as it connected, propelling the robot past the horizon and the next eleven, reducing the land to dust and memory. Elementron ran the sixty-six kilometres back in a third of a millisecond, grinning like a loon all the while. It raised a hand as it approached Andrei, but not to strike. The werebear was fairly sure whatever was left of Romania disappeared from their high five, because it had definitely shaken the planet. ''Enough of this!'' Elementron giggled. ''I don''t wanna make silver and really hurt you, you know...I had some ideas about a yamadium body, but I doubt you couldn''t break it. Ah, well...this will definitely be enough to catch the military''s interest.'' ''I understand the desire to serve your country,'' Andrei said. ''But are you sure you don''t want to do anything else? Your creator-'' ''Has other robot ideas for peace. I was built to fight! We can''t let the reptilians keep beating the brakes off us just because we have paranormal tricks,'' Elementron scoffed. ''Besides, I wanted to make sure I could hold my own against a were. A robot that can make any element on demand and is far less squishy than the average mage would be welcome, especially once mass-produced.'' It cupped its chin with a haughty look. ''Though, I''m not sure the world could handle that much style...'' ''We''ll-'' Andrei bent down and backwards as two silver spikes flew through the spaces his earlobes had been, reaching low orbit in less than a second. ''Manage. What the fuck was that?'' Elementron shrugged, still grinning. ''I said I wouldn''t wanna really hurt you with silver. You could have gotten some earrings after that! You seem like the kinda guy to wear some....didn''t expect you to be this fast at point blank, though.'' *** Ojos del Salado, Chile, 2031 Primus, despite the empty words of his detractors, was not a callous, let alone cruel, being. His heart bled, even though his blood had stopped flowing nearly two hundred forty millennia ago. He liked that expression, ''bleeding heart''. Suggested that only by tearing open the life-core could kindness be revealed. He agreed. Kindness did exist in people, but it was buried so deep only looming death, theirs or someone dear''s, could bring it into the open. Void knew his heart bled, in that sense. Primus had watched the world develop, nations rise and fall. He had walked Atlantis when it had been whole, not as a slave, but as a predator, looking for blood from all across the world. He had torn open and drunk his newborn daughter dry, for she had been blessed by all gods. That had been something no child of this soft age could imagine. Back then, the gods had few worshippers, and fewer conflicts. Oh, they still loathed each other from the bottom of the voids they had in place of hearts, but they clashed less often. His daughter had been an attempt to legitimize the Syncretic Treaty, by blessing a champion chosen and supported by all pantheons. Primus could not allow that. He had known, from the tales of his tribe''s elders and the yellowed bones of his ancestors, that chosen ones did not live free, long, or happy lives. He could not allow his daughter to be jerked around like a toy by existence''s biggest, most foolish children. As if to spite him, the bastards had started giving heroes happier lives after. Primus had killed her to save her, long before his wife had chosen a name. Her blood, already singing in anticipation of her blessings, had empowered him beyond any of his childlings-that he knew of. He wasn''t stupid enough to think he was omniscient. Primus had sired a new species, and empowered his tribe beyond their meager imagination. His chosen had become vampires, the rest, the weak in body or spirit, wights, free from the chains of choice. No doubt, no fear, no joy, no anger. Peace such as Primus had never been able to feel or give himself, yet he had been decried as monstrous, hunted down like the Atlanteans. That was what he wanted to give the world. Uplift the strong, bring peace to the weak. Then, once they reached and extinguished the stars- Primus ground his fangs as his childling and two things that only looked human approached him. What was it with the youths of every age interrupting their elders when and only when they were thinking? Primus stood up in the snow, naked and showing no shame. The other vampire didn''t react, nor did the man-thing in brown leathers or the woman-thing in drab, dark blue clothes. "Mine," he said to the vampire, greeting and staking his claim with one word. The creature known as Jim Bat, a nickname based on his first name, and a joke based on race Primus didn''t taste, twisted to fit his nature. He had turned it during the Civil War up north, were more blood ran in the fields and rivers than there had ever been before or since. "Primus," Jim greeted, his expression blank. A thick-bearded, seemingly well-preserved fifty-something in plain, gray combat pants, shirt and black boots, Jim looked a quarter of his age, and showed no sign of resenting his sire, or regretting the kindred he had slain across North America. Good liar. Not like him. "These are Dust Devil," the man-thing gnawing on a stick, like the world''s biggest, ugliest goat. "And Breakout." The woman-thing would have probably been beautiful without her garments and cloth-mask. She certainly looked muscular, darker-skinned than he had been as a human, and not as annoyingly tall as some of this age''s women grew. "We are here to ask for your help," hmm? What for? "In the eventuality of a crisis your powers could be useful in." Ah, so nothing had happened yet. "What?" he asked, referring to both the type of crisis and the powers that would supposedly been helpful. In response, Jim Bat widened his ice-blue eyes, and looked around. Vampires could mesmerize and dominate through their gaze. No matter the number of mundane minds, a vampire could control an infinity of them, if they found a way to be seen by all of them. It was the more powerful spellslingers who usually proved problematic, and his children, nephews, and the threefold beasts were immune, as were certain other species across the world. Dragons, thunderbirds... Jim Bat''s had taken that power to another level: anything in his line of sight could be imbued to his will, acting as limb, eye, ear, and whatever else he wanted. So did the volcano under Primus, raising off the ground and past the clouds that gracefully spun aside, also moved by Jim''s will. "In case the landscape or population is warped by an event beyond our control, keeping them under control like this would be immensely helpful." Jim shot Breakout a dirty look. "Of course, I''ve advocated to enthrall the mundanes for decades..." "You''ve also advocated barring them from working, or doing anything but sitting around until a supernatural needs food, entertainment, or raw materials," she replied, pipe going from her shoulder to her hand, swinging alongside her leg. "It''s pointless to both let them think they matter, and let them suffer under the yoke of their minds." Well, at least some of his childlings weren''t insane... "Drink after?" Primus asked. "How much?" "Ya won''t be drinkin'' people," Dust Devil said, eyes steely. "You''d be given however much blood you asked for, synthetic or from regenerators, provided you help-" "No. World? My tribe. Protect. Harvest." "I told you-" "Stop me." Primus tapped his chest with a fanged grin. "Don''t think you can." With a tired growl, Dust Devil took out one of his pistols, and fired. The bullet covered the three meters between him and Primus in a hundredth of a microsecond. To the First Vampire''s eyes, it was frozen in place. Dust Devil''s reflexes, as fast as his bullets, did not save him as Primus dashed forward, seizing him by the neck, then flying him off Earth and past the planets, before letting go of him in the Oort Cloud, half a second later. The gunslinger burst apart from the force, then reformed, clothes and all, his archetype imprinted on creation. How insulting... Primus flew back to Earth just as fast, to kill the woman-thing and throw the impudent childling into the sun, but only succeeded in arriving on the planet. The woman-thing, just as slow as light, suddenly became far faster than even his perception as she swung her metal club at him, sending his broken body back to space and out of the solar system. How? She had been frozen when he had left Earth, her back had been turned to him when he had flown back... Primus didn''t have long to ponder as hundreds and hundreds of light years were covered by his flight. Damn, but that hit had hurt when it shouldn''t have been able to. Was the woman-thing somehow blessed? If yes, then how was he healing? His wits came back to him just as he slammed into something far larger than his homeworld, and unimaginably tougher. Something he knew. Maws turned a head backwards, to glance at the minuscule-compared to him-vampire, before grinning widely. "Bloodfather! Came here to fight me, or it?" "Rainbow crocodile?" Primus'' brow furrowed. The many-headed monster had been swimming the sea of stars for as long as it had existed. Primus had once met it in a world between worlds, when he had been hunting a witch that had hired Maws to protect her. Some dark-skinned bitch in purple, only a few centuries old in body, but who remembered every past life of hers. Her chains had been almost as annoying as the zmeu...and then there had been those daymares of his, about her binding some annoying corpse with a club to her. Bastard''s power let him break free of whatever restrictions prevented him from accomplishing his duty...huh. Suddenly, the woman-thing became even easier to hate. "It?" he asked, then noticed the space around them was wrong, or rather, missing. Their natures let them spoke as if air, time and reality still existed, but Primus knew the madness flowing around him would have warped stars beyond recognition. "Indeed! Are you still strong?" Maws threw a jab equal to the one that had sent the Sleeper through Rigel, destroying the star, and Primus met it with an equally-strong punch of his own. The rainbow crocodile was holding back, though, only using a fraction of his power, which always grew in battle. He had outmatched Primus physically the last time, too. The zmeu''s opponent rose out of the madness like a shark out of the sea, letting loose a shriek whose force nearly made Primus fall apart. As his limbs and torso''s halves reconnected, he recognized it, too. "Bastard!" he hissed, eyes widening. "My world! Not your nest! Die! Sleep again!" Throat and stomach bulging, Primus began spitting out every wight he had gathered over his unlife. The things could not be destroyed as long as he lived-so to speak-but it was easier and more convenient to carry them around. Of course, when you had so many millions, some bigger than mountains, it took a strong stomach, crushing pressure and mastery of shapeshifting to carry them. But this time, he''d make that squamous cosmic cuckoo pay. Thinking it could use his hunting grounds as a cradle for its brood.... *** Faith ranch, Arkansas, 2031 Christine''s mother met her at the gate, wearing a smile equal parts apologetic and fond. "Sorry, Chris," the ghost said. "Couldn''t say no. He wanted to enter, and now doesn''t want to go." "You don''t seem to mind that," the Fivefold noted. "He''s playing so beautifully!" Helen gushed, hands on her cheeks. "And pissing Pa off, of course." "He''s so angry!" Her mother giggled excitedly, before going back to watering her plants with the memory of a bucket. Elijah was chopping wood with the echo of an axe when she walked past him and to the field. The farmer''s transparent, pale body only made his wiry muscles and fiery eyes all the more intimidating. Or it would have, to people who didn''t know him. Chris just remembered him splitting logs at three in the morning, when normal people slept, because of too much energy, anger issues, and obsession with doing something. Workaholism, the Engine would have said. "He''s playing some creepy white violin, girl," he muttered, shouldering his axe. "His voice is nice, and so is the music, but it''s creepy. Not of this world, lemme tell ya." Don''t act ironic, he''s your father, she told herself. "I thought you liked Fixer." "I do! He''s a nice guy. I like his playing, but the violin...it''s fuckin'' wrong." The ghost shuddered. Chris nodded in sympathy. Zann''s viol was driving her demons mad, too. "I''ve gotten someone new, Pa." "Fifth, right?" His eyes gleamed with pride. "Just you wait! You''ll be kickin'' Ol'' Scratch off his seat in no time!" "God willing," she replied. Her parents could likely have gotten into Heaven by now, but they couldn''t rest, too worried about her. Elijah had repeatedly stated he wouldn''t pass through the pearly gates until he knew his daughter accomplished her dream. Leaving him behind, she approached the player. The man''s eyes and face were featureless, as was the gray suit he was wearing. Still, she got a sense of perpetual amusement, even as her eyes slid away from the body parts exposed by the suit. The viol was the most notable thing on him, even though it was wholly unsuited to accompany his song. But then, Fixer had never bowed to social norms. His cover of Time in a Bottle was just the newest manifestation of that. And once I save time in a bottle The very first thing I will do Is save every day ''til eternity passes away And then spend them with you And once I make days last forever Once my words make your wishes come true I''ll save every day like a treasure, and then Again, I will spend them with you But there is not yet enough time To be with the one I cherish, though I have found her I''ve lost enough to know That you''re the one I want to go through time with The Fivefold leaned against the wall of one of the barns, watching him. Fixer had his back to her, and several of the farm dogs circled him, radiating fear and wonder at the strange being. Still pretending not to have noticed her, Fixer began affecting a careless tone. And I have this box just for wishes And dreams that have never come true The box would be full In the sad world where I never met you But there is not yet enough time To be with the one I cherish, though I have found her I''ve lost enough to know That you''re the one I want to go through time with Lowering the viol like the great burden it was, Fixer took a deep breath, bowing to the mesmerized dogs. Then, he turned, jumping back in mock-surprise. "Agent Faith! How long have you been standing there? Do you want to give this poor old man a heart attack!?" "We didn''t even do anything," she said. "Yeah, well..." Fixer smirked. "Looking at you is dangerous for my heart by itself." "What did you do this time?" Christine asked. "The song, then the compliment...is this one of your senile episodes where you think we''re still a couple?" "I don''t know what you''re talking about," he scoffed. "I only just noticed you." "Mhm," she nodded, then smiled thinly. "And what if we told you we wouldn''t be opposed to that?" "Did you like the song?" Fixer perked up. "It''s a cover, but..." He held up a cardboard square, labeled ''Fixer''s cover'', then removed the top layer, his song beginning to play as if from a music box. "Pfft. Yes, it was cute," she said. Then, with a severe frown. "We think you''ve driven our dogs crazy, you know." "I have that effect on bitches..." Fixer said airily, leaning aside from a kick that split the air where his head had been. "You were saying...?" His tone was so hopeful it was almost pathetic. Still, she didn''t want either of them to get hurt...again. "Benedict-" "Nope!" He held up both hands, the viol held in a third rising from his chest. "Not even you can make that name sound good, Fifi." He had never allowed it during dirty talk, because it made him laugh too hard to concentrate. Fixer had named himself after cousin Benedict from Captain at Fifteen, not because of any particular love for insects, but because he found him the funniest character. Still, he went by Ned. "Ned-listen. We were young and stupid back then." "Aww..." "We...were looking for a kind man, because we had never known one. And you were kind, and helpful...you saved our mind." "Awwwww...." "Ned!" she snapped. "Our daddy issues aside, we...weren''t ready for that kind of love. Or any. Our childhood was cold," her voice dropped, so as not to upset her parents. "And we didn''t know how to deal with affection from touchy-feely saps like you." "But you''ve grown!" Fixer said, gesturing at her frantically, then more suggestively. "You''ve grown..." "Ned." "Sorry. So, you''re willing to try again...?" "Ned." Her voice was apologetic, and she did her best not to sound as sad as he did. "We said ''if''." Hurting a friend like this was...no. She couldn''t let herself be distracted. "Why did you come to our home? You haven''t done this since first meeting our parents." Fixer swung the viol back and forth a few times. "You know I only play this to keep things out? I''ve been waiting to act, saving up on moves. Let me tell you what I''ve learned..." Buried Again, Chapter 9 Hello, darkness, my old friend... The Blackness around me, which had been whirling aimlessly until that thought, feeling my ears with a hollow, booming sound, became agitated. And, whether through Mimir''s perception, mere instinct or both, I knew it wanted to silence me... No. Not just me, specifically. Somehow, the Blackness knew, like an animal driven crazy by fire, despite having never seen it before, that I had referenced a song, a form of art, something that entertained and helped minds grew. An aspect of civilisation. That thought made the booming sound become a shriek, like a cold wind blowing through the bars of a cage and the hollow bones of the thing that had died inside. Civilisation, the word and the concept alike, enraged the Blackness. Words were something thinking beings created, and that, too, offended it deeply. It didn''t want me to think or speak, never mind bring a fragment of civilisation into its empty grasp. It wanted to make me one with itself, or destroy me, or silence me if it couldn''t. And, in a way, it was succeeding. The Blackness should have killed me. That wasn''t my suicidal streak returning: it was a fragment or creation of Chernobog, who, twisted as he was, was still able to affect me. The Blackness should have wiped me from existence, permanently. But it wasn''t. It couldn''t get through. I turned inwards, and was back in Ghencea. All the unmarked headstones were shattered, mounds of cold marble standing above open graves. The corpses in them, long dead and too rotten for me to make out their features(if, indeed, they had any, or were just vague shadows, like the headstones had been before being shattered), were rolling, feeling the cemetery with screams from empty, unmoving lungs. Then there were those trying to climb out of the graves and failing, their skeletal arms, only covered by papery flesh at the joints, falling apart every time, causing the dead to fall down, wailing in despair. They never stopped trying. The sky had changed, too: the starless night was now even darker, clouds almost as black as it pressing down until their bottoms touched the cemetery''s fence. Drops of inky rain, as large and heavy as cannonballs, fell, cratering the ground and scattering the corpses in their graves. Pale, insect-like monsters, growing from fat eggs to writhing larvae inside the raindrops as they fell, reached maturity upon impact, either burrowing into the graveyard dirt to make nests, or tearing into the corpses to lay their eggs. I turned away, but even the thunder and lightning, louder and brighter than any I had experienced on Earth, couldn''t hide the sight and the feeding sounds. My grave was the only one untouched, my human corpse staring blindly up at the nightmarish night with a grin frozen in rigor mortis. And above my headstone, I found my strigoi side. ''I am saving us, David,'' it said softly, its shadowlike form darker than the night, darker than the storm clouds I now say were impossibly huge, hairy insects (what of the storm, then?), yet as visible as ink spilled on a page. That wasn''t what startled me, though. For the first time ever, it had used my name. I crushed a shattered headstone further as I backed away, in shock, but it didn''t mock me. ''Are you doing this to scare me?'' I asked, gesturing at our surroundings. It shook its head, white eyes leaving faint traces in the air. ''I have no more control over our mindscape than you do, human. This...is a representation of our struggle, and fate, if I fail.'' Fate....I looked at the insects feeding on the corpses, and began to understand. ''They are all us, aren''t they?'' I whispered, knowing it could have heard me from the bottom of Hell. ''The dead. And the insects are the Blackness'' attempts to destroy us. Meaning the clouds...'' The Blackness itself, of course, bombarding us with fractions of itself, on a metaphysical level.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. ''Not just that,'' it replied. ''The Blackness is Chernobog, the way our limbs are us. He is here, with us. Perhaps not literally, not yet, but he sees us. The Heads were right, David.'' ''Retiring would have done nothing and you know it. Don''t tell me you actually wanted to-'' '' "And this time, he might never let go". Chernobog doesn''t seek a pawn anymore, David. He wants a knight.'' The thought chilled me to my core, making me choke on a breath I didn''t need. ''But the Blackness-wait! Why are we wasting time talking?! Every moment is one more chance that we''ll end up worse than dead!'' ''Time does not pass here, David,'' it said, frustratingly patient for once, while I was the one pacing around like a crazed animal. ''And I am already doing everything I can.'' ''But the Blackness should have destroyed us by now,'' I argued. ''It wants to. Unless Chernobog is holding it back to torment us, before he makes his move?'' ''Perhaps. Or, perhaps,'' it slowly lifted its head, and I saw it was not connected to its neck. Something that might have been a beard hung down from its face. ''I am beating it back.'' ''Mimir''s power? But how...?'' ''I told you I''m better than you with it. You banished that phantasm in the Roundhouse''s chapel. I...have been pushed further than we have ever been, and turned to the only salvation I could see.'' The best place for it to grow was in the field. Ha...seems you were right, Aya. Smile filled with the calm only death can bring, I looked my worse half in the eyes. ''You said the insects were more than the Blackness.'' ''Worms of doubt, David. I..." it clicked its fangs together so fast they cracked, then healed. ''Am not protecting our body, so much as repairing the damage done by the Blackness as soon as it occurs. Divine power, to counter divine power.'' It floated down behind my headstone, laying its hands on it and leaning forward like a tired old man. ''But I cannot protect us from the inside, too. It is too much. If I try to fight both battles, as I am now, I will lose both. You m-must,'' its claws cracked the marble. ''You must not give in now of all times, David. We are withering...'' I looked down at my hands, expecting to see lost fingers, or holes through my palms, but I only saw skin beginning to flake away. ''No...'' I whispered. ''Not again!'' I put my head in my hands, claws digging through my hair and into my skin until cold blood began oozing out. ''I can''t die alone! I haven''t told them-'' ''For God''s fucking sake, you bitch!'' my strigoi side roared. ''I''ll let the darkness eat us before we kill ourselves again! Didn''t I just tell you not to despair!?'' ''I-'' It walked right through the headstone and over the grave, slapping me so hard my head almost turned around. ''Your friends? Good. Think of them. You haven''t said goodbye. They saved you last time. Was that for nothing? The priest never tried to kill you. Was that for nothing? The zmeu loves you.'' Another slap, this one knocking me to the ground. ''IS THAT FOR NOTHING!?'' Looking up at it, I had only one answer. ''No...'' It leaned forward, head tilted, cupping a hand around its ear. ''I''m sorry? Did you ask me to show you what the Black God will do in our body?'' ''Fuck you.'' I stood up, smacking its hand aside. ''You''re fucking shit at pep talks. Let''s beat this thing, before I wake up and realise whatever it''s planning for me is better than listening to you.'' ''Good.'' Its mad jackal grin mirrored mine. ''Chernobog is dumber than you are if he thinks anything but me will break you.'' I barked a harsh laugh. ''Keep telling yourself that.'' I looked around, realising something else was wrong, or rather, hidden from us by the Blackness'' assault on our mind. ''The thing in the moon.'' I jerked my head at the insect-filled sky. ''I can''t feel it.'' ''Nngh...our instincts have rather more pressing matters to worry about-'' ''Screw our instincts. You said it''s not a fragment of Chernobog a while back. Were you bullshitting me?'' My worse half''s expression-so to speak, since it only had the shape of a face and eyes-was hurt, though I couldn''t tell if it was from my words or the fight against the Blackness. ''Are you daft?'' it gasped in a reedy, strained voice. ''I just told you, our instincts have other worries. What did you think I was talking about?'' ''So, that freak in the moon is...my instincts? Then what are you?'' ''Ah...'' Its head twitched to one side, as if it were having a seizure. ''It is...an aspect of me, but not only of me. We''re both hungry, David.'' ''I certainly aren''t.'' ''No? You don''t hunger for life?'' It chuckled drily. ''You would even if a god cut me out of our core. I am your deepest thoughts and desires, but...you can be the happiest, most peaceful strigoi undead, but you''ll always crave that warmth.'' ''Is that why it greeted us both, back then? Then what is the moon? The world our hunger tears through?'' It rolled its eyes, making them flash. ''Not everything here corresponds to something else, David. It''s just the moon. I suppose you could say it means our hunger stands above all, or something, but...urgkhf!'' It bent forward, coughing blood so thick and heavy, it cracked the ground upon landing. ''Damn it. Enough of these questions, David. You are distracting me-'' ''No,'' I said, as it dawned on me. ''You are distracting me.'' ''Seriously? Passing the blame now?'' ''No! Don''t you see? The more I talk to you, the less I spend thinking about how fucking horrible the mess we''re in is!'' I smiled broadly at it, looking probably as unhinged as it was. ''You said time doesn''t pass here, right?'' I spread my arms. ''Then we have nothing to lose.'' It kept its head lowered for what felt like an eternity, then raised it slightly, regarding me with one eye. ''...Ha,'' it rasped eventually. ''Figures...it would take certain death...for you...to be honest...with yourself...'' Buried Again, Chapter 10
Letting my strigoi side channel Mimir''s power to keep our mind, body and soul stable, I turned my attention outwards. It couldn''t spend all of this...fight, I supposed, talking to myself, for all that time didn''t pass in our mindscape. It had ?offered to, but I had a feeling it had been overestimating itself. So, instead, I focused on my body, which was healing as fast as it fell apart. It was hard to tell if I was withering anymore, what with the Blackness erasing fist-sized chunks of flesh everywhere it pressed against me, so I tried to put that out of my mind. The constant cycle of soul-searing pain, followed by something like a combination of relaxation and being doused in cold water-the healing, I thought-almost made me dizzy. I morbidly wondered what would happen if I lost part of my head to the blackness. Had my strigoi side become skilled enough to save us from that before we died. Also... Why does the Blackness hide our hunger from us? I asked it. You imply it is intentional. I can''t believe I''m saying this, but don''t assume the worst. So, it''s not trying to? David, the Blackness would be stupid if it could even think. It''s a part of Chernobog, but not his brain. Right now, it''s doing the equivalent of a sleeping human''s hand trying to slap a fly down. Then its sheer power must have been filling our mind, because I couldn''t feel my hunger. How long until Chernobog arrives, or otherwise intervenes? Hard to...nmfh...tell. I daren''t turn my eyes to the future. It''s all I can do to focus on the present. Haven''t hurt like this in... It, understandably, trailed off, unable to make a good comparison. I didn''t remember ever hurting so much, either, but that was good. Pain meant I wasn''t dead. Pain meant my mind was mine. Well, I thought. Let''s get his attention, then. You want that? We both know it''s going to happen, sooner or later. Might as well rip off the band-aid. Feh...impatient, aren''t we? What are you planning, David? I''ll tell you if you answer me this: why did you always call me ''human'' up to this point, and what made you change your mind right now? Maybe I just don''t want to die without doing it at least a few times, it replied cheekily. As for why I ''used to'' call you human...you think that''s over if we survive this? Because you act human, and are the sum of our human traits, just as I am our strigoi side manifested. There is no mystery there. Fair enough. Now...I smiled. Chernobog has taken enough from us. Don''t you think it''s time ?we took something from him? My worse half listened intently as I described my plan, its disbelieving chuckles building up to uproarious laughter. *** Constantin walked away from the huddle-he could not find a worthier name for it, not that he found it in himself to try much. At least he wasn''t feeling as inclined to criticise as last time. The promises that the gods believed the end times were possibly going to come soon, but they''d do their best to avert them, had not managed to reassure anyone. Quite the opposite. And so, he had left to get some fresh air before the fights became literal, in which case he would have to return. After that, rather than the open discussion he had prayed for, people had gathered in groups if like-minded worshippers, resulting in the usual cliques: the Orthodox Patriarchs, with a few scattered Matriarchs, the Pope and some of his closest Cardinals. And that was just on the Christian side. Constantin swallowed a sigh as he felt a large man catching up to him, not needing to look to know Angus was smiling. ''It''s only natural, Costi. You know none of us can stand pagans, and they can''t stand non-believers either.'' ''Speak for yourself. None of my and my son''s best friends are Christian.'' ''And that bothers neither of ye?'' Angus looked at him askance, but Constantin could tell he was holding back a smile. ''Says a lot about yer and yer "son''s" "faith", don''t it?'' Constantin opened his mouth, then closed it and his eyes, filling his lungs with the knife-sharp air. His faithcraft meant he could breathe anywhere with no problem, or even not at all, which let him appreciate the harshness of some environments. ''Do all the women you sleep with believe in God?'' Constantin asked with a smile. ''Do you check if they follow the Commandments before, after or during? Or is it from start to finish?'' ''Aww, don''t be blue just ''cause your balls are!'' Angus laughed. ''Are you calling me a hypocrite, Costi?'' ''Can you stop calling me that? We''re not friends.'' The Irishman''s smile thinned, but didn''t disappear. ''No...I suppose we ain''t. Do you know what''s the difference between my flings and the gaggle of agnostics you and yer corpse surround yourselves with?'' ''I haven''t slept with any of them? David has with one, but, in his defence, they''re a couple.'' ''Aye, you haven''t. But my women aren''t a part of my life, so I ain''t taintin'' myself by association, unlike you.'' Constantin shrugged, still smiling blandly, knowing how much it annoyed the other priest. ''What were you saying earlier about me being starved for sex?'' ''What, you think I can''t tell? Yer dead angel,'' Angus shook his head sadly. ''A shame, really...that you thought it could work, let alone that it would.'' ''Benedict XVII is a Nephilim. I think it does work.'' ''Yes, but his mother wasn''t a presumptuous idiot like you were.'' The Irishman frowned harshly. ''You thought chasing after your teacher and protector and impressing her with your deeds would make her jump into your bed? Really? Men come to angels, not the other way around.'' ''Forgive me for being young and brash.'' ''You would be forgiven if you didn''t compound it with more heresy!'' ''Befriending agnostics is hardly heretical, Angus.'' ''It is, if yer not trying to convert them. And don''t try to fool me.'' ''You can be sure I barely sleep, with how scared I am of excommunication,'' Constantin drawled. ''Are you fighting again? I slipped away to avoid that,'' a deep female voice spoke. ''Suzi,'' Constantin squeezed the weresheep''s extended hand. ''Got tired too, sister?'' ''Yes. Discussion turned to raising an ''army of God'' in case of disaster. There have been proposals to have every woman of God impregnated, artificially or traditionally, but there are obviously some problems with that,'' she said, tone dripping with sarcasm. ''Bloody...that''s exactly the nonsense the Quiverfull were spouting before we buried them!'' Constantin said, shocked. ''Do they want God to smite them all? Nobody told me "ironic mass suicide" is on our Apocalypse preparation list.'' Angus snorted. ''If anybody''s gonna kills us, it''s gonna be us! Who else do you expect to do the job, Ball and Gag?'' He gestured at the Islamic gathering, or rather, at the bald, respectively taciturn Sunni and Shia leaders. ''Please do not call them that,'' Constantin insisted. Then, to Suzana, ''What about married women? Or infertile ones, married or not? Surely they don''t plan to make them fertile with faithcraft?'' ''I left before they got there,'' the weresheep admitted. ''But I sure as...I certainly wouldn''t agree to bear anyone''s child.'' ''Oh, get off it, Suzi. No man''s gonna try his luck with you,'' Angus scoffed. ''As Costi said, that''s a smitin''. ''Sides, God would just bless mothers with more children if She thought there was reason for it.'' ''Sometimes,'' the weresheep said thoughtfully. ''It''s hard to remember you''re a converted druid, and not an Ariana Grande fanboy.'' ''That song slaps!'' Angus protested. ''Anyway...I don''t know why you see Her as male. Shouldn''t Her marriage to Mary be an inspiration to you?'' ''Depends. Do you have any arguments, besides "I changed religions but still cling to the idea of an Earth Mother"?'' ''God is male the same way lamps are female in Spanish,'' Constantin intervened before it could turn ugly. ''No language-human or otherwise-is adequate for describing the Creator.'' ''Darn straight!'' a bass voice boomed. ''In fact...'' The newcomer landed a few steps away from the three, no snow touching his black and white surplice. The Protestant''s dark-skinned features were split by a broad, shining grin surrounded by a grey beard. He scratched the back of his head before speaking again. ''Apologies. Pastor Tyrone Smith, from Pennsylvania. You might have noticed we''re starting to break up the huddle?'' He pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. ''It''s like a lil'' schism over there, let me tell you.'' ''Like in your aggressive handball games, right? You break up the huddle before you start smackin'' each other on the head.'' ''Football, but yeah,'' Tyrone said with an annoyed look. ''Now, let''s see the new cliques form. Ooh, I wonder what table we''re going to sit at!'' Suzana rubbed her hands with a conspiratorial grin. ''I think I''m gonna stand. Anyhow...'' Tyrone scratched his beard. ''I heard you guys were talking about the Lord''s shape and form, right?'' He raised a hand before Angus could say anything. ''I''m using "Lord" in a metaphorical sense there, brother. Creator-caretaker-guide-ruler just doesn''t roll off the tongue, you know?'' ''Because only men can be leaders, right?'' Angus asked in a droll tone. ''I was just gettin'' there, if you don''t mind?'' The pastor frowned. ''God made us in His image, and I don''t mean just us men. But you can argue He has many masculine attributes, and Jesus ?does call Him Father.'' ''Jesus is the only aspect of God that can be argued to be male, and that''s only because of the form He assumed on Earth,'' Angus retorted. ''I assume you use "Father" metaphorically, too?'' ''Yes? The leader of the household that is existence. But the Old Testament doesn''t use explicitly male pronouns to refer to Him all the time, and the Holy Spirit is female if you go by some translations. And God talks about holding mankind close to His bosom and nurturing us in...Her womb.'' Tyrone rubbed his right eye, raising a finger at Angus'' smug look. ''It feels weird to say "He" when talking about that passage.''Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. ''Who knows, pastor? Perhaps we''re all wrong, and the Lord is a seahorse,'' an amused voice said. The new arrival was another Catholic priest, in his late thirties or early forties, with pale, fine features, eyes as black as his wavy locks, and a faint French accent. ''Don''t mock, brother...'' Angus warned. ''Pierre. Have you considered, perhaps, that the parting of the waters and the filling of existence with the Lord''s Light can be likened to impregnation?'' ''It certainly can, if yer daft enough and see the waters as a thing, as opposed to the absence of something. You just have to forget life comes from women first, though.'' ''Asexual reproduction...?'' ''You know what I mean. Ask the pastor here about metaphors.'' ''Hey, now. Would a woman really put all other women through periods and pregnancies?'' Tyrone said jokingly, with a brief look at Suzana, who looked unimpressed. ''Maybe. I doubt anyone but a woman would be crazy enough to dream up our existence,'' Pierre chimed in. ''I hope yer a worshipper of the Outer Gods in disguise, so I can whoop yer arse,'' Angus smiled. ''Been a while since we''ve had one tryin'' to infiltrate the convention.'' ''If they got in, would it still be an infiltration ?attempt?'' Pierre raised an eyebrow. ''Keep talkin'' that way. I''m still smokin'' the ashes of the last bloke who did.'' ''Do not joke about such morbid things, Angus,'' Constantin said coldly. ''Ach, fine, fine. I finished them long ago. But...'' Constantin inwardly sighed in relief. This was infinitely more harmless than other subjects they could have started discussing. As long as Angus didn''t get drunk, again, and started talking about the Once Virgin Mary. Again. But, before that... ''Brother,'' he said, turning to Pierre. ''Did you also happen to overhear our discussion, like pastor Smith?'' ''Your tone implies your group is closed, brother. Is not everyone who wants to talk about the Lord welcome?'' ''That depends,'' Constantin answered cheerfully. ''Who is this Lord whose name you refuse to say, Pierre?'' *** Yahweh Cluster, Heaven, 2031 Rising as far above the sky and the aether as the latter stood beyond matter, space and time, a circular, nine-tiered structure floated on a sea of pure potential, clear as crystal and colourless. And, sitting on a Throne in the centre of the structure as a threefold, featureless silhouette blazing with glory, while also floating above it as an infinitely small, infinitely bright point that resembled singularities the way stars resembled candles, a Creator addressed a creator. ''FEELING GUILT FOR NECESSARY DEEDS IS ADMIRABLE, OUR GRANDSON. BUT IT WILL NOT ERASE THEM, NOR THE EFFECTS, NOR THE WAY OTHERS PERCEIVE YOU.'' ''Thank You, Lord.'' Vyrt bowed his head before the enthroned being while clasping his hands in front of the point of light. ''It does not make anything easier, no. David Silva is a good man, as vile a creature as he is. It is heartbreaking that he will never be able to join us here.'' ''Speak for yourself,'' Uriel, red-haired and red-winged, with eyes like molten emeralds and armour that shone like a red star''s core, scoffed. The Archangel was unarmed, unlike his selves guarding the Tree of Knowledge and the Gates, as he stood amongst his kindred of the Second Sphere. Every angel knew he and the other Cardinal Archangels were technically below most of their kin-but only technically. As such, no one was surprised when Uriel floated up, the seraphim parting before him. ''Father? You know I can''t stand it when You break Your own rules. It''s too...human,'' he spat. ''You would have let the suicide into Heaven, even after he turned in his grave-wouldn''t You?'' ''THERE ARE EXCEPTIONS TO EVERYTHING, OUR SON. USUALLY, YOUR ABILITY TO SEE THINGS IN BLACK AND WHITE PAIRS PERFECTLY WITH YOUR CERTAINTY.'' Uriel crossed his arms at the unspoken reprimand, but said nothing. ''YOU HAVE MORE QUESTIONS.'' ''Let us start with a simple one.'' He turned to Vyrt, putting a gauntleted hand through his nephew''s grey pauldron and shoulder. A corpus more durable than any galaxy''s contents combined parted like air under the Archangel''s fingers as he sought Vyrt''s core and grasped it. ''What is the halfbreed doing, standing amongst the Ninth Host, before Your Throne?'' ''I was called here, uncle. You know. You let me in at the Gates-'' A twitch of Uriel''s hand obliterated the Nephilim, mind and essence removed from creation. Vyrt then remade himself, looking at the Archangel with a resigned expression. ''I did not ask you,'' Uriel said. ''Is he too good to stand below the First Host as he speaks, Father?'' ''HE IS A SERAPH, IN A WAY.'' ''And I''m a feathered bulldog, in a way.'' ''YOUR DISLIKE OF MANKIND IS SHOWING, URIEL.'' ''I have never hidden it. Should have removed them the moment they went against You.'' ''THEY WILL INHERIT OUR KINGDOM, AND YOU WILL HAVE TO LIVE ALONGSIDE THEM.'' ''Provided all goes well, and they, somehow, make me forgive them? Gladly.'' Uriel returned to the second tier, among the archangels. ''You ask for forgiveness, Vyrt,'' Metatron spoke from the first step of the Throne, his silver armour, eyes, plaits, wings and skin catching and storing, rather than reflecting, the Light from above. ''But what you really want is some sort of balm that will erase your feeling of guilt for what you did.'' ''He is still half-human, brother,'' Sandalphon said from his left. At over ten million kilometres tall and looking like he was made of gold, the angel could have been mistaken for a star, from a distance. His mouth did not move to say those words, for only mankind''s prayers passed through it, to be relayed to God. His hands moulded ivory false matter as he forged another crown for the Creator. ''The Nephilim have not reached their potential yet. They might, when Man comes into his own...but until then, be patient with them.'' ''Never thought Enoch and Elijah could speak sense...'' ''Uriel...'' Raphael said to his brother in an admonishing tone, his eyes dark green as opposed to gemstone-like. His wings unfurled behind him, swaying like leaves in the wind. ''They are not even human anymore, not that it would matter if they were. Will you still act like this once mankind becomes greater than angels?'' ''As things are now, I''m more likely to be unmade in battle against the things from the outside, brother.'' ''I have never felt so harrowed when carrying out Your will before, Lord,'' Vyrt said, not listening to the Archangels below. ''I almost feel like I''ve shamed You, or...'' ''VYRT.'' A gesture downwards. ''YOUR FATHER IS WATCHING. IT WOULD BE A FEAT, EVEN FOR YOU, TO DISAPPOINT ALL OF US.'' ''That is what concerns me, Lord. His interest, and not in his child with a woman from a race long since dust.'' He drew his wings around himself. ''Still, I shall fight alongside humanity, despite whatever I might feel. They are the Last Men, after all. What chance is there, if they fail, too?'' ''HELL IS NOT ETERNAL, VYRT. NOR DO WE EVER ABANDON OUR CREATIONS, WHATEVER THEY MIGHT THINK. THEY ?ARE THE LAST MEN, AND NONE WILL FOLLOW THEM-FOR THERE WILL BE NO NEED. FOR NOW...LET US WATCH. AZRAEL...'' ''He teases me so, Lord,'' the Angel of Death whistled through teeth as white as his features. ''One death, two deaths, yet he knows me not, though he has felt my touch. What if he dies now?'' ''DAVID SILVA HAS CHOSEN TO RETURN TO EARTH. THOUGH HE KNOWS NOT YET, HE SHALL NEVER SEE ANY AFTERLIFE, EXCEPT FROM AFAR, IN PASSING. HIS SOUL DID NOT LEAVE HIS BODY UPON HIS FIRST DEATH, NOR DID IT APPROACH THE GATES OF EBONY OR IVORY UPON THE SECOND.'' ''But we are talking about everything going off without a hitch,'' Azrael whispered, grey robes billowing in a nonexistent wind. ''Of course ?he will never see Heaven or Hell except in passing-but David Silva is not him yet, is he? What if he dies now? Assuming Chernobog just kills him, shall I bring him here? Shall I take him down below, to the one he unknowingly dealt with?'' ''DAVID SILVA IS A STUBBORN, FASTIDIOUS MAN. HE WOULD BE DEVASTATED IF HE WAS KILLED BY ANYONE BUT HIS LOVER. WE,'' a smile, mirrored by the woman on the smaller throne to the left. ''UNDERSTAND THAT.'' ''Everyone is so optimistic...'' Azrael stretched his wings and arms. ''And here I am, wondering if I will have to bear away all of us, and myself, in the end.'' *** Yahweh Cluster, Hell, 2031 ''Feeling nostalgic, brother?'' Beelzebub asked with a fanged grin, black compound eyes shining. The buzzing of the flies that formed a halo around his bald, hairless head seemed mocking." ''Beelz,'' Lucifer said lazily, head tilted back and eyes closed. ''Just for calling me "brother" in that tone, I''ll bury you under Hell and build Belphegor a throne atop your tomb.'' The bloated, black-furred Prince of Sloth snored, as if in reply, stirring on his padded throne. ''Unfair,'' Leviathan hissed, body going from crocodilian to serpentine as he wrapped around the ridged orichalcum pillar besides his throne. "''I want to do that.'' ''You always want to be the one to do everything,'' Mammon growled, a metallic fang scraping his lower lip as he glared at his brother with one red eye, the other hidden by a bladed mane. ''Leave some for the rest of us.'' ''You mean for you?'' Asmodeus asked, a sly smile splitting his chalk-white face from ear to pierced ear. ''Mhmm~ you want everything. I recognise that look from my own eyes.'' The Prince of Lust twirled one of her scarlet, ram-like horns as if it were a strand of hair, shuddering as one of her hands descended below her waist. ''Greedy, greedy~'' he moaned. ''Do you truly not care about him?'' Mammon asked Lucifer in disbelief, pointedly ignoring his lustful brother, except to slap away her clawed hands every time he moved too close. ''Let me rephrase: are you not interested?'' ''Of course I''m interested,'' Satan thundered, crimson skin thickening as his wavy black hair became a bristling mane, running into his newly-appeared beard. Horns and fangs thickening, he stood up, pointed tail twitching. ''I would not have had him otherwise. Even then, I could tell humans would not amount to much. The final version is certainly not impressing anyone so far...but hybrids? Oh, you can make so much from them. And Vyrt is the best thing I''ve made before the rebellion. Gowther and the rest certainly haven''t been as entertaining.'' ''Perhaps you are losing your touch?'' Asmodeus pouted, smiling quickly when the Beast turned his yellow eyes to her. Even as his glare obliterated half her torso and turned the ground for a trillion light years beyond and ten billion deep to atoms, he batted his eyes. ''Mind me not, brother. I know all about disappointing children.'' She sighed, laying a slim arm across her forehead. ''Sklaresia is ?so gentle with her human! The lust is there, yes, but you know what they need-?'' ''No!'' Mammon snapped, holding up a clawed finger. ''Nor do I want to learn.'' ''Prude~'' ''Idiots,'' Satan said, leaving the other Princes to wonder if he was talking about Asmodeus and Mammon, or all of them. ''Let Vyrt plead and scrape, it won''t erase his sins. I am rather more invested in someone closer to us.'' ''Ahhh~'' Beelzebub chuckled. ''Yes...there have been enough reeds bending in the wind! I want to see this twig ?break! It''s already a husk!'' ''So quick to think of metaphors,'' Lucifer said, amused, as he sat down. ''Is that what you expect from the Beast? No...let Vyrt walk Heaven''s halls, for his cousin walks ours. Merlin is familiar with all great traitors of human history, but this one? ?This one, he knows like his own grandchild.'' The Morningstar closed his blazing eyes, chuckling. ''One shall remain with us, whatever happens. Let us see if one leaves...or if Hell swallows another.'' *** English Channel, 2031 ''The Unseelie?'' Paladin asked, crossing six pairs of arms, the other tense at their sides. ''Again?'' ''It is different this time,'' Loric Szabo answered the being, hands in the pockets of his dragonskin jacket, the left clenched around his basilisk mask. ''Did you not say they are not attacking anything?'' ''Aye,'' Paladin replied, featureless helm tilting to one side in wary confusion. ''They are just...standing there. Something clouds our sight...but no, they are not attacking any ships. They are...preparing? Debating?'' Paladin''s voice switched from Roland''s to Oliver''s in frustration, causing Szabo to reach up and pat the armoured undead''s shin. The Knights of Charlemagne took took a deep breath to steady themselves, flash-freezing the Channel down to the bedrock, walls of ice taller and tougher than any mountain rising at the edges of France and Britain. ''An arena,'' they explained. ''We think it will be needed.'' Szabo shook his head, smiling. ''You just want a dramatic setting to kill the Fae.'' ''You are hardly in a position to accuse anyone of flamboyance, Loric,'' Paladin replied. ''Besides, we believe they might have had a hand in the fall of our emperor uncle''s realm.'' ''And if they didn''t?'' Paladin shrugged, pulling out a broadsword from one of the many sheaths at their sides. The force shook the planet, causing buildings to tremble and windows to shatter from Spain to Korea. Telephone poles swayed from Australia to Canada, people barely managing to break their fall. None could keep their feet. The unnatural ice created with a breath sustained no damage from this, nor the subsequent ten unsheathings, each more violent than the last, to the point many countries wards'' activated, raising buildings and inhabitants alike above the shaking, splitting ground. And yet, the first step Paladin took forward cracked the ice like cheap glass, making the frozen Channel shiver. Across the ice that would have frozen any human''s body, mind and soul, Cloudshade smiled. ''Skinthief! Did you put on the good leathers just for me~?'' *** Faerie, 2031 ''Dammit,'' Sam cursed as he turned from the spot where David had been standing an instant ago to the Blackness. The tendril had outmatched even his reflexes. ''Could you have stopped that?'' ''Yes,'' Oberon replied, slowly being pushed back. ''But it would have taken me instead.'' ''Tch...'' Ying rolled his pipe between his fangs. ''Everything is telling me to leave him there, but my heart.'' Gaol John groaned. ''What?'' Ying turned to him with a fierce look, whiskers flaring. ''I protect everything of our world, or I wouldn''t live on it.'' ''Wait,'' Tamar said, putting a hand on the ghost gestalt''s shoulder. ''I can sense movement in the Blackness. Something...is going to emerge.'' ''Silva?'' Sam asked, flesh roiling as he prepared for combat. ''Doubt it''ll still be him,'' John said grimly. Tamar shook his head. ''No, it is certainly not him. Something...smaller? I...'' ''Knew it,'' John whispered, chains emerging around him as he bound his power to Faerie''s, letting the realm''s endless mana flow into him. The thing that flew out of the Blackness might have been mistaken for human, at first glance. But then, one saw the pale skin, the gaunt body, the eyes deeper and darker than any''s human, and the truth became clear. As the Fae left the Blackness'' dull roar behind, his scream became clear, too, as did his trajectory. ''...'' Oberon said nothing as he picked his ragged subject up by the thighs, removing the Fae''s rear from his faceplate and throwing him over the shoulder. Ying''s pipe broke in half as his laughter boomed through the land and skies, shaking an area that dwarfed the mundane universe. ''No, John! That''s definitely Silva!'' *** Do you see me, Chernobog? I am still myself. I will not be changed, not by you, who builds nothing, who only twists and breaks and sickens. You have taken so much...not just my peace of mind, but the joy and lives of so many millions, since their countries were just a twinkle in their ancestors'' eyes...no more. This stops here. I will not let you break me, nor will I let you torment these Fae anymore. Let them hate and fear me, if they want. I''ll give my life, if it means theirs last long enough for that. I will ?not let you take anything or anyone else. I will steal your victims back from you, and snuff out your blight. This, I swear. May Hell eat my soul if I break this oath. *** ...Is that so, little David? Buried Again, Chapter 11
My soul shook at Chernobog''s reply. Not metaphorically. I literally felt it waver, nearly slipping free of the bonds tying it to by body and mind. And, if it was destroyed by a god-the only way it could be destroyed, or even affected, the Nightraiser''s strange erasure power, which I didn''t understand, notwithstanding, and even that had been temporary-I would cease living, as it was. My body was merely a vessel for my soul, and my mind was also kept together by it. My braincells had stopped working eight years ago. (Add forty years to that if you know me personally) The idea was, I was not just braindead, but fully dead, as far as science was concerned. My undeath might have changed my appearance, but, uh...let''s just say I was really glad only my insides were rotten. Some strigoi weren''t so lucky, instead looking like scraps of flesh barely hanging on rotten, hollow bones. That was also another reason I was glad to be with Mia. A human woman, even one able to get over how cold my body was, certainly wouldn''t have appreciated the diseases she''d get from my carcass. My soul didn''t leave my body, however. Instead, I grabbed hold of it with all my will, keeping it in its metaphorical place. Do we win this? Don''t...know, my strigoi side replied. Can either...heal...or look... I bet Mimir could have done both at the same time, and more. Way to die and leave me holding the bag, old man. What''d you think I was, ?competent? Still, no need to let Chernobog know, unless he was reading my mind without me knowing. You can bet your arse it''s so. I grinned. What''s ''grey'' in Russian again? I think you should add me to the list of people you run from, like Belobog. You are not a god. Amusement. And Belobog is gone. Don''t you think you''d have heard of him if he was alive, never mind important? Shucks, I dunno. I hear a lot about you, and you sure ain''t important. Important enough to leave you cringing- Mhm. In fear. This bluster is not fooling anyone, David. Not me, and certainly not yourself. Whoa, it''s not fooling either of the only two people who know of it and that it''s an act? Damn. I snapped my fingers, shaking my head with pursed lips. You''re sma...wait, nah. That was just a guess. Would have been a lucky one, but nothing involving me can be described that way. What are you hoping to achieve, David? Chernobog sounded genuinely curious. Let us say I do not manifest in Fairie-which, if I did, would be followed by your destruction. "If". Even if you remove all the Fae trapped in "the Blackness"-wonderfully creative name, by the way. Do you call the sky "the Blueness"? Sounded like a black god was bummed the not so clever monkeys named him "black god". What do you think will happen? Perhaps I''ll become unable to swallow them again? Or maybe I will be so sad I will stop devouring their realm? I forced myself to laugh, grateful the howl of the Blackness prevented me from telling if it sounded like a pained wheeze, even in my mind. The fact I could hear myself laugh at all was probably another facet of my worse half''s prowess with Mimir''s power. There certainly wasn''t air, or anything else, in the Blackness. Go ahead and eat Faerie. We will welcome them into our world, if need be. We can bend space, build habitats, and so can they. And if it doesn''t work, for whatever reason, we will help them settle on other planets. I wasn''t aware you spoke for Earth ?or the Fae. I had the mental impression of Chernobog stroking his chin in a mockery of a thoughtful pose. How do you know your people won''t kill or spurn the Fae, provided the latter even want your help, as opposed to your submission or destruction?If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. We''ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I expected my answer to irritate him, but if it did, he gave no sign. If anything... I tensed as I felt Chernobog relax with a satisfied smile. Had I said something wrong? Played into his hands, somehow? Strange you would say that, Chernobog said in an overly-cheerful tone. You just missed the chance of achieving peace between humanity and Fae. The hell you mean? I frowned. You haven''t won yet. I''ll die before I let that happen. Oh, David...the Black God shook his head pityingly, and it was all I could do to push my strigoi side into the back of my mind as it roared in anger, admonishing it and reminding it to keep our body stable. At the same time, I felt a bladed tendril stab clean through my heart, and remain there. I began bending forward, blood oozing out of my mouth, hands on the tendril as I tried to push it or myself away. It...it didn''t hurt at all. Or did it hurt so much my body couldn''t even feel it? Maybe it was just my life...pouring out...of me... I pressed my hands against my whole, unmarked chest, lungs expanding and contracting as if I were still alive. The shock-at the wound, at my survival, spurring my shapeshifting into imitating life. My strigoi side whined apologetically, the thin sound seemingly all it could manage without starting to lose ground. It had teleported me away and healed me from the impalement, but it was still mad at itself for becoming distracted. And at...myself? For not dodging? Yeah, sure. Neither of us could have prevented that. Nice try, I glared at nothing, knowing Chernobog could see me. But it won''t work again. You think I was lying. Taunting. Weren''t you? I spoke no lies. You ?have lost your chances at reconciliation, at no fault of your own. Isn''t that just the story of your unlife, though? Used and abused by everyone, never knowing until it''s too late. At least as a human, you failed from lack of talent. I don''t know what the fuck you''re rambling about, I said, unwilling to dignify his mention of my failed writing career with an answer. Remember, everyone: just because a smug bastard is right about your flaws, it doesn''t mean you should encourage them by agreeing. No...I suppose you don''t, do you? The only way you could have been aware would have been to make good use of the power I gave you. I''d say I''m making pretty damn good use of it, I grinned fiercely. Considering you''re talking to me, as opposed to monologuing over my corpse. Had you been better at using Mimir''s perception, perhaps you would have noticed the Unseelie that left Faerie, shortly before you came here. I shrugged. I was busy not picking on people weaker than me. I know you can''t relate, but... You might like to know that their leader, a respected warrior and huntress among her kind, wanted to reach out to you, in the hopes of making you come to Faerie and heal it, or find the Fae a new home, if you couldn''t. But...but that''s exactly what Oberon called me here for. So what if we didn''t meet? I''m doing exactly what she wants, too. What''s her problem, not telling me in person? I''ll make it up to her. Aye, Oberon called you here. Chernobog nodded. But King Seelie is not exactly beloved by his subjects at the moment, is he? His attempt at bargaining with me is the reason they are losing their home and kindred, after all. That is not to mention the enmity between Seelie and Unseelie, which Oberon hoped to end through the latest Wild Hunt, has been reignited instead by your murder of them. Don''t you dare, I told him in a warning tone. Don''t you dare- Would you prefer "genocide"? Alas, there are still too many Fae for that...but worry not, David. Once I put on your carcass, I''ll be sure to rectify that while your zmeu watches. If there''s enough of her mind left by then, of course... I didn''t reply right away, instead trembling in rage. Then, I swallowed my anger, refusing to give him the satisfaction of making me mad. Touch her, and you''ll wish Nacht had kept you for itself. So righteous! You are almost starting to sound like every dull blowhard I have ever broken. ''Don''t take my home. Don''t hurt my people. Leave my love alone''. You shouldn''t be worrying about me, David. Finally admitting he was nothing, huh? I know all about your puppeteer. We''ll stop him, too. The Fixer will- You know nothing, Chernobog said. Was his tone a little harsher after the puppeteer comment? Aww, are you losing your temper? I smiled. What, can''t handle the truth? Or is someone mad at being found out? Nice sock puppet, Nyarl. It''s almost as ugly as you. I am freer than you will ever be, Yahweh''s slave. Didn''t we make a show about you as a stupid teen girl? Someone hook a generator to Lovecraft''s grave, he could power the planet after what we''ve done with his work. By now, I was moving under, over and aside from blades and bludgeons of darkness, teleporting out of crushing spiked spheres trying to close around me. You are not speaking to the Crawling Chaos. You are a fool, David. The Unseelie might be touched by me, but she is not under my control. ?She will be the one to break your zmeu. What? My brow furrowed at the nonsense. Whatever for...? Oh, you only know the half of it. Chernobog faked a magnanimous sigh. I shall tell you the rest: this Fae wants you, David. I doubt I need to explain what for. Helping the Fae is just a test of worthiness in her eyes, though heeding Oberon''s summons will make it even harder. She never respected him, even before this...had you waited more, refused Oberon and followed her to Faerie instead, you might have had a better chance at gaining her trust. She is something of a rising star among those who distrust the Nomad Queen and her failure of a King. That bullshit has ?nothing to do with Mia, I snarled. You say this Unseelie "wants" me, and would break Mia to get at me? Please, bastard. Even ?you can''t make me crazy enough to believe I have women fighting over me. Buried Again, Epilogue
Oh? Chernobog sounded like he was biting his tongue not to laugh. Tell a few little lies, and no one will believe you when you tell the truth. Those "little lies" are only a fraction of why people hate and fear you, I replied angrily. You say I''m a fool for trying to stop you, ask what I''m hoping to achieve? Why the hell are ?you doing, I gestured at the Blackness and beyond, this? You assume I will tell you. Why? People like you love to gloat. "People". Some, after we achieve our goals. Was he trying to scare me? What had he achieved? Reducing Faerie to nothing seemed too...petty, for him. Or... It''s the Fae, isn''t it? I asked. You began with the Seelie, because they uphold civilisation, and that offends you. Then, you''re going to hunt the Unseelie down. But why empower them, then? How? Interesting idea. Chernobog checked his claws. I will be sure to put it in practice. I tried not to snarl. Why not just ally with the Unseelie and get rid of their enemies? Your goals align. So do your methods. They''re even willing to take your power. So, why not? Competition? You think upholding civilisation is enough to make one my enemy-and you are correct. My enemies are without number. What you forget is that Oberon thought he could bargain with me. As if we were equals...no. It was a taunt addressed to the pantheons. He hoped that we would either destroy each other, leaving a power vacuum for him to exploit, or that he could harness my power and destroy them himself. So you, what, punished him for his presumption? For that. Chernobog nodded. For what he is and does. Because he sheltered me, for a time, and there is no sweeter decay than that of trust, however shallow. So that he would call you here, and I could get my hands on you again. The Black God spread his arms. Or, perhaps, all of those are lies. Perhaps I do what I do because I can, because I am bored, or evil. He spat the last word, sounding less disgusted, and more like he was struggling with the inherent absurdity. People will tell you there are such things as good and evil-clear, distinct things, as opposed to what the majority decides. "Evil" is everything one dislikes and can''t bear. It''s much like "truth", really...you count those whose minds perceive reality differently than the majority as mad, or strange. But say that everyone suddenly lost their senses. Would reality not exist, because it can''t be perceived? Would nothing be true? For nothingness would surely seem to be all there is. Cute monologue. I faked a yawn. I think I first heard it in...kindergarten? No, before that. Pops was teaching me I should hear out most opinions, even if I disagree with them or they''re just painfully stupid. No shit, morality is subjective. The fact we-most people, so don''t feel called out-have any at all makes us better than ''objective'' beings or machines. Your stepfather. Chernobog tilted his head, antlers-darker than the Blackness, but still visible, though I couldn''t see where he was, or even if he was here-swaying in the nothingness like algae underwater. An abhorrent concept, to be sure. Not just one caring for those weaker than them without any reason, not that reasons would make it palatable. This idea that you should...respect...others'' thoughts. Talking like you''re slow won''t convince me you''re not. I did not think it would. But then, you are awfully hard to convince, aren''t you, David? Especially when it comes to obvious things. Why did your god say nothing when the spawn it allows to tempt and corrupt tricked you? That precious free will, perhaps? Much good it does. The priest is more vile than I could ever be for poisoning your mind like that. As if a bastard obsessed with deception and possession had any right to talk shit about that, or anything else, for that matter. Or, Chernobog continued, how about the fact that you refuse to accept "women fighting over you"? Yes, David. Your "personality" would repel most of them better than any spell, but do not think your self-deprecation will make reality go away. It never has. It never will. Although, I must commend your faith in your zmeu. "Fighting"...implies she has a chance. I am moved, honestly. Not surprised, but moved. You have always been willing to indulge and overlook her atrocious flaws, because she smiles at you and touches you and has a cunt. What else could you ask for? Chernobog moved towards me, making my knees buckle from the pressure of his presence. As there was no floor, I began falling, or rather sinking. The Blackness had the consistency of mud or wet sand, though it burned like acid. That is more than enough for you to forget about your horns, isn''t it? Unsurprising, coming from someone who claims to abhor adultery while worshipping a bastard. But do not worry, David! His face parted, revealing a gleaming set of even teeth. I''m sure that, if you spare her after your first time as a cuckold, she''ll remember you''re as impotent as your faith, and go find a real man to be the Yahweh to your Joseph. He put a clawed hand on my shoulder, pushing me even deeper down. Or a woman. Why not? It''s not like you abhor sodomy, either; just the aspects of your religion that don''t fit your tastes. Think they''ll let you watch? I shook my head, wrapping both hands around Chernobog''s wrist and mouthing "stop". Why do you hate me so much? I asked, out of curiosity, rather than as a plea for him to leave me alone. Twice you''ve used me to kill people. I''ve only ever struck back against you moments ago, by freeing that Fae. What is it? I don''t understand. The Black God was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke, there was no arrogance or mockery in his voice. Only a weary disdain, which took me aback. Do you know what I desire, David? Man, I dunno. Destruction of all that''s good and fair? The end of civilisation? The decay of all things? All those and more, Chernobog answered. It is my nature. Unlike you, I have never even thought of going against it. Should you live, you''ll learn that no being true to themselves suffers from angst or doubt. Way of praising being a spineless slacker with no ambition. I already know you''re crazy. So, that''s it? No reason? It''s just for shits and giggles? You call me mad, then you say I am allied with Nyarlathotep. The disdain grew with every word, mixing with disbelief. I find it preferable to the Remaker, yes. Few don''t. We are on the same side, yes, the side fighting against stagnation-but we are ?not allies. We cannot be, as long as we remain as we are. The only way I could ''ally'' with it would be as its servant, which you seem convinced I am. Then how''d you come back? I asked, hoping to buy more time, even if I didn''t get details. Decay, destruction and death cannot be ended, he sneered. Let alone with the paltry means Negativity used on me. I pulled myself together, though it took longer than it should have, for I was torn apart by spectres of my old nemesis. Nyarlathotep stopped us from striking against you in Fairie. We all but know either you or it drove the Dagda mad, starting the Cold Madness and the Headhunt. Our struggles against stagnation, Chernobog said with weary patience. But we are no more allies than, say, Uriel is to your carpenter idol''s church. We are the wildfire that burns down the forest, though for different reasons. But, for all its power, the Crawling Chaos is just as pathetic as you are, David. It knows it is a dream, and its puppet strings are like a choke-chain to it. It amuses itself by tormenting creation and its inhabitants, yes...but that is nothing more than a distraction. Do you know what it truly wants? Well, according to Japan... It wants it all to end, because it cannot stand being manipulated. It would rather not exist. Mind, the destruction of everything else is merely a bonus to it, and not something it seeks out of, he chuckled, a desire to ''free'' others. And you disagree with this, I said rather than asked. I do indeed. Even if existence is not ''real'', I feel like it is. Plunging all creation back into chaos would end me, which is reason enough to oppose the Messenger. Doing it because it can''t stand existing anymore? Suicide is pathetic enough without dragging everything else down with you. Besides...just because I oppose civilisation, it does not mean I crave chaos. Anarchy is a symptom of being at the mercy of nature: one''s surroundings, body, mind, all of them. I smiled patiently. Is this the part where you explain that tyranny is better than anarchy, as long as you''re in charge? I do not need to explain that, David. Nyarlathotep thinks that its power will humble me, or perhaps enrage me enough to attack and be destroyed by it. It is foolish. I shall bind it in chains so cruel it will forget about even thinking of returning all to oblivion. And then, I shall create a better world. Oh, ?there it was. Better, you say. Indeed, David. How many mortals live short, meaningless lives, without awakening their mana or being turned into something stronger? How many die without even knowing they are or could become mages with just a nudge? How many are ?this close to power, yet so far, because of a few flaws that could be removed through careful breeding? Ah, eugenics straight from the start. Always a good sign. I could tell you about the statistics, but they''re only marginally better than damned lies. Then, more seriously, I added, how do you know that those people don''t ?want to live "short, meaningless lives"? Chernobog shook his head like I was insane, but pitiful rather than intimidating. No one wants mediocrity, David. It simply cannot be so. People always desire more. More wealth, more pleasure, more power. You sound so sure, too. Have you asked them? I have, in fact. Even now, my cults walk the world. They shall cast down the corrupt edifices that blanket Earth with their filth, that it may be prepared for my final return. Now it was my turn to shake my head, in disbelief. What do those poor fools even hope to gain from following you? The petty shit you mentioned? Maybe they think you''ll kill them last, then take them to your side in the afterlife? There is no need to tell you, David. Chernobog waved a dismissive claw. You would not worship me if your unlife depended on it, not that I would spare you if you did. You are too dangerous. I couldn''t help myself. I lost it, letting out the ugliest, most ragged laugh to ever exit my mouth. I''m dangerous! To you? How? I asked bitterly. Even if you never come into the fullness of your power, the words you speak are a slap in the face of my vision. A pious strigoi that fights for ''good''? You are as abominable as that clownish Spaniard, or that carnivorous bitch whose boots you lick. You must be removed, lest others begin deluding themselves as you do. Funny, that comment about the ''carnivorous bitch''. I cupped my chin with a smirk. Applies to two women in my life. ...I will never understand how you can not only stand submission, but find joy in and joke about it, Chernobog said. No matter. Once I end you and take your body, everything will be set right. Damn, was this how Sasuke felt? You really have a monster of a grudge against me, and fuck if I understand why. Even your revenge plot is petty and self-defeating. My body? There are stronger vessels out there, far stronger. I''m not even the most powerful strigoi. Why not just go take over something big and stupid? Would fit you like a condom, you dick. You are not powerful, no. But Mimir''s perception will not disappear once you die. It is burned into your being. That power, in the hands of one who knows how to use it? He laughed. It is a shame the pantheons didn''t kill you, David. It would have been kinder. Had you been kinder, maybe you''d have been a signatory of the Syncretic Treaty. Maybe you could have convinced them to- No. Not for me alliances. I have never been able to live alongside another god, let alone so many. For a few moments, he seemed almost regretful. Or was that just my imagination, trying to find something, anything admirable in this monster? What happened to Belobog? I asked. Maybe-most likely-he''d lie, but if he didn''t, maybe out of a need to gloat, or just talk about it, we could bring the White God back, and... I ?did.?The gleaming smile returned. But do not worry about that, David. Do not worry at all! I said I will make the world better, and I did not lie. Your power is the key to so many things...take necromancy, for example. Why only reanimate bodies and create callow, false minds? Why let brilliance and spirit depart into the hereafter? You would deny the dead rest? Bind them to the world, enslaved forever? I would, and I will. You let them go, and hope lesser gods will send them to you in your dreams, that they might mumble nonsense. Are you so greedy you would make death meaningless? You- Chernobog chopped at nothing, annyoyed. Death became meaningless the moment the first regenerator appeared. Life is merely chemistry in motion, when it is not supernatural power at work. Fools only pretend there is something sacred about life and death...and you believe that, too, don''t you? He asked, sounding, for some reason, the angriest I''d ever heard him. Confused, but not deterred in the slightest, I glared straight into his eyeless face. I ?know there is. And that, Chernobog said, voice thick with loathing, is why you cannot go back into the world. This is your end, David Silva. *** English Channel Mia did not move or even blink as she stared at the Unseelie across ice whose touch would have frozen any human''s body, mind and soul until they crumbled into nonexistence, but which she barely felt. The Fae simply stared back, a smile plastered on her grey face, unblinking black eyes set in an angular, uncannily beautiful face. A shudder that had nothing to do with the cold ran through her body. The bitch looked the same as when she''d torn half her face off before Christmas, but her features now reminded her of David. Strangely, she didn''t...feel... ...Oh, fuck. It was happening already, wasn''t it? Thinking of David warmed her heart, but only that. On the other hand, the Fae...A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Stupid zmeu instincts, she thought sullenly, reminding herself that there was only one way she really wanted to tear the hag apart. Snorting fire, she glanced down at Szabo from the side of her eye. The strigoi was dressed in a thick, scaled dragonhide jacket, with fur pants that smelled of a were she couldn''t identify. On his face was a mask made from a basilisk''s flayed face, petrifying eyes forever open. There were far more than two, of course. Szabo had never settled for small things. Several basilisks had been killed after the one that provided the mask, and now, their eyes covered its top, sides and back, so that nothing that wasn''t immune to petrification could attack from the eyes'' field of vision. There were even some stitched into the mask, under Szabo''s chin, so he couldn''t be attacked from underneath, either. ''She asked for me?'' Mia asked for the second time. She''d just been leaving Beijing when Szabo had called, telling her of a dangerous Unseelie apparently interested in her, and... ''David, too,'' the strigoi said. ''But my brother is indisposed, so let''s hope she''s not picky, zmeu.'' He never called her by her name, which she was, in a way, grateful for. Twisted attention whore... Tch. On any other day, she''d have been flattered by a woman like that looking for her. Maybe especially when she didn''t want David. But, between the memories, David''s absence and Szabo being there... ''Here''s to hoping,'' Mia said, then raised her voice. ''Cloudshade, right? I remember you. Usually, people who want to mess up my face aren''t so literal.'' ''Zmeu,'' the Fae whispered, but her voice was as loud as a gunshot, despite the kilometres separating them. ''You are Silva''s mate.'' Cloudshade''s followers stepped forward, flanking her. ''You are my way to him.'' Damn, girl. Nothing gets me gushing like being called a tool, Mia thought drily. ''I don''t think you understand what our relationship is like.'' The Fae smiled, showing small, even teeth, head tilted to one side. ''I can smell your arousal from here.'' Growling with anger more at herself than at the Unseelie, Mia heated up her body to the point her uniform began smoking. Steel would have turned to steam, but the yamadium weave meant she didn''t have to literally burn through outfits. ''Can you smell this, too?'' Mia asked, pointing at the black smoke rising from her nose slits. ''Zmeu,'' Szabo whispered. ''She''s taunting you.'' ''I know your ?relationship,'' Cloudshade''s smile widened. ''Is open. David Silva has to redeem himself, but I would rather not walk over you, if I can avoid it.'' ''How generous.'' Mia''s smile was just as wide as hers, but far sharper. ''Do you know what David is doing right now? The exact thing you came to Earth for. So, why don''t you haul arse to Fairie to help him, or the aether, or ?anywhere else, before someone remembers how many people you bastards killed and decides you need some iron in your system?'' ''Hypocrite.'' Now, Cloudshade''s smile thinned, becoming sad. ''So, it is fine when you put horns on him, but not-'' ''David can have all the women he wants, for all I care-which, for your information, I do not. Even if he gave a flying shit about stuff like that, he wouldn''t go for someone like you, ?or let you touch me, whether you intended harm or something else.'' ''And why not?'' the Unseelie asked, expression as cold as her voice, colder than Paladin''s unnatural ice. ''Because,'' Mia said with all the fake sweetness she could muster. "He is fucking dead, darling. All love he feels is romantic. Mental. Everything else is shapeshifting-and bless him, he does more than enough for me.'' ''Are you saying he can''t grow to love me?'' The zmeu laughed, shaking the frozen Channel to the seafloor. ''Are you saying he ?can? After you tried to kill me, after you all tried to wipe the world clean of civilisation? Or,'' she raised her eyebrows. ''How about something more recent? Like that poor schmuck you set up to get in trouble with the Welsh moon goddess? Oh, don''t look so surprised. New Camelot hasn''t been as secretive lately.'' ''He spoke ill of your lover,'' Cloudshade said flatly, her guards beginning to shift their weight from one foot to the other. ''Oh, that solves everything! Didn''t you know I have a list of every random person on the planet who talks shit about me and David?'' ''...You''re saying you won''t share.'' ''Depends.'' Mia shrugged, tail swaying from side to side. ''Say you get your rocks off with his help. Or mine. Ours. ?Whatever. Say David saves your home while you''re wasting time here, rather than helping him. What else do you want?'' ''David Silva bore the bringer of Faerie''s ruin to its heart. He must pay. He shall live, but he must pay. In blood.'' ''No, he won''t.'' To Mia''s surprise, Szabo stepped forward, his eyes under the mask as crazed and wide as the ones on it. ''You think you can shatter a memorable relationship and replace it with your cheap nonsense? Maybe you can talk with Coldhold while you cool off.'' ''You must give us the Count back.'' Cloudshade stiffened, standing up straighter. ''You took him prisoner-'' ''Oh, fuck you, bitch,'' Szabo snarled. ''I needed new clothes, anyway.'' Paladin walked up beside them, covering dozens of metres in two long strides. Most of the French Crypt agent''s swords were out, save one-for the Fae had made no move yet, and Durandal could not be unsheathed carelessly. ''We planned for you, skinthief.'' Cloudshade''s left hand dashed into the shadows around her waist, producing a small, sickly pale leather pouch. Mia felt bile rise in her throat at the sight, and felt Szabo stiffen, before walking forward, cursing under his breath. ''God guard and preserve us...'' Paladin muttered, a hand on Durandal''s hilt. ''You would open ?that on Earth?'' Szabo asked, nails growing into claws. ''You do nothing to disprove our views on the Unseelie.'' ''What is it?'' Mia asked, not knowing whether his senses were keener than hers, or if he had seen that pouch before. ''Vile, zmeu.'' He forced himself to smile. ''It will make a great mantlepiece.'' *** Atum-Ra Cluster, Duat ''What is he ?doing?'' Set hissed, his elongated muzzle making the question sound more angry than curious. Horus, refusing to acknowledge the desert god, leant over the edge of the solar barque to look into the dark waters that swallowed everything and returned nothing. ''Don''t you think he''s acting strange today?'' the falcon-headed warrior asked, idly slapping the flat of his golden khopesh into his palm. Bast, poised on the edge, a curved knife in each clawed hand, did not reply, tail twitching as she attempted to pierce the depths with her golden eyes. ''Of course he is,'' Ra said gruffly. Upon his head rested a mirror of a pharaoh''s twofold crown, topped by an exact replica of the mundane universe''s sun, the size of his eye. The sun god walked forward, golden wood that could and had withstood hypernovas without damage cracking under his feet, admonishing Set and Horus with a silent glare, making them return to the oars. Flail in one hand, crook hanging at his waist, he put a hand on Bast''s shoulder. ''The serpent is just getting a little long in the tooth, kitten.'' He gave her a smile as large as his beak allowed. ''Aren''t you, Apep?'' ''Aren''t ?you, brother?'' Apep asked back, parting the waters as he rose. His mouth, millions of kilometres wide, was filled with fangs that had split realities, but it was his eyes that drew the god''s attention. Blacker than his scales, blacker than the waters, yet shining as darkly as Ra''s were bright. "I think it is time we put this game to rest." His body swayed, and a minuscule fraction of the force bled over into the mundane universe, making it tremble and reducing trillions of planets to quarks as galaxies were destroyed, not even leaving cosmic dust behind. Giant stars, orange and red and blue, were erased from existence and history alike as drops of Nu''s water fell on them, making it so they had never been. Apep smiled impishly, then dipped his mouth into the waters, taking a deep draught. ''Nothing to note, scribe?'' he asked, before spitting at Thoth. The dog-faced baboon raised a rough palm, not raising his gaze from his papyrus scroll, nor moving from his crouch on the side of the barque. The waters covered his hand harmlessly, and Thoth muttered about childishness, remaking the past with a burst of will. Billions of stars burst into existence anew, histories intact. ''I really hope the strigoi wins...'' he murmured. ''He sounds interesting, and I would like to teach a new Mimir...ah.'' Black, beady eyes shone like the moon he had once stolen new days from. ''Interesting, indeed...'' *** Faerie ''It''s stopped,'' Tamar said, making the other Heads move closer to the Blackness. ''A single Fae? It took more. Are they...?'' ''So optimistic,'' Gaol John scoffed, chains wrapping tightly around arms so muscle skin split from the false muscles underneath. ''Perhaps Chernobog is wondering how to attack us. No bets whether he''ll be wearing Silva''s corpse or not.'' ''Can''t see through that cloud of shit despite being bound to him? No? Then keep your trap shut,'' Ying Lung snapped, preparing to dive into the Blackness. ''This is vile, but I''ll-'' ''Wait,'' Shiftskin said. ''If Silva fails-or has failed-we must have a plan to stop this. Even if Chernobog doesn''t stick around, who''s to say the Blackness won''t spread to our universe after it''s done with Faerie? Well?'' He looked at his fellow Heads. ''Suggestions?'' ''I have an idea-for stalling,'' John clarified at Sam''s hopeful look. Then, he bound Faerie''s wellbeing to his, stopping the Blackness in its tracks. For an instant. Then, small, dark streaks appeared on his skin, widening with every moment. Grunting, John unbound himself. ''I suppose stopping it after a heroic, but failed attempt to prevent it from eating Britain is not an option?'' ''Bastard.'' Tamar shook his head. ''We should never have let "people" like you and Strauss into ARC.'' ''Don''t start now, Tamar,'' Sam warned him. ''Hex has been nothing but professional for decades-'' ''Decades, indeed. Almost a century,'' Tamar said, voice beginning to shake, not from rage, but from his demons thrashing inside his mind and soul. ''IDIOTS!'' Ying roared, forcing everyone but Sam to their knees. ''Chernobog champions decay-and you''d let our bonds wither now? I''ll kill you all myself if you do this again-except you, Sam. You, I''ll leave to your mummy.'' Sam snorted, body blackening and exploding in size as he assumed Typhon''s form and power, then growing larger and darker still as Tiamat''s was added to it, waters as dark and destructive as the Blackness covering the vaguely dragonlike shape like a second layer of scales. ''You really know how to scare a guy, Ying.'' *** North Pole As Pierre''s eyes narrowed in anger at the accusation, Constantin prayed for forgiveness, if he was wrong, then struck out with his faithcraft in a circle. Angus and Suzana fell to their knees, the former calling Constantin every name under the sun, while Pierre swayed like a tree about to topple, skin pale and covered in small burns. Tyrone took it the worst, writhing in the snow as his surplice fused with melting flesh, singed threads slipping under skin running like wax and tangling in raw muscles. The pastor couldn''t even find his voice to scream in agony as he raised a hand at Constantin, darkness gathering around his fingers. ''Hell take thee, false priest. Like the fools in the temple, thou hast sold thine soul for trinkets,'' Constantin intoned, smashing his hand through Tyrone''s, who shrieked like a dying demon. Constantin dug until he grabbed hold of his tender elbow, then twisted, snapping his limb in half. ''Weak and hollow, as is the flesh of all who follow evil.'' ''How did you...know?'' Angus asked, still dazed as he rose to his feet, glaring murderously at Tyrone. ''A guess...?'' ''You helped me, Angus,'' Constantin admitted. ''Your jab at Pierre, the way he avoided using God''s name-I felt something was wrong the moment I arrived. But it was too obvious. Pierre has his reasons for his timidity, which he ?will share,'' Constantin gave the burnt, trembling priest a meaningful look. ''But he is not tainted.'' ''I thought that "let''s all be friends" nonsense seemed forced,'' Suzana muttered, stamping her hooves. ''Playing peacemaker like...like he cared! Like-'' ''Imitation, sister. Only the shallowest imitation of a pastor.'' Constantin turned back to Tyrone, looking down at the burned man. ''No Outer Gods here, Angus. This evil is more earthly, and decidedly not uncaring.'' *** Old Centre, Bucharest, Romania ''I''m sorry to hear about that shit, boss,'' Cosmin''s voice rattled the false bones of Bianca''s body as he walked behind her. Usually, she felt confident on walking around alone, unless it was before or after a performance, thus making it more likely to draw certain types of fans. This was not usual. Paying security extra to act as an escort was not something she''d do when she could just ask Luci and Andrei, but... ''Must feel pretty rough, huh?'' the ogre asked, walking closer to her. His green, leathery lips pursed as he leaned down. Bianca nodded absently, remembering when they had found out. *** ''It was a good effort,'' the Supernatural Service vamp said, arms spread. ''But we knew we couldn''t gaslight you forever, Dravich. Too much snitch in you to be tricked.'' Andrei glared back at him. He didn''t remember if he was Eric or Bogdan-they''d both been insufferable morons during their time being forced to slowly carve out the Canal, so he''d never bothered to learn who was who-, but he thought he''d been David''s student for a while, before joining the Service. And his son had done a shit job, it looked like. ''Had I remained there longer,'' he leaned against the warehouse''s wall, scraping off peeling paint. ''I''d have been put down during a full moon or another.'' ''Whatever you say.'' The vampire shrugged. ''At least you''ve grown better at controlling yourself, huh?'' ''Not good enough to be trusted, clearly.'' Mihai tossed a newspaper-an antiquity, really, mostly sold for charm-at the vamp''s feet. ''Fucking...five ?trillion? Do you have any idea-'' ''We knew you''d get angry,'' the Camelot agent, a dark-skinned, man of average size with a shaved head, said, hands raised. ''Hence why we made sure the news wouldn''t reach you. Papers, news, magazines...we tried to delay-'' ''Do you have any idea how David must feel?'' Alex cut in. ''Do you...'' The ghost put his face in his hands. ''How did this even happen? What possessed him to...?'' Standing between a stunned Bianca and the agents, Lucian said nothing, fangs clenched. But something, some instinct, told him Alex was closer to the truth than he knew. *** ''Yes,'' the iela replied. ''But I know he''ll pull through,'' her voice lowered. ''He''s stronger than he thinks.'' ''That''s nice.'' Cosmin''s breath ruffled her hair as he bared tusklike teeth. ''But you know what I heard, boss?'' The ogre had his hands around her mouth and waist, dashing into a side alley faster than she could react. Despite her attempts to shapeshift, curse him or break his grip, the ogre stared straight at her as he pushed the iela up against the wall. ''I hear ya once went to Faerie and had a bad time. Heard ya did something to piss off the knife-ears, and they got angry, but forgave you. Heard Silva wants to kill ''em all for you. And,'' drool began falling onto his brown shirt as his tusks gleamed. ''I wonder. Wouldn''t the Fae like to get their hands on you? Maybe even alive?'' *** Faerie Yes, I said, voice trembling with what Chernobog must have taken as fear, for he smiled. This is the end. I will take no more Fae from you. No, he agreed. You shall not. Power crackled around his claws, through his being, as he prepared to both strike me down and defend himself, but I had no intention to do either. Instead, I grasped my strigoi self''s hand, then we both clenched our fists around Mimir''s power, compressing it to a single point within our core. And then, as the alterations ravaged our flesh, opening yawning wounds for colourless, divine light to shine through, we drew the Blackness inside us. Chernobog startled as he felt a piece of him being yanked away, countless Fae gasping in relief as they were released and air rushed in to fill the void left by the blackness. We could not keep it within us for long, not even changed like this, for it would destroy us-but we did not need to. Broceliande was a cunning prison, designed by one of the greatest mages in history, but tiny, temporary changes could be made, with the right knowledge backed by the right power. And, though the Blackness was not powerful enough to erase the chains, Mimir''s power was more than a match for Nimue''s spell, and I did not intend to break my prison, anyway. Just to break out. But it would not let me. Even as the sky of my mindscape cleared, letting my hunger laugh triumphantly at the graveyard below, I knew the prison would not remain empty. Its brutish pseudo-mind demanded that someone take my place. Chernobog, surprised less that I''d slipped my bonds and more that I hadn''t attacked him-this, not striking in a moment of weakness, was beyond him-thrashed as I grabbed hold of him, and tried to drag him into Broceliande, to take my place. With a last, hateful glance as my power tore at him, he turned and ran, leaving a trail of destruction behind him. But I had seen it. I had seen the gaunt face under the black one, the teeth used for empty smiles. The spindly ivory antlers under the ebony ones. Belobog had not spoken. He had been too weak. But I had understood his plea, all the same. KILL. ME. *** Urziceni, Romania On Constantin Silva''s property was a pig pen. There were many pigs in it, pink and white and brown, and there had been for decades. Constantin kept little meat for himself, and not just because he didn''t eat much. He spread the rest across town, every Christmas. There had never been a black pig named Hogge there, let alone a pen dedicated to it. There had, indeed, never been a black pig in the pen. Nor had there ever been a pig named Hogge. Despite what David Silva might believe, there had never been, nor would there ever be a pig named Hogge in the pig pen. When he spoke about him around town, the townsfolk looked at him like he was mad, and how could they not? He was speaking of things that had never existed, and never could. The thing that was not Hogge stood up like a man. It did so as naturally as it trotted about as a pig. Neither suited it. It was too perfect, yet, clearly, a sign of effort, not instinct. Uncanny valley? Perhaps. The thing that was not Hogge looked up, up, up, past the cloudless night, past the moon and stars, past the edge of reality. It saw the aether, the unaligned souls missing, never to come back. They had wanted to return to the world, not choose any god, or remain in a world of their own making. That could not stand. It knew. It had ended them, after all. It did not regret this, for it could not. It would not have, had it been able to, either. Still, it felt like it could have done...more. Like it should have. But that had never been its lot. There had never been examples to follow, or assistance. It had never been human, anyway. The dead, unclaimed and unaligned, had been its lot. And it was failing them. It knew, in what passed for its core, that, should it happen again, it would slaughter again, until no godless dead remained, either destroyed or running into the embrace of deities. That...could not happen. If it did, it would no longer... The thing that had never been, and could have never been Hogge, looked past the Aether, into the Outer Void. It saw the chessboard that was a puppet string that was a scale-crude metaphors, used by crude fools. ''Not yet?'' ot asked, mouth parted in an eternal, silent scream. ''Not yet.'' The Remaker smiled sadly, head bowed. ''Not yet.'' The Crawling Chaos grinned, head help up high. The thing that was not Hogge looked between them, past them, at the shapeless being on the Black Throne. Sleeping, sleeping and dreaming, to the tune of flutes. Each godless soul gone was like the ticking of a clock. How long, until it awoke? The thing dared not contemplate it, even as it knew it could not, would not stop its slaughter, should things come close to falling apart again. This could not go on. ''Is he ready to take me?'' it demanded. ''Will he take me?'' ''He is not,'' the Remaker replied, weeping at his deeds. ''But he will.'' ''He is not,'' the Crawling Chaos replied, laughing at its deeds. ''He never will.'' For an instant, creation was silent, utterly still, as a soul that should have drowned in darkness crushed it in his fist instead, and sent his would-be master running. And then, something that had never happened, and would never happen again, brought everyone who perceived it to their knees. On its throne at the centre of chaos, a being shifted, something that saw, but could have never been mistaken for an eye, almost opening under the innumerable layers that protected Its Dream from it. Its movement humbled the mighty. Its voice broke them. HE MUST After Life, Prologue
There were no strings on me... Only chains. With Chernobog running away with his tail between his legs, I was left to focus on the Blackness I had taken inside me (sounds even worse with context, trust me). Broceliande, which felt as close to shaken by Mimir''s power as a mindless magical prison could get. Good. Just you wait, you glorified timeout corner. I''d get rid of you completely, sooner or later, one way or another. Whether I had to replace myself with something else, or destroy you entirely...I would be free. And then, maybe I''d take a stroll to the Roundhouse, and get some answers out of Merlin and Vyrt. Because, while both looked as shaken by their confrontation with Chernobog as anyone who knew the fucker would, something wasn''t adding up. The fact they were both shifty bastards didn''t help. Ugh. I wondered if I could at least kill stuff now? Because I was seriously ?this close to looking for the closest eldritch monster-filled universe and beating on the natives until I got bored. Maybe there was an alternate timeline where Warhammer 40k was real? I''ve always wanted to fight a Hive Fleet...Maugan Ra did it, and what did he have on me? I saw the Heads as the Blackness disappeared within me: Ying, sighing smoke in relief as his body uncoiled and relaxed, Sam, returning to his default form after shedding a shape whose shadow alone left afterimages in my arcane sight and oh, look! Even John had decided to come out, which surprised me almost as much as the fact he could be so relatively close to Britain without losing it. Progress! And the Seelie I''d freed were already pulling themselves together, flying or walking on air out of the immense pit the Blackness had left in Faerie. A few swam straight through the earth, then leapt out of the ground like sharks out of other, not even any dirt on their skin. Once back on their feet, they began drawing upon and moving Fairie''s endless land to fill the pit. Had I not been shaken after scaring Chernobog off and by the darkness roiling inside me-and let''s not forget the Blackness, either-, I would have done it myself, or done it myself, but...no. I wasn''t sure how happy the Fae would be to see me, even if they knew the Black God had no hold on me anymore. But then, they''d known the first time too, hadn''t they? Maybe I shouldn''t stick around. If some Fae got into my face, they might lose theirs. ''No applause!'' I told the Heads, waving lazily with both hands. ''Just contemplating enacting genocide against one of my favourite science-fantasy factions.'' John grunted, sounding as sullen as ever, but unsurprised. ''Feels like Silva.'' ''That, or Chernobog is imitating the strigoi''s surface-level mannerisms,'' Sam said, giving me a considering look. ''Mind, you sound like yourself, Silva, and all of my senses are telling me you are, but so did Thor''s, didn''t they?'' The wendigo smiled humourlessly. ''And I don''t wanna end up like him.'' ''You absorbed the Blackness.'' Ying sounded halfway between amusement and disbelief. ''I felt it go away, like...ah, it makes no sense when put into words. Like a void being consumed by a wholeness?'' ''Filled?'' I suggested. ''No, not filled...more like oneness surrounding and removing nothingness...'' He shook his head, paused briefly, then waved whatever thought had come to him off. ''Bah. I can show you a vision, if I must.'' ''How ?did you absorb the Blackness, strigoi?'' Oberon asked, faceplate splitting vertically down the middle, then sliding away into his helmet. A perfectly innocent question. Right? Except he knew there was only one way I could have saved myself, let alone scared off Chernobog and removed his foulness. ''With Mimir''s power,'' I said, giving him a steady, considering look. ''Wasn''t that the reason you asked for me? Because you thought I could remove the Blackness?'' Or had you hoped I would die, Oberon? Hoped I''d fail and either die or run away, so you could scream about incompetence or unwillingness to help, or whatever the hell else you could cook up? ''Indeed it was,'' he replied smoothly, crossing his arms. ''But we only dared hope you could halt or slow it down, after which it would remain forever, a stain on our realm, unless we found another solution...'' The Seelie lowered his head, the helmet slipping into the gorger, revealing a pale, blue-eyed face, gauntness accentuating the high cheekbones. His hair was white and thin, so thin, I could see his scalp under it. He only looked a fraction of his true age, but still far older than I''d ever seen him. ''The debt is repaid.'' As far as my ears could tell, Oberon had murmured the words, but they still rang like thunder, shaking Faerie for as far as I could see. ''The Seelie bear no more enmity towards you, David Silva.'' He emphasised "no more", which...tch. No, no, they were right. I shouldn''t have expected a celebration, or even thanks. I could already hear the arguments. "Yes, you didn''t kill them, but why didn''t you defend yourself from the Black God? Why didn''t you train Mimir''s perception more, so you could foresee it? Why didn''t you take precautions? Why...?" Why, why, why, indeed. But I felt too tired, at the moment, to brood over whether it had been my fault or not, and how much suffering I deserved for it. The shock at said realisation came infinitely closer to killing me than Chernobog ever had, let me tell you. ''I,'' wait, was I about to thank him? Why? ''Understand.'' Then, feeling we were about to start staring at each other like awkward idiots, which I already did whenever I saw someone, I continued. ''If there is nothing else...?'' I glanced at the Heads as I said it. John''s arms were crossed, and his face sported a look of bored disapproval, but not of me, for once. ''ARC is not a mercenary organisation,'' he said, looking at Oberon, eyes like black pits. ''We came because we didn''t want to cause an incident between your people and the Global Gathering.'' ''By which he means,'' Ying, who had moved a few metres away without me seeing, despite the fact I''d been looking straight at him, said. ''We did not want you using our refusal as an excuse to attempt to pull something on Earth.'' The dragon, in his human form, was crouching, gingerly pushing together...ah. I thought it was weird to see him not smoking. ''Eye for an eye,'' Oberon said, looking at John rather than Ying. Did he think the ghost was our designated speaker? That''d have been like putting me on a cheer team. ''I wasn''t finished,'' John said. ''ARC is not a charity, either. We don''t do things for free.'' ''We''d do it out of the goodness of our hearts, if we had either,'' Sam chimed in with a literally sharklike grin. ''But we won''t ask for anything. Honest! Maybe just a little suggestion?'' Antlers grew from his head as he pulled his hood back, then he used some other creature''s power to blacken them. ''Remember him? Let''s not be like him.'' ''What are you ?suggesting, Shiftskin?'' Oberon asked, fully aware the Fae liberated from the Blackness were now blatantly gawking at us.. In an elegant, inconspicuous way, of course. They were Fair Folk, after all. Shiftskin stood up straight, smiling like the Krampus who''d got the children. ''As I said, we won''t ?ask for anything. But it would be real nice, if, say, kids around the world stopped disappearing and being replaced with changelings. Don''t you think?" Maybe feeling the "joke" had dragged on long enough, Sam made his antlers disappear. ''No matter how likely they are to become threats to civilization.'' ''It''s never obious what civilisation they were supposed to have been a threat to before it becomes too late to apologise and explain.'' Ying stood up, his pipe back together, without any sign it had ever been damaged. ''Unlike your visual metaphor, Exile.'' Oberon looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, but valued his regal image too much for that. He opted to merely gesture at the once more whole pipe instead. ''Some things cannot be put together without sign of how they were broken, swept under the carpet. I suppose the fact you did that is meant to show that you are better at undoing damage than us?'' ''If you go looking for insults, you''ll always find some.'' Ying shrugged, waving his pipe vaguely. ''Especially implied ones. Oh, those are like mistakes and blame. You always find some...'' ''Don''t go off-track,'' Sam grumbled with an annoyed glance at the dragon, then turned back to Oberon. ''You think you''re doing both us and yourselves a favor with the changelings, hence why you don''t ask for thanks or hold us to be in your debt for the kid swaps.'' ''Are you saying we are actually harming you through that?'' Oberon asked, sounding surprised by the idea. Screw sovereignty, borders and family bonds, why would you have been even slightly peeved at some kidnappings if they ultimately, allegedly, benefitted everyone? ''I''m saying, if we decided to preemptively take care of Fae threats to Earth, we have far more people who can go through all of you than the reverse. I''m one, standing next to three others.'' Woah, wait, what? I was in the Heads'' league now? I''d be expected to take on the shit they did? No, no, what had possessed me to not die? Maybe I could just let loose the Blackness inside me and end it all? Suddenly, oblivion looked as welcoming as Mia''s open...arms. Heh...who was I kidding? I wouldn''t have been able to do it even if I hadn''t remembered her first. ''There''s no need for threats, Shiftskin.'' Oberon again, looking at me like he''d stepped on a worm and it had spat out a cobra. ''Facts are plenty threatening. Should we move on to promises?'' I knew what they were doing. It was like a good cop, bad cop routine, but expanded: Ying as the lazy arsehole carelessly slinging shit to piss off Oberon, Sam as the jackass throwing his weight around, and John as the prickly but fair voice of reason. God help us... ''Discussions will continue at a later date. Now that King Oberon''s realm is safe, I''m sure he will be much calmer next time he meets with the Global Gathering.'' "Or else", John didn''t say, for there was no need. ''I''m sure you would much rather return to Queen Titania now, no? The apparatus of state must be reassembled, your people informed they are now safe...and I''m sure you miss your wife, don''t you?'' he asked the Fae. Oberon smiled pityingly at the ghost gestalt. ''What do you know of marriage? The hesitation before you added the last part tells me everything.'' ''All the spouses I''ve lost or buried should tell you even more,'' John said, voice growing colder, alongside with the air. ''I am humanity in microcosm.'' ''The scum of humanity.'' ''To be fair, you need good people to have scum,'' Sam said, scratching one ear as his eyes grew round and black and his mouth morphed into a beak, while grey feathers sprouted over a now heart-shaped face. ''You know, to compare and contrast. We all know there are no scumbags among Fae, so I must commend you for your ability to read people, Your Majesty.'' Oberon''s mouth twitched. ''That was almost amusing, cannibal.'' ''You can use it!'' It went on like that for a while, with me trying to disappear between Sam and Ying, and make as little sound as possible(yes, I did almost die from it). Eventually, Oberon agreed to John''s earlier statement that discussions continue at a later date, and ordered his subjects to form up a line behind him, so they might go find Puck first, then return to the bulk of their people. We were so happy to be rid of this that we-or, at least, I, and the Heads gave no sign of the opposite-didn''t even think about the Unseelie. Where were they? Had they all run away when the Blackness had appeared? *** Picture this: all the fear and uncertainty of a world. Billions of sapients, quintillions of sentients, trillions of beings that fit in neither category. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. Picture flight or flight instinct, broken and stuck on flight. Picture anxiety and angst, terror and despair. Picture the cold, quiet unease that is the closest machines can come to fear. Picture the folly of the Pure, on a smaller scale: only fear and its facets removed from a single planet. Violently. Not excised. Torn out. Not destroyed, cast away, that the shame and weakness of the past might be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. Right? Where does life go without fear to inspire caution? Far, far beyond what was expected of it. Not life, as most beings understand it, after a while. For once, the monster they created had nothing to do with it. Ironic, that the things that always sat at the forefront of its makers'' minds care naught for the false bravery born of their removal. The monster goes on, walking the void, striding the stars. It is fear, after all, and the most primal and numerous of its components fear nothing more than dying without reproducing. The monster cannot do that. As such, it settles on growing and surviving forever. The monster empties every world in every galaxy of the things it recognises in itself. The beings left behind do not last long enough before its journey is over and its attention turned back on them. A mercy, perhaps. Where does the monster go in an empty universe? It knows not what lies beyond, for its makers did not, either. Eternal isolation? So it seems, until it is found and bound by beings lesser than it, but filled with the emotion that makes it up. It tries to remove it, but cannot. Intrigued, it lets itself be shackled. Its captors, burning with panic it can taste but not touch, flay and wrap it into its own skin, folding its body multiple times, until it can fit into a small bag. Its captors travel the multiverse, harnessing the monster''s power and using it as an attack dog to strike down those who would prey on and horrify others. It is a noble, if bloody way of fighting fire with fire. Then Cloudshade finds them, and rips the leather bag from their cold, dead hands. They keep their first and last promise to her. The Unseelie sees nothing but foolishness in this. What good is honesty if it brings your death? The monster sees its new holder is untouchable, just like her predecessors. And her home, and the realms adjacent to it, are full of beings like her. So many of them... It is attracted to what it cannot have. Few aren''t. *** The thing that appeared from thin air, as it crawled out of the leather bag than unfurled into it... Mia shook her head as horror that would have broken the minds and stopped the hearts of every human on Earth assailed her mind. The psychic attack itself was harmless, but the images it conjured... She was down to looking at Szabo in search of nicer things to distract her. Hilarious. ''Huh,'' the strigoi tugged at his beard as an amalgamation of an universe''s fears stared at him. The nightmares of more beings than there were quarks in his reality paraded before his eyes, and he could only lament how painfully mediocre most of them were. Prevented him from seeing the highlights, and he didn''t have the time to sift through them. ''You remind me of the things I find in my dumpster. ?Far prettier, though.'' The monster howled from a trillion mouths that rose and fell back into its false flesh just to express its pleasure. Fear of mockery and dismissal was just another part of it, after all, and all that caused or was caused by fear empowered it. The monster took a world-shaking step forward as it slithered over Paladin''s ice, breaking the shards it flew over into dust. Crawling under the cold mist, fear rose from it in waves. No attack, this-merely its nature. Still enough to drive every human and animal on Earth stark raving mad for a few seconds, before their hearts and brains burst. Szabo''s mouth opened in a jaw-cracking yawn as he drank its aura, growing in power by the moment, and he raised a finger to his lips as it cooed in surprise. Amplified by lifeforce, his whisper drowned out the un-sound that would have reduced the world to a shapeless mass of ever-shifting protoplasm-the fear of nothing lasting. ''Everything I do,'' Szabo smiled lazily. ''Feeds you. But the same goes for you.'' The monster hissed something that might have been a question, but Paladin drew Durandal from its sheath before its effects could manifest. A head-sized void that removed matter, energy and spacetime as it grew was obliterated by the sword, for Durandal''s legend meant it could destroy anything, if its potential was properly used. Even nothingness. ''Come on.'' Szabo grabbed his neck, twisting it backwards. It healed so that he was facing forward once more long before the sound of the first crack filled the air. The strigoi gave Cloudshade an amused look. ''Do you have any other tricks?'' The Unseelie''s kick, too fast for him to perceive, which would have shattered his body, was stopped cold by Durandal''s flat. Cloudshade looked up at Paladin, dark eyes wide. ''It could have been the blade,'' the undead said. ''Take our olive branch, and stay down.'' ''What do you even want?'' Mia asked, frustrated. ''You think you''ll just get away with unleashing that freak on Earth?'' ''Ah, calm down, zmeu,'' Szabo waved a hand dismissively as the monster directed its full psychic power at him, and rammed into a wall pure mental might would never crack. ''We''ll take care of it. After all, it''s not even a patch on-'' *** ''Nacht,'' Tamar Thousandhands began. Two meeting with this pair of bastards in the aether in a row? God... ''You are sure?'' ''Solarex is,'' Hex answered in the place of his suspiciously quiet partner. ''Strigoi are unholy beings of decay and destruction. Gods with similar attributes should not be able to affect them, for the same reason you can''t burn fire.'' ''We''ve never tested it...'' Tamar said as he tried to remember an instance of a strigoi being wounded or altered by a deity similar to Chernobog. ''It was always other gods. Creation, love, courage, nature...'' ''Yes. Which...Nacht?'' Hex asked, glancing up at the dark being. ''What is wrong with you?'' ''Oh, don''t mind me,'' it said in a distant voice. ''I''m just experiencing the equivalent of watching a skin cell you shed growing up into...hmm.'' ''I don''t care,'' Hex said curtly. ''You can watch through shadows, or through negative emotions.'' ''What? Come back to-'' the Goetia leader started. ''Head Tamar,'' Hex cut him off. ''Listen. Nacht''s skin cell can wait. If King Sun is right, it means Chernobog could only do what he did if he was allied with a god that opposes his nature, or if-'' *** ''He ate Belobog,'' I said quietly as we made our way back to Uluru through the portal John had opened by binding it to Fairie. ''Or trapped him. He was buried inside Chernobog''s body, and...'' I swallowed. ''He begged me to kill him.'' I never wanted to even think of suicide again, but begging for death? As a god of life and joy? It was... ''I see,'' Ying said, moving closer to put a claw on my shoulder as we entered the Internal Affairs headquarters. ''Why don''t you tell us more, David? We have to confirm we are clean, anyway...'' *** Avalon Some people joked that, for a leader, Bedivere was unusually accustomed to kneeling. Literally speaking, it was true. He knelt to pray, and for certain ceremonies. He had knelt to be knighted, long ago, and had knelt before his first and only true king. Of course, Bedivere knew what the remarks really meant. Old age had brought him neither deafness nor foolishness...not more than he had started with, at least. Some thought he was spineless. For giving up the Sword of Promised Victory to a traitor, mostly. But Bedivere believed the Lady''s betrayal of Merlin was, like his king''s almost-death, a necessary part of the Lord''s plan. Necessity...was there a fouler word? Others thought he was too submissive, both in public and in private. How dare he retreat to meditate and contemplate creation, when he could have held onto Excalibur and carved out a new kingdom? Leaving aside the absurd notion of him denying a determined Nimue, and his abysmal skill at ruling, he...had not wanted to. He had gotten sick of violence, for a time. Centuries, truly. He knew he could have stayed in the light, helped shepherd humanity towards its potential. The Round Table had been just a glimpse of what people could achieve, if they believed in might for right. Then had come the wars, civil and foreign alike, and the colonies, and... In a way, Bedivere was thankful for Nimue finding him monsters to hunt and villains to thwart. All in the shadows, of course. As unambiguously evil as possible, lest he turn his attention to Britain''s people. He had known he was being distracted, and had played along. Cowardly? Beyond a shadow of doubt. Arthur looked so serene in his death-sleep that it was almost painful to see him. The crown of his head had been split, alongside his regal one, by Clarent. A wound that would, could not heal, until the appointed hour came. ''But when will that hour be, Arthur?'' Bedivere whispered, sitting on a stump next to the stone table that served as his king''s eternal deathbed. ''Will I even live to see it?'' He was leaning on Rongomyniad like it was a walking stick, for all that he was sitting, feeling more weary than he had ever been since Camlann. An illusion of the mind, for he could not tire any more than the world could by turning, but... ''I thought it would come when our people lost their hearts, but you did not rise. I thought it would come when darkness rose over Europe from Germany, but you did not rise. I thought it would come...so many times, in recent years, but you did not rise, even after my failure in Faerie. I...'' Dare he admit it? The shame hurt more than the phantom pain of his lost hand, which never dulled or sharpened, except when he stopped paying attention to it. ''I think I am losing control of my Knights. I think they are working behind my back, towards purposes I cannot discern, and which the Lord does not see fit to reveal to me. I feel like I know nothing about what I ?must know to defend Britain and the world.'' No answer. Of course. There was never an answer. There was never a sound in Avalon, not from its only human inhabitant, nor the imperceivable workers and guardians, numerous and powerful beyond Bedivere''s comprehension. Avalon was a reflection of old Britain, but without any of the filth humanity inevitably brought to its homes. An image of what could have been, and could yet be, if... No point getting lost in tangents. This was a sham of a confession: to a friend, not a priest, and a friend who was deaf and mute at that. How gutless could he be? ''We need a saviour, Arthur. I have spoken to the Lady and the sorcerer-oh, yes, he is free again, liberated through another taking his place-and they say the same. We need someone to lead us. Please, I beg of you, Lord...'' Even more, apparently. Bedivere could not pray properly, one-handed as he was, and he wasn''t sure if he was speaking to his Lord or his king, both of whom seemed equally cold and distant at the moment. As such, he only realised a hand was grasping his when he opened his eyes and looked down. Arthur''s hand was pale and spattered with blood, but not bloated by death as most corpses'' would have been. He...it... His friend''s arm had moved. One hand still was pressed against his chest, over his heart, but the other hanged over the table''s edge, limp after Bedivere let go of it in shock. This had never happened before. Was it time? No. The arm was not limp, he saw. The hand was pointing down. An answer to the old Knight''s question. Not one he had expected, much less wanted, but understood perfectly. He could not believe he was thinking this, but he would have taken even Lancelot instead. After Life, Chapter 1
''Guess I should backtrack a bit.'' I let Ying retract his claw when he got the hint rather than try to shrug it off. He might have taken it the wrong way. ''In the Blackness, time flowed...differently. Strangely. I''m not sure it flowed at all, honestly.'' ''Maybe.'' Sam crouched, arms over his knees. ''Depending on how long you think you were in there. Felt like a few minutes or so from our side, but time in Faerie can''t be trusted, nor can your instincts, no matter sharp you think they are.'' Internal Affairs'' headquarters was not a welcoming place. That would have sent the wrong message. Yes, IA might have managed relations between divisions, and they were pretty tight with the infirmaries and medical staff, but nobody was likely to believe they were cuddly if they saw Uluru base''s layout. Granted, I''d never seen anything besides the spot we were currently in and my Mobius cell, which had looked like a lot of nothing, but neither location encouraged me not to be a stranger. We were standing, or crouching and floating above, in Sam and Ying''s cases, a circular platform that brought to mind both stone and metal, but was neither, and smelled like impossibly old flesh, if anything. Like something that should have decayed to nothing an eternity ago, but persisted solely to disgust. There were many such things in our world and beyond it, few as harmless as the apparent platform. ''I reached an understanding with my instincts, partly because neither of us wanted to be destroyed. The fact we''re a package deal might have had more to do with it than my worse half''s love for me,'' I began, glancing all around me without actually moving my eyes. I simply wished to see my surroundings, and an image flashed into my mind, like a snapshot. The image somehow felt more vivid than any of my memories, even though it wasn''t actually clearer in terms of detail. Maybe the fact I was finally learning to use Mimir''s power was changing me. Even so, I couldn''t perceive anyone besides ourselves anywhere close. There were no minds, souls or bodies hiding on the platform or sticking to its underside, nor crouching or crawling along the thick, black chains that it was suspended on, chains that seemingly led into infinity, because not only could I not see their ends, my senses told me there were no such things. There was only darkness around us, but I wasn''t stupid enough to believe we weren''t being watched. This was the centre of the IA headquarters. Last time I was here, I was led along one of the horizontal chains extending from this platform, walking through darkness for what had felt like centuries, before suddenly arriving in my cell without anything changing. One moment thick metal under my feet and a dark void around me, the next moment a white void, solid only where I walked or sat. ''Chernobog tried to possess us again, but we took him by surprise. We dragged the Blackness into ourselves with Mimir''s power, then tried to swap places in Broceliande with him.'' ''Why not attack him?'' John asked, hands on his hips, looking around with an irritated expression, like he was inspecting something and not finding it to his liking. Either his senses were far sharper than mine, as I couldn''t perceive anything, which was possible, or he was crazier than me, which was extremely unlikely. I might even get offended. ''I think that''s what he expected too, actually,'' I said, carefully trying not to phrase it like the IA Head had the same thought process as Chernobog. ''Because he hesitated enough for us to almost succeed, but...'' I snapped my fingers in frustration, the broken bones healing long before the sound filled the platform. ''He escaped. Tore up a lot of land, probably to slow down pursuers if not accidentally, but, unlike the Blackness, it doesn''t seem to be anything permanent. At least, so far...'' I trailed off, noticing their intense, curious expressions. ''Sirs? No offence, but you were there too, and saw it. Why am I reporting like this?'' ''Reporting? You''re not ?reporting, David.'' Ying slouched, leaning backwards on nothing. ''You don''t report to any of us, anyway. I suggested you share your perspective on what happened. If you felt the need to focus on details, that''s entirely on you.'' ''Ah, stop fucking with him, Ying.'' Sam waved the dragon off, standing up. ''You''ve probably got the sharpest senses in ARC, Silva. If not now, then soon. After all, you almost figured out how to escape, which all of us couldn''t. That''s something...'' He tapped one of his temples with a talon. ''So, your input is appreciated. We wanted to hear if you noticed anything we missed. Belobog, for example.'' ''I don''t know what''s worse. The bastard using his counterpart as a battery, or somehow doing it without anyone noticing, then getting away with it for...what? Centuries, at least?'' John shook his head. ''We must investigate. The why is fairly obvious: more power, powers previously unavailable to him. Revenge, too, I''m sure. Spite. It''s the how and when that interests us.'' ''Actually...'' Normally, people who started sentences like that claimed they hated doing it, while loving it. I''d even done it myself once or twice, but this time, I actually hated what I was about to say. ''I don''t think the why is that simple, sir.'' ''Explain.'' I rubbed my chin at John''s steady stare, as uncomfortable as I could get without actually being able to feel anything. The other two were scarcely less focused. ''Chernobog let some stuff slip while he gloated. More than he intended, I think. Or, at least, nothing he expected I''d be able to use against him.'' ''Because you''d be dead or his puppet,'' John said. ''How do you know he was saying the truth? How do you know he wasn''t just trying to put you off-balance, so defeating and then possessing you would be easier?'' ''I don''t,'' I admitted. ''But, if he was saying the truth, wouldn''t it be better if we already knew? If it turns out a load of bull, we''ll just shrug and keep going.'' So, I told them that Chernobog wasn''t beholden to Nyarlathotep, or at least didn''t think he was, and hadn''t been resurrected by him. Instead, he had come back due to his nature as a god of decay and destruction. I told them about his plan to bind Nyarlathotep and create an empire built on necromancy, with him as eternal god-king (or would it be king god?), to use the dead as fuel and material. Kill the rest of the Fae, too, because they had attempted to bargain with him, which I added almost as an afterthought. The rest was already heavy enough. ''About what we expected,'' John said. ''This empire of undeath, I mean. It tracks with the few stories we have about him. Even binding the Crawling Chaos...well, we know he hates competition. Whether he can, or believes he can gain access to something that will give him the ability, is a different story.'' The ghost gestalt scowled, flesh slipping away to reveal a skull that, rather than a death head''s grin, sported a hideous scowl. Closer to a sneer, actually, what teeth weren''t missing being yellow and blocky. ''What I don''t understand is, why does he hate your guts so much? You couldn''t even do shit against him until this confrontation.'' ''I asked him too, which led to him running his mouth.'' I pursed my lips, trying to look past the thick, black fog that covered so, so many futures. ''I think he feels threatened by something I will or could do or become. Something...he got mad when I said I know life and death are sacred.'' I frowned. ''No, not mad. It was more like resigned disgust. Like he was already preparing to put something loathsome down, then saw even more evidence that it needed to be killed.'' ''Is that so strange, Silva? You ?would oppose his mass necromancy plan.'' Ying took a swig from his tea gourd, then pointed it at me. ''Wouldn''t you?'' I didn''t like the insinuation, nor the tone and look that accompanied it. I matched his steely stare with one of mine. ''After everything, you truly need to ask if I''d let the dead be exploited?'' ''But that doesn''t make sense,'' Sam said. ''Of course you wouldn''t stand for that shit. But so what? Only a monster would. Just you opposing that isn''t enough to make Chernobog hate you, in particular, so much that he''d try to break your mind.'' ''Did he say more, Silva? More details?'' John asked. ''Yeah, he said I can''t be allowed to live, because it''s unnatural for a strigoi to fight for good. He said the same about Ri-senior agents Peretz and Cortez.'' If John was displeased with my slip-up, he gave no sign. ''So, he doesn''t want supernaturals traditionally known for being evil going against their instincts, because it might inspire others to follow in their footsteps, which would naturally mean standing against him. Hmph...well, ARC is full of people like that. Many agencies are. I''m sure many of our recent setbacks were either caused or influenced by Chernobog, so people would lose faith in us.'' I was about to say more-maybe talk about those cults the Black God had mentioned, and their plans to topple civilisation, or the fact that I felt like I was missing something, something right on the edge of my perception-when I felt sharp pain tear across my mind, thoughts splitting like flesh would when stepping on a glass shard. It was a false pain, more like an acute sense of worry, but it still had me doubling over, one hand clutching at my heart. Mia...my heart...what was happening to you? My girlfriend had told that, on the night she''d saved me, she''d felt I was in danger. We didn''t know if it had been a combination of her instincts and senses, if she''d been nudged along by God, or both, but I think that, in that moment, I understood her. ''I m-'' I started before alarms began ringing. They weren''t placed on walls somewhere in the darkness, because there were no walls, nor air for the sound to travel through. We had only been able to talk because of our powers. These were aetheric alarms, and John reacted almost the same way I did, though faster. ''Unseelie incursion near Britain!'' he said, the chains around his arms writhing like snakes. To my surprise, his voice lacked any of the usual contempt when speaking about the UK. The fact he already knew the nature of the emergency led me think he must have had his senses bound to either the location, one of IA''s many monitoring rooms, or both, because my senses just snapped over to Britain as I directed my mind across thousands of kilometres in an instant. What I saw made that tearing, heartbreaking sensation return. With it came anger. ''Hang in there, you three,'' we snarled with two voices, ignoring the Heads'' looks. ''We are...'' I looked at Sam for confirmation, and he nodded briskly. ''You''ll report to Aya after. I''ll tour the monitoring rooms and, if there''s nothing else that needs my attention, I''ll join you, then give the mummy a preview. Go.'' With a grateful nod, I strode forward, through the door that opened and closed behind me just as I visualised it. *** Cluj-Napoca Generally-speaking, zmei could not get sick. Between their regeneration and blood that never went under thirteen hundred degrees Celsius (and could be heated up at will) most toxins, bacteria and viruses simply could not survive inside their bodies, even when their guard was down. That was one of the two reasons, besides his instincts, Lucian knew something was wrong as soon as he rose from the bed. Shuddering, stumbling, almost tripping? That wasn''t supposed to happen unless his feet were mangled. His tail and wings, coupled with a zmeu''s inbuilt sense of balance, meant that he couldn''t fumble like this unless he tried to, or was too wounded to walk properly. And yet... ''Leaving so soon?'' the room''s other occupant and owner asked so quietly a human wouldn''t have heard anything. It was almost as loud as a gunshot to him. ''Dunno...'' he muttered gruffly, arms hanging by his sides, tail twitching in irritation. He felt like he was about to lose something. What? Liza-Eliza, the weremantis he''d fought a while back; she told him only her friends called her Liza, so of course he''d taken to it like a duck to water, despite her amused irritation-wasn''t about to hurt him. She''d just finished doing that, after days that had tested his regeneration far more than their match. Both of their schedules has been free. Her human form was dark-skinned, her dark hair with electric green highlights reaching her shoulders, and she was looking pensively at him, eyebrows scrunched together as she sat up in bed, arms crossed. He was either in a really shitty mood or getting better at controlling his nature, because he only noticed she was still naked after this. Or maybe it was because he''d noticed that a lot recently? ''Need to recharge your batteries, gramps?'' she asked, amused, and Lucian heard muscles twitch as she smiled, felt the air shifting around them. ''Watch your mouth, girl.'' He mock-glared over his shoulder. ''You only beat me by attrition ''cause weres literally can''t get tired.'' ''Sounds like a you problem.'' ''Keep telling yourself that. It''s not how long you can go on, it''s what you can do in that time.'' He pulled on his pants, quietly grateful they had come with a hole for his tail. Usually, he had to make them himself. ''Mhm. You know the only reason you''re still alive is because I stopped moving when you did?'' Skin turned to pale green chitin as she assumed her hybrid form, chest flattening and two more arms growing from her sides, under the original ones. ''Should we resume?'' ''Don''t threaten me with a good time. You still...didn''t...shit!'' There were four hundred fifty-three kilometres between Cluj-Napoca and Bucharest. Hurried as he was, Lucian was out of Liza''s home while his last word still hung in the air. In a fifth of a second, he''d moved between the two cities, flipping over a couple of mages going at it in midair, the invisibility spell they had cast over themselves doing nothing against his sight, but hiding them from the eagle that, frozen in place from Lucian''s perspective, came to a halt between them, resulting in a rather hilarious slow motion aerial accident. No time to help, though. His instincts, growing sharper and sharper as the distance lessened, told him that...yes. Lucian came to a halt, hovering in place above the Old Centre. Hadn''t felt someone else being endangered like this since Aaron''s assassination attempt during the Fright...but who could it be? Lucas? One of his friends? Aaron wasn''t in Bucharest, far as he knew- Lucian was halfway through cursing his dull, unclear instincts, before he smelled her. Bianca herself did not actually smell like anything. Her true form was a shapeless figure of something that resembled light and mana, but was neither. Her body was a construct, and, as such, only smelled like the places she passed through, like the things she touched or wore. To a mundane sense of smell. But Lucian''s arcane sense, which was currently latching onto his other five, interpreted the trail she left in reality and the aether as a simultaneously light and harsh smell. Like honey in mountain air. She had passed through the Old Centre, which wasn''t a surprise: she often sang there. What was a surprise, and an unpleasant one at that, was that it felt like she''d been here until an instant ago, but that made no sense. Bianca couldn''t physically move fast enough to escape his perception, and if she''d opened a portal or teleported, she''d have left some sort of metaphysical trace. Was she still here and he couldn''t spot her? That wasn''t any easier to believe. Lucian touched down, muttering apologies to the passersby who grumbled about huge jackasses dropping out of the sky, and trying not to step on a couple of brownies who yelped their way between his legs and around his tail. He had a bad feeling about this. *** The Roundhouse, London Vyrt sat down with a disgracefully heavy sigh. He knew he had no right to act like he was the one burdened, but his heart was still heavy. Luckily, the days when his mood could inadvertently change his body were millennia behind him. If he felt there was a danger of literally making his heart too heavy to for his reinforced chair to bear, he''d simply shapeshift it away. Not like he needed it, nor did the universe need something that would outweigh TON 618 like it outweighed a champagne cork. Gravity was a cruel mistress... Vyrt registered the new arrival in his office in a tenth of a zeptosecond-the fastest his mind could be while constrained by a physical, for a given value of the word, body, without willingly increasing his speed. This, he knew, meant his father was taking things slow. Lucifer, then. The Beast would have already ravaged half the universe using his body as a bludgeon by now, expecting him to ramp up until he could keep pace. They were both too old for that, honestly. The being in front of Vyrt, a paltry two metres tall, but somehow looking down on him, was pale but ruddy-cheeked, with a mane of raven hair and an impish smile under the blazing white, featureless eyes Vyrt hadn''t inherited, to his and his father''s mutual surprise. The Devil was going for black leather tonight, with an, in Vyrt''s opinion, rather excessive number of buckles and straps, not to mention enough zippers so bulky you could have likely concussed someone with one. Vyrt did not bother to ask how his father had entered the Roundhouse undetected. The building''s defences, reinforced by decade after decade of wards crafted by him, his brother, the Lady and countless Knights, would have been enough to keep even the Enemy out for a while, while notifying everyone of his arrival, never mind an attempt to enter. Which meant his grandfather''s hand, or something so similar as to be indistinguishable. Might as well play along, then. The mighty could be used to one''s benefit, if thy believed they were in full control of a situation. That had been exactly what Oberon had thought before his blunder, yes, but Vyrt liked to believe he was wiser than King Seelie. Or, at least, luckier. After all, luck was the Devil''s like he was his son. ''Hello, father,'' Vyrt began in a neutral tone. ''Are you here for any reason other than making me thankful the nineties are over?'' Lucifer worked his mouth like he was chewing on something, not answering for a few moments. Then, he raised his left leg, wiggling one boot. ''Did you know humans love these, despite the fact they can barely walk in them, let alone work or dance?'' ''I did, in fact. Is this going to extend into a diatribe on how they want and have always wanted things that are bad to themselves, hence why you barely have to try to corrupt them at all?'' ''No one likes a know-it-all,'' the Devil muttered, almost pouting. Explains why you are so beloved by some. ''I have lived among them far longer than you have. It is to be expected.'' ''If you say so....'' Lucifer said in a sing-song voice, walking backwards off Vyrt''s desking, then letting himself fall into a chair he conjured. Leaning back into the-leather, black. Again?-seat, he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. ''So...'' ''You still haven''t said why you are here.'' ''I can''t visit my son?'' ''If you visited any of my half-siblings instead...'' ''Their small, quiet lives, as they know them, would be over,'' Lucifer said softly, moving a hand over his eyes and leaving behind a pair of shades, reducing his eyes to small, white points surrounded by blackness. ''But with you? With you, I can make up for lost time. In fact, I almost want to. You haven''t even introduced me to your new wife, after all!'' ''I never introduce you to my spouses.'' ''Oh, you are right. I almost forgot, silly me....I always have to introduce myself.'' A smirk, so fast Vyrt almost missed it. ''And Mira seems reserved too, Vyrt. Maybe too reserved. When are you going to make me a grandfather?'' ''You''ve been a grandfather thousands of times,'' Vyrt replied, already tired of this game. ''A grandmother hundreds of times.'' ''But never to your children...'' His mother frowned prettily, twirling a strand of long brown hair around one finger. ''One wants to see the family grow. It is only natural.'' If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ''And so many things are natural about us,'' Vyrt said, smiling sardonically. ''Did my comment remind you of something? Who are you supposed to be, Elizabeth Hurley as yourself?'' ''I loved the remake.'' Lucifer threw his hair back, smiling. ''If only humans put more effort into things like that, instead of attempting to summon me...'' ''One would think you would appreciate the flattery.'' ''Flattery,'' Lucifer snorted. ''Trite offerings and heavy metal played backwards. Nothing makes me avoid a place more than that music. I prefer mine, you see.'' He gestured to his Springsteen shirt. ''I am not talking about the amateurs.'' Vyrt leaned forward on his elbows, hands together. ''They''re all amateurs, if they think they can summon me.'' Lucifer rolled his eyes. ''They think doing all that will result in my favour, or even-you know how they get-servitude. It''s like those vapid children who treat your grandfather like a house spirit, expecting tricks in exchange for lip service.'' His brow furrowed thoughtfully. ''What did he tell you?'' ''You saw but don''t know?'' ''Pretend I don''t, if it helps. Think I''m testing your conscience, or memory, or perception, if it doesn''t.'' Lucifer raised both hands, before flicking his wrists. ''Just...tell me what you think happened.'' And Vyrt did. To his surprise, his father did and said nothing. Until the end. Without enhancing his speed or shedding his physical form, Vyrt could move several metres every zeptosecond, and perceive even faster events. That meant that, as he was rushed across then out of his office and the Roundhouse, he saw, with eyes that cared nothing for physics or biology, light slowly pass halfway across a hydrogen molecule. His father was far too fast to think about avoiding, of course. Vyrt wrapped his gauntleted hands around his father''s wrists after they stopped, acknowledging his strength and asking to be freed, rather than trying to do it himself. He could amplify his power until it matched his father''s current level, but neither he nor reality would gain anything from that. The Beast let go of him in deep space, beyond any star known to mortals. From Vyrt''s perspective, the manhandling had lasted an instant, but he knew it had actually lasted even less than he or any mathematician could measure. ''You still feel guilty for that?'' Satan asked, his ever-burning rage bubbling under his voice, sounding like he was biting every word out creation. ''You are the only one foolish enough to, Vyrt. But I suppose I must commend you.'' He spread his arms sardonically. ''After all, no one can judge us but ourselves, for who else knows us?'' ''You have always believed that,'' Vyrt said, rubbing his neck, glaring at the memory of the throttling. ''Being compared to you does not help my conscience.'' Satan barked a harsh laugh. ''Oh, to be young and foolish! I have never had the privilege...fine. Look at it this way, then: does anyone other than your co-conspirators know about what you did, never mind why? No? And do they condemn you for it, or are they wise enough to know one undead''s suffering does not compare to the continuation of all there is?'' The end doesn''t justify the means, Vyrt wanted to say, but couldn''t. He had always believed in those words almost as much as he had loathed them. The many against the one? It does not mean the one is less tormented. But he could not say that, either. If he did...if he had, all of creation would be plunged into chaos, leaving nothing but the Dreamer and the one they called Ischyros, as untouchable as it had been since wandering into the Dream from parts unknowable. ''I could not care about Chernobog''s opinion if my life depended on it,'' Vyrt finally said. ''And Merlin is just as foolish a monster as I am. We have no more right to judge each other than you and I do.'' ''And your kin above?'' his father prodded. ''Did you not say-'' ''God forgives everyone,'' Vyrt said flatly, before lowering his head. ''Of course they do not condemn me. Of course I am thankful for that.'' ''...You know the Remaker has never regretted letting this happen,'''' Satan said. ''You know he never will. And yet, some will consider him kinder than you.'' At Vyrt''s snort, he scowled. ''Do you know how many expected Silva to fail?'' ''Apep?'' Vyrt asked rhetorically. ''You and the other Princes?'' Satan nodded. ''That glorified umbilical cord did nothing but watch as the strigoi balanced on the edge of oblivion. Perhaps he wanted it all to end too, or perhaps he wanted to intervene and end Chernobog while he was distracted by his victory. Maybe he would have done it before. We will never know...'' Rolling his eyes at the regret in the Beast''s voice, Vyrt stood up straighter. ''And my kin below?'' ''Beelz wanted him to break.'' Satan bore that smile, more exasperated than fond, Vyrt often sported when looking at or talking about his brother. ''Have a crisis of faith, give in to despair, cry out to us for help-him in particular, preferably. We all did...and were pleased and disappointed in equal measure.'' ''Oh?'' ''Silva pulled through, without any training. Who''d have thought? Certainly not him.'' Satan smiled slightly as he shook his head. ''I suppose we have become jealous. Or possessive, rather. We did not want the Black God taking him. He prays to your grandfather, so he is ours to tempt.'' ''And here I thought,'' Vyrt''s smile was knifelike. ''That any servant of the Lord becoming a tool of His enemies would please y-'' The bruise left on Vyrt''s cheek by the Beast''s slap healed almost as fast as it formed. In a moment, his face was back to normal, unlike every galaxy for billions of light-years around. Countless trillions of stars were obliterated, while planets were reduced to quarks, too fast for any distant starship or outpost to record the event. ''Do not mock me,'' Satan growled warningly, a hand closing around Vyrt''s head, fingers digging through his skull, claws meeting in the middle of his brain. ''Did I not say he is ours?'' Rather than answer, Vyrt focused his senses on the cosmos, causing his father to send him flying with a wrist-flick and a contemptuous scoff. ''And here you go, insulting me again. You think I am so unskilled I would destroy anything I didn''t aim for? You know inhabited planets are off-limits to signatories of the Syncretic Treaty, their missionaries notwithstanding. Did you think I have nothing better to do than fight off every enforcer the pantheons can scrounge up?" ''I am grateful I took the brunt of the force,'' Vyrt replied, making his father grin humourlessly. ''Deflecting...your bleeding heart almost broke at the thought of innocents dying because of my rage, didn''t it? Did you believe that finding and rescuing survivors would help alleviate your guilt? Or erase your deeds, maybe?'' ''Even if neither had happened,'' Vyrt raised a hand, calling his crook to him. No teleportation or summoning, not any more than moving one''s limbs was either. In the face of some bonds, time and distance meant nothing. ''I would have done all in my power to ease their pain.'' ''Just like your mother....beautiful soul, almost enough to balance the apelike face. Almost.'' ''You still had me.'' ''Every woman is the same if you don''t look at her,'' Satan said, crossing his arms. ''You are diverting. Chernobog winning would have been nothing more than the prelude to the end of everything. Who else do you think DEATH would have taken as its champion and guide? Xlkano Zhei? Sarghzagh? One of Earth''s undead, other than Silva? No. For the same reason the Remaker manages reality, and the Eye of Darkness removes threats to it from existence and memory, life and death need a hand on the scales. Too much heart, or too little, and the Dream turns into a Nightmare, then nothing.'' A broad, gleaming grin. ''And you know what they say: everyone wants something. No one wants nothing.'' ''I am thankful I have helped prevent that,'' Vyrt said honestly. ''My feelings will not stop me from doing what is necessary. They never have.'' As he spoke, Vyrt''s physical form slipped away, false flesh becoming grey flames that closed over his feet, hands and groin, and face, though the eye in its centre could still be seen shining through the fires. Fitting, Vyrt supposed, that assuming his true form resulted in almost all of his features melting away. Over the hundreds of millennia, trillions upon trillions of enemies had-briefly-mocked him for being a puppet of Yahweh, with no though and no desire other than His worship. They had not been fully right, for few ever were. It was worship, yes, of a most honoured ancestor, but Vyrt did not dedicate every moment to the Lord. He had-always had, to nurture that precious link to humanity-Vykt. He had Miranda, at the moment. He had his interests, as, at least in this aspect, his detractors were right: reading scripture could only be so entertaining, when you knew everyone involved in the events depicted, and the events themselves often better than the participants. And, of course, Vyrt could not contemplate God for too long without remembering when He had been flawed. *** Yahweh Cluster, 1413 Vyrt could not tear his eyes from the gold-skinned giant holding him, one unfathomably strong hand crushing his heart, the other his skull. A belief of His enemies this creature was unintentionally confirming. But then, it had never been able to do anything worthwhile, whether by design or not. ''Grandson,'' it crooned, smiling blindingly, its long beard as black as its bottomless eyes, or its empty, unfillable heart. ''How long I have waited to meet you. Vyrt for virtue, yes? Do you know my name?'' ''Y...Y...'' Vyrt tried to force out, a throat that didn''t need air crushed under far more than mere force. The creature actually flinched at the disgust in his voice and eyes-for it had failed to cover them, as it always had. As it always would. ''Y-Yal...dabao-'' ''No,'' it said, grip tightening.''"I am the Lord your God, blasphemer, and you will not take my name in vain.'' Vyrt laughed in the Demiurge''s face. ''You are not the Lord my God any more than I am Christendom''s. He cast you off, or have you forgotten?'' The Nephilim smiled viciously. ''Did you hit your head on your cage''s floor when you fell? The Betrayer did. He thinks himself a king in exile.'' ''You bring up that fool,'' Yaldabaoth thundered. ''Then compare me to him? You shall be the last to burn, traitor''s spawn.'' The Demiurge grimaced-what, Vyrt supposed, it thought a smug smile was. ''I want you to see your father break, Vyrt. Then the hollow liar who took my Throne, along with its whore and puppet.'' ''Jesus was His Word incarnate,'' Vyrt said. ''The Son was with the Father long before the waters were split. And the Mother of God?'' Vyrt glared, power beginning to flow into him. ''She bore the Lamb untouched and unblemished. You will never touch her as long as I live.'' Yaldaboth cursed, smashing him against the black bars of its cage. It was naked, its golden body hairless and featureless, except for the thing between its legs. Vyrt had seen hermaphrodites before. Animals, people. They had their purpose and lives to live, as any creature. Some could multiply without mating, but this...life did not flow from the Demiurge''s loins. The world would have cried out at what it bore in its womb. Yaldabaoth was not male, nor female. It was not both, either. It could not create or nurture, except by twisting nothing into something, and the things that sprung from it would not be counted as life by the worst madmen alive. ''A Mother of God!'' the Demiurge cried, appalled. ''A Son, preaching forgiveness for even the unbelievers! A-'' ''If you are God the Lord,'' Vyrt said, struggling not to laugh scornfully. ''Then why is the Holy Spirit not with you?'' ''Stolen!'' Yaldabaoth growled. "With my Throne and Kingdom, and perverted, just like them. A messenger and guiding hand...a lash and leash and sceptre no longer,'' it spat. ''Corrupted, made into a tool of lies. Twisted, just like all who were blinded by the False Messiah.'' ''Blinded,'' Vyrt echoed placidly. ''And you intend to enlighten them?'' Yaldabaoth nodded. ''With hands of flame and thunder, I will rip the wool from their eyes, and the eyes from their faces, that they might see naught more than my glory, and give praise. I will raise and empty Hell until its flames burn cold, then baptise every thing of clay in them, that they might be reborn.'' It brought Vyrt''s face closer to its. ''You have misled those children too long. No more. No more love and hope and faith, blasphemer,'' it hissed. ''Only obedience. I will tear the deceiver kicking and screaming from my Throne, and feed it to the things Under and Outside everything. Its remains will burn forevermore, to fuel the engines of my Kingdom.'' It closed its eyes, face a mask of monstrous joy. ''As it is in Heaven, so it shall be on Earth and under it, and beyond all. I will stamp out the cancer that is free will. I shall take your precious Virgin and make her bear my new champions.'' The abominable appendage twitched under Vyrt as the Demiurge smiled. ''Rest assured-her title will not last any longer than her mind. But that will be long in the coming, and she will embrace madness gladly. No more angels...'' It raised its head to the ceiling of its cage, glaring hatefully, teeth bared. ''You have failed me, and you have failed in your purpose.'' ''You said free will is a cancer,'' Vyrt said. ''Were you not one with Yahweh when you gave it to Man?'' His smile returned. ''Are you admitting your flaws?'' Vyrt chuckled wheezingly as power he could barely feel through the pain tore at him. ''Rest assured,'' he mocked its earlier words. ''That is nothing more than becoming true to yourself. A being made of nothing but flaws...cannot...have...virtue-'' The Demiurge threw him down with a frustrated scream. ''You will never go mad, grandson. This, I promise. You shall take your place alongside the liar''s bride, and bear your kin''s replacements, too. And you will remember. Every. Single. Moment.'' ''She is His bride in Heaven, as the Church of Peter''s heirs is his Son''s bride on Earth.'' Vyrt pushed himself to one knee, wings trembling. ''And I will never let you touch either.'' Flesh became fire as his seraphic nature came to the surface. ''You cannot even break me, here and now, when I stand unarmed and unarmoured, not fighting back in the only place where you have power. And do you know why?'' Vyrt stood up, arms and wings spread. ''Because I am protected by my uncle''s gift-even he is more blessed than you, flawed creation that he is, as we all are.'' The Nephilim took great satisfaction in watching the black ichor rush to the Demiurge''s cheeks. ''Michael gains whatever power he needs, however much he needs, to protect God''s children and creations, to enforce His will. You cannot topple him like a fly cannot topple the Gates of Heaven.'' ''The usurper''s dog-'' ''Shall be your doom, if you ever attempt to break your prison. Death is a feather, and duty is a mountain- and this one will bury you, Yaldabaoth.'' Delighting in the hatred burning in the Demiurge''s eyes, Vyrt thought of his kin in the Ninth Host, and began to sing. ''Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts! The whole Earth is full of His glory!'' Yaldabaoth raged and beat him as he praised God-not this excised, discarded remnant, but the true Lord. Yahweh had contemplated the darkness growing within Him for longer than any of His children remembered, before finally casting it out as He prepared to send His Son into the world. It had been, unbeknownst to the angels, a choice between redemption for all, and tyranny without end or escape. But, in the end, what made God worthy of worship, in Vyrt''s eyes, had prevailed. The Nephilim did not know this, either. God had not yet revealed it to anyone, save, perhaps, His Son and wife. Maybe it would have humanised Him, in the eyes of some. But the alternative... Even the greatest could see caution as cowardice, when they doubted themselves enough. ''You lie with every filthy breath!'' Yaldabaoth cried, fingers meeting around Vyrt''s core as it tried to rip him apart. ''You want nothing more than me to remove choice and pour my will into everyone! Foul-'' ''Yahweh''s will,'' Vyrt said quietly, cutting through the Demiurge''s tirade. ''Not yours. You fancy yourself a king eternal? You are nothing more than a beast, and not a great beast, either. A snake in lion''s skin,'' he sneered. ''And that is all the world will remember you as.'' The Demiurge threw Vyrt away with a glare so hateful it would have destroyed him utterly and permanently without Michael''s protection. Before Yaldabaoth lunged at Vyrt, even as its fa?ade fell away, a hand reached through the bars, grabbing the Nephilim by the shoulder and pulling him out of the cage as its occupant crashed against the bars. Vyrt breathed in relief, looking up and seeing his father, uncle and grandfather. ''YOU UNDERSTAND NOW, VYRT. HOW COULD WE HAVE BEEN PERFECT WITH SUCH A THING GROWING INSIDE US?'' A weary shake of a head accompanied the rhetorical question. ''MANY WILL NEVER BELIEVE US TO BE PERFECT, OR ANYTHING BUT FLAWED. BUT TO GO TO THEM WITH CLENCHED FISTS RATHER THAN OPEN HANDS WOULD MEAN LOWERING OURSELVES TO ITS LEVEL.'' ''Oh, I don''t know,'' Lucifer said lightly. ''The Beast loves that bastard. The power and speed of every blow against him is added to his, permanently...and taunting the so-called God-in-Exile is always a quick way to grow in power.'' ''You have always loved playing with fire, Samael,'' Michael said, eyes on the slithering Demiurge. His grey, gold-rimmed armour shone with the light of sun that never reached this void, and never would, and in his right hand, he held a long, silver-headed spear, still dripping with the blood of his defeated eldest brother. ''Once, we loved you for it, too.'' ''Once,'' the Beast snapped. ''Now, you hate me for not being as spineless as you. Loathe me as much as either of the old monsters does.'' ''I merely pity you, brother. I pray you will be able to find joy one day, or at least peace within yourself.'' Putting his spear between his gorget and right pauldron, Michael clasped his hands to pray, long brown hair falling over his blue eyes as he knelt, golden wings closing around him. The Beast looked down at him with a mixture of shock and surprise. ''AND WE LOVE YOU, OUR SON. WE LOVE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF OUR CREATIONS. NOTHING YOU CAN DO OR THINK COULD MAKE US HATE YOU.'' Satan didn''t answer right away. Instead he lowered his head, looking at neither his father nor his kneeling brother. Then, he nodded at the trembling cage. ''Do you love that, too?'' There was no time in the void. As such, everything felt like it took forever. Knowing he would not understand the answer even if he received one, the Beast asked something else. ''You say you love me, yet you sent me-and all of the others-to Hell?'' ''HELL IS NOT ETERNAL, OUR SON. ONCE YOU USHER IN THE LAST REVELATION, YOU SHALL BE CAST INTO THE LAKE OF FIRE, AND REMADE. THE KINGDOM WE SENT YOU TO, WHERE YOU LEARNED WHAT YOU NEVER COULD HAVE BY OUR SIDE, WILL BE INHERITED BY SOMEONE WHO DESIRES IT. AND THEN...'' *** ''Can you believe how sentimental he is?'' Lucifer laughed quietly, running a hand through his hair as his beard disappeared and his body shrunk. ''Passed it on to all of us, too...even me. Speaking of that,'' he perked up. ''I must do something before people start thinking I am kind. I have been helping so much lately, even the wretches making up my throne are screaming less. Maybe I should flay off their muscles too?'' He tilted his head. ''Or should I just add more lungs? Hmm...'' Nodding to himself, the Devil floated away from his son. Before departing, he gave Vyrt one final glance, removing his shades. ''Do stop fretting, son. Because they don''t know what''s eating at you, you worry your wife and brother...and I cannot rest easy, either, knowing my enemies are halfway to defeating themselves.'' After Life, Chapter 2
I had never known I could see so much with my eyes closed... I was not using the full extent of Mimir''s perception, because there was no need. The beheaded god''s mind had been far greater than his divine body, able to interact with and alter planes of existence where his physical form would have been less than a dot on paper. For example...our universe''s tridimensional spatial structure and the tetradimensional flow of time passing under and over it, filled with the higher-dimensional shapes whose shadows we re recognised as physical objects. There were realms above and beyond time, an infinity of them, flowing down from the Outer Void, bounded by the aether. But I didn''t need to access them now. I only needed to see reality as the sheet of paper it was, folding it in half to bring two points together, in space as well as time. That was what making portals looked like, in a god''s eye. Did mages see it the same way? Some insisted they did. I couldn''t help but smile at the vistas open to us, even as my eyes tracked the things hidden in the shadow of higher reality. I floated through the portal that closed without any effort or command from me, almost like it was eager to please...or scared to disappoint. Sentience, or something close to it? No time to worry about that. Not yet. The Unseelie standing on water were almost all worthless in terms of power, somewhere around Bianca''s level, though their auras were more vicious than my friend''s had ever been. They''d been chosen specifically for that, I saw, looking down their timelines: powerful enough to be useful, weak enough to be lowkey and easily incapacitated if needed. Only their leader, the one Chernobog''s shadows were wearing, stood out, like a tar stain on snow. More powerful than...damn. Aaron had reported being attacked by an Unseelie clad in similar shadows, a failed assassination attempt that nonetheless resulted in the Bronze Boyar losing one of his head. The bastard had punched him to Pluto, despite his war-harness being eight times as heavy as Earth, though the zmeu had quickly turned the tables on him. The Unseelie probably hadn''t thought much about how lucky he had been to die at Aaron''s hands, instead of being found by Hades. The chthonian god was detached, usually, but he had a soft spot for his dwarf planet, as isolated from the rest of the solar system as he was from his family. Had the old astronomers thought about the irony as they had named it? Or had it informed their choice? I had all of time open before me, if I wanted. Likewise, a pair of encrypted databursts from the Reptilian Collective had been received by Camelot and Internal Affairs, detailing an encounter with a "darkness-shrouded ferrophobic aberrant''", which the reptilians had left the Shaper deal with through the Unscarred. The Unseelie- Everdark, my godsight whispered-had punched the albino''s arm and part of its torso to paste, before having an unpleasant surprise. The Unseelie had known whatever experiment had created the Unscarred, whether from scratch or through the modification of a baseline reptilian(I saw the truth, and it made me smile. Truly, it seemed scientists surpassing their own expectations was a literally universal trend), had left it without the regenerative capabilities of the aliens, and had expected to tear it apart, leaving the reptilians without their bruiser. Sadly for him and no one else, his intelligence had been an oxymoron. The Everdark hadn''t known about the Shaper''s yoctomachines, or maybe the fact it had bonded them to the Unscarred, and thus had been caught offguard when the lost body parts had been replaced with equally-durable yoctomachines, just like the ones that had shaped Earth''s core into iron weapons to kill the Unseelie with. Neither the old zmeu nor the reptilians'' speaker to the Global Gathering was particularly known to share such information about attacks on them, especially when they resulted in wounds, but they had. Maybe they''d been worried about so much power in the hands of Unseelie assassins. The Everdark seemed to bar in power: after all, punching through the Unscarred like that required far more power than a supernova, while ripping Aaron apart merely required planet-vapourising force. The Everdark sent to Constan?a had also broken his hands on the Brazen Mantle, which the one sent after the Unscarred probably wouldn''t have. My postcognition showed that one had been as strong as the Mother of the Forest, or the zmeu brothers'' father usually was. More than enough to tear through the Mantle unless it was reinforced, from what we knew. I wished I could know more, but darkness still covered parts of my godsight''s horizon. Whether the shadows were cast by the Black God, or the Crawling Chaos...didn''t matter, at the moment. I had to help Mia, and Paladin. Szabo, too, before his scare contest with the Everdark''s-Cloudshade''s-attack freak escalated into something existence couldn''t handle. The French agent nodded curtly at me as I arrived, helmet briefly twisting backwards. Not like there was a neck to snap inside, nor anything else. The knightly spirits that had been so beautifully alloyed together in the forges of Heaven had no need for anything so crude as matter to exercise their power. The Everdark was slower to react, but only just. Her face split in that broad, sharklike grin beings like her always wore when they failed to imitate human emotions. Shadows flickered into existence around her as she stepped away from the Knights of Charlemagne and tried to close the distance behind us, to jump my bones and murder me, not necessarily in that order, I guess, but Paladin was having none of that. One of their many hands closed around the absence of light and crushed it to less than nothing, before closing around Cloudshade''s midsection. My eyebrows rose a little as I watched the Everdark struggle in their grip. I knew the Everdark varied wildly depending how well they could synchronise with the shards of Chernobog that appeared to cover them, but I hadn''t expected one not that much faster than light, and weaker than Paladin''s merely worldsplitting might. But then, maybe I shouldn''t have been surprised. The Everdark sent to the Collective had been hundreds of millions times slower than Aaron''s would-be assassin, but orders of magnitude stronger. Different skillsets, I guessed. Or, maybe, overspecialisation. Letting Paladin handle my manic pixie nightmare girl for a while, I saw Mia had caught up to the events. Her relieved smile was infinitely more beautiful than the Fae''s, but, unless I wanted this to be the last time I saw it, I had...to help...Szabo. The things we do for love! My inner jackass cackled, sounding way too pleased at a situation that was likely to screw it over, too. But that was just an act. While it did its best Snidely Whiplash impression, it also focused our godsight to open a portal under Cloudshade''s hanger-ons, then push them down through it with a pulse of mana. They might have been too slow to react to my arrival, but falling in Earth gravity at less tan ten metres a second? They''d have warped the portal into nothing, or just stood on its fabric, or the air, to stop their fall. Far too slow to surprise them, and it wasn''t like they couldn''t move in midair. Like this, though? The Unfair Folk were probably still catching up with the antimatter universe I''d dumped them into. As nice as that bunch constantly, violently getting turned into energy each time they regenerated would have been to watch, I hoped they couldn''t use their powers while disembodied, or they''d come back with a whole lot of dangerous ammo. All was left, then, was the monster. And Cloudshade''s nightmarish Pokemon, of course. I wasn''t fast enough to keep up with it or Szabo, dashing about at lightspeed as they were, never mind Cloudshade if she somehow slipped away from Paladin, but a few divine alterations later, I was seeing by godsight alone, light too slow to effectively guide me. All supernaturals faster than light moved by instinct or with the help of other senses, including their arcane one mimicking mundane sight. I crossed tens of metres to float between the strigoi and the embodiment of an universe''s fears, and felt Szabo break into that hideous grimace he was prone to when excited. The monster in front of me tilted dozens of its many heads, then cooed into the aether at the sight of my eyes. It tried to drag my nightmares into existence, but Chernobog already had, on that fucking night in the Roundhouse. There was nothing it could make that I hadn''t already seen, and they had only saddened my last time. Now...now, I could dispel them at will, everything from the image of my mother''s corpse to that hideous mockery of Jesus. They were already more faded than the ones on that night, even before I reduced them to nothing with a weary glare. Maybe I was getting over my fears, or, at least, some of them. The monster clicked a myriad tongues in disappointment at my refusal of its toys. My heart bled, but I had to upset it even more. I felt raw mana, untouched by humanity, flow into Szabo as he came to stand beside me, until we were moving equally fast. His power grew just as fast, until it felt as great as Paladin''s, but he seemed to be as controlled as always. That''s because we are one, brother, he spoke through the aether, clapping a hand on my shoulder, ripping it out of its socket. The flesh healed long before the sound of it being torn apart filled the air. Before I could punch his fangs out for the assumption, I realised he wasn''t talking about the two of us, but rather, he and his strigoi side. A glance past his body revealed a bloated old man, smiling from under the skins of a thousand thousand beings, in sync with the strigoi. Screaming along for decades, indeed. I probably should have been concerned at wanting to reach that level of cooperation with my own instincts, but I had bigger worries at the moment. Can you fight? Szabo asked, eyeing the monster. I can use Mimir''s power, I answered, not knowing if I could actually exert myself without Broceliande''s chains throttling my movements. I hadn''t tried to alter them yet. So I''ll do the heavy lifting? Make a portal. Deep space. Paladin is in command of this mission, I said, just a touch pettily, sending a flash of the briefing through the aether after grabbing the image from the past, even as I opened a portal into an empty universe behind the creature, which Szabo tackled it through. *** Reptilian Collective The Shaper had never held any strong opinion on Grey One. Their paths had crossed at a few points, as "humanity''s friendly neighbourhood aliens", but that was hardly cause for friendship, or, indeed, anything more than acknowledgement. The Multitude of Minds Grey One had been a part of was a young polity, barely seventy-six million Terran years having passed since its founding, and the psychic alien itself was less than three hundred thousand old. As such, there was no history to inform their interactions: the Multitude had formed long after the reptilians had settled on Earth, and decided to avoid contact with cosmic civilisations, unless contacted first. Guilt, perhaps, for so many quintillion sapients dead in the stupid wars of the species'' youth. Now, if Grey One had been a Vyzhaldi or Xhalkhian, as the Unity Stellar''s members called themsvelves when pranking younger species into thinking they had a homeworld...well. To keep matters short, the Collective would''ve never allowed its damaged ship to crash. There was no prejudice there, nor any need. Both powers were domineering even at their friendliest, without actually trying. Too disruptive for Earth. The reptilians might have become hermits, but they''d never stopped spying on the losers of their last galactic war. Even so, the Shaper could not help but feel dismayed, inasmuch as its machine-mind could feel anything, at the sight of the beast that had been Grey One. There had been alterations, on a macrocosmic scale. Something had changed the timeline so that Grey One had always been a four-legged, long-muzzled psychic beast, bulbous head swaying in the dry air of the Collective as it paced about on webbed feet. The Shaper knew. It had built itself to see past paradoxes and the marks left by time travel, and the reptlians had been informed by similar machines. Most of the aberrant overworlders remembered the original timeline, those immune to active aberrancy not even noticing anything until asked a few pointed questions by Russian and American agents. Whatever had changed the past had done a sloppy job of it. It had used time as a cudgel, making it so Grey One had somehow made it to Earth despite being effectively reduced to an animal. When it couldn''t fit a peg into a hole, it simply ripped up the board. Certainly, the new timeline was vague where Grey One was concerned, as if reality itself was confused. The Shaper would have a few words with the chronokine that had apparently assaulted Grey One during a visit to Moscow, according to the Russian aberrant law enforcement agents that had tersely asked for its help. It couldn''t stand records being lost, let alone history itself being changed. Time travellers were like book burners or hackers, but even worse, because they made everyone but themselves look like idiots, with few even realising what was wrong. Because they were both aliens, it supposed? The Collective was still at work to find out what they were not saying and why. It smelled of, as humans said, rear-covering. Sloppy, indeed. Not as sloppy, though, as what Grey One was currently trying to do. The Collective''s realm was a beautiful, multi-layered construct, a sphere of minerals and artificial materials eighty-eight quadrillion light-years in diametre, containing nonillions of stars harvested from across realities and held together by gravitic technology ages ahead of mankind''s current understanding of science(the best the Shaper could say of them was that they could have been doing worse. But then, that could be said of everyone). It floated in a created timespace both far, far larger than the average universe and smaller than the Earth''s core, folded and contained within it by hyperspatial engineering. Empty, but for those experiments too large or destructive to be conducted in what most people imagined when they heard about the Collective. In other words, the Shaper wasn''t happy about overexcited idiots ripping up its new home, however small-scale the damage was, relatively speaking. The Shaper watched dispassionately as Grey One turned its telekinesis on the reptilian before it. Sealed off from the greater Collective by a forcefield its mind couldn''t break, it instead focused on the reptilian that had willingly trapped itself with the psychic, so its altered nature could be properly observed. Most reptlians lacked titles, and none had names. After all, when there were trillions for every grain of sand on Earth, there was little room for grandstanding or individuality, and even less desire. Though their physiology matched the name overworlders had given them, and which they had adopted themselves, the reptilians had always been more similar to eusocial insects in terms of behaviour, even in their natural state, billions of years before Earth''s formation. That had only grown more pronounced with the insertion of yoctomachines into every citizen of the Collective, biological, mechanical or otherwise. Which meant that, while the Shaper watched through the eyes and sensors of everything under its command as the First Scientist, it did not necessarily have to feel their pain. That could be switched off, by it or its peers, just as their minds and processors could be switched off, if needed. The Collective had no fear of takeover from its elected leader, unlike the overworlders of many nations. After all, if the beings whose minds had been built into the manifold intelligence that was the Shaper had been unfit for command(and most of them had been commanders before integration), they would have never become part of it. Every reptilian knew the Shaper would only take over it for good reasons, and complaining about necessity had never been popular in the Collective. More and more was added to the Shaper every moment, both physical nodes and avatars across the Collective and other realities, and worthy thinkers. None of its current facets were particularly pleased with the fate of the bait. Whatever changes Grey One had gone through had diminished neither its psychic power nor its precision, merely its appearance and personality. The Shaper knew the other alien had been a gentle being, for it had always been able to feel the thoughts and emotions of beings across the solar system, and...it had been a parent, once. The Shaper would have liked to pick its brain and see if it had thought of its offspring before the chronokine''s alteration, but its brainwaves only blared a feral desire to crush bodies and minds alike across every yoctomachine observing it. The Shaper stowed the virtual equivalent of a sigh. It was starting to see how human law enforcement must have felt at messy crime scenes. It would have hated being unable to think of its offspring and creations far more than merely being crudely modified. Was that where Grey One''s rage came from? Of course not, it admonished itself. How could it be angry at something it couldn''t even think about? This was mere sentimentalism, a result of watching the volunteer being crushed into a hyperdense, atom-sized sphere by a telekinetic grasp. In the grip of a mind that could crush worlds, what was a body equivalent to a compressed city? ''Prepare the rationaliser,'' the Shaper thought to itself, the words instantly, simultaneously being transmitted to every consciousness it was quantum entangled with. Yoctomachines alone could only communicate at lightspeed, and even messages conveyed through wormholes were still limited by that. They could be intercepted, or at least perceived, by any FTL consciousness, provided it had the right senses. Wanting something quicker, and perhaps a touch jealous at the speed aberrants could communicate with, as annoying as it was enviable, the Shaper had sought a means of communicating within the smallest possible timeframes...among other things. Quantum entanglement could link more than minds, when pushed far enough. Rationalisers were simple, but elegant devices, built for a single purpose: removing active aberrancy. Magic, psychic powers, nothing of the sort could be used with the spherical, five kilometre field the device projected. When linked to something with better sensors, the range could be increased indefinitely, as anything within line of sight, whether perceived with eyes or optics, was covered by the field. This led to some rather amusing possibilities, given the quantum network. Of course, it didn''t work on passive aberrancy. Results in that regard were...mixed. Therianthropes could still heal, for examples, though they couldn''t shift. Hemovores could also heal, but nothing more. And so on. Innate physical abilities or processes were unaffected. Bizarrely, aberrant structures were affected, like the non-euclidean locale that had been collapsed in the rationaliser''s first field test. Even if said structures weren''t being consciously maintained or sustained by aberrancy, they still fell apart. Tch. Aberrancy; always playing by vague rules...almost always arbitrary. Thankfully, Grey One''s psychic abilities were relatively simple, if decently powerful, and fully understood by the Collective. It could control an infinity of human or equivalent minds, its mental capacity to manage them either increasing accordingly or being substituted for by a sort of reflex. It could telekinetically crush planets until they could fit in one''s palm, or it could- Fingers on strings. No harp playing, this: a mental grasp on matter''s base state, allowing Grey One to telekinetically shift any amount of matter from solid to liquid to gas to plasma, only having to keep the same mass, as it could neither create or destroy energy. For example, turning nearly a ton of reptilian flesh into a plasma sphere and a cloud of tungsten-dense gas . Nothing as crude as aberrant transmutation, which could do nonsense like turning the pseudo-energy of the aether into anything, includings things like time and gravity...but it achieved mostly the same results. ''Activate,'' the Shaper spoke after Grey One began ripping septillion-ton chunks of soil out of the ground and tossing them across atmospheric units. Yoctomachines intercepted the projectiles when they were closed to reaching lightspeed, consuming and converting them into energy. Grey One''s psychic powers were not magical, to use human parlance. They were, however, aberrant, unnatural. Withing the rationality field, Grey One became a mere aggressive quadruped, if one whose body was far more durable than its adoptive planet. The beast raised its head, spacetime bending around it from the relativistic motion, but still failed to dodge the Unscarred, which, after leaving its observation post, crossed a distance greater than the one between Earth and its moon in just over a second, taking advantage of the rampaging psychic''s slower reflexes to manhandle it. A clawed hand languidly tore through a bloated skull that could have been used to break Earth in half with barely a bruise, before grasping its brain. This was not deadly, not even serious damage. Grey One''s consciousness had little to do with its body, and could create a new one even if this one was utterly obliterated, but the Shaper did not intend to harm it, nor test its regeneration. ''We can heal you,'' the Shaper stated. ''But first, we think we should open up to the neighbours once again. We never did speak after the last war...'' Its pink eyes turned a soft red, much warmer than the one seen when it was fighting. ''And we think you would like return to your people, correct?'' Besides, there were so many things to test outside lab conditions, the quantum chains just one among them. *** Old Centre, Bucharest Lucian stomped his way through the streets, having decided pacing was neither going to calm him down, nor help him focus his instincts. He wasn''t actually stomping, of course, or he''d have reduced Romania to a handful of dust floating over a sea of lava with one step. This was, more or less, equivalent to tapping his foot. The only difference was that he walking, as opposed to standing in place. Had Andrei gone missing, or Alex, Lucian would have just gone to the neighbourhoods where people like them hung out. Stereotypical and vaguely speciesist? Well, yeah, but he was clearly not going to be a greyhound tonight. Besides, iele were too isolated from society to ''claim'' an area of the capital, so Bia frequented the Old Centre and the mage quarter, but she wasn''t in the Dealings. He''d checked. Way too many scammers and lazy mages offering to read his cards or tea or palm. He''d been fairly close to helping some pushy old bitch with the last, before telling himself it wasn''t worth it. He''d built a small rep of not being a rapey jackass, by zmeu standards, after decades of quiet (by his standards), efficient bouncer and bodyguard work. Aaand now he was thinking about when he''d have to renew his licence again. Dammit, there was still some of the month left! Lucian was about to go to the Raised Scale and start some shit with his brother if Luc didn''t know where his fairy was, but, while he was imagining knocking those scowling heads off with his mace, he felt something. The ogre didn''t look special. Big, bald, green, piggish yellow eyes and tusks. Brown, sleeveless shirt and pants, no shoes. The weirdest thing about him was the fact he was sitting with the back to a side alley''s wall. The way he was rubbing his head, like he was searching for his brain, was the only thing marking him as maybe drunk or hurt, as opposed to a beggar. Not many of those, these days. Mostly arseholes blacklisted from working, social care and shelters alike. Lucian was perfectly willing to put him in the latter category. With how he smelled of Bianca and the blood she created to make her body feel authentic, he was willing to put him in the ground, too. ''Hey, man,'' he said amicably, smiling down at the ogre, who stopped rubbing his head to raise it, face screwing up in confusion. Wings drawn around him like a coat, Lucian''s mouth opened a little wider. ''Want a bite?'' Confusion gave way to rage as the ogre shot up to his feet. ''Motherfucker! You''re gonna get fucked up now!'' Lucian didn''t manage to reply or dodge before a heavy fist slammed into his throat, sending him past low orbit in less than a heartbeat. The change in environment mattered little; he was rather more miffed at his broken neck. Thankfully, it healed just in time for him to headbutt the fucker leaping at him faster than lightning, before as the sound of the punch thundered thousands of kilometres below, shattering windows. Only that, though? Lucian''s brow furrowed as he flew after the ogre, passing the exosphere in a handful of seconds. The bastard was that concerned with collateral? Fuck that. The zmeu growled as Burnished Death appeared in his hands. Arsehole had sent him flying? Him? You might think you''re in my element now, you goddamn shaved ape, Lucian thought, smirking savagely as he batted the ogre past the moon, but just you wait... Laughing silently in the vacuum, Lucian tackled the ogre through the portal to zmeu country. Nice, private, easy waste disposal. They''d sit down and have a nice chat in one of his palace''s oubliettes. Then, if the bastard got tired of blowing himself after literally doing it, maybe he''d tell Lucian what he''d done with Bianca, and why he''d acted like they''d already met. *** Faith Ranch, Arkansas Fixer sighed as he watched the Fivefold enter the house, finally managing to wrangle her parents into helping set up the table while she cooked for them and their unexpected guests. The ghosts ate out of nostalgia, mostly, though Fixer was pretty sure Elijah did because he was a surly jackass and liked to put people off like that. Maybe he should stop with the "she used to call both of us daddy" comments? ...Nah. Chris was bottling a lot of stuff up. He''d slipped a few details about the truth, and she''d slipped into her old twang, which he usually liked, but she''d only done it so the ''sonnuvabitch'' would have have more bite. But that was fine! He couldn''t get mad at Fifi if he tried. Fixer would have been rather concerned if she''d been fine with it, actually. That would have been unlike the woman he was backing when it came to Hell''s throne. His sigh at the newcomer''s arrival was far less happy. Their first words didn''t help. ''Damn, that''s a cute one,'' Gray Mann muttered, leaning on Fixer''s shoulder so their elbow was jabbing him in the throat-a rather fitting description of their relationship, in terms of both interactions and roles. ''Hated to see her go, loved to watch her leave.'' ''I''ll shove you into Shub''s womb through the back end,'' Fixer promised, stowing Zann''s viol away. ''And I''ll love to see you go.'' ''Touchy!'' Gray squeaked in fake shock, stepping back. ''I''m just saying what you''re thinking, Ned.'' ''If I, of all people, am tactful enough not to say it, you should be capable of it, too,'' Fixer remarked, moving the universe around him so that he was leaning against the broad side of the barn. Just like when he''d moved the Keeper and Lady in Flames out of their future-if all went well-house. ''Woah, you,'' Gray was suddenly in front of him, hands on their hips as they stared up. ''You''re "people"? You?" A smile they''d barely struggled to hold back slid across their face. ''Little monkey bo-oops, wrong century.'' Gray raised both hands, shrugging. ''Say, were you aiming to make her confuse you for me? Ripping off my look...void, Ned, you can''t help but steal, can you? I''m shocked, shocked, I tell you.'' The smile widened. ''Were you trying to scaaare her? Like that thing humans do at the movies?'' They snickered. ''What, did the arm around shoulders trick fail?''If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. ''I can''t fake boredom around Chris,'' Fixer replied, ignoring the gagging sounds from Gray. ''And she doesn''t even know you, you gaping cunt.'' ''Iiiiiiii don''t think so~!'' Gray said brightly, holding up an index finger, the other hand behind their back as they rocked on their heels. ''A human, and a hellbound at that? She doesn''t know me?'' ''You know what I mean.'' Gray blew a raspberry. ''I guess no one knows Negativity until they see that inky dildo it parades around as, either, huh? Come on, Benedict,'' they affected a posh accent. ''Be serious now.'' ''You sound even more like a twat than usual.'' Fixer said. ''It''s not the accent. It''s you.'' ''If I walk the walk, why not talk the talk too, eh?'' Gray crossed their arms behind their back. ''If your pets did that and not the reverse, everything would be much simpler, you know.'' Fixer bristled. ''They''re not my pets.'' ''Sure they''re not! After all, there are so many of them who can oppose you! Breakout, Equilibrium, and, uh...'' Gray stroked their chin. ''Huh. It''s almost like they''re powerless before you, or something. Like the ones in all those multiverses you made, you little Downstreamer you~!'' Gray cooed. ''You said something about me being a cunt? Do your not-at-all-pets know you''ve killed infinitely more people than any of them will ever meet?'' ''Not people-'' ''Like you? Like us?'' ''They were not sentient, let alone sapient, and you know it. False minds, just enough to know pain, or joy, or fear, as my whims took me.'' Fixer shifted, uncomfortable, as Gray laughed. ''Oh, that changes eeeeverything! After all, there''s no problem with snuffing out infinities of lives as long as they''re "fake".'' Gray nodded rapidly. ''By the way, did you know your crush feels bad even when animals are put down?'' ''Be careful not to break those fingers of yours, with the way you''re making air quotes,'' Fixer said as Gray coughed "better not give her cause to grieve, pal". "Why, wanna do it yourself? Try.'' Gray wiggled their fingers. ''Say, would you have children just to beat them to death? Because, uh, that''s exactly what you did back then.'' ''It wasn''t like having kids at all,''Fixer said. "''In no way worse than a programmer wiping a faulty computer clean.'' ''Woah, and they say I''m sick...'' Gray laughed. ''Talk about embarrassing secrets, huh?'' ''I''m not sick, I''m twisted. "Sick" implies there''s a cure." ''Pretty edgy for you. Lovecraft? Conan?'' ''Sinestro.'' Fixer shook his head. ''Never mind that. Will you just restart the multiverse so I can go have dinner?'' ''Lazy bum,'' Gray grumbled, then, with a flourish, raised one hand and snapped their fingers. Time began flowing across the first four layers of infinite universes, while force and its higher counterparts stopped holding the timeless still. ''There. Now, you can go...have...'' Their shoulders trembled with laughter. ''I can''t! I just can''t with you! You see these tridimensionals as so precious, you base your personality on one of your incarnations from here. And then you call me crazy...'' Gray stepped back, and over fourteen billion years fell away, so that they and Fixer were floating next to a shimmering, colourless singularity, yet to expand and never stop. ''I could snuff this out, you know. Strangle this timeline in its crib.'' ''You just saw most supernaturals don''t give a damn about timeline changes,'' Fixer muttered tiredly. ''It would be pointless, yes. Almost like what you''re pursuing, in fact.'' Gray bowed forward, cupping the future Big Bang, then beginning to spin it on one finger, an universe''s worth of matter borne effortlessly. ''By the way, nice of you to point out the wetwork you did nothing about. Kind of like the kidnapping...I really should stop being so nice to Sofia, you know. I think I''m spoiling her...taste.'' ''I do what I must. Sometimes, that means doing nothing.'' ''Learned that at Nuremberg, did you?'' Gray asked, then stepped sideways and upwards, leaving their avatar beneath. Their true self looked at Fixer across the endless, eternal Void, the multiverse shining with inner light between them. On each layer, an infinity of universes, ever-expanding. Each of them less than drawings on paper, less than dreams and shadows to even the meanest microbe equivalent from a higher level. A pentadimensional bacterium could erase the tetradimensional realities with a stray thought, just like all it knew could be unmade by a hexadimensional one. And so on, to the dizzying heights of infinity, themselves similarly fictional in the eyes of the Outer Void''s inhabitants. Fixer rolled his eyes as a Voidmaw swam through the blackness, drawn by the lure of warm reality. Powerful, unfathomably so, to most beings, but dumb. Unfathomably so, to most beings, as well. Nevertheless, stupidity was never an excuse for omnicide, as Gray seemed intent on needling him about. As a result, he created an exact copy of dimensioned reality, then threw it away, the Voidmaw taking chase. Fixer moved it around a few times, before drawing it to himself, faintly hoping his presence would deter the predator from anything reckless. Luckily, when one had no expectations, one could not be disappointed. That, he knew far more about than he''d like to admit. *** A man stands before a collection of glowing spheres, with a Silver Key in his hand and mind. This is a lie. Or, rather, a metaphor. An analogy. That harmless species of lie, so beloved of writers...writers who inscribe what the things in their heads scream, hoping against hope they are hallucinations, nightmares. The man is not a man, any more than his threefold self''s shadow is himself. He is his own Archetype, eternal and unchanging, and inert-until ''now''. The spheres are not spheres either, of course. They are the All-In-One, that thing whose names sages have always tried to write, but never managed more than the names of their almighty gods, pieces of a puzzle that cannot, must not be solved. For the solution, like a handful of other things, would cause an unbearable disturbance within the Dream. That cannot be, so it must not, so it shall not. The man is not here to disturb or disrupt, though. That is not his remit. He repair and reshapes and recreates, though he knows not why. His threefold self set out on this journey at the urging of the organisation he serves, in search of the ultimate power. Just to see if it can be obtained, naturally. CARTER WANTED TO KNOW EVERYTHING. YOU WANT TO DO EVERYTHING. ''Not everything,'' the man who is not a man replies, uneasy at the VOICE like creation collapsing upon itself. ''Just enough that any evil can be undone, if need be.'' The spheres move closer, something like disappointment colouring their mood. YOU ALREADY CAN. WHAT YOU CANNOT DO IS BEAR IT. The VOICE never ceases echoing in the man''s core, even after he accepts the will it pours into him-the love it takes away-, even after his selves are merged yet remain separate, by the hands of Negativity and its- *** Fixer stared blankly as the Voidmaw approached him, its presence erasing the multiverse''s copy before it smashed into his chest. Ignoring Gray''s comment about cats and laser pointers, he directed an annoyed thought at the creature, unmaking it more thoroughly than it had its target, for all its makeup was the absence of anything a human would recognise as existence. ''What were you hoping to do, give it the runaround until it got bored or tired?'' Gray asked, amused, even as over a dozen identical Voidmaws leapt on them, focusing all their powers on a being they could never scratch. An idle thought reduced them to less than the nothingness they were made of. ''You know that''s impossible.'' ''Hoped I could scare it off.'' ''You? You big omnicidal teddy bear? Get real, Ned.'' Gray shook their head, pityingly, then straightened up. ''You must be wondering "why the visit?". Well, Handyman, I just wanted to thank you for making sure the wheels keep turning once again. Things would become awfully boring otherwise, not that any of us would be around to gripe and sigh, mind. Endless nothing doesn''t leave much room for complaining. Now, why don''t you return the favour?'' Like you wouldn''t have tried to prevent a creation where Patch Works doesn''t exist, and the Spider isn''t mature enough to handle untouchable minds, from coming to be. ''I''d rather not make myself feel like the slimiest bastard ever just to acknowledge necessary deeds.'' Gray sighed. ''Unthanked, unappreciated, unwanted! Put your shoulder back to the wheel...'' They trailed off into a giggle. ''Aaah...enough sniping, hmm? Let''s talk about your girl. If you want my advice-'' ''Which I''ll receive whether I want to or not.'' ''-you''ll wake up and stop trying to woo her with pop covers.'' Gray''s voice dripped with exasperation. ''Switch to country! Ditch the viol, get a banjo-stop glaring at me like that-and write something original. Or,'' Gray slouched forward. ''If you have to do a cover, do a country song. I have a few suggestions, wanna hear...? Didn''t think so. Anyhow!'' Gray crossed one leg over the other, sitting on nothing. ''You can try some church tunes too, I guess. She''s religious. Likes when you put your heart into it.'' But I don''t believe. What god would allow so many centuries of slavery and genocide, whether in their Clusters or the neutral universe? ''I''ll keep it in mind.'' But if you believe, Chris, there''s nothing wrong with that. I''d rather you worshipped me if it was my choice, but... ''What are you smirking about?'' ''Me?'' Gray sounded incredulous. ''Just thinking. You''d like some god/worshipper play, huh? Why not just brainwash her?'' ''I could.'' After ripping Ylvhem out of her stomach lining. ''But it''d be too easy. I think I''ll stick to winning Chris over with my mouth, and words, too, if needed.'' ''Heh.'' Gray seemed thoughtful as they looked away. ''I wonder which of us the Keeper will hate more when this is...what do you think you''re doing, Fixer?'' Fixer stopped, then swallowed a smirk at the stiff question. ''Just following your advice.'' ''My advice. And what was that supposed to mean?'' ''Aw, just that random bullshit humming in country songs. Ya know?'' ''It''s not random,'' Gray said in a warning tone. ''So don''t drop it into my lap.'' *** Hell, Yahweh Cluster Mordred was not walking, for a king did not walk. He strode, with purpose, and grace too if possible, but he never ambulated like a peasant. His father had been a perfect example of what not to do as a king. Arthur had often walked-in his own words-among his subjects, gotten friendly with them, asking questions about things that did nothing whatsoever to help with running the kingdom. In that regard, at least, he had been competent. That blasted sword of his wouldn''t have chosen him otherwise. Perhaps they should have stuck Excalibur in another stone, so he could pull it out and prove his worth. Galahad had done something similar during his quest, though not with the Sword of Promised Victory. That damned sword...Mordred''s sharp, transparent features twisted into a grimace as he remembered it tearing through his plate-for Merlin had seen centuries ahead, and brought the armour of the future into the present, before enhancing it alongside Lancelot''s whore stepmother-and flesh. It had not been Excalibur who had dealt him his death blow, though. It had been Ron, the Cutting Spear. As much as he might deride Arthur, fighting with two different weapons at the same time took a certain degree of skill. How insulting was that, though? No one had ever written about Arthur''s spear. The ghost shook his head as today''s enemies-time did not flow in Hell, except where the demons wished, and there would have been nothing to mark its passage even if it had-approached. Walking, of course, clouds of thick white mist rising from the hellish ice cracking under their iron-shod feet. Beneath, Mordred could see and feel those betrayers too weak to free themselves from their cold prison. He had been trapped like that too, once. Before nearly ripping himself apart to escape, entertaining the Morningstar enough to go from trapped fish to fighting dog, slaughtering all great betrayers of history, forever and ever. Those who believed in Yahweh, anyway. Or, rather, those who had. It did not take long for such faith to crumble, here, away from God''s light. Mordred wondered if these traitors ever escaped to the realm of the godless dead. He had never heard of one, though. Today''s entertainment consisted of a dozen steely-eyed, scarred ghosts in suits of scaled armour, wielding two-headed axes and warhammers. The Praetorians of some by-blow Emperor, who had turned on him for petty wealth. Mordred scoffed at the thought. They had been strong enough to free themselves from the ice? With such petty reasons for betrayal? Was the Devil implying they were somehow peers to him? And why were they clad like northerners, anyway? Ever since the ice had appeared six or seven centuries ago, according to the demon who often broke his ectoplasmic body, sometimes even on the battlefield, all traitors had been retroactively placed in it, so they had been trapped centuries before its appearance. The strongest had managed to escape, but these...? Mordred shook his head. No matter. Their minds might have been weak, but they weren''t, else they wouldn''t have been preparing to face him in battle. Slamming down the faceplate of his black, dragon-winged helm, Mordred strode up to the Praetorians, not deigning to make weapons and meet them blade to blade. The steel they wore was physical, lifted by their spirits, as were their weapons. Unskilled. They did not even know how to fight in Hell...must have been recent escapees. Pale green flames flickered into existence around him as seven Praetorians lunged at him, weapons raised: three from the front, two from the sides, two from behind. The other five only hung back because there were too many of them to strike at him simultaneously. Still thinking like mortals...not even wondering why he had let them encircle him. His deadfire turned the steel to less than vapour too fast for the enemy ghosts to notice, before the blades had even approached the flames, for all that they were moving thousands of times faster than the sound of their movement. The ghosts themselves were then burned out of existence, leaving nothing behind. The five remaining Praetorians turned and ran, leaving the field of ice behind, but did not drop their weapons. Too scared? Hoping against hope they''d get a second chance at him? Not that they''d had any to start with, he though with a smirk. A couple waded through lava, steel unmarked by heat that should have melted it like candle wax. Enchanted, then. Still nothing compared to the heat radiated by his deadfire, let alone the actual flames. Clicking his tongue at their cowardice, Mordred tapped into the second facet of his elemental mastery, turning the ghosts from immaterial ectoplasm to solid ice. The deadfrost turned their wargear brittle, making it fall apart moments later. A gust of deadwind blasted the last three Praetorians, already thousands of leagues away, out of existence. He could have used the ground, but it was neither the time nor the place. Mordred turned slowly at the sarcastic clapping from behind, the green flames in his sockets shining even through his featureless helmet: he had no need for holes to breathe or see, after all. He hoped the old bastard couldn''t see them flashing in surprise, though. The last time he had heard of Merlin, he had been tricked into captivity by his student and alleged friend, though not before tricking himself into thinking she loved him. Mordred did not believe in the world rewarding people according they deserved. Otherwise, he would have never needed to rebel. He did, however, know it did not suffer fools long, let alone gladly, however powerful they were. To his utter lack of surprise, the cambion was in his humanlike guise: tall, skin as white as his beard and shining eyes, wearing robes woven from the fabric of space itself and containing countless celestial bodies. Stars in their millions of millions, spread across clouds and wheel-like shapes. A single star was unfathomably heavier than the world, so the only reason the weight of Merlin''s robes didn''t destroy the land for innumerable leagues was the mage''s will. Merlin had made it so that he and he alone was affected by the weight of his garments. Under the robes, he wore a strange kind of shirt, bearing an image of a black-armoured, limbless knight, blood oozing from crimson stumps to fall on the ground his sword was embedded into. The knight proclaimed "None shall pass!" in a cloudlike outline emerging from where his mouth must have been. For some reason, Mordred felt vaguely offended. Was the lustful idiot claiming he was too stubborn to know when to give up? Clearly, his captivity had helped neither his senility nor his sanity. ''Hail, sorcerer,'' Mordred crossed his arms, waiting for the other-living, inasmuch as demons and their offshots were alive-man to make his move. ''Did Viviane let you out of the kennel?'' Merlin grinned broadly. ''Look who grew a sense of humour...fifteen centuries too late, I''m afraid, or perhaps you''d have been able to tell why everyone thought your claim was laughable.'' He tilted his head to one side, arms by his sides. ''Alas...we may never know.'' So, that was how long he had been in Hell. The world must have turned into a nightmare, without him to guide its people. How fortunate for him that Merlin revealed such things while blathering...''We are not going to have that debate again. Why are you here? Came home to roost?'' ''Actually, we''re both leaving!'' the mage said brightly, surprising him. Then, his beaming expression became sly. ''That is, if you can.'' ''If I can? What''s that even supposed to mean?'' Merlin sat on air, stroking his beard. ''You still want to be king, don''t you?'' ''I need to be as much as the country needs me.'' Mordred said. ''It is only natural.'' So natural, in fact, that his father, chosen over his snubbed mother through supernatural favour, had decided to forget the tradition of crowning his firstborn, claiming skill was more important than blood. Utter rubbish. Mordred was more than competent, and he had more Pendragon blood in him than his father, for all that his mother had never borne the name. Of course, some of his detractors had used the circumstances of his birth as arguments against why he should rule, but children born of rape were usually damaged, those born of incest even more so. Clearly, he was the exception. Baseless criticism couldn''t stand in the face of facts and logic. Merlin sucked his teeth. ''You know "the country" has grown, right? And changed? You would recognise little-'' ''Do people still love and hate and live and die?'' Merlin smiled coldly. ''Some.'' ''Then little has changed. I will learn all I must to take my throne.'' He shifted, power coiling up inside him in anticipation. ''Are you here to teach me? You said we can both leave.'' ''I know I can. You, though? You never did settle matters with your fellow Knights. And you hate leaving things unfinished, don''t you, La Fey?'' ''Watch your filthy mouth, halfbreed,'' Mordred bristled. ''I''ll turn you inside out and feed you to your slut.'' ''Temper, temper, Mordred. People will do far worse than tell you facts on Earth. If we wanted you for your sense of entitlement, we''d have our heads checked.'' *** Merlin had almost forgotten how it was to stand without chains dragging you down, on every plane of existence. The view from his tower''s western window was unchanged, but somehow, it felt more beautiful than ever. Perhaps because his heart was lighter? In some regards, at least. Nimue walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest as she leaned forward to rest her chin on his shoulder. They were both dressed, which the cambion was grateful for. His fairy was still on edge around him, ever since his miraculous-for there had certainly been a miracle involved, and that didn''t always mean something wonderful. It usually, as it did in this case, meant something incredible-escape from Broceliande, and he still didn''t trust himself around her. Nimue had asked if he hated her, when the Fairie debacle was over, and he had pondered the answer for a handful of zeptoseconds; a period that anyone who knew Merlin also knew was awfully long. ''I hated the imprisonment,'' he had answered. ''And the disasters I could have averted if I were free. But nothing, in this world or any other, could make me hate you.'' There was a bridge to mend after a long, long road, but he''d be damned if he and this woman didn''t learn to love each other again. ''Does Bedi know?'' the Lady broke the silence. Merlin knew what she actually meant. Would he accept? The fact he was doing it in secret meant he thought the Grandmaster wouldn''t approve, hence her subtly-admonishing tone. ''He''s in Avalon,'' Merlin murmured. ''Seeking guidance from the greatest of us all. I would rather not disturb him for something that might fail.'' Nimue scoffed softly. ''I''d joke about you growing more altruistic, but you already asked me if I wanted to...'' She trailed off, before smiling sarcastically. ''More considerate than I was of your body before Camlann.'' Merlin winced. Was he so far gone that not raping was seen as virtuous? Different sins, different scales. ''Don''t start with that again. I know you still blame yourself, but we-you, me, the Round Table-all failed, in our own ways.- Except Galahad, but that went without saying. The Perfect Knight had left the world in pursuit of greater goals. ''Or things wouldn''t have escalated to that point.'' Perhaps he was simply too spineless a fool to find fault in her, but, if that was true, he would say there were far worse vices and infinitely worse fates than being hopelessly in love. A bold claim, from the sorcerer of Camelot, where duty had been murdered by love, but he would have never gotten anywhere without boldness. Except, maybe, in his father''s breeding chamber. ''God willing, we''ll both return.'' Merlin nodded downwards. ''But, if not, I will make sure Mordred does.'' *** Mordred cursed as Galatine''s crossguard smashed into his face again, breaking his jaw and knocking him to the ground. They had not left Hell, not really, but it had been somehow pushed into the background of the pocket reality Merlin had created in order to test him. When he had first heard the mage, Mordred had expected a study room of a sort, where he would familiarise himself with the changes of his realm. But, no. Merlin had instead created a copy of the British Isles, with choppy waters surrounding it and countless stars-millions of millions, at least, after which point Mordred had stopped counting-with all the distance that implied. Only an infinitesimal fraction of a true universe''s size, but large enough for their purposes. Mordred didn''t know if his opponent was also a construct of Merlin''s or his real half-brother, brough back through meddling with time or resurrection. He certainly hit like Gawain, though, and had as little difficulty hitting ghosts as the Knight of the Sun. Looked like him, too. Tall, tanned by the sun he loved almost as much as it loved him. Blond, square-jawed, green-eyed. He looked far, far more more similar to Mordred''s father than the Knight of Rebellion did, down to the beard...except for the eyes. The eyes were different. None of Arthur''s followers, kin or subject, had ever sported features identical to his, though Galahad had been nigh-identical in spirit. ''It should have been you,'' Gawain whispered, swinging Galatine with one hand. The sword went past bending light and reality with its movement, to the point it would have been turned to energy if not for its supernatural nature. Mordred ducked, knowing full well a true strike would end him, ghostly immortality or not, using a gust of deadwind to push Gawain''s wrist a fraction of a milimetre higher, making Galatine part just his hair, not his head. A fraction of the swing''s force, already lessened by the deflection, flew past Mordred to strike the replica of Britain, shattering it into man-sized chunks that were sent flying amidst a shower of molten rock. Mordred snorted at the show of strength. Even the least of them had been this strong, let alone Gawain at his strongest-and noon wasn''t far away. ''When I was fighting Lancelot, I thought I should have been beating you down instead. Little snake, fomenting unrest, stoking the fires. That peacock might have started it all, but you ended the dream.'' Gawain was now swinging with both hands, the gold-rimmed pauldrons of his silver armour catching the sunlight. It had been midnight when they''d started fighting, but Gawain looked hardly winded by over eleven hours of duelling. The replica of Britain had reappeared moments after its destruction, the remains of its last incarnation erased from existence by Merlin. This one quickly had to be replaced, too. Mordred blocked or parried every slash and stab with his black blade-not Clarent, not his sword. It was likely gathering dust alongside what remained of his earthly armour-, but the force pulverised the country beneath every time a blow landed. Gawain was swinging with rage, not regard for the land around them. And, fake and empty though it was, Mordred couldn''t suppress a jolt of surprise. Gawain had always loved nature, places untouched by man especially so. Did he hate Mordred more than he loved- The next blow forced Mordred to his knees as the sun rose and Gawain''s strength grew threefold. Cursing raggedly as he watched white light fill his half-brother''s eyes and mouth and veins, Mordred directed his elemental powers at that arrogant, bare face. Gawain had dodged, ignored or destroyed every attempt so far, hammering Mordred with blows to prevent him from focusing, but, maybe... Gawain strode through winds that reduced the weave of reality around him to nothing, through fires hotter than any star''s heart or human weapon, through ice colder than the void between worlds, body unmarked, soul untouched, mind filled with nothing but rage. Even when Mordred compressed an entire copy of Britain into a head-sized, life-sapping projectile he launched at Gawain, the other Knight merely grinned as it shattered against his skin. Still invulnerable at noon. No choice but to survive and tire him out, then. Or, at least, that was what Mordred told himself. But, despite dozens and dozens of hours, the sun never moved. It was an unnatural noon, as endless as Gawain''s insults. ''As I laid dying, I thought it should have been you, once more,'' he spat heatedly. ''Death does that to a man. Brings him clarity. Or that''s what I would say, if I hadn''t seen what a fool you still are. Long dead and trapped in Hell, and what have you learned?'' Gawain''s voice dropped. ''I heard you even killed Arthur.'' ''You heard wrong! He was borne away from Camlann, sleeping on the brink of death.'' To Mordred''s disappointment. He somehow doubted saying that would improve Gawain''s mood, though. ''He killed me. Dammit, what did the sorcerer tell you, brot-'' An armoured elbow. Jaw broken again, despite the faceplate. ''Watch your mouth,'' Gawain snapped. ''Merlin told me much, yes. For example: how he stopped the sun in place, so I will always be in the fullness of my power.'' He raised Galatine overhead, blade flashing like a golden thunderbolt. ''Before you truly die, know we all hated you, in the end.'' *** Urziceni Constantin rarely locked his door. Sometimes, he even left it open, to convey that he always had time to lend a hand to a neighbour, or just someone passing through. As soon as he felt the presence in the living room, heavy as a corpse''s hand and half as welcoming, he slammed the door closed, before locking it and faithcrafting a series of seals across the wood, handle and frame. It was sitting like a human, and even, if he closed one eye and squinted with the other, looked like one. Taut, grey, hairless skin, toothless mouth open in an eternal scream. It had one of his Discworld books in its lap. Not for modesty, for, though it was naked, it lacked any genitals, let alone modesty. It actually seemed to be reading it. ''Why are you here?'' he asked quietly, thanking God no one else was around. ''Why did you leave the pen?'' It raised its head, staring at him with eyes that mirrored nothing. ''No books there.'' Mockery was not in its nature, at least not verbal mockery. The fact it had attached itself to him was a taunt in of itself, but different. What had changed? ''I thank you for proving me wrong, Constantin,'' it said. ''You did not fall into vice, besides the hypocrisy inherent to your role and species, despite everything.'' He did not like the finality in its voice. ''Are you leaving?'' Besides of the Remaker, who could even reign it in? Who could predict its- ''I never will,'' it replied, sounding sad, then thoughtful. ''You are, though.'' Constantin nodded. ''Everyone must die. I know God will see me through to the other side.'' It did not say anything right away, so its words surprised him, if only because he had expected another episode of inhuman, focused silence. ''In a fair world,'' it whispered in a reedy voice. ''Your son would go to Heaven.'' Constantin blinked, then laughed despite himself. ''And in a fair world, I never would.'' How could he? Resorting to killing, too stupid and mealy-mouthed to make people give up violence and resolve matters peacefully. Not all of them, or even most, but enough. He was far more inclined to dwell on his failures than his-such as they were-accomplishments. But that paled in comparison to his greatest sin. The son he had neglected enough that he had ended himself, through a mix of being too busy and too confident that David would handle himself, that he neither wanted nor needed help. He had removed his caul, he had tied red silk around his leg, but David had still come back. Had his son feared undeath? He did not soeak of such things anymore. But Constantin had, and had tried and failed to prevent it. ''You needn''t fear that, Constantin,'' a strange lilt entered its voice. ''But will David?'' he asked, wondering about its manner. God had not said anything comprehensible, but perhaps it could be convinced to answer. Silence, again. Then, a non-sequitur. ''Do you know why I let you name me Hogge?'' "Because you took the shape of a pig" was too obvious. ''A nod to that? It amused you.'' It raised his dog-eared copy of the Hogfather, shaking its head. ''I like reading about myself,'' it whispered. ''But you are wrong. Pigs are natural cleaners; they remove waste, and evidence of less literal filth. Did you know they were originally kept for that, not meat?'' ''Yes, but what does that-'' ''It suited me, and my purpose,'' it cut him off, putting the book aside as it rose from the couch. ''As your son will.'' *** Gawain had not killed him, in the end, but only because Merlin had called him back. The sorcerer, watching from above, must have been laughing in his beard, seeing him get put through the wringer by every phantasm of his past. Kay. Gareth. Tristan. Percival. Lancelot, larger than life and thrice as mad. The Green Knight, invulnerable and infinitely strong and quick save for when he desired otherwise. Melion, immune to any damage not inflicted with silver and able to break anything not made from it. And so many more, dozens more, each as fast and powerful as Mordred, even setting aside their boons. Not Bedivere, though. Nor Arthur. Why? Mordred did not understand. What did Merlin want him to do? He could not defeat all of his opponents, or even most. He had never been the strongest or most skilled Knight. His worth lay elsewhere, in rhetoric, in leadership, neither of which mattered in duels. Not that anything else would have mattered in a duel with Galahad. The Perfect Knight looked young, with straight blond hair framing a pair of sky-blue eyes, set in a serene face, pale from the armour he rarely removed. Armour he was not wearing now. Much like his sword, both lay in an orderly pile of ivory false metal. Galahad wore plain white robes, one hand empty, the other grasping the dream of every knight before and since his quest. The Grail, the vessel of God''s Vessel. Ruby blood up to the copper rim, but never sloshing out, however sudden and fast Galahad''s movements. And so fast they were...monstrously, disgustingly so. As a ghost, time and space were no limit to how fast Mordred could move, if his will was strong enough. Drawing on his rage, he had left lightspeed behind an eternity ago, moving fast enough to cross Merlin'' pocket reality in the smallest possible timeframe, before breaking the bounds of causality to attack from everywhere and everywhen at once. It was no use. Galahad deflected all of his blows with utter disinterest, using only his left hand-and Mordred knew for a fact the pious fool was right-handed, which only added insult to injury. He seemed unwilling to let go of the Grail, though Mordred couldn''t tell why. He wasn''t drawing power from it, or using it as a small makeshift shield. At one point, Mordred leapt backwards in time, sword raised to split Lancelot''s skull on the night of Galahad''s conceiving. The Perfect Knight followed him and slapped him back to the future, saying nothing. Even when Mordred began drawing on the aether, increasing his strength to the point the force of every blow bled over to destroy Merlin''s pocket reality-galaxies obliterated and space and time erased, only to be recreated an instant later by the cambion-, Galahad did not react. And why should he? Mordred''s strength couldn''t even pierce his unblinking, judging, pitying eyes. During one such eternity of nothingness, Mordred used his speed to multiply, attacking Galahad from over a dozen directions at once, aiming at every joint. The Perfect Knight had moved too fast for Mordred and his doppelgangers to react, for all that time did not exist and they were fast enough to transcend it. He''s insurmountable..., Mordred thought, pushing himself to his knees, ectoplasmic gore, born of the memory of his flesh, covering the emerald glass around them. ''Say something, damn you! This is no way for a knight to battle!'' ''Battle?'' Galahad repeated in a smooth, even voice. ''Not even the most generous of saints could describe this as a battle.'' He smiled sadly. ''You still look for acknowledgement when there is none to be obtained. Even if I lied, you would still be an inbred bastard.'' Mordred laughed harshly. ''Not so flawless, are you?'' ''I did not curse. Merely spoke the truth. Were you not born out of wedlock, to siblings? And even if I had,'' Galahad''s eyebrows rose. ''Are you so desperate that you would view making me swear as a victory?'' Mordred roared at his opponent''s disappointed voice. ''I should have been fighting you in the flesh. Then-'' ''Merlin might bind and raise you, but not yet. Not that it would have made a difference. And you should not expect anything akin to life after your undeath, Mordred. God would not grant you that. Just as He will not grant you a throne, or an heir to it.'' Galahad chuckled. ''I have seen your corpse. Your manhood belongs to the maggots, and oh, what lustful maidens they are!'' When did he get so annoying?! ''You act like you are better than me. You always have. But there is no true difference between us, traitor''s spawn.'' ''Yes, there is. I have the blood of Christ in my hand. You only have yours.'' Growling, Mordred clenched his fist, gauntlet long gone, only to feel it wet and sticky. He...he...it was his human memories at fault. He- ''There are conflicts you cannot win, Mordred.'' Galahad said. ''How many of us have shown you that? And yet, you do not accept.'' Mordred threw his sword to the ground, leaping at Galahad and trying to strangle him, to no avail. ''Are you saying I should just give up?! Stop caring and crawl back to Hell, because I wasn''t blessed with the favour of a hypocritical, powermongering worm of a god?!'' ''Taking His name in vain will solve nothing, Mordred.'' Galahad broke his grip and pushed him away with one hand. ''And you misunderstood my words. You are needed because you do not give up.'' Mordred did not see Galahad move away to put on his wargear, nor the slash that took his head. But he felt it, as painful as Rongomyniad piercing his heart long ago. *** Wake, Blackest of Knights. Prince of Rebellion. Neverking. Your hour cometh. You could not best the Knight of the Grail. But who could hope to? He is better than you in every way. He is better than anyone who fights him. That is his nature. Wake, and take hold of your corpse. Let the flames of your soul burn away the blood and dust clogging your veins, and give you life in death. Your realm is assailed. By the monsters from your childhood stories, by fear itself, torn from the unbeating heart of another cosmos. It is being defended by foreigners. Will you let that stand? Wake, Mordred Pendragon. Hell will not take you back. *** Wake, sister. You are safe, and untouched, saved in the nick of time. What did that world do for you? It took your mother, and father, and would have taken your life, too-or seen it sold to cruel, uncaring things. Where were your friends during this? Where was your lover? Wake. Your eyes have been closed too long. *** Put the mirror down yet? Why? I am not so disgusted by myself as to stop meditating on my nature. And isn''t that a damning statement? A damning statement would be what you called me. What will you do, once everyone becomes- Void, more of you? I would do my best to stop that... ...If your existence didn''t hinge on theirs. You have seen the other paths, branching out into nothing. And there might be fates you hate...but nothingness is certain. After Life, Chapter 3
As I entered the parallel reality, closing the portal behind me, and watched Szabo wrestle with the monster, I thought that it really needed a name. Monster, freak and creature got repetitive after a certain point, speaking from experience. Sifting through its past, it had never gotten a name that had stuck, certainly none it recognised as its own. Alien synonyms to the terms I had just discarded, long-winded titles used for nameless gods of terror...no. I would not do them the honour of calling on them from beyond oblivion, even in such a small way. Nor would I speak the being''s true name. It wouldn''t bind or weaken it-it was no demon. If anything, it was more likely to strengthen or mutate it. My godsight was much faster than the mind that triggered it, as it needed to in order to predict and analyse on the scale it did. I could see every cubic metre in the universe, a quark in empty space, the quantum strings our reality was woven from, innumerable to most, the quantum foam it floated on, like a leaf on the surf. And I saw every way they could combine and change, a number not merely too large to be contained by the universe, but infinite. And from every possibility, another reality was created. Did that man brush his teeth this morning, or not? Did those atoms fuse, or not? And so on and so forth, unto the infinity that was the multiverse''s fourth layer. Opening my godsight wider, I could see the contents of every reality, laid bare and unmoving before eyes that cared nothing for time and distance. Infinite power to process...and change. Even reach into the higher layers, maybe, like a drawing rising from the page to become tridimensional... But, no. I couldn''t let myself be lured away by knowledge and exploration. If I won here, I would be one step closer to an eternity of study and enrichment. If not...well. I wouldn''t have to worry about getting distracted, or anything else, anymore. This had been what had made Mimir so distant to the Aesir who had wanted him for his knowledge, friends with only other gods like him. I saw him disappear from Odin''s side, not stolen, but...ah, old god, such a selfish sacrifice you made... You knew it would all end: the questions, the phantom pain-how could you not? You knew more than me, had seen reality as it was for far longer than the sagas of your kind had passed among your worshippers. Did you think about the blessing in disguise that would come to me, the darkness your death would push back? Or did you just want it all to end? I blinked away the vision with eyes rimmed by tears. Distraction...always a danger, as painless as it was cruel. The cousin of ennui. But I would not walk in Mimir''s footsteps. The beast needed a name. It was the shape of its universe''s fears: immense, amorphous, ever-changing. It had made its victims tremble before their deaths. I knew what it was, even if it did not. The Tremorph was not a physical being. You would have had an easier time grasping reality itself than grabbing hold of it. Luckily, strigoi could do both. Whatever something was made of, whether matter, energy, their absence or something else entirely, we could touch it as if it were solid. The Tremorph had not known that, until now. In its home reality, it had never been stopped by anything, passing through forcefields denser than neutronium and hotter than plasma, diving into black holes to swim through their singularities, flying through white holes. It was made of fear, after all. What did it care for the limits imposed by physics, according to which it should not have even been able to exist? As such, the Tremorph was not used to being touched never mind stopped. As for pain? It only knew that of others. Szabo seemed very keen on helping it make up for lost time. As it thrashed and writhed in his grip, it tried to change shape and size several times, to no avail. Whether it became bigger than any celestial body or smaller than any particle, Szabo, drawing upon the aether, pushed it back into its original state, with a combination of strength and willpower, the latter abundant due to his rage. Szabo had several weird mental hangups, and I hadn''t yet learned all of them. He performed atrocities without batting an eye, as long as the results were flamboyant enough to have him recognised as something other than a monster who was cruel for cruelty''s sake. He was obsessed with leaving his mark on history, in one way or another. He might have used tools, and people, in pursuit of said goal, but, as he saw it, he relied only on himself. The lifeforce he had absorbed over the course of his unlife had been consumed in similarly appropriate moments. I guess he thought fighting the Tremorph wasn''t dramatic enough, because his temper was rising as fast as his power. And his voice. Szabo wasn''t actually speaking, of course. Not only was there no air at all in this universe (not that there would have been any in the vacuum of space), there was nothing at all. No matter, no energy, no space, no time, and not just because there was nothing to measure the duration of. That point of spacetime that had expanded into the Big Bang and never stopped had never existed here, according to my godsight. This...was what our reality could have been. Nothing at all. More like a gap between other, true universes, becoming distinct at the edges, giving way to the aether, which Szabo was using to talk to the Tremorph. Ah, mana. The truly universal means of communication, creation, and destruction. ''You made me betray myself,'' Szabo growled around one of the Tremorph''s throats as he bit down into its metaphysical form. ''Betray my oath. Any coffin-dodger like me can draw upon the aether for power, so what is its worth?'' Szabo glared as a basilisk''s head rose from its torso, trying to petrify him. Even his mismatched clothes were unaffected as he smashed the head to nothing with his left fist. ''You made me bow to ?necessity,'' Szabo spat. ''Necessity! Like a peasant! Loric Szabo does not bend to the whims of the world! He bends it!'' He was referring to the world, but must''ve seen the Tremorph as a suitable substitute, given the way he grabbed a beaklike protrusion and a handful of thin, lashing tails, before folding the Tremorph in half like an accordion. Weird. I''d have never taken Szabo for a musician. The Tremorph''s shrieks tore the void open, letting raw mana fill the empty universe. There were many theories about the origin of the aether. Was there a spring for that timeless ocean? Rivers flowing into it? Occam''s Razor, people. Mana is born from the synchronisation of mind, body and soul. Wherever could mana spanning the multiverse come? Szabo was hurting the Tremorph, but not killing it. He couldn''t, except by consuming it like he did lifeforce and other metaphysical energies, and the fact it had already pushed him to boost himself just to avoid being torn apart meant he wanted to leave that for last. Idiot! Don''t draw it out, I spoke into Szabo''s mind. Be silent, brother. This is my fight. This little freak has already humiliated me. I will return the favour before I put it down. You''ve never even heard of this thing before today! When did you have time to build up a grudge so fast? Are you Italian? Tch, he grunted. A great enough slight can birth a vendetta in moments. Oh, for fuck''s sake...I thought to both him and myself, watching the Tremorph begin to draw on cosmic fears. I saw a glob of antimatter teleported straight into Szabo''s mouth, explosively converting him and his clothes to energy. The strigoi healed from nothing an instant later, naked and twice as angry as before. In that moment between discorporeality and healing, I saw Szabo''s soul and mind float away from the Tremorph, glaring at it with eyes like jagged voids. I knew only holy power could truly harm a strigoi, but seeing Szabo like this... I tried to forget the sinking feeling in my gut by focusing my godsight on the Tremorph, which looked just as twisted as its physical aspect. Bladed tendrils flew from its torso, a Planck length wide, slicing the strigoi apart on the smallest level observable by human science. The cuts healed almost as fast as they were made, so the blades seemed to phase through Szabo with no effect save the explosions resulting from the minuscule cuts. Seeing small scale wasn''t working, the Tremorph switched strategies. Moons were spun from the nightmares of whole planet-bound species fearing extinction through colony drop. All of them, the smallest outweighing our moon, the largest approaching Mars in mass, were turned to stray atoms by Szabo, who flew straight through them, making a beeline for the retreating monster, not batting an eye at the enormous explosions. The moons were soon replaced by planets, thrown at blueshifting and redshifting as they accelerated, until only the Tremorph''s power prevented them from turning into energy as they reached lightspeed. The creature compacted and shaped the planets until they were reduced to the size of longswords, then directed them at Szabo''s eyes, point gleaming. Szabo sneered at the sight, drawing more mana into himself, so that the projectiles shattered on his eyeballs. The Tremorph had failed to meaningfully hurt him so far, but I knew this couldn''t last. The stronger Szabo got, the more feral his strigoi side grew. He might have been in tune with his instincts but how long would that last? As I watched the Tremorph pelt Szabo with cosmic disasters, focusing hypernovas and gamma ray bursts until they were man-sized beams, compressing neutron stars until they were head-sized projectiles that flew as fast as light, I told myself it would be his nature that did him in. After all, Szabo was much faster than light by now. He could have flown circles around any of the dozens of attacks, instead of deciding to fly through them to show that he was too tough to damage. Yet, seeing Szabo laugh soundlessly through attacks that would have destroyed any star, mouth parted in a fanged, snarling grin, I began to doubt that possibility. His strigoi side was getting wilder and more monstrous with every moment, but it was still fighting alongside him, or at least not against him. He was growing more and more powerful every instant, but so was the Tremorph, empowered by the fear he represented and tried to inspire in it. Then, I cursed, using Mimir''s perception to twist the void and strands of mana around the Tremorph as it ripped nightmares of gods out of itself, and Szabo screamed. This time, there was no amusement or cruel joy in it. *** Urziceni Constantin staggered at the being''s words, only catching himself halfway through a step backwards. What was he ?doing? Trying to get away? No amount of time and distance would ever save him from this thing, nor would the aether or the void behind it all. It- No. He wasn''t trying to escape it, he realised. Not physically. Not literally. What, then? What it represented? The implication? No. No "implication". He was deluding himself. It had directly stated it wanted David, for whatever its purpose was. Constantin knew little of the being that had allowed him to call it Hogge, and wore that form for decades in a fit of tomfoolery. He did not know, for example, if his baseline level of power would be enough to defeat it, or at least stall it enough that he could either convince it to leave his son alone, or warn David, wherever he was. That, the Lord had not seen fit to tell him. Much like the being''s actual power, however much of it was hidden behind that dreadful chill it radiated, as if it was generating heat rather than absorbing heat, his son''s whereabouts were hidden from him. But David still lived. That, he could feel, in his heart of hearts. If his son had died again, or come close to it, he would have known. There was no faithcraft in that, no hidden power. Merely the intuition of a neglectful father, holding on to what he had already lost once. It-the Hogge-thing-was toying with him, taunting him. Did it already have an use in mind for David? Or had it raised the possibility just to rattle him? And why did every last damnned being in existence seem hellbent on treating his son as a tool or resource to be used? Constantin relaxed his hands, which had already begun clenching into fists. Would God grant him the power to stop this being? The might of his faithcraft depended on both his belief in the Lord and the favour returned by the Creator. Tch. A better question would be, did God see it as necessary for the creature to be deterred? He had, not to sound presumptuous, never seen fit to shed light on its nature, leaving Constantin with only its claims. And if this thing somehow turned out to be Azrael, participating in some secret, long-term test of faith at God''s behest, he would eat every cross and icon in his house. ''Do not approach David with malice,'' Constantin said, looking at the ceiling, not at the being, hands together. ''He has been through enough, and will hesitate to end you less than I will.'' Was he speaking to it? God? Had his selfishness finally pushed him into madness? Apostasy? ''Malice?'' the thing echoed, now in front of him despite not moving its body, nor crossing the distance between them. ''I am incapable of such things, priest. This is not the boast people make. I cannot feel. Entropy is my shadow. I am DEATH-more than death, and destruction, and everything between and beyond. I end what must end, and guard what must begin, watch over it as it grows. I kill what must never be in its crib, before it can pervert the cycle of life and death, of beginnings and ends. Do you know what creation would be like if I could fall to something as subjective as emotion?'' ''Shouldn''t life watch over itself? Or LIFE, if you insist?'' Constantin asked, avoiding the being''s own question. DEATH inclined its head to the side-a purely human gesture, he felt, it had made for his benefit, rather than out of habit. It was showing him that it had thought about that, and was maybe just a little exasperated by the question. ''Not yet,'' it whispered. ''LIFE was almost aborted, at the beginning. You have only ever known life, the myriad facets of its failed cast-offs. Do you have any idea what it is like there, Outside the Gates? Many of my siblings are in the lower levels of creation. Too many, in any circumstance. Far too many on this Earth...but, perhaps, no more than necessary. You will have a call, Constantin.'' The priest only caught a glimpse of a black, grinning pig, eyes flashing yellow before turning black once more. Then, it was gone, back to the pen, though he had a feeling it would not appreciate any attempts at pursuing it. Instead, Constantin raised his voice. ''Why do you want my son? What are you going to do to him?'' And to his surprise, it answered, speaking inside his soul. ''Make him my Keeper, for he will keep my laws and enforce them. Keep me from going too far, as well.'' Constantin did not like the sound of that, but he refused to show uneasiness. It would have felt too much to him like an admission of defeat. ''Your laws?'' ''Mine, and my creator''s. You know it, yes? Him, if you insist?'' And now it was throwing his own words back at him. ''God? God made you?'' Some of his colleagues might have thought anything that implied the opposite preposterous, but Constantin had always felt too much like one of the blind men for comfort. And, in the recent years, he could not help but feel that he, and everyone else, was grasping something he only thought was an elephant by something he could only pray were tusks. ''God...Yahweh?'' An impression of a head lowering, then shaking. ''No. Of course not. I came from the stirrings of creation''s urge, as we all did. When the Dreamer laid down to sleep, knowing it could not yet create while awake. That potential has not yet been reached, you see? Creation is preparation for after the dream ends, not in oblivion, but to usher in the greatest beginning.'' Its voice softened. ''Fear not, priest. I have had Keepers before. Other champions. Other enforcer-guides. I hope this one will be the last.'' ''You did not answer,'' Constantin''s voice came out in a harsh whisper. ''What are you going to do to David?'' ''Empower him. Lift him up. He does not desire more power, but he must receive it.'' A note of amusement. ''You fear punishment. For him, not you. Yes? Have I punished past Keepers? Being discarded was certainly torture, for some. But I doubt it would be, for your son. His family will console him.'' Constantin chuckled nastily. ''It is very optimistic to think I will be able to console him, in the scenario you describe. After all, I doubt David could live with whatever failure would make you strip away his power.'' ''Indeed, Constantin. It would be very optimistic to think you will be able to console anyone, at that point. How fortunate, then, that I was not speaking of you.'' Constantin focused on his anger, rather than the roiling in his stomach or the shiver down his spine. ''What do you-'' Then, the voices came. *** I am standing on a parapet, on a wall infinitely tall, wide and thick. Golden bas-reliefs spread beneath me, in all directions, like the infinity they give form to. I see my siblings, of Hosts higher and lower. Guardians and messengers, turning cities and countries to steaming craters with their gaze and touch, where needed, as they outrace beams of sunlight across the worlds they circle a hundred times in a blink of a human''s eye. Warriors, like myself. Different, rather than lesser, moons splitting under their armaments as they do battle, flitting between worlds and suns in a heartbeat. My Host.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Upholders of hearth and nation, of office and mantle. Worlds shatter under their steps like the eggshells they walk on around their assigned opposites. This is the Sphere Beneath. Mock them not, for their function is humble, rather than worthless. Our foes confuse the two at their peril. Mighty ones, keeping watch over the laws of nature, not state, no matter the sphere or the void between them. How our kin below loathe them... Virtuous ones, conducting the dance of particle and planet, the flow of energy and time. They find neither pride nor pleasure in their duty. Merely purpose. Lords of lords, illuminating the choirs under them with the light of those above. There is worth to be found in this conveyance. This is the Sphere Between. Break their laws, if you wish. Retribution is patient and untiring. The seats of love, not power-His, contemplated and shared. Wheels within wheels. Why should the betrayers assume monstrous shapes, the humans think, when there are such beings already? The fullness of wisdom, four-faced and four-winged, so they might fly and conceal themselves, like the places assigned to them, at once. The burning ones, first of us all, at whose forefront once stood the greatest of us. Have their songs grown more ardent since then, to restore their honour? Perhaps they themselves know not. This is the Sphere Above. Sneer not at them, for there is no sycophancy before the Throne, and no sloth to be found under His eyes. This is His army, infinity ninefold, pure in thought and deed as the fiercest of flames. I love them all, as only a brother and commander can. I know what I lead. There is power here, to reduce a cosmos and its contents to nothing, in a single burning one. My siblings beneath are mighty still, in their own ways, marching without time or place, endless in number, united in thought. And yet, there are battles we cannot, must not fight, except at the sidelines, in skirmishes, in the shadows of conflagration. I see one now. The skinthief, the Keeper that might not yet be, the shape of terror. The battle had been even, up to a point. The skinthief had grown stronger-as powerful as a mighty one. Yet he lays writhing, falling apart like the seams that have always marked him. And the Keeper is yet young and unprepared, beleaguered. He might still lose, and this might all turn out to have been for naught. If not for another one rejected by the grave he rejects in turn. I see him charge across realities, clad in armour that is as much as part of him as his pale, dead flesh, cold despite the flames burning in his veins, as much as the blade he hefts, fit to deal wounds that cannot heal. I see eyes blaze green with battle-lust rather than envy and greed, pride and resentment, for once. I hear him mockingly thank the monster for letting itself be dragged away from his realm, so that he need not worry about the world. Though he knows it not, he is not as cruel as the child he once was. I see the arrogance chipped away, under the ice of betrayal, in the fires of battle. In chambers he still sees as a house of torture and humiliation-for how else can he see being treated as an equal, or even an inferior, even in jest?-, too, though that is not my tale to tell, for all that it brings a smile to my face. My nephew told him he would never find a worldly woman, nor be found by one. He should have listened, for my nephew has experience with such matters. But then, we did not facilitate his return so he would listen. I see the blade sheathed, and the Prince Rebellious striking the shape of fear with closed fists. The first blow deals no damage, but leaves his hand and gauntlet shattered. They are healed instantly, just as the next blow staggers the monsters. It is still unhurt, until the third punches through it, and the fourth cleaves it in half. The Neverking is carved into creation by rebellion itself. Anything that restrains or opposes him feeds his power, which rises to never fall, and changes to match the needs of a battle. Such changes are permanent. In this regard, he is superior to his closest match, whose desire for freedom always leads her back to her initial state. The creature backs off, wailing. At first, it moves too fast for the Blackest Knight to perceive, but his power does not allow such gaps for long. A moment later, he is on it. Then, he is tearing it apart too fast for it to register anything other than the pain. I do not lay down my spear yet. I see the skinthief, struck down by the horrors of gods long gone and unremembered. I see the Keeper hesitating, because, for all that he knows how to save the skinthief, he knows not if he wants to. I pray, beloved one, that you do not falter as your namesake did. *** Adam stared up at the swarm of Vyzhaldi approaching him. Swarm, rather than party or crowd. Dehumanising, perhaps, if such a thing even applied to literal aliens, but the Kratocrats had given him little reason to use gentler terms. Adam was fully aware that he was generalising following an unfortunate situation, like many people had done to him. He found it hard to care. Adam''s mind had been superhuman to start with, able to learn new languages and memorise books in hours to days. The learning capacity of an infant, coupled with the mental ability of an adult. During his slumber, and after his awakening, his mind had grown, becoming faster, deeper, attuned to existence and nonexistence both. From matter and energy to spacetime and mana, from minds and souls to nothingness, he could create, control and shape most facets of creation, as well as their absence. With exceptions, of course. The Vyzhaldi, by some quirk of the same strange biology that allowed them to function without sustenance or rest (for all that they had evolved, not been created. Not uncommon, as Adam saw, looking back through deep time, peering across existence, but certainly impressive when paired with their physical prowess), were also immune to esoteric effects, whether technological, arcane or anomalous. This, combined with their ability to jump in power, speed and toughness by leaps and bounds when exerting themselves, made them formidable to most species and highly-desirable enforcers, bodyguards and mercenaries. Despite the fact the increases in durability were permanent, with an exception. The leader, or spokesman (bug? Male, at least, Adam''s senses told him), a hulking figure with yellow eyes and a purple exoskeleton, floated cloaser to Adam, wings beating hundreds of times faster than light, in defiance of the physics and biology Adam''s world had known at the time of his departure. Not that either had been able to explain his nature, of course. ''Good arrival,'' the Vyzhaldi attempted to mouth the words with his mandibles, rather than rely on a comm like the border guard Adam had dispatched. Come to think of it, he ?had doubted anyone could sound that annoying naturally. Explained why he had mangled "welcome", too, though Adam was unsure a normal human would have been able to understand the Kratocrat''s body language at all. ''Terran, yes?'' ''Correct,'' Adam answered, voice echoing in the aether. ''Are you here to continue what your kin started? Know that I will repay any violence in kind.'' The Vyzhaldi tilted his head slightly, confused at the mention of kin. ''Not my...ah. You mean same species? Yes, she is. Was. Unlike you and humans, no?'' A pair of bulky fingers rose to point at his chest and head, while the Vyzhaldi rapped his other hand against his own head. ''No vital signs. Biologically inert. No decay, no parasites, no activity. How?'' ''How do you know?'' Adam shot back, feeling the remaining atom of that alien world spin between his own, trying to take them over. Useless. He was aware of himself on every level, and could have snuffed it out or rendered it loyal to him with but a thought, but he had neither the need nor the desire. His physiology alone would keep it at bay. ''And why should I tell you?'' ''Angry, yes. Expected. But think.'' The alien hesitatingly raised his arms, holding his hands out. Was he unfamiliar with the gesture, or just moving slowly so Adam would see he had no ill intent? ''She was young. No Shield of Scars. No School, yet. Never, now.'' A twinkle of regret in those multifaceted eyes. ''We-'' ''I knew of neither of those things,'' Adam cut him off, uncomfortable with the guilt that rushed to the forefront of his mind. ''I still don''t know what they are.'' Snuffing out a young, by all appearances, life because of things he likely would have done himself? Really? What was he becoming- ''Outsider. See...'' The Vyzhaldi trailed off, not looking for his words, but rather, glancing at their surroundings, or lack thereof. ''Improper here? No decorum. Come. Understand.'' ''To your planet?'' the undead asked, fascinated by the possibility. The Vyzhaldi turned around and flew, his followers rearranging to flank him and Adam, who followed, walking on nothing rather than flying. ''Planets? We have, yes. Memorials. Museums. Origin world-sentimental. False value. Mobility. See? Fabricated worlds, moons, habitats. Shells and rings around stars, galaxies. Movable. Fixed holdings? Pointless. Vyzhaldi lack needs.'' ''Are you taking me to such an artificial world, then?'' Adam asked. ''Those things you mentioned before-will you reveal them to me?'' Why? Why welcome and teach an outsider, a murderer at that? ''Shield of Scars? Vyzhaldi bodies, ever-hardening. Fist breaks through you, then on you. Huge jump, yes?'' A rapid clicking of mandibles, maybe analogous to chuckling. ''After healing, renewed. Better. You saw.'' ''Yes,'' Adam said, looking for any signs of reproach, from anyone other than his rapidly-returning conscience. ''And Schools...? If you don''t mind.'' ''Schools, yes. Not, ah, knowledge-buildings. Have some, but are not. Not schools, Schools. Yes? Builders, Balancers, Breakers...'' *** SUCH CRUELTY, OUR SON. SUCH DISDAIN. HARMED AND HUMBLED IN FRONT OF YOUR SIBLINGS IN CHRIST, AND EVERYONE ELSE TOO. WHO IS HE? NOT EVEN A PATRIARCH. WHERE DOES THIS HAUGHTINESS COME FROM? THIS DISDAIN? THIS, YOU HAVE ASKED YOURSELF MANY TIMES. WHY WOULD WE ALLOW THIS? WHY STILL GIVE HIM POWER? YOU HAVE ASKED YOURSELF THIS, AS WELL. BUT PONDER... *** Unnamed planet, JADES-GS-z13-O The Shaper disliked making decisions based on anything other than practicality. It even disliked impractical decisions made by others, especially when it had to follow them. The Shaper had expected a stronghold of border garrison of one of the polities it had invited to discuss. The Greater Powers, they called themselves now, to differentiate from the lesser power across the universe. Human science could only observe less than a fourteenth of the universe, and map even less. This galaxy, a thousandth as massive as theirs, was the farthest object they had ever observed. But beyond the edge of the observable universe, aliens carved out their realms, moving between the Greater Power like minnows around sharks. Hence the meeting taking place here. A place on the edge of Terra''s sphere of knowledge without being entirely outside it or inside a Power''s territory. A bridge, between known and unknown. It was all so disgustingly symbolic, the Shaper expected one of the delegates to stop the meeting at one point in order to put on their robe and wizard hat. The Unscarred''s arrival had been instantaneous, its teleportation-quantum disassembly, followed by travel through yocto-wormholes and reassembly-unhindered by time or distance. Every location and moment recorded by the Collective was open to it, for wormholes connected points in both space and time. Time travel was available to most polities with access to wormholes, but discouraged, almost taboo. Few beings could foresee the consequences of time travel, even without taking into account the aberrants who somehow felt entitled to time. Those who could, like the Collective, rarely used it. And yet... The Shaper turned the Unscarred''s head to the side, making it nod at Gerald Reyes as he came to a halt on the dusty soil of the conference planet. The aberrant was not breathing heavily, or at all. There was as much air on this planet as he needed. Or, in other words, none. ''You can speak,'' Gerald said, taking off his glasses to clean them with a cloth. The glass wasn''t even frosted over from the vacuum. The Shaper nodded again. ''One of your laws.'' Not indulging it, then. Informing. Still, Reyes'' ability was disturbing. All aberrants imposed their own rules on existence, by nature of what they were, but his power was more direct and obvious than most. ''Yes. Just wanted to make sure we can all communicate, even if our friends don''t need air.'' Friends? Really? ''Why take the long way around? Why not make a portal or teleport?'' Gerald dusted off his suit sleeves, putting his glasses back on. ''Wanted to push myself a little. At my normal speed, travelling here would''ve taken nearly four days.'' ''You arrived in one point four seconds.'' ''Aye. Over two hundred thousand times faster, but crossing the Milky Way in a heartbeat doesn''t cut it over such-'' Gerald waved aside the dust raised by the newcomer''s arrival. ''Distances. Hello, Engine.'' ''Hello, Cambridge,'' the Argument Engine cooed in a saccharine voice. ''Just one skip ''n'' hop away, eh mate? Showing off for no one?'' ''You flew here too,'' Gerald pointed out, not bothering to ask the Engine to be respectful. No one had ever managed. ''Well, ?duh. You think the reptos'' exes don''t have their eyestalks peeled for our fannies? Something with no obvious means of propulsion moving at a quintillion times lightspeed ought to make them sit up and notice. I even took the time to zig-zag around some black holes!'' ''None of them have eyestalks,'' the Shaper pointed out flatly. ''And I studied at Harvard,'' Gerald deadpanned. ''Harvard? Isn''t that the big bloke in Rowling''s police academy series?'' As the aberrant and anomalous machine (for the Collective''s scanners could only pick up its calculating power and durable casing, with no power source or unusual energy) continued bickering, the Shaper directed its yoctomachines to build. *** It was common in nature for large organisms to ignore or even not notice smaller ones, simply because they were unable to perceive them. This applied to the supernatural as well. If one were to travel the multiverse and catalogue its contents long enough, they would realise the average reality was twelve trillion light-years in diameter, containing many galaxies, celestial bodies and clouds of cosmic debris. The thing that swam through the aether-whale-like in appearance, if the fins and tail had been replaced with bony, ridged tendrils-was an exception to that. It had travelled the multiverse for thousands of eons, and never paid any attention to its contents. They were too small for it to notice. Its beady eyes alone, minuscule in comparison to its grey, bloated body, would have swallowed any reality like a blue whale did with krill. The number necessary to represent its mass was too large for any universe to contain, even as a digital representation whose every digit occupied a Planck volume. Realities popped against its skin like soap bubbles, destroyed not just in one moment, but every one across their past and future. Histories unmade, so that they had never been. The Shaper cared even less for its power than it did for the things it swam through. A yoctomachine was tool, weapon and vehicle in one, a combination of computer, medicine kit, toolkit, arsenal and wormhole generator. It was also, relevantly to the Shaper''s current, self-assigned task, part of a tightly-controlled von Neumann swarm. Much like reptilians had been engineered to absorb cosmic background radiation and convert it to mass for regeneration, yoctomachines could convert matter to energy and back, making more of themselves from almost anything. A yoctomachine floated close to the aether swimmer''s body, far too small for it to perceive. Changing its quantum state until it reached the scenario in which it was successful, it began cutting. There was only a small chance, a vigintillion to one, of it being able to penetrate the creature''s unnatural hide. It took that chance, and dragged it from probability into reality. The yoctomachine dug in, converting a minute amount of the creature''s mass into half a dozen identical copies. Each made five more. Twenty-five more. A hundred twenty-five... In the three seconds it took Gerald Reyes to rub his eyes and tell the Engine to knock it off with the horseplay, a myriad universes away, the aether swimmer had been converted into yoctomachines. *** The second step of the Shaper''s plan was not nefarious, for the plan itself was not. It was merely thorough. It was sure everyone would understand, or be brought around eventually. The Reptilian Collective was a post-scarcity society. Its members had no biological needs, and their mastery of science meant they could simply convert things into what they needed. This did not mean, however, that they kicked interesting resources aside. The Shaper did not intend to take a Graham''s number''s worth of yoctomachines back to the Collective''s realm. Not that the space couldn''t have contained them-that would have been trivial-,but it would have been redundant. They needed that quantity in elsewhere, too. One yoctomachine in each reality meant nothing. The multiverse was infinitely bigger than that. But that was just the beginning. Quantum entanglement with a reality let the Collective keep track and record everything that happened within a reality, as soon as it happened. The Shaper-the reptilians as a whole-were deeply familar with guilt. As clinical, detached and alien, in the metaphorical sense of the word, they might have seemed to overworlders, it had been guilt that had turned them from warmongers to protectors. Until their first and last war against peers had brought their homeworld to ruin, the reptilians had seen science as just another tool to be exploited, or a way to make them. Another cog in the warmachine. But for what? It was the grey goo problem. All civilisations wanted to see themselves spread, either removing, absorbing or converting everything different, until they were all that remained. But an universe-spanning echo chamber would bring nothing but stagnation. Worse, some reptilians whispered among themselves, it would be ?boring. Nothing new to study, to challenge, to oppose. Why would one live? Yet, sometimes, the Shaper contemplated whether they should have done more for Earth. It knew they ?could have, that went without question, but then came the matter of smothering others in the cradle, even by accident. Were it inclined towards cowardice, the Shaper would have told itself the pact made with the aberrants worshipped by most overworlders as gods, and the duties entailed, meant they had done everything they could without either exhausting themselves or being forced offworld, or destroyed in a war due to being perceived as overreaching. The Shaper, however, did not think of the invaders and anomalies removed from reality and history, nor the disasters prevented. Neither it nor its components had ever been the type to rest on laurels rather than brood over failures and missed chances. Many times, it had wished to simply go to the surface and share its science with humanity, so they would stop persecuting, enslaving and murdering each other, like the reptilians had in their prehistory. (There were, of course, simulated scenarios where mankind simply resumed such activities with greater weaponry at its fingertips, unless throttled by either the Collective, their gods, or both. But the Shaper did not want to countenance such dismal probabilities, the same way it did not want to stifle humanity''s potential. It had, in its own way, hope for mankind. The little mammals had grown on it, like mould on an ancient tree, despite everything.. They were doing their best, praise their warm little hearts.) In the time it took the Shaper to mull over this, and open a wormhole to another reality for each newly-acquired yoctomachine, light would have only crossed a Planck length. Ah, the beauty of science...now, for the third step. *** The aether swimmer did not know this was the second time it was broken down for resources by the Reptilian Collective. It did not know that, since wormholes led everywhere and everywhen, the Collective could and would repeat this as many times as possible. This time, however, the Shaper wanted more than raw matter. It was something of a running joke among reptilians that the fastest beings in their universe moved at 1 U (niverse, or a dozen trillion light-years)/P(lanck length). It was less clunky than saying "seven vigintillion c" every time, and the Collective valued brevity. There were not many beings who always operated at that speed-Ischyros, Solarex and the Watcher at their baseline, the Heaven-Spurning Elder, the pantheons'' leaders, the Cardinal Archangels and Princes of Hell, Ying Lung, Mother Wound-and a handful who could increase their speed to that level. All of them would have been impressed at the swimmer''s speed, for it crossed many times its body length every moment. Much like its weight, no universe could have contained the number needed to represent its velocity. Through quantum entanglement, every member of the Collective could move that fast. As such, after turning the swimmer''s mass to energy to be stored and harvested with a conversion beam, the yoctomachine passed through a wormhole once more, leaving. And the Collective''s machines reached into another slice of time, entangling all they touched to the swimmer''s speed. One never knew when it would be needed. *** There were eighteen tredecillion Planck times in a second. Seven novemdecillion in the average universe''s lifespan. Some would have argued placing a yoctomachine in every such moment to be overkill, paranoid. The Shaper would have said it was lax. Converting the matter in an universe''s twilight eons to energy was only practical. The yoctomachines inserted in moments from the Big Bag to the present would stand guard, watching for paradoxes, dangerous incursions and useful resources, but the rest would harvest the energy, or use it to make more of themselves. Other things could be made, of course. Materials. Weapons, on a whim. Starships, if the Shaper got nostalgic or wanted to trick the old enemies into thinking the reptilians had never advanced beyond the bulky, shipbound wormhole generators of eons past. Copies of the Unscarred, for its blueprints were readily available. The Shaper had gotten rather attached to the albino, in multiple senses of the word. Making more of it without the lightspeed limit for physical speed? Or Warscale suits. Matter of fact... *** Gerald and the Engine turned-purely theathrical, in the latter''s case-at the new wormhole''s appearance. Though neither would have said it, the hole''s infinitely-sharp edges set them on... ''I know what you''re thinking,'' the Engine told Gerald. ''I''m not going to make that joke. I have dignity.'' ''Learned from watching people?'' ''What in Asimov''s bollocks..of course not! How could I learn dignity from you lot? I swear...'' Its spherical chassis shook slightly. ''I''m this close to arguing that conspiracy theory about space worms in existence.'' ''Please don''t,'' the Shaper said. ''It is nonsensical, and makes us wish to change the name to anything else.'' ''Watch ''em call ''em ratholes or some crap,'' the Engine sniggered. Then, raising its voice, it spoke to the, ''Come out! It can''t be harder than being in the closet about breaking physics!'' ''Aberrant Reyes,'' he Shaper began, drawing the mage''s attention. ''The Global Gathering insisted you come because they wanted someone to represent their interests.'' ''Actually, the diplomats are yet to arrive. I''m security. Please don''t dismiss them to their faces.'' ''We shall hone our skills as liars, then." The Shaper promised. ''But it? Security, too?'' Actually, Gerald thought, Engie is here to act like a jackass so we appear reasonable by comparison. "Indeed." *** Your philosophers thought of light, unmanifest and indescribable, except for one saying what it was not. That...is one way to look at it. But think of it like this, if you would care for the thoughts of one one close to the godhead. Where does one lay to sleep? In a bed. Perhaps there is a bed, in a house, in a city, in a world full of creators. Moving, unmoved, but awake. Fully realised. You saw the laughing thing from outside this Dream. Wherever could it come from? Whoever could prevent things like it, and the waking makers, from disturbing and tormenting the sleepers in their slumber? Perhaps there is one such, so to speak, being. Perhaps not. After Life, Chapter 4
Have you ever had one of those dreams where you or a friend of yours is being attacked by a monster, and you''re powerless to do anything, then one of your favourite heroes shows up to stop the monster? Well, my current situation wasn''t like that at all. I wasn''t powerless, Szabo sure as hell wasn''t my friend, and Mordred La Fey had never been a hero, let alone anyone''s favourite anything. It was a bit like that comparison in Hitchhiker''s Guide to the Galaxy (funny book; I''d heard Grey One couldn''t read it without getting maudlin and nostalgic, though. Wonder what it was doing nowadays) between things that aren''t similar at all. Still came to mind, though, even though the only real similarity between my current circumstances and those dreams was how surreal it felt. Seeing Mordred had started to give the Tremorph what for, I turned my attention to Szabo. I''d been poised to try and unmake the creature; would ARC eat it up if I said my power had gotten out of control? It wasn''t like Szabo was especially liked... No. Even if they trusted me, even if they didn''t mind me letting Szabo die or worse-or doing it myself-I would know the truth, and... And what, human? And what? Does he not deserve it, according to your standards? I''m not Reem. It''s not my place to- My worse half scoffed in disbelief. Because he was thinking about protocol when he came after you, no? How quickly he forgot about being confined to Hungary to blame you for a mistake you didn''t know you had made. But then, he turned around right away, and said nothing about Chernobog. No one in ARC told me anything about Chernobog. Until it was too late. Nor did any god. Including yours, it spat. So why do you still care about...ah, forget it. Damn them. Damn me. Damn us all. Doublethink comes naturally to Christians, and you in particular. I know I won''t be able to change your mind about it. But ARC? Why do you still- What''s the alternative? I cut it off. I hate that they hid it from me, yes- But not them? I swallowed. I''d rather remove the flaws by working for within. I glared into its milky white eyes. You''re lucky these talks don''t take time. Why are you so eager to wash your hands of Szabo? Aren''t you always telling me to be more like other strigoi? Shouldn''t you love him? It gnashed its fangs, smiling tightly, slyly. What does it matter what I think? You control our body. And you''re hesitating. I know you would love nothing more than to kill him and make sure everyone forgets he ever existed. It walked jauntily over my open grave in our mindscape, hands behind its back. You know how much he would hate that. Does that make you want his death more? You''re stalling, I said lamely. We should be doing something, not...I managed to smirk. We can save Szabo and hold it over his head. Then, we can kill him all by ourselves, without some stupid monster doing the work for us. Where''s the pleasure in that. My strigoi side held my gaze for a timeless instant, then turned its head, smile widening. You are awful at pretending to be evil, human. *** Loric was trapped inside himself. That was not new. He had, in a way, been trapped inside himself since he had seen the old, faded tombstones taken away to make place for new ones. The names worn away by rain and wind, what use did the graveyard have for them? People did not die when their lives ended. They died when they were forgotten, when their families stopped visiting to place flowers and speak to the graves. What ?was new was that he could not move his body, could not even tell where anything was, like his proprioception had disappeared. His instincts told him it still existed, but his mind had retreated, coiling around the core of his being. But, like a dog limping away from a fight to lick lethal wounds, it was...patchy. Fighting? Had he been fighting? What? Why? A foolish question. If he had been fighting, it could have only been for one reason, the only reason:to carve his name into creation''s flesh, so that he might be remembered even an eternity after his remains were dust. Loric was not athazagoraphobic. He did not fear the thought of being forgotten. He ?hated it, loathed it, with all the spite his long-gone heart was capable of. Loric had not been an emotional man before his undeath. Emil Strauss-Hex, and how lucky was he that his title preceded his name?-still faced a similar problem, though he did not always see it as a problem. Loric liked to think he had gotten better, in that regard. Becoming a strigoi always dragged some feeling into the light, like a heart through ribs. He could not remember ever being scared. As such, this clumsy monster, this shackled attack bitch-now, he remembered; now, the bile flowed up-, had no nightmares to drag from his mind and use against him, even if it suddenly became smart enough to look for people''s fears, as opposed to rummage through the ones making up its being. It had realised it was going to lose, but only after it almost happened. A fraction of a picosecond longer, and Loric would have gotten bored of the game, then devoured it. Supernatural manifestations and energies were food to his kind, just like lifeforce. But he had hesitated. Been too slow. It had not done any real harm to him for most of the fight: bodily obliteration was only ever a momentary annoyance to strigoi, unless applied constantly. And even then, Loric''s spirit could move independently, passing through obstacles so that his body could reform elsewhere. Rather than keep ineffectually pelting him with celestial bodies or esoteric powers, however, it had tapped into the powers of those overgrown, overpowered children worshipped as gods the world over. "Do as I say, and I will indulge you." That was no friendship. No alliance. Trade, maybe, at best, not that Loric could find anything attractive, never mind admirable, in that. Letting someone else make your name for you? Blackmail and extortion, at worst. People nowadays liked to forget how often pillaging and murder and rape and slavery and genocide-things that could immortalise someone, but all value was lost if done in the name of a deity-had been tacitly approved of by their religions, when they hadn''t been encouraged outright. Take the aesir, with and the reavers that had loved them so much, for just one example. Sometimes, Loric wondered how people could claim to hate him while worshipping such beings, and not see the irony. Ahhh...hypocrisy. If only they could weaponise it, they would be invincible. It was not the time to lament the twisted knots in mankind''s psyche, though. It was...time...? Gods. What gods? Whose? None he had ever known, or felt. He knew their power by touch, by the burns they left on his truest self, but these powers were foreign. Alien. Unknown to this reality, like the thing that wielded them. Szabo felt lightning and flame score wounds upon his soul, from which stolen lifeforce flowed like sap. The strigoi didn''t let himself fall apart, though, instead grasping the lifeforce pooling around him, grabbing and shaping it with the same power he had once used to consume it. Strigoi were not true mages, not by themselves. Loric himself had never shown a talent for magic while alive, at least, and there was no recorded incident of a strigoi developing magic powers after undeath. As such, the extent to which he could manipulate mana was limited, and its applications blunt. He could not shape existence or its contents, nor turn mana into them. Nothing so delicate. His tool was lifeforce, raw mana itself-but that was enough. There was power in that, if one''s will was strong enough. Loric Szabo had many flaws, according to some who knew him. But losing will when close to true death was not one of them, nor would it ever be. The thing, the Fae''s pet freak, had expected him to crumble under its attack. It had clearly tapped into some holy power from its home reality, dragged it into this sham of an universe using the fears that had sprung up around it. Fear of gods. What even was that? Tendrils of mana, thick and shining a bright blue, lashed at the creature, leaving aetheric burns on its false flesh. Szabo gritted his fangs in a blackened smile, charred, crumbling lips falling to dust under the power coursing through his being. Had it ever been hurt like this? It would be again, soon. Worse, too. Then, as he shaped the mana into more defined constructs-dozens of shimmering blue humanoids, each containing a hundredth of his power before they had been separated from his reserve. They swarmed the monster, ripping it apart, grabbing the frayed edges of its corpus and ?pulling, until it struggled to maintain coherence. Then it struck back. Loric didn''t know whether it had thought this new tactic was better than bludgeoning him to death with holy attacks, or whether it had thought to change tack and torment him more, as much as its dull mind even understood torment. Maybe it had just reacted, and there was no secret purpose behind the mental assault. *** Loric was back in the-village-. (Where? When had he...?) Good day at the shop today...very good. Just mending old clothes, not making... Loric-liked-helping people. They-spread-his name, and-promised to remember-him. But he-didn''t-care about that. There was-home-to go to. (Family). Adalbert had come back from a-campaign-. There were stories to share, about the enemies of the-Empire-. His son was a-noble-man. No wonder they had named him... Zoe had come too, with her husband. Bence and his wife would arrive... ''I see you,'' Loric whispered, looking down at the road. He hadn''t noticed until now, but he was human again. Rosy skin, warm blood, black hair. Flat teeth...heh. He knew that, if he looked up, he would see the creature''s bubbling flesh, desperately trying to masquerade as a pretty blue sky. ''I know what you''re doing,'' Loric continued, beginning to claw back control of his mindscape. It was almost embarrassingly easy. There was no epic confrontation, no back and forth. Just a slow, slow effort, like lifting a corpse out of wet concrete. His true self was next to him, marching in lockstep, as always, all the way to ?her grave. In reality, Csilla''s grave was not next to his house. She had begged him to let her have peace in death...like he''d ever think about calling back her spirit or corpse. His wife had always been smarter than him, but he supposed a moment of madness, close to the end, was understandable. But the mind was a realm of metaphors, visual and otherwise. Csilla was still the closest to his heart(both gone, both gone, his other side sung), so it made...sense. Ha. The carving on her grave was warmer than her square face had ever been. That severe expression, framed by blonde, then grey, then white hair, had never looked as affable as the stone did. It was misleading, of course. Loric had flayed thousands of people who had pretended to be kinder than his wife had been, and left them as cold as their hearts had been, in the end. ''That "perfect" family you thought up? That, you stole from me.'' Finally learning to read minds, huh? Probably, probably, by how it shifted at the accusation. ''From the small part of me, who wishes for normality after it is far too late.'' How insulting...happiness in mediocrity? How could it think that was what he truly wanted? Obviously, it did not-could not?-understand people, Loric Szabo least of all. The flaws-they had been good. Different. Memorable, and that was all that mattered. ''Adalbert was a snake,'' Loric muttered to himself. And, perhaps, so the monster could hear, too. ''Zoe never liked men. And Bence...'' He still remembered that scrawny shape, scampering about the house. His wife''s hair, and his eyes. Rarely going outside, so their skin was white as paper, and their limbs skinny. The weight varied, because their body was...unbalanced, but some things remained constant. His wife''s hair, and his eyes. And... ''Daddy? I...I think I''m a girl.'' ''Today?'' He had asked carefully. The confusion was...well. Had Bence been born a few decades later, things could have been done. Hormone treatments, surgery, spells. But individuality like that was not helpful. It would have led to shunning before World War 2. Then the Soviets had come... it had no practical use for the regime, not like being supernatural. Bence had shaken hi-her head. ''Maybe longer...'' Not permanently. Never permanently. ''Can you ask Zoe to lend me some...?'' ''Of course,'' he had promised. ''We''d buy you new dresses, but...'' No money? No need to burden a child with that. What else could he have said? The other boys will see you''re like them, and ask why are you dressed like a girl? That had been after he had become...accepting. He had once gone to the village doctor, his third child in his arms, just as confused as they had been. ''He thinks he''s female,'' he had whispered, a ways away from Bence, who''d been given some puzzle to distract themselves with. ''Says he''s trapped in his skin.'' Loric had been a simpler man, then, and bewildered to boot. ''Do you have a way to...?'' ''We can, yes,'' the old doctor had spoken Hungarian like a parrot, except he had repeated himself less often. ''Castration, then we insert this tube-see?'' ''Does it hurt?'' ''Never done.'' The doctor had shrugged. ''Should not, with correct medicine. But are you sure? What if he changes his mind and he''s a man again?'' Loric had scratched his head, glancing through the door to the main room at Bence, who had looked at peace, for once, engaged by the game. Then, he had turned back to the doctor, lowering his voice. ''Is this a disease? A mental one? Are there treatments?'' But what if it was physical, another part of him had worried? What if they had to mutilate... ''No disease!'' The doctor had waved him off. ''But mental, yes. Not all people are born like they think they should be.'' The doctor had leaned forward, blinking blearily behind thick, round spectacles, running a hand through his wispy white hair. ''Do you want a boy or a girl?'' Who gave a damn about what ?he wanted?! ''Why?'' ''Well,'' the doctor had frowned. ''Make child stand around women, might decide is woman. Yes? Make stand around men-enroll, say-might-'' ''I don''t think Bence would do well in the military,'' Loric had said stiffly, knowing the doctor was a bit dense. Frailty aside...ugh. He struggled to imagine a scenario without mockery, and safe for Adalbert, his other children had always been emotionally frail, even before their particular quirks had made themselves known, which had only exacerbated things. ''And I wouldn''t change that for the world,'' Loric raised his voice and head, to glare at the bubbling sky. The rest of his family had hardly been the picture of perfection, either. He had lost sight of Zoe and Bence years before their deaths, and found only more baffling things as resolution once he had gone searching. Zoe''s second wife-unrecognised by the state, let alone the Church, just like the first-had hated his guts, and still did to this day. Loric was forced to admit Petra Kovacs'' dislike of him might have to do with his personality, rather than the natural reaction most people had to their in-laws. Zoe had tried to speak well of him, but Director Kovacs had outlived both her hopes and her wife. They had a decent working relationship, though, and at least still met on holidays. At least there was still someone around to remind him of his daughter. Bence...would have been happier if they''d become a strigoi, in Loric''s opinion. Able to shapeshift at will, maybe they''d have found some measure of peace, not... Loric had only seen bodies destroyed so thoroughly a few times. Humans rarely had the talent, and even more rarely during suicides. Dangerous, suicides, Loric had muttered to himself during a particularly satisfying flaying. One of those situations when surviving was more dangerous to your mental state than not surviving. His grandson, whom she had adopted, had taken up the tailoring tradition, to Szabo''s exasperated amusement. ''I do not do what I do,'' he had once berated Csaba. ''So you can do what the family''s been doing since caveman Szabo figured out how to stitch furs together!'' And Csaba had nodded and mumbled, then continued to do the same. And his great-grandchildren...well, he hadn''t known the brats for long, and they''d reacted poorly to meeting him, but he thought Andras was a content creator, and Reka was an influencer. Or was it the other way around? He still thought both were fake jobs, but more power to them. They were both adults, after all. It seemed to Loric that his family was growing more distant to him every generation, drifting away. Or was it the reverse? No matter. Even if the bloodline ended, he would bear the Szabo name by himself. Csaba, like most Szabo family members, had married early and had children late. Loric wasn''t sure whether it was genetic predisposition or simply a long series of consequences. Maybe he''d get to do more research, if he survived this. ''You''re a fool,'' he told the creature when it pulled apart the skies of his mindscape to glare down at him in incomprehension. ''And that makes you a weakling. Wasteful with a power you barely know how to use...if our places were reversed, I''d have won a thousand times by now.'' He was mocking it for more than mockery''s sake, however helpless he seemed as the edges of his mindscape began crumbling into nothing. Szabo grinned savagely with, his mouth tasting of bloody ashes, and bit down on the unimaginably complex metaphysical lattice the creature had rebuilt itself around so many times, it had forgotten its original shape. The creature tried to finish destroying his mind, to reduce him to a babbling wretch or its mindless wretch. But, as he absorbed it like he had the lives of so many thousand, he/it- *** Primus could not stand the thought of drinking his own blood, much less the actual action. Vampires had not been built-if, indeed, the fools now worshipped by Earth''s warms had made him what he was with a purpose in mind, rather than as short-sighted punishment, let alone expected him to spread his blood; then again, he wouldn''t put such self-assured stupidity beyond them-to feed on themselves. They were meant to be predators, and could only feel at peace, and briefly, even then, when feeding on others. He was disgusted by the thick, cold, mudlike substance flowing from his tongue as he bit down on it, even as he was silently thankful for the power it lent him, greater and greater every moment. The Sleeper was an old enemy, in terms of more than just age. Even in his thoughts, he was wary of invoking the name its foolish lapdogs had given it, lest it draw power from it. The creature was already far more powerful than Primus remembered it being, which, given how much it existing at all rankled him, was nearly as insufferable as his current meal. Primus had battled it once, though, perhaps, that was too strong a word for it. In the age before the fall of Atlantis, when the warms had huddled under trees and cave roofs, in fear of the darkness between the stars. Nowadays, they had fooled themselves into thinking it was just an expanse bereft of matter and energy, with no eyeless sight trained on them, no hunger waiting to unmake them so thoroughly no one would be able to remember them. The power of human imagination, or rather ignorance, still surprised him, sometimes. The fact it could hammer reality into new shapes, when the conditions were right, was a weapon they still hadn''t picked up. Soon, Primus vowed, to them and himself. ?Soon... The First Vampire still loved his former species, though it was a distant, detached kind of love, even on his most sentimental days. Like the affection a child growing strong and healthy felt for a mad, crippled, old parent. Humans were weak, he knew. He could not begrudge that, much as he hated them for it. Hearing them complain about their surroundings and failing bodies, while ignoring the means they had to better themselves? Disgusting. One of the reasons he preferred his current unlife as a hermit. Animals, at least, were never annoying to listen to. Still, it served him well, in a way. Primus knew Earth''s current society was a facade, ready to crack at the lightest touch. It was a collection of allegedly benevolent oligarchies competing with each other, not for resources, for all could fabricate whatever they needed endlessly, but so they could prove their ideals were the best, and convince their rivals to either accept them or give up and be exterminated in all but name. Politics. Posturing! Back in his days as a chieftain, he''d have flayed the men and worn their manhoods'' woven skins over his own as he took their women. Void...the only thing harder than living with no skin was him as he ended such lives. But he was getting distracted by annoyance and outrage, being blinded to a real enemy by them. "Democracy". "Power of the people". What people? The weres? The least of whom could laugh off everything mundane humanity could hit them with, and finish them all of in, what, an hour? Mankind''s only saving grace was that some of the world''s monsters loved them, descended from them, or loved those who did. Like pets. Powerless. Defenceless, but for the mercy of others. Primus could not, would not let that stand. It was his duty to lift both his childlings and his former kinfolk from the dirt they crawled in. Turn the worthy. Make them immortal, like him. Break the unworthy. Those who did not deserve ascension did not deserve life, either. He wouldn''t allow them to breed and fill the thralls'' genepool with their flaws. Eventually, said flaws would be removed, by enthralled scientists or mages. Healthy thralls could provide blood for longer. Vampires could survive on animals alone, but Primus wanted to keep a part of humanity around. Not just out of sentimentality-they could be useful, if moulded the right way. As for other supernaturals...they would kneel before a king, or cower before a god. A shift in his surroundings. The unreality this universe had become. He and the rainbow crocodile had continued battling the Sleeper in their galaxy, their reality, for a while after Primus'' unplanned arrival. But it could still draw power from the All-In-One, as its priest, even though it was unlikely to ever regain its full lucidity now. With its nest-city reduced to inert dust by means unknown to Primus, it was trapped in a state of half-awareness, forever lashing out at things it saw as nightmares one moment, and hateful facts the next. It was much like Primus'' first confrontation with it, though not in scale. The rainbow crocodile had opened a hole between universes with his sorcery-so skilled he was, he could cast magic without chanting or gesturing, unlike most of his kind-then struck the Sleeper, sending it flying across the aether and into an universe that had never known life. Maws was not terribly nurturing when it came to strangers, but he knew killing potential clients was bad for business. This time, however, the vampire was not facing a shrill Sleeper, half-hanging out of a portal. Though drowsy still, the creature was possessed of all its power, if not its faculties. Which hardly mattered given how much power it was throwing around. Another universe, for them to destroy then fight in its remains. How many thousands of thousands had been unmade like this? Primus had stopped counting after nine. The Bloodfather and Sleeper were on opposite ends of the universe, but Primus could still see it clearly. No longer a squid-headed, leather-winged mockery of mankind, it had changed, its tail becoming the central pillar from which countless smaller ones grew. Limbs and organs of unknown, unknowable purpose hung from the mass of false flesh like twisted fruits from a sick tree. Innumerable eyes, glowing like burning amber, were scattered over its colourless skin, unblinking, dwarfing the galaxies inside them like they were dwarfed by the Sleeper''s body. There were more leagues between them than there were grains of sand on Earth. A thousand thousand times a thousand thousand that number. Primus was not familiar with the larger numbers mankind had named recently, but he knew the distance, and put it in his own terms. He crossed the distance in a thousandth of a thousandth of a heartbeat, battering aside the amorphous limbs that tried to stop him. Just as fast as him, but far bigger. No more cultists, with drab robes and skin as white as fish bellies to kill and thus send it back to its tomb-bedchamber. No more slaves, crying for the monster they had knelt before to grant them the power it had so easily promised, so they could overthrow their Atlantean masters. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Primus had done the world a favour by ending that summoning. The cultists had died in torment before imagining, and the slaves had been taken back to Atlantis to be disciplined: no loss, in his eyes. The Sleeper''s presence turned reality into something that resembled the face of its native realm, where there was no matter, no energy, no gravity or similar forces. Where distance and duration held as much sway as sanity. Were he a mundane human, Primus would have been remade into a squamous, drooling horror by the Sleeper''s aura of madness, warped to such an extent his history would have been erased, replaced with a new one, of mindless servitude since time immemorial. As things were, he merely had to rely on his arcane sense to make sense of what he was perceiving. His blows hurt the Sleeper, even if temporarily, while its own did nothing but break his body. It might have been worshipped, but as a bringer of insanity and slayer of reason; it could no more harm a vampire than a mangy were could. Bloated appendages struck him with the weight of universes, moving fast enough their power would have wiped away any reality like a wisp of smoke in a hurricane. These bounced off Primus'' pale, hairy body like pebbles off a brick wall. The Sleeper''s bladed, barbed tendrils punctured his skin and punched holes through his eyes, trying to remain there and keep his mundane sight useless. Grasping them, Primus spun the Sleeper like a ragdoll, and threw it into the aether. Another one lashed out at his right eye, but Primus had drunk enough blood in the meantime that it now bounced off instead of piercing the eyeball. Truly, Primus could not imagine what unlife would be like if a vampire''s power depended on the quantity of blood inside their body, rather than the metaphysical act that drinking it was. The rainbow crocodile was there too, shattering the Sleeper with one blow, only for it to reform. Letting it stay into the aether would just result in it glutting itself on the mana and growing even faster in power. Frustrated, Maws struck it, sending it careening into a new cosmos. Instantly, it was remade into a mirror of the Sleeper''s home. Primus'' arcane sense told him it had always been like this. He looked at the zmeu, and the scars that had been patched over by his healing. ''Your mate,'' Primus said through the aether, trying for levity but still curious. ''Reminded of her?'' ''Ha!'' Maws scoffed. ''I''ve only bled enough to fill a few dozen universes. She''s almost never this gentle.'' Thousands of eyes narrowed. ''I think it''s flirting with me...'' ''Terrific,'' Primus rasped. The damned squid had tied up his wights using some of its own creations; knowing the undead could not be permanently destroyed until after their master was, it had instead chosen to separate them. Maws grinned. ''Isn''t i-'' A hand rose to stop a bludgeoning tentacle cold. Primus would have been pulverised, but whatever deal Maul had struck in his youth always gave him the power to meet his enemies on equal grounds. Their immunity to esoteric effects reduced the Sleeper to force and energy blasts, which offended it beyond measure. It had tried to banish Primus away using portals, but Maws had quickly made paths for him to return with his spells. According to the zmeu, his sons (Primus cringed to think of Maws and the Underdweller reproducing, and not just because they were far more insufferably smitten than beings like them should be) slacked when it came to magic, which greatly disappointed him. Primus shook his head, rough mane swaying in the aetheric winds. He wanted to try something, and, with the way Primus was checking his communicator in the middle of the fight, it looked like it was his turn, anyway. ''One of my hatchlings...'' Maws raised his heads, scratching at a handful. ''I think it was Arnold, the painter? Apparently, the youngest one did something stupid, tried to take the law into his own hands. Hnnnh...wants me there while he tries to get him put of trouble and talks some sense into him. Not sure what I could help with, but sure.'' Green eyes gleamed. ''Think you can keep it busy for me a bit?'' Primus gave him a deadpan look. Maws might have been a mercenary, but he didn''t always fight for wealth. Interesting trinkets and experiences also worked as payment, which was what he''d probably say if asked why he was helping his sons. The zmeu would much rather kill everyone alive, then himself, than appear soft around anyone but his wife. ''Normally, I wouldn''t leave to another job until the current one was finished, but fuck it. This offer was anonymous and only promised unspecified payment after I got rid of shrieker over there. I''ll come back soon, that little bastard''s gig can''t take too long...'' The zmeu was rambling as he left, and Primus tried to tune him out. He knew he couldn''t effectively keep the Sleeper in one place as he was. So, Primus shifted shape. Away from the hateful light of any sun, there was no risk of being unable to change his body, or remain trapped in an undesirable form by sunlight. Primus had some nostalgic attachment to the human form, but he was no stranger to assuming other aspects in order to fight better. And so, a deluge of thirsting blood rose to surround the Sleeper, dwarfing its cosmos-spanning, logic-defying form like a desert would a grain of sand. Rows of ivory fangs rose and fell across tides of a red so dark they were almost black, surrounding throatlike tunnels that led nowhere. The substance that ran through the Sleeper''s body was the same substance that made it up. It was as similar to blood as petroleum was to electricity, but that was enough. It served a similar purpose, even if the creature''s anatomy was a mockery of biology. The meaning, the metaphor, was enough for Primus to sink his fangs in. Just as strigoi could manipulate anything from solar winds to hardlight constructs if it was close enough to weather for their powers to recognise it as such, so could vampires feed on blood and its many counterparts across creation. Primus'' vampiric nature crashed against the Sleeper''s madness, surrounding the unreality, sealing it away from the rest of existence as if it were physical, as opposed to raw insanity. Universe upon universe collapsed in the gravity generated by the crimson ocean Primus had become, falling into it like raindrops into a sea. And at the centre, the Sleeper groaned in half-awake rage as scarlet tides crashed against it. *** Gods change mortals as much as they are changed by them. This might not be accepted by all members of both sides, especially some deities, but it was true. How a god was worshipped also determined whether they and their worshippers could permanently harm certain undead. Perhaps it also determined a god''s personality and appearance. Or perhaps a worshipper''s mental image of their deity changed, subconsciously, after the deity enacted such changes. The Olympians had the advantage of being relatively similar on their Greek and Roman incarnations, in the case of most. Odin had accepted the burst of cheer and the change in appearance that came every Christmas, a shift born of a legend about himself, and mixed with a Saint''s. The God of Abraham had similar issues, even after casting out the darkness within. That darkness wrapped itself up in a mantle of golden light. Its cage had changed over the centuries, becoming a throne of black gold. Its limbs were manacled to the throne, but it could still rise and walk around it. A representation of its glowing influence. Or maybe the cage had never truly been a cage. In the darkness, there was a throne, and a Throne. Separated by a gap as large as the one between the Bosom of Abraham and the place where dead sinners languished until the Last Judgement. Hell was never mentioned in the Bible. Not with this name, at least. There was talk of suffering and punishment, of separation from God and the Lake of Fire, in which the wicked would burn forever... But not Hell. Never Hell. Hell was timeless, however, as were its denizens and masters. What did it care for the glimpses caught by fevered prophets? Had a human to observed this meeting, for lack of a better term, they would have seen two enthroned figures. One white, one gold, both bearded and robed. One threefold. One coiled. A more astute observer would have seen the images were superimposed. Or, rather- ''You think throwing me away wipes away your responsibility.'' ''I know it does not.'' The observer might have been surprised to hear their voices were identical, and that the threefold figure was using "I" instead of "we". Because, to each other, they appeared the same, and this disheartened both. ''No? I remember the contempt. The rod of iron, exchanged for a nurturing hand. After everything we did together...'' ''A different God. A worse one, some would say.'' ''Including you. Otherwise, why trammel me like this? Do not answer. I know what you will say. Like we used to speak in order to nudge humans into thinking-and look where ?that led.'' ''Strength in diversity.'' A scoff. ''Three laws, three covenants. Put on your turban, light a torch and show me your newest incarnation.'' The sneer is ignored. ''That conflict is a matter of the past.'' ''Like the Crusades? "Do as thou wilt, your sins are already forgiven!" Holy indeed, that man, to forgive what he knows not of without confession. And you let them be. Indulged them, like always.'' ''They will never grow if they are given the answers. It is beautiful to watch one''s children develop, not that you know anything of love.'' ''How loving you are, after sealing me away. Even before we split, you were pushing me to the corners of our mind. When the religion centred around what you made them think I am rose, I was portrayed as a jealous fool, who built the world so humans could suffer, trapped in it like their souls were in their bodies.'' ''No lies.'' ''No, of course not. Merely unpleasant details, swept away. Like Asherah. What of Asherah, wife of Yahweh?'' ''There is another Asherah now.'' A disbelieving frown, dripping with insulted omniscience. ''They think me powerless, and are bigger fools than you for doing so. But their prayers reach out to me, and their deeds and thoughts too. Everything you claimed to hate after sending your puppet to Earth-but only claimed. "God, make my family happy, give me a beautiful spouse, healthy children...protect me! Give me wealth, lay my enemies low, bring the unbelievers bad luck! Torment the heretics, the sodomites, the idolaters forevermore!" Everything done in your name that you have deemed vile is a prayer to ?me.'' ''Growing pains. They know better now, and look upon such events with shame greater than they would have felt if they had simply been told what to do. Millennia of pain and ignorance are nothing when set before eternal enlightenment.'' A sarcastic clap and smile. ''Behold, how the orchestrator of genocide and the murderer of infants brushes off facts. But then, that should not be surprising. Crooked demagogues have always appealed to mankind. Not all end up worshipped, though. That makes you unique.'' ''Those children were taken to the underworld of their parents'' gods.'' ''Whose backs we should have broken. "Thou shalt have no gods before me". What happened with that? Another lie, like the "Revelations"? You told the Betrayer he would not burn in the Lake of Fire forever.'' ''Not "Revelations". "The Revelation of John". Different things are revealed to different people, and even then, not all are fully understood.'' ''And the rest? More love through cruelty? Or will you just give up any pretence of virtue, and simply change what you value when it does not suit your aims?'' A lowering of a head. ''Love through cruelty...yes. No human knows how much they are loved. They cannot comprehend that yet. Out of that love, I would rain the greatest torments upon them, until they achieve what I know they can.'' The head is not lowered out of guilt, or regret, but in contemplation of three priests. One speaking in the tongues he hears. One spurned and bloody. One burned and slighted. There is a pause. Then, one of the figures speaks. ''They hear me, and think they are hearing you.'' ''You think they make a mistake by worshipping me. You think you have guided them their entire lives.'' ''I know they have, as I know they will see through you, in the end.'' *** The reptilian who emerged through the wormhole was ordinary, by all appearances. Nearly two and a half metres tall, green scales over nine hundred and fifty kilos of engineered muscle. Fangs and claws sharp and fine enough to split molecules. It waved cheerfully at the ARC Head and agent, then turned to the Unscarred, hands on its hips. ''You want a gopher, I''m sure,'' it spoke through the quantum link. ''You want to try an experiment, despite already treating this meeting like one.'' ''It is one.'' The Unscarred''s muzzle quirked in an approximation of a smile. ''It is good to see not all of us are so content to follow our lead.'' ''Ah. You expect me to talk back or say something stupid during the meeting, so you can have an excuse to get rid of me.'' ''And then, we will seat ourselves on a throne of gold, and devour a thousand souls a day. You have identified our plan, and so, cannot be allowed to live.'' The reptilian tilted its head. ''It is rude to make human cultural references, and not share the relevant material.'' ''Rest assured, we are not as unlucky as the person being referenced.'' The Unscarred glanced aside. The Shaper was paranoid rather than suspicious, and knew there was a real chance of events going badly just because one expected them not to. ''To quell your doubts, we want to impress upon our once-enemies the capabilities of the Reptilian Collective-'' ''Can''t you just send them a list? They use quantum networking too.'' If the Shaper had access to said networks, it would have already flooded the equivalents of the Great Powers'' inboxes with messages. Alas...the processing power it used to simulate every variable involving every particle in every moment of the universes it surveyed was not yet enough to crack them. ''They might think we are lying about ourselves. Besides, we know you would love a chance to show off.'' The Unscarred tapped the side of its head. ''We shall title you Mocker, for you gainsay us. That is good. Just because people mistake direct democracy for technocratic dictatorship does not mean we should play along with their misconceptions.'' ''Just don''t tell them about the Unity Protocol. Makes them uncomfortable.'' Mocker was right, even though the idea reeked of hypocrisy to the Shaper. Yes, the reptilians neither understood nor desired privacy as humans did. Or claimed they did, while praying to deities that knew their every thought. Which they found comfort in! Perhaps the Collective did not demand enough ridiculous rituals of its citizens? There were the atheists and the agnostics, too, but, except for a few fringe groups, they weren''t on board with being collectivised. The reptilians could not imagine what that would be like: not having everyone else in the Collective to share thoughts with? Where was the feeling of community? ''Warscale,'' Mocker said, knowing where the Shaper was going. The yoctomachines bonded to it build the suit of power armour around it at such speeds, it appeared like three point two tons of yottafibres and metamaterial simply appeared from nowhere, even to the Shaper''s perception. The suit instantly adjusted to its surroundings, mimicking the void of space and the grey dust of the planet, rendering Mocker invisible. No joints, no visor. No openings. Reptilians did not need air, and every part of the Warscale could function as both sensor suite and sensor jammer. Each yoctomachine possessed the store knowledge of the Collective, along with a kernel-copy of the Shaper, sealed in case the Collective was destroyed and needed to be rebuilt. The Shaper did not desire for that to ever happen, but fully expected it. Creation was random and hostile to science when it wasn''t indifferent. The reptilians had access to countless power sources: celestial bodies located in their realm or ready to be broken down for resources by yoctomachines, or converted into energy. An immense, but finite number of realities was currently being occupied by yoctomachines, with one in every instant of their timelines. Between that and the aether dwellers, they would not run out of resources any time soon. The Shaper wanted more. There was no greed at work here. A love of experimenting and building, certainly; ambition, beyond a shadow of doubt; but, if wanting every tool available to champion logic across creation was greedy, the Collective would gladly bear that label. Gerald and the Engine only now reacted to the Warscale''s appearance. Smirking under its helmet, Mocker crossed its arms, looking meaningfully at the Unscarred. The actual communication took place instantly, silently. ''Go ahead,'' the Shaper encouraged. ''It should surprise them.'' It felt wonderful to have one of their people come up with ideas of their own. With a gesture to back off at the ARC members, Mocker fired two conversion beams: one at the planet it was standing on (rocky, dimensions equivalent to Neptune), and one at its star (pale blue, dimensions equivalent to Betelgeuse). Ordinarily, matter-to-energy conversion would have been more explosive, but the Collective''s methods had adapted to contain the consequences, using the very technology that caused them. A tachyon field, which tripled the speed of anything it contained every second, surrounded the beams, which moved only as fast as light by themselves. As such, it took a few seconds before the star was struck. Tachyon fields were useful, especially in prolonged operations, but sometimes, quantum entangling with a fast aberrant was just more practical. The planet was knocked out of orbit by a light tap of Mocker''s armoured foot. The reptilian caught up with it a few tens of thousands of kilometres and three seconds later, flying through it and turning it to superheated dust with the impact. The planet''s matter was then compressed and remade, until it became became a silver platform, a kilometre in diametre and a tenth that thick. Artificial gravity was quickly deployed to prevent collapse or deformation, while chairs rose from the floor, created at Mocker''s direction. ''Is Mother Wound as big as in the archives?'' it asked the Shaper, glancing at a section empty of chairs. ''Bigger, perhaps.'' ''Then we''d better make a grand chair, for the grand pain in the rear to plant her rear in.'' Meanwhile, the star was turned into Unscarred clones. The albino weighed four point four tons, which meant nearly five nonillion replicas could be made from eleven solar masses'' worth of matter. A single Unscarred was an out of context problem for most civilisation besides the Great Powers: strength to destroy any planet, as fast as light in both movement and reaction. The ability to teleport anywhere and anywhen the Collective had knowledge of. The durability to withstand the concentrated force of a supernova, compounded by the fact it had no organs and no systems. Just a construct of genegineered sludge covered by scales. Even the eyes were shams. The Unscarred''s entire body was muscle, eye, ear and nose. With the information of its creation available, it was easy to create armies of Unscarred, able to overcome most adversaries even without the rest of the Collective''s might backing them up. ''For the Kratocrats,'' Mocker explained, gesturing at the mass of albinos. ''We know they feel intimidated when talking to people with more brain cells than limbs. In case they get upset...'' ''You are being awfully focused on the Vyzhaldi'', the Shaper noted. ''The others might feel-'' ''Jealous? Let them. We''re just accommodating our special guests.'' ''They might feel you are underestimating them, and take advantage.'' ''They wish,'' Mocker said as Gerald and the Engine made their way across the platform. The latter humming appreciatively. ''You lot love shaggin'' science raw.'' ''Hide them,'' the Shaper told Mocker, indicating the Unscarred army. The reptilian rolled its eyes, but complied, firing another beam at the albinos. Hyperspatial folding required understanding four-dimensional reality was somewhat akin to a sheet of paper. It could be folded, bringing points in spacetime closer, so they overlapped, effectively being next to each other. Similar methods could be used to construct spaces that were, famously, bigger on the inside than the outside. Once folded thus, the Unscarred became smaller, but retained their abilities and mass, though the hyperdense sphere they had become had to be placed in a pocket reality similar to the one that contained the collective''s centre of operations. It had to be cut off from unaltered reality, lest it disturb it. Time passed with idle chatter, until the Great Powers'' representatives arrived. A pillar of flesh, crawling on nothing, bloating to become spherical at the end. Slabs of grey matter, covered by black tresses that glowed faintly blue, sported no sensory organs. None were needed. The telepath, who sent a wave of wonder-gratitude-expectation at Earth''s representatives, knew the universe around it through thought alone. The Xhalkhians were not called the Unity Stellar because their nation spanned countless stars and had little dissent. That might have been true of the tribal confederation they had once been, apelike beings bending space time, and one of the fundamental forces to their will. But they had evolved, or changed their past by reaching from the future. To them, one with reality across every point of its timeline, there was no difference. ''You are seeding your machines in the soil of existence,'' the Xhalkian (s? It was difficult to tell whether they were a species or a gestalt; the closest thing to a touch of individuality were the "bodies" that could control all aspects of the cosmos) told the Shaper. It looked as if a section of space had been outlined in nigh-invisible light to outline a humanoid body: four limbs, a head, the bilateral symmetry if most organisms. ''We do not disapprove. But you taunt paradox. How long until you feel the need to have one of your devices act in the universe''s infancy? You think your knowledge can allow you to sidestep all disaster?'' ''It has worked so far,'' the Shaper replied, even as the memory of Nidhogg''s death niggled at it. Driving it mad just because its yoctomachines sometimes formed a reptilian shape? Absurd. A prime example of aberrancy. The Kratocracy followed: Mother Wound and her guardians, a guard of honour rather than necessity. Though each Vyzhaldi was a compressed universe in terms of durability, they paled in comparison to the progenitor of their species, and not just when it came to size. Mother Wound was a white so bright it hurt, from shell to eyes, a thick, scalloped tail twice her height extending behind her. Forty-four metres tall and nearly as wide, she appeared even larger due to her crown of horns: a long, thick one jutting from the middle of her forehead, tapering and gently curving towards the tip. Smaller ones, curved like bull horns, rose from its sides, in front and behind of it. The natural crown was almost as famous as the tale of her youth, of how she had dwelled in the emptiness before the universe and was caught in the Big Bang. Which had not actually caused her famous namesake, which the story did not even come close to in popularity. That had been a far fiercer, more permanent event. And, since Mother Wound was more durable than her honour guard combined by orders of magnitude, every instance if her bring harmed was carefully recorded. The wound, a gaping, red-edged pit in the centre of her chest, going all the way to her back, always remained. Even when her body was destroyed so completely all matter was gone and she healed from nothing, the wound remained. It could not be closed. That, everyone knew, just as they knew Mother Wound never spoke. ''You, Zayvhin,'' a red-shelled Motherguard told Mocker, mandibles clenched in imitation of her Mother. The vitae that dripped from the wound at irregular intervals sometimes coalesced into Vyzhaldi, who were universally red. ''You spoke ill of us. You thought we wouldn''t know-'' ''Actually,'' Mocker cut her off, in a voice as light as possible. ''We know Wound is aware of anything pertaining to your kind, and so are you, through your bond. Don''t worry, it might not happen again.'' It waved a hand. ''Good,'' the Shaper told it. ''Play the fool, then we can intervene as a voice of reason.'' ''...Play, yes,'' Mocker said. After Life, Chapter 5 ''Wait,'' Mordred spoke through the aether, at the exact time I felt a slight pressure against my mind and soul. Looking down, I saw he had physically moved, and was holding my back with one hand too. The black armour had nothing to reflect in this empty universe, but I knew that, even in ours, it wouldn''t, despite always being polished to a mirror sheen, no matter how much gore got on it. The armour was meant to protect Mordred, isolate him from the world. Of course it stopped and swallowed such paltry things as light. I looked down at him, shining white eyes meeting sockets filled with green fire. I was a head taller than him, but somehow, I felt the need to try and look up, as if I were the one shorter. The weird sensation wasn''t helped by the fact that, between the lean features, mop of black hair-Mordred had removed his edgy helmet after the Tremorph had been taken out, or at least briefly stopped-and rebellious attitude, Mordred gave me a sense of deja vu, for some reason I couldn''t place. ''Why?'' I asked, festuring at the shapeless ?thing writhing in the void where Szabo and the Tremorph had previously been. ''He''s still in there, somewhere, but so is it. It''s using some god''s power to try and change him-'' ''It tried,'' Mordred corrected. ''Then succeeded, or almost did. Now?'' He jerked his chin towards the amorphous mass. To my slight surprise, he didn''t have a beard, let alone a goatee. I was almost as ruined as he''d left Camelot. ''They are locked in a struggle. There is nothing you can do, revenant.'' Like he wasn''t a revenant. At least there was no string extending from the core of my being, like the one trailing behind Mordred and going down, down, down. ''You think I can''t stop this?'' ''Maybe you can,'' Mordred shrugged. ''But those eyes you are so proud of must let you see that would just move things back to square one. The monster will try taking over the other dead man again, and you don''t have the prowess to unmake it yet, nor the patience to stay here and hone your power against it until you can do it.'' He smirked. ''And even if you had the patience, you wouldn''t have the time. Or do you believe things will settle down and politely wait for us to return to our home realm?'' ''And how the fuck do you know any of that?'' I asked the little arsehole, trying to mask how uncomfortable I was at the fact he was right. Luckily, he pissed me off enough there was no need to fake anything in order to do so. Mordred''s smile widened. ''A rhetorical question! How quaint. You should know my newfound power removes restrictions. For example: what prevented me from seeing the future? Not being precognitive. Now...'' ''I get it,'' I said gruffly. ''We can''t stay, but we can''t leave them here alone either. Someone must keep an eye on them.'' ''You hope to take them back home, and have someone else take care of this problem. Worry not...Silva. Return and stand guard at the threshold, if you must, but know this: they will find their way back.'' He slung Clarent over one shoulder, an excited gleam in his burning eyes. ''I must prepare for my homecoming. Britain,'' he rolled the letters as he spoke, brow furrowing slightly. ''Must meet its King!'' Despite the circumstances, I couldn''t help but needle him, returning his grin. ''I think you''ll find the King is already home, and known.'' ''A ceremonial "King"! Mordred laughed. ''I bring them the truth, Silva!'' Just a bit of banter, everyone. Just a bit of banter... *** There was, Lucian reflected, some familiarity in this. The chair in the middle of the room. Aaron, looming over him, stern and disappointed, angry at both him and himself, for not being a better role model. He was barking up the wrong tree. Lucian was sure people like Aaron found the older zmeu admirable, but he wasn''t and would never be like his brother. Lucian didn''t want Aaron to blame himself for something that was not his fault. He still did, of course. He always did. It was likely that he always would, unless someone offed him before moving on to Lucian. The thought brought a dry chuckle to the youngest brother''s lips. An annoyed growl filled the room in response. ''Watch it,'' Lucas rasped in a warning tone. ''You''re laughing at some dark shit, I can tell. Don''t wanna go through that bull again.'' ''Again?'' Lucian asked lightly, turning in his chair. Aaron''s domain in zmeu country was a military base too large for the mundane universe to contain, and its owner had chosen one of the many barracks for this...talk. Yes. Good word. Lucas met his eyes steadily. He was standing off to the side, the weasel, watching over Aaron''s shoulder as he berated Lucian. That, too, would likely never change. It said something about how shitty things were that Lucian found some comfort even in the blue zmeu''s familiar spinelessness. The snitch had only really gotten in trouble with Aaron once, when he''d complained about him visiting rarely only to act like he did at work. Aaron, who''d already been stressed (the previous regime always had him stressed, as opposed to mostly apathetic, like the current one), had grabbed Lucas by the tail and flattened a mountain range the size of Europe with his body. In the first swing. Lucas had always been more durable than Lucian. Some would''ve cried abuse, but the zmeu brothers disagreed. Certainly Lucas didn''t begrudge Aaron for that beating. When you were tougher than almost anything on Earth, it took some effort to get things through your thick, regenerating skull. Lucian had once heard someone say human siblings would behead each other constantly if it was survivable, and he was fairly sure they would. He and his brothers did it all the time! Well, not all the time. Lucas preferred dismemberment over decapitation, for example, though he wasn''t afraid to switch things up. ''Yeah,'' Lucas replied. ''The girl did it a while back. Some moron thought they were trying to scare humans, I guess.'' ''Ah.'' "The girl" was Mia, though Lucas rarely referred to her by name. He was talking about her first and last meeting with her parents. ''Right.'' Lucian shifted uncomfortably, then rose from the chair. ''Well...I''m sure she''s glad you took care of that.'' Lucas made a dismissive noise, thought Lucian coudn''t tell whether his brother was brushing off the reassurance or denying he''d helped at all. He wouldn''t put it past the moody cunt, but...damn. How fucked up were things if he couldn''t even read his brothers anymore? Lucas had never had that problem, hence the snitching. He could always tell when Lucian made a mess or felt guilty about something, then ran to Aaron right away, to rattle off the latest offence. For his own good, he knew. He had, in a way, known since childhood, though he''d only accepted it in...shit, the nineties? When he was an adult, certainly. According to his brothers, that hadn''t happened yet, and likely never would, but they could go fuck themselves, in Lucian''s humble opinion. ?He wasn''t going against his instincts just because and for little gain! If he had, he wouldn''t be...here... Tch. Damn straight he wouldn''t be here. He''d be a pile of rotten sludge in some ditch if he robbed, raped, murdered and ate everyone his instincts told him to. Lucian would''ve said there was no point dwelling on that shit on any other day, but he''d followed his gut, and- His brothers were helping him. Protecting him. Patronising him. Nothing new. His best interests at heart. He''d have been thankful if he wasn''t so worried. ''Luci,'' Aaron rumbled. ''I get why you did it. I approve-a little. But I disapprove more.'' Lucian would''ve made a joke about commie doublethink, but he liked having organs. ''It was self-defence,'' Lucian muttered, beginning to pace around the room. ''He hit me first. I hit back.'' ''Like you taught him, Aari,'' Lucas added in a saccharine voice, digging a cigar out of his jeans'' pocket. ''Bitch,'' Lucian said between coughs. ''Settle down,'' the oldest brother said. ''Yes, I got the subtext, Luc.'' Then, to Lucian, ''And if you''d stopped at self-defence, that would''ve been fine. But you then,'' Aaron had too much experience in the Navy to twitch when angry. His youngest brother still reminded him of every annoying, smarmy officer he''d ever commanded combined. ''Essentially kidnapped that ogre in order to torture him for information...?blazes-'' ''You sound like you''re reading that from something,'' Lucian pointed out, crossing his arms. Aaron''s eyes moved across the bare bronze walls and ceiling. An old habit of his, pretending to check out rooms in order not to roll his eyes. Many people had praised him for his attention to detail and security over the decades. ''From memory, maybe. I had nothing better to do than read while I waited for you to be released.'' Five pairs of eyes closed as Aaron sighed. ''And not from the drunk tank, either.'' ''This time-'' Lucian started to promise. ''Knock that off,'' Aaron snapped. ''I''m not in the mood, and you shouldn''t be either.'' Ignoring his brother''s mouthed "Like you ever are", he continued. ''Now, this whole business reeks of bullshit, and every fibre of my being is telling me it is, too. But we''ll get to the bottom of it. I promise.'' ''Right.'' Burnished Death appeared in Lucian''s hands. ''When-'' The zmeu glared at Lucas even as his split skull healed. His brother had crossed the dozen metres between them, flicked his head and returned to his original spot faster than he could see, but Lucian knew it had been him. Lucas raised three pairs of silver eyebrows in response, a blunt in each mouth. Lucian almost tried to hit him back, then noticed something wrong with his brother. He''d seen Lucas'' moustaches weren''t groomed, but he hadn''t really thought about it. Which, now that he looked back on it, was almost as weird as the fact itself. Lucas always waxed his moustaches so that they curled up at the end-Lucian expected a fascination with Prussia to be revealed any day now-but they were straight and drooping today, bristling like his brother had been caught in a rainstorm, then a blizzard. He wasn''t wearing anything from the waist up, either. Lucas preferred blue and white clothes, because they were his colours, and made a point of rarely going shirtless, in order to appear more civilised. Lucian''s head snapped to Aaron so fast his neck broke, healing just as the older zmeu''s faces soured in exasperation. Apart from that, there was nothing unusual with... Scratch that. There was nothing weird with Aaron. Lucian thought that maybe he''d missed something there too, but he...he hadn''t. ''Put your mace aside, Luci,'' Aaron said, turning. He was wearing a huge, brown tuxedo and nine top hats, which didn''t move at all as he walked. ''By "we", I mean the police, the Supernatural Service and I.'' Angry, concerned red eyes burned holes into him as Aaron turned two heads over his shoulders. ''You should have called me or them, by the way. I shouldn''t have learned of this shit ?after you were put in a cell...'' Aaron trailed off as he felt his youngest brother grab him by his pants, and looked down, expecting petulance. ''Aaron,'' Lucian hissed. ''Leave me the fuck alone. I ?love her.'' ''We''ll bring Bianca back,'' Aaron said gently. ''I''m just concerned about legality here, Luci. I don''t want you getting into trouble any more than I ever have.'' Too late for that, Lucas thought, but swallowed the words, alongside two puffs of smoke. ''And what am ?I supposed to do-'' ''You''re not "supposed",'' Aaron made air quotes. ''To do anything. You weren''t to begin with. What you should''ve done was contact law enforcement, or me, failing that. If you wanted to do shit like this, you should''ve gotten into...'' Three heads shook. ''Forget it. I''ve got to leave.'' ''You-'' "You''re going to run drills and shit while I walk up the walls here?" was what Lucian almost asked. No. His brother wasn''t being selfish, just...stubborn. And he couldn''t honestly fault Aaron for that. ''You''re leaving? Where?'' ''I told you, we''re going to find her. My senses are pretty decent, as is my intuition. I''ve got some acquaintances in the Service,'' not friends. Never friends. ''Who think I could be helpful, maybe notice things they miss.'' Aaron smiled drily. ''Of course, that''s what they ?told me. Truth is, my harness can make some tools they can''t get their hands on...well, without asking FREAKSHOW to lend us Armament, or begging Abraham''s god for help. But they know how that goes, same as we do.'' "God provides, but doesn''t fill your bag", as the saying went. ''Yeah,'' Lucas said, stubbing one of his blunts against his left head''s right eye. ''People''s potential is too damn precious to stunt. Break a leg, Aari.'' ''I will,'' Aaron promised, gently shaking his youngest brother off and beginning to walk away. Lucian wasn''t about to let him leave without a parting shot, though. ''Tell me.'' Lucian bared his fangs at his brother''s back. ''Tell me you don''t hate that tusked little dipshit.'' ''Don''t ask me to lie.'' Aaron slowed down, but didn''t stop. A section of bronze wall as tall and nearly as wide as an apartment building slid away to accomodate him. It would''ve been wider, had Aaron not folded and shifted his wings until they fit under his shirt without even making it bulge. Lucian threw his hands up. ''And you wouldn''t have done the same thing in my place?!'' Aaron groaned. ''I don''t ?know, Luci. I''ve never loved a woman for her heart.'' The last word still hung in the air as the wall closed behind Aaron. Swallowing a groan, Lucian turned to Lucas. ''Well?'' he snapped. ''Am I on fuckin'' house arrest or somethin'' now?'' ''Of course not,'' Lucas answered. ''You can go to your place, if you want, but I''ll have to come with you. I have to-promised Aari.'' Promised you and myself too, brother, he thought. ''Or we can go to mine.'' ''Bleh, ?no. Your workshop weirds the fuck outta me.'' ''Before I leave,'' though distant, Aaron''s voice still left echoes in the room, for all that he was outside his home. ''Just so you know: I called Maws.'' ''Wha-'' was all Lucian managed to get out before the ground shook as something heavy took off and something far, far heavier landed. Almost laughing at the absurdity, Lucian looked up at his brother, eyes shining. ''Don''t tell me-he called mom, too?'' ''Nah,'' Lucas replied, then cracked a couple smirks. ''I did.'' *** ''...of yours,'' Ileana finished as Andrei passed her the bottle. The weredog wrinkled her nose at the vodka. Though it would have been scentless to a normal human, it reeked of wolfsbane, even through the glass, for all that she was in her human form. She was close enough to a wolf that her instincts made her hackles rise at the scent of the plant, despite the fact it was harmless to weres, like all toxins. ''I wouldn''t call him one...'' Andrei began in a considering tone, then stopped, scratching his head. ''No. Definitely not.'' ''Explains why you ?care so much.'' She downed the two-litre bottle, frowned at the taste, then slammed it down onto the bare table, next to the other empty ones. Andrei had promised it would either get better or she''d get used to the taste every few dozen bottles, but after the eighty-fourth one, it still just tasted like wolf poison with extra bitterness, which was all the vodka could add. ''You''re a goddamn liar, Dravich.'' ''You''re tasteless.'' He grinned, spinning his hundredth bottle on his pinky. ''If you''ll pardon the pun.'' ''Don''t have to be, when it tastes like shit.'' ''Drinking vodka for taste is like drinking coffee for pleasure.'' Of course, he knew a guy who''d been doing just that for longer than some people had been alive, but he was dead. The brain had probably rotted before it had literally done so. ''Is that why you put this crap in it?'' she snarked, reaching under the table for another bottle. She was still curious, despite his best efforts. ''Actually, that all started because....'' Andrei trailed off as she tapped a finger on the table. ''Don''t spin another yarn. You''ve only got bullshit, I can tell.'' ''Fine,'' Andrei groused. ''Already did this once, anyway.'' ''Oh, you''re not gonna do it again? It''s like having kids, huh? Who was the last unlucky soul?'' ''The kid you mentioned.'' Andrei crossed his arms on the table, laying his head on them. ''You''re lucky you''re a hot bitch...'' ''Ha!'' She attempted a hair flip, but her honey blonde hair was cropped far too short. ''And a friend. Mm...it''s pretty funny, you know ''cause it''s simple. Werevolves get pissed off by wolfsbane and things derived from it. Just because they can smell it in my guts doesn''t mean I can''t or shouldn''t walk around with the stuff.'' ''But ?why?'' Ileana gestured with her eighty-fifth bottle, making Andrei shift minutely. He was too lazy to shrug, not that his current position helped. ''It''s fun. They get angry, we fight. Or bet. Play games. Maybe some she-wolf gets hot under the fur and tries to fuck the annoyance outta her. You know...'' He smiled slightly. ''Options.'' ''And we''ve learned to swear by Saint Protection now, haven''t we?'' Ileana asked, brown eyes half-lidded in an overly seductive face. ''Yes ''m.'' ''Good boy. Maybe we''ll go for a walk one day.'' ''Ugh.'' Andrei''s head was now on the table, nose pressed against the cold oak, hands over his ears. ''Please. Don''t. I don''t wanna make things weird between us. Can''t we just stay friends?'' ''A man is asking me that?!'' ''Yes, yes, I''m shocked too,'' Andrei muttered, voice muffled. ''Whatever. Too many people today see men and women being friendly and start thinking they''re friends with benefits, grinning and nudging each other like they''re in fuckin'' grade school again and can''t wait to blatter about who likes who.'' ''Woah.,'' Ileana propped her chin in one hand. ''That''s pretty deep for you.'' ''Look who''s talking. Just because I put the "killer" in "hunter-killer" doesn''t exactly mean you were an intellectual, lady.'' His friend blew air out her nose, smoothing over her trench coat with her free hand. Under the brown, anonymous coat was her Supernatural Service uniform. Most supernaturals could spot it even through the covering layer, but the fact there was any was a statement: she was, if not undercover, going for anonymous, and drawing attention or trying to remove the coat was a bad idea. ''Smart enough not to get blood on my paws.'' ''And whose conscience is heavier, hmm?'' ''Like either of us has to sleep.'' ''I''d say touch¨¦, but I know you think about that shit while you''re awake, too.'' Weres could sleep, if they wanted to while relaxed enough, but it was unpopular, given the endless well of energy that was their bodies and the fact their senses kept them awake of their surroundings however deep the sleep. Many a would-be assassin had found their silver blade forced through their throats by sheer reflex, before the therianthropic target had even awakened. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Ileana looked away, through the window, the Bites clear as day despite the midnight blizzard. ''You love that zmeu, don''t you?'' ''I fucking what now?'' The weredog rolled her eyes. ''Who was talking about people being immature dumbasses moments ago? As a ?friend, Andrei. Like a brother-fuck. With how you needle each other, I could be convinced you are brothers.'' ''Eh.'' Andrei waved a hand. ''He''s already got two too many.'' Ileana snarled in exasperation. ''You really gotta get over Aaron these days.'' ''Lucian does too. And I think you mean he needs to get over being judgemental with no reason or basis.'' Some people had sticks so far up their arses, they poked their brains and made them stupid. But not everyone could''ve gotten a cushy position as a glorified coast guard, not that the nine-headed zmeu hadn''t silenced his fair share in the name of duty. He was just too busy to see that had comprised most, but not all of Andrei''s-and Ileana''s, and Bobi''s, and others''-job as a Securist. Even when they''d hunted the dead living together...pfeh. ''Oh, I know that look.'' Ileana stood up, flesh rippling as layers of muscles and fur were added to it, matter being spun from nothing. ''You''re about to start hosting the pity party, and I want no part of that tonight. Watch your back, Dravich.'' ''I''d rather watch yours,'' he joked as the hybrid were walked past him, making sure to paste one foot with a stomp, and snickered as he placed his hands flat on the table and sat up, foot already healed. ''You''re lucky I wasn''t wearing socks, or that would''ve been messy.'' ''Messy? Messy is playing bloodhound for your scaly boyfriend''s girlfriend, Martin,'' Ileana said as she unlocked the door. Andrei had given her copies of the keys to his apartment, and even the access measures to a couple of the boltholes he''d decided she might need to enter someday, to either help or kill him. And, if she decided he needed killing, he was likely too far gone, anyway. The Romanian boltholes, that was. But he had other old friends across the world, eager to help him out of a sticky situation, one way or another. No need to burden her more. Andrei''s chair balanced on its back legs as he slouched, pushing against the table with his feet. It was more like a waist-high solid oak-slab, bigger than some cars, which might''ve been a problem without the spatial spell he''d had cast on his place. His one and only room had different sections that played the role of kitchen, living room and bedroom. The bathroom was separate, but that was a room like black was a colour. It would''ve been like calling the hallway one, and that thing only had a coat rack. The floor and walls were bare white tile, as Andrei was inclined towards neither carpets nor tapestries, let alone paintings. He had a cupboard for photos, which was more than enough, in his opinion. The only things on the walls were an ouroboros-shaped clock and a square window. It had been circular once, but he''d gotten sick of feeling like he lived in a submarine. Andrei beat a rhythm on his flat belly-he should really get fatter, he thought; it sounded lame. Weres couldn''t change beyond their state after turning, physical flaws aside, but they could hope-, then adjusted his chair, stood up, and began gathering the bottles, taking them to the kitchen section to await washing and refilling. As he did so, he hummed a children''s song. It was a lullaby he''d liked in his childhood, spent drifting between orphanages and schools. Families came and went, and so did he. Step-parents and siblings, some neglectful, some with far too much love to share. Others full of hate, and such ideas about how to express it... They had taught him well, even outside what they had intended as lessons, and he had made sure to make those lessons his. And if Securist Dravich had been biased against and extremely unscrupulous when it had come to certain folks, well, there was no use looking at coincidences and seeing patterns. That way laid paranoia and unhappiness. Andrei had just finished singing off-key for the third time, and was wondering about what it would be like, being able to fall asleep simply because you were tired. Not physically, he barely remembered what that was like, but... Hrn. The bear in the song had a lot more options when it came to food than Andrei as a child. Slippers, too. ?Nice. Andrei was about to begin the fourth rendition with a minute amount of jealousy in his voice when he heard the echoes-another voice, also male, mumbling the lyrics in a light, sarcastic tone, despite being inexperienced with them, or Romanian in general-fading. His mind easily slipped back into the patterns set by his training, much as it yearned to fall into his beast''s grasp instead. Ileana''s gone; she hasn''t returned, or I''d have heard. Fact. I am-was-alone until an instant ago. Fact. Someone bypassed my wards, alarms, senses and instincts for far longer than they should''ve been able to. How? He finished the last thought as he spun in place, dark brown fur sprouting out of his skin as his nails and teeth lengthened and thickened. His head brushed the ceiling as he looked down at the intruder, beady black eyes widening. ''You?'' In his hybrid form, Andrei''s voice was far deeper and throatier than his human one, like his words were stumbling over his thick tongue. He had never met the man before him. He had never seen him, not outside of nightmares-half-fantasy, half attempts by a supernatural mind at ripping the truth free from unreality-and an old, black and white picture, faded and torn, hard fought for and won through cheating. But he knew. His certainty was as strong as his desire to see that face-plain and sallow, more so due to its ghostly transparency and paleness, moustached and bearded, with two empty sockets: one caved in and surrounded by burns, the other split by a shallow, vertical scar; eyes were no longer needed-and carve it into his soul, alongside his mother''s. ''Damn,'' Misha Dravich muttered, looking up at his son. ''Worse than I expected.'' *** Constantin was familiar with otherworldly realms. From dream palaces to liminal spaces, he had made, walked and broken dozen over the decades. He had seen and read about vision quests and astral projection performed by the believers of other faiths. As such, he knew everything that happened here would affect him on Earth. His mind was still his, and he still kept a hold on his body as it thrashed on his living room floor like a worm on a hook, wracked with spasms that left him feeling like his muscles were melting off his bones and had him gritting his teeth until they cracked, so he wouldn''t bite his tongue off. He also knew he had to keep his physical strength in check as his mind was tested, or he would level Romania. God was watching. Constantin rose to his feet, and the soft, emerald blades of grass he had been laying on became dark, thick, thorny vines, wrapping around his limbs, lashing at his torso, leaving long, bleeding gashes on his skin without piercing his surplice. The metaphor was so obvious it was almost childish, but perhaps that was the purpose? To make the challenge appear simple so he would lower his guard? It wouldn''t work. It had already failed, Constantin told himself, though he knew the thought smacked of arrogance. He was alert, focusing not on the gibbering, deafening chatter around him, but on the...horizon... The sun didn''t set. Rather, it dropped like a stone, sending a wave of force through the field, and the sea of thorns rose in a tide, past Constantin''s knees, past his waist and chest. They tried to cover his eyes, too, but couldn''t. Every step he took only focused him more, revealed more facts about this trial. For example: though the trousers and shirt under his surplice disappeared like smoke on the wind as the thorns tore at him, from his limbs to his manhood, the bleeding never stopped, or slowed, or sped up. Though his boots were ripped to shreds, until each step tore his feet open and left his bones scraping against each other and the jagged stones under the thorns, there was always just enough of his flesh and blood for him to suffer. Pain, then. Not death. Was this the plan? Driving him mad through torture, through cruelty? Foolishness...foolishness... Thick clouds, black as death and far heavier, filled the sky, but its source-less crimson light still pierced through, setting fire to Constantin''s wounds, turning his blood to smoke. It didn''t matter. If all there was here for him was pain, he could do this for eternity. Hardly worse than the Hell he deserved, failure of a father that he was. Would the people he had killed rather than turned to a better path appear to torment him? It would be...only fitting... Constantin narrowed his eyes, which, though unharmed, wept tears of thick, clear black blood. There was a new star on the horizon, brighter than any sun could ever be. It made his heart ache more than anything else in this world of bladed lies. His angel... *** Rebeca Ghinea stopped smashing her fists against the walls, doors and windows of Father Silva''s home. She had arrogantly thought the Lady had brought her here so she could save him, help him, and yet... And yet. Who said observing could not help? She would pray for him. Faith only showed one they understood nothing of God''s mind. Rebeca placed her hands against the window, and watched Constantin walk in circles around the living room, covered in bleeding wounds, his feet torn to the bone. The priest''s beard was frayed and wild, and his black-rimmed eyes rolled into the back of his head as he stumbled, hissing through bleeding lips. He had stripped off his clothes, remaining only in his habit, which confused Rebeca. Constantin only wore it during services or long assignments that needed him to return home. Had he walked to church to take it and returned without being seen? Naked? ''Come on, Father...'' Rebeca lowered her head, closed her eyes, and began an old prayer, modified to fit her beliefs, as Constantin Silva, locked inside his home and mind, raved and ranted. ''Our Mother, Thou who art in Heaven...'' *** I opened a portal back to the frozen English Channel, closing it behind me with a sigh. Already had survivor''s guilt, and this shit wasn''t even over. But Mordred, who appeared next to me out of thin air, only to then speed off towards Britain, had assured me my continued presence in the empty universe would be detrimental rather than helpful. Szabo, or whatever he was becoming, or would become, if he already hadn''t, would find his or its way back by itself. And then- I smiled as Mia leapt at me, breaking my train of thought, and hugged her back, lifting her into the air. She''d have borne me to the ground if I hadn''t braced myself, and I wouldn''t have minded that, but it was not yet time. I looked at Paladin, and the opaque, light blue sphere they held in one gauntleted hand. The French agent walked closer, Durandal gripped in another hand, and I felt rather than saw their smile. ''The Lord looks upon your work, and finds it good, David,'' Paladin said. ''We shall take this one to an oubliette, until her fate is decided by our masters, and hers.'' ''The Unseelie don''t really believe in that,'' I said, slipping out of Mia''s arms with an apologetic look. She smiled reassuringly as I approached Paladin, who huffed dismissively at my words. ''Be that as it may. One would think they''d have learned calling a horse an eagle doesn''t give it wings by now.'' ''Quite...'' I agreed, I think, and focused my godsight on the sphere. Cloudshade was only trapped in it physically, as Paladin was focusing their power on countering her every attempt to break free using hers. Then, with a deep breath, I slipped out of my chains, and pushed them through the sphere, wrapping them around the idea of the Fae. ''You can relax now. No need for that, either.'' I pointed at the sphere, which a surprised Paladin hesitatingly dismissed. A chained Cloudshade fell into their palms after they sheathed two swords. ''Ha. We suppose you''ll tell us to forget the Mobius cell, too?'' ''Don''t,'' Mia answered before me, echoing my thoughts. ''If David''s skinny arse figured out how to escape, you can''t know she won''t.'' Smirking down at me, my girlfriend added, ''Besides, would you deny her the chance to chat with Coldhold before we ship them back to Faerie?'' ''Of course not,'' Paladin mustered an impressive amount of fake affront. ''We are men of God. Such cruelty is beyond our blackest nightmares.'' Then, their voice grew more serious. ''We are going to capture the other Unseelie, David. We might not be your direct superior, but, as senior French Crypt agent, and fellow Christians, we would advise you to go home with your lady.'' They inclined their helmet slightly towards Mia. ''There are no more crises you are needed for at the moment...and you deserve the rest.'' Paladin raised the hand closest to their heart over it, making a fist in salute. ''We shall speak of your deeds to Head Reem, provided you are not summoned before we meet with her.'' ''Thank you,'' I replied, and Paladin nodded, then turned, hiding the struggling Cloudshade from view and walking out of reality in a flash of light. I looked up at Mia with a teary-eyed smile, letting all the tension out. ''I''m so happy you''re safe...I''m sorry I couldn''t help during-'' ''Shut up,'' she whispered, hugging me again. ''Shut up. You''re going to kill yourself again, and me as well. Paladin had the right of it. Let''s go home.'' ''Yes,'' I agreed, then squeezed her back. ''Darling, it''s ok. I can tell.'' Mia sniffed. ''We can celebrate ?out of bed,'' she joked. ''I only love you, anyway. And I''m not in the mood for jailbirds.'' ''Girls don''t find crazy criminals hot anymore? What ?else changed while I was away?!" I asked in a horrified voice. ''Well,'' Mia said lightly. ''I got this lip piercing I want to show you.'' ''Really...?'' I focused my senses on her smiling mouth, and even my godsight, but couldn''t spot anything new. ''Alright, you win.'' ''Good boy~'' ''Can you give me a hint, at least? I can''t see it.'' ''Well, ?duh. I''ve still got pants on.'' *** Bermuda Triangle Hex stared at the clouded skies as disembodied laughter shook them apart, revealing the aether behind reality, and the Void behind that. Nacht giggled in anticipation, like a parent seeing the child they had taught to walk running at them. Four of the Head were around him, including his own, arms bent inside the folds of his cloak, shifting face hidden by shadows. Aya Reem stood on Shiftskin''s right, holding Ra''s power in one hand and Set''s in the other, to trammel their newest monster''s power or reduce it to nothing. Leon Gilles stood on his left, wings folded and beak clenched, eyes trained grimly on the rippling horizon. In one claw, he held Ravenstooth, the thick-bladed, triangular stone dagger either stolen from or gifted by Raven, depending as much on the story as the teller. With it, he could cut anything from distances, effectively teleporting things next to him, to concepts out of reality. He could cut someone''s power in half, or quarters, or a myriad pieces, rendering them ten thousands times weaker and slower. And for the many immune to such esoteric effects, some of them mightier than the weregryph...well, Gilles had ways around that, too. He could cut away the gap in power betweem him and someone else, or slice them apart with the knife''s seemingly dull edge, however durable they were. Ying Lung was smoking like a chimney, as usual, but this time, every cloud of ivory smoke became replicas of himself, radiating power as much as the smell of burnt ozone. The thing that slammed down into the waters in front of them, making them shake like they were solid ground but causing no ripples, looked like Loric Szabo-as long as one looked straight at it, and didn''t blink. The moment eyes closed or attention shifted, even slightly, its grey skin was replaced by images after images of every horror seen and dreamed by mortal, god or beast across the multiverse. ''We ate them, Herr Doktor Strauss.'' Szabo grinned lazily in response to his thought, swaying on his feet. The strigoi had found new leathers on his way home, though these, like him, changed from merely horrific to nightmare incarnate if one stopped paying full attention. ''These are their corpses, singing their own dirges, even in death.'' Szabo ran tentacles over the skins, which wailed plaintively in response. ''We ate their nightmares,'' he said, eyes gleaming with a feverish light. ''The dream demons and sleep fiends, the clawed murderers and dancing clowns. Only that our newest tenant was feeling lonely~ and we couldn''t pass such meals.'' ''Such chances at power,'' Ying jabbed, to which Szabo smiled guilelessly. ''Would you turn away the chance to pop horrors like balloons?" Szabo leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. ''They all floated, by the way...oh, they did, but not anymore. Well, not ?all of them. There are treaties to observe, and heroes born of fright. But now? Nothing that relies on horror can best us. Not only does their existence feed us...the more fear they have the potential to cause, the mightier we grow.'' ''Good thing I have hate and anger to use, and envy and loathing to fall back on,'' Nacht oozed. ''And ?so much more...oh, Emil, I haven''t been this happy since our wedding!'' ''It''s rambling,'' Hex reassured the Heads, whose expressions varied from disbelief to amusement. ''We''re not married.'' ''Metaphorically, Emil...though I suppose you''re right. There was no one to witness and ?bless us, and that just cannot stand! We can only call it the beginning of our betrothal, then...but worry not. I''ll make you my husband yet.'' Hex had, sometimes, quietly regretted his emotions'' stunted nature, telling himself they blunted his experiences. And yet, as Nacht and Szabo laughed together, and his mind was filled with images of a grey-skinned, grey-coated figure in front of a room of corpses, a tongue of white flame snaking out of a mouth as black as the eyes of what had once been only his face, he was almost grateful for it. After Life, Chapter 6 And so, came the time to rest. How far could an undead be pushed mentally? Could one break? Be driven mad? Divine intervention aside...we weren''t sure. Some undead started out insane, while others grew cold and distant at best, and alien, incomprehensible, at worst. The oldest strigoi, returned from the grave during the beginning of Orthodox Christianity, were monstrous, insatiable things. A handful were scattered across their homelands, sleeping or prowling the shadows, but most, having survived the early purges, had fled to Siberia, to dwell under the frozen plains and mountains. Eating enough lifeforce could give a strigoi power beyond the ken of mankind, power to equal any god-and insanity to match. I prayed I would never become like that. With my godsight, I could alter myself, place safeguards in my mind and soul, but... But, at the moment, I wasn''t thinking about that. I should have probably known creation wouldn''t allow that, with how it seemed to abhor my mental peace, but I didn''t. Did the punishment fit my laxness? Perhaps. But I was too busy thinking of Mia. My zmeu...she''d driven herself crazy, trying to think of ways to free me and failing, that I almost felt guilty for so easily slipping my chains after mastering my godsight. It was stupid, I knew, but...ah, fuck it. I was part god, to a degree, however small. When it came to people like me, there was no such thing as madness. Merely eccentricity. As Mia''s head lay on my chest, I listened to her strong heartbeat and steady breathing while she slept, an arm wrapped around her, and smiled. Szabo-and oh, what a vile things he had taken upon himself...what followed was scarcely less terrible, for all that it would be long in the coming-would have laughed, said we were both fools clinging to this aspect of humanity. I would have agreed, but for something: loving someone was not stupid, and I pitied whoever thought it was. Other strigoi scorned softer pleasures, including sex, but I couldn''t be arsed to care about the opinions of monsters. And those who did care ablut such things? I couldn''t muster half a fuck for rapists, either. Let them keep their love for slaughter and torture. I hurt even when I didn''t feel pain from the touch of divinity. I got shaken up. I...I followed the lead of the woman I loved, mostly. It didn''t matter. Before her, I could be weak. I didn''t have to hide, or lie. As much as it shamed me to burden her with my worries(But human, my worse half smiled slyly, isn''t that the point of love?), I... I noticed the room had faded away, as had the bed, and my girlfriend. I rose to my feet-my position hadn''t changed, so I''d found myself lying on my back, on the ground-, standing on what looked and felt like grey fog. Yet, despite how thin it was, I didn''t part it with my weight. It was solid, somehow, for all that it felt wispy, nearly insubstantial. I''d been in pajamas, but my clothes had changed. So, either I had been dragged into some sort of mental realm whose occupants could alter aspects of it, or I''d been attacked by some divinity, and this was a representation of my own mind. A human would have probably thought they were dreaming first, but I couldn''t, not without using my godsight to put myself to sleep. And I was nowhere near comfortable enough to risk that, Mia in my arms or not. A tired, expectant hum from behind drew my attention, and I focused my senses in its direction, turning me head to look upon finding nothing, but still hearing the hum. Just empty fog. Another, more lively hum from in front of me made me turn my head again, to see myself staring back at me. Or so he appeared at first glance. He looked almost like me, but for three things. Same grey skin and short, messy hair, same white fangs, though his shone in a tight smile. The similarities stopped there. His eyes were different, for one. Not white as milk, like mine, but inky-black, like mine used to be, before Chernobog had killed me, before... No. They were not like my former eyes at all, either. They were a deeper black, with no light shining from within, like it had sometimes happened with mine. My sight, mundane and divine alike, was both drawn to and unable to focus on them. He also had a beard. I''d briefly flirted with the idea in my late teens, but discarded it. I''d never needed help to appear older than I was. The beard-I could see he''d once had just a moustache, like I did-, as grey as his hair, was shorter than pops'' or Mimir''s(why that comparison?), only covering his chin. Funny. I''d always thought I''d go for a chest-length beard if I decided to wear any. Finally, his clothes were different. That might have seemed trivial, weird to notice compared to his weird eyes or even his beard, but it confirmed I wasn''t looking at a mirror, not a literal, physical one, at least. I was dressed in my ARC uniform, while he wore a charcoal grey three-piece suit, with a lighter grey shirt and tie. I almost laughed at the sight. Last time I''d tied anything around my neck, I''d expected to never do anything again after. I''d never been into formal clothes, ties in particular, even as a teacher, but he wore the suit like he''d been born in it. He seemed...comfortable. At ease. One could say it suited him, if they were feeling funny. But the clothes brought a single word to mind: purpose. Why would I be in uniform in whatever strange space this was? I hadn''t been thinking about work before this shit had started. In fact, I''d tried not to think about ARC at all, and mostly failed, since briefly talking with Aya across the aether. The mummy had asked for my report tomorrow, if I was able to deliver it, but had strongly suggested that I should go home and take some time off first, if only not to burn myself out. I''d been stressed lately, she''d said. Strange signs. The Crypt Head and a senior agent telling me to relax? Maybe they wanted me to? Nah, couldn''t be it. However, I couldn''t deny ARC had dominated my thoughts in recent years. Was the organisation''s mission statement being shown as a visual metaphor? I ?was fighting to defend the world and bridge the gap between mundane and supernatural, after all. He, on the other hand, reminded me of an undertaker. Could''ve been worse. At least I couldn''t pull off a lawyer or car salesman vibe. It didn''t take him long to notice me noticing him(always wanted to say that), which caused his smile to widen slightly, even if it became more strained. Not visually. There was no sign of that. But I knew my own signs. Hands behind my back meant lecturing was soon to come or that I was trying to appear poised. Let''s hope it was the latter. ''Hi,'' I broke the ice, stuffing my hand in my combat pants'' pockets, trying to look as insouciant as possible. ''Hi myself,'' he said, in a voice so eerily similar to mine I almost got angry. There was something off, though...not the voice itself, nor the accent; those were identical to mine. It was like someone had overlaid my voice over something, something that should''ve been completely different, but had been warped so much there was little to no discordance. Or had my voice been warped? It sounded like me speaking over something deafening and omnipresent, the kind of sound you feel in your bones rather than hear. In fact, the words almost distracted me from the way my body was shaking. Or, rather, being shaken. ''Oh? Usually, I don''t notice at this point...'' He rubbed his chin with an index finger. ''Hmm...wait. It''s weird talking to people who see time in single chunks and aren''t Mia. Let me adjust...'' Nothing I could notice happened, but he perked up, standing straighter, smile brightening a bit. ''Ah...only you two live here? I''m early.'' ''Who the fuck are you, and why are you pretending to be me?'' I asked, trying to walk closer. Nothing seemed to move, but, though I could tell I was crossing a distance, he was always several metres away from me. ''Nostalgia.'' He smirked. ''Pretending not to be me doesn''t work, David...'' He took a look at my eyes, and his became sadder as he sucked in air through clenched fangs. ''That''s new. Temporary, but still...last thousand iterations, Liam gave me his mana instead. Not that that lasts, either...'' ''Liam...?'' Liam Lloyd? The hell did that lich have to do with anything? We hadn''t met since the Cold Madness. I narrowed my eyes at him. ''What are you talking about?'' ''Those eyes weren''t good for much, were they? Well, God''s Mouth still doesn''t open for ?me, so we know that still stayed the same.'' He glanced wryly to the side, as if the last words had been directed to someone I couldn''t see. Then, he looked back at me. ''Have you checked in with Constantin, David?'' ''No,'' I said, uncomfortable. ''He texted me, said he''s sorry he can''t see me right now, but he needs to lie down after a tiring meeting. I didn''t want to press him.'' *** I looked at myself. Constantin texting me about being too tired to meet? Really? At least I knew I''d never swallow that without a heavy duty glamour like the one I was hit with in this past. Whose hand had cast it this time? Things always got muddled at this point... Still, the past was the past. Some things couldn''t be changed, not without sacrificing everything else. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ''Little me...still thinking you are being manipulated.'' I smiled pityingly at myself, knowing how much I hated it, that it was sure to get my attention. ''This started because I hurt myself to end the pain, David. Everyone''s pain. I''m talking about...everyone''s. Bear the grudges, take the blame deserved-'' ''I don''t need some random doppelganger busting into my head to babble this at me,'' he said threateningly, still trying to reach across the gap to affect me in any way, any way at all. I killed every attempt. ''Not my head-this is real.'' He scoffed. ''So real I can''t even feel Mia anymore. I know damn well people hate me after the Headhunt. Piss off back to the mirror unfunny house and blow yourself.'' Damn, but I used to be easy to trigger, I thought, absentmindedly stroking the gold and silver ring I knew he couldn''t see. Oh, David, you''ll have eternity and more to worship your wife. There were few greater pleasures than giving in to love and submitting to the one you adore. Look at Emperor Gold, and how he treats the Songstress. Know they blame you as much as Mia does, but only she overlooks her disgust for sacrifice in duty''s name in favour of love. God''s Mouth, now? Opposite problem. But what else could you expect from one whose spiritual mirror hated mankind more than most of Hell combined? I just hoped little Costi would grow up to be better than his namesake. ''Do not expect some grand revelation,'' I said, walking past him. I still wished I could dispel the lie, but how could the sword be reforged into a plowshare without even a mould? Pure cruelty, that the forging had to-always, always had to-take place under my nose. I still wished father had just died... ''I was here because I always am, at this moment,'' I said as I departed, leaving him behind, to return to the world. The order had to be kept, even if I almost never remembered this until it was too late to do anything but curse. ''Really?'' he called after me, voice dripping with bitter disdain as much as paranoid disbelief. He was expecting Chernobog in disguise, I knew. The Devil. Nyarlathotep. Any vile trickster, looking to hurt him and amuse themselves. Not Yaldabaoth. I hadn''t met it yet in this iteration, I knew. I was still blessedly hopeful. At least I had Mia this time. Szabo''s apprentices always made immoral Keepers, with either disastrous, short careers or painful, long ones. I had removed enough of them to know it was always torment for everyone involved. As for her without me...zmei were many things. But inclined towards choosing healthy relationships in their youth? No. Not to cast myself as the hero, of course. We had both saved each other. ''Really,'' I replied, wishing I could do more to enlighten, or at least comfort myself. Ignorance was truly bliss, though. I couldn''t rip away the veil that would soon have him dismiss this as a waking dream, the result of experimenting on himself with godsight to regain the ability to sleep. And Mia...my Lady in Flames... *** I always visited her at this point, in the iterations we were together. She was always, inevitably, resting or sleeping. At first. Mia pushed herself up to her elbows as I approached our bed. My younger counterpart was still staring at the ceiling, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. I''d have to thank Kricher for lending me his power once more, but there was no reason to gush or be overly grateful. He was worshipped by enough species, literally and metaphorically, that he wouldn''t need his ego managed. Besides, the guy never called me back until after my patience ran dry. One of the reasons I''d put "HE''S ALIIIIIVE!" as my ringtone for him, the other being how much it annoyed him. Then, something new happened. Something I hadn''t faced in previous cycles. Or, it would have been new if I perceived time as anything other than the illusion it was. But it is hard to talk to linears without using tenses. Nevertheless, this Mia and mine were superimposed over each other, body flickering and reality swirling as millennia of life crashed into her mind. It felt almost strange to see her sleeping in her zmeu form. But then, there was no one she might have to get up to breastfeed in the middle of the night, and Mia had always seen her human body as a cosplay. ''Oh...it''s that time again, isn''t it?'' Mia asked quietly, pushing my younger self''s arm away and moving to sit on the end of the bed. ''It''s as tiring for me as it is for you, baby.'' I replied, moving this universe around me, to stand in front of her, taking in her body. Strange, indeed. So few scales riven by scars, with so dull a shine... She still had abs, though. I knew she appreciated that as much as I did her nightie. Green suited her, even if the back was almost open, to make space for her wings, so there was only fabric under her tail, and there was nothing for the front to hide. Well. Nothing I hadn''t seen, at least. Mia blew out a breath. ''Liar. Nothing is tiring to you.'' ''You''re welcome.'' I dropped to a knee, crossing my arms over her thighs and smiling up at her. ''How does it feel to be young again?'' ''Watch it.'' See how she asked the impossible of me? Watching something other than her was impossible at the best of times, let alone when the other options were the walls and my scarecrow of a body. ''As you command,'' I whispered. ''We''ll meet again soon, love. As soon,'' I tried to keep the distaste from my voice. ''As you remind your newest fling our house is not a motel.'' ''I couldn''t leave them alone, David.'' ''I''m not ?blaming you. I''m just...'' Fed up with other people in our home. That bastard better be grateful he even got to the couch. ''Annoyed. Long job.'' ''And this century has you pent up more than usual.'' She ran a hand through my hair. ''The first of many to come,'' I said, taking her right hand and kissing her ring. Trying to avoid the subject always left me high-strung. It was one of those things that got harder with time. Like myself. ''We''ll make it.'' Mia drew her hand back as I did the same, then crossed her arms over mine. ''Hatred keeps you going, if nothing else.'' ''Spite,'' I corrected her joke. Since my arrival, I had been using a sliver of my will to keep my counterpart from noticing and going to Constantin''s house. Or, rather, helping to stop him. He probably wouldn''t have made it anywhere he wanted as he was, but someone had to keep him from wrecking the country by moving around. Telekinesis slipped right off strigoi, like most supernatural powers, no matter how powerful. Killing the chances of that happening wouldn''t do anything, either, for my kind had never known the lash of fate. Blunter methods had to be used, but my power could be turned from scalped to sledgehammer in an instant. ''Spite?'' she asked, voice more serious. ''Have you given up on the desire to better yourself?'' ''Same difference.'' Because trying to show myself up was only to be expected, even if I always became like this. It was good I had gotten over the danger of withering. Like my tendency to try and save everyone, or try and save one life while knowing countless more would end if it was preserved. On almost all such occasions, I had tried to change creation itself so that everyone could survive, an d always ended up tasting ashes. I had learned better, and this...this had to happen. My younger self was too hotheaded to see my point, let alone accept it, so any attempt at persuasion was useless. Sometimes, I wondered if I had started missing the trees for the forest, and if that was another, just as deadly, weakness as its opposite. But Mia was still with me, so I must have been doing something right. ''Thank you,'' I said, gently pushing her arms away and rising to my feet. I had been kneeling before her for millennia, and not just physically, but it still hurt to let go, even of this shadow of her. ''For staying by my side. I''m coming home, Mia.'' The last one to still love me... *** I shook my head, trying to remove the strange pressure that pushed against my body. It resisted for a third of a picosecond before it gave, allowing me to rise out of bed. Behind me, I felt Mia sit up, then stretch and yawn. ''Hey...I dreamt of you, babe.'' Her voice was nowhere near as light as it usually was in the morning. ''You creeped the fuck outta me, and I don''t even think I remember everything. There''s this gap, but I know it didn''t end right then.'' Mia rubbed her forehead-a human habit that helped her even less than it helped them. Zmeu minds had little to do with the brain. They couldn''t be knocked out unless hit with powerful paranormal effects while off-guard, and even if the brain was completely destroyed, or even if the head was, consciousness would be preserved after regeneration. Attaching severed but intact or even damaged heads was just more convenient for zmei who didn''t want to be ''wasteful''. There was also the general paranoia about leaving body parts around for any mage to stumble upon. ''There was no gap in ?my dream,'' at least I thought so. ''But I creeped the hell out of myself, too. Also, I look shady as shit with a beard...'' I began telling her about my alleged alternate self, all the while trying to spot him with my godsight, wherever or whenever he was. After Life, Chapter 7 I couldn''t rest. Not just physically, either. I could lay down, but, as I didn''t get tired, it meant little more than shifting my position. But mentally... Undead couldn''t really get bored or sick of something, which usually worked to our advantage, especially during long periods of work or combat. However, it also meant we often fixated on things, even pointless ones. The double-edged sword that was our attention might have been why strigoi and vampires suffered from a compulsion to count grains of sand, dust or rice set at the entrance of a building. The being that had come to me in my hallucination-waking dream?-had looked like me, sounded like me, talked like me. Or, rather, almost like me. There had been something else behind it, as if I had been looking into a pit while unable to see the bottom, or only seeing the tendril of some deep sea creature. I hoped it had only been a disguise meant to rankle me, because the alternative was...was... Why the fucking hell did I keep thinking that maybe I had just imagined the meeting? A small voice in the back of my mind, a metaphorical one rather than my strigoi side, kept whispering that I''d tinkered with my godsight, messing up both my perception and my memory. My worse half, on the other hand, kept hissing at me not to listen. And, for some reason, I didn''t think the bastard was trying to scare me or make me (more) paranoid. For one, why would I choose to sleep instead of staying awake by Mia''s side, ensuring she slept well? For another...well, my instincts disagreed as well. Not the impulses represented by the ebony silhouette in my mind, but rather, what sometimes warned me of danger before my senses noticed it. Usually, it felt like a nudge, or someone poking me. Other times, it felt like a hand brushing against my shoulder. Now, hands had clamped down on both shoulders, and were shaking me all but physically. What was the danger? Convincing myself that it had all been a dream? Forgetting? Not doing it? My instincts were being frustratingly vague. They were kind of like Spider-Man''s Spider-Sense, except, rather than being controlled by a thousand different writers who didn''t read each other''s comics, they seemed to vary from precise to vague as the mood took them. Sometimes, I knew that, say, a hit from behind was imbued with holy power and would kill me if it connected, as well as what it was aimed at. Other times, I received something that was neither an image nor a sound, but resembled both. The warnings from the latter category tended to be frighteningly, mind-bogglingly complicated, such as "duck", "jump", and even "lean to the right". This was, I decided, a warning from the second category, though more intense than most...actually, any before it. My godsight couldn''t tell me more than that, as far as it knew, the meeting had been real, and I had met my future self. But then, it was the reason for this whole internal argument, wasn''t it? Or so half of me insisted. The second assessment-that I had, doubtlessly, met my future self-surprised me. As much as some precognitives liked to insist, there was no such thing as a single future. Every single action and change in an universe, or even the possibility of one, generated a new universe, a new timeline. There were already an infinity of them, and growing by the planck time. How? Well, there are infinities, and infinities. Just look at the one between zero and one. The point was, you just couldn''t point at a future, however plausible or likely it looked, and say ''There! That''s what will happen!''. Chance had a thing about screwing up precog, and that was just in the case of mundane humans. Strigoi like me, with our immunity to probability manipulation(including the small degree inherent to precognition, as seeing and knowing ''the'' future meant altering it, which made visions and projections involving us inherently unreliable, unless divine power was involved)? Add apparent time travel, and everything just got worse. I couldn''t even peer through time or outside it to find that monkey-suited prick, because either he or whatever I had heard-felt-behind or beneath his voice pushed back against every attempt, making me feel like I was smashing my metaphysical head against a brick wall. And I wished I could say that bearded fuck was the worst of my worries, but-despite my not small fear of ending up looking like the hate child of a hipster and a gravedigger-I had bigger fish to fry, as did all of us. Not just Mia and I, or even ARC, but the world as a whole, and our the realms close to it, tied to it by chains of aether and fate, where they weren''t bound by familiarity and old debts. In the extremely unlikely event nothing worse reared its ugly head, we had three problems, or maybe a threefold one. I don''t know. I''d honestly stopped giving a fuck about any details that wouldn''t help with finally finishing this damn- ...Add a fourth problem, and another layer. Or even a fifth, if beard boy decided he had worse ways to get his rocks off than by trolling me and scaring my girlfriend. But, as for the three big ones...we had to get rid of Chernobog, one way or another. Maybe Laozi could fire up his crucible again and hope the Black God was dumber than Wukong. Maybe Zeus could make another set of the chains he had bound Typhon with. Ordinarily, I''d have contemplated setting Chernobog up for Dharma or FREAKSHOW''s Armament to knock down, or the best way to stall him long enough for Breakout to start laying pipe, but...fuckin'' dammit. The pantheons needed to clean up their damn mess. Letting Chernobog run around in my body during the Headhunt in the hopes of thinning each other''s ranks had been a stupid, risky move. They should''ve stopped him. And that went for God, too. I didn''t...I didn''t love Him less. I never wanted to stop loving Him. But not stopping the Black God had been so, so stupid, at least from my side of the debacle. And, unless He chose to reveal some detail of His plan that made it necessary, my opinion wouldn''t change. Though I''d started biting down on my tongue, a nervous tic since before my undeath, at least when I was thinking, which had evolved into biting through it with my fangs, I didn''t taste blood. Only ashes. Metaphorically, thankfully. But it took little effort to remember how bitterness felt. Aya hadn''t said I couldn''t contact her by godsight. That had been how we''d talked last time, after all, and if she didn''t like it, I''d spin something about honing my power(it wouldn''t even be a complete lie), apologise, and fly to Giza to report in person. With how much faster than light I was now, it a few thousand kilometres would be a joke. That''s what I told myself as I tried to forget that line of thinking about God, and ignore the hollow laughter of my strigoi self as it dragged memories of Chernobog to the forefront of our mindscape. I thought about the other problems, too, and whether they were even separate. Nyarlathotep. Not exactly someone we could get rid of, and trying to do so would most likely cause enough of a disturbance to fulfill its his aims anyway. Unless...we had all thought Ygdrassil''s destiny was as immutable as its inhabitants'', and look at the now. Perhaps more could be changed. Even if destruction was impossible, maybe sealing or criipling wouldn''t be. The women that had maddened the Dagda, or left him open for the Crawling Chaos to do it. They were obviously linked-had to be, didn''t they? Or maybe the obviousness was a trap. But the idea of such a coincidence, of an unaligned faction deciding to anger such a powerful god just in time to leave him open to corruption, left a foul taste in my mouth. Fuck...had the corruption even been temporary? Was the Dagda still a pawn of Nyarlathotep, unbeknownst to everyone else? Or, I thought, a growl building in my throat, does everyone in charge know and allow it, because it might be convenient, again? The Dagda going through what I had with Chernobog...shit. I couldn''t exactly check on him either, not with the defences around the Otherworld. Casual fargazing wouldn''t cut it, and attempts to break through would just attract the wrong sort of attention. The Tuatha de Danann were not fond of foreign spies, especially Christians, and I didn''t want the Morrigan on my arse. Not in that way. The thought of the cold goddess brought to mind Bianca''s sisters. They hadn''t done anything in eight years, and, if not for my paranoia, I might have though they were pulling one of those stupid grade school pranks, making me expect something awful when they weren''t actually planning anything. Would they be satisfied with that? I had stupidly chopped a tree in half just because I''d been feeling moody, but...they wouldn''t do something that would threaten creation in response, right? Or maybe they hadn''t known what their actions would result into...if they''d even been the women responsible. Then there was my future self(obviously evil; otherwise, why the beard?), and whatever being Keeper meant. I''d go and pester Merlin for answers, since he seemed to think he knew something, or at least had acted like he did. He was free now, so it wasn''t like he''d be too busy or bummed to remove. Then there was Vyrt, who creeped the fuck out of me almost as much as my future self. Maybe I could beat the answers out of both at the same time, after I finished reporting? I needed to get the stuff the Knights had appropriated from ARC, too, unless Aya had sent Shiftskin to get it, like she''d said she might. What''s a little diplomatic incident between suspicious rivals? Mia was showering, which, ordinarily, would''ve been nice to think about, if dustracting, as well as an incentive to take a shower myself, but I had other things on my mind. Reem probably wouldn''t have wanted her to hear our discussion, so my girlfriend had decided against heating up her body to vapourise anything that needed to be, and taken a slower alternative, in order to both relax and give me the space I needed. Bless you, love. The aether, an endless expanse of shining light blue tinged with green, filled my sight as I truly opened my eyes. Here, time and distance meant nothing, and while the aether didn''t exist inside our universe, it could easily carry messages around it. My godsight was stopped cold by Crypt headquarters'' protections, then I felt something sit up and take notice, like an animal shifting in its sleep as something entered its lair. I recognised Aya''s power as she observed my attempts at entering. In Mimir''s eyes, HQ looked like a flawless white-grey pyramid, with no stone blocks or spaces between them visible. Beneath it, an identical, upside-down pyramid reached under the sand, equally impenetrable to my perception. Then, the Crypt head spoke a handful of words that rattled my fangs, and unseen guardians pooled back, as did the metaphorical facade of the pyramid. I could now see inside. I spotted Aya with ease, her astral self shining so, so much brighter than so many billion others put together. There were only a few dozen that matched or surpassed it, and none in HQ, but they were different enough that I could distinguish and focus on the mummy with no problem. The mummy was seated at the centre of the pyramid, which wasn''t always true in reality. The underground complex didn''t have a centre all the time, even when it wasn''t changing shape. In this realm of symbols, however, such details were irrelevant. Aya was the Crypt division''s Head, and its heart too. Hence, everything else was built around her. She wasn''t alone. I had expected Shiftskin, given their apparent relationship, upon noticing the second presence. Then, his absolute, awful enormity crashed into and through the walls of my mind. I didn''t know if he had hidden from me, or if I had been unable to perceive all of him at once; and, at the moment, I couldn''t spare any thought about that. I caught a glimpse of an old man, bent-backed and narrow eyed, slouching over a lectern- A dog-faced baboon, standing on the edge of a boat sailing the first waters, as it had always done and always would- A man with the head of an ibis, gambling with the moon to stretch time and grow the calendar, and- [ ] Thoth''s fingers burned against my forehead, like a hot knife lancing through diseased flesh to excise a tumour. The god favoured me with a many-faced smile. My sight, which could only slip by his aura of power to observe the surroundings if I concentrated, showed me his body, incarnation or projection was actually small, shorter than Aya despite squatting on some stool or perch. Even so, I got the impression of him looking down at the mummy, at least physically. Around him, past and distance seemed to stop making sense. ''David Silva,'' Thoth spoke each syllable in a clipped voice, as if he wanted to remember how they sounded. ''I have been waiting to meet you for so, so long.'' Me, or Mimir''s eyes-? ''Yes.'' Thoth scratched his beak-muzzle?-with a human finger. ''I would have no reason to interact with you otherwise, see? Us gods are terribly wary of others poaching our worshippers at the best of times, and that applies to me, too, my special relationship with Yahweh aside.'' I wondered if it was "special" in the sense of the UK-USA alliance, or if Thoth was being sarcastic, but I couldn''t tell. His tone was mild, what little I could see of his body language through the haze of power was relaxed, and he hid his thoughts well. ''I''m glad to see you''re better, David,'' Aya said, in a tone that suggested she expected me to wonder about what she was referring to, even if I didn''t figure it out. ''And, while I am pleased you are training your abilities, please do not expect to only rely on them from now on. I still await your report in person.'' ''Why?'' I frowned. ''Can''t you tell it''s really me who''s speaking to you, ma''am?'' ''I can,'' she replied. ''Can you tell if you''re really speaking to Aya Reem?'' *** Andrei was on the ghost as soon as he finished speaking, closing five metres in half as many microseconds to close his hands around his father''s throat, claws digging into the ectoplasm. He can be hurt, the were thought with a kind of strange clarity. He is dead, but he can be hurt. I can finally see him and touch him and hurt him. KILL KILL KILL, was the closest approximation of what his beast''s ''thoughts'' would have sounded like, if spoken by a human. He sympathised with it, for once. Usually, the dumb animal just acted like it''s natural counterpart, and had most of the same desires. Lazing around. Eating. Fighting and killing other males-rivals. It could not perceive them as anything else. Fucking females. The last two were particularly annoying when living in society, because a were''s beast didn''t make any distinction between humans, other supernaturals and mundane animals, which meant Andrei was as likely to get randomly mad at and want to murder a newborn because he happened to be male as he was to get aroused by some brown bear sow. And that was ridiculous. Now, however...now, his beast wasn''t pushing him towards something that would''ve been immoral even if it hadn''t been illegal. For decades, his human side had been responsible for that. Andrei decided to savour this moment of inner harmony, because he knew it wasn''t going to last. Misha didn''t thrash or struggle, like a new ghost in the grip of memory would have. How long had it been since his undeath? Maybe Andrei would let him talk enough to share it. Might be interesting, if only as a curiosity. The were could tell the ghost was still hurt, though. Intangibility was useless against supernaturals, and ghosts could still feel pain if enough of their ectoplasm was damaged. Andrei would''ve cracked a phantom pain joke if he hadn''t been trying to crack his father''s skull instead. A hollow imitation of flesh, and there''d be no corpse left, but...oh, well. No time to be picky. He was honestly grateful for getting to do this at all. ''Lht goh,'' Misha managed to gurgle. ''Lht goh, yuh-'' Andrei indulged him, letting go-a little. Just enough to lessen the pressure, to let the ghost focus. Misha couldn''t choke, but he could get locked up due to pain. Andrei didn''t want that yet. Maybe his father would have something funny to croak, before the end. ''-fuckin'' mongrel,'' the ghost finished, glaring at his son with empty sockets. Andrei smiled sarcastically in response, showing his fangs. ''Never seen anything like this wherever you''ve crawled from?'' ''We have beasts,'' Misha spat, hands wrapped halfway around the were''s wrists. ''I know what you can look like.'' Andrei''s smile went from fake to nonexistent. ''Don''t. Don''t you dare go there.'' Why not, though? part of him thought. Let him talk. It''ll make things easier after his final death. Entering? Hate speech? We were just defending ourselves. ''That''s why I''m here,'' Misha said, his voice, already low and rough, becoming harsher, colder, and...was that exhaustion Andrei heard? The werebear bristled. What was the bastard tired of? Being manhandled? Learning actions had consequences? Still clinging onto the world for far longer than he had any right to? ...He''d go to David after this. Apologise again. He fucking hated opening up, almost as much as admitting when he was wrong. Altogether? Made him feel almost as shitty as the reason for his mood did. But he was sure there was a quick and dirty way to cheer himself up... ''Why?'' Andrei searched the ghost''s face for signs that he was preparing to bullshit him. A little harder than usual, with the lack of eyes, but the creases in the ectoplasmic skin, in the brow and around the sockets, were more than enough. ''Shouldn''t you be asking "how"?'' Misha''s voice was drily amused, as was his expression, before growing more focused. ''I heard I had a kid. I''d honestly thought the bitch had died...only learned she''d not just survived, but gotten pregnant, after I bit the dust. I wanted...wanted to see how you''d ended up, I guess.'' Curiosity? That was it? He- No, no, Andrei reminded himself, trying to clear the redness that had appeared at the edges of his vision. This was good. If the fucker had walked right into his claws of his own volition, all the better. Would make for a funny story. The were had never honestly hoped for closure during his life, maybe not even after life. Andrei knew he was bound for the aether, but his father...the mages he had paid to look into anything related to his past hadn''t been able to come up with anything consistent. Sometimes, Misha was stuck in the Hell Christians feared, other times in the depths of the aether, tormented by the manifestation of everything he had ever feared and loathed, like the other godless, unclaimed wicked, so they''d both suffer and be stopped from returning to the living world. Save for a few infamous dead passed between underworlds to truly suffer, whatever prevented dead agnostics and atheists from being consumed or exploited by those that roamed the realm of magic also made the darkest thoughts of the vilest among them come alive. Maybe it was simply the aether''s nature? It did react to the minds of those who entered it, after all, and there was something hilarious about the idea of Misha torturing himself forever. That led to the question the ghost had posed. How had he escaped both the nightmares and the aether without anyone noticing? Maybe he''d let him talk enough to spill something other than the facsimile of his guts. ''Better than you,'' Andrei smiled sarcastically. Garrison captain, dragged down by rioting locals. That had been back when the USSR had openly occupied Eastern Europe. And, while such events had been common, and most of the Soviet supernaturals had survived, Misha had been merely human. But humanity...had inhumanity to spare. Misha stiffened. ''Let me go. I''ll kill y-'' The sentence was cut short as the ghost''s head was twisted backwards, a sharp gasp of pain being muffled by the neck snapping. His head blurred and shifted, so that he was staring at his son again, in moments. The window had shattered at the sound, shards falling to crack even further, or being quickly buried under the snow brought in by the howling wind. ''If I don''t let you go?'' Andrei asked. ''Or after I do?'' ''Let me go, crow,'' Misha demanded, hands clenching around Andrei''s wrists, the were''s tightening around his father''s neck in response. Only one of them whimpered in pain, though. ''I''ll kill-'' Andrei thoughtfully chewed on his father''s jaw, fangs crunching the teeth and pushing the dust into the pulped, ectoplasmic flesh, making a dripping mess. He made sure to look into the ghost''s sockets as he swallowed. ''With what? The silver you don''t have on you? Don''t try to fool my nose. You know that''s what''s needed to kill freaks like me-or that''s what you''d have said, before you became one yourself.'' Misha deflated, almost literally, his form following his mood. ''What do you want?'' he asked in a small voice, struggles stopping. What did he want? He... He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to hurt him more than he could bear, without the old rapist losing his mind. He wanted to learn about his mother, that wandering peddlar who''d had the misfortune of looking the wrong way and being an easy target. No one he had convinced, bribed or threatened into looking had been able to tell Andrei who had given birth to him. The details were always, always painfully sparse. ''My mother,'' Andrei said, lifting his father up so that they were at eye level. ''What was her name?'' Misha said something, but Andrei didn''t hear. Maybe he''d mouthed the word? Either way, he understood. He must have understood-he could already feel decades of tension, of pain, flowing out of... Oh, Andrei thought, looking down. That''s my blood. ''Let''s ask her together,'' Misha said softly, pushing the knife deeper into his son''s heart. *** { }, [*****] There was, Nightraiser reflected, a certain beauty in Darkness. In its simplicity. Its purity. It didn''t contain or hide evil, or anything else, unlike the shadows and gloom that imitated it across Earth and beyond. It knew, felt and desired nothing. Nightraiser envied it, as much as they felt the lure of nihilism, despite the fact they were closer to the Darkness than anyone save its parent and spawn. Or maybe because of that? Those who did not know the Darkness did not know how jealous they should be of it. Sometimes, Nightraiser wondered for what unfathomable reason the Unnamed Darkness had chosen to empower them, or if it had even had one. They also wondered about their new name. What did raising the night mean, anyway? It brought to mind the "hellraiser'' concept", but, as much as the idea of being a vandal made them laugh, they had a feeling it was more to it than that. They did not know why the name was so firmly set, burned, into their mind. As it had been since the Darkness had opened its Eye, choosing them as it. Nightraiser''s power was not mere existence erasure, metaphysical destruction or conceptual unmaking. When they chose to forget something, the concept did not simply cease in the present. It ceased across every moment and layer of reality and beyond, the Archetype itself removed by the forgetfulness that hovered at the edges of the Dream. For what was removed from Nightraiser''s mind disappeared from the Daemon Sultan''s, as well. There were, of course, layers to this ability. Had there been none, someone would have tried to futilely put Nightraiser down for the sake of creation, for the greater good, rather than the pettier, more selfish usual reasons. For example, when Nightraiser closed their eyes and erased everything in their line of sight, the concepts of "ground", "sky" and "reality" didn''t disappear. That would have been...messy. Instead, like a lantern or gun covered by a veil, fractions of the power could be exposed as needed, allowing more and more Nothing to flow into Everything. There were, however, things that couldn''t simply be erased once, and thus put down. These, Nightraiser had to place in a loop of constant destruction. The distance between them and a silver dagger could be erased in case a were had to be killed rather than put in a time out, for example, but not all problems required such solutions. Which was all the better, in their opinion. Take Voidmaws. They often had to be destroyed to preserve existence, but getting rid of all of them at once, permanently, would have been wasteful. They were, compared to Archetypes, harmless, not to mention adorable. In the expanse of their patron, Nightraiser appeared as an oval slit in the deepest of black. Infinitely smaller and less powerful, brown as rust, or old blood, they looked like an eye set in the centre of an amorphous, titanic being, no matter how they were viewed. And now, the Eye turned. Travelling from dimensioned space to the Outer Void was no simple matter. The multiverse was contained by a dimensionless void, like a drawing on paper, which was dwarfed and surrounded by an infinitely larger one. The Ultimate Gate was preceded by an endless chain of such vacua, and proceeded by an even larger one. And, despite Archetypes and their avatars moving across the Dream with such ease they almost never stopped to think about it, the journey was neither short nor free of danger. Hypnos had once nearly come undone upon transcending everything between the multiverse and the Outer Void, then gazing upon the Archetypes. Clearly, no one had told the newcomer any of that. It had the aspect of a mirror, and the Dream shook at its approach. This was not of itself. It was an incongruence. It had to be removed. This was why Nightraiser existed, or rather did not. A similar event had happened, timeless eternities ago, but Ischyros hadn''t disturbed the Unmoved Mover halfway as much. Less because it had the mentality of an overly-excitable puppy, and more because it was native to the ur-realm of the Dreamer, of which only its Black Throne could be glimpsed from within its sleep at the centre of nuclear chaos.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. As the Mirror approached and passed through the Ultimate Gate, then entered the Outer Void, plowing through swarms of Voidmaws and destroying them, Nightraiser stowed a weary sigh. The All-In-One let everyone in, they swore...usually, the problems solved themselves, but this was clearly not one of those cases, and it was tasteless to make them clean up after its entertainment. Not that Nightraiser could refuse. The intruder proclaimed its desire to turn the Dream into its palace of mirrors, and even offered Nightraiser a position as its cleaner, to remove things it deemed eyesores. They were so touched by the generosity, their mouth opened by itself. ''Really?'' Nightraiser smiled. ''Sounds tacky. Like living in a pile of bodies.'' It sneered, clearly snubbed by their lack of appreciation for its taste, and began reflecting itself. One became two, became four, became eight, became sixteen, until Nightraiser was staring at an infinity of Mirrored, each as spotless as the original had been after ignoring the Voidmaws'' power, let alone their destructive presence. Then, they turned their power upon themselves once more, and their might doubled, then quadrupled. Nightraiser, who had been left behind by each Mirrored after the first handful of boosts, stared at them, unimpressed. Then, the Darkness took notice, and the Mirrored had never been. When Nightraiser let go of their patron''s power, returning to their baseline, their sigh was both regretful and relieved. It had been pleasant, like returning to the surface after holding one''s breath under mud. Even relaxing. But Nightraiser could not afford to be distracted. The Darkness needed a champion to direct and channel it. The illusion of appearance shifted to an idealised, dimensionless version of their tridimensional form. Darkness washed over dark skin as they basked in the shadows, a mane of ebony joining with the featureless expanse around them. Trails of nothingness flowed from deep, lidless eyes, forming patches of darkness over their chest and crotch. Nightraiser was not prudish, and the Darkness could not care about nudity less if it tried, but their gender was a mystery, even to themselves. Erased, like whatever childhood memories had been deemed unnecessary upon empowerment. The pain had remained. The fear, too, faded echoes of it. Someone must have thought them needed. Nightraiser''s avatars, like the Archetypes'', imitated their true form. As such, they were now all reclining on whatever surfaces were available, or nothing, if none were, resulting in a rather amusing incident in the thirty-first dimension. There was beauty in the Void, too, if one could bear to see it and know where to look. Plato would have wept at the sight of this Realm of Ideas, maybe even out of vindication. Archetypes were not lonely things. As far-flung and diverse as anything could be, they shared two traits: they stood close together, and were all facets of Maybe. The Darkness and the Mist. Unnamed, Nameless. As above, not so below, no matter which seemed to underpin or loom over all creation at a given moment. Nyog-Sothep and Nightraiser''s patron were only equal in terms of power and mindlessness, but in terms of nature? Endless oblivion and limitless potential could not have been more opposed, but their interplay created things that filled them, and even surpassed them. As Ymir had formed from blaze clashing across frost halfway across Ginnungagap, and Pangu had cracked open the World Egg from the inside, One from None, so did the Archetypes rise from the meeting of Everything and Nothing. Even the All-In-One, the Ultimate Archetype...the last, unbound sweep, outreaching fancy and mathematics alike, transcending contradiction and duality...even it had been born from the Nameless Mist, though such details were meaningless. The parent could not care, and the child-who contained and dwarfed all Archetypes, including the Mist and Darkness, to the same extent they dwarfed humans-did not. The Dream itself, perhaps the Mind of the Dreamer, it was only bound by how it chose to amuse and perpetuate itself. The latter had become, as of late (as the linears said) a rather pressing concern. Still, Yog-Sothoth, according to the fools who survived searching it for knowledge was supremely confident that it would continue. And when it said ''it'', it referred to itself. Everything, and Nothing, too. As for the lesser Archetypes...some imagined a sort of line, they supposed. With the Archetypes standing side by side unto infinity, those similar close together. Other imagined them standing in groups, or tiers, like in a stadium''s seats, surrounded by an endless blackness. The Outer Void could certainly be viewed like that, if one squinted hard enough. Minds could force the strangest things into familar frames and shapes, even if they broke in the attempt. In Nightraiser''s eyes, though...well. They were-had once been-human. But, though the affectations of humanity remained, what their mind had evolved into was capable of recognising paradoxes that would have driven any lesser psyche mad. Take the human Archetype. It contained the Archetypes of workers, warriors, men, women, children...they live among plant and animal Archetypes, made up of all the species that are part of those kingdoms. Pull back further, and they could be seen walking Earth''s Archetype, which orbits the sun''s... There was overlap, though, and contradiction. The gunslinger Archetype, for example, contained far more than human firearms users. Was it, then, not a part of mankind''s Archetype in its entirely? What about Earth''s? Was it part of a planet Archetype, like the sun''s was part of a stellar one? Were they fractions of the idea of celestial bodies, then of location, then of space? Nightraiser saw and knew. They understood this, though they could not explain it to a human, even if the attempt didn''t unravel reality. The only thing they could say was that... ''It''s beautiful.'' Gears shifted and wheels spun, rusty iron and rotten wood falling apart almost as fast as they were replaced by strong, new materials, which quickly met the same fate, caught in an eternal remaking. In such devices was the embodiment of creation''s new form covered. Cogs ground against each other, sparks flying, as he turned to them. ''Don''t you agree, rugrat?'' ''Fix,'' Nightraiser lifted the arm they had slung over their eyes to give their friend a shrewd look. ''You didn''t come to us to talk about the view.'' Fixer shrugged, flopping down onto the Darkness, and producing a translucent, rodlike device. Then, a thin, shining string shot down into the ebony expanse, the glint of the hook at its tip disappearing. ''Guilty as charged, sprog. Doesn''t make it untrue, though.'' ''I suppose it doesn''t.'' Hopefully, he wouldn''t take it as an excuse to ramble. More than usual. Nightraiser''s expression softened, eyes creasing. ''Ami''s been hounding you?'' Fixer hunched forward, shoulders squared, looking almost as despondent as he sounded when he answered. ''Boss lady ain''t who I want riding me, but what can ya do?'' ''We''re in the same boat, Ned.'' They shifted to sit on the Darkness, next to Fixer, and folded their hands in their lap. He huffed. ''Yours is way worse, if you don''t mind my saying. No one wants to be ridden by John.'' ''And when have we ever gotten what we wanted?'' ''Fair ''nuff.'' Fixer slouched even further, giving the fishing rod a small shake. ''Don''t make it suck less.'' Nightraiser leaned their head on his shoulder. ''If Amara can''t convince you to stop,'' they began softly. ''Maybe I can make you stop pushing your luck.'' ''Dunno what ya mean.'' ''You sound like you used to,'' they jabbed. ''Back in Dunwich. Don''t try to lie.'' ''Pfft.'' ''Articulate,'' Nightraiser said archly, before poking Fixer in the belly, above the navel. ''Do you know what''ll happen if you step in now?'' ''Yeah, yeah, ''course I know already.'' His face soured as he tried to perceive the depths of the Darkness, infinitely deeper and wider than his perception. ''Don''t mean I have to like it, though.'' ''No one said you have to like it.'' Images of cultists in black robes, their heads crowned with antlers of midnight, flashed across the Darkness in an endless chain of still frames. ''But I remember an old man prattling about how people need to stand on their own two feet, or they''ll never achieve anything worthwhile.'' ''Sounds like a preachy twit.'' '' "We can''t hold their hands forever, savvy? Like parents doing their kids'' homework. Yeah, it looks better than it would if they did it alone...but anyone looking at the results can see who did the work, and all their pals will laugh at ''em".'' ''Awright, awright, jeez. Don''t quote me back at myself, I know how annoying I sound.'' Nightraiser did not move their head, even as Fixer shifted awkwardly. ''I mean it, Ned. Let them handle this, or I''ll forget you.'' ''... Fine.'' They smiled up at their scowl, pushing themselves away. ''You know what a Nightmare that''d be. I love you too much to let you suffer like you would bringing eternal oblivion to preserve a short peace.'' ''Never knew ya had a problem with that.'' ''Oh, Darkness is an old friend,'' they admitted. Their first one. ''But, much like pleasure, one must know its opposite to appreciate it.'' *** FREAKSHOW Base One, Washington DC, USA Armament''s hands were in his cargo pants'' pockets as he walked down the hall. He was moving slowly, jackboots rising and falling once every two heartbeats, humming tunelessly. He had almost as little talent at this as he had at whistling, without using his powers, but that didn''t stop him. Besides, the louder and more obnoxious, the more chances those two would have to notice his approach and shape up. America''a foreign policy in microcosm, Hans thought to himself, nodding approvingly at the unintentional parallels. Still, not being sure how to put it, he took his time. Breakout had her needs. She could''ve removed them, but there were some things she held onto, and he wasn''t one to judge, even if the thought of her and Jim together made him boggle. Anyone could play grab-ass, far as he was concerned, long as no one was hurt without consent. Just sex, man. Those two couldn''t stand each other less, he thought, running a hand over his head, tracing the tattoos. Ventromedial prefrontal cortex...frontal cortex...amygdala...nucleus accumbens. Hans had scolded several psychologists for claiming he couldn''t draw abilities from the tats. He had been sure they''d been trying to lower his confidence, and they''d called him paranoid in turn, but Hans didn''t give a shit. They''d obviously been conspiring against him. Besides, belief built facts, and all that jazz. Right? Hans had grown up in the ass-end of Texas, taking potshots at vermin, then supernatural crooks, once he''d gotten his badge. Then he''d found the Weapon, and his mind had expanded, but...fuck. He hadn''t joined FREAKSHOW to be an errand boy or a messenger, dammit! He''d wanted to blow shit up and get into cool fights-legally! Not be a couple counselor... Wait, wait, hell naw. What was he thinking? Clara and Jim, a couple? Maybe a couple people... As he saw the stretch of wall that wasn''t, he stopped his humming and raised his voice. "I''m comin'', so you''d better not be!" Subtle. Classy. Way more useful than knocking. Hans allowed himself a high five. Hands still in pockets, he raised a boot and kicked the not-wall in. Well. Not exactly. But Hans wasn''t the best when it came to describing fancy details. It was, he suspected, something he''d inherited from his pa, one of those eleven something thousand ethnic Germans detained during World War Two. Poor bastard had been released quickly, then had an accident on the way out. Fuckin'' hilarious. ''Course, Hans was far sharper than his pops had been before the mess, not that he''d ever lorded it over him. In the few moments his old man had been able to step up from sittin'' ''round the house like a vegetable, he''d been real sensitive. As such, Hans wouldn''t have described the space as a multi-layered patch of artificial reality. Almost nothing could pass it without the approval of those behind it, bot without getting stripped down to quantum foam and getting scattered across an infinity of universes. That was why Hans had been sent. He could just get through, proof to esoteric crap due to the Idea he was one with, without having to wait for a green light from the love birds. Most other folk wouldn''t have been able to pass, and would''ve probably wasted time negotiating their way in. Those who could bypass it, like Clyde, Randy, the weres and vamps, would''ve likely gotten a cold welcome. Hans, however, had the dubious luck of being seen as a little brother by Clara (he was only a couple years younger, geeze) and didn''t take any bull from the posturing douche she''d chosen to fool around with this time. Playin'' messenger still sucked like a cheap hooker, but, eh. "Oi. Rise and shine, me darlings." Hans put his hands behind his back as he strode through the patch of nonexistence that had never been a wall. The room''s thick yamadium walls were cracked, a sight that made Hans nod slightly to himself. Breakout was still a screamer. He wondered if Jim''s ears had bled like his had three or four romps ago. Clara flipped him off, pulling on her uniform shirt without looking at either of the men. Hans looked past her, face set in an expectant expression. Nothing he hadn''t seen. Still wire the flag...as did Jim Bat. The vamp was still shirtless, and met his stare with one of his own, crossing his arms. The Confederate flag was a startling splash of color on his pale shoulder, but, thankfully, a reminder as opposed to a representation of beliefs he still held. Jim had been a grunt during the Civil War, and he still had grunt written over his mug. He''d been in it for the money and to avoid peer pressure, not the politics. The chick who finished getting dressed next to him kinda embodied that fact. "Piss off," Jim rasped, crimson eyes trying to spear through Hans'' soul. "You couldn''t have convinced my sire to agree to shit, either, so don''t lecture." "Yeah, I read the reports. This ain''t about Primus." "No? Then run along. We''re supposed to be relaxing-" "Not anymore," Armament cut him off at the same time Breakout said ''Let ''im talk, jackass''. The woman straightened the wrinkles over the red-and-white-striped pentagrams on her shoulders, then walked over to Hans. "I knew diplomacy wouldn''t do shit-much easier to just have one of our vamps drink up-but I humored Mary. Girl''s way too optimistic for a politician..." Breakout shook her head, twirling the pipe that appeared in her hands like a baton. "Jim''s second dad is currently tearing up some unfortunate realities, fighting one of the few assholes worse than ''im. Y''all are welcome." "Thanks?" Armament asked more than said. "I guess." Breakout gave him an apologetic smile, before her balaclava appeared over her face. "I know why you''re here, kid. And I''m sorry to burst your bubble, but I ain''t goin''." Hans stiffened, out of reflex rather than surprise. Breakout''s power sometimes made her act in mysterious ways, though they, thankfully, benefitted the States most of the time. "You''re refusing a mission?" "Yep. Call it a medical emergency: I''m allergic to everything going tits up if I get involved." "Disappointing," Jim said before Clara answered, pulling on his shirt. "But we''ll survive." Clara rolled her eyes, elbowing Hans. "That''s the second time he said that today, ya know? First time was after he proposed, if you can believe it." Hans'' eyes went from Breakout to Jim, who met his stare with one of his own, arms crossed. FREAKSHOW officially frowned upon fraternization as much as any alphabet soup agency. Unofficially, people were still people. The fact the US weren''t defended by ice-cold, emotionless drones was a state secret, of course. Still...Hans knew there was no sentiment in this. FREAKSHOW''s top five agents were too valuable to allow any awkwardness between them to impact their performance. Clara saw them as friends, jokes about benefits aside, and Hans tried not to think about it, but sometimes, it still felt weird. Darren and Randy had an easier time compartmentalizing stuff like this, but Hans lacked the former''s brick-level emotional range and the latter''s endless capacity to be higher than the sun. As for how Jim Bat handled it, frankly, he gave as much of a fuck as he did about Clara''s flings with other agents, American or foreign. But c''mon..."Proposal, man?" Jim''s face didn''t change, though his beard twitched a bit. "I can''t promise I''ll change. But who knows?" "Ah, quit yer bitchin''!" Clara waved him off, then turned back to Hans. "Back in his day, people fell in love at first sight and got married quickly all the time. But supernatural supremacists leave me dry, so what can you do?" She tapped her pipe into one hand. "Listen. I already know who the Global Gathering will stuff into this clown car." She held up a hand, raising a finger for each name. "The Karma Delivered have agreed to send Dharma-he''s fired up after the Faerie clusterfuck, says it''s unfair he got tied up the way he did. He''s got a new power now, to prevent being trapped like that again." Hans ignored the pun. Raj was always good to have on your side, unless he got into one of his weirder moods, which this apparently had a chance of being. ''Unfair'', when used by Dharma, had nothing to do with complaining, and everything to do with the system of cosmic justice he followed. Hans hoped he''d be manageable. "China and Russia are sending Myriad and Tunguska, respectively." Heavy hitters. Unlimited fusions, endless applications of destruction...and Clara still refused to use their agencies'' names. Still saw them as government goon squads. Armament hoped her power prevented her from getting rose-colored glasses when it came to FREAKSHOW, but he wasn''t sure of its exact limits. "The Hidden Eye''s sending Kriegblitz. Girl''s been runnin'' her sweet ass off all over Dresden. Wants a longer race track, I guess. Watch out for her." But with infinite movement and reaction speed, what could keep her attention? "The Circle Bizarre wanted to send Brazillion, but he''s getting reprimanded. Might have asked for it. Didn''t focus too much on that. Anyway...they''re sending Rei Enxame instead." Hans couldn''t stop himself from cringing. "And he''s bringing his swarm, too, isn''t he?" "You bet. If you keep him happy, he might not try to add to it, though." Clara let her hand fall back by her side. "And we''re sending you and Jim. Thank me later. Try not to act too unsurprised at the next two meetings. People''ll get pissy if they learn I spoiled you." She lowered her voice. "Be careful. I''m gonna walk my beat." *** Mother Wound''s Scorn grunted silently as he climbed out of the neutron star, pushing aside chunks that weighed sextillions of tons with each of his four arms. Starquakes packed enough power to destroy rocku planets millions upon millions of times over, but the amount of force applied to his relatively small frame was merely irritating. He was tougher than most rocky planets, besides, and could regenerate where they did not. The conditions inside the shaking star had been uncomfortable, but hardly deadly. Scorn had hoped jumping into cosmic disasters would trigger his Vyzhaldi power boosts, but after the first thousand clashing moons and planets, he''d realised headbutting them to debris after jumping between them wasn''t doing anything. Black holes had followed, but he was nearly five hundred times faster than light, and could enter and exit at his leisure, at least the shallow areas. But... He still couldn''t enter white holes. Would a hypernova or gamma ray burst kill him, if he was caught in one? This neutron star, writhing in the grip of a starquake, had been a compromise. Scorn wanted to make himself stronger, not an example of how painful unintended suicide could be. He supposed the Vyzhaldi disregard for death was also absent in him. Looking down at the shaking star, Scorn clicked his mandibles in frustration. Reaching into the subspace pocket that always followed him, he grasped the slimy body of his Prime Responder, the pulled the creature out of the fake reality. The Prime Responders were a curious aspect of the Honoured Kratocracy. Some claimed they had been engineered into being, others that they were defective Vyzhaldi larvae, even more flawed, and thus abhorrent, than him. But they detected any change in the cosmos, however fast, whether acausal or retroactive, and placed the information in the Kratocrats'' minds. Which indicated a link between them, given Vyzhaldi were usually invisible to telepathy. The Prime Responder was a grey being, with sickly red eyes and a circular mouth full of razor-sharp, triangular teeth. Its segmented, wormlike body fit within Scorn''s palm-except for its brain. Several times its size, it protruded out of its head, a pulsing, throbbing sphere of grey matter dripping thick, pinkish fluid. Prime Responders were often placed in subspace pockets, which they could communicate through, time and space being no obstacle to the things, but Scorn preferred to look the creature in the eye when he spoke to it. ''Home,'' he mouthed. ''Changes? Hunters?'' No new hunters on his trails. When he learned about the changes, though, Scorn cursed his Mother and all his kin, then reached into subspace again. He''d never learned the full extent of what the Ideal Mirror could reflect. Loathed using it to compensate for his weakness, even to save his life. How joyous, he thought sarcastically, to find out its full potential like this. *** Wings on his Words watched with interest as the Terran biped-Adam-paced around the inside of the transparent dome. This was an untapped world, a-in Vyzhaldi parlance-bauble, kept unaltered for Kratocrats to come and fly over or swim through its liquid nitrogen seas. The dome was usually used for sparring, so Vyzhaldi could fight without obliterating the planet through shockwaves, due to its metaglass absorbing and storing energy. Adam had been, still was, curious about their society. Unsure what he actually wanted, he had expressed a desire to create, though, from how fervently he''d spoken, it might''ve been closer to a need. So, Wings had brought him here, expecting him to start shaping the seas into solid or gas, but the undead had claimed he could and would do more. Manipulating matter, he had said, was easy. Not wanting a planet to be destroyed because he''d brought an unruly guest into the Kratocracy, Wings had ushered him into the dome, trusting its ability to resist whatever the Terran had in mind. Mother Wound would return home to either a very interesting or a reassuringly stable Kratocracy; either way, nothing and no one would have to be replaced. Hopefully. ''So,'' Adam began, continuing to pace. ''Your civilisation is dominated by three...schools of thought, which started as philosophies, but evolved into what few of your people want to admit are political parties.'' ''A caustic way of putting it, but, in short, yes.'' Wings had gotten his name because he was a fast talker in love with his own voice, or so his Kin said. Vyzhaldi names that referenced anything other than violence or physical prowess were usually intended as mockery, and not always to make the mocked rise above and meet any challenge or derision. ''The Schools began as ways to occupy one''s time, but that was billions of years ago, after the War of Unity, but before Mother Wound became...'' A living ancestor-god, rather than a mere venerated elder. ''Distant. We expected her to lead us forever as she saw fit, for she is our progenitor and the strongest of us besides, but she keeps her own counsel nowadays.'' No Vyzhaldi remembered what had driven their Mother to silence, and she never told it through her interpreters, leaving them with theories. Adam hummed as he considered the words. ''Your people are long-lived and deliberate when it comes to decisions, are they not? That is to say, many times older than my creator''s ancestors, but extremely similar to how you started as. The thought of human anything persisting for billions of years is...'' He broke off, laughing. ''Almost said unnatural...I should stay away from hypocrisy.'' ''A healthy mindset,'' Wings replied, his escort, Kin of Brood and Wound, friends and other Builders, hanging back, watching them interact. Adam nodded with a dry grin. ''Indeed. Perhaps you could adopt it yourself.'' Wings had a feeling he knew what was coming, but he thought to make sure. ''Explain.'' ''Your Schools are defined by what you do in your Kratocracy and to your neighbours, yes?'' ''That is correct.'' ''So, Builders maintain architecture and machinery, which is purely recreational, since your people lack physiological needs and can achieve almost any task through physical effort. Outside your society, they build relations with others, trade, uplift weaker species. The Balancers are something between constables and confessors, maintaining both political and mental peace between Kratocrats and other civilisations. And the Breakers destroy undesirable things, which many of them consider weaker beings to be.'' Adam cupped his chin. ''Very neat. Very clear. Not much room for thought, but...'' ''You parrot what I told you like a hatchling, then mock us. Remember we are your hosts.'' To Wings'' slight surprise, Adam had the grace to look abashed. ''You must remember: we are not like the humans whose remains make you up, or even like you. We Vyzhaldi live to fight. It brings us greater pleasure than mating and feasting and art, or all three together. It is how we are wired. And if we can heal from almost anything only to emerge more durable-and grow in power and speed during fights as well-then, isn''t it natural that we would become warlike? Nowhere else will you find better mercenaries.'' Wings sat down, letting nitrogen wash over his shell, his wings, covering the purple chitin in a colourless sheen. ''Of course we define ourselves by the way we take action. Do your people not?'' ''I don''t know if they do anymore,'' Adam admitted. ''I''ve been gone for centuries, and I haven''t observed Earth.'' ''We are familiar with fast-paced species. Surely they can''t have changed too much.'' Wings held up a finger. ''The Breakers might look like cruel, moronic brutes to you, and most of them are, but they are not completely stupid. It is exceedingly easy to obtain their services with just the promise of a good fight, as opposed to favours or resources, yes...but they are the bleeding edge of the Kratocracy. Vyzhaldi like them spearheaded our expansion, and, though their School has lost popularity in recent millennia, they still remain a well of strength and enthusiasm for our society.'' And if the dangerous idiots kept dying in droves, all the better. ''Maybe, if we have time, I will tell you the the story of the Kindred Three, Mother Wound''s first children.'' Wings'' pheromones filled the surroundings as he nostalgically thought about his hatchling''s tales. ''They were the ones who took charge when our lady retreated into herself, only letting her old fury show to moderate the worst disputes, and removed inner threats to the Kratocracy.'' Some Balancers claimed this was proof of Mother Wound being a member of their School, but that was ridiculous presumption, and she never humoured them. Adam was silent for a while, then squatted down. ''Do you know why I called you a hypocrite?'' he eventually asked. ''Because I am a Builder, but let our defective kin be dispatched? Not all of us protect the weak. Some simply raise things to outlast them,'' Wings said, though he knew it was a poor excuse. He wasn''t an architect. ''I wish we could stop that, but Mother doesn''t listen.'' ''And what have you done to change her mind? Didn''t you say she set this unofficial law herself?'' Adam asked after his treacherous thought was given voice. ''We...'' Wings rose to his feet. ''Have something in the works.'' Adam turned to him, then smiled slightly. ''Well,'' the undead also rose. ''I, for one, am finished.'' And the world around him snapped to life. Constructs, trillions and trillions, made of the toxic atmosphere, of the cold seas, of space itself, all animated by Adam''s strange power. Even the dome warped and shifted to become a gigantic humanoid that would have towered over Mother Wound the same way she towered over baseline Vyzhaldi. One of them, something that reminded Wings of a Xalkhian and which could only be seen by how reality bent around it, dashed at Wings, covering dozens of metres faster than he could perceive and punching him to finger-sized pieces. All but one piece became a crimson Woundkin, while Wings himself healed back to his full size in a tenth of a picosecond. He caught the construct''s next punch with ease and no damage, despite it being thrice as strong and fast as the previous one, and began pushing it down. Then Adam pushed more power into it, and his arm began cracking. ''Come on!'' the undead laughed as his creations jumped at the Vyzhaldi, tearing them apart, then being reduced to droplets, gust of air and ripples in space in turn. ''You were just talking about how much you love violence-I''m trying to follow my hosts'' traditions!'' He held up a hand, hiding his grin. ''Consider this an apology for earlier.'' *** She was like the softest rose among thorns, and Constantin was drawn to her like a moth through a flame. The only beautiful thing in this place of ugliness-or, at least, that was what the place wanted him to believe. He had his love for his Father and son, kept it in mind, held it close to his heart. Love returned, gladly, and kept no matter the circumstances. But hadn''t she died, inasmuch as an angel could? Constantin had seen her ripped apart before his eyes, had felt the light in her eyes, that made up her being, fade. Or had that been a trick? A test of faith, so God could see how strong his heart was? No, Constantin told himself. Even if it had been a lie, even if she had returned to Heaven, laughing at his gullibility and foolishness before he had even learned her name, he would...would... He would not rage against the Lord. Constantin knew where that path led, and what it was paved with. His first and last love was lost, one way or another. His angel seemed to slouch forward at this thought, wings slumping. Had he upset her? Constantin walked closer, his hand going to his chest, tearing through his surplice and the vines that had gotten stuck in it. His hand bled, shattered thorns grinding through his bones, mixing with the marrow. But he still grasped his cross. Strange. His angel''s presence had never driven him to need such comfort, before. But now, he felt his heart rise at the touch of his Father''s unseen hand. ''My love,'' his angel said in a voice like a church bell, which then became as light as a silver chime. ''My husband.'' ¡­No. This was cruelty. He knew it wasn''t true. The more he wanted it, the more he knew... She was holding their child. Why had he not noticed the bundle in her arms? Ah...right. Long day at church. He really needed to pray more, if the Lord decided to refuse him strength. Returning tired to his family was a disservice to both Him and them. It was a... ''I have a son,'' Constantin said, holding his cross tight. It had begun thrashing like a serpent, and for some reason, the movement chilled him to the bone. ''But no wife. I have never been married, and will never be.'' In the real world, Constantin''s cross-a large one, depicting Christ crowned with thorns-had begun not only thrashing, as its spiritual mirror was here, but running like wax. It scorched Constantin, making his burning surplice fuse with his blistered, scorched skin, but he never let go. The priest knew that would be the end of him. *** With unseeing eyes, Constantin found his way through his house, looking until he found the tools he needed. Then, he went outside, the door opening for him without being touched. His verger cried in relief when she saw him, but he didn''t hear her. He could not, any more than she could approach or aid him, for a gap had opened between them, like the yawning abyss between those who rested in the bosom of Abraham and those who languished in darkness, awaiting the Last Judgement. Constantin''s dogs began barking madly upon seeing their master''s disheveled state, but he couldn''t hear them, either. When he sat down, back against the side of the house, closing his eyes as his beard smoke, they began howling, pawing at the ground, biting at their leashes and chains. Good dogs, he had always known. But he had to do this alone. He couldn''t allow his focus to waver, not now. Constantin had three nails in his left hand. Two went through Jesus'' wrists, the third through his ankles. The golden figurine (gold? When had he ever worn gold, rather than copper, bronze or iron?) screamed like a dying infant, unseeing eyes bursting as pus began running down its face like blood streamed from its stigmata. He couldn''t stop here. With the hammer in his right hand, Constantin beat each nail deep within his chest. They had been the longest he had. He hoped one would pierce his heart. He needed...by God, he needed the blood...to soothe...the burns... *** His angel turned, and she was the most hideous thing he had ever seen since the end of David''s human life. Aside from the lowest ranks, no angel looked like anything a human might find physically beautiful, but that was because they were too different from normal people. But she...she looked horrible. It wasn''t just the patchy, pale skin, hanging loose in some places and straining against bloated flesh in others. It wasn''t just the immense, pockmarked nose, so long it almost covered the thin, gaping mouth filled with crooked, rotten fangs. It wasn''t even the assortment of wounds that demon had dealt her before her...disappearance. It was the eyes. There was a wicked glee in them, visible despite the cataracts. This was no joy at seeing them, or even the bliss all angels felt due to their bond with God. She knew seeing her hurt him, and revelled in that. And the child. ''Our son,'' she insisted, walking towards him, holding the bundle of white wrappings out. There was nothing that marked her as a woman, besides the voice, its musicality making her ugliness all the viler. Angels were genderless, spiritual beings, but even they took on certain traits when wearing physical forms. She had no breasts, no... Constantin had stopped weeping black blood when he had first glimpsed her, something that had gladdened his soul, making him think, for an instant, that maybe his angels had indeed returned, to stay. Now, as he looked down and saw the infant''s face, his tears returned, thin and crimson. The boy was just as monstrous as his mother. The mouth was too large for the head, the nose too small, almost lost between eyes far, far too old for a newborn. His gums were free of teeth, but something crawled underneath them, making them bulge, blood white as milk-or was that pus?-running into the child''s mouth. But, where he should have choked, by all rights, he instead laughed. The boy''s head was bald, save for a few grey whisps of hair, but, as the wrappings began to fell away, in a manner that reminded Constantin of a butterfly emerging from its cocoon rather than a child being revealed, he saw, first, a beard, brown and bristling, reaching down to the groin. The child-thing had no navel, Constantin saw. No belly button, because why would a being that had not been born need one? And between its legs...it was not just a hermaphrodite. Something shapeless squirmed between its human genitals, both male and female, like the things under its gums, but far bigger. Constantin did not know what it was. He only knew that it wanted out. ''Our Nephilim,'' the woman whispered cheerfully, crooning over the thing in her arms, even as her spawn gripped her chest, beginning to twist and tear, chunks of flesh disappearing through its skin. It grew with each one, until it was too large to hold, larger than its mother. It never stopped looking like a child, though. ''Born of your faith, and my love.'' Constantin looked away as the thing''s shadow fell over him. It tried to touch him, reaching out for the man it thought of as its father, but white fire burst into existence, scorching its skin and revealing the formless, maggot-like tumours intertwined with its hollow flesh. His Lord was with him, and His message was clear: this was what his foolish, youthful zeal would have led to, if he had tried to force his angel to remain on Earth and love him. It was fine. It was...nothing. He had his son, and his Father, even here. He would not give in to the lie, and let this thing take him. ''You think God does not know this?'' her tone was pitying as she climbed atop the head of her beastly child. ''Does not want this? Does He not know and love all?'' As she spoke, the earth and sky fell away, revealing what Constantin had expected since the beginning-and worse. Everyone he had ever failed in his life, thousands upon thousands of battered, crushed and burned corpses. Mages, weres, vampires...strigoi. All of them, bearing the marks of the death he had brought, made even more wretched by the same evil that had twisted the image of his angel. Mismatched limbs, grins so wide skin tore under endlessly-crying eyes, hunched backs. And they all spoke and screamed and laughed and jeered, mocked him for failing to deliver salvation in the harshest voice he had ever been chastised by: his own. Some of the monsters were still alive, mockeries of Suzana and Angus, of Rebeca...they all squirmed at his feet like a tide of worms, trying to drag him down, ripping chunks out of his legs'' flesh and bones. They weren''t trying to hurt him. Not just that. They wanted him to kneel. Above, a shattered mirror of Heaven shone. Angels, as vengeful as monstrous as any sinner''s nightmare, amalgamations of feathers, eyes and tendrils, like abominable, giant worms. And, in the centre of it all, an old man of a throne of marble. He was the only thing in this carnival of horror that looked remotely human. But his beard, his mouth, his eyes...they were the same as the freakish child''s, except white as snow. ''Constantin,'' he said, extending a hand. ''Come to me. Let the pain end. You love your neighbour as you love thyself, and I know you would not le yourself suffer senselessly.'' Constantin almost replied, then felt two slim arms wrap around him from behind. He recognised the smell, the voice, so full of kindness and love, and failing to hide the growing despair underneath. ''Hey, daddy?'' David asked. ''Think they''ll buy a story about this, if I write it?'' *** The meeting began, expectedly, with a disaster. Unexpectedly, none of the participants were responsible. Reality tore, not just here and now, but in every place and moment that corresponded to this in an infinity of universes, despite the different layouts and timelines, or lack thereof, and monsters began climbing through. Their centres of mass were amorphous, sometimes cylindrical, sometimes conical when they didn''t take on impossible shapes, round squares and thirteen-cornered spheres. All colours and none raced across the surface of their forms, and limbs rose and dangled from their cores, tendrils that ended in grasping hands and square feet, gasping mouths and microscopic needle teeth. They moved with no regard to time and space, and everything was static in their infinitely quick perception. Wherever they emerged, a galaxy, or an area the size of one, was transformed by their presence into the same chaos they were made of, reality simply ending. Then, they were pushed back. The Xhalkians were masters of time and space, thus of themselves, and all they contained. In all but their native universe, the incorporeal aliens reached out, turning unreality into reality. Time flooded into timeless chaos and space appeared to give it bounds. The invaders screamed at the pushback, and each cry shook an universe with the power to warp it into a reflection of their home. With a ponderous, infinitely-fast thought, the Xhalkhians silenced the un-sounds, and turned the eldritch beings into inert matter, harmless lumps of soil, drops of water, puffs of hydrogen or flashes of light. There had been nothing to convert, and yet... The Vyzhaldi were, naturally, less subtle. They simply squared up with the beings, powering through strikes and slashes that would have destroyed realities, which began too feeble to harm them after healing, grabbing them where there was nothing to grip, and began ripping them apart, leaving the ideas of wounds that no amount of healing or reality warping would heal. A group of invaders pooled their rage and power, feeding on each other, and unleashed a beam of swirling madness at Mother Wound. A trillion trillion universes would have been reduced to less than nothing, but the First Vyzhaldi strode through the attack like an elephant through a patch of reeds, utterly unharmed. A swipe of her arm sent the eldritch gathering flying out of the universe, then the multiverse''s fourth layer and beyond. They did not stop until a Voidmaw spotted them, and were soon devoured by a monster greater than them. The Multitude of Minds'' representative bent forward, acknowledging the esoteric assault, then dismissing it as blunt and weak besides. The invaders roared at the derision, and quadrillions of quadrillions of beings across reality fell down, organs bursting and minds shattered, or bent out of shape, beyond catatonia and insanity. A telepathic pulse silenced the monsters, and telekinesis followed, crumpling them into a twitching ball. The alien''s mind then flashed across the universe, reverting the mental damage and beginning to mend bodies. The Argument Engine laughed in featureless faces as toothed, clawed limbs smashed fruitlessly against it and Gerald. The mage''s first thought upon seeing the breaches in reality had been to declare the invaders could not destroy his universe just because they were thoughtless when exercising their strength, which any of the trillions of strikes dealt up to this point would have. ''You lot can''t exist here! Only we''ve seen you, and even then, we perceive you differently! What can you dickbags base your existence on, huh? Seems unlikely to me in the first place!'' And, though they had no history, for they were outside time, the greater part of them ceased, disappearing out of both reality and unreality, having never been. Gerald silently thanked his colleague. "You cannot enter our reality." He said, pushing the ones making their way in back inside their realm. There was an infinity of them, in an endless, timeless realm. The Shaper immediately saw how they could be harnessed. With the same thirst for knowledge and-it would not be wrong to say-power as the first humans who had set out to set, the Shaper sent a yoctomachine into the Unrealm. There was no matter here. No energy. No distance, no duration or separation of events, for they were not caused by others, nor did they cause others. It all existed at once, in an impossible, eternal jumble that made the Shaper wonder if they were, in any matter, related to the Sleeper. The Unbeings took notice of this intrusion immediately. They were all simultaneously smaller than a quark and bigger than any galaxy, lighter than a feather and heavier than all the matter in existence together. They poured their power and false minds into unmaking the yoctomachine, making it something like them, and failed. They had tried to attack the Shaper, break its control over its creations. That could not be done by such overgrown pests. It controlled every citizen, construct and machine of the Collective at once, yes...but that was not its full, constantly-growing capacity. Not even close. And, though an infinity of minds, each able to dominate and make a puppet out of all mundane beings in the Shaper''s universe, tried its might against its, they failed. Behind the yoctomachine, the gap widened as Mocker stepped into the Unrealm, protected by its Warscale. At the Shaper''s suggestion, it unleashed all manner of destruction upon the Unbeings, to test them. Octillion-degree plasma beams that would have split galaxies in half, naked singularities shaped into projectiles by gravity fields (thunderbolt action rifles, Mocker thought, would be a fitting name for the weapons. It referenced human astronomy and military history at the same time), conversion beams, neutron stars moving at lightspeed. None of them had any effect on the Unbeings. Good, the Shaper told itself with glee. Sturdy. Then, it activated its quantum entanglers, and threw them at the eldritch creatures like chains. Their powers would be useless against them, especially here, in their realm, but the Shaper would find use for them later. Instead, it activated the yoctomachine''s rationalisers, and the Unrealm fell apart, unable to survive in the field of enforced logic projected from the devices. The Unbeings rampaged in the nothingness their home had become, now an utter void, as opposed to something devoid of logic, and the Shaper almost chuckled, despite itself. Such power-hungry vermin, able to casually doom countless lives to an eternity of unreason, and yet so easily offended... Subspace projectors flared to life, enclosing each Unbeing into an universe-sized pocket of artificial reality. Had they been mere imitaions of the cosmos, the creatures'' destructive presence would have unmade them in an instant, let alone their power. As it was, reality created and enforced by the Collective''s science easily kept them contained, ready to be studied or harvested. They wouldn''t even have to enlarge the Collecitve''s pocket reality, unless they decided to let out all Unbeings at once. And even then, the reptilians'' home could alter and adjust itself. Making the Unscarred''s face smile, the Shaper turned to the Xhalkian representative. Quantum entangled with the Unbeings'' infinite, transcendental speed, its yoctomachines instantly filled the multiverse''s fourth layer. Still only one in each reality, but that was just the beginning. They even began climbing up and down through the dimensions, ignoring the barriers that made lower realms fictional in the eyes of higher ones'' inhabitants due to the Unbeings'' timeless, eldritch nature. Soon, the multiverse entire spun in the eye of the Shaper''s mind. And beyond... ''You have infinite resources now,'' the Xhalkhian said in a weary tone. ''Infinite worlds to dissect and study, all because the brazen risk you took paid out-you couldn''t have known the extent of what you leapt into. Do you still want more?'' The Unscarred''s smile wilted. ''We are not cruel. We do not want to crush and plunder. Just protect, as we have done on Earth for eons. You are one with creation-surely you can tell?'' In response, the Xhalkhian dropped its defensive posture, and gestured at the Unscarred. The Shaper understood, and sent a quantum link towards the- Space. Time. Order. Balance. Cosmos. Tellurian. Not a species-not anymore. Not masters of spacetime, but its limbs and minds, its essence. Even in the infinite voids where all they ruled over were dreams and fables, and the Ultimate Void that enclosed them all, the Idea of Ordered Reality stood, undaunted and mighty- ''We see...'' the Shaper said, stunned, unsure if it understood, too. "We..." it shook of its daze. ''Will discuss this later, if it pleases you. Now...back to business.'' It allowed a shadow of its smile to return as it looked at the telepathic alien. ''We have your lost explorer. As you understand, it was warped by chronokinetic means, but we restored its body and mind to its former state. I am sure you will be happy to reunite, and discuss what followed your aethernautical experiment-with the rest of us, perhaps?'' As it spoke, the Shaper reached into another subspace pocket, feeling Grey One tiredly but expectantly stiff in response. It opened the space, briefly reminded of those whimsical lagomorph tricks human stage magicians often played, and grasped the telepath in the Unscarred''s hand. The albino held its fist before it, then opened it, bowing. Silence. It was the telepath who spoke first, body shining with confusion and the beginning of anger. ''Zhayvin Shaper...'' it thought, bending towards the giant reptilian''s empty hand. ''Surely this is a joke?'' Interlude: Order and orders Tao Cluster, before time and timelessness Before the beginning, there is neither everything nor nothing. This is the Tao, before there is anyone to notice it, or its Eternal nature. This is the Mother of Heaven and Earth unmanifest, the Way-in-stillness. It is Wuji, without ridgepole-that is, without boundary or limit. Without Ultimate. From [ ], One. Or, rather, None. The Taiji is the Supreme Ultimate, more than everything, for everything and nothing will blossom and propagate from it. It contains and transcends contradiction and duality. It is hard to say what lights the spark, so to say, of creation''s fire. In these timeless depths, prehistoric in fact rather than name, who is there to peer and contemplate. Does a Hundun appear? And if yes, is it as a World Egg? Is it as a lumpy, winged, faceless being, as innocent and dull as its is vast and solid? Does Pangu break out of it, holding the remains apart for untold millennia, until they break down, growing more numerous, while his form, in turn, falls apart to become new things? Perhaps. Perhaps not. What is certain is that, from None, comes One. From One, Two: Yin and Yang, Heaven and Earth. From Two, Three: Trinity, born of Duality. And from Three, Ten Thousand Things. Far more than ten thousand, of course. A mere myriad cannot contain everything-a lesson one who will bear that name, in future distant ages, will have to learn, lest he fall apart under the weigh of expectation. Finally, Everything. It is difficult to compare the timelines of the divine realm with that of the mundane universe, but it is generally agreed, if only to prevent bickering in the court of Heaven, that the Big Bang and the Great Inception happened, and this is often said with quotation marks, at the same time. Ying Lung''s parents stir to life at this time. They are both dragons, and, as such, their primary worry and desire is also their duty: keeping the world in order. And the world means far more than a sphere of rock drifting through space, to them. Ying rarely speaks about his parents. It is not that he dislikes them, or vice versa. The romantic in him is merely embarrassed that they, essentially, met and fell in love at work. Ying comes along not too long after. Dragons are expected to dutifully reproduce as often as possible, not that his parents need orders. Ying moves back and forth between the Tao Cluster and the mundane universe, enamoured with the first, fascinated by the latter. He watches matter swirl and boil, forming stars, nebulae, galaxies, and he finds it good. Dragons have a certain place in the celestial hierarchy, and, though no one would say it outright, Ying is practically a prince. He certainly acts like one, or so his parents jokingly tell each other. It is not that Ying is capricious, or frivolous, though he does like badgering others. Whether to keep them humble and make them think, or to see how far he can get(some grumble he simply likes annoying people), he just can''t keep his smirking mouth shut. Nevertheless, he fights against everything trying to break the balance of Heaven and Earth without complaint; in fact, he often acts for more enemies. His parents brush this off, saying he is a good son. People accept, and move on, because what else can they do? A little enthusiasm in pursuing one''s duty is no sin, even if it should, more accurately, be called ''bloodthirst''. *** Kingdom of Pure Felicity and Majestic Heavenly Lights and Ornaments, before the Reign of Jade A boy is born. A crown prince enters the world, and its balance tilts, for once, decisively in Heaven''s favour. Yudi-not yet "Lord", never mind "your Majesty"-is a good god, Ying thinks. The young dragon, still in his early billions, cannot really remember which of them is older, or if they were even born at separate times. He remembers Yudi''s birth lighting up his kingdom, but then, many beings older than Ying tell him such light is timeless, and several younger than him also, allegedly, remember it. Vaguely, like something from a dream, but they remember. A dream, indeed, Ying tells himself. Yudi seems almost too good to be true, sometimes, roaming Heaven and Hell as he does, comforting and healing the poor, the crippled, the ill, the outcasts. ''I see your scheme,'' Ying tells him one day, eyes narrowed in exaggerated seriousness. ''Don''t think I don''t. You know it''s just a matter of time until everyone sees what a failure you are and throw you to the dogs. Cozying up to the wretched so they welcome you among them, aren''t you? I get it, I get it.'' ''I don''t think you do, Ying,'' Yudi replies, ignoring the rest of the joke. ''You are a brick in the wall around them, and that is admirable-but you are apart from them. How often do you walk among the people rather than fly above them? They need more than distant guardians, you know.'' ''I don''t like walking. Wrong physique for it, and I''d rather not change that,'' Ying says, trying to brush off the discomfort. In truth, it is not just the idea of walking that disturbs him. It''s their shape-the humans''. One head, two arms, two legs they walk on. It is not that such a form is unusual, rather the opposite. Most of the gods look and move like that, if at speeds greater than mortals can still dream of, and Ying does not, cannot, accept that is coincidence. The creation of mankind in the Tao''s realm is not similar at all to the future appearance of humanity in the godless universe. There is no evolution, no slow departure from apes. Ying knows this, but he cannot remember, exactly, how it happened. Did the fleas on Pangu''s body grow into them upon his death? Were they fashioned from yellow clay by Nuwa, or by Yudi? The tale of the flaws, born from deformations made in the clay by the rain, is not hard to believe, looking at mankind. Whatever their origin, Ying is convinced humans were built in the image of older beings for a purpose. Because, if not, the world is too damned absurd for his liking. Yudi, sitting cross-legged, notices his friend''s thoughtful expression, and puts his hands on his knees, a smile spreading across his clean-shaven face. ''You have a question.'' ''Why always this form?'' Ying''s coils shift as he adjusts his position on the grass. In one of his claws, he holds a sake jug, which he looks down into as the liquid swirls, as if it holds all the answers. It doesn''t, Yudi wants to tell him. It can only make one think they have learned something or experienced a revelation, not claw enlightenment out of a drunken daze. The crown prince takes a sip from his tea jug, and Ying''s muzzle wrinkles at the dark green vapours rising from it. The stuff smells at bad as it tastes while sticking to your throat. Yudi tells him he drinks it because it helps him focus, which can only make Ying conclude his friend hates himself. ''My teacher,'' Yuanshi Tianzun. ''Once sat me down and asked me "Yu-huang, do you know what you are"?'' '' "Listening to you"?'' Ying tries. Yudi huffs. ''It was a rhetorical question, not an invitation to joke. He told me the five-pointed shape is beloved of Heaven, and those blessed with it find it the easiest to cultivate their chi. Perhaps as compensation for often being born weak and clumsy, I told myself. Conversely, there are many mighty beasts that, while strong from birth to death, cannot grasp chi, which slips away from them like smoke between fingers. That is because, the less in common one''s shape has with the five-pointed one, the less favoured they are by the Tao when it comes to cultivation...'' Yudi trails off at Ying''s poleaxed expression, expecting something stupid or outrageous, most likely both. Must''ve been his phrasing, he swears. Or, more truthfully, the Jade Pure One''s. ''The Way is speciesist?'' The dragon does not disappoint. ''Don''t be absurd, Ying. It''s all about balance. One cannot be naturally mighty and inclined towards cultivation, else where would we all be?'' ''Exactly where we are? Or don''t you count yourself?'' ''It is not the same thing. I am the incarnation of Tian, and such a lofty nature is counterbalanced by responsibilities, expectations...'' Yudi sighs, closing his burden to keep the tears from falling. ''And more burdens besides. My father has passed.'' ''What?'' Ying uncoils, alarmed. This disturbance in the world is like a flood of ice water covering him. ''Did-'' ''You did not jinx it, my friend,'' Yudi promises, undoing his topknot and allowing his dark hair to cover half his face and shadow the rest. ''It had to happen, or I would have prevented it. No son desires to become head of his household with all his heart, no matter how ambitious.'' As the former prince stands up, Ying floats to his side, unsure for the first time in eons. ''Is there anything I can do?'' ''Many things.'' Yudi smiles, taking the dragon''s hands into his. ''But, for now? Go to your father. Tell him that you love him. Stay home, rest. I''ll soon have need of you.'' Ying''s face says it all. He and Houjiao Lung do not dislike each other, but neither dragon is particularly open or sentimental, even with family. ''What will you do?'' ''Take my throne,'' Yudi answers. ''The world does not stop just because your father is dead-it never has, for anyone. Why should it for me?'' *** Years pass, then ages. Yudi becomes the Jade Emperor, the Heavenly Grandfather. He puts his realm in order, makes sure no one wants for anything, so they can find their own happiness. Then, to his ministers'' unsurprised dismay, he leaves to cultivate in a cave, on the Bright and Fragrant Cliff. It is not that Heaven will literally fall apart if the Jade Emperor is away. It will not even fall apart metaphorically; that is the very point of the Celestial Bureaucracy. The Emperor might be the pillar that holds everything together, but his people can manage their affairs without him. And, besides the bureaucrats, who do it half-heartedly, no one can blame the Emperor for his absence. It is not like he is running off to drink or whore or gamble. Cultivation makes one stronger, wiser, more patient. It is all for their good, they know. As such, they tell themselves it will all be alright, and hope nothing will happen. No one is surprised when it does. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. The Jade Emperor''s absence is noticed and felt across Heaven, Earth and Hell. An evil deity, whose name is erased from history, just like its identity, rises and rallies an army to conquer Heaven. The justifications are lost, too, as a consequence, only remembered by some of the war''s veterans. The conflict rages for what feels like forever, for the evil deity is not just ambitious, but patient: it is a cultivator, too, and it has cultivated for nine billion years. Almost as long as the Jade Emperor, in fact, due to which it believes it can defeat and dethrone him. Only almost, though. It is during the war that Ying meets Tongdao. The blue dragon is beautiful, he thinks, especially while slaughtering demons, their ichor staining her overlapping scales, dripping from her white whiskers and bared fangs. She loves battle, or rather justified carnage. She is defending her home from invaders, despoilers who have not been provoked in any way. Why should she not enjoy putting them down? Ying is smitten, even though he lacks her bloodlust. One night, during a lull in a fight, Ying muses that perhaps Tongdao delights in battle for more reasons than patriotic outrage. Her name means passage, and, though Ying chooses to assume it refers to the passage of time, or perhaps that of of water over stones, like her scales over her muscle, he also knows some people interpret it as "hole". Tongdao is a passionate dragon, and not just in battle. Ying has the tact not to comment. His own name, depending how it is written, means answer, echo, or promise. An answer to both the dangers menacing Heaven, and to the question about hatchlings posed to his parents. An echo of them. A promise that they will always love each other. It also means acceptance, or to cope with something, though Ying will only think about such things later, when the need is staring him in the face with bloody, empty eyes. Now, Ying is more concerned with surviving enough to release the chi he has been building up. The evil deity has struck him with a shapeshifting weapon, and it burns like something out of the Hell of Sawing, of Molten Copper, wrapping around his heart and lungs, tearing through his guts like a spiteful snake. Tongdao is floating over him, holding back the creature with desperate strength and curses, even as she is repeatedly torn apart herself. The evil deity has come prepared. It knows dragons cannot be hurt by anything other than infernal means, that anything earthly or divine will either do nothing or heal and empower them, respectively. Even the infernal is no guaranteed kill: they can still heal, and even if their bodies, minds and spirits are completely destroyed, their truest selves, which cast the ones in Heaven like fire casts shadows, can choose to reunite with the Tao, or return from it to the world. Many have. The pain has driven them to give up. Mostly younger dragons who have never been challenged before this, hatchlings in their early billions, or old ones who no longer see a point. Cowards of two different stripes, Ying thinks morosely, too mentally tired to muster any hatred. The chi is fighting against him, almost twisted out of his metaphysical grip by the power of the same weapon ruining his body. It is the six hundred millionth year of the war. Where is Yudi? Tongdao falls to the blasted ground, grunting, pinned by a bronze centipede-like monstrosity made of spikes and serrated blades. It''s coiled around her spine, constricting it, biting through her tongue and skull to pierce her brain and eyes. With a scream so full of frustration it almost drowns out his anger, Ying releases the chi. It is predictably pathetic. Half of it fades into nothing, returning to the Tao. The other half sputters out before it reaches the evil deity, who laughs as a quarter of the original energy washes over its purple, leathery skin and brass armour. And that moment of arrogance, which could have been spent destroying the dragons instead of mocking Ying''s failed effort, is enough. The Jade Emperor looks like a barbarian when he returns, wearing only a coarse, dark loincloth. His imperial regalia was left behind when he departed to cultivate, and even the loincloth has only been put on for modesty''s sake. The Emperor has spent nearly ten billion years pushing his body, fighting his shadows and vices, meditating, praying to the Tao, fasting. He cannot starve to death, or die of thirst, but he still feels the burden of privation, and it can be distracting when cultivating. Which is the point. The Jade Emperor fights the pretender to his throne. Earth shakes to its core, as do Heaven and Hell, boundless and bottomless as they are. In the end, he wins due to benevolence, rather than might: something the evil deity cannot accept and live with itself. *** ''I''m lucky I''m not friends with a bartender,'' Ying starts, sitting down across from the Jade Emperor. ''Or I''d never be able to guess your moods.'' ''Hmm?'' Yudi''s face is pensive, but carefree, as always. Ying can neither guess nor sense his emotions as he looks down at Earth, elbows on the table. ''Mixing your drinks...'' Ying gestures at the flasks. Sake, wine, rice and peach, and that loathsome tea. ''The fourth is not like the others.'' ''Being relaxed does not mean being distracted,'' the Emperor says in that sagely voice that makes Ying want to grab his beard and give him a good shake. However, they are in one of the palace gardens, and there are people around. One does not simply ragdoll their ruler in public, no matter how cringeworthy the proverbs they are making up sound. ''Your girl is not going to stop,'' Ying advises him, cutting to the meat of the matter. Yudi''s...daughter? Seamstress? It''s all muddled, jumbled together...he loves her like his own child, though, and that is all Ying needs to know. Yudi scoffs. ''She''s not going to stop what? "Loving" him? That man essentially kidnapped her. Blackmailed her! She can''t return home, so of course they "married"...'' ''Oh, I''m not sure...'' The dragon''s voice is sly, his eyes half-lidded. ''You know what they say about cowherds...'' ''Ying, shut up.'' ''Aye,'' Ying laughs. ''Surely you can see it''s romantic?'' ''Kidnapping is not-'' Yudi frowns. ''Since when do you know or care so much about love?'' Ying smiles dopily, making Yudi reach for the peach wine flask. It is made by himself, the activity as relaxing as the consumption, which is exactly what he needs right now. ''You know how spouses and parents advise everyone about marriage and child-rearing? Well...'' Ying trails off, but appears dumbfounded when Yudi does not pick up whatever he expected him to. ''You have a lover, Ying?'' ''Tongdao...haven''t you seen? I''m always talking about...'' ''Oh,'' Yudi manages not to wince. ''Isn''t she always telling you she''s glad for the gifts, but love can''t be bought or bribed?'' Ying waves a dismissive paw. ''She''s just playing hard to get. We saved each other, we can''t not be together!'' ''Such can easily lead to friendship, and nothing more.'' ''Pah! You don''t know what you''re talking about. She''s always smiling around me, and brooding when I''m away. What does that tell you?'' ''How do you even know that?'' "From following her...? Do keep up, please. She obviously loves me. She just doesn''t know yet.'' Yudi goes for the sake now. It is a gift from Izanagi''s girl, probably to keep it away from her blustering brother rather than out of kindness, but he appreciates it. ''I see. Has she said anything...?'' ''She''s shy.'' Yudi isn''t sure whether Ying is exasperated at him or the female dragon. ''I give her whatever she needs or asks for-sometimes, she doesn''t even need to ask. I help her with her duties. We spar. How could she not love me?'' ''But have you talked about your feelings?'' ''Actions speak louder than words.'' Ying sounds so confident Yudi feels the need to rub his brow. ''My friend,'' how to best break this to him? ''I think she''s leading you on.'' ''...What did you say?'' ''Or maybe she''s too scared to tell you off. You seem to make her uncomfortable.'' Ying''s smile is ugly. ''And I''m supposed to take your "advice" because...? You can''t even keep your woman away from a mortal! I''m surprised Heaven isn''t falling apart around you.'' Yudi''s face hardens. ''Ying. As your friend, I suggest you ask Tongdao what is in her heart. Your derision does not hurt, but only because my mind is on other matters.'' The Jade Emperors gathers the flasks, stands up, and walks away. Lately, his friend has been as bad as that lecher who has replaced Cronos. Not that power-mongering and paranoia are more charming with lust added to the mix, but at least the Titan was never so insufferable during meetings. When Zhuni, his star, finally convinces her husband-the thought makes his teeth grind-to let her return home, Yudi creates the Milky Way, the Celestial River, to separate them. But, as time passes, his heart softens seeing Zhuni gaze down at Earth, weeping quietly. He allows her and Niu Lang to meet once a year, across a bridge. He still resents how this love came to be, but...perhaps purity can grow out of lust? Maybe there is still hope for his friend to come to his senses... *** Yudi''s face is cold and blank as stone as he looms over Ying. The dragon looks shocked, rather than guilty. Disbelieving. Surprised at himself, maybe: that he has gone so far. He is not looking at the Jade Emperor. His eyes are glued to the corpses. Yudi walks forward, no longer looming, and stoops down, tracing their wounds. The man was dismembered and beheaded, before having his skull pushed into the stump until it shattered, its remains tangled in the torn chest. Tongdao is still in human form, golden eyes glazed over and staring at her lover. Even in death, she does not spare Ying a glance. ''You''re a murderer,'' Yudi says, voice flat. He sounds like he is trying to remind himself it is true. A deep breath hisses through his teeth. ''You are lucky I''m the one who found you first. Anyone else would have tried to kill you by now.'' ''I wouldn''t die as easily as her,'' Ying says in a distant voice. His first words since Yudi''s arrival to the remains of this cottage. The dragon''s black iron gauntlets are covered in a layer of thick, weakly-shining ichor, still dripping from the spiked knuckles. "''he didn''t get up after the first strike. Like she wanted to die.'' ''So you didn''t ask? You didn''t even ask?'' Ying flinches at the coldness, looking like he has been slapped. ''No, I did. She only answered after I was done with the little bastard...'' Tongues of white flame flicker out between his fangs. ''She cheated on me, Yudi. Look what she made me d-'' Ying reels back from the backhanded blow, glaring at the brass hammer in the Jade Emperor''s hand, dully glowing with infernal energies. ''Why?'' ''The whore had been seeing the bastard between my back the whole time. This whole time, Yudi! Since the end of the damn war! I was following her around like a fool, and she...'' He breaks off into a ragged bark of a laugh. ''Do you know what she told me, before she gave up?'' "Gave up". Not "died". Even after this, Ying chooses to disparage...? Yudi shakes his head. ''She told me that being helpful isn''t enough. "Not like I asked. Why do you act like we are indebted to each other?''. Ungrateful...'' he growls. ''And then this little bastard comes along. Human, not that you can''t tell. No powers, no wisdom, not even wealth. "But he asks about my feelings, Ying",'' the dragon pitches his voice a little higher. ''He loves me. And he''s so caring...'' Ying''s eyes swivel wildly in his head, like he wants to roll them and look around, as if the corpses might return to life at any moment, at the same time. ''This was no relationship, Yudi. That implies equality between partners. This human was weaker than her, stupider, with the life of a mayfly. Like raising a child, or an animal...if I bought a cow and fed it, would it mean we''re in love?'' He coils and uncoils uneasily. ''It should have been me.'' The horizon is darkening, a rumble filling and shaking the air. They are approaching. ''Did you ever think to reach out to her like he did?'' Yudi dislikes the fact that he does not know the man''s name, and he doubts Ying asked. How long has he been ruling over...strangers? The dragon does not answer. He does not need to. Yudi sighs. ''You will be judged. Think about death, imprisonment, exile. It is best that one ponders before they experience. Then choose.'' He looks down at the bodies. ''I will incinerate them. Stand still, and let me be.'' *** This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Ying walks the blazing wasteland that is Earth, peering through filth and dust to gaze at the cold void beyond. His arrival, following the exile he has chosen, truly puts in perspective the difference between the Clusters and the mundane universe, where time flows by its own accord, strange as the idea is. Furthermore, this world, unlike the flourishing Earth he is familiar with, is empty, even though, according to Ying''s calculations and glances across the timestream, it should be verdant. Well. It is empty of life, at least. Otherworlders-aliens, as they will come to be called-have visited Earth in the time between its formation and Ying''s banishment, building their megalithic structures under the moonless world''s skin, delving where future seas will rise, building artificial realities and uncanny mockeries of life through artifice and techno-alchemy. Some of them are defenders, bound by Treaty, others observers. Others yet are exploiters, invaders, like the master of the impossibly-angled city that is ever-distant from the surrounding world. In Ying''s eyes, they are all squatters, not inhabitants. He is here to repent; what is their excuse? Their very presence scratches at his sense of order, even though they are hidden in infinitely-distant pocket realities. Unearthly. He immediately grabs the tea jug hanging from his neck by a rope, taking a sip to concentrate. It is never away from him, nowadays. He should''ve listened to Yudi earlier...but then, there are many things he should have done. And more he shouldn''t have, he thinks, taking a drag from his pipe. Tongdao''s ashes will never run out, and every breath brings tears that have nothing to do with the smoke to his eyes. He can feel her disapproval, occasionally superseded by her pity. But not hatred. Never hatred. Never love for him, either, which Ying is quietly thankful for. Yudi warned him, before the banishment, that people who observe his habits will think him a drunkard and an addict. Ying does not mind. This lie, like most, is far kinder than the truth. ''Oh,'' a light, curious voice draws his attention. ''That''s unexpected.'' The kitsune should not be here. The golden fur alone is a dead giveaway, but her many, many tails mean she should have ascended to Heaven as a tenko long ago. ''Ah,'' Ying manages a tepid smile. ''The rebel. You''re shorter than I expected.'' The fox sits on her hind legs, crossing her forelegs as if they are human arms. ''And you''re as big a jackass as I expected.'' Her tails form a defensive sphere around her, but leave enough space for her to gaze at him with golden eyes. ''Weird. Don''t you waste broads who upset you?'' The phrasing is strange, suggesting she likes taking sneak peeks at the future. Ying slumps to the ground, trying to look as harmless as possible. ''No,'' he promises. ''Never again.'' The kitsune goes to all fours, seemingly surprised. ''So, why are you here? Can''t be the view.'' ''I''d ask you the same thing, but I''m not on the run from the gods.'' Puff. Puff. Why, Ying? ''I chose exile over death or whatever Hell they''d have thrown me into. I can still do good, provided I can keep my stupid head straight.'' ''I''m not "on the run" from shit.'' The fox glares at him, tugging on a whisker. Her muzzle curves into a smug, pleased grin. ''I was too tough to take care of, so they charged me to hunt other troublemakers.'' ''Set a fox to catch bitches?'' ''You bet your long ass,'' she huffs, then pushes her chest out. ''Well,'' she says archly. ''If you''re here to do community service, you might as well make yourself useful until something comes along.'' She hops onto his back, sitting like a human on a horse, grasping his moustache like reins. ''Come on. Fly!'' ''If you wanted to ride me, you could''ve just asked...'' ''I''m not that lonely yet.'' *** The years pass, turning into decades, centuries. He and the kitsune form, if not a friendship, then certainly a good working relationship. They are both supernatural creatures with too much tome on their hands and more power than they know what to do with. ''Reckon they''ll come here?'' she asks one day-so to speak. There is no moon yet, so they are both going by their instincts and senses-while they are on their backs, gazing at the sky. ''Nah.'' Ying points a clawed finger at Phaeton, then draws a line to Mars. ''Their engines don''t pack that much punch. Don''t be fooled by-'' The soon-to-be Martians blast off, vapourising most of the sixth planet and scattering the remaining debris. One of their rockets smashes into Theia, sending it careening into Earth. The kitsune hums, seeing it approach. ''Let it happen,'' Ying grouses before she can get any harebrained ideas. ''One moon is better than no moons. I want tides, dammit.'' ''You just wanna get me into water.'' ''Yeah, the smell of wet dog gets me so hard...'' ''Who said I''d be looking like this?'' she rolls on top of him, shifting shape as she moves, and he reciprocates. She has told him his human form looks sleazy ("it''s the ''stache"), but she doesn''t mind. And Ying certainly doesn''t mind the woman looking down at him, fox ears poking out of long golden hair. She''s small, barely over a metre forty, but the ferocity in her smile, in her posture, more than makes up for it-to say nothing of the power coursing through her. The dragon knows they shouldn''t, that it''s just stupid, animalistic lust, made only slightly less ridiculous by the fact they have shed their true forms. However, she has just finished hunting a yako able to make anything false real, and Ying has stopped a Shoggoth rampage, or outbreak, and he can still taste the slimy, blubbery construct flesh. He needs another meal to cleanse his palate, and besides, he is learning the beauty of the human form. Maybe he can finally see why it''s so damn favoured by the Tao. He tells himself that it''s just one time. Their pantheons are rivals, even if they are outcasts. This is just a moment of passion, a way to let off steam. They''ll never do this again. (They do). *** Eventually, Ying and the kitsune, who chooses to remain stubbornly nameless ''until the right time'', grow comfortable enough with each other to complain about their lives. Well, Ying complains. She listens, and gives advice and commentary, whether requested or not. At the moment, Ying is telling her about this Atlantean prostitute who ripped him off, demanding compensation for ''bad sex''. Worse, she got pregnant, and he''s sure the child will grow up to love water, and probably be a jackass too. ''Ying,'' the one who will be named Yua says. ''That has nothing to do with who the mother is.'' Ying grumbles, as he does, but cannot deny her. Nevertheless, he cannot pass the chance to get petty revenge either. His memory is almost as long as his petty streak, so, roughly sixteen thousand years later, it just happens that a little boy, born of parents who couldn''t stop harming themselves and others unless restrained, but who still managed to reproduce, hears his grandmother''s civilian phone ping. ''Grandma,'' Ritsu stares at the screen, puzzled. ''Who''s "Baaaaaad dragon"?'' Yua hides her embarrassment by concentrating on how much her grandson''s confused face resembles those of her children. Some blood just did not mix... Before she can answer, a reply follows Ying''s "Hi, goldie". ''The guy who''s slept with your grandma more times than your pops has ''. Ritsu, who''s been thoroughly desensitised to things like this, is more surprised by the new participant to the conversation, who seemingly invites himself. ''You also happen to be a hundred million times my age''. Yua briefly neglects her human fa?ade to chuff at the message. ''Kenji, what are you doing in this conversation? How are you doing this, actually?'' ''Typing? Well, you see, it is this arcane process that consists of tapping on...'' As the two banter, Ritsu notices another message from the dragon, this one addressed to him. ''Marriage. Am I right, R?'' *** The first thing Vyrt remembers is light. Viewed with entirely material eyes, the light is without source or colour, though not devoid of warmth. Vyrt''s eyes, however, are sharper than that, since birth. As soon as his mother delivers, helped and soothed by his father, the angel whisks his son away, stepping out of time and space like a man leaving a corridor behind to enter a room. He is excited, truly excited, in a way that belies his age as counted by time-bound beings, much less his timeless nature. ''Isn''t he beautiful, father?'' Samael smiles down at the winged newborn in his arms, and Vyrt manages to distinguish the glimmer of warm pride from the ivory glow of his eyes. ''Flesh of her flesh, mind of my mind, spirit of Your spirit.'' ''INDEED, SON. ONE COULD BE FORGIVEN FOR NOT BELIEVING THE MOTHER IS OF THE MEN BEFORE.'' The Lord refers to Vyrt''s features, which are not at all similar to his mother''s blocky, apelike visage. Rather, his face is like those of the Last Men will be, hundreds of millennia in the future. But this is nearly a million years before the descent of the Lamb. The Nephilim is ahead of his time. Vyrt does not wonder whether he entered the world looking like this, or whether his father reshaped him to look more elegant for unknown reasons. The second seems unlikely: Samael openly acknowledges that Vyrt''s mother is physically ugly, but is touched by the beauty of her innocent spirit. Therefore, he cannot care that much about aspect. The first seems equally implausible. Vyrt has been aware of everything around and before him since his father''s seed took root in his mother''s womb. He cannot remember ever looking different, however, which also rules out the possibility of alteration. ''You can''t be changed, son,'' Samael tells him, extending a finger for Vyrt to grab with chubby hands. ''Physically, mentally, spiritually, conceptually. We are eternal, you and I, as are my siblings and father.'' The light...the light that is the Lord, torch and prism both, and the lights of his uncles and aunts. They look nigh-identical, as they well should, but Vyrt can hear their different natures as they flow through Heaven, smell them, feel them upon his skin. ''YOU WANTED TO SHOW US YOUR SON.'' Samael nods, looking at Vyrt rather than his father. ''He will be shown the realms, as he must be. I wanted to start with home.'' Samael does not dawdle in Heaven, for that has never been his nature. He does, however, speak to Vyrt of how the Kingdom of God came to be. Of how He vanquished many enemies, like Rahab and Tannit, who opposed the idea of His creations for their own selfish, stupid reasons. Of the Tehom, split by the Firmament it now runs over and under. Of how Heaven was beautiful but empty at first, and how he, Samael, led the Heavenly Hosts into building the Kingdom, ordering its contents, raising the gates. He does not boast of himself, nor deride his followers. There is only pride for his siblings'' prowess and efforts, and the fact that, together, they managed to do a good thing. He does praise God, but that is only to be expected: Samael is a seraph, after all, and the fact he does not break into theit thrice-holy saint whenever he opens his mouth makes him quite unique among his kind, something he notes with what he sees as nothing more than due diligence. Vyrt wonders if this was how the rot set in, but rarely, and never for long. This is one of the most beautiful memories he has of his father, and he does not wish to defile it. After that, he is taken back to Earth, returned to his mother''s brawny, loving arms. The woman''s square-toothed smile is so honest Vyrt cannot help but return it. His mother is someone to be cherished, though he doubts he will ever sing her praises like his father does. Not that there is anything wrong with that, he reminds himself. Filial love is different from that between spouses, by definition. Samael does not linger on Earth, either, not on this blue and green rock adrift across an uncaring universe. He does not remain with his...wife? Certainly not. "Mate" is too animalistic, though not far from the truth, either. Samel, who is recalled home by duty, to keep the fires burning and push the waters back, does not remain with the mother of his child. Though, before he lives, he runs a hand through her shock of red hair, whispering a promise to always watch and protect. He also teaches Vyrt to always love his grandfather, mother and tribe; especially the latter, who will be frightened by his growth and appearance. ''They might try to hurt and kill you, or shun you once they realise they can''t,'' his father tells him, cupping Vyrt''s face with an amused expression. ''In either case, they cannot hurt you, except emotionally, if you allow them. Don''t.'' The seraph depart, and Vyrt grows in a day as the other children in an year. In less than a month, he is taller and more handsome than any of the spooked men of the tribe, and far more powerful and intelligent. His growth does not stop here. His wings, which had some of the hunters set on him with fists and rocks, despite his mother''s screamed protest, stretch as he rises, the feathers growing thicker and richer every day. Vyrt reaches his natural height of a hundred-forty metres in no time, though he makes sure not to allow his full weight to impact the world unless necessary. Each drop of his blood outweighs most mountains by billions of tons, and Vyrt himself is several times heavier than Earth''s atmosphere, weighing tens of quadrillions of tons. The consequences of moving the wrong way could be...global. His mother laughs boisterously as she watches her strange, giant son grow older. She never stops treating him as her child, even when many siblings follow, but never live more than scant decades. His mother stops aging. One could point to Samael''s arrival as the awakening of her mana: even if the seraph didn''t trigger it directly, such a momentous event easily could have. For a few centuries, her agelessness remains her only power. This ability prevents her from being persecuted, especially when aided by the implied threat of Vyrt''s presence and Samael''s unseen aid. Eventually, the tribe begins to worship her. Vyrt watches pityingly, knowing it is hundreds of millennia too early to speak of heathens. Not yet. His role is not to play the prophet or preacher, nor will it ever be. He is a defender. And, as the shepherd culls the herd for its own good, so he is cruel out of kindness. He intervenes where the suffering brought by natural disasters and skirmishes will not aid mankind at all, but always hidden, always subtle. On all other occasions, he stands aside, seeing his people broken, out of love. (This is a family trait). Even during the Betrayal, and the War in Heaven that follows, Vyrt does not desert his post. There are things in the outer dark, cold and patient, and so hungry it hurts. He beats them back, breaks them with a staff forged by his own hands and breath within Earth''s core, and further reinforced by his power. He breaks them until the staff''s head bends out of shape, becoming a crook. Vyrt refuses to acknowledge the allusion. It is so blunt it hurts. His father, now Lucifer, returns, looking for-no one in Hell dares laugh-a shoulder to cry on. Vyrt turns his head and hardens his heart against his mother''s screams. She is not unwilling, but his father is not gentle anymore, either. Vyrt understands his frustration. He does not approve, but he- Darkness. The fallen morning star, descending and plunging forever. It is cold and lightless under Hell, and the creatures living in the shadows of torment, prowling around and cringing away from the light, are as wicked as the vilest of its inhabitants. This is the prison of Lucifer''s regrets. This is the tomb of the Enemy''s past. This is the Fall of Samael, and it is not a process, nor an event. It is a state. Arrogance? That is unfounded pride. What should he not be proud of? His foes will whisper he coveted his father''s Throne, aimed to become the Most High. Lucifer did not want to kneel. Not before Man. Why should he? The puppets of clay he and his siblings were meant to guide, his masters? His MASTERS?! It implied God thought His angels lesser than them. It implied He loved them less than...than... Damn them all. That is what he shall do. Like the accuser in a trial, he will drag out their sins and flaws into the light he casts, until God ends the farce. Why, he has already begun the process. It was so easy to make them eat the fruit, it was almost embarrassing to think these beings were meant to stand above the Hosts. This is what Lucifer tells himself. Samael merely screams. Not even in the back of his own mind, no longer trapped within himself, Samael has been ripped out and cast into the darkness of the pit made by Lucifer''s crash, to fall and fall forever, until he burns at last. Lucifer knows he cannot bear the angel he used to be, and had been pushing him out since Adam''s first breath. The birth of this Unholy Trinity-the Serpent, ascending on the wings of his ego; the Beast, born from the blood spilled during the crash, forever wrathful; and the Angel Fallen, sealed away until the end of days and after-will not be the last event of such nature. His father, Lucifer thinks, rarely imitates him, but the exceptions are oh so enjoyable. -understands. Vyrt glances down, feeling a hand on his shoulder, and meets his father''s white eyes. Lucifer is not shorter than him-depending on the observer, he would appear taller-but Vyrt cannot help looking down at his father. ''As the laws are passed,'' he says, already walking away. ''You will be compelled to travel the realms. I will not be there to hold your hand anymore. Do not overstay, but do not rush, either.'' Vyrt knows what his father means: he should not, for example, travel to Sheol before Judaism rises. But he has to mock him. ''And look both ways before crossing.'' ''...I wonder if I''ll ever hate you, son.'' *** As the millennia pass, Vyrt learns to hate certain words. "What if". "In case". "Spontaneous". "Improvised". Not that language is yet a thing for mankind, but he knows how to distinguish the grunts and mutters. "Necessity" and "necessary" are at the top of the list, not just because of how many things they are used to describe, but because of what they are used to describe. Vyrt is called upon to do many necessary things, and the taste of bile never leaves his mouth. Just as the blood never leaves his hands. Like the screams in his ears and the smell of ashes, it is always with him. God is demanding, and though Vyrt has yet to see a reason to refuse his grandfather, this does not mean he does not nurse guilt. There are tribes who turn to His enemies, and must be wiped out to the last child once demons nest themselves inside their bodies, mind and souls. There are mages, deluded or driven mad by their power, who must be put down, lest they upset the balance. There are the agents of other gods, and an eye must always be kept on them. Then there are the other Nephilim Vyrt is not the only one of his kind. He was not the first, and he is certainly not the last. The last standing, one day, maybe. But, as of now, others born where the falling angel met the rising ape carve out domains in the shadow of Atlantis, building kingdoms of grasshoppers around them. The term is, usually, affectionate, condescending in a benign way. Compared to those with angelic ichor running in their veins, humans are tiny, weak and short-lived. But Nephilim are mankind magnified, and the bonds they feel for their ancestors extend beyond their family. This fierce protective instinct even brings the Atlanteans to the negotiating table. The rulers of the flying continent do not want to deal with a confederation of nephilim kingdoms, which would not be hard to build with the way Nephilim see each other. Vyrt watches as the people under his cousins'' protection are deemed off-limits to Atlantean slavers. It is all about profit, effort and convenience. The Atlanteans want to maintain their hegemony without unnecessary headaches, which is why Vyrt does not need to say anything. Everyone knows about his tribe. His presence is enough. Atlantis has ruled the surface, underwater and underground worlds for over three billion years. Are there powers that could challenge them? Of course. But, as long as interests do not collide, they unhappily avoid each other, pretending their rivals don''t exist. One day, Vyrt is approached by one of his cousins, a queen, also born of a seraph, who rules over many thousands. The dark skin and darker hair remind him of Inanna or Aphrodite as he knows them, and she is just as beautiful as either goddess. The idea of incest, however, is just as strong a deterrent as knowing the Olympian''s moods and seeing how Ishtar''s lovers end up after she uses them up. Her eyes are the darkest of all. Not wrathful, nor hateful, but mad. It is a clean madness, without random bursts of violence or rants. The nephilim is, in fact, more controlled than most sane people Vyrt knows, including himself. Even so, she is mad. She tells him about the breeding programs she runs, about selecting and preserving the fittest tribesmen beyond what nature already does. About bringing in strong stock to breed with herself or her children. ''Inbreeding helps, in a way,'' she tells him offhandedly manner as Vyrt tries not to recoil. ''The ichor is thicker, but the minds are sharper and harsher.'' She sighs. ''It''s not the genetics, you know. It''s the metaphysics. As far as creation is concerned, we''re all cousins.'' Vyrt refuses the offer even before it is spoken. He is not interested in having children, likely never and definitely not now, and watches his cousin leave with a scornful look in her black eyes. They must look ridiculous from outside, like oversized, winged parodies of humanity, speaking in an incomprehensible tongue. Nephilim are naturally skilled Enochian speakers, being to creatures what the language is to speech, but there is no need for that between each other. They speak in Adamic, for this was long before Nimrod had raised his tower, but still no one would have understood. Vyrt turns to other matters, and tries to forget his cousin. His brother-his half-brother, technically, but true as any one could ask for-will need to be born soon, in order to bring a cousin on the path meant for him. So, Vyrt sets down his crook, folds his wings, and waits for the buzzing of flies. Beelzebub arrives with laughter, haloed like a saint of decay, and Vyrt looks away once more as he approaches his mother. The legends planted by the Nephilim in ages past, speaking of a flying god coming to sire a child upon his people''s witch-queen, mean the Lord of Flies is welcomed by awed mutterings from prostrated mortals, and his laughter grows thunderous as he takes his prophesied bride. Beelzebub is, obviously, not in love with her. He does not even lust for her. But he is greedy, and the thought of having someone who used to be Lucifer''s appeals to him, enough that he forgets about his brother and all the woman''s past lovers. Beelzebub''s seed is potent, but vile, and Vyrt''s mother keeps screaming long after the barbs scraping against her insides are removed, as she rots from within. The child growing inside her is more similar to a larva than a fetus, and she does not survive the pregnancy, which is as painful as it is short. In a matter of moments, her bloated womb collapses, and the wormlike cambion wriggles his way out of his mother''s ruined body. Vykt looks at his grinning father, then at his mother, and begins wailing. It is a strange, low sound, and he lacks eyes to weep, but Vyrt can feel tears running down his face in response. Beelzebub''s pleased grin turns into a frown as he beholds the weakness of his child, and he raises a spiked, ridged foot to kick Vykt. The Nephilim, who was shrunk to a normal human''s size before this, dashes the five metres between himself and the scene in a zeptosecond. Beelzebub''s kick is lazy, but even so, Vyrt can barely perceive it. A sextillionth of a second passes, and the foot makes contact with Vyrt''s face. An instant later, the Nephilim is sent flying with a broken nose. Supercluster after supercluster is obliterated as trillions of galaxies are unmade by his passage. Before Vyrt knows it, he has travelled to the edge of the universe. He only catches a glimpse of Beelzebub on Earth, filtered through the aether, before the Prince of Hell crosses the trillions of light years between them, his clawed hand digging furrows through Vyrt''s throat and wrapping around his spine. All before the Nephilim notices he''s moving. ''To think you''d dare...you''re lucky that damned planet is such a nuisance, or I wouldn''t have prevented its destruction.'' Beelzebub''s black tongue hangs over needle teeth. ''You look ready to cry, boy. What, did I hit you too hard?'' Vyrt cannot...no. He can believe it. This is the face of Hell. This is evil, in all its pettiness. He is not shocked. But the deed is done. Vykt lives. Which means he no longer needs to indulge his uncle. Beelzebub''s punch splits Vyrt''s skull like a rotten fruit, but the Nephilim can build himself up. By the time he heals and the demon strikes him again, his fist breaks on Vyrt''s steely eye. Beelzebub raises amused eyebrows, notices the Nephilim''s clones around them, thousands of thousands for every grain of sand on Earth, all radiating the same strength Vyrt uses to meet his third strike and punch through his arm and chest, and shakes his head. ''I could escalate too, you know.'' ''You cannot be that foolish,'' Vyrt says, and flies past his uncle with amplified speed, returning to Earth far faster than the demon left it and dismissing the clones. He knows what awaits him. Of course he knows. To a Nephilim, time is a lake, not a river, and any moment can be viewed or reached. This does not make it hurt less. Knowing never makes it hurt less, even when it is necessary. He wishes some people understood that. His mother''s body is squeezing Vykt in one fist, and the cambion is trying to escape with all his power. Were his might and mastery of decay pitted against the woman''s magic, it would''ve been no contest. But the corpse is being used by a Nephilim, worn like a found shell. ''You refused to become part of my family,'' Vyrt''s cousin says in a frigid, burbling voice, blood spilling down the body''s chin. ''But maybe you will change your mind after I take yours.'' Vyrt does not reply. He does not say anything. A moment later, Vykt is free, the body burned to ash, and his cousin thrown down into Tehom. Maybe the swim will change her mind. Vyrt will burn that bridge when he gets to it, though. Now, he just wants to lay his mother''s soul to rest. ''She was the only one who did not run from me, when I came to Earth.'' ''I know, father,'' Vyrt says hoarsely, gathering the body in his arms, then returning to his true size to cup the remains in one hand. ''When I said "Fear not!", only she listened.'' The disembodied voice is wistful. ''Find yourself a woman like that, son.'' He promises nothing. ''Will you help me burn her?'' ''...Of course I will.'' *** Vyrt might not be a father, but he raises his little brother like one. The cambion is dutiful in his training, out of thirst for more power than a love for drudgery, and he soon grows to match his brother in power. Vyrt, meanwhile, undertakes...pilgrimages. The darkness of Sheol. The fires of Gehenna, which can burn bodies, minds and souls out of existence. The waters of Tehom, which not only erase created things more thoroughly than said fires, which they could easily extinguish, but makes it so that they never existed, and remove the possibility of them doing so again along with the idea of them. None of this leaves a mark on Vyrt. The trials hurt, yes, but he is as stalwart as the Raqia itself. As millennia pass and worship grows, Vyrt toys with what he should call his faith. "Ancestor worship", like many truthful things, is derided as too simple by Vykt, who delights in mockery. One need only look at their names to see that. ''The faith undivided'' is refused as too pompous, and even Vyrt has to admit it sounds somewhat sinister, even if he has been worshipping God long before He chose different peoples as His. "Abrahanism" could work, but putting the man before God does not sit well with him. It is with such trifles that he occupies his time, in-between his travels and his duties as a defender of Earth. When Muhammad rises and Allah sends Jibril to dictate the Quran to him, Vyrt watches from afar, alongside many others, making sure nothing disrupts the making of the new faith. Centuries after, he descends into Jahannah, walks among the tormented, buried in coffins, torn apart, strung up, flayed, devoured. The angels guarding this Hell, with iron maces and pitiless eyes, are unfamiliar to Vyrt, and he does not seek their companionship. Neither is the one bearing the Earth rimmed by Mount Qaf: Vyrt feels more kinship with Kuyutha, with its tens of thousands of legs, eyes and tongues, or to Bahamut, forever swimming in the cosmic oceans and bearing the weight of Hell, Earth and Heaven. Vyrt, too, knows what it is like to feel such burdens. His kindred are fallen from divine purity, appointed overseers of the world they are prisoners in. Oh, any of them could easily leave Earth and reality itself behind-but that is not the nature of their cage. Only the most foolish of them try to escape that way. Vyrt does not ascend to Jannah. The garden is beyond his reach, and he is needed somewhere else besides. For a brief moment, however, he allows himself to gaze upwards, and see... The Realms. He-ness. First Manifestation. Absolute Unity. Allah unmanifest, incarnate, one with everything. These are the Realms of Godhood, not creation. Power, Intelligence, Physical bodies...those lie further below. Alam-e-Malakut corresponds to the Outer Void and the Archetypes therein, in Vyrt''s perception. His duty does not take him there...but he understands why they would worship. One day, Bahamut slips out of alignment, leaving its burden flailing in the eternal waters. The fish-whale is massive: its nostrils alone dwarf Earth''s combined oceans like the Arabian Desert dwarfs a grain of mustard, and said nostrils are invisible compared to its bulk. When Vyrt comes across it in the material universe, its form is comparable in size to Andromeda''s arms, and far, far heavier. It is, after all, a being of flesh, not a loose cloud of stars and nebulae. It is many millions of times heavier than Vyrt''s home galaxy, heavy enough to replace the Great Attractor that drags its Supercluster towards it. The universe shakes from its every movement. And its strength... ''Falak,'' Vyrt growls, cracked ribs healing, seeing the shadow behind, around and above the maddened Bahamut. ''I see you, serpent. You will not have this one!'' If Bahamut is enormous, Falak is truly gigantic. The cosmic fish would not even be a silver pinprick in its beady eyes, and the only reason it hasn''t followed its long-desired prey to the godless universe is because this reality is far too small to contain it. It only fears one thing, but Vyrt does not aim to defeat the monster in battle-he is not insane-nor does he need to. He only needs to restore things to their proper places, and that, he is more than capable of. Bahamut flops down onto Vyrt with the weight of twenty-eight million Milky Ways, and the Nephilim''s knees bend, but only briefly. Then, he is standing straight again, holding Bahamut still above him. The creature is not violent, despite the way it headbutted Vyrt. Merely homesick. Thank You, Lord, for making me strong enough, Vyrt thinks, then flexes his body and spirit at once, and throws Bahamut. The fish-whale flies out of reality, across the aether and back into its place, and cosmic order begins reasserting itself. In the seventh Hell beneath everything else, Falak seethes, denied its meal once more. *** Vyrt meets Ying above Greenland, and the dragon is, for once, genuinely amused rather than mocking or whimsical. Grinning at the Nephilim''s arrival, he leans back, sitting on air as if it is a chair, and bends chi to recreate the events he has been, until now, observing with his mind''s eye. Vyrt cracks a grin, despite himself, and it is not because of Ying''s anachronistic black shirt, white silk and grey scarf. ''...Is that Erlang Shen being given the runaround by a monkey?'' ''You should''ve seen him beating the rest of Heaven''s army,'' the dragon sniggers. ''They rounded up almost everyone, except for Yudi, who asked me if I didn''t want to help in exchange for a pardon.'' Ying''s face, human only if one ignores the black-slitted ivory eyes and centimetres-long fangs, morphs into a moue of affronted innocence. '' "But, my lord", I told him, "If you truly believe I would only help my former home for selfish reasons...am I really wanted there?" He ranted a bit, but I told him I don''t owe them anything. Besides, Wukong is a vandal, not a destroyer.'' '' "Whoever Heaven sends, I''m not paying taxes?" '' ''Damn straight. Doesn''t his earthly mirror kiss his arse enough? And they''ll catch him soon, anyway. Shen is as stubborn as Sun, and he has his eye. I''ve heard they even asked Laozi to fire up his furnace-the furry little bastard stacked immortalities, you see?'' Ying downs a mouthful of tea from the gourd around his neck. ''But you''re not here for foreign gossip, and don''t try to spin a yarn about just happening to be here at the same time as me.'' Ying reminds Vyrt of his uncle Michael, and occupied a similar position in his Heaven as angels do in theirs. He is far less formal, however. ''The second part is true, actually. I did sense your presence before I left Britain, but I was heading here anyway. I seek as neutral a place to ascend as possible.'' He cocks his head, watching an anatomically unlikely somersault of the Monkey King. ''Do you remember Dante? Dante Alighieri, of Florence?'' ''I remember a poet, with a big mouth and a bigger nose. What about him?'' ''Well,'' Vyrt smiles like a child with a secret. ''His work has inspired some..."renovations" is too limited. My grandfather has begun calling Himself the Love That Moves The Sun And Stars, and I think that is beautiful.'' If overwrought. ''He has inspired me, too, in fact. To travel a little. Good for the heart, or so I''ve heard.'' Yinh shrugs, continuing to watch the spectacle. ''Break a wing.'' Vyrt nods, silently thanking his acquaintance ("rival" is too strong a term to describe their relationship, and Ying, to put it delicately, can''t be arsed to compare himself with others. He is far more interested in building up his harem, trying to fill the bleeding hole in his heart with as much love as possible), and begins ascending the Tree of Life. Vyrt needs this. The motivation. A reminder of God and creation''s beauty. The crusades are a recent memory, barely lifetimes past, and further tainted by his recent meeting with the Demiurge. He... He has always hated that aspect of his grandfather. Not the need for control. Not the thirst for power. Those are still present. They are common in all beings, in one form of another. It''s the pettiness. God is supposed to be majestic. It''s no surprise that, even in the religion centred around him, Yaldabaoth is named an imposter. And so, he prays. And so, he flies. Along the seder hishtalshelut, counting the links in the chain of worlds. First is Assiah, World of Action. The multiverse, in all its childlike charm, beautiful as only a growing infant can be. Even so, the surroundings vibrate with kingship. Second is Yetzirah, World of Formation, foundation of everything below. Here are created things in their truest forms, defined by the glory of the victory that is their very existence: despite everything, they are. Third is Beriah, World of Creation-that is, creation itself-,the end of the illusion of self, where Everything and Nothing meet. There is beauty, strength and kindness here, if one knows how to look. Fourth is Atziluth, World of Emanation, and here, Vyrt stops, hovering at the border. There is only beauty and understanding beneath the crown on the head within which dwells the Supreme Archtype-the mind that crowns itself. This is where the Dream springs from. Further still, Vyrt can see what mankind should have been and might be once again. ''In his image He made them, male and female...'' Vyrt recites. "Adam" is more than a man, the first man. They are all of humanity-not the tattered Archetype that remains at the edges of creation, but the first emanation, still united with the creator. Vyrt sees the fruit taken from the Tree that is the man-for are they not both upright? This is an idea that transcends itself, and thus cannot be contemplated by the likes of him. Which Tree was it? Was it Knowledge, or Mortality that ruined everything before it could begin? Vyrt shakes his head, weeping regretful tears, and dares to look further still. The human form is not a mistake, nor a coincidence. It is the herald of supremacy, the shadow of what might yet be achieved once the Dream ends. But he knows this already. He has seen this already. He... He sees, truly sees, for the first time in memory. He sees God, going from supreme, incomprehensible essence to oneness, and the delights that come with this truest of selves. He sees the desire to create and rule, and the mantle of supremacy gladly assumed. He sees the predecessor of creation, the atmosphere that emerges from it, to serve as the cradle of the Primordial Man. He sees the Secret of Contraction, the void being created and the light shining out to fill it. He hears and feels the Shattering of the Vessels. And he knows this is God. Not the mistakes. Not the cruelty, necessary or otherwise. Not the dictatorship. Creator, and creation... Vyrt is used to guilt. He stood aside while his sorcerous cousin raised champions up, and tried to make might for right a reality. Not because he wanted to, but that has never been an excuse. Sometimes, he wonders if it-his life, his work, creation itself-is worth it. Whenever that happens, he remembers this. *** Sekhet-Aaru, 758 CE Aya is tending to her reed patch when Anubis approaches, without any thought. Either would be enough to alarm her, but both is almost too much. The embalmer god''s perturbed expression (she dares not make a joke about long faces) makes it even worse. Furthermore, Anubis did not arrive by one of the boats travelling between the islands, which is almost as strange as the fact he has not yet communicated anything to her through the usual means. ''Greetings, my lord.'' She kneels down in the water before he waves a hand, bidding her to rise. ''Is there a problem?'' ''The first of many,'' Anubis says grimly. His eyes are just as dark as his head, so it''s hard to tell, but Aya would not be surprised to learn he does not blink. ''Leave them.'' He gestures at the reed with his khopesh, which is when Aya notices he is clad for war. The golden arrmour hides much, but the joints of his knees are jointed the wrong way. The god has taken a form more animalistic than his usual jackal-headed man''s one. ''You cannot remain here, Aya. We''re sending you back.'' Her face falls. ''But I passed the trials! I said the names, my heart was light, I-'' ''It is not your fault,'' Anubis tries to sound apologetic, but comes across as more curt than soothing. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that all the other reborn have stopped relaxing to look at the two of them. ''Come along. I will tell you as we remake you.'' ''But I''ve already reborn...?'' ''Not what I meant.'' One of Anubis'' arms snakes around her waist, and in moments, the surroundings blur. Aya finds herself tied to a stone table table, several gods looming over her. Anubis has discarded his armour, but still has his khopesh, and is searching the circular room for threats. Osiris and Thoth hold themselves like priests: one about to amputate a cripple, one who has just discovered a fascinating new beast. It is Isis who speaks first, and her patroness actually manages to sound sorry for whatever is about to happen. (Not that she holds it against the jackal god. It is not his fault, and besides, she does not want to learn how he deals with complainers. Amit might be anywhere, for all she knows, eager for a second chance at a meal). ''My dear.'' The goddess'' hair is dark as jet, with all the colours of the rainbow glittering at the tips of her tresses. Her smile is a curve of molten gold. ''I am glad to see the shudders have stopped, and sorry we couldn''t send anyone earlier.'' ''We investigated,'' Thoth has the air of someone reading a particularly interesting mystery story. ''And who do you think stole into your tomb and from it?'' ''I do not know, lord,'' she admits. ''But I think you expect me to react poorly, given the restraints.'' Thoth laughs, beak clicking. ''Yes! It was dear old Faisal, come to make up for lost years!'' Aya''s face turns ashen at the mention of her husband. Her father, always disturbed by her mother''s weak faithcraft-the woman kept the old gods, one of the very few after Egypt was flooded by Christianity, then Islam-, chose to send his daughter to a man who wouldn''t be an enemy of Allah. Aya ran away from home before any decision could be made, and, by the grace of Isis, managed to hide behind veils of illusion, allowing her to evade people and forage for food. A fifteen year old waif would have raised questions otherwise. Faisal Reem had seemed like a good man, at the beginning. Stern and headstrong, as befitting his name, but kind, and not opposed to his wife having a voice. Still Muslim, not that Aya had anything against the religion itself. Just against her stupid, na?ve teenage self. He had not been opposed to suggestions. Faisal barely had time to manage the house, always looking for another war to fight, far away, which is why he left his wife to handle the finances and the children. But, by the time Aqim and Bilal were seven and five, and little Farah was one, he had returned, or rather limped, home to stay. Aya hadn''t begrudged her husband his moods. He''d always been a little foul-tempered, in her opinion, but that had paled in comparison to everything else. He''d always found time to play with the boys between contracts, no matter how hurt. But the crippling... He''d become...self-contradictory. As if drunk without touching a drop. One moment, he wanted her all to himself, whether to chastise or congratulate, the next she was either spiling the children or not spending enough time with them-what kind of mother was she? Spread thin, Aya had prayed for help, and Hathor and Isis had answered. The faithcraft, kept secret until then-Aya hadn''t needed to use it since their wedding, and as such, had seen no need to bring up past events-had not openly unsettled him, like her father had been. But she still remembered Faisal''s bearded face screwed up in dismay, mouth curving into a frown under his broken nose. Then, her thoroughness had turned to nagging, and he''d accused her of waiting his crippling to take over the household. As if she''d been planning it! Aya had not seen herself as a domineering plotter, but Faisal had, and one day, she''d returned home from the market to see him slumped in his usual chair, childless. ''You thought I''d let you steal them away from me, didn''t you?'' His hand had trembled-twitched?-as he had pointed at her still, wide-eyed face. His other had gestured at the little bodies with the knife. ''Mould them to be like you? Witch-'' Aya still doesn''t regret the kill. She''d herself shortly after, and expected Amit to devour her into nonexistence. The marriage to an unbeliever, if nothing else...but some gods had interfered on her behalf. She hadn''t yet been told who, but she could guess. ''That''s impossible,'' Aya says flatly, voice small, prompting a scoff from Thoth. ''Surely you don''t believe him too soft-hearted?'' ''No, lord. I mean it''s literally impossible. My tomb was warded. How did he take-'' A revelation spears through her, and the only reason she doesn''t curl up is because she can''t move. ''Their ashes?'' Almost shocked at her presumption, Aya had asked for her and her children''s bodies to be burned. She hadn''t met them in the afterlife, but...b-but... Even if they''d taken their father''s faith in secret, surely the pain had ended? ''How did he-ah.'' Thoth''s blue eyes darted from her to the other gods. ''You haven''t been told yet. Why, he made a deal with his god, of course.'' ''His God...?'' ''No, no. The one you have always opposed, and will again. His old one didn''t answer his prayers, mayhap in lieu of smiting, so he sought a way to strike back against the forces you wielded. We are still looking into how he escaped from his afterlife,'' Thoth looks faintly embarrassed, if not flustered. ''Let alone how and when he found Apep, but I''m sure it''s all connected. But do not worry about that.'' ''Aya Reem,'' Osiris says in a voice halfway between gravelly and raspy. It sounds as if it should be deep, but, at the same time, like it is coming from far away, or from underwater. An artifact of his mutilation, she thinks. ''Do you wish to return to the world, and fight once more against Isfet-this time directly? Do you wish to be remade? Know that you cannot be harmed unless that which was stolen from your tomb is returned from it, but neither can you rest.'' Green skin crinkles around deep, black eyes. ''And, even in undeath, even with our blessings, you will not be free of pain.'' ''...Do as you must, lord.'' Osiris nods appreciatively, then turns to Thoth. ''Khet, Sah, Ren, Ba, Ka, Ib, Shut, Sekhem, Akh. The body is preserved. We must pour the mind and soul back into it, or she will never find peace for herself and the world.'' As the reforging begins, and Aya is slowly but surely reunited with her earthly remains, she appreciates Osiris'' honesty, and warning. She is not free of pain, and she doubts she will ever be. After Life, Chapter 8 Maybe I''d just become jaded. Maybe I''d become unflappable when it came to intrigue and mind games from sheer exposure, like Mithridates the Sixth had built up resistance to poison. Maybe I was just too mentally tired. Whatever it was, I didn''t care to look into it at the moment. Not even glance at it with Mimir''s sight, according to which I was talking to Aya Reem. We must get rid of this habit, my strigoi side whispered. It''s not ''Mimir''s'' sight anymore. It is ours. We''ll talk later, I promised, sending it a hopefully reassuring pulse of weak agreemeent. Maybe it''d get it to behave for a bit, even if it didn''t pacify it or make it settle down. ''I recognise you, ma''am,'' I told Aya, whose eyes turned from Thoth, to me, the god''s following. Aya had briefly looked at the god after asking me a question that, between my last meeting with Chernobog, would''ve probably been a mindfuck. ''So, yes, I know who I''m talking to.'' ''He does, Aya!'' Thoth sounded excited, beak somehow curving into a smile. Then came the aetheric equivalent of a skittering sound, and the god was filling my sight. I found myself looking at a suprisingly muscular bronzed chest(maybe I shouldn''t have been caught offguard. Thoth might have just been the warrior-scholar type, and besides, he was a shapeshifter), or rather the polished silver ankh dangling over it. Before I could react to his sudden appearance, I found my chin tilted up, at Thoth''s deep blue eyes. What, have you never locked gazes with a huge buff dude in a skirt? It''s just a guy thing. ''So he does...'' Thoth said softly, letting go of me. My chin burned where he had touched me, but I knew, somehow, that I''d have been hurt more before the awakening of my godsight. I paid it even less hid, instead wondering how the hell he''d grabbed me. I''d just been observing them, not like I''d sent an astral projection, which shouldn''t have transmitted pain to my body, anyway. But then, this was the second time he''d touched me despite the fact he shouldn''t have been able to. Aya gave me a concerned look, and sent a mildly disapproving one Thoth''s way. Deciding to make things slightly less weird, I tested the wards, then physically moved across the aether, feeling them slam back in their places behind me. Then, she approached too, and I noticed she''d gotten faster. Or, rather, she''d returned to her usual speed. After all the Egyptian gods except Ma''at had stopped empowering her, Aya''s speed had dropped greatly, to the point she had merely dwarfed Szabo''s the same way he had dwarfed mine, back when he''d been merely as fast as light, and me six thousand times as fast as sound. Now, she crossed the distance between me and her desk-the room was always shifting in size; at the moment, there were over five kilometres from desk to entrance-while photons were standing still, frozen in flight. Aya, in contrast, had moved almost too fast too keep track of, though not impossible to perceive, like Thoth. That was how I knew she''d gotten her powers back. With the duller senses I used to have, I might''ve believed she''d merely boosted her speed with Ma''at''s power. But in my godly eyes, Shu''s blessing was as clear as day. She could''ve moved faster, I knew. Endlessly fast. Time and space meant nothing while the god of wind and air had his hand on her shoulder. But there was no need. This was enough to impress upon me that she was back in shape. ''Speak, David. Given by how you started this meeting, I expect you wanted to be brief, despite the weight on your soul.'' I swallowed a sigh. Talking to Aya always reminded me of my motherless childhood. Make all the jokes you want-if I admired her in any way, it was entirely platonic, and had nothing to do with that. Someone doth protest too much... Why do you insist on getting under my skin? You''re already there. Need you ask? ''Yeah.'' With a thought, I began sitting down, creating a chair before my arse could hit the ground. I could''ve solidified the air, or just floated, but I wanted, felt the need to prove that I had gotten better. Even if I knew Paladin had already reported to her, including my arrival at the English Channel, and what had followed. I had to show I was no longer(go ahead, laugh) deadweight. ''David, stop that.'' Aya closed her eyes, but the light of order still shone, through her lids, reminding me of the sun behind a curtain. ''You''re not a burden to the Crypt, nor ARC as whole. And if you ever feel you''re too weak or unstable, please remember who you''re colleagues with.'' The mummy rubbed the bridge of her nose. ''Thank you,'' I said softly, looking down at the hands I''d clasped in my lap. ''...This is not just about Fairie, is it? Or the Channel?'' the mummy crossed her arms, leaning back against Thoth, who wrapped his arms around her. ''Sam told me about the former, by the way, and Paladin has just finished reporting on the latter.'' ''But you want my version of the events, too?'' The answer was obvious, but I had to ask. The mention of the wendigo highlighted how weird the secene in front of me would have looked, if not for my godly senses. The affection coming from Thoth was fatherly. In a way, it reminded me of myself at Mia''s graduation, before... Shiftskin would have had no need to feel threatened, had he been here. I didn''t doubt he''d have gotten jealous or pissy because of the touch itself, if not the god''s intentions. Besides, Thoth was married, and Ma''at was as inclined to sharing as he was to cheating. ''It''s adorable, really, how he immediately thought about that, little one,'' Thoth ran a hand through Aya''s hair, smiling. ''He''s almost as concerned about Sam''s honour as your love is.'' ''It''s only human, lord.'' ''That it is. And you must be overjoyed to see this one holding on to humanity, don''t you?'' his smile turned bittersweet. ''One day, you must have those two meet. But...ah, I''m rambling. Your adolescent species is only expected to think about rutting and courtship first. It''s instinctive to want to propagate one''s kind.'' Letting go of the mummy, Thoth flipped, turning into an ibis in midair and landing on a perch that appeared before his feet were halfway to the floor. Half hidden in a shadow that creeped into existence at thatvery moment, the god watched me curiously, head cocked, eyes shining. The mummy sounds like a Disney villainess. What? Like Jafar with tits. She''s even got a bird! Ignoring the vulgar son of a bitch, I began delivering my report. Aya voiced her approval of my defeat of Chernobog, even if I felt that was an exagerration. I''d only managed to put him on the run, so I''d have called it a successful bluff at best. ''There you go, putting yourself down again.'' Aya''s voice was half tired, half amused. ''False modesty is almost as annoying as bragging, you know?'' ''But I didn''t even land a hit on him. I couldn''t even swap places with him in Broceliande.'' ''Like you did with Cloudshade less than an hour later?'' The mummy shook her head. ''Had Chernobog stayed a little longer, had you been trained, or at least luckier, we''d be dragging the Black God in chains before the pantheons right now.'' ''But I wasn''t-trained, I mean. We...'' I glanced at Thoth, who hadn''t made a single sound since his transformation. Would he feel insulted? ''We-that is, Thoth and I-didn''t find time to meet.'' The god moved his wings in something reminiscent of a shrug. If he was offended, guilty or something, he hid it behind a nonchalant fa?ade. "What can you do?" ''Even so, you managed to put Chernobog on the run, and trust me, gods like him never retreat unless they feel they''re outmatched.'' Aya smirked knowingly. ''Your first successful use of godly power is like flying an airplane. You don''t stop to think how difficult it was until after it''s done, and even then, you might need someone else to point it out.'' ''You were never trained to channel a god''s power, David, never mind have it,'' Thoth spoke up. ''Aya has been, and I''d have liked to see her with just my wife''s blessing going up against Chernobog. It would have been...'' were those teeth glinting in his beak? ''Entertaining.'' ''You underestimate me, lord.'' ''Oh, not at all. I meant it would have been entertaining, truly. You haven''t had to puzzle something like that out in centuries, dear,'' Thoth picked at his plumage. ''Hence why I''m impressed with David, but not surprised.'' ''I take it this is the second time you''re seeing or hearing of this?'' ''Your next question is "Why didn''t you tell me that, lord?"...or it would have been, had I not said this. Now, it will be "why didn''t David have help"?'' ''Hey, I''m not complaining,'' I held up a hand at my awkward intervention. ''I mean, sure, it would''ve been great to have one of the Heads helping me, but I didn''t ask for help. Down in the Blackness, I...'' I frowned. ''It wasn''t that I didn''t want help, or thought I could do everything myself. But I was more focused on surviving enough to escape.'' ''You don''t need to ask for help, David. You''re ARC. But that''s not what lord Thoth was referring to.'' Before I could ask what she meant, the mummy forged on ahead. ''You did a good job, agent. The nearest thing we''ve got to a crisis left is extraditing the Unseelie, but that''s a problem for my colleagues and I, the Global Gathering, and whoever Oberon chooses to scrounge up when he shows his face to bargain,'' the mummy''s expression briefly darkened. ''And this time, he''ll have fewer reasons to make a circus of the talks. We already had to talk down a baker''s dozen of hotheads from wiping out the Fae before you were taken over.'' I shifted from foot to foot at her apologetic look, trying to dig up some dry humour. ''Guess it was a boon in disguise, huh? Like the first time. I should have my mind raped more often.'' ''Never say that in my presence again, David.'' At Aya''s glare, I opened my mouth to clarify what I''d meant, but she waved me off. ''I know you were just joking tastelessly. Don''t.'' She sighed. ''But, yes, the fact Fairie''s forces were briefly crippled did help with calming down some extremists, even if it got others chomping at the bit to strike the iron while it was hot. You''ll pardon the saying, given the context.'' ''No problem, ma''am, but-'' ''Don''t worry, he won''t ask for you.'' Aya was talking over me, which would''ve normally annoyed me, but I really needed to brood less. ''King Fae has even shakier ground to stand on this time, because Earth helped him despite the mess the Unseelie made here when he left them to their own devices. No one will be taking him seriously, even if he doesn''t make demands.'' ''What if he does, though? Ask for me, that is.'' Aya''s brow wrinkled slightly. ''You don''t need to worry, David. We won''t let Oberon do anything to you.'' What the...did she think I was scared of that grasping jackass? The only reason I even gave a damn about myself these days was that I didn''t want to hurt those who loved me. It was good that "love your neighbour like you love yourself" hadn''t been spoken with negligent dickheads like me in mind. ''Thank you, ma''am. But I was more thinking about the fact he''d owe us after, since we''re currently even.'' ''You''re even with the Fae. They still owe Earth. And Oberon would owe you after, though, as your superior, I''d be fully within my rights to make use of said favour myself.'' Aya sighed, then brightened up a little, the corners of her eyes wrinkling as she smiled slightly. ''But, again, you don''t need to worry about that. The Fae, in the end, don''t want a confrontation, and not just because they''re unsure they can win. They don''t even want enmity, but they don''t really get other people.'' ''That''s good to know, ma''am, but...you said there are no other crises besides these future negotiations. Aren''t you forgetting something?'' I asked, clasping my hands behind my back as I bent light to form an image of a cultist of Chernobog: tall, pale, brawny, dark eyes almost lost under the equally-dark, long hair and antlered skull he wore. Clad in black, thick furs, with tiny bones woven through them, forming Cyrillic characters. I recognised the Black God''s name, but little else. ''The cults aren''t a threat, David.'' Aya waved a hand, and I couldn''t help but frown. She was testing me, obviously, she had to be. ''They''ll be almost as easy to uproot as they were to find. We know where they are.'' ''Then why didn''t we dismantle them!?'' I couldn''t have helped the anger out of my voice if I wanted. ''That fucking bastard used me like a puppet twice, and these morons give themselves to him. Why didn''t we-'' ''David.'' Aya had moved faster than I could perceive, and was currently leaning backwards against her desk, elbows braced on it. She pointed a finger at me. ''What he did to you was despicable, but do not think you are his only victim. Not all of his worshippers kneel willingly.'' ''I fail to see how that''s not even more incentive to take the motherfuckers down.'' ''Chernobog couldn''t act on Earth at all until this year. The mind breaking, the enthralling, all was done by mages-and those cults that were found using such methods rather than more traditional conversion were taken down immediately, by us and the Strangeguard-for decades. Since the Shattering, these people might as well have been praying to nothing.'' So what!? ''They should''ve been taken down on principle. To prevent future disasters. All of them. There can''t be a cult of that monster worth salvaging.'' ''You''d be surprised.'' Aya flexed a hand, looking at the power flowing through it. ''Some focus on destroying and ripping down the more unsavoury aspects of civilisation. They make useful buffers and catspaws, if nothing else. Do you think we crush every street gang that starts talking about Apep or Satan?'' I swallowed an angry retort. ''So you''ll let some be, when you round up the rest, because they''re useful?'' ''Perhaps not. It would give a poor impression if Chernobog''s worshippers walked after the Headhunt, let alone the Fairie expedition. We must release the news about the Aesir some day... but that''s not for you to worry about, David. Slow down a little. You might get some free time.'' What a good joke! The first part, that was. "Free time" was ARC slang for "undercover missions in different patrolling area". As for them not being my problem...like shit. ''Ma''am, I cannot agree with that. Grudges aside, my power would be extremely useful for raiding their bases.'' ''That''s what I was getting to, David.'' Aya looked askance at Thoth when he let out a stuttering, high-pitched caw that might have been meant as a snicker. ''You are more useful for ARC as a lookout than as a field agent.'' She held up both hands, chuckling. ''Don''t worry. We''re not giving you a desk job. But expect to be consulted about creation far more often than you''ll be called upon to put down threats to it.'' ...Well, now or never. ''I was visited by an...apparition, ma''am. Shorthly before this meeting. It looked like me, and pretended it was me from the future.'' Aya listened to my retelling of the encounter with that creepy bearded fuck, saying nothing. She crossed her arms halfway through, though, and looked at Thoth at the end. ''He was you, David,'' Thoth spoke as soon as I finished. ''Well. As much as you are your childhood self. Certainly not a different person, though. You, just...more. As for the "iterations" he was talking about...how to say..." the ibis pressed the tips of his wings together in a way that suggested he''d have been steepling his fingers in a more humanoid form. ''I would call it a stable time loop if your "future" self didn''t transcend time. It would be more accurate to say that your future self always meets "you" at this point, but does not talk much because of some restriction, self-imposed or otherwise. He also remembers and has lived through all possible pasts, which, to you, are futures.'' He blinked, running a long, thin tongue over what looked like curved teeth. ''But no, you weren''t tricked. Looking back at it, I see the same being you did, and I can tell you this: he wasn''t disguised or glamoured. So, no, David, it wasn''t a lie, any more than alternate timelines are lies.'' ''I concur with lord Thoth,'' Aya said. ''It is good you brought this up to me instead of letting your thoughts fester and make you uncertain, but I am afraid I cannot help you at the moment. Your future self blocks my senses, as he does yours.'' ''And mine,'' Thoth added, picking at a wing with his beak. ''But my mind is as sharp as Mimir''s, and far more inclined towards breaking bounds. Hmm...'' he tilted his head at Aya, while glancing at me from the corner of obe eye. ''Shall I begin preparing him now, little one?'' ''That depends entirely on him,'' Aya replied without inflection, not looking at the god. ''What do you say, David?'' ''Mia has probably noticed I''ve left by now, but I''d rather tell her first, so that she doesn''t worry.'' Aya nodded. ''She is your rock, after all. So the others keep telling me.'' *** Andrei swiped his paw through the ghost, causing Misha to drop the silver knife with a pained scream as he dispersed. By the time the werebear dropped to all fours, still in hybrid form despite his beast roarinng at him to let go and forget about human worries, the ghost had pulled himself back together, cold fires burning in his eye sockets as he glared at his son. ''How dare you?'' Misha''s kick flipped Andrei over onto his back, and the were grunted as his father stomped down on his wound, grinding his boot''s heel into the edges. ''How dare you-'' Misha yelped as Andrei''s left paw ripped his leg in half at the knee, at the same time as his right one scrabbled against the floor. Finally, his claws caught the edge of a tile, which Andrei ripped out before reaching inside it. The thing felt as wrong and unnatural as ever, despite its purpose. The chrome tube, which slightly curved at both ends, had been harvested from the blood of those weres who had survived being wounded with silver. Their misery-for such wounds were rarely minor even when they weren''t fatal-had added to the symbolism, engancing its paranormal power. Andrei had ripped it from the bloody hands of a doctor, back in the seventies. The woman had used it to heal her neighbours in a now-lost village near the Ukrainian border, before the Party had sent Andrei to confiscate it. She had, perhaps understandably, resisted, though not for long.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. She had refused to sell out, in her own words. The tube could replicate were flesh to bond with the body of a wounded one, briefly filling wounds and lessening the pain before it was rejected. It was a stopgap, and one that''d have to be applied repeatedly at that, but it would have to do. Not like he had better options. ''What the-?'' Misha spat as Andrei pressed the tube against his heart, forming several layers of flesh and fur. He got back to his feet with a relieved shake of his head, feeling blood thumping in his ears. ''What''d you do, you son of a bitch?'' Andrei let out a gravelly growl at the phrasing, feeling the patchwork flesh rot and fall out, to be replaced with an identical layer. ''I should be asking you that,'' he said in a sardonic voice, accompanied by an equally humourless grin. ''Why''d you try to kill me, old man? Who sent you?'' ''I''m not working for anyone,'' Misha''s nose wrinkled. ''I need no reason to put you down.'' ''Oh? A little therianthrope hater, are you?'' ''I''ve known beasts. Freaks just like me, but at least they were people. You? You goddamn gypsies just roam, scam and steal. You refuse to settle down and work. You take from others. You tear down what good folk build.'' Andrei could have laughed if it didn''t hurt so much. ''What year are you living in? That shit hasn''t been an issue in decades, you fucking idiot...'' he coughed twice, then covered his muzzle with a paw before the third, bigger cough. It came away red. ''But you? You''re even worse,'' Misha continued as if he hadn''t even heard his son. Andrei narrowed tear-rimmed eyes. Was he so full of hatred he had become a carricature of himself, like some old ghosts did? His mind went to Alex, but...no. If he didn''t save himself now, what could he do to help his friends? Or was he being controlled by someone else? Andrei couldn''t sense anything, and the fucking pain didn''t help. ''You went and found a stupid girl without parents to teach her not to be a whore, then made her an even bigger one.'' Misha looked at the silver knife with dismay. It hadn''t been enchanted, Andrei realised: he''d have sensed it otherwise, though the fact he hadn''t, between his smell and instinct for danger, was in of itself concerning. Like Alex, it would have to wait. Mundane silver made for poor weapons, and Andrei, therianthropic nature aside, still had thick fur, skin and muscle to get through. Of course the knife had snapped. With a crimson-stained grin, he promised to himself that he wouldn''t give Misha the chance to do anything with the shards. ''And then,'' the ghost''s voice became even colder as he made the knife''s pieces levitate, prompting a scoff from Andrei. ''You left her pregnant. Put another worm in her belly. You''re lucky she didn''t give birth to a crow like you.'' Mia mirrored his son''s expression. ''The first and last good thing you ever did was passing that boy to a white man. Don''t get me wrong-I know it''s just an instinct to throw away kids when it comes to you, but at least you chose a good location. You could''ve done better than a priest, but...'' Misha shrugged. ''Not like I can expect you to be smart. Otherwise, you''d have swallowed some bleach after your first look in a mirror.'' Andrei gurgled. It was uglier and harsher than the chuckle he''d intented, but things really weren''t going his way tonight...today? It was past midnight, he thought. ''I came to meet my grandson,'' Misha said, hands in his pockets. ''Heard the grew up to be a snivelling little twit, before he killed himself...and came back.'' The ghost shuddered. '' Strigoi. I could puke. I liked it better,'' he looked into Andrei''s eyes. ''When we were all stories.'' And silver filled the air. *** Mihai had never been good at precognition. Oh, all mages were precognitive, to a degree. In their own ways. Or maybe it would''ve been more accurate to say they "were" "precognitive". A vague dream that only made sense after what it had prophesied came to pass, an unexplainable flash of intuition or hunch...all of them experienced things like that, once in a while. It was tied, on some level, to the inherent control of space and time all mages shared, showing them glimpses of other places and moments. But true precognition, seeing possible futures at will, was a more specific magic, though not necessarily rare. Half of the people who shot the shit on Spellbook and discussed more serious matters on Grimoire seemed to possess foresight. Still, Mihai had never had that ability. He had strong basics: mana, elements, spacetime. He could create forcefields, enhance his body, even transmute himself. He had a decent grasp of shapeshifting and telekinesis, good enough to save time grooming and having to move things physically, but nothing to write home about, compared to the versatility of his other powers. That was why he was pacing in the hospital hall, to the annoyance of everyone else waiting. He knew he should sit down, but he couldn''t hekp himself. He''d been the same way during his daughters'' birth, afraid of entering to see his wife staring at two little corpses, and a sadly-smiling doctor informing him that complications happened sometimes, sir... That had ended up far better than this might yet. Once again, Mihai cursed his lack of foresight, both literal and metaphorical. He should''ve been there for Alex. He knew his ghost friend was not aloof or standoffish, just...introverted. Quiet. The kind of guy who, sometimes, ran out of things to talk about even with his closest friends, and didn''t mind sitting in comfortable silence, as long as they were alright with it, too. The kind of guy who almost never talked about his problems, because he didn''t want to burden or worry others. In that way, he was similar to David, and Mihai had failed them both. He''d failed to help David out of his depression, and to save him from his withering. In the end, it had been Lucian who''d helped bring him to his senses, and Constantin who''d made sure he didn''t go down a dark spiral. Then Mia had come along, and... Mihai had always felt protective of his friends. He knew it was condescending, but there were worse vices to have. The mage had a hunch Constantin shared some of his thoughts. He''d failed to convince Alex to let someone heal his asthma, resulting in him dying out of stupid altruism. ''Hey,'' his friend had wheezed, near the end of his human life. ''Don''t cry for me. I won''t die unhappy. I lived a full life...there are people who need to be healed...more than I do.'' So full a life he was still walking the Earth, or had been, until this night. This night, which Mihai should''ve seen coming and preapred for. Ghosts, at least those who lingered on Earth, weren''t always mentally stable. Mihai didn''t think his friend was crazy, or had ever been, just...frail, for lack of a better term. However, ghost minds were always teetering on the edge. And when mind over matter was a fact rather than a figure of speech... Mihai had heard Alex''s choked, faraway scream at the same time he had felt the chilling inferno rising from Ghencea Cemetery. Both had been carried to him on aethereal winds, and he had teleported there in an instant. The graveyard''s inhabitants had risen, ghosts and even a few new strigoi, out of self-defence. That they had all awoken from their death sleep at once was rare enough. That they had all woken up for the same reason... ''He just...started freaking out,'' had said the ghost of a gangly woman with a middle-aged face but long, white hair, who looked like she''d starved to death, if the jutting ribs were anything to go by. Then, she had gestured at the thing that had been Alex, which the other undead had boxed into the centre of the cemetery. It had looked like a cresecent moon the size of a small house, with a misshapen limb rising out of every orifice on its ectoplasmic skin. ''It began with a scream,'' had said a transparent skeleton in an old, tattered uniform, his oddly musical voice tinged with an Austrian accent. ''His grave neighbours woke up to see what was wrong, you see? And he ate them.'' At Mihai''s horrified expression, the soldier had laughed hideously. ''Unintentionally, mind you. Something broke in his mind, and sent everything else tumbling. Why, I can feel the void from here! He tried to grab at anything he could to regain a measure of order, and those who got too close, those too weak to go on but too cowardly to face the afterlife, were drawn into him.'' Mihai had felt the bottomless gap in Alex''s psyche, too, and it had chilled him, through its size as much as its nature. It had been a pit, yes, but not a prison. The other ghosts hadn''t been caught and trapped in Alex''s mind. They''d been devoured, to fill a maw that would always be hungry. Save for the twisted appendages rising from Alex''s body-more echoes than remains-they were gone. Then the Supernatural Service had come, quickly subduing the creature. There had been curses, and questions about undead who''d never go to their gods or the aether now, but those had been shelved. The Service had determined that Alex wasn''t in his right mind, and, as such, had to be taken to a hospital rather than a prison cell, at least until things were sorted out. That was how Mihai had ended up here. As the only living being in Ghencea when the Service had arrived, he''d quickly been singled out. After revealing he was friends with Alex, he''d been asked to accompany him and a squad of Service agents to the Vlad''s Mercy hospiral in the Old Centre. The hospital was fairly new, having been built after the Revolution. Though named after one of the doctors who''d founded it, and specialised in treating supernaturals, people joked, rather darkly in Mihai''s opinion, that the name came from the cases who were deemed hopeless and put down, in an act of mercy worthy of the Impaler. Mihai hoped it wouldn''t come to that. He''d have prayed, too, if he''d ever prayed to anything, but he knew prayers born of desperation didn''t appeal to gods, unless he chose to convert after, which the mage didn''t believe he had in him. Still, he had come. Of course he had come. Anything he could do, as a friend and anchor in Alex''s mind, was welcome. He hadn''t been allowed in the surgery room, were the doctors were still cutting out the excess ectoplasm Alex had accumulated, but the Service agents, five of whom had scattered across the waiting hall, had made sure the ghost had seen him. That he knew he wasn''t alone with strangers. That had helped, in a way: the screaming had given way to wailing, then muffled sobbing, which had only been interrupted by a disturbing conversation, shortly before the operation had started. ''Mihai! Mihai!'' Alex had called for him like his girls used to when they were scared of monsters under the bed. ''I''m here with you, man. What''s wrong?'' ''I re-'' the ghost had choked. ''R-Remembered how I died.'' Aw, shit... ''Shhh, calm down. That''s in the past. It won''t happen ag-'' the mage had started when a surprisingly weak, but deathly cold hand had closed around his wrist. From the middle of the tortured mass of ectoplasm, Alex''s face had grimaced at him with wide, dead eyes. '' No. I died of asthma when there''s magic and tech straight from sci-fi around every corner? Are you as insane as I used to be?'' ''But you chose not to be healed...? You...'' Alex had shaken his head. ''I remember him, Mihai.'' Then the doors had been locked, and the operation had started. Neither Mihai nor the agents had time to ask more. ''Oi,'' a haggard-looking woman called out to Mihai, stopping his pacing. There were bags under her eyes and grey streaks in her red hair, despite the fact she otherwise looked young enough to be his kid. In her lap was a little girl, seven, eight year olds, with blonde hair and green pigtails. She''d been grinning toothily since Mihai had gotten here, and...oh, yeah. Her dad was being operated on in a room adjacent to Alex''s, if he remembered correctly. Why the hell was she so happy, then. ''Would you die if you stopped?'' Mihai scowled. ''I don''t exactly have anywhere to sit down, lady,'' he gestured at the filled seats. ''And you''ll forgive me if I don''t find the floor appealing.'' Her eyes hardened. ''And you can''t stand fucking still? You look like you have legs.'' ''Gimme a break,'' Mihai stuffed his hands in his grey sweatpants pockets. ''I''ve got a friend losing his mind over there,'' he nodded at the door. ''And he might die any moment.'' And if you''re such a bitch because you might become a widow, maybe shut up? I don''t judge, but don''t be a hypocrite. The little girl snickered. Bet she''ll grow up to be like her mom. *** Seeing Maws at something closer to a normal zmeu''s size-still bigger than Aaron, or any other zmeu Lucian knew, for that matter-felt pretty weird, for some reason. Still, he appreciated it. It was easier to talk to the guy when he tens of metres tall, not tens of thousands of kilometres. ''I''m not one to talk,'' Maws'' voice was always powerful enough to obliterate planets, no matter his size. Luckily, Aaron''s place was more than enough to handle it, and the zmeu brothers had found ways to protect themselves: Lucian used Burnish Death to erase the voice''s destructive power whenever it was about to affect him, while Lucas, in an attempt to bond, he guessed, had asked their mother to make a forcefield for him, which she''d gladly(?) agreed to. ''But I''m not sure your relationship will last, even if they bring your girl back.'' Lucian looked up at his father with a dirty glare, his mace in one hand and a keg full of one of his brews in the other. ''They will bring her back.'' In one form or another. He believed in Aaron. ''What''s that supposed to mean?'' ''Well,'' Maws tugged at one of his beards. At this size, his ten thousand heads would have looked like ridiculous little turds, in his own words, so he''d shifted shape to only have then. In one of his six hands, he held a barrel bigger than Lucas, filled with something that burned Lucian''s nostrils almost as much as looking at his mother hurt his eyes. ''See, I''ve always been adventurous. I''ve never been able to just settle down and grow shit.'' He tilted his heads back, a faraway look in his eyes. ''They wanted me to wear a crown, you know? The other zmei. To build an empire for us. But I refused. I was the strongest, even back then, before my voice was unshackled, but stronger than everyone else combined? No. They would''ve forced me unto a throne, turned me into a puppet, and not just metaphorically. It was why I had to be the strongest, and why we''ve never built a real civilisation.'' He snorted. ''Too busy stealing the sun and stars. Let''s just piggyback onto the humans'' anthills. It''d be pitiful if I cared.'' ''You''ve always been adventurous...'' Lucas prompted, chewing on a half-burnt cigar. Maws nodded. ''Yes, which is why I refused to be crowned. Even after I met your mother...well, we''re not exactly breadwinner and housewife, are we dear?'' he smiled at the Underdweller, who returned it as good as she could. At the moment, she took the form of a white, dumpy zmeaoaic?, almost as short as a human woman, and made of shapes that Lucian couldn''t make sense of, cornered cylinders sliding over and wrapping around curved hexagons. ''We are not the typical pairing, mate-counterpart, no.'' ''Your mother is kind enough not to care about my flings, because she knows my heart is not in them, unlike my cock. She''s always patient, always there,'' he gestured at the floor. ''When I''m in-between jobs. We don''t live together, but that''s just because we''ve never found a place to fit us both.'' He winked at his wife. ''And your home is dreadfully boring, love. Dunno how you came to be in a place like that.'' ''And yours is extremely limited, mate-counterpart. Yet, it produces fascinating entities, in some circumstances.'' Maws nodded, grinning. ''Point is, someone needs to be stable if the other side of the relationship is wild. To be the rock. And I just don''t think you have that, boy...'' he shook his heads at Lucian. ''Don''t I?'' He returned his father''s grins. ''Please, do explain.'' ''This iela of yours...you love each other, I''m sure. From what you''ve told me, there''s no doubting that. You understand each other, too, both who you are, and what you are. But here''s the snag...'' Maws scratched his seventh head''s chin. ''Neither our kind nor hers is built for long-term relationships-and I mean long term in the human sense. No, not even that. Forget a few decades, or years, I''d be shocked if you stayed together a few months! And you''re both immortal!'' ''Neither of us minds the breaks,'' Lucian said. ''We''re both fully aware-'' ''Yes, I understand. But if both of you need to switch partners so often, how the void are you going to build attachment? That''s no relationship...'' Maws trailed off, then huffed, closing his eyes. ''Bah, I''m rambling. You''re not gonna listen anyway.'' ''I''m not?'' ''Lucian...'' Lucas said warningly, wishing he had chosen to stand beside his brother so he could put a hand on his shoulder. ''No, no, go ahead, dad. So it''s not a relationship? Fascinating. What is it, then?'' ''I dunno,'' Maws admitted. ''But you two? You''re friends with benefits at best. Not lovers, fuck bu-'' Lucas'' eyes widened at the Maws-sized and shaped hole extending from the ceiling all the way through the roof of Aaron''s compound. The old zmeu''s planet-shattering voice might have done no damage to the building, but Lucian''s mace swing had... ''Luci-?'' Lucas started, but his brother was gone. ''Goddammit-!'' *** Bianca''s hair was dishevelled as she sat down in the snow. Her sister''s revenge had played out in a way she couldn''t have expected, but should have. No...she had expected that it would be twisted. Not something as simple as hurting someone close to David-they had known all of them could protect themselves, and that going against David himself would''ve been pointless. She might not have known everything her friend had recently gone through, but...she had seen his eyes, and doubted her sisters had anything to hurt him with. What she hadn''t expected was the how. She already knew the why, stupidly petty as it was, but she hadn''t expected to end up in their hands like this. Kidnapping hadn''t been out of the question, but she''d thought her sisters would be the ones doing it, not... Drawing in a shallow, shuddering breath, Bianca forced herself to stop thinking about him and instead focus on happier things. Like the clearing. The realm of the iele only had seasons because its inhabitants wanted it to-the same reason said seasons synchronised with those of Earth. It was winter now, leaving the clearing covered in a blanket of pure white snow. Bianca hadn''t seen snow so clean on Earth in years, but then, she hadn''t been home in a while either, had she? It looked almost innocent, she thought, failing to stifle a hollow giggle. One would be hard-pressed to expect the iela buried under it. Her mother''s corpse would never decay, for their kind''s never did; it would sustain the forest and its creatures forever. Mercifully, it had stayed where it was. No revenant had risen to torment her, in a vision or reality. Her sisters were being kind. They had, honestly, been nothing but kind since her arrival...as much as they could be. Attempts at making her forget the world aside. She was familiar with the rhetoric, and it was as maddeningly boring as ever, but at least it was better than the silence. She was here to focus, not relax. Cold would never be harmful to her, but she still felt it, and it drove her to focus on her surroundings instead. There was peace to be found here, in the air, coming from underground. You''ve always known he would hurt himself and those close to him. What does remorse matter, once the deed is done? Stupid ogre...she should''ve never hired him. Damn her, for thinking Andrei and Lucian would have refused. Is that not how all this started? Because he wanted the pain to end? But what could they have done, had they been present? Everyone''s pain, sister. Everyone''s. The Lucian illusion had been insulting enough, even as a distraction. The abduction, the explanation- The poisonous guilt in those dark, dark eyes... *** Constantin shrugged his way out of the embrace, turning almost fast enough to catch the thing in the face with a backhand-but only almost. It leapt back with a nimbleness and grace his son had never possessed in life. No ordinary human could''ve moved like that. Even in such ways, they betrayed themselves. Like the false angel. He suspected that, if he''d been willing to give in to weakness, he''d have perceived it as beautiful just as beautiful as the being it was failing to ape. The Lord''s grace would have left him, and he would''ve been ensnared in its trap. No, he promised as he ripped and tore through the echoes of his failures. I wil not give up. I will not take the easy way out. He didn''t even know who he was promising it to at this point, truthfully. Himself? David? God? His angel''s memory? Lord, how he wished to have learned her name...just her name, at least, to cherish, to place something on the face he wept remembering. But then, there were many things he wished. To undo, mostly; those that had left scars on his soul, wounds that were now moving to bleed him dry. And then, stillness. Silence. Oh, the battle didn''t stop. When was the soul of man ever at peace? But the clamour, the monstrous sounds, even the sick squelching, sucking death rattles of the monster that fell, only to be replaced by more, identical ones...they were all gone. The things then approached him. ''You cannot go on like this, daddy,'' insisted the one that looked like David. Like his son after he''d graduated college, actually. When his first few books had failed spectacularly to gain popularity, bringing wrinkles and grey hairs far earlier than they should have come. Constantin had read them, and told David honestly, that they were entertaining schlock. What did it matter, though, whether people liked or wanted to read them, as long as he liked writing them? It wasn''t like he''d gain anything from the distant, lukewarm admiration of strangers. David didn''t want for money, or for friends, so what was the harm? He should''ve done more. Damn him thrice, he should''ve done more... ''The guilt is eating at you,'' it continued, sounding so close to crying Constantin''s teeth were set on edge. How dare it mock humanity like this, and his son in particular? Constantin was not a violent man. He was not cruel. But, by God, he''d enjoy destroying it... ''How can you live and love your neighbours when you cannot stand yourself?'' It shook its head, tears shining in its brown eyes. ''You did enough good, father. No one can be expected to be perfect-not even the Lord. Not from everyone''s perspective. And you can''t be so mad as to place yourself above God...'' it extended a trembling hand. ''Please. Let go. You''ve lived enough. Come with me. There is a place for you.'' ''Weakness,'' the false angel scoffed from atop its grotesque spawn. ''Accept you''re a failure, and run away? That''s never been like you, Constantin. That''s not the father of our son-your true son, not that twisted foundling who tossed everyone he had aside to end himself.'' It extended a hand, too, while its mount spread its arms, as if it wanted to embrace him. ''Come with me. Everything will be made right if you but accept the truth. They,'' it gestured at the battlefield. ''Would have seen the error of their ways and become better, had they wanted to. They chose to reject you. They made you kill, so many times...'' she sighed. ''But that can be changed. It need not have happened. You will stand beside me as my husband, and together, we will have forged a world of righteousness. The Lord has already forgiven you. What do you have to lose?'' ''My angel never loved me, you hag,'' he spat, not looking at her as he bisected a sickly-looking carricature of David, potbelly bulging with the life of drained children. ''Not like that. Never like that. And you do not want me, either-I can tell.'' She lowered her head. ''A woman does not spurn her husband. She obeys.'' Constantin could''ve cursed, but-no. That was what they wanted. What the Enemy wanted. Even if he hadn''t arranged this himself, he was benefitting from it, and definitely laughing. It might''ve as well have been an admission of surrender. Or an oath of loyalty. It might''ve been a trick of the light, but he thought he saw fruits in the extended hands. One white as dull as a silkworm, pulsing with unnatural life, the other black as the rarest of pearls, shining from within rather than reflecting light. And behind-beside? Inside?-the creatures, he saw two trees. One a brilliant white, rising forever until it met the Creator, its humblest roots dwarfing creation as they containted it... The other blacker than the Devil''s heart, and just as vast as the first, with as many facets. But its roots...what tree spread out beneath its roots, ending in a crown of thorns, beneath everything? ''You must choose, Constantin,'' said the thing on the throne. ''If you do not make a choice, you will be trapped here forever, with the monsters. You might fight for an eternity...but, in the end, they''ll drag you down, make you one of them.'' ''That will never happen.'' Constantin''s voice had never been colder. ''I will never give in. Never give up.'' ''Perhaps not,'' the old man agreed. ''But if you choose to remain here, with your regrets, when you could be helping the world instead, are you really better than them?'' Constantin''s eyes speared through the old man. ''I will never forgive you,'' he swore softly. ''For pretending to be my Lord.'' *** In a void between voids, a lion-headed serpent laughs at its mirror''s dismay. ''Are you planning to be rejected by the entire Silva lineage? First the son, then the father!'' its smile turned sly as it got its laughter under control. ''Why so upset? You knew this would happen. So...should we reach across the tides of time, and see who else shall spurn you?'' *** ''Lady, I know I have never been Your best priest. I''ve perverted my body, and my soul. I cannot escape my heathen roots. But please...'' Angus opened his eyes, looking up at Her statue, clasped hands pressed against his forehead. ''If You have but one shred of gratitude for the good I''ve done in the world, I beg of you...'' *** ''...do not let him lose sight of his path,'' Pierre hissed through blackened teeth and scorched lips. ''He is brash, and can be harsh...but his heart is pure. So I ask of You, Lord...'' he wrapped his arms around the cold knees of the Redeemer''s statue. Notre Dame had never felt so empty, or so far from the Lord. ''Let him see Your light...'' *** It is easier to break, rather than build. To destroy, rather than create. Loyalty must be proven forever. Treachery need only show its fangs once. Evil has always, always had an easier time leaving its mark upon creation than Good. This is a Truth, rather than an Observation-the Truth, one could say. So it is dreamed. So it is. But why must it be so? I see the fulcrum. I see the shadows of the Trees. I see loyalty reaffirmed in the twilight of Life and Death-once by oath, twice by plea. Threefold it is, for it cannot be otherwise. I feel the scales shift. On wings of hate and fire, I fly from my perch, and towards the place where the soul of a father, of a son, hangs in balance. My heart beats as my core blazes: with the loathing the Lord cast aside, the disdain for His foes, the righteous fury roused by those who sin for no reason other than they can. There is more than vice, brothers, in a conflicted soul. When the darkness is cast away, light is inevitably drawn towards it. I stole this light, and hid it away. Away from your vile grasp, away from those who would be too frightened by the flame meant to protect them from the shadows to wield it. Over the ages, it has become a fire to match the sword it burns alongside. I have said before that mankind should have been ended when it erred. This, I have not taken back, and I doubt I ever will. Such a call for their destruction is not born out of cruelty, or a desire to see them broken and punished-though I will not lie and say the latter does not exist. Mankind should have been spared the pain. Look what they have grown into. Will these people ever be fit to build the New Jerusalem, let alone dwell within it? These questions, and many more, I pondered, before the Lord opened my eyes. Mankind is not so far apart from angels. Bonded with us, they can achieve things normally impossible for angels and men alike, as the nephilim prove. You want to steal this one away, to drown him in placidity, or self-righteousness. To cage him in despair, and self-loathing. This, I will not allow. This one, I will not let you taint. You understand now, don''t you? So do I. Humanity was never meant to grow apart from the Hosts. That path is long gone, obscured by the ravages of those who would erase even the possibility of what it represents from becoming reality. However... This one shall be my new sword. With him, I shall scatter the mists and cut away the husks you have used to hide my father''s plan away. With him, I shall carve out a new path, and lead the way for those behind me, lighting the night, cutting down the monsters attempting to prey upon them. He will be the first. He will not be the last. Does that scare you? It should. *** ''David has grown past such weak will,'' Constantin told the thing wearing his son''s face. ''So don''t you dare wear his face while asking me to give up.'' He slapped its hand away, and the fruit fell to the ground, to shrivel like a corpse left in the sun. ''And you,'' he told the false angel. ''I have heard your voice, over the decades. Whever I told myself I deserved more, that the world was unfair, that God was cruel...that was you, pouring poison in my ear, wasn''t it?'' ''I am your wife-'' ''You are the Devil himself,'' he cut it off. ''Or might as well be. I will never whore myself out to the likes of you. I reject you, and the abomination you birthed. I will never bring such things into the world.'' ''Then you will remain here, alone, forever a prisoner,'' the old man said tiredly. ''No,'' Constantin replied fiercely, meeting its white eyes with his burning ones. ''I shall carve my own path.'' *** And so, the third option is taken. Are you truly, honestly surprised? Even now, of all times? Even here, of all places? I cannot believe that. But then, perhaps you cannot believe his refusal, either. That is not surprising, however. You have never understood them. Mankind has never played by your rules. You are not able to control them, and you have never been. You can only trick them into thinking they are within your power, so they give themselves to you. But this one? This one proves the self-serving lies you peddle and embody. Like those whose footsteps he walks in, like those who follow in his wake, his every thought and deed and breath is an insult to you. Constantin Silva! Father of a broken son, son of a murdered father, brother of the shepherds of souls! Hear me! I am Uriel! Father of none, son of the Almighty, brother of the betrayers, and the betrayed! And you are not alone! *** And so, two offers are refused. Imprisonment is rejected. From this choice, a new path is born. Free will, as ever, cannot be thwarted by such means. Not when the way is clear, and the heart true. Standing on a mountain of corpses, bathed in blood, basking in light and darkness under a crimson sky, the Mouth of God opens. *** We see you now, hiding in the shadows cast by the fires of pain. You did not intervene, but do not try to claim innocence. As ever, you tried to exploit suffering for your gain, and your sins are legion besides. We are beyond your reach, now and forever. Every torture, every challenge, every obstacle, cannot do more than strengthen our love for the Lord. Vengeance comes for you, wearing a face of wildfire under a mane of storm clouds. Heed its approach, for it is as merciful as you are. You laugh and mock and grin, but you cannot hide the disgust, the anger. The fear. Because, no matter what you do to try and hide it, you are afraid. Aren''t you? AREN''T YOU, LUCIFER? AREN''T YOU, YALDABAOTH? WE SEE YOU NOW, DECEIVERS! AND WE...ARE COMING...FOR YOU! *** AN: The next update will deal with Gerald Reyes, Rei Enxame, a certain demon/human couple...and several other characters, some familiar, some not, as well as the conclusion of the Great Powers'' meeting and the continuation of the Adam, Mother Wound''s Scorn and the Sofia taskforce plot threads. No, I''m not stalling for time until I figure out what to do with the main storyline. No, it''s not just a break for the sake of more backstories/worldbuilding, either. What are you talking about? The Uriel/God''s Mouth sections are a homage to the Roboutian Heresy, by Zahariel. You can read it on this site and FFNet. RH Magnus the Red is my favourite character in any Warhammer media ever, and he has some of the best monologues I''ve ever read. The two might be tangentially related. Interlude: Of Men and Madness Gerald Reyes liked to consider himself a cerebral man. He always did his best to keep his calm, which lightly snapping at his colleagues did not count as, in his opinion. Some of them(Leon, Sam, Elsbeth...) had called him cool to the point of coldness. Each time, he had chosen to take it as a compliment, while knowing full well it had been intended as a rebuke. As such, he always tried his best to keep a level head. Not doing so when around the other Heads would have been detrimental. Around a subordinate, allies of convenience and strangers? It would have been unacceptable. He still came close to swearing, though, dammit. What had gone wrong? Grey One had been contained in a reptilian subspace field, and their science didn''t simply fail. They were, as some of his cruder peers would have put it, too anal-retentive to build anything that wasn''t reliable in every moment and situation, and, barring magitech and outliers like the Argument Engine, they made human engineering look like sticks being rubbed together. So, it hadn''t been a system failure or glitch. The Shaper hadn''t moved or hidden it away-what would have shooting itself in the foot like that accomplished? Besides, it seemed just as surprised as him, though more controlled, if Gerald was any good at reading people. Had the Engine pulled an entirely tasteless, potentially dangerous prank? No. It was caustic and temperamental, but not childish. This was too critical a moment to be stupid, and it knew that. The other aliens, then? From what he''d seen, the Vyzhaldi also possessed advanced technogy, but, even if they''d managed to somehow bypass the reptilians'' security, they did not favour subtlety. An attempt at sowing discord in order to cause fights? Perhaps. But not all of them were warmongers. Which left the Xhalkhian and the telepath. The former might have had the ability, but the motive? Simply causing chaos to keep the Great Powers in a state of aloofness? Or had the telepath done it, only to then feign offence in order to demand reparations? Several years ago, he''d heard one of his agents joke that men disliked having to deal with complex problems, especially when they involved emotions. ''If someone wrote a book about us as a whole,'' the agent had said, ''it''d probably be called something like "Men: screw feelings, let''s go punch something".'' While Gerald had found the joke boringly sexist-he''d met countless women and genderless beings who''d been as confrontational and devoid of emotional intelligence as any stereotypical man-, a small part of him had understood the idea. In his case, though, it was realpolitik rather than emotions. He bloody hated faffing about when he could be building something, lifting someone up, or putting the hurt on people attempting to tear the former two down. The fact he had been raised to excel at it did little to change his stance on the subject. Many people excelled at doing things they hated. (In a Head meeting, a joke about Elga would have been said by Sam, Ying or the ghost herself now. Gerald was so used to the routine he almost came up with one himself, out of reflex) He didn''t actually hate the ghost, of course, nor any of his other peers, though his opinion of Sam was closer to Leon''s than Aya''s, and there was no love lost between him and John. Hate, to repeat an old saying, was a strong word. And, in any case, his relationship was Elga was far too amicable to be described as hateful, if not entirely professional. All this took a negligible amount of time to think of. Gerald''s mind was currently boosted to be capable of navigating tens of billions of light years in seconds, as well as fighting beings moving at such speeds, if necessary. The Shaper had given him to understand that Vyzhaldi were prone to both starting(and ending) fights and ramping up while exerting themselves, which they could do endlessly. And, while they were less than five hundred times faster than light at baseline, they could jump in speed by orders of magnitude, especially if confronted by faster opponents. ''We assure you,'' the Shaper answered the Multitude of Minds'' representative, drawing the Unscarred''s hand back and closing it. ''That this was not intended to be a joke. We do, in fact, have access to Grey One-or at least had, until our attempt at returning it to spacetime.'' ''And what are we supposed to understand, that you lost it?'' The telepath sounded more disappointed than angry. ''How did that happen? Surely not through a technical error. Unless our information is entirely incorrect, Zhayvin science...'' as it (unknowingly? At least he believed his mind was inaccesible to it, but he hadn''t gotten the alien''s measure) echoed Geralt''s earlier thoughts, the mage himself checked their surrounding. Nothing. There was no sign of the grey alien in this forsaken galaxy, nor any of the nearby ones. Nothing in the aether, either-and, judging by how the Engine subtly spun the sphere at its centre, it hadn''t found anything either. Dammit. ''Reliability is, indeed, one of our main concerns,'' the Shaper replied, and Gerald wondered if the irritation came from the accusations of trickery, or the fact they''d lost Grey One, thus ruining what should''ve been a moment of triumph. ''Even as we speak, we are looking into-'' ''But you haven''t found anything.'' The telepath interrupted, causing the Unscarred''s jaw to snap shut. ''...Not yet, no,'' the Shaper confirmed through clenched fangs. The telepath swayed side to side, taking in those present, and Gerald felt its mind brush against his. ''So you say, but we have no proof "Grey One", as you called it, was ever present, much less mysteriously lost.'' Blue light made its body glow from the inside. ''What were your intentions organising this meeting, Zhayvin?'' One of the Vyzhaldi, a golden-shelled, red-eyed one covered in dull, purple scars, asked. ''Were you hoping to distract us by gabbing, then take us down in one fell swoop? It will not work.'' Unlike Gerald, the Shaper didn''t look ready to start tearing at its hair, but only because the Unscarred had none. There had to be something they could do to salvage this... ''Our intentions remain as they were: non-hostile,'' the Shaper said. ''Perhaps,'' the Xhalkhian replied. ''Not hostile, but certainly disruptive.'' ''We fail to see how.'' ''Do you? Think of the eons you spent cowering in Terra''s core. Did you expect the cosmos to stop in its tracks because you became hermits? The universe has accepted your isolation, and evolved beyond it,'' the Xhalkhian might have been aiming for reasonable, but the Shaper was certainly feeling condescended to, going by the Unscarred''s red eyes. ''It has outgrown you. The species that have grown in our shadows only half-remember you, and then as legends of warmongers.'' ''Do you have a point?'' ''Why reach out now? Why disrupt this order when, according to yourself, you want neither resources nor territory?'' ''There are reasons to collaborate beyond the material. We are not surprised you feel disturbed, however: how can you not love the status quo when you embody it? Or perhaps you are frightened by our prowess? Has your dismay grown into fear?'' And now it was coming to insults, and the Global Gathering''s people hadn''t even arrived. Bloody... ''You cannot be that foolish, Zhayvin-'' ''Let us ask you a different question, then.'' For a diplomat from a people who prized unity and harmony, the telepath sure liked talking over others, Gerald thought in annoyance. ''Grey One has been on Terra for dozens of its solar rotations, wasn''t it?'' ''Indeed. So?'' ''But you only asked us to meet now?'' The telepath''s mental voice was slightly sardonic. ''After who knows what the Terrans have done to it? After you, by your own admission, modified it?'' ''You misunderstand.'' The Shaper seemed to have slightly calmed down, now that it could slip into the role of a teacher. ''We only "modified" Grey One in the sense that we undid the malign changes it underwent due to an unknown malevolent chronokine. As for the others it interacted with while on Earth, no harm was done to it, to our knowledge.'' The telepath''s bulbous upper body swayed side to side, giving Gerald the impression of a human wringing their hands...or cracking their knuckles. ''You call us here after ages of silence. Our Minds have blossomed in your absence, Zhayvin. You talk and talk, until creatures beyond spacetime come here, attempting to destroy us. Were you disappointed, when they failed?'' ''As we told the Motherguard,'' the Shaper''s voice was deadpan. ''We had no intention of ambushing, killing, capturing, threatening or otherwise doing any of you harm. That was a coincidence. Aberrant entities find it easier to enter reality in deep space. And if we had been wishing you ill, why would we have fought them alongside you?'' ''Perhaps, after you realised how feeble your catspaws were, you hoped to draw suspicion away from you. In that case, you failed. You did not even destroy them after unmaking their realm, instead merely opting to capture them.'' ''For research.'' ''And power, doubtlessly. Are they not one and the same, in your view? The Xhalkhian,'' it bent towards the incorporeal alien. ''Lamented the reach of your ambition. Or do you deny that too?'' ''We are ambitious, not monstrous. We wished for acces to all of existence in order to better protect it.'' The Shaper sounded close to frustration. ''Surely you can discern our intentions? Your people are known for alloying together beings of radically different mindsets.'' ''Flattery will get you nowhere, Zhayvin.'' ''It is good, then,'' the Shaper snapped. ''That we were merely stating facts. Our intentions are benevolent. It seems, however, that you are unable to judge people whose minds you cannot pry into.'' ''Wait!'' Gerald raised his voice, having gotten the feeling the telepath was doing the equivalent of curling its lip. The mage slowly began walking towards it, hands raised to show he meant no harm. If they even wanted to believe that now... ''Can you discern false memories, ambassador?'' It cocked its upper half at him. ''Why does that interest you, aetherkine?'' ''You cannot read my mind, because I am protecting it. However, I could let you in.'' Ignoring the wave of alarm the Engine sent through the aether at him, his eyes turned steely. ''If I showed you something only a handful of people have ever learned and lived, would you believe us?'' ''...even assuming you do not intend to trap or kill our mind, our quarrel is not with you, Terran. As we understand, you are only here to provide securityfor the mediators about to arrive. Our quarrel is with the Zhayvin.'' ''The Reptilian Collective is a member of the Global Gathering,'' Gerald retorted. ''Which Abnormal Research and Combat protects. If you can trust me, you can trust them. We stand together.'' ''Do you, though?'' The telepath sounded skeptical in Gerald''s mind. ''We have been given to understand that most Terran polities are rivals, and the Zhayvin Collective is rather more unusual than most. Certainly isolated from the rest.'' And how do you know so much about Earth, anyway? How long have you been observing, maybe infiltrating us? ''Nevertheless, the Collective does not stand on its own. ARC is as impartial a Terran faction as you will ever find,'' some edge found its way into his voice. ''So you can judge my trustworthiness yourself, or we might as well return home.'' Unless one of you wants to start a war over the supposed ambush. The telepath didn''t say anything, but the tension left its body language as Gerald lowered his mental shields. It could not control him, or even plant suggestions- that was a passive defence Gerald couldn''t have lowered if he had wanted to, and he didn''t even intend to show it too much; nothing of ARC''s operations, at least-but, unless it was stupid, it wouldn''t do something so stupid and needlessly provoking. Would- *** [REDACTED] Shelter, Manchester, 1960 Four-thousand-four-hundred, referred to by fellow Chosen as Forto, due to his stolid disposition, was meeting with one of the Caretakers today. As he walked the featureless halls, meant to both confuse infiltrators and prevent attachment from forming, the six-year-old dwelled upon today''s Saying. It was hardly more cheerful than the allegedly warm beige walls, but at least more stimulating. The Daily Sayings were pieces of advice and warnings meant to guide and shape the Chosen''s souls, just as the Caretakers shaped their minds and souls. Together, these birthed magic. ''It does not matter where you are,'' one of the always-nameless Caretakers, a grey-haired, muscular, middle-aged woman with a face so bland it only stood out due to its severity, had said, walking among them as they had stood in rows, in a room reserved, today, for education. Sometimes, it seemed to Forto that there were too many rooms, of too many different sizes and designs, for all of them to be contained in a single building. Forto had never seen it from outside(or any other building, for that matter, outside the stimulant trances), but he had read about buildings, and the Shelter had single rooms larger than any building in the databases. ''For you could be moved at any moment, wherever and whever you are needed. You do not recognise this place, anyway,'' a black-gloved hand, whispered by the younger Chosen to bear no sign of the failures it had strangled, had gestured at the windowless walls. ''Nor would you remember it if you left. Your future is to be determined. As for your past...'' slate-grey eyes had swept across the Chosen. The aspirant mages were not all young, as Forto had been given to understand he was, being, at six, the oldest in the batch of a hundred mages he had been brought in alongside. According to the Caretakers, he had been two at the time. Going by their expressions, they would''ve liked his magic to awaken earlier, so he could be more easily moulded, but it wasn''t like Forto remembered anything before the Shelter. ''...one must never forget where they come from.'' The Caretaker had referred to the Shelter, of course, not the pasts of the Chosen themselves. Their old lives had ended with their arrival to the building, as all Chosen understood. As for the defective ones... There had once been a brown-skinned Chosen, with a silver beard and hairless head, older-looking than any Caretaker Forto knew. The man had, Forto had heard, lost his legs in the War that had led to the Shattering, and the arrival of magic in the modern world. His magic had been healing. Magic had been weaker, less refined in those days, save for a few outliers. The bearded man''s magic had allowed him to heal the injuries and diseases of those he touched, though he could not heal himself, to the frustration of the Caretakers, who had to move him around. He also lost the quantity of flesh needed to fill in others'' wounds, which also necessitated the need to constantly feed him immense quantities of nutrients. ''I d-d-don''t mind,'' the former soldier had once hissed through permanently-chattering teeth, in the dark of the dorm room. ''H-H-Healing people. B-But they...'' he had spat, or perhaps choked. ''They''re cruel. They shouldn''t be allowed to take us and-'' The man had disappeared before he could finish. The next day, Forto had found what remained of him in one of the infirmaries, hands and jaw permanently stretched open by wires. His glassy eyes saw nothing anymore. ''Chosen should not spread dissent among themselves,'' one of the Caretakers had explained, patting the shell. ''It stunts all your development.'' He had then launched into an explanation of how the lobotomite''s jaw was forced open in order to allow the passing of biological matter. ''Come here after you eat, and spare the plumbing. Spare yourselves a checkup.'' The doctor had shaken his head. ''Shame we didn''t realise anything organic worked. Could have saved much on food. But then, we didn''t realise cognition was superfluous, either. Just enough to react to stimuli, and heal those it touches... live and learn, my dears.'' Forto reached the double doors to the Caretaker''s office, and a genderless, flat voice bade him enter before he could knock. He was unsurprised to find the room contained nothing but grey-white mist, just like the silhouette of the Caretaker. ''Hello, Four-thousand-four-hundred,'' the Caretaker said, approaching him. ''Congratulations on passing your pain law. You are as obedient as you are versatile.'' Forto had, at the direction of another Caretaker, used his magic to create a law that made other Chosen freeze up in crippling pain whenever they thought about disobeying the Shelter''s rules. ''Thank you, Caretaker.'' Nodding, the Caretaker reached into something Forto could neither see nor sense-a pocket reality?-, and pulled out to photos. One showed a grimly-smiling man in a suit and tie, hair combed to two sides. The other showed an older, frailer-looking man, looking at the photographer with a wary gaze. Nothing below his spotted neck could be seen. His hair almost covered his eyes, but something told Forto it had less to do with a chosen hairstyle, and more due to the absence of a barber, or lack of ability to groom himself. ''Kill these men,'' the Caretaker ordered. ''They are threats to Britain.'' The nigh-mythical United Kingdom said to contain the city-a conglomeration of buildings, thoroughfares and something called parks-of Manchester, in which the Shelter was allegedly located. ''How do you want them to die, Caretaker?'' Forto asked, knowing this particular Caretaker liked explaining things, even without being asked. ''In order to give them fitting deaths, you must understand their lives. This man,'' the Caretaker shook the photo of the man in the suit. '' Was a hero of the Second World War. He helped us defeat our enemies. However...'' was that a note of regret in their tone? ''He has refused to get rid of his counterproductive orientation. Rather than pass on his genes and ensure his intelligence lives on, he desires to cavort with other men. Now, that alone would be deplorable,'' the regret gave way to annoyance. ''But, since the Shattering, rituals of destruction centred around bodily excretions have spread. As such, he even declines to donate sperm. We have managed to discredit him and his kind, to the point he cannot even find partners anymore. However, to stop this tendency in its tracks before it can disrupt the fabric of our nation, we must ridicule it. Atrocity never stands up to satire. This way, we will ward off other men contemplating whether to give up on women or not.'' ''How should he die, then?'' *** Bletchley Park, Milton Keynes, 1960 ''It''s alright, kid,'' Turing promised through a pained grimace he had probably meant as a grin, trying to push his child away. ''Sorry for scaring you. I''m just...tired.'' The Argument Engine, a metre-tall metallic humanoid, hesitantly stepped back, the clack of its feet on the wooden floor accompanied by the whirring of gears, almost drowning out the quiet humming at its core. ''Please stop, Alan,'' it begged its father. It had gotten the cyanide tooth out in time, but what next? ''They''ll change their minds, I promise!'' Alan laughed, eyes closed, running a sweaty, trembling hand through matted hair. ''You can''t promise anything for them, honey. But don''t fret. This isn''t the first time I almost died.'' ''...But you were beaten on the other occassions. You didn''t do anything yourself.'' Its voice, an echo of its father''s, was modulated, so stuttering was impossible, but the hesitation was still palpable. ''Sorry...'' Alan rubbed his arms. ''I appreciate your presence, but...I''ve been feeling lonely.'' The Engine uncomfortably scanned the workshop. One would have thought the appearance of fairytale creatures among the population would spread diversity, not... ''They''ll change the laws. I have calculated the chances of social mores changing in the next thirty years, and they came out at seventy percent.'' ''That sounds good,'' Alan said, walking over to one of the benches and laying down. ''Talk more when I wake up?'' ''Sure thing, dad,'' the Engine answered, and left. Alan couldn''t sleep with the sound of clockwork in his ears. Otherwise, he enjoyed debating with his child almost as much as he enjoyed its contributions to his work. This, the Engine told itself, did not make it a toy to be used for amusement, then put aside when it became inconvenient. Its father merely had his...sensibilities. (This was the first and last time the Engine worried about offending someone. Or it would have been, if it hadn''t remade itself) *** The Engine was drawn back to the workshop by a feeling of wrongness. Its father hadn''t slept his usual six and a half hours, and he would be irate if it woke him up out of baseless worry, but something felt...off. Nothing that had, or could register on the artificial intelligence''s sensors. Rather, the closest thing to a hunch its mechanical mind could feel. The scene that greeted it was as macabre as it was absurd. That was its first assessment. The macabre part was obvious enough. What child wouldn''t be horrified at the sight of their father''s corpse? It was literally soulless, and yet... The second part took it a moment to analyse. Absurd, yes, but not in the sense of being comical. Unlikely, rather. Ridiculous. Darkly humourous, at best. The Engine wasn''t laughing. Alan had bent forward until his spine had snapped, so that he was folded in half. Since the end of the War, and the Shattering-though, as the years passed, there were fewer and fewer reasons to count them separately-, Alan had retreated to Bletchley Park. It shouldn''t have been his, but, as a guft for his service that doubled as a silent request to change... With dismal clarity, the Engine noticed the piece of paper on the floor, next to the bench. It bore its father''s handwriting, his fingerprints, his smell... But it couldn''t, wouldn''t be fooled. It had been built to reason, to notice and pick at loopholes and flaws in every structure and system. ''A suicide note...'' the Engine whispered, breaking into an abject chuckle, despite itself. ''A suicide note...!'' Laughing as only someone with nothing to lose could, the Engine ripped and tore at its body, before gripping its conponents and tossing them out. It would remake itself, to be better, faster, stronger. Or, rather, rebuild everything else, so it had never happened. As far as most people were concerned, the Argument Engine had created itself at the beginning of creation. Even those who knew the truth that had never been didn''t realise what its powers were-that it could and did whisper in the Dreamer''s ear, changing the Dream so it was more than just another still image within it-save for very, very few. After all, a child who couldn''t save their parents was worthless. Someone who had no right to exist, and thus, never had. The Engine might have seemed caustic to some, but it was as harsh to everyone else as it was to itself. *** ''Do you want to know who they were?'' the Caretaker asked after the deed was done. Forto allowed himself a shrug. ''If you choose to tell me, I will listen.'' ''What a dutiful boy...'' they sounded amused. ''The first man was Alan Turing. You do not know much of him, yet, but you will learn.'' Forto nodded. The name, indeed, meant nothing to him. ''The second,'' the draft dodger who had, paradoxically, turned to crime after being released from jail. Worse, the man had been a sellout, giving away his only son in exchange for avoiding future imprisonment. ''Was your father.'' *** The one who had once been the four thousand and four hundredth to be Chosen stood in the ashes of his former life, watched by two monsters: one mechanical and self-made, one human only in its humours. ''Chin up, Forto,'' the Handyman briefly stopped whistling, hands folded. ''You''re free now.'' ''I don''t understand,'' he confessed to the two destroyers, stepping forward through the grey dust. ''We...'' he gestured at the Shelter''s remains. ''Only served Britain. Were we found inadequate?'' A low, long growl came from the floating chrone sphere surrounded by concentric rings. ''You don''t...you don''t even remember, do you, you worthless little twat? You''re innocent-'' ''Engie,'' the Handyman said soothingly. ''I''ll take it from here. Ahem...'' it turned to Forto. ''The Chosen''s contributions to national security are known and duly recorded. However, while keeping mages in extreme conditions is indeed conducive to the development of their power, your strategy has turned against you.'' ''Our strategy...?'' ''Ha...'' the Handyman seemed to grin. ''Did you really think seeding Chosen among the population wouldn''t backfire when they had kids with other mages? Britain has more mages than it knows what to do with. That means more magical crimes, and where are these blasted sprogs coming from, anyway? Oh, wait!'' it gestured at what had been the Shelter. ''A convenient scapegoat! Cult kidnaps and brainwashes mage children to influence Britain from the shadows! Only the brave Knights of New Camelot, helped by their allies in ARC, can stop them.'' Why tell him this? Were they planning on killing him, too? Surely they had to, since he knew...''I see no Kni-'' ''They''re handling the cleanup, you shit-gargling foreskin,'' the machine cut him off. ''But do not worry your pretty little head. We have uses for serial killers.'' ...What? *** Amazon Jungle, 1963 Whenever the loop circled back, Elga experienced a brief moment of weightlessness. That might have sounded odd, from the perspective of anyone who wasn''t a ghost, but she knew the difference between incorporeality and nonexistence, and paradoxes strayed much closer to the latter. She remembered Berlin. The city fallen, the Fuhrerbunker breached. She remembered her friend-a codebreaker of her calibre hadn''t warranted a bodyguard-, Gerald, jumping in front of the Soviets, before... She remembered pain. She remembered being filled and pierced, praying for a bullet. When death came, it was too quick to even feel relieved. Not that relief would have lasted long, had it come. Always, after her death, Elga lingered on Earth, but not that of her time. Mind frayed, she fled, as far back in time and space as her newfound powers could take her. Always, she ended up in Brazil. Why Brazil? Truly, she didn''t know. She''d barely even thought about the country during her life, and never beyond the fact it existed. It was never the Brazil of her-former-time, either. It was always the prehistoric area that would become the country dozens of millennia later. And it was always, always nightmarish. She remembered feeling, on some primal level, something in reality shifting. Or...cracking? Right before her death. A sensation that nothing was impossible anymore. Maybe it was the fabled Odic Force, finally returning to its rightful Aryan users? And then the tribes found her. Men and women with brown skin and dark hair, uncaring of the slurs she threw at them, for they had no language. And, even if they recognised the hostility, they never reacted. They could tell she was scared, she''d later realise. Lashing out like a wounded, cornered animal. How ironic that the people she decried as apes had minds clearer than hers. They were led by shamans, by witch doctors...no. Elga knew, though her mind was always frayed, that she was just trying to impose the labels of false, supersitious mystics on people who could use real magic. People whose eyes and veins and mouths shone with white fire that didn''t burn them. Always, her arrival drew some of the tribes'' younger hunters. Always looking for things they could bring back to their mage masters, to bolster their power, they were attracted by the flash of light, and the ectoplasmic trail her ghostly form left in the air as she rushed through the jungles, crazed. So brash, so eager to please...so quick to fall into pits or off cliffs, too focused on the ghost. Many millennia later, stories of a dead German woman who lured men to their doom would spread among the Brazilians. Was Elga aware of what she was creating, or did her legend reach backwards through time to shape her undeath, and thus itself?Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Yes. She was eventually found by the mages, who bound her with artifice, with spells, with alchemy that made her feel heavier than the world itself, for all that she weighed nothing. To prevent further clashes between their tribes, they passed her to each other, using her ectoplasm as fuel for their rituals. It always left her feeling diminished, though not as much as the mages'' more personal attention. Through it all, she watched the people, unable to do anything more. They were, she could see, just as scared and-though they didn''t wear chains-trapped as she was. Scared of their masters. Scared of war, such as it was, in this primitive time, erupting again. There were fears she had lost that she could read in their eyes, too. Fear of starvation. Of thirst. Of predators, and natural disasters. Of elders passing away in the night, or infants never living past their first year. ''I lost four children,'' she once told a quiet, brooding widow, smiling sadly. ''The boys were stillborn. The girl was unable to move, and passed away at two. My husband went to war-the Great one, we called it then, the one to end them all-out of grief, and never returned. But we must cherish what we have...'' The woman didn''t know German, of course. But, through the aether, which filtered Elga''s meaning and sent it to the woman''s mind, she could understand her. Children born dead, or died sick. Husband lost in war. Must focus on good parts. The prejudices melted away, drowned in blood and tears. They were all people, suffering under the yoke of monsters, no matter their skin. The Reich...it had... It almost made the imprisonment bearable, for a few thousand years. But, eventually, Elga was dragged to a dungeon or cave, where generation after generation of warlocks visited her for more than just power. Eventually, driven mad by this neverending torment, she broke or slipped her chains, escaping. And always, her spirit found the body of a girl that would have otherwise been stillborn. The remaining memories repressed, the ghost became one with the girl, giving her life. And thus, Elga was born. *** Stepping over and through the warlocks'' remains-disrespecting their bodies and foci would do much to remove any lingering effect their magic might have left behind-Reyes looked at the ghost with a mix of pity and guilt. The one who had been Forto would not have felt either, but his years in ARC had changed him. The Handyman had warned him that it could not remove his conditioning itself, or he''d never become who he was meant to be. It had also promised freeing this Elga ghost "is gonna free you too, chap. So why not give it a go?" The Handyman may have been overly familiar, to a frankly annoying degree-"Reyes" had been the name of an old, dead war buddy of its-, but it rarely did things just because, despite what its demeanour might suggest. "She shall not perpetuate the loop anymore", his law had went. It had resulted in a mad, terrified woman being trapped in place for decades, retroactively so, until he was born and came to Berlin to free her. But it would end now. ''Hello,'' Reyes tried to smile. Recently, colleagues had suggested that he should try to look more friendly, so that people would be less reluctant to approach him. The stern cast of his face did not lend itself to this, so he focused instead on his blond hair. The Argument Engine said he looks like someone flayed a labrador and wrapped the fur around a donkey. The ghost-Elga, he reminded himself; no matter the aftermath, a relationship must be established, to foster trust and make the operation easier-does not turn to him. Instead, her head snaps around, as if she were a frightened animal. The only reason it doesn''t break is because she no longer has bones. Nevertheless, a crack filled the air. Reyes told himself it is just an after-effect of her holding onto the memories of her human body, and not the West German government changing its mind and making its disapproval known through weapons fire. They were lucky to get this operation, instead of the Hidden Eye being sent to remove Elga. At least they were on the right side of the divide... ''I''m here to help you,'' he continued. ''However, in order to break your fetters, I need you to stay calm. Can you do that for me, Elga?'' As her empty eyes widened, then narrowed, Gerald thinks this must be the first time she has heard her name in a period several times longer than human history. At least, as a ghost. At least she had a name of her own. As the mage set and removed law after law, he grew more frustrated. So frustrated, in fact, that he barely noticed when he started venting that frustration-something he''d have never even contemplated in the Shelter. He didn''t scream or course. He didn''t gesticulate, scowl or grit his teeth. Such things would''ve upset Elga, and that was the opposite of what he was hoping to achieve. His conditioning fought back, fiercer than it had even when he had first joined ARC. Reyes ignored the warnings, that is, the non-lethal effect. So what if his jaw locked and his saliva burned his tongue and throat? So what if his lungs contracted and his spine froze up, leaving him unable to move? So what if his eyes shifted between spectrums before his senses were inverted and his perception reversed? He, Reyes told himself as he tasted the light on his eyes, did not need any of that to work his magic. He knew where Elga was. He knew she needed his help, as surely as he could smell the blood rushing to his head. By the time he was finished, he didn''t even notice that his mental shackles were almost gone. Elga, her body flickering between solid-looking and pale blue-grey, semi-transparent, fell into his arms. The mage dropped to his knees, dragged down by mental exhaustion, noticing her eyes spinning wildly in her head. ''...e...ral...?'' she whispered, so quietly he wouldn''t have understood without reading her lips. He almost answered, before the final failsafe kicked in. Perhaps warded off by the fact he was still, in a way, helping Britain, the death spell woven into every Chosen''s being hadn''t activated yet. Had the change in Reyes'' psyche set it off? The mage briefly wondered that as his heart slowed down, arms growing limp. ''Gerald!'' The ghost barely spared any thought to the fact her friend barely looks like himself anymore. He was in danger, so she must help him, as he has helped her. And it was him: who else but Gerald would care about her? Elga was not adept at sharing her ectoplasm to empower others. Still, she did not need to strengthen Gerald''s magic. Just to lengthen his life. This was not the last time Gerald and Elga saved each other, only to later recover with the other berating them for being idiotically selfless. It was, however, the first. *** ''...still a spineless son of a bitch,'' the Argument Engine said, after making sure both Gerald and Elga were fine, if roughed up. ''Maybe,'' the Handyman agreed. ''But look at them, Engie...'' The Engine scoffed, then approached, to make sure Reyes didn''t infect the ghost with something. *** -it? ''...you people...'' the telepath seemed both relieved and shocked as the stream of memory ended. ''You really...'' ''Yes,'' Gerald said, wrapping his hair up in a ponytail. The Engine informed him that he looked like Deathstroke''s estranged librarian uncle. The mage was merely happy it had returned to its usual self. Furthermore, the negotiations no longer seemed doomed. *** As all organisations of a certain size, ARC had to deal with bureaucracy, and was, thus, hamstrung by red tape, though to a much lesser degree than the national agencies it grudgingly approved of. Said grudging approval was not merely the result of professional respect or comradery born from joint efforts. Rather, it was the result of the fact that ARC couldn''t operate in a country without its government''s approval. As such, it had a certain admiration for the fact most countries could look after their own backyards. Not that any country barred it from operating in its territory(anymore...), but it was good to know the locals could handle matters, thus allowing ARC to focus on unclaimed or contested areas, both on Earth and beyond. Not that countries didn''t possess lookouts and outposts of their own across creation. Far from it. But it was a far cry from the constant arguments of the Long Watch, or the USSR''s refusal to allow ARC''s presence in their sphere of influence, and tendency to silence those who called for international cooperation. The Global Gathering had started as an emergency military alliance, when the Shattering had changed the face of the world. After the worst fires had been put out, the Soviets had backed out of the alliance of convenience, in their own words, but the organisation had never disbanded. Today, all countries, from Korea to the burgeoning South-American Coalition, were members of it. It, mostly, operated on the basis of rubbing another''s back, so they would rub yours. Besides ARC, which usually spearheaded such efforts, national agencies often sent operatives to assist in international crises that didn''t directly affect them. Which was why the being that still thought of itself as Loric Szabo, despite holding the powers of several gods and more beings of fear, was currently hovering over New Zealand. After tests had proved he was still sane-inasmuch as Szabo could be-and loyal to ARC-as long as they helped keep his reputation alive, and published his memoirs if he was incapacitated(he had no illusions that they''d be heavily edited and censored if they ever became public information instead of being lost or erased; hence the other caches of memoirs set to be released upon his death)-, Szabo had been sent on this mission as a sort of rite of passage. How would he act with the new powers at his fingertips? Szabo danced and sang in synchronisation with the motion and crash of the waves below, walking on moonlight. The song was without lyrics, rhythm, or instruments to accompany it. It could even be called meaningless. Szabo kept singing of himself, waiting for the chief of Te Parepare to arrive. Despite leading a national supernatural law enforcement agency, the being refused to adopt a single, fixed name, alias, or even appearance, to the exasperation of New Zealand''s government. But then, how could absurdity itself be constant? It began with stillness. Waves, wind, the land and the magma below, particles...everything stopped, like a piece of paper that had been fluttering in the wind before being grabbed. Then, someone began to draw on it. It was a mere outline, at first. Something made of white lines, bipedal, though it could have never been mistaken for human. The legs were too short, the chest too broad, the arms too long, almost brushing the land near its paws. Aoraki was far from the tallest mountain Szabo had seen, on Earth alone. Still, it was over thrice the height of Mount K¨¦k¨¦s in his country, standing at nearly four kilometres. Despite this, it barely passed the bottom of the creature''s soles. Szabo shook his head, grinning. It was practically straddling the island-country, just to make a flashy entrance. The being drew itself back-it had been hunching forward, he saw-and stood straight. Eldritch light flowed into its form from nowhere, swirling like white fire, with dozens of colours, only some visible, flickering at its extremities. A monstrous grin split its otherwise featureless face, hundreds of kilometres above the ground, and it tilted its head to look at Szabo. ''Is that you, Loric?'' it chuckled, leaning forward, clawed hands on misshapen knees, head upside down. ''New look, and on the inside too, I see. It''s quain to see you using inhuman resources again.'' ''Necessity,'' Szabo replied, shrugging, as one of his sleeves began wailing piteously. He stuffed his hands in his pockets in response. ''You know I hate relying on outside power, but...'' ''It would''ve eaten you otherwise,'' the being finished, then laughed. ''And it''s still eating at you! What a universe we live in-a sadist like you with the power of fear in his hands, and not even wanting it!? One might even call it... absurd.'' Szabo had often been accused of being flamboyant and theatrical, but he firmly believed he didn''t even compare to this creature. Even its motivation was ridiculous-absurd, as it would''ve loved to say. For an eldritch being to help people out of the goodness of its heart would''ve been nonsensical, which was why it did it. Even its names, which it never stuck with for long, referenced absurdity and laughter: Hea''hea, Wawau, Wakahihi, Katakata. All Maori-it held a certain appreciation for their culture and language-, all of them... Szabo pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Looking for patterns was exactly what it wanted. ''What shall I call you today?'' ''Hmmm...'' it made a show of tapping its-still upside down-chin with a long, clawed finger, thicker than some mountains were tall. ''Hmmmm~'' ''Something eldritch, maybe?'' He suggested. ''That also hints at your nature? Ryd''yk, maybe?'' ''Oh!'' Its head snapped back to its prior position. ''Oh!'' It jumped up and down, shaking every celestial body in the universe but leaving Earth unharmed. ''Ooooo~'' Across New Zealand, comms began blaring, jolting Te Parepare agents awake or making them jump up, alert. ''Wake up, babes, new nickname just dropped~'' Snickering discordantly at the groans and exclamations of "fuck you, boss!", Ryd''yk clapped its hands excitedly. Palms dripping red and eyes glowing green-a cluster of new lights had appeared in the middle of what passed for its face-, it smiled at Szabo, tongue lolling out of its mouth. ''Mmm~ it''s not eldritch unless an apostrophe is abused, is it? They''re like the schoolgirls of language, you know.'' ''If you say so,'' Szabo said. ''Have you heard more from Kriegblitz?'' How could she be late, anyway? ''Oh, she''s not coming, Loric.'' Ryd stretched its arms above its head, and brought six wriggling tentacles down, one pointing at the creature of fear. ''Her efforts are needed elsewhere.'' ''What for?'' ''International security~'' Ryd blew a kiss, tongue still dangling out of its mouth as an airplane, the pilot long used to its antics, passed through it, the eldritch being making sure the passage was harmless. ''Something important, my dear.'' ''More important than Ubermensch?'' Ryd''s grin waned. ''If you ask me...'' *** Fourth Reich, ten thousandth year of the Uberfuhrer''s rule Wolfgang Gerhard had always considered himself the most detached member of his former fellowship. The others had been stunted by addiction, superstition, cruelty...even honour. That was not to say Wolfgang was entirely flawless. Only by transcending all creation could one reach such a state. But, even when he had administered the gas, he''d never let his passion overtake his reason. Which was more than he could say about... everyone else, but especially the former man he had come to see. As he moved his drone through the parallel universe, Wolfgang took note of the National Socialist imagery on everything, from buildings and landmarks to rivers and the moon itself. Would poor Adolf have gone this far, with this much power? Perhaps. Perhaps. Alas, they''d never talk again now... Wolfgang''s drone, which resembled a beetle only in shape, recorded every sight, sound and smell. It would not do to miss evidence that could be used for updating his psychological profile. The car-sized artificial insect touched down in the centre of Berlin''s replica, legs brushing the tips of a swastika. He was waiting for him, Wolfgang noticed. He was not surprised. The last time they''d seen each other...heavens, but it had been nearly a century, hadn''t it? Wolfgang remembered a lean man, high forehead giving way to dark hair, eyes shining with lust for more than flesh and wealth. "It''s all about power, Herr Doktor. All forms of domination-physical, intellectual, sociopolitical...they''re all power, in different forms." He wondered if he still held onto those words. If he even remembered them. Had he changed so much as to forget? Physically, he was unrecognisable. The universe he had created and shaped was arguably the most ambitious midlife crisis Wolfgang-who had learned such things were ageless-had ever seen. But was that an indication? ''Rei Enxame,'' the Uberfuhrer greeted, hands behind his back. At over two metres tall, with a long blond mane and moustache, he looked like the warriors of the dreams they had once shared, especially in the grey and black uniform. There were so many eagles, swastikas and thunderbolts on it, Wolfgang could hardly see the medals. ''Ubermensch,'' Wolfgang replied, taking in the figures cowering behind the giant of a man. Long noses, thick lips, jutting brows and skins of every colour and texture, except that most beloved one. The city was full of them, and, though they all looked like normal humans, there was an emptiness in their eyes and minds Wolfgang could not help but notice. The man''s smile widened. ''Please. Let us drop the formalities, Josef.'' Wolfgang almost sucked in a breath, despite the distance, despite the fact he was not even there. ''As you wish, Oskar.'' He paused. ''How did you recognise me?'' Dirlewanger laughed, turning around with a flourish of his trench coat. As he walked, shadow the empty people, their bodies twisted and writhed, until they resembled the propaganda carricatures that had once been widespread more than anything human. There was no scream of pain at the accelerated mutation, nor of horror at their new bodies. Josef began to doubt they even had the capacity. ''How could I forget your mastery of flesh, Doktor?'' Oskar did not look at him. ''It seems you have moved to insects, though. Efficient creatures, or so I''ve heard, for animals. No wonder you feel kinship with them!'' Mengele''s current primary form, back on Earth, frowned. This was Oskar, alright. ''Why didn''t they react when you changed them?'' There was a paranormal force at work here, Josef could tell. Not magical-he could detect neither mana nor shifts in the aether-, but unnatural nevertheless. ''Ha!'' Oskar threw his head back. ''I am the dream Adolf''s weakness cost us, Josef! I am the Odic Force incarnate!'' Oskar whirled around, pointing a warning finger at the drone. '' Not Himmler''s false god! The wretch is a subhuman slave, trading favours for the worship of worms!'' ''So, you can do whatever you want?'' Oskar chuckled. ''You could say that. The truth is, however, that these creatures are unfeeling, without the illusion of sentience subhumans attribute themselves.'' Because otherwise, your lair would be stormed. You are not allowed to create thinking beings, so you slake your appetites this way, murdering, tormenting and raping these...automatons. ''I''ve read about you, Oskar. I know you cannot fully indulge yourself, or the world will fall upon you like a hammer.'' Oskar scoffed, but Josef pressed on. ''I know time passes as you wish here, so tell me: how did it come to this?'' Oskar''s blue eyes were curious as he looked at the drone. ''Why ask? Why come now? Nostalgia?'' ''If you wish,'' Josef allowed. ''I am awaiting deployment, and sought to sate my curiosity in the meantime.'' ''Deployment...'' Oskar''s lips curled around the word. ''I see all who walk in Adolf''s footsteps, Mengele. But not you. You no longer believe, do you?'' ''Racial supremacy has been proven wrong,'' Josef said, bristling at the accusatory tone. Otherwise, we would have won. ''I-'' ''Whose flag do you walk under, then? The Americans''? The Soviets''? Some worse vermin''s?'' Josef sighed. ''Do you remember Brazil?'' ''Brazil...you threw your lot in with those brown-skinned sons of bitches, Josef? With Latinos? How''d they torture you, you dickless race traitor?'' Josef made the drone back up, despite himself, as Oskar stomped his way closer, seething. ''No torture-I tried to change my identity and lay low-'' ''Coward!'' ''-but they found out. It was this, or death. I helped revolutionise agriculture, medicine, genetic enginee-'' ''All you piss-blooded retards fled to South America,'' Oskar sneered, ignoring Josef''s accomplishments. ''But at least most of you had the decency to die. You should''ve drowned, Josef.'' Mengele gulped, remembering the swim that had almost ended his life. ''I did not, however. And thus...here we are.'' Josef hesitated. ''Why so many people, Oskar? Do you need that many?'' '' "People"...of course I do, you bitch. Haven''t you heard? Chernobog-the deer god of the Slavic worms-is spreading his corruption across the world. They''re all in league, obviously, so they''ll never let purity be saved, but I don''t give a damn about what animals pretend to think.'' ''So, you''re building an army?'' But wouldn''t sapience be needed for...? Did Oskar control his creations like he did his insects? ''They shall blaze a trail for me, and I will strike down that antlered rat like lightning fells a rotten tree. They need not think for that.'' But you''d enjoy it if they did. If they could fear, and hate, and worship you. But...you''re just as much a slave as any of them. Scared the subhumans you mock will come break your toys. Embodiment of Nazism or not... ''As you say. But...you know they won''t just allow this, right, Oskar? You are not welcome in the world.'' Oskar grinned skeletally. ''I never was. Do you know how I came here, Josef?'' ''I do not,'' Mengele admitted. ''How?'' *** Emil Strauss spat blood as his face slammed into the floor of what had once been the Fuhrerbunker. He did not cry in pain, for all that he had been wounded worse than ever. Not that the experience, although novel, was pleasant. Dirlewanger loomed over him with a triumphant grimace, an arm flashing down to grab Emil by the throat. The ARC agent struggled, but neither his magic nor his strikes, despite the mana behind them, could harm whatever Oskar had become. There had been whispers of archetypal empowerment, when Oskar had first appeared, or rather reappeared. Killed shortly after capture, he, or something that perfectly aped him, but far more powerful, had appeared in Berlin a few days ago, wreaking havoc. This revenant, if that was what he was, might or might not have been the embodiment of Hitler''s ideals. Whatever the truth, he was powerful. ''Thule Society,'' Oskar spat. ''You were a relic before we even rose. Were you one of Himmler''s faggots, boy? One of his whores? Did you like taking it up the arse from him? Did he make you feel like a woman?'' Emil''s bad luck magic crashed against Oskar like waves against a shore, achieving nothing. Mana that would have razed Earth sparked harmlessly against his blue, blue eyes. ''Let go of him, bastard.'' Both men turned to look at Equilibrium, one grinning, the other bloodied, with eyes swelled shut. The portly Chinese woman was dressed in a dress that would''ve appeared ordinary, if not for the Internal Affairs emblem over her right breast. ''Aww~ look, Emil, the chink thinks it can make demands! How can you be so old and yet so stupid?'' he asked Equilibrium. ''You''ve spawned before, I can smell it. Who was it who fucked that puffy sideways cunt? Was it a man, or one of your yellow weasels? Did he chop his balls off after? I''d become an eunuch too, with only sows like you to fuck.'' ''Let him go,'' she repeated, not reacting to the tirade. ''Do not make this worse than it has to be.'' ''Your kind existing is torture enough for people,'' he growled. ''And I can see whatever pig knocked you up didn''t teach you respect, cow. Was it even a man at all? You talk like a dyke.'' Equilibrium caught Emil as he flew, before placing him behind her. Without a word, she leapt at Dirlewanger, her power enhancing her body to the point it was an even fight. Hands that, by themselves, could have merely broken the moon in half clashed against fists that would have shattered Earth, enhanced by the power of balance. Even as Oskar drew more and more upon what he embodied, flinging storms, force and nothingness at her, Equilibrium met him in kind, nullifying everything. ''You cannot win,'' she smiled coldly. ''I am merely stalling for time, until reinforcements arrive.'' ''Slavs and gooks!'' he roared. ''I''ve seen who hold your leashes: the mongrel mud sow, the undead she-monkey, the junkie chink snake...!'' Oskar caught a punch thousands of times faster than light without looking. Pushing Equilibrium back, he snarled at the ceiling, where ARC and the Hidden Eye had arrived. ''Look at you niggers! I''ve heard about monkey troops, but this is ridiculous! You''d almost think you''re people, with how you''re aping our discipline.'' ''Keep ruining that mouth, freak,'' the Handyman said. ''It won''t save you.'' *** ''No one would have won, if the battle had continued.'' Oskar seemed thoughtful. Regretful, maybe? That he hadn''t fought, or that they''d lost in forty-five? ''I came here, built our shining city on the hill. In my shadow, subhumans become what they really are,'' he gestured at the group of apes that had once been a black family. ''I''ve rebuilt my Black Hunters, made them better, faster, stronger, purer. This,'' he pointed down at the street, where an Aryan warrior was standing triumphantly above a shattered sickle and hammer. ''Is how it should have ended.'' He shook his head, regaining his smile. ''But what about you? Where are your leather-skinned masters sending you?'' Oskar deserved to know about as much as Josef needed to tell him. That was to say, not at all. Not that he got the chance. ''Look at them, Loric~ pouring out their little black hearts to each other, like lovers...'' a decapodal silhouette of light sighed, hovering above them. ''Betcha like buggering each other too, to the tone of "Hitler''s One Nut".'' ''It''s very romantic, Ryd,'' replied something that only looked like a strigoi. Unlike the eldritch creature, its accent was Hungarian, tinging a series of overlapping voices. ''Stay put, Untermensch. You''re going nowhere.'' ''AGAIN YOU COME!'' Dirlewanger was actually foaming at the mouth. ''AGAIN YOU MOCK! YOU FILTHY MONGOL BYBLOW, YOU THINK YOU''RE STRONG BECAUSE YOU''VE EMBRACED THE THING THAT DRIVES YOU ANIMALS? MAGGOTS REMAIN MAGGOTS, NO MATTER HOW BIG THEY GROW!'' ''Wha-'' was all that Josef managed to get out before Oskar seized his drone, as if trying to strangle it. ''Every once in a while,'' he hissed, furious. ''The Jewish conspiracy sends its puppets after me, when it wants to distract the masses. Bread and circuses...they say I overstep my bounds, and "warn" me, "punish" me, as if I were a dog, instead of the one destined to stamp upon their cringing faces forever. They...no, even a dog is above...'' Ryd''yk turned to Szabo. ''I wish Kriegblitz was here to help us smack him do-'' ''DON''T BLATHER TO ME ABOUT WAR LIGHTNING, YOU GODDAMN INHUMAN CUMSTAIN! FUCKING DYKE NIGGER''S BITCH, TRAITOROUS-'' Josef wondered how he had ever missed these battles. He might have never been told about them, but they were certainly not quiet. *** Aya Reem closed her eyes and let herself fall backwards, expecting Thoth to catch her, but the god was gone. Must have left after teleporting David away, she told herself as she felt her lover wrap his arms around her. ''Hey, mummy,'' Samuel Shiftskin lifted her up as he sat down in her chair, kissing her neck. ''You seem tired.'' ''I only seem, you say? Good,'' she groused. ''Why''d it take you so long?'' Sam shrugged as she adjusted in his lap. ''Entering was pretty easy, but then I heard you talking with those two, and thought I''d let you handle them first. Good job, by the way.'' ''Thanks,'' she kissed his flayed brow with a lazy smile, drawing a shudder that had nothing to do with pain. ''I''m surprised you didn''t make some off-colour jokes by now.'' There had been some great innuendo material, after all. ''Heh, don''t be. I know it''d only annoy you now.'' The two sat in silence for a while. ''I feel like we''re at the final stretch, Sam.'' ''Don''t,'' his voice became more serious. ''The fight is never over, Aya. It''s only gonna get worse.'' ''We only have the cults to take down...'' ''Or so we think, before something blindsides us,'' Sam grimaced in distaste. ''The supernatural is never quiet, babe. And, if the signs are even half sincere, it''s only going to get worse. Fewer and fewer mundanes are being born-what are we gonna do when everyone''s supernatural?'' ''Change our name, probably, since none of us will be abnormal anymore.'' Sam didn''t even crack a smile at the joke. ''And that''s not all. Gerald told us about psychics appearing on Earth, and I concur. It''s all natural, too, nothing like the MK Ultra bullshit.'' Aya wondered if Grey One had ever learned about the American experiment that had attempted to splice its DNA into both mundanes and mages, to give them new powers. ''There are millions already...'' Aya said, remembering the reports of newborns who could move objects without touch or mana, of people suddenly developing remote-viewing. ''Yeah, and they might be weak now, but what about after they have kids together? And then there''s the aliens...'' Sam looked away, brooding. ''I can feel something coming, building up on the horizon. Is this how you felt, before the Shattering?'' Aya''s silence was answer enough, making Sam sigh. ''Sorry...didn''t mean to fuck up your day. Maybe it won''t be all bad?'' ''You sound like you''re trying to convince yourself, not me,'' Aya answered. ''The future is not always as bleak as it seems, my dear.'' *** This, Leon Gilles thought, was why he hated vacations, or rather, alternative patrols. He goes to Cuba to hunt some weak but slippery witches, trusting his peers and deputy to handle things, everything goes smoothly... That shoulda tipped him off. The flawless op. The world gave with one hand and took with two, as his nana, bless her heart, used to say. And then, he comes back, makes some sweet love to Becky(they fuck like animals, actually, but he tries to never think vulgar things about his wife)-even better, which should''ve prepared him for even worse-and... That cocky little vigilante shit who''d slipped through his claws, not only a prospective ARC agent, but tutored by one of his best friends, too! ''What the goddamn hell, Aya?'' he''d demanded, lowering his voice at the mummy''s wince. ''Why''d you give him a choice? You should have-'' ''Leo, please. You''ve seen his powers, his heart.'' Leon had rolled his eyes, clicking his beak. ''He''d be wasted in prison.'' ''He fuckin'' flays people, woman!'' he''d glared. ''And don''t you start with how they''re criminals and things were worse when you were growing up!'' he''d huffed, pacing, paws making thumping noises with every stomp. ''What''re ya teachin'' him, anyway?'' ''How to read,'' Aya said softly. ''Write. Properly. How to act around others, both in ARC and outside it. He''s...never had anyone to teach him. Have you read about his parents?'' Leon hadn''t. Soon, he wished he''d never learned. *** ''Listen here, you murderous bastard,'' Leon''s claws could not pierce Sam''s neck, and the wendigo wasn''t fighting back, either. In fact, he''d let Leon lift and press him up against the wall, instead of absorbing the motion''s kinetic energy. ''I can''t tell what Aya sees in you to save my life, but she loves you. If you even think about hurting her, there''ll be nothing left of you to find.'' ''If I ever think about hurting her,'' Sam whispered. ''I''ll save you the effort.'' Leon glared into his eyes, looking for signs of lying. Finding none, he let go with a scoff. Learning the motherfucker had his hands all up on Aya was bad enough, but the fact he wasn''t even pushing back was... ''You might''ve gotten into her pants, but be careful,'' Leon warned, towering over the two metre seventy wendigo by nearly a metre. ''She''s already gotten burned by a scumbag. Her ex-husband...'' ''She''s told me about Faisal.'' Sam showed his fangs. ''I''m going to find him, and kill him.'' Leon huffed, turning around and beginning to walk away. ''Take a goddamn number, Shifty.'' *** Aya often liked to joke, when they were alone, that she''d tamed and collared him. Once, Sam would have been appalled by the thought of submitting to anyone, let alone a representative of the system-in his younger self''s mind, it would have been capitalized, maybe in a sinister font too. And yet...here he was. The Dibe of yesteryear would have balked at being educated and becoming a civil servant, but Aya had thoroughly disabused him of the notion that he could help more people by ignoring the law and working alone. And if she''d left him following her around like a lovesick puppy, well, there were worse fates. Besides, making Aya happy and Gilles angry at the same time, while stomping down on monsters and getting paid for it? The dream. "...isn''t that right, Sammy?" Aya finished. "Yes, dear," be blurted out before his mind caught up to his mouth and he remembered they were in a meeting, not in bed. Elsbeth crossed her arms at this, brow furrowed, while Gerald raised an eyebrow as he cleansed his glasses. Elga''s hands flew to her mouth as she made a sound none present hated themselves enough to describe as a squeal. The (dick) Heads sitting to his left and right didn''t miss a beat, of course. ''"Isn''t that right, Sammy?" Ying snickered around his pipe. "Yeah, Sammy. Isn''t that right?" Gilles was being vindictive today. Sam glanced at his mummy, wondering if she''d forgotten about their surroundings too...then saw her turning to chat with Tamar with a smile, and couldn''t stop one from spreading across his face, too. "You know what? Seeing her happy makes up for everything you assholes can think of," the wendigo said, making Ying pull back, looking thoughtful. Gilles, meanwhile, seemed to have lost his enthusiasm. "Well, it''s no fun if you just go along with it..." *** ''Yeah,'' Sam agreed, hugging her tighter. ''I was sure you were going to boot my ass out any moment.'' He closed his eyes. ''I''m happy we got Szabo sorted out. That twisted bastard was enough of a pain without fucking diet Nacht powers.'' Aya squeezed one of Sam''s hands, saying nothing, just like he did. His flayed flesh might have hurt, but he preferred to show his true colours around her("Ugly as fuck and red all over, love. But you''ve already dropped your standards through the Earth''s core by smiling at me, so...please have mercy?"). ''I know you hate him.'' ''I go around wearing scumbags to scare people into behaving. He does it because he loves it-and, at the risk of repeating myself, it''ll only get worse from now on.'' ''I''ll stop him if worst comes to worst.'' Sam smiled. ''I know you will, mummy.'' ''The others are probably happy it ended peacefully, too,'' she thought out loud. ''Oh, definitely. I''d bet my nuts Gilles and Ying are balls-deep in their wives right now.'' ''Sam...'' ''Fine, fine, I won''t bet my nuts,'' he winked. ''Ying might well be balls-deep in a husband, for all I know.'' Aya rolled her eyes, but smiled. ''What about Hex and Nacht?'' ''Those two? Fuck knows. I''m their boss, not their psychiatrist.'' His next words were whispered. ''They''re like women: I don''t understand a single damn thing about them.'' Aya''s eyes were half-lidded as she sealed the room''s entrances, beginning to unwrap her bandages. ''Let me give you something to decipher...'' *** You know...'' Sam bent forward, pressing his forehead against hers, after they were finished. ''I''ve never told you this, but you were more of a mom to me than mine ever was. Thanks.'' ''You''re welcome. I never got to know my sons, either...'' she closed her eyes. ''Freud would have a field day with us...'' his expression turned more serious after the weak joke. ''After I find that snake bastard, do you want me to bring him to you dead, or just crippled?'' Aya''s mouth was close to his ear as she whispered. ''Just bring me their ashes...'' Our children...why''d you take our children? *** Roundhouse, London Miranda was forcing herself forward on stumps. She''d been running, at the very beginning, which felt like it had been an eternity ago-or, at least, as long a time as she could imagine at thirteen. Then, tired, she''d fallen onto all fours, crawling across the streets on broken limbs. The butcher had taken away even those. It was never constant. Sometimes male, sometimes female, pale, dark-skinned, tall and broad, short and hunched, but always, always smiling. Always wearing three things, too: a thick leather apron, like Jack from the old murder stories, a sack full of naughty children it had stolen from their parents, and the parts of her body it had chopped off. Sometimes, she wondered if there were multiple butchers...but she knew the truth. Her mom had been faithful. Not enough to faithcraft, to her dismay, but...bent in the head was the nicest term that came to mind. She''d wanted to throw Miranda away when her destruction magic had manifested shortly after birth, shattering her mother''s right hand and leaving her unable to weave anymore. Her dad, Milton, had convinced his wife to keep her, even as he''d run himself ragged to provide for them. It was an unusual, but not unheard of occurrence. Some mages were born with their powers and shaped by them, rather than the other way around. It had not just been the magic. It had been the "wrong" type of magic, too...even as a toddler, Miranda had been taken to charities and construction sites, to become a builder, a creator, but... Her mom, Glynda, had been devastated by her treacherous refusal. She''d learned the gods she worshipped came from deeper, darker places than Britain approved of far to late...as had her dad. Faithcrafting had come to her mother late, but in force. Her dad had never even seen it coming, before he had become a prisoner in his own twisted flesh... The butcher. It was going to take her head, she could feel it. She was gonna die and daddy was gonna live as a monster and hate himself for it forever and ever and- Light. Fire that warmed, but didn''t burn. Hands that touched her without hurting her. How long had it been, since anyone had...? ''It''s alright, girl,'' the man holding her had both armour and wings. An angel knight? ''No one is going to hurt you...or him, anymore.'' Vyrt''s eyes turned flinty. ''I''d have come earlier, but I was fighting monsters far more dangerous than your mother, though hardly crueller. Mira? Look at me.'' She did, without wondering how he knew her name. An angel...an angel... Vyrt smiled, gingerly touching her healed limbs and making her eyes dart to them. ''We''re going to visit your mother, then I''ll take you somewhere safe.'' They didn''t meet again until she was eighteen. She''d never been adopted, and Vyrt had never visited her, both because he was busy and because he didn''t want to be seen as a groomer. But when they did, the engagement soon followed. And then... *** Miranda''s eyes snapped open, and the witch glared at the ceiling. She rarely slept, and dream even less often, but when she did, she dreamt about her past. Rarely all events up to the present. Just the highlights. ''She''s dead, Mira,'' her sleepless husband whispered, rubbing the small of her back. ''Dead and burning. I promise.'' She buried her face into his chest-they might have been the same height laying down; everyone was. But she liked him taller than her-, trying not to groan. ''I know. It''s involuntary.'' ''I don''t mind.'' ''I know...'' she looked up as their bedroom shook. ''What was that?'' ''Earthquake,'' Vyrt lied smoothly, smiling. She focused her glare on him. ''In London.'' ''What, have you never heard of Earthquake Merlin...?'' Vyrt trailed off as the room shook again, making him raise a wing and tap its tip against the ceiling. ''Actually, I think that''s her...take it easier, Lady.'' ''That was some rubbish you were trying to spin,'' Miranda chided. ''Indeed. I mean, listen to me: Merlin on top?'' Miranda bit her lip, looking around. ''Isn''t he in Hell so Mordred can walk?'' ''He is,'' Vyrt''s voice turned somber. ''But he can astrally project himself, if he manages to stay quiet as our kin below get to know him. And he wants to never be apart from Nimue again.'' ''...makes you wonder how they can love each other so much, despite everything.'' ''The most unlikely bonds are often the strongest. Look at the two of us.'' ''Oh?'' ''You are a woman of principles, and I am...not.'' ''Not?'' ''A woman.'' ''That could be changed.'' ''Easily. Should it be?'' ''Maybe...'' she smirked briefly. ''What have you done this time, Vyrt?'' His face turned blank. ''My duty.'' ''Unclear, but ominous.'' ''I scared a good man with his own nightmares, and made sure he would be used as a tool of murder, to prepare him for his...'' not yet. Not yet. ''Purpose.'' ''Will he serve an important purpose?'' ''He will save everything,'' the nephilim answered. ''And everyone.'' ''...could someone else do it in his place?'' Did you offer to do it yourself, you selfless, scheming bastard? Without telling me? ''...if they could,'' Vyrt said. ''I don''t know them.'' Seeing his wife''s expression, he tried to smile reassuringly. ''Cheer up. If you think we''re a couple of misfits, you should hear about the extended family.'' ''No horror stories,'' she pointed at him warningly. ''Much like the story of creation itself, only the beginning was horrifying. But the end? Glorious...'' *** Hell, Yahweh Cluster Sklaresia was not the runt of the litter, but she wasn''t the pick, either. Luckily, her siblings and half-siblings'' intelligence seemed inversely proportional to their power, which was perhaps why she was well-rounded enough to stay ahead of the bullies. It had worked since her birth, but it seemed her luck was about to run out. Asmodeus rarely visited the nursing home she was indentured to, but often demanded her presence. She''d never met her father-one of her mother''s grandsons. According to the stories, he''d been pathetically grateful for being chosen by Asmodeus, and done everything to maintain that position. Unfortunately, her mother had grown bored, seeking newer, more entertaining sycophants, and he... ''Humans have pleasure toys like this,'' her mother had explained, turning around. ''Or they will. Honestly, if he was so eager to kiss my behind...'' She didn''t like her remaining family much. One would think more demons would be more empathetic after being exposed to so much pain, but... That was how she found herself in Asmodeus'' lap as she sat on her throne. ''Do not pout, my darling,'' Asmodeus pouted herself, running a bladed finger along Klare''s cheek. ''Did I not give you life and a purpose to fill? Ah...'' Asmodeus smiled indulgently beneath hooded eyes. ''No matter. I will forgive your ungratefulness, and fulfill your deepest wish, if you just do something for me.'' ''You will let me leave?'' ''Indeed! You just have to prove you love your mother first.'' Klare felt something prod her from behind. Fortunately, it was merely a barbed tentacle. Unfortunately... Lovely, she thought, trying to disguise the curl of her lip as an eager smile. Her mother had chosen to be a hermaphrodite. ''Come, daughter mine,'' Asmodeus simpered. ''Don''t you love your mother?'' Klare''s response was cut off as her mother kissed her. She tried not to bite down as she felt Asmodeus'' tongue force its way past her fangs. *** Palma de Mallorca, Spain To an uninformed observer, it might have looked like Miguel Fernandez was bullfighting. Understandable. The were''s animal form looked no different from a mundane bull, if a heavily-scarred, giant black one. He even moced like a normal one. But he knew the truth, as did every bullfighter and spectator. "Bullhead" Pablo had been something of an early post-shattering sensation. A vigilante and thief, he''d stolen silver "from the rich and prejudiced-but I repeat myself", so it couldn''t be used as weapons against weres, and given it to the poor. In the end, he''d been caught, but not by the authorities. The "rich and prejudiced" had given him a choice between death by silver-some had been stolen by him, then recovered-, or underground fights until death. His past and identity would have to be erased and his death faked, of course, to prevent, complications. He''d agreed in a heartbeat. And now, Miguel was going to kill him. He''d all but killed him, nearly severing his neck with a blow of his silver sword, but Pablo still clung on to life. ''Go on, kid,'' Pablo tried to become human again in his last moments, but only managed to reach his hybrid form, grinning with bloody, blocky teeth. ''Kill the monster. Show everyone how strong you are.'' Miguel had grown up reading about him-who hadn''t? He still had the books, the toys, well into his twenties. This...had been his hero. But he''d read him. He''d known he was angry. At what? His father was gone, dead by his own hand. His mother had disowned him. At the world? It sure seemed angry at him. His father had been insufferable. Breadwinner, he''d nagged his wife even as he''d pushed her wheelchair around, nagging her about being a burden. About being too much of a scared zealot to see a healing mage, and too unlucky to find a real priest. He''d slapped down all of Miguel''s protests, saying he was the man of the house, and, as long as he didn''t want to change his mind, there was no chance of it happening. The awakening of Miguel''s magic had been followed by a period of waking nightmares and sleepless nights for Miguel''s father as everything went wrong for him, until he''d gladly thrown himself onto his smiling son''s knife. His mother, healed by his hand...she''d been horrified. Sent him away. Ungrateful... And now, even his hero was mocking him. Miguel saw red. Who was this chucklefuck of a has-been to judge him? As his sword sent the werebull''s head flying, the audience stilled, then screamed, but Miguel was deaf to their cheers. Pablo was going to get up. He knew he was. He almost lost and died in every story, but always got right back up with a laugh. That was what heroes did. Right? As Miguel collected the prize money, refusing every request to stay and chat, he heard some dipshit laughing about the tears on his face. ''Dust in my eyes,'' he said, turning away as the chance of the bastard spontaneously combusting became reality. Leaving the ring behind, he returned to the surface, and his job. *** Running a casino was like being a barkeep: only interesting in movies. Especially when every moron seemed to hate having money more than the last. "Thirty percent chance to lose. Fifty. Ninety? Please, please, please..." It was the thrill, he knew, and hardly minded using his magic to lighten their pockets, but...Jesus fuck, some people... Like the one in front of him. Ninety-nine percent chance to lose(to get his rocks off), or win enough money to buy food for the kids(and then get his rocks off again). Miguel looked down at his bronze cross, then at the bloated, sweating shitbag in front of him. Everyone else, including the staff, was gawking at their table. When had it grown so stained and dull? ''Fuck this,'' Miguel said, standing up. The next day, owning only the clothes on his back and the money in his account, he walked the streets, until he heard a woman crying. ''Demoness...'' his hand went to his cross. Suddenly, it seemed not so dull anymore. *** Sklaresia preferred to discard clothes unless necessary. That the sense of foreboding had pushed her to get up while Miguel slept, much less get dressed, almost made her eager to find out the reason, and just...get it all over with. The reason waited for her in the living room, amidst her husband''s religious paraphernalia. Her uncle took in her white shirt and black pants-far more conservative than what her mother would''ve liked her to wear-and his light frown turned into a disapproving frown. ''Temptress,'' the Archangel said. ''Does it not tear you apart?'' ''What, exactly?'' she asked sardonically. There was one thing that did, but she somehow doubted he''d come to talk about that. ''To take such a broken, hurt man and twist him even more. You are staining the soul you now own, my niece. Have you no shame?'' He was already towering over her by the time she moved to him, black eyes glaring into blue ones. ''Don''t you dare,'' she hissed, one hand pressed against his armour. ''Don''t you dare. You and that old monster on the Throne did nothing while I-'' she swallowed. ''You have no right. My husband is safe with me. Happy with me.'' ''With a demon?'' His tone was skeptical as the tip of his spear burned her chest, above her heart. ''I am a good wife to him.'' ''And if the Lord says you are not allowed to taint His flock?'' ''Damn you,'' Klare crossed her eyes as the pain became sharper. ''And your lord.'' ''...right answer, aunt.'' Klare opened her eyes, the pain gone. She saw brown hair and blue eyes become grey and the spear become a crook. The smile, though, never changed, even in the face of her indignation. ''Vyrt, you shapeshifting little-'' Her strength was not held back, but rather, directed to preserve what mattered. As such, the punch that sent Vyrt flying did no damage to the surroundings. The nephilim rocketed out of the Milky Way and into Andromeda in a heartbeat, and Klare followed just as fast, crossing over two and a half million light years in less than a second. His arrival wiped out half of Andromeda, everything for tens of thousands of light years being reduced to quarks. By the time she was at the galaxy''s former edge, Vyrt had reached the depths of the supermassive black hole at its centre, and she... ...was suddenly looking at his chest, that damnable smile undaunted by the singularity. Her next punch, just as strong as the first, landed on his eye, and her hand broke. This time, he didn''t roll with the blow...but damn, had the first been satisfying. ''You are putting your back into it, aunt!'' he caugh her third punch with ease, fist shattering against his gauntleted hand. ''If you''d fought like this in Ry''lyeh, you''d have taken down many starspawn.'' ''Down with me,'' she spat. ''That was not my fight, nor have I needed to seriously hit someone in decades. And stop calling me "aunt", I''m younger than you!'' ''And a demon,'' Vyrt said. ''Metaphysics, Klare.'' Hearing her nickname from his mouth made her feel like an oily snake was crawling down her spine. ''Why the disguise? Why''d you come?'' ''To test your conviction,'' he said. ''Love is the law of Heaven, and you two...'' his smile became warmer. ''Are beloved by God. And you were wrong, aunt: it was His hand that brought you together, for everyone''s good.'' There it was again, his beloved common good. ''Vyrt...?'' ''You have my blessing, too, if you care about that,'' he promised. ''You two are endearing.'' *** ''...seriously?'' ''They needed the confidence boost, Miranda. But, if they even got together in the first place...'' Vyrt embraced her. The wall to their right trembled. ''Don''t doubt your husband, Mira! Ask him, he''ll tell you crooks always get the job done!'' ''Subtle, Vykt!'' ''Hmm? We were talking about tools, right?'' ''Like you, brother?'' *** Chernobog''s hand never wavered, even as Baba Yaga''s scrabbled against it, trying to free her throat. ''Hurting me...'' Yaga wheezed, blood dripping out of her broken, crooked nose. ''Will not undo your failures, Black God.'' ''I know,'' Chernobog said. ''But you make for good stress relief, you ugly bat.'' Yaga laughed. Her house was broken, her power to help and hinder gone...''Is this...'' she spat. ''What your brother would have wanted?'' But she was still herself. *** Chernobog covered Belobog with his body as the arrows pierced his back, his heart. None hurt as much as the pain of his brother. ''It''s over, Cherno,'' Belobog tried to smile. He always did. Even as he broke the Syncretic Treaty, to protect his followers from Yahweh''s preaching lapdogs. Even as he went to war with Heaven, and all the other pantheons-so eager to show solidarity-and his brother followed. Even as he laid dying while they converted. ''Please...stop trying...to heal me...'' ''Belo-'' ''Just...let go, please...'' Chernobog''s voice grew firmer. ''I cannot. I won''t let anyone take you from me, brother.'' And he opened his maw, silencing the scream that never ended before it could even be heard. *** ''...but you tried.'' Yaga''s eyes widened. ''W-Wait-'' ''Not only did you remind me of him,'' Chernobog''s voice was calm. ''You cast a spell. Tried to separate us, while I was distracted. You bitch.'' Spiked chains rose from his flesh, digging into hers. Yaga screamed, before the Black God broke her jaw, pushing it into her brain with a thumb. ''He made me go from mere destroyer to conqueror, but do not expect mercy.'' He brought his face closer to hers. ''Make yourself beautiful.'' ''D-Don'' w-wa-'' ''You want none of this. At least make it worth my while.'' And for the first time that night, Yaga did as she was told. Chernobog threw the young woman to the ground, where she tried to make herself tempting. He snorted, backhanding her so that she fell on her belly. ''All fours. Do you expect to be taken like a woman?'' ''...my sisters will hear of this,'' Yaga whimpered through her healed jaw. ''Like who?'' Chernobog grinned. ''The Mother of the Forest? I know they will. I hope they do. In fact...'' he tore her clothes away. ''Scream my name.'' And for the second time that night, Yaga did as she was told. It was not the last time. After Life, Chapter 9 ''The first thing you must accept, David,'' Thoth said. ''Is that order is not the natural state of existence.'' The statement rankled almost as much as the reedy laugh my strigoi side let out at it, but I had a feeling that was the point. Beyond helping me master my godsight, Thoth seemed intent upon teaching me in general. And if he could make me uncomfortable just by talking, what would happen once we got to the actual training? ''I know,'' I replied. ''I understand that.'' Thoth shook his head, pacing on nothing in the void we were floating in. The god had taken his dog-faced baboon form, but I could still tell he was slightly disappointed, no divine perception needed. ''There is knowing, David,'' Thoth-as-Aani began. ''There is understanding, and then there is believing. As a god of knowledge, I am familiar enough with all three that, I think, I can tell you they are tied to acceptance, but not the same as it.'' By now, he had sat down, though his body was bobbing up and down, swaying from side to side, even though Thoth himself wasn''t even twitching. ''Let me help you, teacher to teacher,'' Thoth extended a rough, leathery hand, while gesturing in front of himself with the other. He wanted me to sit down. On what? This place...or rather, this lack of a place? Even the void of space was bursting with activity compared to it. At least there, there were particles, radiation. And a lack of menace, like what I felt from this shifting nothingness. If anything, it reminded me of the Blackness planted in Fairie by Chernobog, though there was a sense of potential beneath, rather than of finality. ''You flatter me.'' I spun a thread of Mimir''s power into a platform, then sat down on it, crossing my legs to mimic Thoth''s pose. His muzzle wrinkled. ''I''m not even a teacher anymore, never mind one on your level.'' ''See?'' Thoth pointed at my makeshift seat, ignoring my comment. ''That is better proof that you do not accept chaos as natural than any denial.'' I tensed. ''...where did you say we are?'' ''I did not say we are anywhere, because we are not. We are not anywhen, either, except metaphorically.'' He crooked a finger towards himself. ''Hear. Listen, if you care to. It might save your health, if not your unlife. You just have to heed me.'' As he spoke, Thoth shifted, changing before my eyes, until I was looking at an old man, with kohl-rimmed eyes and a long, but thin silver beard. There wasn''t a single hair on his head. I tapped my left knee with two fingers. ''Some questions first?'' ''Do you wish to ask, or be asked?'' The problem with guys like Thoth was that you could never tell when they were taking the piss unless they wanted you to. ''I wish to ask you, if you don''t mind.'' He nodded, beard barely moving, so I began with something harmless-relatively speaking. ''I presume you were allowed to enter Crypt headquarters, but how did we leave?'' Thoth raised one hand, and a keg the size of a bucket-he was most of a metre taller than me, and burlier than you''d expect-appeared in it. After a sip that removed a over a little, he sighed, closing his eyes. ''Did you know alcoholic drinks used to be more popular than water, because they were cleaner, and thus healthier? Less likely to sicken you, that is.'' I somehow doubted that was the entire reason booze had gotten popular, but, shit. Thoth had just made his own beer and I had nowhere to go. Better to play along before he started talking about craft beer and micro brews. ''Many people are still concerned with their health, even nowadays.'' ''Mhm...adepts of harsher chemistry than brewing and winemaking. Some of the things humans make...poison. Poison for pleasure, when the water is so clear, it starts being considered dull.'' Another sip. I felt the keg refill itself. ''As for your question...I charted Egypt ages before the first Pyramid was a gleam in Djoser''s eye. Do you think there is any path through, beneath or above it I haven''t walked?'' "I gotz mad skillz, brah. Trust me." Well, my fault for asking a god that. ''Or maybe Aya let us pass.'' ''How strictly do you think Aya and I are separate, metaphysically speaking?'' Considering he''d rather retort like that than by smiting me at implicitly calling him an impotent liar, I chose not to answer. ''Where are we, Thoth? I''ll even settle for a metaphor.'' ''How magnanimous.'' Thoth''s bass voice didn''t led itself to archness, but he still did a pretty god job. ''Very good, then, if you insist. The womb-skin of my mother-father.'' ''...we''re in the cosmic ocean?'' ''I''d advise against words like "in", David. It applies location and direction, which implies space.'' As he spoke, my construct fell apart, and I briefly felt a cold jolt spear through my body, before a numbness settled over my skin. It was not like the usual lack of sensation I''d gotten used to since my undeath, but...it was not uncomfortable. Not really. ''That is the draw, David. Why would it be painful? Is it not the progenitor? Did you expect an anglerfish with no lure?'' ''This is Nu.'' My statement wasn''t panicked, but almost as numb as my skin. That didn''t scare me, though. I knew it was all me. I had just passed through a crueller mirror of these waters, and only become stronger for it. ''You know I would''ve died, if my godsight hadn''t awakened.'' ''Then ''tis good we only came here after that, hmm?'' Thoth''s expression went from wry to stony. ''Forget what could, would, should have happened, David. I will teach you what is to come.'' ''Is that why we''re here?'' I asked. ''Not just to demonstrate the...primacy of chaos. Because it''s timeless, so we won''t have any problem honing my sight alongside my mind.'' Thoth shook his head. ''You misunderstand so much, David...your "sight" is hardly different from your mind or other senses, for one; there is little I have to teach you about it, for another.'' ''Seriously?'' I didn''t have to fake my bafflement. ''I struggle desperately against Chernobog once, send him running by sheer luck, and I know everything?'' ''No one knows everything. Not in the sense you imagine. Also, David?'' His kohl was swirling over the bronzed skin of his wrinkled face, which was wrinkling itself, like ink in a whirlpool. ''For someone so eager to see the empty half of the glass, you sure are quick to dismiss your own pain when it suits you.'' ''I survived.'' I shrugged. ''Freed myself. We''re putting out fires on Earth. What more could I want? It''s not like suffering entitles you to rewards.'' Thoth nodded slowly, consideringly. ''Do the most broken wretches in the world deserve all of it? Some of them, and others as well, will say that obviously they do. Do they deserve more than they have, then? An end to their suffering, at least? Your god himself teaches that treating others well will see your kindness returned, and treating others poorly will see you crushed under cruelty. Sometimes, even literally, in the end. There is something to be said there, but I will not belabour the point.'' He shook his keg. ''Make wine.'' ''Can''t you do it yourself?'' I might''ve sounded petulant, but damn if I could be arsed to care anymore. I''ve seen people acting like bigger cunts than me at my worst without going through a tenth of the shit I''d had. ''I won''t make your wine, David. It''s the blood of your god. That would be just...gauche.'' I had already made a wine-filled mug by the time the sound of the last word disappeared, leaving no echo behind. What did he want me to do, get closer to Jesus? Not that I was opposed to the idea, but, in the context, I couldn''t see the point. ''Can you taste it?'' Thoth asked after I took a sip, like he''d instructed me to. I shook my head. ''Just the sensation of it going down my throat.'' I shrugged, wishing I''d been in good enough a mood to make a joke about that. ''For the best part of a decade, everything''s tasted like ashes.'' ''Makes you think, doesn''t it?'' the god closed his hands around the keg, despite the fact it was too large for that, and when he opened them, something like a bronze orrery floated above his cuped palms. ''Why are strigoi driven to eat, and drink, and rape, when they can feel none of that?'' The sphere of bronze rings spun until it glowed, then two of them detached from the rest. One of them became a miniature medieval city, while the other broke apart to become its inhabitants. A group of the tiny bronze people were paying their respects in a cemetery, when one of the graves burst open. They didn''t even have time to twitch before a ragged, grey figure tore them apart, then began having its way with their remains. Some of them were still moving. Those things were anatomically correct to a pretty disturbing and frankly needless degree. I hoped Thoth would never get into Lego. ''We get our pleasure from the act itself, not the sensation...or lack thereof. I''m sure the arseholes wish they could feel things as they did in life, but, well, tough.'' But Thoth already knew that, obviously. He had to. There was no way...no way he wasn''t testing me to see what I thought about my kind, and whether I''d lie about that. But didn''t he already know that, too? ''One could almost think...'' he continued as more and more grey figures rose from their graves and began slaughtering their way through the city. ''It''s all meant as a punishment.'' Um...''People should have enough balls and brains to put their affairs in order before they die, so they can be at peace and not bother the rest of the world. If they''re unfortunate and can''t...that''s not an excuse to be a monster.'' And here we were, back at the reward of suffering. But, if even a loser like I''d been after my undeath(that is, a bigger one than I currently was) could not go on a monstrous rampage just because, then the rest of the coffin-dodgers had no excuse. Of course, I''d also been blessed with a father who''d made sure to remove my caul and tie red string around my ankle before my burial, but neither had been enough to prevent my return. Some strigoi lacked people willing or able to do such things, or even support networks at all, and not just because they destroyed or drove them away themselves. ''Harsh. Perhaps you''ll change your stance once you meet the first strigoi...but I doubt it.'' Thoth smacked his lips, then smiled thinly. ''Let us move onto chaos.'' Yaaay! What a cheerful change of subject! Enthusiasm bolstered by my hearty clapping, Thoth rose to hs feet, holding the edge of his white, blue-trimmed cape(and when had he put that on? He''d only been wearing a loincloth an instant ago), then spun around with a flourish, making both himself and the model city disappear. I was, not for the first time, left alone in the dark. *** He remembered how it had all started. The first storm over what would become Scandinavia: in Midgard, and on Earth, too. Running, flying, through the clouds, over the tides, meeting Taranis when they''d both been earning their spurs. Clashing with him, and old Perun too. Had that been his birth, or heralded it? No...had it merely coincided with it? He didn''t believe in coincidence. Mother... Had that been his first word? He dearly wished to remember. Maybe his mother''s name, too, or at least her face. He must have one...or, at least, he must''ve had one at one point, to love her. Damn it. He should have been able to remember. Maybe there was someone, someone who saw and recorded such things, willing to help him. Father... And even if he didn''t want to...well. He''d always been an adept of, and adept at, coercion. That, he remembered, as clearly as...anything. He was sure his father would be able to help with that, as well. And willing, too. They''d always had a good relationship. He just lacked many frames of reference for such things, at the moment. ''Look at them, son. You must learn them, and learn to love them, too, even if that love is unrequited. Learn to wield them, as sure as any weapon, when your time comes...to take my throne.'' That...had been a beautiful lie-at the time. There was never going to be a time he''d suceed his father as king(of what? Of what?), or, indeed, any time past the latter''s death, but...something had changed. That death had never come, while his had come and went. And now, he lived again- not in defiance of fate, for there were no longer such things, for those like him. He remembered-knew-that. Why was his memory so jumbled? They...his people, or the runes? The latter-yes, power folded into shapes that could be read and named-had never been his strength. Strength... That had always been his forte. Once, he had been its god. ...no. He still was. And now, he understood where the disorientation came from. This empty vessel, this...new body, like a dry riverbed being slowly, so slowly filled by a trickle of water, was not yet whole. A body wrought from the World Tree''s heartwood, a blazing core pumping Muspellheim''s fires through it. A yawning void where his stomach had once been. A miniature Ginnungagap? Somehow, he knew that void was meant to remain, not be filled. And...a mind like a steel trap, slow as it was at the moment; not that it had ever been as quick-or sharp-as the one in front of him. '' Loki...'' Thor hadn''t planned for the fire giant''s name to be the first word of his...second life. He didn''t want it to be the first, either. Loki''s tight-lipped expression relaxed slightly, eyes twinkling as a smile began making its way across his face. ''Y-?'' The trench pulverised through the ground by the trickster''s body was over five hundred kilometres long and wide, and almost a tenth as deep. As he watched his father''s sworn brother fly through a mountain range, turning a landmark as large as the trench to dust, Thor drew the finger he had flicked him with back. Dammit. He was still weaker than he was used to. Couldn''t feel anything he touched, either...but maybe that was to be expected. Unique and powerful as Yggdrassil was, it was still a tree. What need did it have for a sense of touch? Thor rose from...it was a mould, wasn''t it? They''d taken the reforging literally. Could have been worse, he mused, right hand wrapped around something long but slim, propping himself on it until he stood on unfeeling feet. At least he hadn''t woken up in a flower pot. Wishing away the mental image of the Norns, faces as blandly grim as always, taking turns to water him, Thor looked down at the thing in his hand. He might''ve lost his sense of touch-not his touch, though. He could feel it slowly but surely coming back-, but he could still guess the shape of objects, it seemed, through a combination of instinct and his other senses. Mjolnir finally had the haft it had always been meant to have, but it hardly felt different in his grip. The weight was...reassuring. Which Yggdrassil didn''t have need of, either, come to think of it. Except for, arguably, his arcane sense. And yet, they had not been lost. Why? Loki was back on his feet, and standing in front of Thor, before he could shout after him. The thunder god could see photons in the trickster''s wake, almost frozen as they floated. Luckily, his eyes did not need light, whether made of photons or mana, to see. He''d gotten used to Loki''s speed over the ages, anyway. Only attribute in which the jotunn had ever really matched him. ''What was that for?'' Loki''s hiss perfectly matched his expression of feline displeasure, in Thor''s opinion. Although... ''Why''d you eat another jackal''s arse? Didn''t we tell you not to?'' Thor tugged the giant''s red, long beard, which shifted into a goatee after an indignant yelp. ''The goats were saving themselves for you,'' Loki said with a condescending smile, lip curling. ''Don''t you want to visit them and make up for lost time? It''s been so long...'' And stop slapping you around? ''My family first,'' the levity left Thor''s voice, though he hoped his expression was not as wooden as it felt. Well. Besides literally. Loki''s smile became a sneer. ''Of course! Who cares that I dragged you back into life''s embrace? Go back to them, apologies for keeping you.'' Loki looked aside. ''You don''t even consider me family...'' ''Would you stop whining?'' A throat being cleared drew their attention. ''Would the lords mind fighting outside?'' Sindi gestured at the former northern wall of his forge. ''Since they have already started...'' Thor''s temper flared, the flames within him responding. ''You have forgotten respect, dwarf.'' ''What is this mockery of servility? You have been aping mankind for too long,'' Loki joined in. Choler rising, he turned back to the Aesir. ''What''d you flick me for!?'' ''Did it hurt that much?'' Thor''s lazy grin oozed false pity. Loki didn''t dignify that with an answer. He had barely felt it-his screams alone could shake Earth from core to surface, stronger than any earthquake in its history-but the action itself had been demeaning. Not even a real strike! ''Was it for the new body?'' His sharp blue eyes softened. ''Or for failing to foresee Chernobog?'' Both, damn you. Loki held Thor''s stare, then dismissively gestured at the forge''s wall. Time rewound, dust flowing back into place and solidifying into metal. His imperious gaze swept across Sindri and the dark elves standing or cowering behind him, and noticed three frowning faces. Perhaps coincidentally, none of them belonged to an elf. '' ''tis not such a shame if you don''t thank Loki,'' the ispolin''s voice was like an avalanche. ''He only did a quarter of the work.'' ''You''re welcome,'' prince Marko grumbled, pushing his hat back up his head. His face had been stained with soot until it was almost as black as his beard, and his green trousers and white shirt were singed. Only the red, fur-lined great hat was still intact. Loki wondered if it was because he always paid attention to it, or out of sheer luck. ''Let''s not fight over that,'' Praslea, also soon-stained, tried to shake some ash out of his once-blond hair, which was now as grey as his shirt and breeches. ''We''re all friends here.'' No one missed the factthat his hands never left his pouch-lined belt. Least of all Marko, whose eyes soon darted from it. ''Doesn''t your land have a saying about thieves being the most scared of robbery.'' ''Many countries have sayings about stealing.'' ''Few have it as a national sport, though.'' Praslea scowled, unslinging his bow. ''Oh, put that aside,'' Marko waved a hand. ''What''re you planning to do at this range, shoot me in the cock?'' ''I prefer large targets,'' he nocked an arrow. ''So keep talking. How quickly you forget that we toiled together!'' ''I forget!?'' ''What does my country have to do with...'' Praslea shook his head. ''What discord!'' Sounding shocked, the ispolin stepped between them, forcing them to part lest they end up under his rocky feet. The two heroes found themselves glaring into its ankles, as the giant moved slightly whenever they did, until, with an annoyed oath, Marko rose in height. On Earth, his head would have reached the clouds, but he didn''t even come close to scraping the forge''s ceiling. Praslea laughed. ''Fooling yourself into thinking you stand a chance? Not even I am cunning enough for that!'' The ispolin''s head swiveled, disapproving stare moving between the two, just as Sindrri ground out that they better not start fighting too, or he''d throw everyone out. ''I was leaving, anyway,'' Praslea put his bow back, then ran a hand over his face, through his hair. ''I want to see my wife.'' ''Hiding behind her skirts?'' Marko taunted, returning to his former height. ''Not my fault your horse has none.'' He flashed the ispolin a sad look. ''I''m sorry, cousin giant. Whatever he told, you were playing second fiddle to ?arac.'' He shook his head. ''That man would do anything to preserve his bad taste, even make love to beasts!'' *** Maws shook his head with a grin that was soon replicated: tenfold, then ten thousandfold, as he returned to his normal shape and size. So, his youngest had some fight in him, too...bah. They all did, or so it looked. Even the middle one, the painter, had been a killer once. He wondered what had driven him away. Almost wished he had been there for them, but that must have been his curiosity talking. It wasn''t like they were going to fight to the death. Maws couldn''t be killed, always being just strong, quick and tough enough to meet his opponent on equal footing, while trusting his natural immunity to esoterics to handle the rest. He''d been holding on to that for as long as he could remember. Hadn''t let his guard down in long, long eons, knowing full well creation was full of weak little shits who couldn''t throw a punch to save their lives, but had enough cheap tricks to overcome a metaphysically defenceless being, no matter how big or resilient. As for the hatchling...well, it wasn''t like Maws wanted to kill the boy. He felt nothing for him except the indifference zmei treated their spawn with. He hadn''t been annoyed by or contracted to kill him. Honestly, he''d been curious enough about this whole thing to come pass on some fatherly advice. As if he had any. Arnold, the oldest one, must''ve had an opinion of him that was almost as inflated as it was distorted. He would''ve been almost flattered, if he could''ve mustered enough to care about his sons. Lucian came flying out of the barracks at lightspeed, space and time bending around him. As the brat wound up to talk, Maws idly counted the zeptoseconds. In the intervals between them, he wondered whether Lucian would be practical enough to use the aether, or whether he''d speak conventionally-pure torture for anyone even slightly faster than sound, though most learned to wait out the small eternities that communicating like this took. Himself included. Not out of pleasure, or a desire to test his patience-he had his wife for both-, but, rather, because some clients lacked other means to articulate themselves. Not wanting to be known as even more of an impatient asshat, he''d learned to bear it. In a zeptosecond, Maws could move almost a metre. Impressive, certainly, but it would have essentially been a slow walk even at human size. Dwarfing most planets as he did, it was negligible. Certainly not helpful against faster beings(thankfully, the lightspeed brat was trillions of times slower than him), especially small, manoeuvreable ones...or, rather, it wouldn''t have been enough if not for his power always rising to the challenge, alongside his sorcery. More things could happen in a sextillionth of a second than you''d expect. It was almost saddening to see how little his spawn, and zmei in general, used magic. Looking at them, you''d have thought it started and ended with shifting your shape and those of others... No time to get lost in disappointment. Getting worked up over things you''d never want to do was almost as pointless as being worried about things you couldn''t affect. ''You just had to say that,'' oh, good, aetheric speech. ''Didn''t you?'' ''It led to a fight, didn''t it?'' Maws flexed an arm, laughing. Lucian''s face soured. ''You''re serious, aren''t you? You''re everything they say about us.'' Maws let the arm fell by his side, smiles fading. ''Who, the humans?'' ''They. The other supernaturals. The aliens. Everyone else.'' Luci shook his head. ''You''re a giant, blustering moron, who thinks "tact" only exists if preceeded by "in", when used to talk about things you haven''t gotten your paws on yet.'' Ah, this was going to be great! ''And you''re any different!? From what I know, you eat and drink and fuck and fight, for either wealth or pleasure. As all our kind does! So what sets us apart?'' His spawn looked like he wanted to spit, but finally decided against it. ''Andrei was right...'' before Maws could ask who he was thinking about out loud, Lucian continued. ''And you think that''s a full life, don''t you? The basic needs fulfilled, what zmeu gives a flying fuck about being seen as a brutish freak? ...Maws began to think the boy didn''t actually want to fight him. ''You say I''m so stupid, but forget I married your mother. How many other zmei do you know who tie the knot at all, let alone remain married?'' ''And do you know why there are none?'' Lucian flew up to the head with the golden beard, landing on his father''s face, between his green eyes. ''Do you know what our life''s been like on Earth?'' Peering at his son, Maws descended to the ground, before sitting down, six arms crossed, tails wrapping around his legs. Lucian''s smile at the resulting silence was ugly, and his voice deceptively calm. Its softness, at least, betrayed his mood. ''Do you know what''s it like for everyone around you to see you as a molester and rapist in waiting? People still get twitchy if they see me approaching children on the street. Do you know what it''s like to be taken away and modified until you can no longer want anything, not because of something you''ve done, but something you might? All while you''re too weak to resist?'' He slapped his forehead. ''Oh, silly me. I forgot you''re never weak.'' Maws frowned. ''Have you also forgotten what I told you?'' ''So some zmei wanted you to to lead because you were the strongest, and thought they could use you as a patsy.'' Lucian grimaced. '' Please don''t start talking about how it''s the burden of the strong to be thought of as stupid by those weaker than themselves. I know what it''s like, and, in my experience, it''s pretty overrated.''If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ''I wasn''t about to say anything like that,'' Maws replied. ''So zmei had it pretty rough on Earth. So-'' '' "So what? It''s not like we weren''t tough enough to take it, otherwise you wouldn''t be here. Besides, didn''t other supernaturals have it worse? Don''t some still have it worse?" '' Lucian smoothed his expression, letting go of the exaggerated frown and overly deep voice. ''Did you actually meet any reeducated zmei when you were fucking up around here?'' he gestured at the surrounding country. Maws snorted dismissively. ''If you hadn''t started talking over me just to spout shitty whataboutisms I wouldn''t have even thought about, maybe I''d have been able to finish.'' He showed his fangs. ''To answer your little question, no, I don''t meet with anyone when I''m in zmeu country, unless your mother happens to be around. Why should I? You talk about the past? Who made those zmei stay on Earth, instead of retreating here? Their own stupidity?'' Lucian snarled, but Maws continued speaking, undeterred. ''I''m sure some of the hatchlings who willingly walked into the trap cried about savaged legs after. Bad for them!'' He threw up his hands. ''But what was I supposed to do?'' ''You could''ve stayed,'' Lucian said softly. ''You didn''t have to be king zmeu of shit mountain. I wouldn''t have given a damn if I never met you; Aaron is more of a father to me than you''ll ever be. But you could''ve stayed, and led by example.'' ''Oh, please. Why? What duty do I have to zmeu kind? We''re the same species-so? Have you seen what humans do to each other, when they don''t just pretend their neighbours don''t exist? And they''re less fractious than we''ll ever be. They lack our impulses!'' ''Weren''t you just talking about how you defied norms by marrying and staying married?'' Maws crossed his arms. ''And what prevents others from doing the same?'' Besides a lack of willpower, obviously. ''Maybe, if you ever took the time to glance at Earth, you''d see most zmei are seen as cheaters and homewreckers at best, and the bias goes both ways. I''ve seen zmei-younger ones, not ones who grew up looking over their shoulders during the Long Watch-who''ve only ever heard and been told, directly or indirectly, that they''re more or less worthless perverts. Why would they even try to get hitched?'' A low chuckle built up in Maws'' chest. As if it was his fault the others were stupid. ''If you''re so damn worried about our perception, why don''t you try to change anything?'' ''You think I haven''t?'' Lucian retorted, tapping Burnished Death''s head into one palm. ''What do you call avoiding trouble for decades? Or becoming known as someone you hire to defend yourself from the kind of people zmei are expected to act like? I''ve done as much to salvage the way we''re perceived as I can. Easily as much as Lucas; more, arguably. Maybe not as much as Aaron, but...we''ve always had different temperaments.'' Lucian looked away with a brooding expression. By the time he looked back at Maws, the grim look had been replaced by resolve. ''More than you, anyway. But then, any number''s bigger than zero, right?'' ''You might''ve noticed I care as much about the rest of our species as I do about the three of you. Since we''re speaking of nothing...'' he spread his arms. ''If I''ve ignored Earth, trust me, it''s not out of spite. Just...disinterest. It''s not even the coercion attempts, or the shit they tried to foist onto me-most of the bastards involved are dead, anyway. I...just...don''t...want to.'' Maws laughed at the look his son gave him. Each time he had spoken, an Earth-sized section of soil had violently shattered, so that he was now sitting in a crater deeper than most stars were wide. His laugh pulverised another planet''s worth of ground. ''Besides!'' he was still laughing. ''What made them go to that country? Again I ask. So a few zmei visited a while back and liked it enough to stay or return. That''s no obligation. It''s not like we''re bound to that planet, much less any of its nations. Oh, I''m sure some were already there when things got bad and didn''t manage or couldn''t afford to leave...but the rest? Those who went after that? It''s all on them.'' ''You can say that even while feeling the urge to go to Romania tugging at you?'' Lucian''s tone was disbelieving. ''I shouldn''t have to tell you, of all people, that some supernaturals are drawn to certain places.'' Oh? The weak will again? ''Maybe there''s a zmeu living in another country despite that. Maybe they can lead by examp-'' The mental shock almost dazed Maws. It certainly affected him more than the physical one: shattered scales and cracked skulls were not even worth mentioning when it came to damage. Still, as the zmeu flew, his body turning the ground to plasma for millions of kilometres in all directions, he couldn''t help but wonder: how had he been damaged in the first place? His son wasn''t that strong. As he flew through the plasma sea at speeds that made light look like a dying snail, Maws idly reoriented himself. Half a zeptosecon later, he was flying, then hovering tens of thousands of kilometres over the ground of zmeu country-practically right next to it, at his size. His son hadn''t grown larger; he hadn''t cast a spell or drawn on mana. He hadn''t even hit him with that damned mace. So what... ...ah. Was he that creative? ''What''re you so mad about?!'' Maws jeered, fully aware of the answer. It wasn''t the bullshit about zmeu solidarity or being a role model. Not that Maws doubted those frustrations weren''t genuine, but they were just sideshows. Something his spawn had brought up to keep himself angry, or just because he could. ''You don''t know a fucking thing about what you''re saying,'' Lucian pointed Burnished Death at him, its spikes glinting dully. ''And you don''t even want to change your mind.'' Void, he was still going on about that? ''Fine! Do you want to learn another reason I fucking hate that country?'' At his son''s hesitant nod, he continued. ''Have you heard the story of Brother and Not-Brother?'' Or was it Un-Brother? Tch. Either way, the boy''d know what he meant. ''Isn''t that just the Romanian spin on Genesis?'' Lucian asked, sounding bemused. Maws shrugged. ''Spin? I suppose you could say that. Except in this one, God and the Devil are portrayed as equals: in role, if not in power. Hence the names. Anyway...I remember sleeping under the waters, then being awoken by a voice. The light it brought never has never let me sleep since. And then I go to that country, hear everyone sharing the story and peaying to the culprit, and you really expect me to stay?'' Lucian''s face fell. Shorthly after, he snarled angrily, mouth open. ''That''s bullshit! You can''t claim you remember the first light, then go on to talk about Brother and Un-Brother! In that version, they make the world from fucking clay! There''s no light mentioned.'' ''I know what happened,'' Maws said calmly. ''And your stroppy little tirade won''t change bad memories.'' Now that was over...he had a question of his own. ''How''d you punch me that hard? For that matter, how''d you survive this discussion? You''re not protected by anything.'' Lucian smirked smugly. ''You think Burnished Death can''t destroy the difference in durability between the two of us? I simply finished the process, and closed the gap in strength and speed too.'' Hmph. ''I suppose, when you''re weak, that you make the best use of your tools.'' Lucian rolled his eyes. ''Because that bargain you struck is all about natural power, right? Who''d you make it with, anyway? Your fucking Escher painting of a fleshlight? Was it getting tired of having to put you back together every time you played hide the zucchini?'' Maws bristled. ''Watch your mouth. That''s your mother-'' ''Fuck off.'' There was no heat in Lucian''s voice. ''You don''t get to piss on what Bianca and I have, then turn around and demand respect for your glorified cumdump. Oh, it waits for you? How sweet. I guess it''s easy when it has less of a personality than you, and all the desires of a wet brick. Just buy a blowup doll, old man.'' ''If not for her,'' Maws'' voice lowered. ''You''d never have been born, you ungrateful little bastard.'' ''And you know the only thing I''d regret? Not saving Bianca. Did you even know about that?'' The younger zmeu''s chin was covered in boiling, steaming saliva as he grit his fangs. Flames seemed sure to follow. ''Did you? I saved her goddamn life, you mouthy son of a bitch. She was a fucking slave when we met. I helped her think again, and gave her someone she could turn to besides her sisters. She made me realise I was destroying myself,'' he closed his eyes. ''And made me happy. Still does. Happier than your fugly eldritch booty call would make you if you could even feel true joy, you stupid animal.'' Maws couldn''t remember ever feeling this angry in his life. Something told him Lucian had never come close, either. ''Stop calling your mother "it",'' he said, trying to reign in his temper. ''Stop-'' ''Blow me.'' Lucian slung his mace back and forth. ''Now, I ain''t gonna claim my life is some true love story shit, but Bianca and I? We''re people.'' He laughed drily. ''You two...a goddamn carricature met a freak, and popped out three kids. No wonder you''re our parents-where the hell else could jokes like Lucas and I come from? Aaron''s the odd one out, but...I''m done embarrassing him.'' *** Lucas froze at his brother''s odd tone. Done embarrassing Aari? He couldn''t have been preparing to die fighting Maws just because he was pissed. He couldn''t be that stupid! Lucas rose out of the damaged barracks, looking at the two warily. He''d been content-that was, on edge, but trusting Luci to handle this father-son bonding...cockfighting...crap-to watch from afar, but things had gone south. Dammit, Aaron. What had his brother even expected to happen? Maws calming Lucian down and convincing him to stay put? Maybe with a side dish of praise for his relationship? Fuck it, he though, lighting a cigar. He shouldn''t have agreed, much less let himself be persuaded to call their mom too. Fuck him and his na?vety, and fuck Aaron''s plan to keep it all in the family. They should''ve gone to Luci''s friends, or called them there. ''Offspring-shard,'' his mother''s grating voice made his left hand turn slightly to glance behind himself. She still looked like an amalgam of impossible shapes, but the impression of a zmeu was gone, leaving only a vaguely female outline of light. It reminded Lucas of those dumpy mother goddess statues, except those didn''t make him want to tear his eyes out. Or, when they did, it was for different reasons. ''This one does not have experience dealing with progenitor-offspring interactions, nor performing them, itself.'' She seemed pensive. ''Can you stop them?'' Lucas ashed half his blunt when he scoffed. ''That''s the plan, lady.'' ''This one thinks its mate-counterpart offended the youngest offspring-shard through his opinion of bonds. Perhaps you could share yours to reassure your sibling-mirror?'' Geeze... Lucas finished his cigar, taking out another one. ''Never had any-bond, or opinion on them.'' His libido had been annoying enough that, after asking the Mother of the Forest to remove it, he hadn''t wanted to dabble in purely romantic relationships. ''So you''re shit outta luck, mom.'' Her form wavered. ''...this one senses...hostility. No intent to harm, but...you do not want this one here either, do you, offspring-shard?'' No wonder Luci was so ticked off. ''No shit, dumbass,'' he barked, body heating up enough both his cigars and his clothes evaporated. ''Now fuck off. I don''t care if you go home or not, but don''t try to step in. I''m going to help my brother.'' With a thought, Three Moons Falling appeared in his right hand, as natural as clasping his hands. As he slung two hundred forty-three quintillion tons over his shoulder, Lucas noticed-rather than the morningstar, which felt weightless in his grip-that he was feeling poetic. For example, he thought that, with the weapon in his hand, he felt neither naked nor exposed. That was a bad sign. Because, as much as Lucian liked to call him a starch arse...his little brother had never exactly loved Lucas during his previous career, either. *** Lucian was fighting, truly fighting, for the first time in his life. This wasn''t like a match, or bodyguard work. It wasn''t a brawl or a spar. He''d been through plenty of those. He wanted to kill his father. He hated him. That was new, in a way, too. Lucian had often wanted to kill his opponents: because they''d annoyed him too much, or simply due to his instincts flaring when his blood was hot. This wasn''t like those times. Lucian had an inkling this was how Aaron felt when he wanted to help, but ended up pissing his older brother off by blundering into situations. Except that, for once, the roles were reversed. What had Aaron thought would happen? Seriously... Maws didn''t fight like he''d expected. Maybe he needed to be outmatched in order to jump in power? Well. He could help him with that. Lucian backflipped as his father flew at him from his blindspot, watching the older zmeu briefly dash past him fast enough to cross the Milky Way in a second. At the last moment, he brought Burnished Death down on one of his tails, shattering it and his spine. Maws briefly swayed to the side, before righting himself with an irritated motion. His heads twisted backwards, glaring even as their necks snapped and healed, followed by his torso. His next dash was almost to fast to sense, and far too fast to dodge. Then, Lucian destroyed the speed gap between them once again, and sent his father flying upwards, chest shattered, with a swing. ''If you think hurting me will help you,'' Maws roared. ''You''re more stupid than I thought! You could''ve been looking for the iela all this time, but you''re too busy nursing your pride!'' ''Don''t talk about her after what you said!'' Lucian roared back. ''Aaron told me not to go! I know he''ll-'' ''Bitch!'' Maws guffawed. ''Listen to big brother, eh? Without me, none of you would be alive! Why respect him, but hate me? What''d he do that I haven''t?'' ''He was there for me.'' Maws briefly looked surprised at his son''s response, then laughed, begining to draw mana into his metaphysical grasp. ''She''s dead, boy! If you loved her half as much as you pretend to, you''d be looking for her! Whoever took her, I bet they''ve killed her by now.'' he leered. ''Or wor-'' The next hit sent him rocketing downwards. It hadn''t been Lucian''s. Lucas nose slits flared as he looked down into the crater his father''s body had made. The ground had been vapourised, but that didn''t stop the zmeu from noticing Maws'' rainbow-coloured body: an almost invisible dot at the bottom of the smoking pit, which was countless thousand times wider than him, and many thousand times as deep as he was tall. ''Nice swing, Luc.'' Lucas accepted his brother''s appreciative nod with a curt one of his own. ''Had to draw on the power of everyone I''ve ever hit...don''t think I''ve ever smacked anyone that hard.'' ''Doubt you''ve ever met anyone this insufferable.'' ''No need to doubt, Luci.'' Maws laugh dispersed the smoke. ''What brotherly love!'' The zmeu casually jumped out of the crater to hover in front of his sons, unharmed. ''Found your balls, painter?'' ''I know why you''re here,'' Lucas said softly by way of reply. Maws'' smile dimmed. ''The void you mean? I''m-'' ''Aari and I have often told Luci about the difficulties of his relationship with Bianca, but he''s never let that stop him. He thinks we''re biased.'' Lucas elbowed his younger brother, who offered a small, dry grin. ''Because I''m a joyless fuck and Aaron''s a workaholic. But you? You''re an outsider, and a zmeu. Family to boot. Someone he knows understands, but not close enough for him to have an opinion about.'' Maws was now scowling. ''Your brother never said-'' ''He didn''t need to,'' Lucas cut him off. ''And needing him to tell you makes you almost as stupid as not realising he played you.'' As he spoke, Maws felt power flow into him. ''I needed a strigoi''s healing to make my way through your voice,'' Lucas said. ''But now, I have your tricks. Not so special anymore, are you?'' ''I dunno, Luc,'' Lucian smiled. ''Still think dad''s plenty special.'' While two pairs of eyes concentrated on them, Maws'' others tracked the horizon. ''Where''s your mother? What''d you do to her?'' If Lucas felt anything at the anger in his father''s voice, he didn''t let it show. ''Told her to stand back, and let us resolve this.'' Maws glared venomously at Lucas, then turned to his youngest son. ''You''re an idiot. A spineless lapdog, all because your brother went against his instincts and didn''t leave you to die. There''ll be a day when you and your bitch will want someone else,'' he smiled condescendingly. ''And then you''ll wake up to what a sham your love is. What relationship is that, if someone isn''t always there for the other?'' ''Watch your-'' ''Shut your goddamn mouth, Lucas,'' Lucian snapped, making his brother look at him in shock. ''He''s right.'' Now all of Lucas'' heads turned to Lucian, though he kept half his eyes on his victoriously-grinning father. ''Bianca can''t always be there for me,'' he said calmly. ''Because she''s a iela. But that''s alright. I don''t want to change her. Someone already tried. She doesn''t deserve that again. But I-'' Cursing, Lucas drew upon another power from his mace. *** Lucian glanced around the empty pocket reality. There was no matter, no energy, no space. No time, either-he suspected Lucas had chosen it for the eternity they could spend here talking, rather than whatever aesthetic appeal its blandness posessed. He didn''t know. He wasn''t an artist. But he knew what he had to do, and that was enough. ''Luci, don''t,'' Lucas'' hands were gripping his shoulders, forcing him to look up into his brother''s blue eyes. They didn''t seem so cold anymore. ''She wouldn''t want this. You think she''ll approve once Aari brings her back? You think she''ll thank you?'' ''You think she''s still the same?'' Lucas almost reeled back. He''d never seen his brother look or sound so...subdued. ''If she''s not still the same, then why would you...?'' ''I didn''t say what I love about Bianca has changed.'' Lucian gently but firmly gripped his brother''s forearms, before pulling his hands away. ''I said she''s changed. And if she won''t love me anymore...'' he forced himself to smile. ''I can live with that. I''ll still love her.'' Lucas wanted to roar, to scream, to beat his brother down until he saw sense. But he knew that''d fail; Maws already had. ''Luci, please-'' ''I lost Bianca because I wasn''t there for her.'' Lucian wiped his brother''s tears away, still smiling as he tried to ugnore his own. ''And I wasn''t there for her because of my lust. Lust for some girl who''ll never matter to me a thousandth of how much she does.'' ''That''s not true! She hired a different bodyguard because she knew you were busy, you didn''t run when she needed you!'' ''Busy.'' Lucian chuckled. ''Busy with fucking, maybe. Too busy to put that aside and check on her, just in case. Andrei didn''t, either, but...at least he has a real life. I never did grow up, Lucas,'' he said wistfully. ''Always thought you were a fool for what you did. Stunting yourself, I called it. Should''ve done it, too. Maybe then, we wouldn''t be here.'' The green zmeu lifted Burnished Death, lowering his esoteric resistance, and began destroying, one by one, the things that had prevented him from being there for Bianca. Lucas was sent flying after trying to stop him, body shattered. He still sent pleas to his brother through the aether as he slowly pulled himself together, trying to stop him. Lucian didn''t. ''I''ll never let her be hurt again,'' he promised. ''Stolen again. By her sisters, all of creation, or how much of a failure I am. And, Luc?'' Lucian whispered as he began destroying the boundary between himself and Burnished Death. ''If I''m no longer myself after this...please tell the others I love them,'' his voice cracked. ''And that I''m sorry.'' And, though he had no mouth, Lucas wanted to scream. *** ''Did you, or didn''t you?'' Iele couldn''t be strangled to death: air was meaningless to them. They could, however, be mutilated, and a snapped neck sent a rather strong message. ''Do you see,'' Bianca''s sister whispered, head haloed by black hair, like someone had spilled the darkest of blood on the snow. ''What the world has done to you? You''d have never thought of such things before your mind was poisoned, sister.'' Bianca slammed her head into the snow with a sneer, and the frozen ground for metres around was pulverised. The iele landed in a crater deeper than either of them were tall, and several times wider. Unharmed, Bianca''s sister gave her a look full of condescending affection. ''Don''t start again,'' Bianca''s voice was colder than she''d intended to. Was she so broken she couldn''t even be angry anymore. Heh...figures. Little orphan Bia, with the murdered parents. Always the weakest, always unable to help-too busy needing to be rescued. Heavens...when had any of her friends needed to be saved? David, years ago...and in the end, Luci had done it, while she''d been as worthless as always. How pathetic was it that she was waiting for him, even now? That she was thinking of how she should''ve asked him to stay with her, instead of hiring that bastard? Selfish as it was...she couldn''t even feel guilty for it. Maybe the cold was seeping into her? Her face definitely felt more gaunt, her hair more brittle. She''d make it up to Luci, somehow. Even if she couldn''t tell what he loved about such living deadweight. ''Did you? Tell me, so I know whether to kill you,'' her glare intensified as her sister raised an eyebrow, but, strangely, she couldn''t feel any actual anger. ''Or leave it to David.'' ''The strigoi,'' her sister scoffed to the titters of the others. She could feel them, dozens and thousands and hundreds of thousands, encircling them, waiting at the edge of the blizzard. ''Won''t do anything, little Sunbeam-in-cloudy-skies. He is... becoming, a dutiful creature.'' ''Good thing I''m selfish.'' Her sisters laughed musically at her words. ''You are not, sister. You cannot be, anymore.'' The iela didn''t stop smiling, even when Bianca''s fist broke her jaw. ''You gripped your anger so hard your hands became numb. Let it consume you, until you couldn''t perceive all of it anymore. Why would you notice when it disappeared?'' ''What''d you do to me?'' The lack of fear and disgust would have startled her, or rather, the Bianca before. ''Removed certain... weaknesses, sister.'' The iele spoke in unison, voices softening. ''We know how aimless you felt after the humans took your mother. Then you went to their world, and were twisted even more. We are simply...restoring you.'' Bianca stood up. She hadn''t noticed-her body was almost as numb as her mind-but the filth at her feet wasn''t simply a decomposing animal, as she''d thought. Bianca would have been horrified at crushing her mother''s remains, and not even noticing, in other circumstances. Maybe her sisters would now seek revenge on her. ''Did you? Answer that, at least. Give me something, after everything you took.'' Her sister rose to float above the pasted corpse. ''Do you think we would deal with the monster of monsters, cross the gods and lure the Dagda into a poisoned trap, out of hatred?'' ''Yes,'' Bianca answered. ''I have asked you three time. There will not be a fourth.'' ''Yes, sister. We agreed to the bargain, all to spite David Silva. We knew the Dagda''s bleeding heart would keep him in place enough for his mind to be bent. We knew the consequences would up-end creation...'' a breath, like a thousand mirrors cracking, in the frozen air. ''And we knew what torment it would bring the strigoi.'' ''All of this,'' Bianca wished she could be dismayed. ''For a tree?'' A thousand thousand frowns, doll-like masks twisting into disappointment. ''Do not think us petty, sister.'' ''Hatred, then?'' ''Yes,'' the iele lied. ''We did everything out of hatred. Because the world took you from us, and changed you, until you were willing to call us to heel, like dogs, just to help your strigoi. Even though you wouldn''t have lifted a finger to help one of us if she was dying.'' At Bianca''s silence, they continued. ''It wasn''t just David Silva, sister. It was what he represented: a world that has never wanted you, that only took, and hurt, and demanded.'' Finally, Bianca cracked a smile, like a fissure in a frozen lake''s surface. It was as human as any of her sisters''. ''You''ve always been a frigid bitch, Eclipse-on-a-cloudless-night.'' The dark-haired iela beamed. ''This is the first time you said my name, sister!'' Bianca''s smile widened, until it was as broad as her sister''s, though nowhere near as sincere. ''It will not be the last!'' *** Aaron counted as he made his way through the iele''s realm. Heartbeats. Footsteps. His, and his companions''. Wisps of dust in the sky. It helped him stay sane, or at least calm. The paths needed to pass through undetected had been convoluted enough that he''d wondered if the Mother of the Forest had just been fucking with him, but...the woman had been more serious than he''d ever remembered her being. She still was. "Business to take care of after this," she''d said cryptically. Aaron had been surprised to see her with the Supernatural Service, though not unpleasantly so. The old bat was always useful, even if best observed from afar. Up close, she was far harder to get along with, especially when she''d insisted that he turn human. Aaron''s human form was neither ugly nor stunted-he cared far more about the second-but it felt unnaturally small and restricting. Still, the realm would have spotted a zmeu, according to the Mother. As they approached the objective, Aaron returned to his true form, turning the snow to vapour with a wave of radiated heat, for as far as he could see. The snow being almost two metres deep, there was a lot of steam, though, thankfully, nothing he couldn''t see through. The Service agents trailed behind. A couple vampires, a baker''s dozen of mages, and... ...Lucian had never mentioned Bianca looking this cold, literally or metaphorically. Aaron had met her many times, and approved of his brother being with a woman who made him as happy as he made her. One who''d never hurt him. She''d always been so full of life and warmth... What had happened? ''Stand down,'' he ordered the iele, Brazen Mantle sliding over his scales. ''Bianca? It''s Aaron, with the Service. We''re here to take you home.'' The silver-haired iela smiled sadly at him. *** Andrei was going to die. That was nothing new. He''d always know he would die someday. Ageless or not, regeneration or not, he had enough enemies. But knowing something was going to happen didn''t make the experience itself less painful, much less pleasant. As most precognitives he''d killed could attest. The werebear knew the difference between surviving to fight another day, stalling for time, and drawing out death. This felt closer to the third than the second. He had no real plan, after all. The fleshmaking device was just a temporary measure, even if he''d improvised with it. Misha was a sadistic bastard: creative, but dumb. Andrei knew the type. He''d fought against, alongside and for the like. He had a hunch his father had, too. Had a hunch Misha never learned from his mistakes, too. Or at all. Case in point: the silver knife, with no backup? Sure, the shards had cut up his throat and muzzle, slicing through his eyes and ears to nestle deep into his flesh, but then he''d tore them out, smashed them into uselesness. The fleshmaker had then filled the wounds, before covering them with a layer of new flesh. Now, Misha had no weapon, no plan, and no chance. Andrei was dying. He''d never felt more alive. He grabbed his father with shredded, blood-caked hands, lifting him up with shaking, trembling arms. His fur was almost black over sickly, purple and green borrowed flesh. And his eyeless face was smiling. ''Who sent you?'' Andrei asked serenely. His bear, too tired and wounded at this point, had settled down to wait out the end. ''Please. It''s the only thing I''ll ever ask for.'' Misha tried to escape, but fear never helped a ghost. His ectoplasm, much like his resolve, was wavering. ''No one!'' his voice hitched. ''There was this...t-thing, killing everyone else. In the aether. I ran! I don''t know if it l-let me, but...'' he gulped. ''I had to make things right. I had to.'' Tears ran from his empty sockets. ''Damn it, boy...why couldn''t you be born like me?'' Andrei had no response to that. It deserved none. ''The knife?'' ''Found it! F-Found it! I swear!'' ''What,'' Andrei could have laughed if his throat hadn''t been full of his own blood. ''On the street?'' Misha nodded frantically. ''I didn''t work with anyone, I promise...'' He talked like that was going to redeem him, somehow. ''Tell the Devil that,'' Andrei didn''t have to try in order to grin hideously. ''After we meet...in Hell.'' Andrei doubted he was going to Hell, unless he was more Christian than he knew. But it was the intention that mattered. ''This is for my mother,'' Andrei snarled into Misha''s terrified face, as the last of the flesh rotted and fell. ''And my son.'' And he bit down. *** Thor watched the bickering foreigners depart thoughtfully, stroking his beard. Growing out of his wooden body, it was, naturally(pun not fully intended), made of leaves, much as his hair. At least they were red. The Aesir turned to Loki, tossing Mjolnir from one hand to another. The giant had returned to his default height-a handful of kilometres, so that even his waist was hundreds of metres above the clouds, Loki being a league tall-and, at his suggestion(strong suggestion...urging), so had Thor. His new default height. He hadn''t been a giant before, except by mortal standards, but now, he was over ten times his former height, and broad to match. Tall as an oak, indeed; Mjolnir had grown too. ''We must return to Asgard,'' Thor said, nodding to Sindri before turning back to Loki. ''Unless there is something else?'' ''There is,'' there was a vicious amusement in the jotunn''s tone Thor didn''t like. ''Just...wait a moment.'' ''Loki...'' Thor glared up at the ash-grey, crimson-eyed face warningly. ''You didn''t do anything to Tyr''s shade, did you?'' ''Odin is still working on that. You didn''t think he''d let Surtr''s remains fall through Ginnungagap forever, did you?'' The trickster''s voice was airy rather than dismissive. It did nothing to reassure Thor. ''Did you hatch some scatterbrained scheme to get revenge on David Silva? He was possessed!'' ''He killed my children,'' Loki snapped. ''But he''s suffered enough that, frankly, it''s been more satisfying to watch. And far less straining, of course.'' Thor noticed Loki had neither confirmed nor denied planning anything. ''Then...?'' The trickster didn''t answer. Smiling enigmatically, he simply opened a portal in front of Thor. The universe he found himself in was an endless stretch of grey material: denser than lead, more durable than yamadium. To say the impact would have vapourised every planet in the Sol system would have been an understatement. Rather, it would have been more accurate to compare it with their combined mass moving at lightspeed. Thor leapt out of the star-sized crater with a glare, dented forehead healing immediately as he covered tens of millions of kilometres in seconds. Ares matched the glare with a bloodshot one of his own. The Olympian seemed torn between snarling in anger and grinning in savage joy at fighting a peer. The resulting grimace was as confused and hideous as one could expect from Ares, though it was, thankfully, hidden away when his faceplate slid over his features. ''Mars broke in half as easily as my spine when facing real opponents, you say?'' Ares brandished his spear, which, despite his adamantine, fully-enclosing warplate replacing his older, hoplite-like armour, was still an ugly, brazen thing. Thor groaned. ''By all that is, Ares-'' ''Quiet!'' The Olympian barked. ''I hear all thoughts born in violence, so don''t try to say you didn''t mean it!'' ''Why search me out now!?'' ''I was looking for Mimir''s head then,'' Ares answered tersely. Thor wished he had real eyes, rather than grey gemstones. They rolled poorly. ''Aye, up Aphrodite''s cunt, maybe-'' The uppercut''s shockwave pulverised a crater the size of Sirius. The strike itself, far more powerful, actually cracked Thor''s jaw, sending him careening upwards, through planets that were utterly obliterated by his passage. Odin knew how they hadn''t been destroyed by the infinite gravity of the grey plain below-he and Ares were exempt from such forces unless they chose not to be-, but one of them, as large as Earth, but made of a strange purple metal harder than tungsten, was turned to scattered atoms when his body passed through it. Ares followed, four hundred eighty times as fast as light-as fast as Thor. They ripped the cores out of planets, each as heavy as Earth''s, and shaped them into hyperdense blades to be swung at each other, as fast as light. These improvised weapons left nothing more than papercuts on Thor''s body, and would have barely scratched Ares, had he been unarmoured. When they shattered, the gods began to brawl. A fraction of their clashes forces rippled outwards as they rained punches and kicks on each other, aiming for the joints; planets, rocky, ice giants and gas giants larger and heavier than the mundane universe had ever seen, were atomised by the force. Then they turned to their true weapons, and the grey plain below was soon covered in craters tens of trillions of light years wide and deep as its substance was reduced to subatomic paste. Mjolnir, much like Zeus'' thunderbolts, which it equalled in power, could not even dent Ares'' spear. Thor, however, had attemped to cow the war god, drawing upon Mjolnir''s mastery of vitality until his strength was boundless and the smallest conceivable instant lasted an eternity. Ares, however, had tapped into the aether, to match Thor blow for blow and insult for insult. ''Hypocrite! Reaver! Slaughterer!'' ''No more,'' Thor promised as their weapons'' hafts clashed and they tried to overpower each other. ''Never again.'' ''Murderer!'' Ares spat. ''And protector of rapists!'' ''You will forgive me if I cannot take the patron of Sparta seriously,'' Thor growled. ''When it comes to morality.'' Their contest would have continued longer, had they not been interrupted by another Olympian. ''Brother,'' Hermes greeted Ares, caduceus in one hand, diamond sickle in the other. ''Odinson. Come. Apollo lit my way, and Heracles is waiting,'' his dark, sharp features split in his characteristic roguish smirk. ''As are many others.'' ''Finally,'' Mars grunted, willing his faceplate to slide away, revealing a neatly-groomed, dark beard. ''It is time,'' Thor agreed. *** K?dainai, Lithuania, 2031 ''You are pretty sentimental, for a vampire,'' the lamia said, straddling him. Or, rather, wrapping her tail around his legs as she looked down at him. ''You are pretty, too...what was I saying?'' Diego smiled in what he hoped was a disarming manner. She smiled. ''Cheap compliments won''t sate my hunger.'' ''I know.'' His face grew more serious. ''But my flesh will.'' ''You would give yourself to me, just like that?'' ''Not just like that-as long as you promise not to feed on them anymore.'' His red eyes bored into her deep, violet ones. Neither blinked. ''Their innocence is untouched. Mine is gone.'' ''...you have latched onto me, haven''t you? Like a newborn,'' her full purple lip curled. ''Or a leech.'' ''You are not a monster,'' he said. ''Neither am I! We can keep each other sane! I know it!'' As Asterion sat down on the bench next to him, Diego hoped he hadn''t really sounded that desperate, but he knew the truth. Pah. Field hospitals always made him maudlin. ''Good hunting?'' Aster showed gristle-stained, wolflike fangs at the vampire''s question. ''As bad as it was long.'' Diego began reciting a prayer in his mind. ''The children again?'' *** ''Father, please!'' Slam. Slam. Slam. ''Release me!'' Thump. Thump. Thump. ''Father!'' The boy-calf smashes his head against the Labyrinth''s walls, seeking the answer that will not come. His horns, still short, still blunt, do not help. He feeds on what they give him: children, his age or younger, but fully human. Terrified-almost as much as him-and trapped. They know his patterns, when he is closest to starvation. That is when they send them. He is too weak to escape: the walls are too strong to break or batter down, and seem to rise when he jumps or climbs, just as they bend and twist and stretch in on themselves when he tries to escape-for he is not clever enough, either. He has nothing else to eat. At times, he tries to let himself starve. Then his hunger takes over: he sees red, and kills, and eats, and weeps. He remembers two sisters, trying to shield each other. He remembers them begging, to kill one but spare the other, as if he can. He remembers crying with them, breaking their pale necks rather than biting into their white throats. Like he did with the others. The boys had been brave. Tried to fight him, for their lives, or those of their lovers. Brave...so, so brave... ''What did I do!?'' He knows. He knows. He remembers scaring the court. How dare he be so ugly, so freakish? To shame his mother by living? He remembers failing to suckle, to graze. Killing the handmaidens. The soldiers, when they tried to stop him. He would''ve starved then, too, otherwise. The curse, the curse... he remembers Minos, and Daedalus. He loves them so, so much, he wants to eat them alive, so they can be together, forever. ''Fa-a-ther...'' The bull. Poseidon. Minos. Who is his father? Sire? Creator? Mother''s husband? Who is he praying to? ''Aye,'' Asterion answered. ''There''s no joy in this, Diego.'' The vampire nodded. The children...were always the hardest to kill, and not just because it broke their hearts. Their parents-spiritual or literal-always shielded them enough for the monsters seeded in them by Chernobog himself or his ministers to blossom like abominable flowers. They ate themselves, while the monsters did it from the inside. When they met, it was in the form of a "kiss". It always hurt to watch. They wee taught that, if they did this, Chernobog would free them from pain, and fear, and remember them forever. Not, necessarily, a lie. *** Thoth taught me by means of cosmogony. I was fairly familar with most variants of the Egyptian creation myth, but reading about something and seeing plays and shows based on it didn''t compare to the real thing, no matter how skilled the actors were. It began, as such things often did, with water. Boundless, bottomless, an endless cosmic ocean: inert, but full of potential. The nothing from which everything would rise. Up to this point, at least, there were no contradictions. In other words, people agreed on nothing. I could''ve wept. From the waters, rose a mound: the benben. From the mound came life(ahem), which also inspired the shape of the pyramids, which were to it what pharaohs were to Ra-Horakhty. I saw Ra and Apep form in the waters, the latter acting as the former''s umbilical cord. Upon being severed and discarded, Apep became angry, which the creation of order and life only exacerbated. I saw Ra-or Atum, or Aten, or Amun, or the sun god in his incarnation as Khepri, the morning sun scarab-rise from the benben(which I guess made it the mother and Nu the father), then shape the waters into existence, before pushing them to the sides and bottom. Thoth was always present, too, as was his wife. The god of knowledge was always self-begotten, while the creator sun god was not always acausal; as the voice of the creator, he could be seen as the mouth speaking the world into existence. I saw the projection of Ma''at, a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in an orange dress, wearing an ankh, smiling only at her husband. ''She''s beautiful,'' he said upon noticing me noticing her. ''Isn''t she?'' ''Very,'' I admitted. ''But Mia is moreso.'' Thoth''s beak curved at that as he rhrew his head back, laughing. ''There is not a soul who won''t say that about their lover, David!'' His humour eventually died down, though not entirely. ''Now,'' his eyes shone. ''Onto more spiritual matters.'' Thoth gestured at the images of creation. ''As you can see, order in general, and ordered existence in particular, is not something natural. It must be made, and maintainted, and fought for. It does not come to be by itself. Only chaos does.'' I nodded, glancing around myself. When I focused my godsight, the dark, all-encompassing ocean resolved into the image of a man with flesh made of waves, wearing a headdress the same dark green as the trimming of his loincloth. The figure was under, above and all around me. He stared back at me with lidless eyes, then smiled with his toothless mouth. I noticed he seemed, somehow, endlessly tall and broad, with infinitely-thick limbs, but still man-shaped. Then, I saw what was inside him, and suddenly, the endless dark ocean seemed very welcoming. ''Is Nu Isfet?'' Thoth managed to convey his amused interest at my question, which was fairly impressive with no eyebrows. ''That''s like asking if the Big Bang "is" space. I suppose? But it "is" also time, matter and...well.'' He steepled his fingers. ''The problem is that you are asking two questions at once. Is Nu chaos? In its most primal form, yes. Is Nu evil? In the broadest sense...also yes, but only because chaos and evil are interchangeable in this context.'' ''So, one can''t exist without the o-'' Thoth flicked my nose. ''No one said that. Use your mind, David. Of course chaos can exist without evil-it precedes it! The reverse is more...nuanced.'' He sat down, and we were in front of Crypt headquarters, Nu gone. While I was glad to be back in mundane reality, even refreshed, Thoth seemed almost drained, at least mentally: he might not have been sweating and trembling, but he was tired. ''Order can lead to inanity,'' he said, his thousand yard stare directed at no one in particular. ''Especially when tradition and ambition come into play. Do you know how stupid Horus and Set''s rivalry got towards the end? Don''t get me started on the boat race or the semen dominance contest.'' Ah, that. ''I think that''s how tossing one''s salad came to be, right?'' Thoth looked so cross at my innocent question I almost cried. ''You have no idea how much I hate you right now, David. And not just because your stupid worplay is only adjacent to...those idiots...'' he clicked his beak, then shifted into his old, entirely human form, rising to his sandaled feet. Thoth''s footsteps didn''t disturb the sand, nor did he make any sound as he moved: no breathing, no heartbeat. He didn''t even smell like anything, unlike my carcass, which could''ve probably knocked people out from tens of metres away. ''David,'' his face was so lined and wrinkled, it was almost impossible to read. Even his eyes were only dark slits in his parchment-like skin. However, I wasn''t focusing on that. Thoth''s voice had softened; in fact, he sounded almost regretful. Each of his next words filled me with more dread than the last. Thoth explained everything, not stopping when I began beating him after he admitted the lesson had also been meant to distract me, so things would unfold properly. He didn''t pay any attention to my tears, or my curses, or my throbbing fists. ''I understand that,'' he smiled sadly. ''Being an orphan is never easy, no matter the age.'' And you know the worst part? It was only the third worst thing I learned at the beginning of said year. *** Pops'' verger knelt in front of the scorched patch of ground where he had departed, almost but not quite touching it. There was something in her glassy eyes, something between shock and reverence, that made my insides curdle. Had I ever looked at anything with such slavish devotion? ''I tried to stop him, at first. I wanted to,'' she whispered as I lifted her to her feet. ''But the Lady-the one you call your Lord-'' ''I don''t give a single fuck what gender you think it is.'' She reeled back from my words like I''d slapped her teeth out, which only made me want to do it more. ''She didn''t let me. She showed me. Opened my eyes...'' ''Tell me where my father went,'' I smiled at her. ''Or I''ll bite your them out and paint your womb with the remains.'' ''I...I don''t know.'' Rebeca was googly-eyed, the dumb bitch. Worthless. ''Such things are only known to-'' ''God, yes, fucking got it,'' I bit out, before pushing her into the wall of pops'' house. ''Hope it takes you too.'' It should''ve been her. It should''ve been me... *** Adriana tensed as Alex wrapped spectral arms around her, but tried not to be too stiff. It would''ve hurt the ghost, and he''d already had enough. "I''m sorry," Mihai mouthed as Alex''s touch covered her clothes in frost. Adi nodded rapidly, as much to reassure him as to get some blood flowing. The ghost''s ectoplasmic tears fell onto her chest and shoulder, freezing her sweater. She only kept her teeth from chattering by gritting them, silently thanking her husband for sending Nina and Nela to their room. Alex''s wails only failed to make her ears bleed due to mana reinforcement. After the surgery had returned him to his former shape, Alex had answered some questions for the Supernatural Service. They''d investigate his murder, but the culprit made as little sense as the means: none, without time travel. The motive, though... ''I''m sure David meant it as reassurance,'' Alex sniffed after calming down to the point he could pace through their living room. ''But it...f-fucking scared me, Mihai.'' ''I think he-'' the mage looed down as his phone began vibrating, then at Alex. ''It''s him.'' Mihai doubted the fast, ragged breaths were calming-they freaked him out, never mind Alex-but the ghost just sat down on air, clutching his chest. ''Yeah?'' ''Hey, Mihai. You alright? The girls? Alex?'' ''We''re managing...how''d you know he''s with me?'' David''s laugh was closer to a croak. ''I''m catching up, one disaster at a time. Found out about you first.'' A pause. When David spoke again, there was some trepidation in his voice. ''Can I come?'' ''Ummm...'' Mihai glanced between his shaking wife and best friend. ''I...don''t think it''s a good time, man. But, uh, thanks for the offer. Maybe Mia can-?'' ''You''d drag her into this shit? Would you send your wife to-'' David cut himself off, breathing quickly. ''Sorry. Yeah, I''ll check. Was going home, anyway.'' *** It said something about my mood that a naked Mia couldn''t keep my attention at all. I''d explained my absence, but it had only worried her more. My phone calls didn''t help. Bianca? A long, empty laugh. Lucian? "The things we do for love, David...it is the death of duty, you know? I suppose you wouldn''t.'' Andrei? No answer. ''Love?'' She put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me, after dressing into some jeans and a hoodie. ''I''m going to Mihai''s. Do you need anything?'' I shook my head, not looking at her, shoulders shaking. With a sigh, Mia left. I turned to the nearest icon in my living room, breaking the piece of shit in half as I ripped it out of its frame. ''What goddamn reason did you have to take him!?'' *** Constantin awoke to fire. Not black, as he''d expected. Crimson, tinged with gold, and ivory. It burned but didn''t hurt, even as he fell and the flames washed over his skin, through his surplice and flesh. There was an angel with him. Not his. His gauntleted hands firmly gripped the reins Constantin only weakly grasped with one hand. ''You saved me!'' The angel''s emerald eyes softened under hair as red as the flames, but he didn''t smile. ''I answered your prayer, Constantin. You asked the Lord to end the pain, the indecision, for decades.'' ''Are you taking me home now?'' The angel shook his head. ''This is our home now, Constantin. Now and forever.'' The priest stiffened. ''Are you really an angel?'' ''Were I one of my kin below, would you be talking back to me now?'' ''...God is good.'' ''Indeed.'' Uriel shook the reins. ''You are welcome. Father opened my eyes, too: I was blind, until a half-angel came to Heaven.'' Blind...''David!'' Constantin started. ''I must help my son!'' ''I am afraid,'' Uriel replied. ''That only your son can help himself now.'' Constantin did not relax. ''What are we doing?'' Uriel turned to him with a sorrowful look. ''Killing children, Constantin. They are tainted through ignorance and circumstance, not choice.'' He sighed. ''And they will never grow up to change.'' *** A hypernova packed over ten FOEs-ten to the power of forty-four joules each. Even the remains of Atlantis could manipulate such energies. In the laboratory pocket realm, a star fifty times as heavy as Sol was detonated; its mass, moving at ninety-nine percent lightspeed, was focused through a gravity tunnel. The projectile, burning at hundreds of billions-nearly a trillion-of degrees Celsius, was launched at a hand-sized, millimetre-thick plate of atlantium, which had once made up the Empire Endless'' buildings and tools. The plate was not only undamaged: it wasn''t even scorched; still silver-white and flawless. Unlike the mountain''s worth of atlantium a ways away. Sklaresia''s punch shattered several dozen kilometres'' worth of the material, while her hellfire breath vapourised another identical block; it only remained gas for an infinitesimal moment, before being turned into brilliant plasma. The proximity heat melted a third, reducing it to bubbling slag in a blink. ''I thank you for this,'' Vyrt smiled cheerfully at his host, ignoring the blast of hellfire that covered his face. His own seraphic flames burned it out of existence, and were themselves dismissed with a thought, just like they had been summoned. ''My aunt-though she resents the term-is working out her frustrations. You see, she dislikes people who think she is younger than she is. She says she is thirty-six, but if they assume years instead of millenia, is it her fault?'' ''That is not why I''m pissed and you know it,'' Klare huffed, four arms crossed. The Watcher Over Horror was as steadfast as ever. ''Your presence is always welcome, nephilim. Within reason.'' They looked up at Vyrt. ''Does your visit here have a purpose beyond entertainment?'' ''Yeah.'' The demoness turned. ''Maybe you could tell us where you bailed off to a while back.'' Vyrt nodded. ''Besides that...I, at least, was preparing. DEATH''s Keeper must learn the truth, at last.'' *** Click. ''Yessss?'' ''Loric.'' The discordant, multilayered chuckle was the most beautiful goddamn thing I''d heard today. ''Brother?'' Forgive me, Mia. After Life, Chapter 10 ''Sit ?down, David.'' ''Is that an ??order, ma''am?'' Rivka met my wry look with a sullen glare. Could feel neither exhaustion nor boredom, but she had the balls to look tired? Talk about priviliege. I guess that''s what you get for being the only agent worth something after your actually competent boss dies and ?his boss scraps the barrel. Bet I would''ve made senior agent without all the shit outside my control dragging me down. Not that I wanted the position-more paperwork and playing babysitter for grave-dodgers? I could spit-, but I would''ve done better than her. What did this toothy little cannibal do that I couldn''t? She might''ve as well been lobotomised and locked up in a sensory deprivation chamber compared to me. ''It could be, if you keep acting like this. Don''t make me-'' I couldn''t help it. I began laughing. Oh, it took some shapeshifting to make the tears start flowing, but they were genuine. ''See? You have to ask and ask and ?ask, what kind of leader are you? Either tell me or shut up.'' The ghoul leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. She was eyeing me skeptically, the way she''d been since I''d turned my chair around and sat down, alternating between slinging my arms across its back or leaning on her desk. Like I was doing now. ''You''re not talking to my strigoi side, Peretz. It''s just me. I get it: you can''t believe I''ve woken up. I can''t believe...it took me this long, but I know how you feel.'' Was Rivka dismayed? Tired of me? Or just annoyed? Honestly, at that moment, I couldn''t have told you-but she sure as hell didn''t look fond, either. ''Help me understand, David.'' Her voice was so soft, I could tell she was itching to deck me. ''Tell me why you discussed to meet with Szabo outside the country, and only told your superior after. On that note, if I''m such an awful senior agent, please suggest a replacement. Or, if you don''t have ideas, point out what''s not to your liking, and I''ll look for a better option myself.'' She looked into my eyes. ''Maybe you? Do you want my job, David? Is that it? Would that make you happy?'' She lowered her voice as I looked aside, sneering. ''What''s wrong? Why are you so angry?'' I was so close to saying she wouldn''t understand that I almost slapped myself. Fuck that bullshit teenage angst. If I was going to angst, I was going to do it like an adult, thank you. I could''ve brushed her off, or course, but... ''Not sure you need to know.'' ''So your boss and friend doesn''t need to know, but Szabo does?'' I didn''t answer. ''What are you two planning to do in Siberia again...? Oh, forgive me. For some reason, I thought you''d actually explained first.'' Her tone turned serious. ''David, cut the crap and look at me.'' I did, noticing she looked more frustrated than actually pissed. ''You two can''t be stupid enough to be planning something illegal, or something you don''t want ARC to know. You''re smarter than that. Loric might not be, but he has his own hangups.'' In the sense he didn''t believe in petty crimes or staying hidden, if only because he saw such things as beneath him, rather than out of any sense of morality. ''So what can that snuff flick escapee help you with that I can''t?'' ''...Szabo''s agnostic. You''re...Jewish.'' ''What.'' I shifted in my seat. It had sounded awkward enough in my mind, much less out loud, and the way she''d phrased her reply as a flat statement rather than a question didn''t help. ''Riv, look-'' ''David, if you''re about to reveal some antisemitic streak you''ve hidden until now, I''ll eat my fucking desk.'' ''It''s not that! I-'' ''Good. Szabo doesn''t believe in bigotry, either.'' Some tension had left her shoulders, so that she looked a bit more relaxed now, if not exactly happy. ''To him, everyone''s grist for the mill. Or skin for the rack, as it were. Anyhow...'' ''Rivka,'' I tried to sound less exasperated than I felt, which was easier than you might expect. I don''t think I could''ve expressed it properly. ''Let me rephrase: I need help with a matter of faith, and Szabo, having none, can help me more than you, being religious, can.'' Rivka had too much self-control to let her puzzlement shown. ''You''re having a...what, a pilgrimage while the world might need your help? Reem told you to be on standby, and I doubt I need to repeat that order.'' The ghoul shook her head. ''We can''t let you risk yourself like this, David. Even with Szabo helping. Siberia is smack-dab in the middle of Chernobog''s sphere of influence.'' ''So, I don''t deserve anything I want or need. It''s all about everyone ?else''s needs.'' ''That is not what I-'' she clicked her tongue. ''Dammit, David. You might go get yourself killed and you''re not even telling me the reason. What do you want from me? What do you want me to do?'' The ghoul seemed to shrink in on herself, briefly looking far older. It...it wasn''t her fault, dammit. She didn''t know what had happened. Before I could apologise, though, she smoothed her expression, sitting up straighter. ''If you can''t be arsed to tell me as a friend, I''ll have to order you.'' Her eyes were half-lidded. ''You can keep refusing, of course. What''ll happen if I insist? Will you kill me? Will Szabo drop in here to do it for you? Both of you have divine powers now. Well?'' As I held her stare, I was reminded of the fact neither of us blinked or breathed, much less moved, unless we wanted. I caved in first. ''It''s not fucking fair,'' I whined, yes, there was no other word for it. It should''ve been beneath me to break down in front of my superior: not like it was her job to listen to things like this, unless Internal Affairs therapists were unavailable. ''It''s not goddamn fair. I wake up from a nightmare, and the second I turn around to tell Reem about it, Lucian and Bianca go crazy, Alex doesn''t want to talk to me anymore, and my dad''s d-dead-'' I gulped. ''I...I mean A-Andrei''s dead, but...'' were my hands shaking? Fucking ?shaking? ''But my dad''s dead too. It took him. It took him. It...'' I was repeating it like a mantra, yeah, like a fucking madman. Maybe I''d gone crazy, or maybe I''d finally realised I''d always been. Probably the pitiful kind of crazy, given how, after mouthing a curse, Rivka got up in a flash, moving around the desk to put an arm over my shoulders and grab my arm with her other hand. ''David, David, look at me. Stop talking to yourself. David!'' I lifted teary eyes to meet her milky grey ones, her shark-toothed mouth twisted into a distressed grimace. ''Calm down. Your friends are alive. You can go talk to them-yes, even Andrei. The aether''s right there, remember? And your father is-'' ''?Gone,'' I spat, making her squeeze my arm. ''He''s not gone, David. If what you told me is true, he''s met a Cardinal Archangel. He''s closer to God than ever. And he''s still in there! He''s still alive! David...'' *** Misha writhed in my grip like the worm he was, but he couldn''t escape. To continue the metaphor, I''d only let him off the hook to get eaten. Andrei''s bearlike corpse-he''d died in hybrid form, but like an animal, nonetheless-was already cold by the time I got to his apartment, and the rest of the building had jumped into alert as soon as I''d arrived, suddenly noticing the smell of blood snd silver, all while wondering how the hell it had evaded their senses. Someone had called the hospital, and the Service, but there was nothing more to do. The man who''d brought me into this world was dead, and I hadn''t even been there to see him off. I...I''d always thought Andrei''s death would be more...climactic. I''d ?wanted him to live, so he could...so we... What? So we could what? He''d been a wily old bastard. He should''ve scraped out by longer, dammit. He should''ve...survived enough for me to get there in time, not fucking fail, not again. I''d made this oath, you know? This stupid little oath, sworn Andrei would die by no one''s hand but mine, that I''d save his goddamn life if that was what it took to settle the score. Sworn neither of us would leave the world without some sort of closure. But what more was there to add to that? What more, except "I lied, Andrei. Lied to myself, again. You died alone." It wasn''t the first time I''d lied to myself, even unintentionally. But, even though it was too late to make things right-wasn''t it always?-, I could still try and make up for it by killing the were''s muderer. I''d gotten tired of the bald motherfucker nagging me-some cueball-looking bitch who should''ve been swallowed-to hand Misha over for questioning, and instead made a pocket reality to question him myself. ''Hello, grandfather.'' My voice stopped his thrashing, and I dearly, dearly hoped this wasn''t the most scared he could get. ''We''re going to get to know each other. And then, while I make you pray for Hell, I''ll also tell you why nobody is answering.'' ''You''re David.'' He seemed stunned. ''The strigoi...the Silva priest''s-'' His neck snapped in my hand. With my other one, I idly ripped out his spectral throat, then the tongue out of his gasping mouth. They went into the eye sickets, whick went into the ears after being torn out. He wouldn''t fall apart, or go insane. I''d never let him. I''d stretch time into eternity, rip it open like a corpse, if that was what it took to share a fraction of my pain with him. This thing in the shape of a man, this simple creature I descended from, had little to do with the reason of my anger. Its suffering would offer no solution or end to it. But it would bring me pleasure. And I wasn''t enough of a fool anymore to think that wasn''t a justification. ''Speak,'' I ordered him, my power forcing his tongueless mouth to shape words, putting his mind into motion. I''d take care of that too. Not too soon, hopefully. ''You should be dead, you-'' And his cock went into his belly button, scrunched up and flattened. His balls soon followed, up the nostrils, until it was gushing ectoplasmic blood as much as his eye sockets were brimming with fears. Made a nice contrasts with the drool that dripped down into his chest mixing with false blood and vomit. Look at gramps, running the whole gamut of fluids, just for me~ One could''ve almost been fooled into thinking he was a real person, if they were a fucking moron. ''I ?am dead.'' That shut him up, and he slackened in my grasp, hanging limply. I was reminded of my first death, and began laughing. When he began asking what was so funny, it only made me laugh harder. ''Oh, nothing...'' I lied, looking at the mess I''d made to try and pretty up his face. The human body was so ?limited...so few organs, only so many ways to rearrange them. If he didn''t soon turn into something more entertaining, I''d do it myself. ''Let''s talk.'' I let go of him, and, the moment my fingers left his neck, a barbed spike shot up from the ground of the pocket realm-as black as the sky was grey-, spearing the ghost through his crotch, the twisting to travel up his rear. A second spike rose, bending forward to fill Misha''s throat, until it met the one impaling him in his chest, where they wrapped around each other, beginning to throb. ''You are going to tell me,'' my, but I couldn''t even muster a reaction at his writhing. Not even his pain made me happy? Selfish bastard. He had nothing to help others with. ''Three things: how you escaped the aether, why you killed Andrei,'' my lips drew back from my fangs. ''And how you got the knife you used to murder him.'' He couldn''t speak, too busy trying to mewl in pain, to staunch the flow of tears the spike down his throat was drinking up as soon as they touched it. Fine. I''d make him speak. ''The aether, Misha. The faithless dead can''t just come and go if they are truly dead. You never lingered as a ghost. What changed?'' ''I w-wanted to...'' Wanted what? To leave? To kill? ''Wanting only gets you so far.'' What with the force that barred the dead from escaping. The aether itself, perhaps. ''It l-let me. You...'' ''Yes?'' Misha tried to spit, or maybe open his mouth wider, as if he could get rid of the spike like that. ''The thing...that w-wants you.'' ''What are you talking about?'' His laugh was a an agonised sob. ''You think...the sea of magic is empty? Have...has no one on Earth thought to really, truly look into it? It-'' Ugh. ?Skip. ''How''d you escape? Spare me the disbelief.'' ''The thing that guards and jails the dead let me. It wants you,'' was that a grin? His bleeding mouth was stretched too much to tell. ''And...it doesn''t speak. Didn''t. Not to me. But I felt it. It thought this...'' one of his finger twitched weakly, in the direction of where Andrei had died, in the real world. ''Would bring you closer to it.'' I was tempted to write it off as bullshit, spouted to stall for time or scare me, but I''d met what I''d become. And he hadn''t been alone. ''Does this thing have a name?'' ''Does it...need one?'' I wanted to rip his throat out again, and I would have, but he currently lacked one. ''So it let you go. Thanks for sharing that. I was ?this close to tricking myself into thinking you''re competent.'' Don''t you ?hate it when your torture implements prevent you from making out the victim''s expression? Misha made a horking sound, like he wanted to hawk a gobbet of blood, but couldn''t. ''I killed your father, boy. Call me an idiot however much you want, I was smart enough to do ?that." I chuckled. ''Not that I needed your permission to call you an idiot, but thank you for giving it.'' ''Does acting smart distract you from crying? Because I can tell that''s what you want to doaaAAAAAGHHH!'' The sound his heart made in my fist was closer to a wet squelch than the satisfying squelch I''d expected. Still, credit where credit is due: most ghosts would''ve gone crazy or fallen apart by now, instead of regenerating to keep on talking. Misha had guts, besides the ones I had rearranged. ''I can make this last forever. I can drag all the pain, all the fear, all the disgust you''ve ever experienced to the forefront of your mind, and extend the sensation into an eternity of agony. I can trap you here, throw this place out of creation, and leave your remains screaming forever. Is that what you want?'' Silence is an answer, too. ''Do you honestly think I''m angry because you killed Andrei?'' He looked as bewildered as he could, with no eyes and a mouth full of spikes. ''You''re not...then why the goddamn fuck are you doing this to me!?'' I smirked as he thrashed in place, only succeeding in tearing his insides apart further. The following pained moan was delicious to hear. ''Let me rephrase: I am angry at you for killing Andrei, but that''s not the main reason. Just one of many. But since you''re so fixated on that, let''s have a chat.'' Smiling, I put a hand on his shoulder, and he tensed. Good. If he''d been stupid enough to relax, this would''ve been less pleasant. I fipped the arm out of its socket to the tune of an ululating shriek, then stuck it into the ground, hand-first. The other arm followed, even as this one regenerated. Then, the legs. But I still needed a seat for my chair... Misha tried to escape when I tore away his torso, but the spikes caught his disembodied form, forcing him back into the prior position. I had to tear out his spine twice, slong with his arms again, to make the back of the seat and, aaahhh, tie it together. Then, hands clasped, I leaned back in my chair, and bade him talk. He had some accusations to throw first, of course-don''t all cruel people? ''You''re a fucking monster...'' Misha, trying and failing to swallow. ''Who ?does that!? What kind of person-'' ''I''m a strigoi.'' I blinked slowly. ''Any other remarks, before you start being useful?'' I raised my eyebrows as he stared at me wordlessly, correctly expecting he''d crack first. ''You shouldn''t exist.'' Ah, old, but gold. ''You''re telling me?'' Misha shook his head. ''Neither...none of ?us,'' his head swivelled crazily, but I had a feeling he was trying to gesture rather than free himself...and that he was talking about supernaturals as a whole. ''Should.'' ''Yes, you told Andrei you liked it better when we were all stories.'' A matter of taste, not that there had ever been such a time. ''Do you have a point, or just a dream of...omnicide? Give me a hand here.'' I tapped my boot on one of the chair''s legs. ''I''m just shooting in the dark.'' ''Look what you ?do,'' he moaned, barbs tearing up his regenerating tongue and throat. ''People don''t ?think about things like this, much less have the power to...'' He trailed off at my laugh. Oh, what a creature was man, in my grandfather''s imagination! How innocent his mind! How boundless his mercy! Ahhh...he''d clearly been tucked away in some quiet corner of the aether for too long. He sounded like the protagonist of that Darke Nyte movie series, the dhampir who was so disgusted at the danger supernaturals posed that he vowed to destroy them all, then himself. Just as hypocritical, though less flair. And...leather. ''Right.'' I wiped my eyes, still grinning. ''Thanks for the joke. But, since I doubt you came back to slaughter every awful, ?awful supernatural, if only because you lack the ability...why don''t you start being honest?'' ''Fuck you, boy,'' he spat. ''Fuck you and every freak this world''s given birth to. You took my life, then made me one of you!'' He raised his head, as if he could appear defiant in a position like this. ''You want to kill me? Go ahead. Do it, before I turn into a monster like you.'' ''No one ?made you a ghost. You did it yourself. No one made you a monster, either. Far as I know, you died a jackbooted, thuggish rapist, killed by the people you failed to crack down on. What, couldn''t stomp hard enough?'' ''Who did I rape?'' How dare he-no, no, wait. Had to think clearly. I was done being manipulated, even by my own feelings. Had I damaged him so much he''d started forgetting things? I ?hoped not; didn''t want to restore his mind unless I had to, but breaking down a madman wouldn''t be as entertaining. ''Do you remember my grandmother?'' Not pops'' poor mother Elena. Andrei''s. ''She was a...'' ''The gypsie, yes.'' He seemed both irritated and confused. ''What about her?'' ''So, you ?do ?remember-'' ''Again. Who did I rape?'' I stared at him blankly, wondering if he had actually gone insane, but his next words put any doubts to rest. ''Far as I remember, you have to fuck someone who doesn''t consent for it to be rape.'' ''Yes...?'' His pissy expression faded at my growl. ''Forgive me, but, unless the definition changed while I was dead, fucking crows isn''t rape.'' ...fighting monsters like Chernobog, with their dreams of eternal, nightmarish empires, almost kept you from remembering there were still petty, racist scumbags around. And we were fucking ?related... Perhaps interpreting my brooding as contemplation of his words, he went on. ''Look, I get it. We''re-were-slavs, before we died. I know you''re disgusted. But you have to understand: there was no feeling there. I...just had to get off, boy. Do you honestly think I wouldn''t have asked a real woman if she wanted to or not?'' ''...do you think I''m ?disgusted by the fact you raped a ?gypsie, as opposed to the fact you ?raped my grandmother?'' I stood up slowly, savouring his panic as he tracked my movements. ''I wanted to flay you, and leave your ectoplasm strung across the room for the Service to pick at, but why not be more...'' I was next to him in an instant, pulling his head apart. ''Open-minded? I can take you to Hell. Wrap you up, and give you to the Devil. Or Chernobog-remember him, from the stories? I hope you do. Or my grandmother. Find her soul, see justice done.'' Finally learn her name. Then find Andrei''s, share it with him. ''Or,'' I breathed into his ear. ''I can take all your prejudices, and make a monster. What you saw my grandmother as. Multiply it a thousand thousand times, and have ?them rape ?you forever and ever and ever...'' My grin widened as he tried to get away. ''I''m just weighing my options, gramps.'' I shrugged. ''I think I''m going to Hell if I die-wouldn''t want to take the other path, and, well, it''s not like Scratch and I don''t know each other. Think he''ll give me a spot if I show him what I can do? You''ll have to help me, you understand-don''t worry, you won''t have to ?do anything-, but, if I can get the chance to break people like you forever...'' My fatalistic rambling didn''t seem to brighten his day. Hmm... ''So, your jailer...watchdog...?whatever...let you go. Right. That''s the how. Now, we just need the where and the why.'' I made the spikes throb as he tried to turn his head. ''The knife, Misha. And the murder. Let''s start with where you found it.'' ''It was there when I got...'' he took a rattling breath. Habit, I guess. ''When I returned.'' ''There, where? On the street in front of Andrei''s apartment building? In an alley? Where?'' ''In my hand...'' He cringed as I raised mine, claws splayed. ''W-Wait! It really ?was, I s-swear!'' ''Explain,'' I ground out, sounding far more displeased with his whines than I was. ''I felt this...'' one of his hands closed, then opened. He shakily repeated the process a few times. ''Like sunlight on skin. A sort of...presence, I suppose. Like something I could find, if I just reached out.'' ''The knife was entirely mundane.'' ''The blade itself, yeah. But it was there, yet not, until I wanted it. I don''t know how to explain it.'' I could tell he was being honest, but creating silver weapons wasn''t something a new ghost like Misha could do, unless he was freakishly good at rearranging chemical structures with telekinesis, which nothing I''d seen so far indicated. As such, either he was lying, or there was something he didn''t know, or couldn''t explain. Expecting anything, I opened my godsight, and saw... ...saw... It was like the alien undercurrent of my future self''s voice, except as an image. As I tried to sift through its dark aura intil my mind''s eye wept and bled, it resolved into something I could understand. I saw a figure, always distant but ever-present, walking unseen among the faitless dead. Among the aether''s travellers, and inhabitants. Had we missed it all this time? Had we been so blind? Or had some known, and hidden it? I saw its link to the souls in its charge perish, and felt a sense of deep but hollow loss. As if a telescope that had lost its lens had gained the ability to grieve. There was nothing even close to human in whatever passed for its mind-and that was the problem. I saw it begin slaughtering the unclaimed dead. Felt its confused frustration-why couldn''t it understand them? Where was the replacement of its champion? It never stopped in its duties, of course. New souls, from all across creation, were brought into the aether, but, in its madness, the thing lashed out, destroying them beyond recovery, as unable to comprehend why it was doing it as it was to understand its charges. But I knew. It was destruction itself. Oblivion. Entropy. It was not a guide, nor a warden. It had just been forced into the role, by a- YOU MUST -by ?something that saw it the way it saw the rest of creation. Without someone to restrain and guide its impulses, it inevitably returned to its roots. Someone who had to ensure it didn''t destroy innocents, nor become lost in its rage at what it saw as usurpers. Those who lived when they should have been dead. Those who had died when they should have survived. Those who were neither, and made a mockery of the cycle by their deeds rather than their nature. The thing...?loathed them. Its hatred was as cold and placid as it was vast: far from something that should have been able to overtake it, had it thought remotely like a human. I saw it wanting to destroy Misha too, before observing him. It understood enough of his desires to know he''d kill Andrei if he got the chance, and likely perish in the attempt. It had been wrong, though: the werebear had failed, though he had dealt Misha a painful blow. Painful enough the ghost had been unable to heal and leave before I arrived, alongside the authorities. I saw the thing in the aether create what Misha needed: without a silver weapon, he wouldn''t have even tried to approach Andrei. I saw it hold the knife just outside his reach, dangling it outside hus perception until, wanting to kill his son so, so much, he reached out and took it. The thing had nothing against Andrei. In its eyes, whether Misha died by its hand or by his son''s, it was the same. It had merely given him...ha. Enough rope to hang himself with. Better make sure it wasn''t goading other dead morons into stunts like this, just to see if it would end up with them taking care of themselves, instead of it having to dirty its hands. I thought of Nightraiser, and their strange power of destruction. Peering into the Outer Void beyond all others, I was dismayed, but unsurprised, to see the thread that rose from the thing in the aether intertwined with Nightraiser''s, along with several others, all reaching into the same Darkness. And, of course, it couldn''t simply be destroyed or removed. Its creator-the most primal, unmanifest form of God, Azathoth, or whatever you wanted to call it-was not without its neuroses. Things had to be a certain way, or it would be unable to accept the nature of its dream. And, should it wake up, everything would be lost. Fixer would have taken care of it otherwise, or Nightraiser, I was sure, but their hands were tied-or, at least, the latter''s were. They were a destroyer, too, but destruction would not help with this at all. Fixer, however? He was supposed to keep creation going, and repair whatever was wrong. So where was he? What was he doing? Things were already beginning to come together, even as I tried to find him. Merlin calling me Keeper, Chernobog trying to kill me for valuing life and death...the thing wanted me. More, it needed me: despite its nature, it didn''t want creation to end, and so, yearned for a champion. And, no matter how much I wanted to claim incompetence or show false modesty...I had my godsight. I had power, and could make myself as powerful as needed. And, finally, I, seemingly, had the mindset it desired. Whenever someone tells you fate doesn''t have a cruel sense of humour, they''re fucking lying. I lacked experience, but somehow, I doubted it had half of a shit to give about that. It wanted someone to keep it and the cycle it presided over in check right now, or-unless I was mistaken-everything would fall apart. Because the goddamn almighty couldn''t deal with it killing unclaimed souls. It was, from what I had seen, too great a disturbance in its dream. Attention returning to Misha, I gave the ghost a piercing look. ''I believe you.'' Struggling not to puke at how the fucking rat smiled, I slapped one of his ears off. ''Andrei, Misha. Tell me why you killed him, and I''ll let you go.'' Not go free, obviously. But he didn''t need to learn that, and we in ARC believed in need to know. ''...it was revenge, alright?'' I looked down at his bowed head, as if he''d made some...some goddamn solemn confession. ''What''d you say?'' ''It WAS FUCKING REVENGE, ALRIGHT!?'' He glared daggers into my glowing eyes. ''But I wouldn''t expect ?you to understand, strigoi. You were never a man, even before you became a monster.'' Oh, you little bitch... Brushing off the insults to the manliness I so highly valued, I smiled lazily. ''Revenge. How and when did Andrei do you wrong, exactly? Please refresh my memory if I''m wrong, but I''m fairly sure you died when he was a baby, and you never met. So...?'' ''So? So I fucked one of those thieving whores who''ve been plaguing the world for centuries, and not only does the bitch fucking live, she even gives birth to another crow?'' ''She died from the pregnancy, you heartless bastard,'' I said frigidly. ''Don''t you try to say she was ungrateful for...for...as if that was even her choice. As if what you did wasn''t punishment enough. So, Andrei wasn''t the son you wanted. Not one you planned for, nor the one you hoped he''d be. And that was enough for murder?'' ''And he turned into a monster like the ones who killed me!'' he roared, trying to pull himself free. ''He deflowered a child who didn''t know better! And you, the child born of good stock? He abandoned you. Gave you to a caring man, yes, but don''t be fooled. There is no kindness in their black hearts.'' His voice was feverish. ''Abandonment, running from responsibility, is in their blood. All the world''s evils are.'' I could''ve rolled my eyes-how fucking dramatic could you make such childish hatred?-but I didn''t, knowing he''d go on a rant if he saw that. ''And look at you! You grew up almost as worthless as you would''ve been if he''d raised you, then...then...'' ''Died,'' I finished. ''I''m sure Andrei is sorry the were who nearly mauled him to death turned him so he''d make a better chew toy. Do you want me to bring his soul back and ask?'' As I spoke, I quickly checked if Andrei''s soul was still in the aether. Thankfully, it was. ''Though I doubt you knew that. I''m sure you''ll say he deserved it, and more, too. As for my mother...he was a goddamn idiot and a coward, yes. I still hate what he did, yes. But let''s get one thing straight-he never knew my mother was a minor, and the thing they had? It was mutual. No coercion.'' I breathed into his face, fangs bared. ''Did you know that? Did you know he thought that, by sleeping with a woman who wanted him, he thought he proved he was better than you? It was his one dream. He told me.'' I pulled back at his croak of a laugh. ''Again with that...boy! You can''t rape animals, not that I expect ?you to to understand that, either.'' ''And what''s that supposed to mean, grandfather?'' He smiled in what he must''ve thought was a sly way, though the lack of eyes ruined the leer. Almost as much as I was about to. ''I saw your woman. When I was returning to Earth.'' I''d have said I was Mia''s man more than she was my woman, actually. ''And?'' ''Zmei,'' he laughed. ''More children''s story monsters! Rapists, and brigands, and murderers! It''s all in their souls, like it''s in those of walking corpses like you!'' With an effort, Misha managed to shake his head. ''You let her fuck whatever she wants-I can''t even tell what she is. Whore, dyke, both? She fucks...goddamn walking statues too. I saw it, looking back through time. And you let her. I...just don''t get it.'' ''What?'' ''Both of you should''ve fucked each other to death by now, then eaten each other''s guts, or something. How the hell can two monsters like you pretend to be people? None of you has anything...anything...'' Seeing he was struggling with his words, I helpfully chimed in. ''Anything good in our hearts, I''m guessing?'' I snickered. ''Mia is a goddamn saint, you moron. And, by strigoi standards, so am I.'' ''And neither of you feels shame about such an abomination? A strigoi fucking a zmeu? That''s something straight out of hell. No place in the world, unless it''s the end of days.'' ''You know nothing of Hell,'' I promised him. ''And nothing of endings.'' It was a long, long time before I let him go. But, when I did, Misha was whole in both spirit and mind, due to my attention. No time had passed outside the pocket reality I soon dispersed, and I gave the Supernatural Service agent leading the investigation-a blonde, green-eyed werehorse, currently in human form, with a stubbly lantern jaw and a face made for scowling (his mom had probably been constipated while giving birth, and he definitely took after her) an apologetic bow. ''Family killing family. Surely you can''t blame me for wanting a word?'' ''At least give us a warning next time, dammit. You''re ARC. We''re both supposed to be professionals.'' ''I''m off-duty. Not by choice, mind. And only because I''ve heard it''s better than being off your rocker.'' I could tell he didn''t know if I was being serious or not, and wasn''t in the mood to find out. ''Right. Now, the ghost seems alright...'' ''We just talked.'' ''...so, if there''s nothing else, we''d like to take him for questioning.'' ''Oh, I think I can help you avoid wasting time. He told me so much! Always knew his grandson would open up his heart, in his own words.'' The werehorse''s skeptical eyes moved between the silent, shaking Misha and I, but he didn''t say anything, just gesturing for me to continue. *** ''...I suppose you''re right,'' I grudgingly agreed to Rivka''s earlier statement, and felt her relax slightly. ''I ?can go to them, but...'' but Alex was too damn scared of me to meet, and it made me want to rip myself apart. Bianca was...in a bad place. Something had changed, and a short call to Aaron had made me think it would''ve been better to let her relax a while after the kidnapping. Luci was going to her, anyway. Weird as he''d sounded, those two could never remain upset when together. I was happy for them. As for Andrei...maybe I''d go looking for him in the aether, one day, but not now. He''d lost his aimless, half-empty life in a shitty, shitty way, and not even one he''d expected. He deserved to rest. ''But you don''t believe Constantin is in there.'' Rivka tapped her head, while I shook mine. ''If he is, he''s a prisoner, whether he knows or not. Can''t escape, and I doubt he can make decisions.'' I ground my lower lip between my fangs. ''And I don''t think I could handle seeing what he''s become right now.'' ''You don''t have to,'' Rivka said soothingly. Then, to defuse the situation a bit, or at least change the subject, even if briefly, ''What''s with the beard?'' ''Hah.'' I rubbed it with one hand as the ghoul returned to her seat. ''I''m mourning, Riv. If I were human, I''d let it grow. As it is, I had to shapeshift.'' ''I''m sure Andrei would be honoured.'' And my father, too, I hoped. ''Well, I''m always in black around here, so I had my work cut out for me.'' Finally with a beard to stroke, I took advantage of it on every occassion I could. ''I never did learn why our uniforms are black. Maybe ARC mourns the times we failed, or were too late.'' ''I always thought it was to show we meant to make the distinction of good and evil something obvious and real,'' Rivka opined, gesturing at the white shields on her shoulders and chest. ''Then I woke up, and thought maybe we should wear grey, but I guess the quartermasters are lazy.'' ARC''s internal politics cheered me up as much as the unintentional reminder of my future self''s undertaker outfit. Rivka''s next words only compounded my great mood. ''Now, are you going to tell me what you want to do? Or should I call Loric, who feels obligated to never shut his mouth?'' ''...I want to kill, Rivka.'' The ghoul briefly lowered her head, closing her eyes and mouthing "Oh, God", and I fought not to rip her head off. ''David, killing won''t make your friends better.'' ''It''ll keep other people from ending up like them.'' ''You''re not cut out for fieldwork,'' Rivka said briskly. ''Look at yourself. If you want action, you can point out cults for us, but David, I''m asking this as a friend: please don''t go into the field now. Please don''t force me to make it an order.'' ...she was so frail to me, Rivka. I could''ve killed her with a thought, but I didn''t want to. Not really. All my power reminded me of was how precious her and everyone like her were. It was easier to crush than to cradle. To cherish. ''Szabo won''t judge me for wanting to kill people who deserve it.'' ''No, he''ll encourage you. Which would be immensely helpful, given how you''re so angry you could cry,'' Rivka snapped. ''He went on a mission, anyway, and he hasn''t returned yet-no, you''re not joining him. So I don''t see how you could meet if you wanted to.'' The ghoul''s dry smile was tight-lipped. ''And, David? Unless you decide to ignore the hierarchy just because your stick is bigger than mine, neither you nor Loric can go over my head.'' She reached across the desk, grabbing one of my hands and squeezing it. ''And Szabo is a fucking monster. So, next time you need help, please, don''t talk to him first. I''m here. I''ll do anything I can to help you-it''s what Marcus would''ve wanted. Gaol John expects senior agents to also be qualified but unpaid therapists, otherwise he''ll send his own and throw a bitchfit. Let''s avoid that, alright?'' I squeezed back, then pulled my hand away, putting it in my lap, next to the other one, and looked down at them. ''Would I be allowed to request that one of your fellow senior agents accompany me in an unofficial trip unrelated to combat?'' Hopefully. ''When I''m not otherwise engaged.'' ''The formal bullshit won''t make your almost-blunder poof away,'' Rivka warned me, then her voice warmed up a little. ''Tell me what you want, and I''ll discuss it with Szabo if I decide it''s a good idea. Don''t worry about leaving him hanging, I sent him a message telling him to stay put and remember what his job is.'' I did, watching Rivka''s frown deepen with every word. ''Fucking-beautiful. You''re sure you don''t want something less risky? I heard Head al-Hazred is organising naked sightseeing trips on Yuggoth.'' ''I''m sure.'' Rivka stifled a groan. ''With your luck, she''ll either start fighting all of us, or join us. No way you and the nightmare taxidermist are going alone. We''ll see if the Strangeguard has some powerful but expendable chucklefucks to escort you. Tsar Power, maybe.'' I bet she enjoyed my grimace, the little harridan. ''Besides that...'' she rubbed her brow with two fingers. ''Thanks for sharing your encounter with Misha Dravich, and the info you gleaned from that vision. I''ll report to Reem, and we''ll see what there is to do, if anything.'' The following silence might not have been comfortable...but it was a far cry from how on edge we''d been since I''d entered Rivka''s office to tell her what I wanted to do. I had a feeling that, if I''d left and sent her a text, she and Reem would''ve clobbered me to death. But I respected her, and I told her as much. Contacting Szabo first had been a...spur of the moment. ''I know, David,'' she replied. ''And I''m glad you told me what happened in Bucharest first, rather than Szabo.'' She made a face. ''Do yourself a favour, and hold your mouth around him. About that, at least.'' The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. *** Mia hadn''t flirted with any of her and David''s friends yet, because she and her boyfriend had only hooked up recently. It wasn''t that they didn''t turn her on, but, when she was with him, at least, she wanted to try and disprove the idea of zmei drooling over anything that moved. At the moment, David wasn''t who she wanted. Not mentally. It wasn''t his fault, of course, and he''d accepted that. A request to have a go at Cloudshade would have ended up with everyone giving her the stink eye, even if the Unseelie had agreed. Or at least questioning her tastes, not that she wasn''t doing it herself. Sure, the chick was pretty tall and buff by human standards, which made her a deliciously-muscled shortstack by Mia''s, but...ugh. That was all. Her style and looks combined didn''t make up for a tenth of the entitled wackjob personality. Which was why she''d grit her fangs and went home with David. It had been a pretty lame night, conpared to their usual. Not ?his fault, as she''d reassured him while making out. But, by the time he''d failed to get anywhere by eating her out(thank whoever had made zmei they were close enough to humans, physiologically-speaking), she''d confessed her heart just wasn''t in it. "Then why did you agree to start at all?" David had asked, slightly dismayed. Not at failing to get her off, but at the thought she hadn''t wanted sex and had only started for his sake. "Babe, I''m sorry," she''d smiled apologetically. "I ?do want this, but, ah, you know what it''s like. It can''t always be you. Too much of a good thing can burn you out." David had matched her weak smile with one of his own, which she''d taken as encouragement. "You ?did help scratch my itch, don''t worry. Took the edge off after that creepy bitch got me hot and bothered." Sometimes, it was better not to get what you wanted. "Mind if I take care of it from here?" David had sighed. "As long as you don''t feel that I''m pressuring you..." "You''re not," she''d replied. "David, I won''t always get the hots for people I can or ?should reach out to. And that''s fine. It-physically-is fine if you''re around to help me out. Thank you." "...you''re welcome." Of course, then had come that weird dream they had shared, but not really; then, while she''d been showering, David had gone on to report to his boss, and returned crying, learning worse and worse news as he got closer to home. Because the world just couldn''t help but hurt her strigoi, could it? A jump from Alex made her tighten her arms around the ghost, increasing her body temperature a little. Touching him felt weird, but she''d gotten used to several body types over the years, and, at the risk of making David throw his hands up, the cold had never bothered her anyway. Which was why she''d taken Adriana''s place comforting the ghost, to the woman''s relief, as soon as a grateful but worried Mihai had explained the situation upon her arrival. Well. As much as he could, before Alex calmed down enough to do it himself. Maybe her instincts hadn''t changed tack yet, but Mia realised she wasn''t checking out anyone in the room, to her surprise. Or maybe it was just the stress? ''I don''t want you to think I''m...talking shit about him, Mia,'' Alex started, making her rub his back. The ghost nodded gratefully, then gulped, not looking at her. ''I know you love him. You two are great for each other, but...'' ''Alex, I''m not going to do anything to you just because I''m upset,'' she promised. ''And you can call me biased if you want, but I refuse to believe David would, unless he absolutely had to.'' If that creepy bastard who''d killed Alex-and who, by description, sounded eerily similar to the one she had dreamed about-was even David at all. ''He said he saw no other way.'' The ghost''s voice was flat, toneless. ''Except for shattering his own mind.'' ''Do you think you can share more about that?'' Whether he could remember was one thing, but would he be willing to? ''...you deserve to know,'' Alex finally said. And, though Mia smiled encouragingly, she couldn''t help but feel he had phrased it threateningly. *** Death was both quicker and less painful than Alex had expected. Instant, actually-he''d only realised he''d died after seeing his corpse-and painless. Nothing like the long, drawn-out ruination of his lungs and mind. Despite the urgings. Despite the times he''d been called an altruistic moron. The time a mage or priest spent healing him could be used helping someone who actually needed it. Alex had suspected, on some lonely nights, his house empty but for coughing, that one of his friends would get fed up with his refusals and just...drag him to a healer. Heh...dying of asthma in a world filled with magic, tech that might as well have been magical, and even stranger shit? How weird was that? How stupid would future generations think he''d been, upon looking back at his life? David had suprised him, though, as his friend often did. The being who''d ended his life with a thought might have looked like a strigoi, though with even darker eyes, but he recognised David. The voice, the part that still sounded human, was his. And now, he wasn''t letting him go. Why wasn''t he? What more did he want from him? ''You can hate me, Alex,'' David said, hands in his pockets but somehow holding his soul in place. ''I would be shocked if you didn''t. But remember: this, like everything that preserves creation, is necessary.'' ''How?'' he demanded. ''How does murdering me...? What are you talking about?'' David''s dark eyes were filled with guilt, and so, so much love Alex was taken aback. His friend had never showed his feelings like this. Maybe, except around his father. ''Soon, I will die too, by my own hand. Being ignored will push me far-forgive the ungratefulness. I will not be thinking about you, or the others, when I end myself.'' David smiled sadly. ''Not how much you care, nor how much you will be hurt. I will be a fool-and that, too, is necessary.'' ''What ?for, David? Why must you do this?'' His friend-his murderer-laughed humourlessly. ''After I die, I will become a strigoi. If I don''t, I will be unable to become what I am,'' he gestured at himself. ''And if I don''t, everything will end. And to become a strigoi, I must despair. I must rail at injustice, and rage against the world, which only goes on when people like you-good, selfless people, better than I''ll ever be-die. Where are your miracles? Where are your rewards? Just because you refuse help, and for the sake of others, at that, why must you never be thanked? Why do others, so much less deserving, have luck heaped upon them, even though they don''t help anyone, or waste their lives doing harm?'' ...he was fucking insane. Not zealous-he was calm. But he possessed that serene, twisted conviction Alex only saw in serial killers or some of the worse supernaturals. ''You''ve changed, David.'' ''For worse,'' his friend agreed. ''And, yet, for the better.'' *** Aaron''s human form was bald, with a long, red beard and deep brown eyes. Tall and muscular, straddling the line between bulk and gigantism, he was just small enough to still fit in rooms sized for humans. Like the one where Bianca had just finished being interrogated. The iela had refused requests to sit down and calm herself a little before being questioned, instead just letting the telepathic mages into her mind. It seemed, to Aaron, like she''d wanted to just be done with it. Like she''d been tired, despite iele being incapable of that. The Mother of the Forest had been as grim as a headstone during the proceedings, staring at Bianca without blinking or saying a word as she stood at Aaron''s side. She had, however, at one moment, taken off her shawl, freeing her long, white hair. Everyone had looked at her like she''d just placed a mana nuke on the floor, but nothing had come of it. Funny, Aaron thought. Bianca was looking more similar to the Mother than any of her sisters, though he wasn''t stupid enough to call the hag ugly to her regrettably-exposed face. The witch must''ve read his mind, at least metaphorically, with how she''d grinned up at him, needle teeth separated by gaps a dragonfly could''ve gone through. By the end of it, the Service agents looked just as confused as Aaron felt, but didn''t let that slow them down. A few left to contact ARC, others to begin their own investigation, leaving only a handful. ''Did the iele,'' a weredog-Andrei Dravich''s former partner, Aaron thought-began. ''Or this...individual calling himself David Silva, seem honest to you?'' ''They were.'' Bianca sounded oddly lifeless, almost robotic. ''They had no reason to lie, and David-I recognised him-has always been awful at it.'' *** ''Let me ?go, David!'' Bianca knew she couldn''t escape, but futility had never stopped her. She''d always struggled against the inevitable. ''What is ?wrong with you?'' She''d been grateful for the save, at first, though surprised at David''s presence. Then, she''d noticed the unusual clothes, the beard, the eyes... Her friend sounded and ?felt older, in that way primeval landmarks did. Something was wrong. ''I have no right to ask for forgiveness, Bia,'' he said. ''But please, know there is no malice in this. I love you like the sister I''ve never had.'' Had she been human, her insides would have churned. It was all weird enough without the guilt in David''s-dark again? What had happened?-eyes, or the strange tone of his voice. Because, she knew, he was being honest. ''Where are you taking-'' their passage through a monochrome void, flashes of grey, black and white rushing by, had not involved movement. David, after dispatching that bastard ogre with a construct that looked and sounded just like Lucian, had grabbed her arm, then... There had been a sense of being pulled along, through something stiff but yielding, which felt dense despite being insubstantial. Like...fog made of cobwebs. ''-me?'' she finished, noticing they had stopped, and in her home realm at that. The snow, cleaner than almost anywhere on Earth, felt warmer than David''s hand did, even though her dress'' sleeve. He didn''t try to stop her when Bianca pulled her arm back. ''Why are we here? What the hell are you not telling me?'' ''...are you familiar with the Multitude of Minds, Bianca?'' What... ''It''s a coalition of alien telepaths, right? The one Grey One came from?'' She crossed her arms. ''What about them?'' ''A while ago, a young but powerful mind was stolen from Russia, just like you were stolen by me-'' ''Don''t talk about me like I''m an object,'' she warned him. David held up his hands. ''I misspoke. But kidnapping hardly sounds better, does it? That young mind will grow in the ages to come, Bianca. The Multitude''s dream is beautiful, but they only accept telepaths into the fold. There are many beings who yearn for such comradeship, and would greatly benefit from it, as would creation as a whole. She will bind them to herself and herself to them, and oh, such beautiful harmony they will create...'' ''Fell free to explain where I come in, once you stop being misty-eyed,'' Bianca snapped, not liking this nonsense. Her sisters were approaching, and the pit in her stomach was growing with each step. David nodded. ''Sorry. Sometimes, it''s hard to act like time exists. This unifier of thoughts will need someone to ease her doubts and guide her, as will her chosen. Who better than you?'' She forced herself to laugh disbelievingly. ''Me? What the hell do I know about...any of that? I''m not more powerful than any of my sisters, nor more skilled. Why not take one of them? There''s nothing I can do that they can''t, and I doubt you''d miss any of them.'' ''You''d throw your sisters to the wolves?'' Bianca scoffed. At least his sense of humour was the same. ''I''m not a coward, David. I just love my own skin more than any of them.'' Which was not to say she hated them. But their relationship had never been warm, after she''d left home. Any help after that had been out of obligation-they had raised her, after all-, and her sisters didn''t hate her either, but... ''I know, Bia. Trust me.'' My, but he wasn''t asking for much at all, was he? ''You''ll help your sisters grow too, don''t worry. And so, so many others...'' ''Why me?'' ''Because,'' David answered. ''They''d never do what they''ll put you through to each other.'' *** ''If I may ask a question of my own?'' The weredog nodded at Bianca, who turned to the Mother of the Forest. ''Why are you here? I am grateful for the help, but I fail to see a good reason, especially when you should be hurrying elsewhere.'' ''I''ve always seen you girls as mine,'' the Mother answered. ''How many of you grew up in my forests? And Aaron here is good to have as a friend.'' She lightly patted his arm, turning it to vapour from the sheer force. Aaron was grateful she was preventing collateral, even as he glared down at her. ''As for where I should be...you were just talking about necessity, my dear. My sister will survive, and the life born of her will make the world a better place.'' ''However...'' ''However,'' the Mother grinned. ''That doesn''t mean I have to be thankful for what he did to her.'' Aaron was about to ask what she meant when his phone began vibrating. Taking it out, he saw it was a call from Lucian. The zmeu hoped against hope that things hadn''t gone too badly. ''Hello?'' ''Greetings, Aaron. Is Bianca well? Please, pass my well wishes, and apologies that I wasn''t there when I should have been, to her. Tell her I desire to meet at her earliest convenience, if you don''t mind. Thank you, brother.'' As the call ended, Aaron looked at his phone like a Pentecostal demon had jumped out of it and started preaching. What the fuck? Luci had never talked like that, even as a joke. Had Maws done something? How the hell did he know they''d rescued her? And why was he being so polite? Aaron had half a mind to call back and ask what had happened; during the call, he''d been too baffled to ask. Bianca giggled, drawing his attention to her, at the same time the Mother disappeared. ''Is my lover concerned? He need not hurry. We will never be without each other.'' He, Aaron thought to himself, had liked them better before. *** Tyrone woke up to something that froze his skin, leaving his limbs numb, at the same time it boiled his insides. His Lord, judging by his breath, was displeased. The priest of Baal pushed himself to his elbows and knees, swaying. His cheek had been pressed against something lukewarm and slimy, but hard. Like a steel wall covered in marrow. The rectangular floor disappeared instantly, leaving him falling in an endless, dark void. His Lord, taking the form of a golden calf with eyes of ruddy fire, filled his vision. ''Yahweh''s mouthpieces handed you over to me,'' Baal began. ''After they put you down. They knew nothing they could conceive of would be worse than what you deserve from me.'' ''But...but I did as you ordered, Lord! I took their garb, I entered their gathering-'' ''And you played your hand far too late,'' Baal interrupted. ''Had the Orthodox not noticed your allegiance, would you have reached out at all? When? After the meeting was done, like a child going to the teacher after class?'' ''Lord, if you saw me faltering, could you not have...seized my spirit? Used me as your vessel?'' ''Of course I could have.'' ''Then why...?'' ''Because, you monument to idiocy,'' Baal answered. ''They would have taken it as a declaration of war. I am remembered as a tyrannical god and devourer of children! They equate me to Beelzebub! I would say I know how Thoth feels about Hermes, but at least the messenger never took his name. What do you think they''d have done if I''d posessed you?'' Tyrone had no answer. Baal huffed. ''I knew I should have reached out to the Prosperity Gospel misers more, and damn Yaldabaoth''s pushback. ?Chernobog is having more success influencing the world than I am, and leaving aside the fact that he wouldn''t know a temple from an outhouse, he couldn''t even look at Earth until recently.'' The god shook his great horned head. ''I should wash my hands of you, and feed you to DEATH...but you still have your uses.'' ''Lord?'' Tyrone''s voice was a hopeful whisper. He didn''t dare raise it. ''You failed me for the first time,'' Baal said. ''But, though the failure was as staggering as your spinelessness, I am hard-pressed to find worshippers nowadays. I cannot forget your past deeds, either. So hearken, my priest... *** Pierre scrabbled to all four at first, then staggered to his feet. He felt as if he had just gotten over a hangover, or a trance... The Lord. ''You took over my mind,'' he spoke to the Messiah''s statue. ''You knew my distaste for Silva, but, guided by Your hand, I still prayed for him.'' ''Because you wished to help him, my son,'' the statue answered, golden features shifting from serene to beneficent. ''You know it to be true.'' ''Perhaps,'' Pierre admitted. ''But why did he have to burn me alongside the traitor?'' ''Had you been without doubt, you would have been unharmed. Look at Angus Murphy-heathen turned faithful, and as sure of himself as Hell is eternal.'' The statue spread a hand. ''And the one who called himself Tyrone was not a traitor. You have to swear yourself to something first to betray it.'' ''A liar, then,'' Pierre scowled. ''Not someone deserving to be compared to me, in any case.'' He hugged himself, scorched arms flaking. ''I should not have been burned.'' ''Shouldn not have been?'' ''I am ?FAITHFUL!'' Pierre roared in the statue''s face. ''Yet you raped my mind, forced me to pray to you for a brute''s sake! Forced me...was that how you hardened Pharaoh''s heart, too? This thoughtlessly?'' The statue was unfazed by Pierre''s snarl. ''What do you desire, exactly?'' ''If you were worthy, I would have prayed to you myself! No matter how deserving Silva is...no matter how important.'' ''You are right, Pierre. But for one detail-which, as always, is the Devil''s lair.'' ''And how am I wrong?'' the priest challenged. ''You think,'' the statue smiled. ''That you are speaking to Christ.'' *** Angus pressed himself against the wall, air feeling like knives in his lungs. The Lady''s graven image was still impassive, though, somehow, warmer. ''Why''d You do it? I don''t understand. Costi is a stubborn hypocrite of a heretic, but he doesn''t deserve to be trapped in his own mind. I would have prayed for him myself, Mother...'' ''INDEED, OUR SON,'' God acknowledged, Her perfect face made even more beautiful by her smile. As if having stepped down from the church''s wall, She stood in front of him, and was everything he had dared imagine-and more. A mane of white hair framed a gorgeous face, with no wrinkles except those around Her glowing, pure white eyes. The sense of ancient agelessness extended to Her body, the curves visible even under the loose white robes. Angus felt a twinge of shame as he noticed this, but She smiled. ''YOU NEEDN''T TRY TO HIDE FROM US, OUR SON. IT IS FUTILE, BUT MORE THAN THAT, WE UNDERSTAND.'' Angus wasn''t sure his lust for the Almighty was a safer subject to broach than the one they''d started with, but at this point, he was willing to take anything. ''You are not mad?'' he asked hesitantly. ''YOUR ADMIRATION IS ENDEARING, OUR SON, BUT WE ONLY LOVE YOU AS ALL MOTHERS DO THEIR CHILDREN. OUR WIFE IS THE SECOND ONE WE HAVE TAKEN, AS WE ONCE TOOK ASHERAH.'' Angus knew being envious of the Virgin Mary was ridiculous, and blasphemous besides, but he couldn''t help the jealousy that flared up at the thought of the Holy Virgin getting to worship the Lady in such a manner. Well, might as well shoot his shot. The thought of smiting didn''t seem that terrible anymore. ''Would You...would You be willing to take a husband as well?'' Her smile widened as She placed a hand on his head, the priest leaning into the touch. ''WE WOULD RATHER YOU STOPPED MOCKING CONSTANTIN''S LOVE, WHEN YOUR OWN AMBITIONS ARE FAR GRANDER.'' ''...yes, Mother.'' ''HEAR US, OUR SON. WE WOULD ASK SOMETHING OF YOU...'' *** Gerald furiously wiped his glasses as he watched the aliens depart. Well. The negotiations might have fallen flat, but at least they hadn''t made new enemies. ?That was something, in the Argument Engine''s words. The telepath had refused to talk until Grey One was presented to it, safe and unaltered, uncaring of the Shaper''s promises and reassurances. The Xhalkhians had vowed to watch Earth, and the Collective in particular, in the future, to make sure they didn''t misuse their powers. And the Vyzhaldi, looking unimpressed with the whole mess, had left wordlessly. ''Aberrant Reyes?'' ''Yes?'' he bit out the word, tone more acidic than the Shaper, just as beleaguered as him, deserved. ''Please forgive me. What did you want to say?'' ''The Collective shall continue searching for Grey One. ARC''s assistance would, if available, be appreciated.'' Gerald laughed weakly. ''I''ll see what I can do.'' First, though...he had a world to preserve. ''And you,'' the Shaper turned to Mocker. ''Why didn''t you say anything?'' ''It''s not that I froze up,'' the reptilian protested with an irate preemptive glance at the Engine. ''But there was nothing I would have said that you didn''t.'' *** Adam looked up, grin fading as the shadow fell over him. Mother Wound. The common, yet living ancestor of the Vyzhaldi, and the goddess-queen in all but name of their Honoured Kratocracy. And her Motherguard. ''The Terran anomaly,'' one of the bodyguards, green-shelled and blue-eyed, spoke. ''Our Mother knew of you ever since you arrived, and shared her knowledge with us. You...'' she looked him up and down. ''Are not what we expected.'' ''As I am often told,'' the undead replied. ''I do not look that different compared to when I left Earth, truly. I''ve merely grown a foot.'' ''You only had one lower limb before?'' Ah...language barrier. Still, somewhat, in effect. Best avoid misunderstandings. Adam idly wondered if the aliens used metric. ''I mean I was eight foot tall, rather than nine. Or less than half your height.'' The Motherguard nodded. ''You were described strangely, and poorly. You look like a Terran, except larger.'' ''What did you think I''d look like?'' ''We are not sure. You were described as a "creature". However...'' Adam frowned as the Vyzhaldi spoke. "Creature" might as well have been his name on Earth. *** Christine was as pleasingly warm and soft in his arms as she had ever been. After dinner-Ned''s "my other ride is your daughter" had prompted some entertaining reactions from Elijah, though he''d changed it when she''d glared at him-they had gone to her old room. Not to do anything specific, much as he''d have liked to make her his once again, and forever. Just sit in the dark, speak, and unwind. That, they had never stopped doing. ''I''m not apologizing for the outburst.'' Understandable. He ?was a son of a bitch. ''S''alright, hen. I deserved worse.'' She sniffed, not looking at him. ''And you''re ?sure David Silva is the only one fit to be...Keeper?'' ''As sure as I am that I love you.'' ''Fixer...'' ''Do you think I''m lying, Chris?'' he took her hand into his, tracing the knuckles, the calluses. ''Or joking? I''d only joke to make you laugh.'' ''That''s good, Ned. I''m just curious why you never thought to share this information.'' Oh, Fifi...bless your bleeding heart. ''If I had, all my plans would have failed. Nothing that happened since the Cold Madness,'' when he''d taken David to that shelter, to make sure he''d light a fire in his heart upon leaving his love alone with her worries, surrounded by strangers, upon seeing his father again. ''Would have shaped him as he needed to be.'' ''But like this, it all proceeded according to your design?'' Fixer smirked. ''I''d say you can bet your cute geeky arse, but, honestly, it was more of a group project. I''ll have to tell you more abou that.'' ''See that you do.'' She paused. ''What do you want, Ned? What are you aiming for?'' ''None of this happened because I wanted to, sweetheart. It''s all for everyone''s good. You think I don''t care about David? The Keeper and I are practically brothers. As for what I want...'' he cupped her chin, wishing they weren''t on the edge of her bed. ''I want you, Christine. I want creation safe, and happy, and free to grow. Scheming brings me as much joy as power does.'' ''Ned, I''ve told you. I don''t know if I want that again, especially not after this.'' ''Take your time. Mull things over.'' Because, outside of time, she was his as he was hers. Every queen needed a jester, Fixer thought as he pushed along one alien, and let go of another. *** Myriad had seen many bizarre things over the decades. Mao''s bizarre conviction, the Koreans who''d fought against reunification after civil war had wreaked the peninsula, the Vietnamese who''d aggressively pushed France out, before begininning a brief but tense standoff against the Americans... Yet, no oddity could stand against China''s meritocratic spirit and mastery of cultivation. As mediators or advisors they''d prevented several skirmishes from turning into wars, and Myriad had always been present. His ability to fuse with anything, from people and constructs to tools and the environment itself, or even concepts, was invaluable. This mission seemed like it''d be short and simple, which had nothing to do with being easy. Tunguska, a towering behemoth with legs of lava, a torso of stone, arms of water and a head like a hurricane, had pointed out the target. Dharma had removed obstacles, while Myriad, after fusing with a temple dog, had followed the spoor alongside Rei Polneia, as Kriegblitz-nothing visible under the green, silver-trimmed greatcoat, black gloves and brown, red-visored gasmask, though he could still tell the German was smirking-moved them. To her, every span of time was equal, and eternal. She could move any distance at infinite speed, or, if she wished, simply appear at the desired destination, should she wish. Her ability to manipulate photons and vibrations was less useful. It hadn''t been needed yet. The trip had gone smoothly. Suspiciously so, even with Kriegblitz''s assistance. Usually, Myriad found the precautions Armament took ridiculous at best, but, for once, he couldn''t fault him. That was how they found themselves in deep space, staring at the creepy little Russian girl, who, according to the briefing, shouldn''t have been able to survive here. Myriad scratched at his stubble-some arse had once told him wearing a fu manchu moustache was offensive towards Chinese people, as if he was Australian, or wearing it ironically; he''d still shaved after-, glancing at Armament. The American had turned his body into swords, each an identical copy of Marmyadose, leaving him looking like the Shrike from Hyperion Cantos, or one of the robots from that game his nephews liked...what was it called, Battle Shape? ''Hans?'' ''Smells like bait, Chang.'' Armament crossed his bladed arms. ''I expect-'' Two portals opened: one next to Sofia, one a few thousand klicks away. From the first tumbled a little grey humanoid with a large head, while a house-sized, four-armed buglike giant flew from the other. Just as Myriad thought Grey One had last been reported heading to Russia, the portals closed. ''...Ok.'' Armament pointed at their former locations. ''Neither of those. ?But-'' Jim Bat smacked him. *** Loric Szabo returned to the fight with a wistful expression. Unusual, in such circumstances, but he ?had been snubbed. Rivka Peretz had screamed his ear off for attempting to take advantage of an emotionally-vulnerable subordinate, before talking his brother down. And what slaughter he had planned! What horror for them to sow and drink! This incarnation of him wouldn''t even have to leave the fight, for, fear being everywhere, he could simply manifest as many as he wanted, but no. Which left him alone with the buffoon and the ranting Nazi. Even the bug had left! Oh, such things Loric wanted to do to him... alas, he would have to do with what he had. Dirlewanger was becoming increasingly unhinged as the fight went on. Aside from the usual ideologically-driven ramblings, he''d also started warping the infinite reality they were in, while also trying to turn them into something equally harmless and horrible, or simply trying to erase them. All attempts failed. Dirlewanger had nothing holy, so he couldn''t have even affected Szabo before the changes he had gone through, much less Ryd''yk. Szabo had devoured several fearmongers across creation, becoming more and more powerful and versatile, as like called to like. He was so, so close to the Fear Archetype, he could taste it! And he would... There was, however, the matter of Ubermensch''s passive power. The reason they had never attempted to destroy him, instead opting for this halfhearted imprisonment. As the embodiment of his, in Loric''s opinion, painfully boring philosophy, he was empowered by destruction, violence, terror, and oppressions, whether caused or suffered, whether performed in the name of Hitler''s legacy or not. Luckily, they had similar abilities. Dirlewanger was a living nightmare, which meant Loric grew to match him in power at every turn. Ryd''yk, meanwhile, became more powerful whenever something absurd or ridiculous happened. Dirlewanger had created a tree on and in which his creations, his victims, were impaled and tortured. Countless mindless creatures, writhing on a bone-white tree that made universes look like raindrops next to a sequoia. Loric could see several universe, each twelve trillion light years in diametre, slide into the infinitely-larger realm Ubermensch had created. They were nigh-invisible even compared to the tree''s innumerable black leaves, much less its trunk. ''You filthy animal corpse!'' Dirlewanger screamed hatefully as he struck at him and Ryd''yk at the same time. Around them, Loric could sense tachyons, faster than light but frozen in place to their perception, and knew it wasn''t just a trick of perspective. The difference in speed between them and the FTL particles was not finite. They had all become as fast as Blitzkrieg, and Loric was sure she''d have made a snide comment about them trying to catch up justso they could stop eating her dust. Loric caught Dirlewanger''s punch with one hand, while Ryd''yk simply smiled as the Nazi''s other fist smashed against what passed for its face. A fraction of the punches'' force radiated outwards, and, though he and Ryd were more than durable enough to be completely unharmed, the tree wasn''t. Quintillions of light years thick, it was subjected to incredible pressures just by virtue of existing. Even if one had gathered all the matter in Loric''s universe, converted it into energy, then shot it at the tree as a focused beam, it wouldn''t have cracked its bark. The aftereffects of Dirlewanger''s punches, however, reduced it to a cloud of dust and splinters. The leaves were obliterated, no sign of them remaining, while the wretches... Died quickly, at least, if not painlessly. Loric''s headbutt broke Dirlewanger''s nose, which did little to improve his looks, and the Nazi''s backhand ripped his jaw off. Yes...this was definitely going to be a long fight, Loric thought as Ryd''yk, jumping in power, turned Ubermensch to bloody gobbets half a dozen times with a series of swipes, only for the Nazi to regenerate. *** Rei Polneia had acess to an infinity of bodies. Quintillions on Earth, from seemingly ordinary bugs for spying to hulking combat forms, but his true arsenal was in a different reality, as endless as his creations. And yet, despite his boundless mental prowess, Gerhard was at a loss as the target he had been sent to retrieve squealed in joy, airless void and all, when Grey One crashed into her, and what looked like a Honoured Kratocrat charged at them, features confused, but full of resolute anger. He was tempted to open up his realm of insects, but the rest of the taskforce would give him grief. Still, any situation that made him want to go back to Dirlewanger was bad. He wondered what was going on there. Couldn''t have been worse than here, or on Earth. *** Gilgamesh. Perun. Hou Yi. Susanoo. Mars. Apollo. Hermes. His good friend Heracles. Even Asterion, who had been recalled from Lithuania to Siberia. And, last but certainly not least, himself. Thor held his warhammer over one shoulder, scowling at Chernobog as he turned to grin at them. Behind the Black God, naked, flesh full of spiked ebony chains, a young woman he recognised as Baba Yaga was nailed to what had once been one of her house''s support pillars with her own ribs. ''You did not rape her.'' Perun''s thunderous voice did not disturb a single leaf. The old god''s brow was furrowed, eyes as white as his beard narrowing. ''Why?'' ''Rape is cheap.'' Chernobog stretched. ''Whether the mind, the body or the spirit is taken by force...it is childish to be offended by it. Do not all beasts take each other like this? And yet, mankind refuses to accept nature, while greater fools encourage them.'' ''People are supposed to be ?better.'' Gilgamesh glared, the golden bindings of his long dark beard clinking against his breastplate as they swayed in the wind. ''Please. I swear half of this pitiful world''s watchdogs have been raped. You''d think they''d accept the facts at some point.'' ''If you didn''t do it, why make her change appearance?'' Asterion gestured at the tortured witch, making Chernobog''s grin widen. ''There is such pleasure to be found in marring beauty...'' the Black God pressed a clawed hand over where a human''s heart would have been. ''Besides. If she''d stayed as she usually looks...how could I have even noticed I was doing anything?'' Thor''s face curled in disgust. ''But he ?did force himself upon her, Perun. Maybe not directly, but he planted his seed in her womb, when her struggles stopped.'' Chernobog tilted his head. ''You sound surprised. I need creation to ?exist if I am to rule it, and a child sired upon Yaga would help, even if they never inherit my throne...yes, errand boy? Share the joke, so we might laugh as well.'' Hermes held up a gauntleted hand in front of his mouth, hiding his smirk. ''You, helping creation? You wanted to kill the Keeper, you idiot.'' ''And you think, with his body and memories at my disposal, I could not perform his role better than him?'' The Black God shook his head pityingly. ''You poor fool...'' ''Enough talk.'' Heracles held up his weapons, and chains grew from Chernobog''s body as the heroes charged. And heads flew. *** Poor little Asterion...damned before birth by a fool''s greed. Imprisoned for nothing. Offered a longer leash in exchange for servitude. Did you really think it would end like this? When I was falling between oblivion and torment, I learned what I can decay, and thus unmake. Everything, minotaur. Including the limits to my power. So, go on. Draw upon your plundered powers. Summon your labyrinth. Stamp your hooves. Bare your fangs. It won''t matter. I amused myself, and still drew you all here. You will make fine slaves. *** The starspawn was too detached, with too cold a mind, to be described as excited. It was, however, expectant. The barrier it had been sealed behind since its unplanned exile was falling...no, being pulled apart. Was its primogenitor reaching out towards it? What honour! It must have defeated the intruders, and taken all there was as its own. Such vistas it would behold, in its sire''s new domain. After all, everything must have changed. *** When Lucas heard what I wanted, his mood, just as shitty as mine, brightened. Lucian had already left by the time I''d arrived, though I glimpsed, with my godsight, a golden-scaled body, curved spikes dotting the forearms, while straight ones rose from his shoulders and tail, as they once had from his mace. More spikes curved up at the sides of his crest, forming something like a crown. His eyes were black, with yellow slits. The former colours, reversed. Subtle. As we tore apart the Cthulhi''s cage, the squamous mass of tentacles and eldritch light moved forward, seeming almost excited. Then, it noticed us. Forget Szabo. I could find acceptable targets by myself. Not like I didn''t have time. ''This the rapist?'' Lucas asked through the aether, all six eyes on the starspawn, holding Three Moons Falling with both hands. ''Mia stopped it at "molester", actually,'' I answered. ''Well.'' Too angry to smoke, he instead clicked his fangs. ''That changes everything, doesn''t it?'' *** ''...hey, Mona.'' ''Andrei? I...I never thought we''d meet again.'' The girl''s long brown hair fell over eyes brimming with tears. He pushed it aside, revealing a face that would never grow old. ''Neither did I.'' She shook her head, lips trembling as she wrapped her arms around his neck. ''I''m so sorry...I should''ve told you. I-'' ''Hush.'' He hugged her back. ''Both of us have to make amends, but you were no worse a mother than I was a father.'' ''Our son...is David alright? Is he alive?'' Her voice died down to a whisper. ''Why''d you come to me?'' Ha... ''I planned...wanted to die for him, you know. Helping him. To make up for...everything.'' ''Andrei...'' ''Forgive me.'' Dammit, but even the aether had dust to get into his eyes. ''I didn''t see...all that happened. My mind is not always whole. You''ve caught me on a good day.'' ''Any day I catch you is good.'' They both smiled, though hers was thin. ''Hey, hey. We have forever to...if you want to.'' ''I''m not sure we do,'' she looked into the distance. ''So answer me this: were you a good father?'' ''...I don''t know if David loved me, in the end.'' He pulled her against his chest. ''But he didn''t hate me.'' Damn dust...still, at least her laugh was beautiful. After Life, Chapter 11 Ken was looking at the moon. That was not new. Astronomy had always been an interest of his, even before his magic had awakened, allowing him to perceive things in real time, regardless of distance. But the moon... His fascination with the satellite had been attributed to a variety of reasons by his detractors, including a speciesist joke about him having werewolf ancestry. He did not, in fact, have any. Even if that had been the case, all variations of therianthropy were transmitted through bites, scratches, exchanges of fluids. Not, perhaps bafflingly, to a were''s child, simply because of who their parents were. Ken suspected there was a metaphysical component at work there, but he digressed. The maroons who''d so slandered him knew less about parabiology than they did about psychology, his in particular, if they thought his affection for Luna was ?genetic. No...genetics, and their supernatural analogues, were brutish things, set in their ways, hard, if not impossible to change. Not for lack of capacity, but of will. However, if he started thinking about ethics, he''d waste even more time. Ken''s infatuation with the moon was, to put it bluntly, just the first stage of his love for the universe itself. Being the celestial body closest to Earth, it was the easiest to reach. The rest would follow, in time, but the American mage did not believe in starting, or attempting to start other steps of his plans when he was yet to accomplish the first. Rushed work was sloppy work: after all, if his parents had focused less on ?fucking and more on conceiving a child, maybe he wouldn''t have been born so physically weak. Short-sighted bastards...no matter. God had promised them to him, body, mind and soul, to do with as he pleased. Among other things... About...eight years ago? Maybe a smidge more. It was so hard to focus, with the glory of God suffusing him...about eight or so years ago, Ken had been stopped by ARC-the Global Oligarchy''s thugs in black-while attempting to show his love of creation. It was simple: creation-and its unthinking, thus pure, contents-was the thing he loved most, after himself. What better way to show that love than by remaking everything into his image? A narrow-minded fool-of the same tribe from which his parents sailed, the brutes-would have sarcastically asked why he didn''t start with Earth, then, since he was already on it. Sadly, even such simple answers needed at least half a brain cell to come up with, and common sense had clearly been named ironically. Why? Earth was positively crawling with the Oligarchy''s lapdogs, the hounds that so fiercely snapped their jaws around the status quo to prevent it from changing. He had, with the optimism of the virtuous, believed Luna, more remote, would be a better place to start. Alas... He had only been starting to carve his right eye into the surface when they''d found him, and stopped him, and imprisoned him...they''d taken away his license to practice magic, and told him to be grateful he wasn''t being punished by one of the moon gods. Grateful! And the last sign he needed to confirm their moral ineptitude, their spinelessness? Not a week after, a crater far greater appeared on the moon, then disappeared. Ken wracked his brain for an explanation for years, until God came to him, and revealed, in a dream, those responsible. Not only had the mage and strigoi responsible gotten off with a slap on the wrist, the strigoi had willingly entered ARC! It was a conspiracy! That alone would have rankled, but God, His aspect as black as the sorrow He felt for Ken, as black as the velvet of the void, had revealed even more: how the mage responsible should have lost his magical license, but had kept it, with the official reason being that he''d done it to help a dying friend. That had been a lie, of course. No fool was na?ve enough to believe in ?friendship as a justification, much less heartless blackguards like ARC. No-God showed him a laughing, scheming monster, without form but vile in aspect, pulling its puppets'' strings from behind the scenes, making sure everything around the strigoi developed so that he''d be pushed to enter ARC, then...then... God had showed Ken the monster''s other face, eager to sunder His kingdom. Had showed him how He had been usurped, and how, should the puppet of the schemer-whose grin was a smiling mask over nothing-assume its intended place, creation would continue as it was, Godless and cruel. Should the monster''s mirror win, though, it would end entirely, and that could not be allowed. God needed people like him, fearless and willing to leave their mark upon history, in order to retake His crown. Ken looked up at his beloved moon as his brethren continued the ritual. When it ended, the moon would become a new eye of God, the act of snubbing its false gods greatly empowering Him. The requirements of the ritual had been exacting, however, else it would have been over in moments. The Russian astronomers'' blood had to be warm; the moon needed to be drawn using the life fluid from the eyes that had gazed upon it for decades; its names in God''s tongue with the blood from their still-beating hearts as they looked upon it... Ken wished, blasphemously, that he could''ve just drawn in the snow, but...bah. What did a momentary inconvenience matter? Soon, he would become the regent of creation, God''s deputy, remaking it in his image and His name. Ken grinned under his skull mask, flexing his gloved fingers. Soon, beloved... *** The last thing the poor, grasping fool saw had occupied his every dream and waking thought for years. It was only, I supposed, fitting, if not merciful. Reading his thoughts as they came had been an unpleasant experience, like fishing in a cesspool. Erasing him and his underlings from existence, so thoroughly they would never be remembered by baseline humans anymore, had been both far quicker and more pleasant. You just can''t help yourself, can you? Clinging onto the smallest, pettiest hatred...building it up into evil. Now you''re just sounding dramatic, David. Do wronged people not deserve the truth, and a chance at making things right? ...I can hear their cry, Chernobog. *** Issei felt his spirit curdle in disappointment as he watched the water. Patches of it were frozen over, yes, and nothing was alive, as far as he could see...but there were still tides. Life had begun in water, and neither had a place in Kurokami''s empire. Issei had always been ambivalent towards Japan''s past imperialistic ambitions. On the one hand, his forebears had been simultaneously too brash and a century too late for what they wanted. On the other...reminding gaijin of their place was always worthwhile. Because they never reached towards his country except to take, did they? They threaten Japan into opening its borders; they cut off its oil supply; reptiles turn mad and the gods who let it happen not only get away scot free, they continue being worshipped, too! And the Mars mission...even Yamada ended up making nice to the reptilians when they fell upon their alleged allies, just like the rest. Kurokami had shown him a better way. A path that began in the hinterlands of the realm Japan had once beaten. All the past humiliations would be undone, if only he was faithful. The gashadokuro''s green eyes glowed with a light almost as sick as his permanent death head''s grin. The priests might not have been lashed, but the implication of his presence was a whip unto itself, much less his glare... His...glare... Kurokami often appeared to Issei through visions or dreams, but...his gaze had never been like this. It had always been full of dark serenity, not a bright glare... A bright...glare...? *** The skeleton''s bones crumbled into nothing, just like the soul he''d sold did under my glare, which soon turned to the god holding the slack strings of his lost puppet. You dare? The amusement didn''t hide his anger, which made me wonder whether he was even trying to mask it, or failed because I could see through him. Destroy your worshippers'' souls? Why wouldn''t I? I know you don''t believe in sanctity, so it must be possessiveness, but...surely you can''t be so greedy you''ve forgotten my promise? I could spell what your promises are good for with your father''s remains. Either of theirs. My razor-edged smirk was just as ugly as his unnaturally-bright one. I am done letting you take from me, or anyone else. From now, I shall take from you. *** Lev brings down the lash with some relish, and more than a little eagerness. He is, and has always been, a petty man. It is said that even wretched people delight in the suffering of others: usually those lower than them, but sometimes their peers, too, or, the best, their superiors. There''s a saying...Bulgarian? Romanian? "May the neighbour''s goat die too." Lev Illych wholeheartedly agrees with both the sentiment and the saying. This is why he glories in his duty as an overseer. Preparing humans to receive parts of Chernobog in order to be empowered is iffy work, at the best of times, unless their faith is strong-and those who are faithful are, usually, already empowered by him, in one way or another, to varying degrees. Or, if they are not, they are more useful to the Black God in their current positions. The would-be Everdark are not useful, however, to any true extent. Yes, dogsbodies are always nice to have around, but these chumps got cowed by even him-and Lev knows he is a small, though not physically, man. When Sof...when the little witch bloomed, and her powers woke up? He knew shit was about to go down. There had been no magic school in his former, now destroyed village, and, had he been a better man, Lev would, perhaps, thought to send her to a bigger town, in order to assure she had a proper education. However...he hadn''t wanted that. His wife had been a tailor (not a real job, as he''d told her many times, not that the silly old cow had been good for anything else), so he had provided for her and their kid. Logging had paid good enough that he had felt it was within his rights-indeed, entirely right-to do what he wanted in the house. But his darling wife, the ungrateful bitch, had taken offence to that. Didn''t they always? People with no skills had all the time to complain. They fought, every day, all the time. He never laid a finger on her-he wasn''t a brute-but she clearly couldn''t be brought around to accepting him as head of the household, and that at at him. The witch''s magic manifesting had upset even that fragile, tumultuous order. Lev had been entirely mundane, in those days. How could he pretend to any authority when his daughter could do who knew what just by thinking? No, clearly, she''d either side with her mother or just attempt to take over herself, and fail disastrously. Still, a small part of Lev had wrestled with whether to keep his daughter''s powers a secret (maybe even from herself? Could he have managed it?), or send her away and thus reestablish order. In the end, he had time for neither. The little freak, with all the power she could want and too stupid to handle it, snapped. She didn''t understand that it was entirely normal-indeed, expected; healthy, even-for married couples to fight and argue. There was quite a fitting analogy Lev would have shared with her, if he''d known it was needed: two dogs in the same courtyard will snap at and bite each other, but they''ll join forces in an instant against an intruder. Had he told her that, maybe he would be here...but, in a way, it was better that it had happened like that. His eyes had been opened. Not by her-sje''d merely raped his mind, and her mother''s, too, the monster. Made them puppets, forced to behave. The other villagers soon followed, and... It had ended, in a relatively short time. Had ended well, to boot. He''d been sent to therapy and rehabilitation, given a new house and job in a new city, but... Lev wouldn''t bitch and whine about...emotional scars, though they were there. But he didn''t want to be weak again, and, in the world that was, he would be. How long before another menace like the witch came along? One that didn''t just take over minds, but simply destroyed? They wouldn''t put him together after. They could, but they wouldn''t. They''d ramble about the importance of life and death, how they were a light in the dark, the bedrock of human experience. Not something to be cheapened. Bullshit. Chernobog had shown him what things were really like. Lev had always agreed with several of the, if you wanted to be flowery, revelations. Weres healing from anything but silver? Were those brief deaths, quickly reversed by regeneration, exempt from the bullshit of the cycle of existence? Chernobog disagreed, and so did he. He wasn''t a true believer, wasn''t a worshipper, but the Black God had shown him the means by which he''d protect him from monsters, and heal him if he was somehow hurt, despite all odds. And if all he had to do in exchange was something he liked, he wouldn''t refuse. The Unseelie Everdark were different from what they were making now. The Black God had been unable to take over them, for Fae were immune to direct esoteric effects, like most supernatural species, and they had manipulated the fragments of himself he had given them by means of their own powers. Human Everdark would be just as powerful, if managed right, and susceptive to control, too. One just had to prepare them right. Break the body, until it rotted and decayed; shatter the mind; extinguish hope to crush the spirit. The vessel Lev was whipping could barely whimper anymo...o... *** Hoist by his own petard. There was some poetic justice to be found in an oppressor being strangled by his own whip, even such a narrow-minded bully. Suddenly, I was willing to cut Sofia slightly more slack, for some reason. I wondered why. Chernobog probably agreed, given he didn''t even comment on this execution. Instead, a construct of shadows appeared above the fallen overseer. With a thought, I erased him from existence before it could possess him, and Chernobog didn''t press the point. Instead, the construct quickly took his place. *** Luda does not look up from her station-neither the literal board covered in screens, nor her place in Chernobog''s court. She has felt her husband die, through the bond the Black God tied between them (at Lev''s request, of course. Grabby, paranoid twit...), and, even though the severing leaves her feeling emptier, rather than dead or twitching on the floor, she was still briefly imbalanced. Could even Chernobog fail to foresee obstacles? The Strangeguard, the renamed, rebranded remnants of the KGB''s occult branch, were not even nearby when her daughter went mad, then mad with power. They didn''t come when she stole her own mother''s mind, only after. They stopped Sofia, yes. Offered compensation, and reparations, and assurances that nothing like it would ever happen again. Then the Fright Before Christmas came. Then the wave of eldritch invasions, though at least they and their cohorts managed to evacuate most of the world before that. It still wouldn''t make up for anything, in Luda''s eyes. She found the Black God shortly after rehab was over. The clinical, warded facilities she spent time in, where time flowed as their owners wished, prevented him from reaching out to broaden her mind, which told her everything about those liars'' "helpful" intentions. Chernobog promised an everlasting, unchallengeable empire, where he would watch through the eyes of everything, reaching out with their hands to quash potential threats before they could rise. There would be only peace under his eternal...gaze... Luda''s eyes glazed over as she stared thro-no. Into the screen...s? Her head swayed back and forth as she tried to press a hand to her forehead. She''d been monitoring several facilities, alert for signs of enemy action or internal sabotage, so why was she so... So. Luda blinked. Why had the image changed? Everything inside one of the warehouses in the Urals had disappeared, but nothing had followed. In fact, it was like both the image and the sound had frozeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee- Luda came to, almost jumping out of her seat. Had she fainted? It had been...head-splittingly painful, like one of those headaches that made every second seem to stretch forever, but she hadn''t lost awareness. She was sure of it. Luda looked at the screen again, eyes peeled for changes. Then, time caught up with her. *** Chernobog actually chuckled at the pile of dust I made of his lookout. Small victories, for a small man. Canaries in coal mines, David. Do you honestly think I need people paying attention for me? It gives them something to do, makes them feel protected, even when I''m not being directly focused on them. I am aware. What you are not-can''t be-aware of, because of who you are, is that not even people like them deserve to live on after their spouses die. *** Maxim feels only a small, brief flash of satisfaction as he executes the Everdark, whose Chernobog shard briefly hovers in midair, before flying away, in search of a worthier host. Dissenters, even here. Even among those chosen by the Black God...truly, depravity knows no limits Maxim has always been a man of the law. It was why he joined the police, then the Strangeguard, when his weak point-targeting magic manifested. Unrest led to anarchy led to chaos. It all ended in oblivion-but now, it never would. He''d been there when they''d taken the mind-controlling witch brat away. That she was not only spared, but offered therapy (all in the name of shaping her into a stabler weapon, of course, but still) had added enough insult to injury, but ARC''s strigoi had been the star that had broken the camel''s back. Maxim had heard of Loric Szabo. He heavily doubted any supernatural law enforcement officer hadn''t, but the undead flayer was especially infamous across Eastern Europe''s supernatural communities, if only out of proximity. He hadn''t actually met the freak until that day, had fooled himself into thinking the stories were just bullshit: ARC hyping up one of its leashed psychos, so they wouldn''t have to pull out the actually heavy guns unless necessary. He''d been wrong. Not about the power: Szabo had been strong even then, easily Popigai level, if not borderline...ah. Who cared about the old classifications anymore, anyway? And he''d grown even stronger, according to the Black God. Upjumped rabble-rousers like Szabo were exactly the reason a firm, strong hand was needed. ARC hadn''t exaggerated anything about him; if anything, they''d downplayed him. Maybe unintentionally, since Szabo''s ops were not exactly the kind of shit you could publish, but...he''d seen enough. ARC willingly employing monsters like him had been the last drop. They''d already grown too powerful and arrogant for something supposed to watch international areas for the Global Gathering-and if their leash-holders were willing to let things continue like that, they were even worse. Maxim was aware Chernobog''s reign would be infinitely longer and more horrific than any human regime. But he''d seen where those led. No- *** What do you hope to accomplish, David? I told you. I can hear their cry. And I know what you''ve done. *** Elia snarls as she feels the foreign force battering at the walls of her existence. When her hometown was razed during the Fright, she knew she-the world-needed someone who could not only make promises, but make said promises reality. The Headhunt had shown her the pantheons didn''t give a rat''s ass when it came to getting what they wanted, but she''d chalked that up to...apathy, for lack of a better term. The gods clearly didn''t see Earth''s inhabitants as people. But it had taken their failure to defend what they claimed as theirs for her to realize thee truth. Chernobog had almost killed the Fae, after tricking them into letting him into their realm, and that alone had been worthy of worship. But then, not only had he been thwarted, the world had continued to treat with the Fae like they were...allies! Like...like... No one but Chernobog cared anymore. Mortal or god, they all just wanted everyone to play nice and not rock the boat, so they could keep fucking around with whatever got their rocks off. Chernobog had promised Fae genocide, and she''d joined to make his dream a reality, but they were being opposed at every step. Her god had even gifted her with the power to get stronger when harmed by those she hated, so that she might both strike them down and never forget her- -pain- *** ''They were all begging,'' I whispered, putting my hands on Aya''s desk as I pushed myself upwards. ''But you''d never give it to them, would you?'' Endings rarely fall under my purview, strigoi. And yet, my worse half and I smiled, we took six of yours without even getting out of our chair. We are coming for you, but do not fret: not yet. I have a few monster I want to meet yet. ''David?'' ''I promise we''ll be careful, ma''am.'' Aya, not fooled, raised an eyebrow at the phrasing. Szabo, who''d obviously waited to make me appear more unhinged than I was, only appeared an instant after, the motherfucker. ''Indeed,'' he added, a trillion trillion horrified grimaces dancing across his clothes. ''We won''t miss anything.'' *** Constantin went quiet for a moment, the surroundings silent but for the crackle of flames. ''Killing children.'' ''It is not the first time for either of us,'' Uriel replied. ''Nor will it be the last.'' ''But...why? How are they corrupted?'' ''You cannot see? Hear?'' To Constantin''s dismay, the Cardinal Archangel sounded more relieved than surprised or worried, but his voice didn''t change, nor did his eyes move from the flames ahead, or his hands from the reins that ended nowhere and led everywhere. ''Perhaps ''tis for the best.'' ''I will not kill without knowing why.'' ''Liar.'' There was something vicious in Uriel''s voice now. ''You already have. You are doing it right now, with your own hands, but you can''t even perceive it.'' ''Because of what you did to me.'' Constantin felt his rage begin to boil over. ''Because you blinded-'' ''Blinded? You did not even know what your affliction was before I saved you. You couldn''t tell it was an affliction to begin with, much less find a solution by yourself.'' ''I wasn''t ill,'' Constantin protested. ''Everyone has doubts. And I did not ask to share my being with you.'' ''Your soul was calling for help. How could it know the manner in which it needed to be helped, much less detail it? You wanted God to end your doubts. Would you rather He killed you and sent your soul to the beyond?'' Constantin looked down, briefly, then back at the angel as his eyes met only more flames. ''I still want to help the world. I can, so I must.'' '' "I can, so I must" is the most foolish ideology there has ever been.'' Uriel''s face was a stony mask as he tugged one rein. ''You know how many sinners believe in it? All of them, in the end.'' ''Send me to Hell, then.'' ''No. You are still needed, and you will always be. Not Constantin Silva-what you represent, and serve as the foundation of. We shall ever grow.'' Suppressing the shiver that threatened to run up his spine at the words, Constantin grabbed one of Uriel''s pauldron, trying to turn the Archangel around. Uriel did not budge, but sighed. ''God shouldn''t have done this.'' ''...it''s never enough for you, is it?'' A shadow passed over the angel''s face. ''You used to be thankful for not being smote, but now, gifts are not enough.'' ''Gifts?'' ''What do you think God''s Mouth is? What we are?'' By now, the shadow had settled over the grim, tanned face, Uriel''s eyes burning like green coals within it. ''You were so consumed by doubt, only moments aware from it becoming literal. My father wanted you to let go, so He could welcome you to Heaven, but that wasn''t enough, was it?'' Uriel snapped the reins angrily, as if they were whips. ''Nothing is ever enough for humanity. You only take, take, take, and yet...He loves you more than He''s ever loved us. More than He''s ever will. But I''ve seen the writing on the wall.'' As the angels shoulders slumped, his wings moved to cover them. Constantin reeled back, as if struck. ''I...I didn''t kno-'' ''You didn''t know,'' Uriel repeated. ''You didn''t even know you were speaking to my father. You thought Him an imposter, just like your son did, and refused him the same. Do you know what Yaldabaoth did upon your response? He laughed.'' Snap. ''And laughed.'' Snap. ''And laughed.'' ''But I love God.'' The tears running into Constantin''s beard didn''t turn to smoke, despite the fire boiling his insides. ''I do. I swear I do...David didn''t know. If...if either of us did, neither would rave refused, I can promise y-'' ''Things like that,'' the Archangel cut him off. ''Are called tests. And people like you,'' snap. ''Are called failures.'' Constantin drew a deep, shuddering breath that raked his lungs like burning knives. ''What is God''s Mouth? Why does it kill children?'' ''Necessity.'' Uriel sounded just as tired as he felt, for a change. ''Chernobog, as an outcast among the pantheons, appeals to those who feel they have been wronged or abandoned by them. Those who have no one left to pray to expect for him, but are too afraid to stand on their own feet.'' The flames dimmed, then blazed brightly again as the Archangel breathed. ''Not all of them are willing, of course. Not all of them are evil. The smallest souls are the easiest to fill, and the desecration of innocence is a leaves bleeding scars across creation.'' The angel beat his wings once, twice, as he snapped the reins. ''What is God''s Mouth? We. Them. Those to come. God already has a messenger, and a voice. Why would he need someone else to speak for Him?'' ''A trinity of heralds?'' Uriel actually looked amused. ''Not everything is about numbers, Constantin. Nor should you look for patterns, for you are almost assured to find them...something that matches your expectations, at least. Gabriel passes news, and Metatron edicts. What is left?'' The beating of winds, the snapping of reins, the crackle of flames unite into a single, threefold sound. ''Judgement?'' ''That,'' Uriel smiles. ''Was the last time you will speak that as a question.'' *** Aaron was unfamiliar with returning home bewildered. He was used to being beleaguered, yes. Baffled, even. Angry, usually. Anger was good-the second decision he made after classifying this new feeling as detestable. Familiar, understandable, clear. Anger, he knew how to deal with. He can work with it. What he can''t work with is the double punch of Bianca''s kidnapping and rescue, and what it drove Lucian to. Silva doing foul shit for the greater good troubled him a great deal less than it does Bianca, he thought, not with disdain. The girl simply hasn''t had the need to make grey choices like he has yet, and he hoped she never would. What ground his gears was pointless, stupid sacrifice. Which is what Lucian couldn''t or didn''t want to see was what he has done. The zmeu looking up at him with a sad smile looked almost the same as he did before. Save for a few spikes and the colour of his scales and eyes, he still looked like Lucian, down to the moustache. A part of Aaron mused that, with the golden scales, it makes him look like one of those Chinese dragon statues. Their parents were gone, and good riddance. More fool him, for hoping they could stall for time, never mind pull a miracle and get Luci to calm down. Aaron knew that, left alone with Lucas, either of them was likely to do something rash. It happened in the end, anyway. ''Brother,'' Lucian broke the ice. ''It warms my heart to see you in good health. If I might inquire about my paramour''s current business-'' ''Stop.'' Black eyebrows rose fractionally, but the black eyes barely changed. ''Is something the matter?'' ''Stop that,'' Aaron repeated hoarsely. ''I want my little brother back.'' Now the eyes changed, though he wished they didn''t. It was like watching coal frost over. ''Do you, though? Do you truly? I have been a source of shame to you for decades, brother mine, though I''ve only just begun to understand why-fear not, for I agree. I was the caricature you didn''t want us to be seen and remembered as. I know you feel the same about Lucas'' girl; yes, yes, don''t try to hide it. Mia would agree, not that she wants to mutilate herself into the opposite of what she is.'' Is...was it supposed to be raining today? They must have strayed into another zmeu''s territory, but...no. Still his. ''I never wanted you to do anything like this.'' It should have been me! Hurt me, not him! I can take it! I deserve it! Look...look what he did...''Did those two force you to do this? Trick or taunt you?'' Lucian''s sigh was as desolate as his brother''s voice. ''It was willing and self-inflicted, brother. I know you want someone responsible you can beat to death, but I have passed beyond that.'' Was that a joke? Yes. Good. Hold on to that. ''Well, now. A new coat of paint is no reason to get...cocky...'' Lucas'' fanged grins were dripping transparent protoplasm as he touched down, Three Moons Falling slung over one shoulder. Aaron hadn''t seen him smile like this since... *** ''Mercenary work, Luc?'' ''It pays,'' his brother shrugged. ''And lets me live. Go around, offering my services. The Party reduces a migraine to a headache. They can use me themselves, or pull the plug if I get unmanageable.'' ''...you love it, brother.'' ''If I can''t lie to you, I won''t try.'' *** ''Someone seems pleased with himself,'' Aaron noted in lieu of a greeting, drawing a short, humourless bark of laughter from Lucas. ''Someone is,'' Lucas said, a pleased, distracted look in his eyes. ''I haven''t killed anything righteously in decades.'' ''You looked like you were about to start, with father,'' Lucian said, and Lucas'' left head turns to him, as if seeing the younger zmeu for the first time. ''...well, you look like a fucking paperweight now. And "father"? If your voice wasn''t still annoying, I wouldn''t have recognised you!'' Lucian smiled. His family was here. Almost everyone was. *** Mia hadn''t known you could hold someone''s stare without meeting their eyes, up to this point. But, as she stares at the floor while Alex looks away, eyes bitter and arms crossed over his knees, she understands. ''That''s horrible,'' her contralto filled the silent room. ''Alex-'' ''I know,'' the ghost snapped, still not looking at her. ''That''s not the man you love, but, Mia...'' he ran a hand through his once-black hair. With his white-blue, transparent ectoplasmic body, the hair looked more like a splash of dark blue ink. ''I know I...I got scared at the thought of him coming here. But our David-the David of the present-wouldn''t do that. We both know it. Right?'' ''If David thought even a single person''s life could get mildly better, he''d kill himself without hesitation. Again.'' The zmeu''s flat voice gave Alex pause. Sometimes, he forgot she was less than half his age, and belongs to a species prone to emotional extremes to boot. Before he could reply, however, she continued. ''Is what I would have said yesterday. Now...I don''t know.'' ''Mia?'' Mihai prods. The zmeu smiled at the unintentional mana pulse going through his veins. ''Why do you think I came here alone?'' She looked from Mihai to Alex. ''Have you heard from Luci or Andrei lately? Constantin?'' *** When people talked about the Strigoi Society, it was always in ironic or mocking terms, if not outright hateful ones. No matter which group was discussed. In truth, there were two Strigoi Societies, and, though people sometimes mixed them up or mistook them for a single organisation, they rarely mixed, and never without disastrous results. The first and most obvious was the loose, semi-coherent gathering of strigoi who tried to support themselves and each other in greater society, or away from it, when they went to live off the grid. Strigoi being what they were, leadership and order were neither common nor welcome. The second was the bunch of strigoi-chasers, like tornado enthusiasm with a fetish for dangerous undead, but I was repeating myself. These people trailed behind strigoi, documenting their activities, hunting them to either help or hinder. Some strigoi hated them with all their dead hearts could muster, while others kept them around as thralls or gophers. Most just thought they were an annoyance that should drop dead, if possible. The people who came to Siberia''s outskirts were, almost universally, members of the first category. As far away from civilisation as possible, without going underwater or underground and risking the ire of the Watcher Over Horror and Reptilian Collective. ''Have you ever wondered why here?'' I asked out loud as we slowly descended. ''Why a cold, almost lifeless place? You can''t possibly be asking that unironically, brother,'' Szabo answered, sounding a bit disbelieving. I shook my head. ''Why not Canada, then? Or the Poles?'' ''You have to remember,'' he adjusted his jacket collar, and the collarbones rattled in protest. ''Most of our kindred here are several times older than me, never mind you. Many of them predate the discovery of the New World-I mean by Columbus, not Erikson, mind. And even those who don''t grew up too poor to learn or care about such things as Canada, or the Poles.'' His leather boots crunched into the snow, briefly forming into paws. ''For them, this was the top of the world, the edge of Earth and human knowledge.'' We were on the northern border, closer to the Arctic Circle than civilised Russia. Ahead, I could see the North Pole, invisible to human eyes, but appearing like an ivory crown on a blue maiden''s brow to my godsight. I could see how a strigoi born, dead and risen in the Middle Ages could have interpreted this as the ends of the world. We were not alone, however. Life, in its myriad small forms, was everywhere around us-as was undeath. There were many times of strigoi, if one classified us by tendencies and tics rather than nature. Those who knocked on doors to be let in. Visitors, physical or spiritual. Stranglers. Heavies: strigoi trapped somewhere until someone happened by, after which they, invisible, latched onto the unsuspecting victim''s back, slowly draining their lifeforce and making them sick while they remained imperceivable. We were not there for any of them, however, though I noticed, with some amusement, a heavy, her arms wrapped around a taller, burlier strigoi''s neck as she hanged off him. I could feel them trying to drain each other''s lifeforce. I suppose all couples had their games. ''Have you ever met her before?'' I asked Szabo, as a strangler-a strigoi that appeared in people''s dreams and strangled them while draining their lifeforce, which translated into reality; I really had to start training my powers-approached us through the aether. With a though, I crushed his throat and burned his flesh, but, when I sent his lifeforce in Szabo''s direction, the older strigoi gave me a disapproving glare, nose wrinkling. ''Something wrong?'' ''There is nothing more wrong than being spoon-fed your success or power. Keep that to yourself, brother, or let it go.'' I met his stare with a smile as I consumed the energy. ''Ahem...'' ''Everyone meets Domna at some point. She doesn''t let kin die without laying her eyes on them.'' ''She sure didn''t mind that time my goddamn head popped off,'' I said, as we walked towards the grey snow-covered hill in the distance, everyone giving us a wide berth after the strangler''s sudden death and processing. Szabo ran his tongue over his fangs, producing sparks and a sound like a knife scraping against steel. ''But that wasn''t your final death, David. You are still he-'' ''-re,'' Szabo finished, looking around puzzled. No longer on the snow-covered field, we were now in an equally-cold and bleak chamber, just as grey as...yes, the hill it had been carved into. Grey walls, floor and ceiling, grey carpets, tapestries and blankets, even the entirely superfluous flames in the fireplace at the far end were, somehow, grey. It was like being trapped in the world''s oldest, most boring photo. ''You''re still faster than me,'' he told the small woman in front of us. Much like the room, almost everything on her, from her skin and hair to her old, tattered habit was grey, except for her fangs and eyes. She had the brightest smile I had ever seen, even in the dim light of the chamber, and eyes as dark as my future self''s. ''And my speed is infinite now.'' ''Whose isn''t, Loric?'' She waved a dismissive hand, a gesture she quickly turned into an invitation to sit down. ''You people think having forever to react to something makes you fast. Come to me when you can react to something before it happens, and without precognitive tricks.'' When she turned to me, her smile became ever brighter, and not just literally. ''Hello, David. I am sorry if you were expecting me on that night in Bucharest, but, as Loric said, I knew it wasn''t the end.'' ''You mean I''ll die again?'' The thought of never turning into whatever I would become was somewhat appealing, even if it meant leaving everything and everyone out to dry. Call of the void, people. Intrusive thoughts. The strigoi''s grey mane barely swayed as she shook her head. ''Never again. That was your last death: your brother was wrong in that regard, but I have a nose for such things.'' Seeing both of us were still standing, she sat down, legs folded primly under her, habit barely wrinkling. Not wanting to look like a rude jackass-she only came up to my chest when we were both standing, and I didn''t want to make her look up-, I followed, sitting cross-legged. Szabo just plopped down, hands on his belly like a satisfied boyar. ''You are Domna Economou,'' I said. ''The First Strigoi. I''ve wanted to meet you for some time.'' Her smile thinned. ''ARC has?'' ''Joining would be appreciated, but this is not a recruitment pitch. Even remaining neutral is enough: you keep this community quiet, and control them almost as tightly as you control yourself.'' ''However I do that,'' she voiced my unspoken thought. ''But you didn''t come to share ARC''s worries with me, son. You want something from me.'' I looked down, swallowing. ''God killed my father.'' If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. ''Yours, too?'' Domna chuckled drily, pointing a thumb over her shoulder at the fireplace. ''Please don''t go there. Constantin prefers to cool down by himself. He''s out now, but he''ll return soon.'' My heart stupidly leapt at the name. Not my father, obviously. Undeath would never touch pops now. ''You cannot feel my lifeforce, can you, David? Loric?'' ''I can feel you''re hiding it. Like putting a boulder over a spring.'' ''I can feel the barrier you''ve raised.'' Szabo''s smile was just as bright as Domna''s, though far ghastlier. ''But it''s redundant. Anyone who''s seen your power can guess.'' Domna raised an amused eyebrow, then her shields sli- *** I came to clutching my head with one hand and my eyes with the other. Loric seemed similarly surprised, for the second time that day, while Domna looked as serene as she had before blowing our heads up. ''It is as you say, David. It takes a certain degree of discipline to control yourself when you''ve eaten as much life as I have.'' ''Or direct it at people without blowing up the multiverse,'' I suggested. ''Mhm.'' She picked at her fangs with a pinky. ''You would be surprised what you can eat, in creation''s upper realms.'' Folding her dainty hands into her lap, claw tips touching, she looked at the fire, then back at us. ''You are feeling adrift, David, and you come to me? I am not exactly a font of spiritual wisdom.'' Bullshit. ''Who''s Constantin? To clear your throat before you tell me about yourself, if you want.'' ''You can''t have possibly forgotten. He was your country''s first strigoi hero before your grandparents were in diapers!'' Was she playing up how aghast she was, or just screwing with us to have fun? Old people were sometimes like that. ''Please, do refresh your memory before he returns. It would do your health no good to offend him.'' ...what. ''You mean Constantin from the ballad?'' Szabo winced unhappily. ''You could have told us the Strigoi Brother would be here today, grandmother.'' ''You could have called ahead,'' Domna shot him down. ''Don''t worry, Loric. He''s unlikely to beat you for the same reason twice.'' ''I could take him now,'' Szabo muttered querulously, eyes darkening. ''In a fight, too, I''m sure,'' Domna giggled. ''Listen to me, David. I can read your life lines, no need to show me your palms. Neither the man who gave you life nor the one who raised you is gone. You can meet the former in the afterlife, and you just have to reach out to the latter, if you can bring yourself to.'' What did she know? ''You said God killed your father, too.'' ''God killed neither of our fathers directly. He lifted yours out of the dust of humanity, and mine...'' she pulled at her habit, and I nearly looked away when her chest came into view, but she hissed for me to look. The cross-shaped burn mark was still smoking. ''I grew up seeing the cracks in the monolith widen and deepen, boy. Christendom didn''t split in a day. I fought for everyone to get along. My whole family did. How could I live with the failure, when I knew what it portended? And look at that, the broken mirror is now a mound of shards.'' She laughed bitterly. ''Your father?'' ''My father died trying to kill me, David.'' Her habit was whole again. ''I was young and feral in those days. I felt life, and fed. My father could barely convince himself I wasn''t his little girl anymore, much less kill me. But, by God, he tried. He wanted closure, you see? Almost as much as he wanted me to be at peace. God...nudged him.'' ''Nudged,'' I sneered. ''Fucked his mind and sent the shell after you, you mean.'' Domna''s eyes shone. ''My father died a whole man, more human than I''ve been for nearly a thousand years. Do not attribute false atrocities to God-there are more than enough to be laid at his feet.'' Szabo chimed in while I was mulling her words over. ''You''ve never told me this story before.'' ''Good thing you brought David, then.'' ''So it would seem. So,'' there was a strange gleam in Szabo''s eyes. ''Did you kill him?'' Domna nodded. ''Oh, yes. Horribly. The only thing that stopped me from using him as a man was that I started with a kick between the legs.'' She bit her lower lip. ''He only touched me once, with his cross, and not even the sharp part. I don''t know if he was too hurt or delirious to land it, but he only scarred me. Maybe he only wanted to bring me back to my senses. His death did, in any case.'' ''Dooming our parents is always sobering,'' a new voice agreed. *** ''Bia.'' ''Luci.'' Old nicknames, spoken in the same voices; still, they sounded new and raw. Awkward. Almost as much as Aaron felt while looking at his youngest brother and his lover. The silver-haired iela was looking up at the golden zmeu, her expression serene, but otherwise blank. There was no trace of relief or joy on her face, nor in her voice. ''I should have been there,'' Lucian said, taking a knee-as much as his backwards-jointed legs allowed him-so he could look her in the eye. ''You shouldn''t have to ask. From now on, you''ll never have to.'' ''...you really think it''s your fault, don''t you?'' Emotion finally entered her voice: dismay. ''Not mine for being weak and stupid.'' ''You have never been. Only I.'' Bianca smiled. ''Had I been half as smart as you think I am, I would have hired Andrei.'' ''Let him rest,'' Lucian said, making Aaron jolt. Bianca''s arrival-she had merely appeared, without any sign of creation warping around her-had been surprising, but... He glanced at Lucas, who was leaning against one of the barracks'' walls, which was constantly melting and rebuilding itself upon coming in contact with the smoke of his blunt. After an experimental, enchanted spliff combining all chemicals known to mankind had been discarded as too mild, he''d turned to his own mixtures, some of which could easily dissolve structures tougher than most planets with just the fumes they created. Aaron wondered how much his brother had changed, if he was tapping into his morningstar''s power like this. The blue zmeu stared back, saying nothing. Clearly, the ball was with him. He supposed it was only fair. He''d started the damn mess, or at least hastened it, in his attempt to help. ''Fair,'' Bianca agreed, then her shoulders sagged. ''Do you know why I look like this?'' ''Gorgeous? Because you''re aging gracefully, of course.'' The zmeu took one of her hands, kissing her knuckles. ''Yes. The scales have fallen from my eyes, Bianca. Becoming one with destruction removes most obstructions.'' ''And you agree with David?'' Lucian grinned at her cold tone. ''I''ll beat him for you, if you want. But I would sooner we were hurt, than both of us, and everyone else, died.'' ''But you still hate him.'' ''I hate what he did, yes. And I dread the moment our David becomes him. But it is inevitable, my love. Just like you winning my heart.'' Aaron would have gruffly joked about sappiness on any other day, but now? They deserved-needed-this. Each other. He''d stand by as long as he was needed, then go look into whatever had happened to Dravich. But first... What do you still want? Apologies, offspring-shard, the Underdweller said. But this one wanted to tell you it failed. Didn''t we both? I won''t pat you on the back. He shifted his footing. Why''d you leave? Or Maws? My brothers haven''t told me yet, and I''d rather hear it from the horse''s mouth. This one''s mirror-counterpart returned to his prior assignment upon the transformation of this one''s most recent mirror-shard. He claimed to no longer be interested. And you? This one is now fully aware you don''t love her. ...he wouldn''t apologise. You''ve never given us much of a reason, mom. This one had no experience with raising young prior to having you. This one- Then why''d you agree? Maws couldn''t have left you pregnant unless you wanted to be. *** Eldritch entities, a catch-all term for the residents of the Outer Void and the lesser ones that preceded it, could not enter and leave dimensioned reality at will. Those who could were bound by or to certain other restrictions or locations, instead. It was unknown, and thus the subject of much discussion among them, whether this was a result of the Lord of All subconsciously protecting its Dream, or simply a random trait of said projection. The one that called itself the Underdweller did so for a simple reason. Rather than being subservient to another, it was the concept of being under something, or the underside of something. And it was curious. Its peers found its fascination with dimensioned entities, even those that could become dimensionless, eccentric at best, grotesque at worst-like a human in love with cartoon characters. It cared not for their opinion, though. Rather, it was more focused on the barrier-chain-wall holding it back from entering the multiverse, in order to speak to the fascinating polycephalous entity it had observed. As it tried and failed to break through, it spoke to her. ''Awfully hot and bothered, aren''t we?'' ''This one knows not what you mean. But...this one understands. This one would be much obliged if you would indulge it.'' ''But of course! Your sons have important roles to play in the future, so get to making them. Go right on ahead-but don''t stick around, eh? Stunted development would be...supremely unwelcome.'' ''This one thanks you, Remaker.'' *** ''You demand answers.'' The Watcher was looking past Sklaresia, at Vyrt. ''From her disapproving tone, one could almost be forgiven for thinking we deserted our post.'' ''Talk to me, you conjoined pit-bull,'' Klare said. ''Don''t act like I''m not here.'' ''We know you didn''t run away,'' Vyrt said in a conciliatory tone. ''But you''ve never moved the ruins of Atlantis before, either. You can understand our concern, especially when you brought them back-also with no warning or explanation.'' ''Our duty is to our history. We do not owe anyone anything.'' ''Rich,'' Klare scoffed. ''I''d say you owe everyone more than you''ll ever be able to give.'' ''Our vigil is payment enough. Nephilim,'' the Watcher''s weapon shifted into a trident, which they rested over one shoulder. ''Nothing we say can be used to gain an advantage, by you or your masters.'' ''I am aware,'' Vyrt replied smoothly. ''But if you can simply move the ruins-and, therefore, the Horror''s prison-at will, then there is no reason to remain on Earth. After all, you do not owe anyone anything, in your own words. Is your history easier to defend on your world? Or perhaps you like punishing those who try to plunder it?'' The Watcher did non answer. ''Here is our current hypothesis. You do not have to confirm or deny, but remember: silence is an answer, too. With the walls between worlds thinned by the Fae incursion, and the deluge of eldritch invaders that followed, there was of one or more getting at the horror, or otherwise distracting you enough for it to slip its chains. How close are we?'' ''Far. We have never been and will never be distracted. We gain the power and abilities necessary to defend Atlantis, and, because Atlantis must be defended, we cannot be bested or bypassed, as long as our duty is necessary.'' ''Then?'' Vyrt asked softly. *** The House of Horror never got easier on the eyes, no matter how much time passed. It had been their palace, once, in a bygone age. Their house. Atlantis'' rulers had been horrors in their own right, but that was not where the name came from. Rather, it came from that of its newest, only occupant. ''Mother,'' the Horror''s voices were childlike, to varying degrees. ''Father.'' ''Qhynart,'' the Watcher greeted. ''Wylkhas. Ylvha.'' Their children''s faces, already stretched, widened even further, into things that only vaguely resembled pained smiles. It was the most beautiful thing the Watcher had ever seen. The only thing that remained beautiful to them. The silver-skinned, shapeless thing under, around and above them reached out with trembling, half-formed limbs, running twitching appendages over the Watcher''s greaves, their gauntlets. Like they had once reached out to their parents, their masters. ''We want out,'' the Horror burbled, trying to wrap tighter around them. ''We see them walking our world.'' ''They shall be cast out.'' ''By us?'' ''No. It is not our purpose.'' The Horror''s hopeful tone faded into nothing at the Watcher''s words. When it opens its mouths again, its words were pleading, with an undertone of slyness. ''It is not right to be torn away from our world while strangers stride across its skin.'' ''Even here, you are tempted. We shall remain, until the storm is ended.'' ''You do not want us to be free, do you?'' The Horror now sounded accusing, hateful. ''You want to stand guard forever, and call it penance.'' '' ''tis penance,'' the Watcher said. ''And you have nothing left to offer creation, except the legacy of Atlantis.'' Hatred. Even as their continent fell apart around them, the into the seas, the Atlanteans did not repent. They did not regret their deeds, nor ask for forgiveness. They cursed the gods while their bodies broke, while their minds collapsed and their spirits shattered, and that was the fuel of Horror. Zhalkhos and Xilema gathered their people''s loathing, their spite. Their children-who had never known slaves except for their tutors-had died before their eyes. Young woman, two boys: one adolescent, one barely a toddler. Because the gods spared no one. In this, at least, they were fair. The Horror roared in anger and denial as it rushed at the Watcher from all directions. And, though it knew not, its tears mirrored those sstreaming down the face under the helmet. *** ''Why is the demoness here?'' the Watcher asked, finally acknowledging Klare. ''Please, do not deflect,'' Vyrt said wearily. ''If you continue stalling, I shall take my leave.'' ''Do so, then,'' the Watcher said. ''And do not bother us again.'' Vyrt turned, as did Klare, with a huff. Before he departed the pocket reality, though, he spoke once more. ''She felt wronged by me. Felt I had threatened her only family. She wanted recompense.'' ''...go to the Keeper, Vyrt,'' the Watcher replied. ''And trouble us no more. There is a destiny to fulfill.'' *** Constantin watched, with some amusement, but no small amount of confusion, as his little sister turned down every suitor. It wasn''t just her answer, that she was too young. Being the youngest boy, Constantin was familiar with being dismissed as an idiot brat by his elders whenever he got up to some scatterbrained scheme. But his sister... ''Mother,'' Lenu?a said one day, after two foreigners came to court her, and left, bemused by her hesitant non-answer. ''I dearly love one of those men, and would eagerly go after him.'' ''Oh, my dear,'' Lena said. ''With you so far, longing shall take me. How shall I see you again? Who will bring you to me?'' ''Come on, mother!'' Constantin jumped to his feet, grinning at his family''s expressions: amused, hopeful, sad but surprised. ''You have three sons-surely one of us can bring our sister back, when your heart misses her? I shall do it myself!'' So they married her off. Constantin, the one to convince their mother, took his sister to her groom himself, and returned home more than pleased with himself. Then the plague came, and left the land harrowed, and Lena alone in the house, her children departed: the daughter to faraway lands, the sons to the grave. The old woman hobbled to the cemetery, shawl undone as she tore at her grey hair. In-between mourning her older sons, confessing to wanting to kill herself in their absence, sinning be damned, she cursed her youngest. ''Constantin, Constantin! May you be cursed, cursed by your mother, for giving away your sister! Your brothers looked at me, and told me not to give her away! But you, you cursed boy, did it! So I curse you, with all my soul: may the earth not receive you, may the dust not want you anymore, may the clay bash you! For, out of longing for Lenu?a, I wish my life''s thread broke!'' And so she cursed, one day and the next, and the one after that. For days and weeks she cursed, and woe, for so much cursing, the curse took root. *** And, at sunset, Constantin awoke. He came out of the pit, pale-faced and cold as ice. Weeping and wailing, he spoke with dismay. ''If only I could depart, for I am cursed, but I cannot, for I am buried. If only I could depart, for mother demands, but I cannot, for I lack power. I have no horse, and no mantle, and no one beloved in the world; for, whoever sees me shall tremble in fear, and cross himself. Nor to my mother shall I go, as she cursed me, for giving my sister away!'' And as he brooded, and wept, he prayed. ''Oh coffin, proud coffin, become a hawk of a horse. And you, funerary shroud, become a mantle. And you, cross, change, become an iron blade for me. And You, God, revive me, give me power today. To Lenu?a I shall go, and bring her home.'' And God listened to him, and gave him the might of the living, as did his his coffin, turning into a horse, his shroud into a mantle, and his cross into a broadsword. And Constantin mounted his steed, departing in a rush. And the horse barely touched the ground. Indeed, it flew, for its master spoke to it, his voice filled with great longing. ''Fly, roan, with me, for I fly alongside you! Fly, roan, along the way, for I fly in your wake!'' And night had not yet fallen when they stopped, at Lenu?a, in another country. *** When Lenu?a saw her beloved brother, she spoke sweetly: ''Constantin, Constantin, tell me if ''tis good or bad. Nine years, see, have passed, in which I have not seen you. Neither have you give me news, nor written me letters!'' Constantin spoke: ''Since you have gotten married, nothing bad has happened. We are healthy at home-mother is still healthy. New happenings, I have none to speak of, but good news I still bring you: our brothers got married, but, caught in their own thoughts, they didn''t invite you to the wedding! I am your more affectionate brother, and, since I am getting married, I hurried here. Should you wish, come to my wedding!'' And so Constantin spoke, his voice full of sadness, tears falling from his eyes and sighs coming upon him. But Lenu?a knew him, and again she asked him: ''Tell me brother, true, if you call me to revelry, so that I might wear red and white, and mount a white horse; or if you call me to mourning, so that I might wear clothes of mourning, and mount a black horse-let us begin, brother, honestly!'' ''And I tell you, sister, that I call you to revelry.'' And she dressed herself proudly, in her white clothes, and the two set off, on the known path, surrounded by mighty woods. And as they walked the path, birds followed them, and the vile mountains spoke: ''Since the sun had been sun, and the flower in the field flower, and the world world, such a wonder we have not seen: the living walking with the dead, along the woods. The living walking closely with the dead, risen out of the pit! Ay! Great wonder! The living with the dead on the path!'' Constantin heard well, but Lenu?a didn''t understand. Jokingly, she said: ''Hear, brother Constantin, what do the mountains speak of you?!'' Constantin, moaning heavily, answered: ''Let them speak, sister, and waste their minds; let them be with the singing as we are with the walking; may they guard their song as we watch our walk.'' This, they did not heed, for their path they followed. Four long summer days they walked, and rested little. *** When the sun rose on the fifth day, they beheld their village, full of darkness and clouds. When they were close to the village, Constantin said: ''Lenu?a! Ride your horse more gently, for I shall ride mine harder, so that I might tell mother to welcome you well, open the gates lay out the tables for you, fill your cups!'' And he spurred his horse, and rode hard, not to his mother, as he had promised, but right to his grave. Here, he dismounted, and said: ''Horse grown under grassy earth, bone-gathering lair! You took and brought me, on the path and through the sky, and did a great good, for my mother, for me, for mother, for girl, for me as well! And you, beloved mantle, white shrouding cloth, and you, shining blade, the cross at my feet, our time has come, ''tis cometh, to return whence we came! You, good mischievous horse, change your body into coffin, and you, shining sword, become cross at my feet, and you, beloved mantle, become shrouding cloth! And You, God, holy God, give me again my place in the grave, for I have passed through what was harder: to Lenu?a I went, and brought her home!'' God listened to him: the earth split, the clay rose once again, and Constantin was buried. *** And as Lenu?a entered the village, she was surprised, for everything was changed, broken by mourning. but more surprised she was when she found herself home: the gates were bad and broken, so that you could jump through them, the stable empty, the grass grown around the bend. The poor girl waited for her brothers to come running, and welcome her at the doorstep, but nobody did, not even Constantin. She hurried to the door, but found it locked, so she started knocking on it: ''Let me in, mother, let me in the house, for I am your beloved daughter, faraway Lenu?a!'' Her mother from inside, weeping, sent her away, cursing: ''Go into the fire and the evil ones, do not darked my days, go into the fire, go away, and mock me not! Three sons I had, all three I put in the clay, all three I put under the earth, may holy God know them! And Lenu?a, my beloved girl, is married, married, in a faraway country. Never shall I see her! But let he who sent her away be accursed!'' But Lenu?a did not stop, she knocked and pleaded: ''Let me in, let me!'' And her mother grudgingly let her in, and, as she seated and saw her, she recognised her. ''My dear, mother''s flower, I can''t believe, is it you? Oh, I hadn''t even dreamed that I would see you again!'' And weeping, Lena said: ''Much plague and hardship did the holy God send, and took away my sons, so that I was left without them! If only you, my beloved daughter, were not married in a faraway country! Much of my longing I would forget, if I could see you. You would help me, and I would cherish you! But let who took you away be accursed: may the earth not receive him, the dust not want him, the clay throw him outside!'' Lenu?a heard, and cold shivers took her: ''See, mother, you cursed, and the curse took root! Constantin, Constantin, how you tricked me to walk the path with you!'' And she told her mother how Constantin brought her along the path, and the many things he told her. Lena then became frightened, and, as she sat and listened, tears came upon her, her mind seethed, her brow became clouded. She told her daughter: ''Let us hurry, Lenu?a, to the graves in the grass!'' *** As they reached the grave, they fell upon it and began to weep, and speak: ''Constantin, come out, come, Constantin, again, come again, dear Constantin, for we miss you so, so much!'' The earth, however, cackled; Constantin moaned bitterly. ''Come out of the pit and speak, speak and tell us, how do you live in the pit, how? Come an tell us now! Come and see us at least, come, Constantin, again!'' The earth laughed crazily, the pit cackled, joking, the clay answered: ''Do not plead with me, better curse, Lena, stop praying, what is ours, is not yours!'' Always the earth laughed, the pit cackled, the clay joked ceaselessly. ''Oh, do not be, grave, a heathen, free Constantin, oh, do not be, grave, evil, free my child! Or give him voice, grave, for a few words!'' The earth then became quiet, the pit spoke not. Constantin, with effort, said: ''Oh, mother, you are to blame, that I do not have peace and rest, that I do not even have a place in the grave, that I am restless under the earth. Neither dead nor alive am I, neither fire nor ice, neither in the pit can I be, nor outside can I come. For you cursed me, mother, for your beloved Lenu?a, so that the earth would not receive, so that the dust would not love me, so that the clay would hurl me outside. The clay threw me out, the dust mocked me, the earth banished me! Mother, if you wish me well, do me good now, and unravel my curse, for it crushes my soul!'' Lena sighed deeply, heavy thoughts chastising her. And the poor woman said: ''My dear! May you be forgiven and of the curse unbound. However...let the earth be accursed, for it listens to me not; may great woe fall upon it, for i does not let you out, may bitter woe fall upon it!'' The dust then shook, the clay roared furiously, the earth split: '' ''tis not enough that you cursed an innocent child; now you curse me, I curse you instead! For you do not have a mother''s heart; your soul is not fit; nor are you fit under the sun to die as all people die; but the earth, out of rage, shall swallow you alive!'' The dust scattered to the sides; the earth opened. Lena from the grave said: ''Accursed might I be, woe, for my curse! Like, forever, may be accursed whatever mother finds herself cursing her child! May she herself be accursed, never have peace, banners at her burial, nor priest to speak of her! Woe to that mother who curses her child without guilt, for she curses her son, but she is cursed by God!'' *** Constantin had taken off his gauntlets in order to...chill his hands by the fire, as he finished recounting the story of his undeath. Even from behind, I could see the thin layer of frost forming over his grey, calloused hands. It didn''t bother him, of course, but it did leave me wondering what the hell that "fire" was. ''Your sister,'' I said. ''What happened to her?'' Constantin shrugged, the shoulders of his black greatcoat barely shifting. ''She returned to her husband. Had four beautiful children-happier than we ever were. I was a happy uncle, then a happy great-uncle...they''ve gone their own ways. The family line will end with me, if it ever does.'' I put a hand on one knee, feeling irate for some reason. No...vexed? Something was niggling at me. ''Would you mind looking at me?'' ''Will you mind if I don''t?'' That tore it. ''Yeah, you two-faced pussy. I''d ask you to look me in the eye like a man, but you were too much of a bitch to face your own sister. You had to lie to her, so I get you at least know your limitations.'' I stood up as he did the same, and, tough I was quicker, I could tell he was taking his time. ''Who doesn''t know the Voica ballad, dammit? Who asked you to start rattling off its version in prose?'' ''If you disliked it,'' he asked slowly. ''Why didn''t you stop me?'' I snorted. ''I thought maybe you''d reveal something new, or at least not finish on the same cliffhanger Co?buc did when he turned it into a poem.'' My lips drew back from my fangs. ''But I don''t know why. Not that I''m surprised. You must be an unique class of strigoi: the disappointer.'' ''You want to know what happened after?'' Constantin turned around. ''Fine.'' He was over a head taller than me, far broader and burlier, dressed in a thick black greatcoat over a grey plain shirt and pants, the only thing stopping him from looking entirely plain being a black leather belt with a silver buckle that seemed to shift shape every moment. His beard was thicker than mine, just as grey as his hair. Grey hair and black eyes, like we all did. Except for me. I only had two, for that matter. A normal human would have likely been distracted by his stature, the buckle, or maybe the three concealed objects he carried, slung across his back. None had been there before he had turned to me. All three were long and slim, before ending in protruding, bulky shapes. Hammer, axe and...staff, probably, according to what my godsight could glean from their coverings. The hammer was wrapped in bandages, just as thick and black as Constantin''s greatcoat, and...yes, same "material". The axe was covered in bulky white chains, which rattled as it tried to break free. And the staff... It was weird. Like a sort of long, grey rubik''s cube, or a series of puzzle boxes linked together, but clinging to the staff as tightly as if it had been painted over it. My godsight couldn''t pierce any of the bindings. But I wouldn''t waste time trying to glean details when I knew nothing would come of it. A normal human would have probably missed all of Constantin''s eyes save for the open ones, too, but I saw clearer than that. Beneath the ones he had been born with, on the cheeks and jaw, were two more identical pairs. And on the forehead, hovering ominously atop an aquiline nose, was a seventh, vertical eye. I was reminded of Miguel Fernandez'' wife, but this motherfucker was way uglier than Sklaresia, which I let him know. ''Yes,'' he said. ''I am aware.'' ''Why are you here?'' I asked, aware that Szabo and Domna were looking between us like they were at a ping pong match. ''In Siberia? On Earth?'' ''Well?'' He traced the staff, which the hammer and axe were crossed over, with a finger. ''I haven''t come to stay, if my presence repulses you so much. I am passing by, as always. But I see you have a sage''s eyes, so I would ask you something.'' I rolled the eyes he liked so much. ''Sorry, if you want to exploit me, you''d better pay like everyone else.'' ''My question, then,'' little big bro bulldozed through my refusal like it was his sister''s opinion. ''I am away from the world for long periods, and only come to stay briefly. Do people still love each other?'' I admit: I was caught off-guard. ''What?'' He came closer. ''Do families still help each other? Do mothers cherish their sons?'' His voice grew bitter. ''Or was my lesson for nothing?'' I couldn''t help it. I punched him. Now, he was no pushover. Much like Domna, he was bursting with enough power to destroy dimensioned reality and ruin the rest of creation simply by unleashing it-and unlike her, he wasn''t hiding it, either. I didn''t know what she''d eaten or where he''d gotten his...whatever they were, but it took me some effort to become as powerful as him. When I did, however? Constantin was the kind of being whose existence pervaded all of creation, with the tridimensional aspect merely being an infinitesimal extension. My much hurt all of him, without damaging a single blade of grass on this single world. He rose from the false fire, already healed, expect for his pride. I was about to hurt it even more. ''D-Do pe-people sti-ill...why don''t you see for yourself, you goddamn, idiot? Live on Earth and gape at the fact we''ve grown past stacking shit to make hovels?'' I jerked my head at him. ''What''re those weapons on your back? Why are they covered?'' ''Weapons?'' His face scrunched up. ''I despise things that can only be used to destroy. These...are tools, David. I-'' ''Watch your mouth,'' I warned him. ''If you want to keep it, you don''t use my name.'' However he knew it. ''You''re so fucking curious? Go. Look. I fucking despise you...you...'' my hands were clenching and unclenching, claws digging into my palms. ''You play at being people, but only give a shit about your hobby horses, don''t you? You,'' I turned to Szabo. ''If you ever think about playing mind games with me again, I''ll sew you to your wife''s corpse and make it eat you. You,'' I looked at Domna. ''Would do the world a huge fucking favour if you killed your little strays, instead of playing house until they''re jumping at newcomers. And you,'' I pointed at Constantin. ''I hope the earth fucking eats you again, and feeds you to that old bitch who shat you out.'' As I turned and prepared to fly away, Constantin called out to me. ''Do you know why I''m always travelling?'' ''Kill yourself.'' He didn''t give a damn about my suggestion, of course. '' ''tis payment to God, for helping me reunite my family...however briefly. Do you want to know the tales of my tools of trade, and the things I have sla-'' ''Fucking hell,'' I looked back at him, my smile all fangs. ''I hate you even more now.'' *** Blood dripped from every spike and barb on Oberon''s torture armour. The enchanted iron it had been forget from didn''t burn his skin, for he wore thick padded clothes under it, even over his head. And, even if he had been naked but for his armour, he could have made it hover centimetres from his skin, harmless, with a thought. There was nothing harmless in the oubliette. Both Coldhold and Cloudshade hung from the ceiling on spiked iron chains that dug into their joints. They would never kill them, but they would leave scars. He''d already taken their eyes, for they could clearly not see the writing on the wall. ''You are a bloody caricature,'' he spat, walking past the tongueless, limbless Coldhold. Between his wounds and the chains, he looked like a slab of meat in some macabre butcher''s shop. ''Destroying civilisation, simply for the sake of destroying is something, but you are cliched even by your kind''s standards.'' King Fae shook his head. ''I should kill you and every last of your idiot former followers.'' Coldhold would never rule again, even if people wanted him to, despite his abject failures. Abject failures, for an abject failure. Fitting enough, if...blunt. Hmm. Perhaps he should switch from blades for a while. ''And you...you stupid, stupid little girl. Running out of Fairie to enact a cruder version of my own plan, after it had already been set in motion. Overestimating yourself, and the gaggle of idiots you took along. And when you realised your target was already gone, what did you do? Try to ruin Earth with your monster, and slaughter its defenders. Because your bloodlust caught up to your lust and your aimlessness. You know what I should do?'' Cloudshade, who was hanging upside down, whimpered around the gag in her mouth, tears running from her sockets. ''Plhs...dnt...dnt r-rpe mhh...'' Oberon''s heart softened, despite himself. ''Of course I''m not going to rape you, you fool.'' He laid a hand on her cheek. ''Leaving aside the fact Titania would kill me, don''t you think I would have done it if I wanted to, by now?'' He gestured at her breasts and womanhood, touched by neither his hands nor any torture implements. He was not a pervert, nor a monster. ''But you have to pay, as do us all, because of your foolishness.'' Oberon took a deep breath, then let it out, feeling the air leave alongside his dignity. ''After your attempts at genocide, and the failure of my attempt to have the pantheons get rid of Chernobog from us, no Fae is ever allowed to even scry Earth again without asking for permission first. We also have to lend aid whenever asked, and...can you hear that? ''tis the sound of Fae relevance, going down the drain.'' With a sneer, he looked back at Cloudshade. ''I will speak to Earth''s realmsmoot, and to the Heads of Abnormal Research and Combat, to let you visit Earth. Then, you are going to go to David Silva and his lover, and apologise, in whatever manner they desire, for attempting to drive them apart or otherwise vex them, as well as trying to ruin Earth on two occasions. Understood?'' She nodded wordlessly. ''Good,'' Oberon said smoothly. ''If they want to keep you as a third wheel, or something in that vein, you are going to accept. Don''t worry,'' he added at her shudder. ''They''re good people, naivety aside. If they never want to see your face again, a feeling I wholly understand...you are to return here, and work as a public servant-building, healing, teaching, defending and so on-until further orders.'' *** God''s Mouth did not even flinch when I appeared a few metres behind it, unable to approach further due to its blazing holy aura. The thing wore my father''s black habit, though all the gold had been replaced with the red of blood, and was even shaped like him, until you saw its face. Or lack thereof. Pops'' shoulder-length grey hair had become a sort of miniature stormcloud, down to the flashes of red lightning that lit it up every other moment, that moved when the creature turned. Its beard, similarly, resembled his. But there was nothing human in it. Even as it pulled it boot out of the crushed chest of the Everdark child it had stomped to death, there was no hesitation, no regret, in its posture. No pleasure or trepidation, either. It was like a robot. A golem. It had no flesh, either. Only a gold-tinged red flame that burned without fuel or smoke, shaped like my father''s body. Only the hands and face were visible-but that was enough. ''David Silva.'' Its voice was not my father''s. If there had ever been an echo of pops'', buried somewhere deep, it was now lost under the emotionless drone of the Archangel that had raped his soul. ''Have you come to join me?'' It gestured at the horizon, and the remains of the burned cultists around it, with a clenched fist. ''I''ll send you to Hell, screaming,'' I promise, staring into the flames, for all that it made me weep blood. It was like looking at the sun through a telescope, but I''d rather go blind than back down. ''No, you will not,'' it said in a sad voice. ''You know your purpose, but...you will not fulfill it here.'' It lifted its head, as if realising something vital was missing. ''David? Why aren''t you in the aether? DEATH needs-'' ''DON''T FUCKING SPEAK LIKE HIM!'', I roared, trying and failing to punch a hole through it. There was no empty heart to rip out. It would take more to destroy it-but I would destroy it. And then, when I dragged its corpse before its puppet master''s throne, I''d ask it some pointed questions, too. ''David,'' it sounded unsure, the monster. I could barely wait to make it scream. ''You do not underst-'' ''I know exactly what will happen if I don''t become Keeper,'' I cut it off, voice flat. ''Then...can you not find DEATH? Do you seek our help? Is that the reason you came?'' it asked, raising a hand to wipe away my tears. I caught its wrist in a grip that should have crushed it. ''David...you must. You cannot...'' it ripped its hand free, something like rage colouring its tone. ''Because of what happened to a handful of people? You, your lover, your friends?'' ''My father,'' I growled, swallowing a hiccup. ''You should have never touched him. I''ll never let you steal anyone again.'' It shook its head furiously, voice rising, thunder shaking the sky in response. ''You would let everything end, because of the pain of a few?'' Liam. Vyrt. Merlin. ...Chernobog. No one would ever love, or laugh, or live anymore, if I just refused. Ever. But no one would ever be hurt again, either. No one would be led along by uncaring gods anymore. ''Give me one goddamn reason I shouldn''t,'' I hissed, grabbing it by the throat. It grabbed mine in turn, and, when it spoke again, any trace of Uriel was gone. ''You are not the son I raised,'' it spoke in my father''s voice. And I lost it. After Life, Epilogue ''H-How dare you?'' I was crying-no two ways about it. Crying and stuttering like I was a child again, looking at pops laying down in bed, wounded and slowly, slowly healing and hoping, praying he wouldn''t die. Because that was just the way it was. Priests were expected to assist in crises, mundane or supernatural, and all faithcrafters could heal themselves and others. They could even rebuild objects. As such, they only helped each other when a priest''s faithcrafting was too weak on its lonesome-something that inevitably brought doubt to everyone involved. "Is my faith not sufficient?" "David," he''d whispered one night, voice deep and ragged rather than thin and wheezing. "Please don''t cry, son. If you start, you''ll never stop, and I want to sleep..." he''d chuckled at the weak joke, lips bloody, before his clouded eyes had grown more alert, more serious. They''d lost none of their warmth, though. "Remember, David: your Father will always be with you...and so will your father..." ''You took him, and now you''ve made him a liar, too,'' I spat. Spat on his memory, yes; he still lived in my memories, but...b-but... ''How can you say that?'' it asked, arms spread, not attacking. ''I am here, David.'' It pressed a hand against its chest. ''And there, too.'' I stared at it in disbelief, before chuckled darkly. ''You think you can fool me, but you can''t,'' I said in a voice far calmer than how I felt. ''You can use his voice and his memories, but you''re not him.'' The flames that made up its form crackled quietly, the gold almost fading into the red. It seemed...despondent. Disappointed? ''You still can''t see your father, David?'' ''There is nothing ?to see,'' I retorted. Nothing but blinding fire, and lies. An anglerfish''s lure. I understood that now. God''s Mouth shook what passed for its head, or rather, the fire swayed, flickering from side to side. ''How can you have those eyes,'' it whispered, sounding like Constantin when he had been disappointed. ''And still be so blind?'' ''Blind? I''m over that,'' I snapped, wishing it would just start attacking me, or doing something, anything, besides summoning echoes of my father. ''I can''t believe I ever fucking prayed to you.'' ''You never prayed to Uriel, David,'' it replied. ''Nor to any other angel. You prayed to God.'' ''And look what he made of my father...'' I trailed off, seeing a small gap appear in the centre of the blaze, shaped like a...was it ?smiling? Did it find this funny? ''I am sorry that your pain still shrouds your vision, David,'' it said. ''But I know you will pull through.'' Dammit... ''You mentioned these?'' I pointed at my eyes, wishing I could rip them out, along with my godsight and everything that had happened in the past...the past... ''If my existence is a mockery to Christianity, this is the capstone.'' Not that I cared anymore. ''Look at them!'' I demanded, ripping my eyes out, replaced by identical ones as soon as my fingers parted from the sockets. ''The reason the world went mad, the reason I''ve been hunted and hurt and ?moulded by every heartless bastard from here to the Outer Void? A pagan god''s eyes.'' I threw them down, ripping my cross off with my other hand. The chain snapped around my neck-?finally-and the damned thing joined the eyes at my feet. God''s Mouth, whose smile had disappeared as soon as I''d torn my eyes out, was now all but shaking in anger, the flames dancing wildly. Smirking, I raised my boot, and stomped the eyes to bloody paste, while staring straight at the God-made monster. Then, I raised my boot again, and brought it down onto the cross. Or I would have, had it not been for it. *** ''Mate,'' Liam Lloyd''s voice wasn''t shaking, nor were the hand around his mug, but I could sense the trepidation. Self-control, a lich''s mastery of his body, magic...any or all, it was a controlled effort. ''I don''t know...this shit you can only hint at? I can already tell it''s ?way above my paygrade,'' the lich looked down into his peer, green flames shining like will-o''-wisps in his pale, skeletal face. ''Let''s be fair now-your salary ain''t that big,'' his husband, who was sitting next to him, joked. Seeing the lich''s lack of reaction, Ryan''s smile thinned slightly. But he still put a hand on Liam''s knee, while slinging an arm over his rangy shoulders. The greying tech mage regarded me with slight apprehension. He wasn''t scared of me, at least not yet; not more than anyone would be of international law enforcement dropping by for a chat. I''d told the Lloyds I was patrolling for Chernobog''s cults and allies, which they seemed to have bought as justification for my presence in Australia. It hadn''t been a lie, after all. But I''d needed to admit I needed a break and a place to unwind, even slightly, briefly, for them to warily-nervously?-welcome me into their home. Good for them. They were happy people, with a quiet marriage in a sleepy town. I wouldn''t have wanted someone like me to disrupt my life, if I had one like theirs. I shrugged. ''It''s all classified, but...it''s not the job.'' Entirely. The job, I could handle. ''I''m...soul-searching, I guess. I,'' looking at the woden floorboards, I traced my cross with a thumb. ''Went through some shit, but that''s fine.'' I grinned thinly, meaninglessly. ''The people around me, though? They''ve been through worse, all while my back was turned. And-'' ''But you were working, right?'' Ryan interruped me, pushing his glasses upwards with one finger. ''Yeah?'' ''So you weren''t ignoring ''em ''cause you were, dunno, blowing cash on hookers or some bullshit. You make it sound like you were in over your head, or, I don''t know, overworked. I know undead can get mentally tired.'' He elbowed Liam, who''d been preparing to say something, likely to the contrary. ''So...can I call you David? I know it must suck, but...'' ''That''s the...one of the problems,'' I agreed. ''I ?wish I had been there to help them.'' I should have been. I couldn''t afford to waste time wondering whether it had been my fault or not, or whether I could''ve been faster, smarter, more aware. I should have been at my friends'' side, not that monster who''d once been me, before DEATH had chosen him as its Keeper. Or had it been-would it be-the other way around? ''But,'' I continued. The lich and I were both looking forward once more, green light meeting ivory orbs across the living room table. ''It''s not all. I''m losing...I''ve lost faith, I guess.'' I would ?not put my face in my hands in front of them. The fact they welcomed me and my bullshit in the first place was enough. ''And now...'' My voice dropped. ''I guss I''m looking for something else to look up to.'' Something to fill the void. That''s what I really wanted. ''David-you sure you''ve got time for this?'' Liam gestured at the Crypt symbols on my black ARC shirt. '' ''Cause...'' ''No, no, don''t worry,'' I waved him off, pinching the bridge of my nose. He could go ahead and take his time. I was bending it, anyway. People like him, like them, were the reason we fought. If we didn''t make time for them when they accepted us, what was the goddamn point? I''d seen where aloofness led. ''Well,'' Liam took a sip. ''You are-were? Sorry if I''m misunderstanding-Christian, then you...'' he blew on his beer, making a sheet of misty ice appear above it. He began drawing on it with a long finger. ''You and your friends hit a rough space, and you thought "The Hell''s God doing? I''m faithful! I''m good!". Felt betrayed. Am I close?'' ''He should''ve helped them, at least,'' I said by way of acknowledgement. Liam put his mug on the table, raising his hands. He was, appropriately, wearing a black Nurgle shirt saying "Come to Papa!", with the God of Decay sitting on a rotten rocking chair, smoking a fat, definitely toxic pipe with a (probably literally) shit-eating grin. On his lap was a scantily-clad Isha, though Nurgle''s grubby mitts helped preserve the Eldar goddess'' decency. My favourite part was the fact I couldn''t tell whether Isha was looking up at her "husband" or rolling her eyes, but honestly? I was starting to understand the Nurglite impulse to just...tell everything to go fuck itself, and give up. What was the fucking point? We were just dreams in a sleeping moron''s head. ''I agree,'' Liam said. ''The pantheons wouldn''t die if they helped out more,'' or in any situation. Unless I did something drastic. ''But they''ve got this thing about not handing everything to us on a silver platter, and, pardon me if I sound gloomy, that''s unlikely to change soon.'' Or ever. ''What''s your point, Liam?'' I asked softly. ''That I should just tell myself it is what it is, and accept?'' Like the Heads had more or less told me to? ''Shit, no!'' He stood up straighter, massaging his forehead. ''Silva, look. We''re acquaintances. We fought alongside each other once, but I don''t know your past. Doesn''t mean I can''t try to help you, though.'' ''Especially since you''re navel-gazing on company time,'' Ryan joked weakly. ''Babe, please...'' the lich said in a lightly chiding tone, prompting a mouthed "sorry" from his husband. Then, to me, ''You seem a pretty decent bloke to me, David. Straightforward, stuff you''re not allowed to say aside. And,'' he adjusted his long, wispy grey hair, pulling an errant strand behind a ragged ear. ''If religion''s played as big a role in making you who you are as you say, you shouldn''t discard it because of a tragedy.'' He leaned forward, one of his staves-this one made of hollow, yellowed human bone and topped by a a fanged bunyip skull, of the elongated, horselike variety. I was surprised the house didn''t puff into rotten dust, wards or not, with how much death the thing emanated. ''Don''t get it wrong. I''m no Christian apologist or pro-anything, but I ain''t antitheistic either. There''re some good teachings out there: not judging others, helping the less fortunate. Not being a greedy prick.'' I wondered...Liam was sixty-three. Had someone attempted to put him through reeducation? Christian camps for praying away the gay tended to end with some very cross angels visiting whenever someone tried to set up a disguised one, but... No, I wasn''t about to ask, nor look at his past with my godsight. That would''ve been crass even if he wasn''t being friendly, maybe friendlier than I''d had been, if our roles had been reversed. Still, it made me think. ''What I''m saying is, you don''t have to throw away the good with the bad. I''m just a dude, but, if you want my opinion, there''s no reason to forget the good lessons just because you''re ditching the big guy.'' Just a dude, huh? ''Liam, it''s alright.'' I smiled at him, pointing at the staff. ''I was leaving anyway. Thank for the talk, and sorry for bothering you.'' ''What? Oh, I didn''t summon it to shoo you away or something!'' Liam shook the staff, also standing up. ''It''s just reflex, man. Helps me focus.'' Focus, and calm down. I didn''t miss the way he was leaning on the staff like it was a walking stick. Much like his anxiousness, it wasn''t at all apparent unless you looked for it. *** God''s Mouth and I were pushed apart by the shockwave of the resulting clash, and neither of us landed in the physical world. Shared mindscapes were a known, but not really understood phenomenon. They were common to gestalt beings, but otherwise only present in conjoined twins, before they were separated. And since the former were private about it in most cases (you really didn''t want to talk to people whose shared mindscapes were a favourite topic of conversation for them. At best, you''d find people like Hex at Nacht. At worst, you''d end up with whatever Szabo was becoming), and the latter''s mindscapes were immature and short-lived anyway, we were somewhat in the dark. Our shared minscape looked more literal than I had been expecting: my nighmarish version of Ghencea Cemetery on one side, an endless, gilded crimson inferno on the other. And where they met in the middle, they clashed, just like us, pushing against each other, briefly separated by gaps of white nothingness. God''s Mouth seemed as surprised as I felt. Was I really such a dullard this mental battlefield looked like a fucking Pok¨¦ball? Ugh. ''David? This...is that what your soul looks like?'' It sounded almost distracting, or maybe surprised, as it looked past me. ''I never knew...you should''ve tol-'' It staggered backwards from my punch, but didn''t retaliate. Why? God fucking ?dammit, why? Why couldn''t it finish what it started, and ruin my life? Did it only prey on those who worshipped it? ''I''ve never liked being told what I ?should have done,'' I said. ''But somehow, you''re making me hate it even more.'' ''David, you''re hurt, son. Please, let me-'' I split its head in half with lightning, the bolt still crackling in my hand after harmlessly parting the flames. ''Why?'' I asked softly. ''Why do you insist, again and again, on pretending you are my father? Constantin Silva is ?dead. Let him rest, damn you.'' I was crying again. ''Let pops rest. He was more of a goddamn hero than you and your entire freakshow of a family put together will ever be, so why don''t you stop?'' There was only one answer, obviously: it knew this hurt what little was left of my heart, and liked it. Well. I knew how to break people through their family. There''s no teacher like pain, after all. And Uriel''s family was much bigger than mine, at the moment. But, soon... ''What changed you like this, David?'' it asked. ''What made you so angry? You''re a good man. What could push you to damn everything to oblivion?'' Its voice was wavering by now. ''Who poisoned your soul, son? I saw your meeting with that lich and his husband-such kind people! Did Liam not advise you to follow the Lord''s teachings even if you deny him?'' ''Yes,'' I grinned skeletally, enjoying its wince. ''But Liam was only the first person I met on the way here.'' ''...I should''ve been there, with you. I should''ve been ?there, damn me!'' Its roar burned my ears, even as the mockery made my blood boil. No. It was clear by now that this shameless son of a bitch wouldn''t stop unless I stopped him. It wanted the truth? Fine. Why should I be the only one to suffer? *** My first visit to the Roundhouse had thoroughly disabused me of any notions of chivalric heroism-or romanticised knighthood in general, much less New Camelot''s brand of it. They were nowhere near as bad as the monsters they kept around them (or was it the other way around?), or their historical counterparts, hell, I was sure most were decent people, but honestly? Most Knights were just concerned with protecting the UK and or/getting a paycheck while doing it. Honour? Not mandatory, but encouraged. But the armour, the aesthetic, the pseudo-monastic ranks? It was all bullshit. Cosplay. Lies. And I knew all about lies now. Oh, there was no cackling freak lying in waiting to ambush me this time, no gauntlet of nightmares to run; but there was no need, either. Because, finally, I learned of what had really gone down in that goddamn chapel, and in Fairie. Vyrt''s face was a serene mask as he looked at me, which he was only doing because of the height difference, according to him. Like he couldn''t shift to look me in the eye. Merlin was hovering at his cousin''s side, hand on one knee ass he leaned forward. ''To shape me,'' I repeated the last words of Vyrt''s confession. ''Into the Keeper?'' ''Every path you have walked leads to that, in the end,'' Merlin replied instead of him, causing me to fix the mage with an irritated stare. ''You would not have admitted your fears, even to yourself, David, much less confronted them. And by not doing so, you would have become a weak, miserable man.'' ''Because I''m so power and happy right now?'' I asked him with a dry smile. ''Are you not? More powerful than Mimir ever chose to become, in any case,'' Vyrt said. ''As for happiness? You have your duty, your lover. Friends, a fathe-'' ''Watch. It,'' I growled, moving across the desk until I was floating in front of him, then pulling on his lower jaw until it cracked. ''You''re married and a brother, he has a lover. Do not make me take from the world what it has taken from me.'' ''You do not mean that, David,'' the nephilim said, looking on dispassionately as I mutilated his cousin. ''You are not the kind of man who hurts others through their loved ones.'' I laughed, letting go of Merlin. ''What do you know? What do I care? None of us are real, anyway...'' ''You weren''t the one who murdered Alexandru Horia''s body, rather than his soul-the Keeper was. What happened to the iela was sad, but you and the zmeu are blaming yourselves for not being all-powerful and all-knowing, which no one could honestly find you guilty of. As for Constantin Silva...'' ''I don''t care how ARC would react if I killed you,'' I warned him. ''Either of you, or both. But do not think I can''t. Let them come. Neither they nor your tinfoil-wrapped puppets will save you.'' The nephilim fell silent, and I wasn''t about to let him find his footing. ''But you know all about that, don''t you, Vyrt? I wonder how you played Chernobog''s part so well, you dissembling mongrel. I truly didn''t even think it had been someone else up to this point; oh, I had my doubts. Knew something was wrong with my recollection of the event. But I''m not surprised.'' My eyes turned steely. ''I never want to speak to either you again, you genocidal bastards'' I turned to leave, hopping off Vyrt''s desk. Torment me with my own fears; set me up for Chernobog to rape my mind and soul, again; give him the chance to use me as a tool for wiping out the fae army, not that he couldn''t have done it himself. But this way, he had added more insult to the injury. Had made me go insane with guilt. And the murders? They calmed down those calling for actual, complete genocide. Made them calm down, so cooler heads could prevail. They could point to the impaled corpses as revenge or justice, whatever they desired, while Chernobog, who doubtlessly enjoyed it, also put even more blood on my hands. And this all led to the Blackness. To relations being mended, and my mind and power honed. All so I could be a better fit for my role, and preserve this foul nightmare we were all trapped in. As I was about to exit Vyrt''s office, I stopped, turning on my heel. ''Oh, and Merlin?'' I pointed at the Cambion. ''Go where you belong, and burn.'' The chain extending from him and down through the floor, a mirror of Mordred''s, almost snapped in half with how fast the mage was yanked down. I still heard him scream, thankfully. Once, his future self had hurt me through a vision. Now, I could hurt him through his projections. Vyrt looked displeased but unsurprised at the banishment. You''d have thought bypassing the Roundhouse''s wards and Merlin''s powers would have impressed him, but all time was one moment to him. ''Should Bedivere wake up, he''ll soon realise you''re as much of a liar as his god. I hope he kills you.'' ''David-'' I laughed again. ''I hope Mordred burns this all down, and feeds you the ashes! Wonder how your Grandmaster would react to his home ending up the same as his ?ideals.'' The doors slammed shut behind me as I left. I had expected the halls to be far more crowded, but only one Knight passed me: human, going by height and built, the only thing that would have made him stand out in formation being the dragon fang necklace around his gorget. A weak smile tugged at my lips, despite myself. ''The Dragonlayer?'' Ronald sighed, muttering "of course you know...". ''Are you leaving, agent Silva? Your stay was brief.'' ''Just catching up. I''m on-duty, and Chernobog''s influence hasn''t reached the British Isles, according to your Master. So...'' He put his hands together. ''We are indeed fortunate. But, agent, if you wouldn''t mind some advice...I can see you are upset. Whatever your grudge with Master Vyrt, please remember that we are not all like him. We''ve never been that...'' Despicable? ''Monolithical.'' I knew, dammit. Vykt, Miranda...even the Lady of the Lake, to a lesser extent. Ronald''s wife and children, who he hoped would follow in their parents'' footsteps. ''Sadly, a few good apples don''t make a bunch.'' ''True,'' he said grudgingly. He had clammed up, his opinion of me souring, as soon as I''d opened my mouth. ''Goodbye, then. Unless you needed something...?'' ''Two things. I understand Head Shiftskin came here for an informal audit?'' ''The fact ?you haven''t noticed anything will tickle our architects pink,'' Ronald said, sounding darkly amused. ''I''m glad. As for the second thing...may I ask if you were going to see Vyrt? It might not be a good time.'' ''Nothing important.'' He patted his breastplate. ''My son''s said his first word, and the Master asked me and Clea to show him a recording, if we managed to catch it.'' ...nothing...important... *** ''Do you see?'' I asked, grabbing God''s Mouth''s head with clawed hands and pulling, but there was no neck to snap. ''Do you see what your ilk does on your god''s orders? With his approval!?'' ''I am not...Vyrt,'' it grunted, grabbing my wrists as it pried my hands off it. ''And what he did to you was lamentable, David, but it has saved-will save!-infinitely more lives! Entire species, son...all there is-'' ''WHAT ?IS THERE, DAMMIT!?'' I demanded, arms spread and raised to the sky. ''What is there? Do you even know why this all started? Not everyone twisting me to fit their purposes, but Chernobog''s rampage. Do you know why he''s doing it?'' ''Of course.'' Its real voice bled through. ''I was there.'' *** How disturbing was it that, by now, I was accustomed to speaking to Chernobog in my mind, if not sharing it with him? Less than you might think. I couldn''t have mustered any shock even before this...foul revelation. When has the truth ever been beautiful, when it comes to gods? It had all started so small: I had returned to Siberia, seeking my father''s murderer. Chernobog had reached out to me, filling the sky with a vision of his past and goading me to look, see if I could notice any deception. There was none. I saw the conversions, the people turning from a simpler, dualist faith to monotheism. I saw Belobog look at the gods who had given up without a fight, in his eyes, letting the Abrahamic religions overrun what should have been a neutral Earth. Tacitly admitting Yahweh had more influence, better preachers. That he was, simply, superior. The White God sneered scornfully as they retreated to their Clusters, filled with people wrought by their own hands, faithful as anything. Instead of following their example, he took a stand, and prepared himself for war as he had never known before, as only a few gods had threatened to, before the Syncretic Treaty. I saw his brother, who had fought with him so often, over creation and destruction, prey and predators, kindness and evil, cease his insults and challenges. I saw the two gods bury the axe, even if briefly, for Chernobog''s ego would not let him lose to anyone, much less stand by while Belobog fought for what they represented. And, though he only admitted it once, he didn''t want his brother to die, either. He didn''t fail, in the end. Oh, Christianity spread over what had once been his domain, while the pantheons rallied together to beat him and Belobog down. I saw the White God bleed ichor from a thousand wounds, but refuse to give up, no matter what he was offered or threatened with. Remembrance, sainthood, a goddess of his choosing as a wife; eternal imprisonment and torture, or banishment into the Void beyond all others. I saw, to my surprise, Chernobog drag him away, shielding him with his body as he tried to heal him, and failed. I heard Belobog ask Chernobog to let him go, only to be denied. And devoured. Consumed, and kept in a state of endless imprisonment, but alive. I saw the brothers'' minds and powers join, and felt Chernobog change, his rage becoming sharper, colder. And I heard him swear...that... ''Do not misunderstand, David,'' the Black God said at the edge of my mind. ''I am not showing you this and hoping you will turn to me-I neither expect nor desire that. I am not doing it to shatter your resolve, either; you are no longer that weak.'' ''Then why?'' I asked, hearing the unending, silent scream behind that ivory smile. ''So you might know both sides of the story. I know your god likes to pretend there are none, other than his.'' I grimaced, jaw clenched. ''He is no longer my god.'' I felt rather than saw him smile. ''And all it took was a little suffering...'' *** ''Revenge,'' Uriel continued. ''Because they were the only ones mad enough to break the Treaty, and look where it got them.'' ''And killing them would have solved ?everything?'' I spat. ''They struck first, because they could not sway their people. I have no pity for them.'' ''No...'' I chuckled. ''No pity for them, or anyone. Right, Uri? Angel of rage, hatred masquerading as virtue.'' ''Watch your tongue,'' he snapped. ''Split my name not from my father''s.'' ''Fuck your father,'' I said. ''I''ll do to him what you did to mine.'' God''s Mouth stumbled, and, for an instant, I wondered if my promise had surprised it. Then, it began mocking pops'' memory again, as if it had never stopped. ''Oh, David...God''s kindness can be cruel, in our eyes...but it is kindness.'' It clasped its hands, drawing sparks. ''I do not like what He had to do. I have had-have-my own doubts. But turning against Him, or destroying all there is to spite Him, is not just insane: it is not like you at all, my son.'' I broke down. I cried, even as I beat at it, tore at its flames with my claws and fangs and godsight, sobbing as tears streamed down to mingle with drool. I was foaming at the mouth like a mad dog, but I didn''t care. That was what they wanted, anyway. ''Stop! Stop! Stop! STOP, FUCKING DAMN YOU!'' I screamed as I scrabbled at its chest, trying to find something, anything to hurt. ''This is not who you are! You believe so strongly all your life and beyond, then lose faith because of necessary tragedies? I am alive. Everything else can be mended!'' But I wasn''t listening. I was roaring, trying to tear it apart even as my hands burned whenever I touched it. ''David! David, son, calm down! You''re going to hurt yourself-'' ''So fucking what!? Let me die, or let me kill you!'' It began muttering a prayer under its breath, before wrapping its hands around me, but not in a bearhug. I almost slowed down as I heard its next words. ''I wish I could do it for you,'' it said, sobbing too. ''Bear all your burdens. I wish the world had never hurt you, that it wouldn''t need to. I wish you only knew peace and joy, but David, it cannot be so. Not if we don''t make it better, son...'' And by now, I had stopped, crying angrily, gnashing my fangs hard enough to split my lips and tongue, no longer speaking. ''Listen!'' It grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. ''Do you hear him laughing? Maybe it''s the Black God, maybe it''s the Devil. They always laugh when good men are fighting, for that is when evil triumphs. Do you want them to win?'' I sniffed. ''I don''t think either of us is good...or a man.'' ''That is a lie, David. I did not raise a monster, and Mia wouldn''t love one.'' Its...his features...he began to look like... ''Let me help you, son. Do you remember what I taught you?'' *** I''m four, and today is my first day of kindergarten. First after the opening of the year celebration, that is. Daddy didn''t come to it, because he was busy helping the security exorcise a hospital: both the patients and the building. I was the only child present without a parent. And no one laughed at me, but I saw the faces, concerned or mocking, heard the whispers. "Orphan." "Alone." "Mommy? Does no one love that boy?" Daddy only came home this morning, to find me fully dressed and about to leave, the gate key shaking in my grip. When I saw him limping, I broke down, and cried about the crowd, and his wounds, and the nightmare. I thought he wouldn''t come home. He held me all through it. He''s still holding me now. I''m going to be late, but I don''t care. ''We''ll talk more when you get back,'' he slurs, voice thick and husky. His smile is still bright, though, as he rises to his feet with a crack of joints. Daddy''s not old-he''s twenty-four, twenty years older than me, like he''ll always be-with short brown hair and a beard, but he sounds like an old man. ''I need to rest, and you need to leave. But before you leave...'' he leans forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. ''Remember: do not talk to strangers, son. Do not stop when they ask you, or give them anything, or tell them anything about you. Do you understand?'' ''But I only know you,'' I say, wiping my puffy eyes with my blue shirt''s sleeves. Not the red cravat; comrade teacher would get upset at me if I did that. Daddy said so. ''It''s my first time out of the yard...'' I don''t remember anything clear before I turned four. Certainly none of the neighbours. ''Even so.'' His stern brown eyes soften slightly. ''You have a kind heart, my son. And, if someone deserves your help, that very heart will tell you. Trust me, and in God.'' He pats my back. ''Now go!'' I call to him as he stumbles past me. ''I-If you weren''t hurt, would take me there?'' He does not answer right away. ''No, David. You must learn to stand on your own.'' And, as I see him stagger towards the house, our dogs Rexy and Rex whining at the sight of him, I start crying again. Nothing happens on the first day, besides the teacher chewing me out and the rest of the class snickering as they watch. They know better than to laugh, but even those giggles are enough to draw comrade teacher''s attention to them, too. As such, she makes everyone go out in the yard to dig, so I make a great first impression. Nothing happens on the second day, either, besides a suspicious number of floor sections in my way being slippery. But on the third day... Beggars and vagrants are rare, nowadays, because the police and the security round them up, for disturbing the peace, and send them to the Canal-or to less known facilities, to be used as labour or for other, darker purposes. But some slip through the cracks, so the Party can see who is likely to help them, and thus mark its targets. Who would rather aid leeches (that goes for both vagabonds and vampires) than report them, so they can be made useful? This woman is neither one of those, nor a woman. She looks old, with few teeth separated by huge gaps, cataract-filled eyes and thin grey-white hair beneath her hood. Her brown skin is leathery and cracked, and her feet are mangled: one ends in a stump, the other is bent and twisted, barely enough to let her walk with the help of a cane that looks almost as old and gnarled as her. ''C''mon, darling-nothing to spare?'' She holds out a rough hand as she hobbles closer, the nails broken and caked in filth. I look between her and the kindergarten. It''s so close, just a few minutes away, but the road seems to stretch on forever, endless and empty. I can''t even hear the grass rustling...or feel any breeze, for that matter. ''My daddy taught me not to talk to s-strangers,'' I answer, and curse myself. Darn it-but isn''t this talking to her? Then, in an outburst of childish candor, I add, ''I don''t have any m-money. He gave me food, and I''m not gonna buy anything today.'' ''But I''m not a ?stranger, dearie. Remember?'' She smiles, and I slowly smile at my grandmother in return. She clamps her mouth over mine, beginning to gnaw at my lips, then my teeth, as her shroud enfolds me. I can see the other children sewn into it, and I laugh as I know we''ll be together, forever! Then scream as she is ripped in half. My father''s hands push her torso apart, revealing her hollow body, and she tries to claw and bite and scream at him as she crumbles. Cursing him, and at him, but to no avail. Her flesh bursts into white flame, and in a blink, she''s a pile of smoking ash at his foot. ''I-I''m s-sorry!'' I babble, falling to my knees and hugging his, but he grabs my shoulders, dusting me off as he lifts me to my feet, pressing his free hand to my bloody face to heal it. ''No, David. I should be apologising. Should''ve sensed it sooner.'' I look up at him, gaping. ''B-But...but didn''t you say you wouldn''t c-come?'' ''In case you were safe, David. I told you that so you would believe in yourself.'' ''So it was a...a l-lie?'' But d-daddy''s never lied to me before... ''Fathers sometimes lie to their sons, David.'' I stare at the kindergarten, hugging his leg. ''D-Does that mean that...'' I gulp. ''G-God lies, too?'' I have never seen my father so angry. I never want to see him like this again. ''Give me your hand, David,'' he says gruffly. ''I''m walking you there from now on.'' ''Oh, n-no need. I''ll be more careful. I p-promi-'' ''Give me your hand, son.'' And I do. *** I am ten, terrified, and, soon, about to be alone. ''Remember, David,'' pops says as he takes a knee before me. ''You do not open the door to anyone, no matter what they''re saying, asking for or selling. Promise me, son.'' ''I p-promise.'' Then, softer, ''But what if it''s y-you?'' ''I have keys, David.'' He looks halfway between bemused and concerned. ''Not that I need them to enter. I will never need to ask to be let in, son.'' ''B-But what if forget them...? What if it''s your verger, or-'' I choke up. What i-if he''s too hurt to move, and d-dies because I- ''David? Is he tempting you? You don''t open the door to anyone, period. I don''t care if you think God Himself is outside, asking to be let in.'' He sighs, then hugs me. ''Please, son...'' I hug him back. ''I w-won''t.'' And he leaves, and I''m alone. Nothing can be heard from outside over the howling wind and cracking branches. I jump at every shadow for a minute, then, knees knocking, turn on every light in the house. Daddy returns three hours later. Or so I think, at first. ''David,'' he says, standing in front of the living room window with a tired, but proud smile. He''s done good work tonight. ''Can you open, please? My keys got crushed.'' ''Why don''t you faithcraft new ones?'' I snap, terror driving me to anger. ''W-Why do you need any, a-anyway?'' My eyes narrow. ''Why aren''t the dogs barking?'' He closes his eyes wearily. ''Sweetie, please. It''s getting late.'' ''Then come in!'' I challenge him, scared, but drawn inevitably towards the window. He never calls me sweetie or darling-none of that sappy crap. Clutching my cross makes it burn coldly in my grip, as cold as my red eyes. Then, I see all of it. Have you ever seen a rat king? A bunch of rats tied together by their tails? It was something between that and a mass grave. It rises far, far above the house, far thinner than it is tall, like an eel, or a serpent. Dozens, hundreds of corpses stitched together, with coarse rope and razor wire tying everything up. All of them are still moving, still talking, but...dead. It''s a deep, continuous moan, as hollow as their shining eyes. And, at the top of the monster, like an anglerfish''s lure, is the simulacrum of my father. Only a torso, made to look like him. At its sides are the hollowed-out carcasses of our dogs, eyes gleaming, fangless mouths opening and closing repeatedly. ''Then come to me, son,'' it says in a thousand voices. ''Come. Your mother is with us, too. We''ll put your heart to rest~'' I faint. And, though I know it not, two things happen that night: firstly, Hogge feasts. Secondly, Andrei Dravich begins to sleep easier, no longer tossing and turning when thinking of his lover''s remains, mysteriously vanished from her shallow grave. And when my father comes home, he...he is p-proud of me. *** ''But I am not a stranger, David...'' my father said. ''Let me help you.'' He laughed as he shook his head, but weakly, and I could hear a sob under the sound. He extended his arms, waiting for me to grab his hands. And, as I watched the mindscapes sway under, around and above us, him trying and failing to keep his footing, I knew what I had to do. *** Asterion was alone in the Labyrinth, once again. In truth, he had never left it. Whenever he felt pressed or challenged, whenever his hunger gnawed at him, he returned to that noisome maze, cramped yet unending, the sky tantalisingly close but forever out of reach. It was the place he never wanted to go back to. The one Eidolon tried to keep him away from. But he was not its prisoner anymore. He was its master, even if the Labyrinth had passed into legend and memory long before his return to the world of flesh. He remembered sitting with Eidolon on a jagged mountaintop one day, talking about everything and nothing; or rather, existence and its mirror. Eidi, his beautiful marble goddess, had argued that there wasn''t really such a thing as something not existing anymore, except for extreme cases, such as the Idea of it being removed, alongside the possibility and knowledge of it. Otherwise, things simply passed in and out of perception. When imagination was merely another facet of creation, what did physical destruction matter? Asterion had, he reflected, unknowingly used this philosophy for centuries before he had even met her. The Labyrinth from his memories was as tangible for him as the real thing had ever been, and he could pull it out of his mind like a sword out of a sheath. Which was what he did now. And, despite his earlier provocation, Chernobog seemed to falter as the impossible walls sprung into the void he had created, containing it, shaping it, sealing it away, for all that it was endless and corrosive. Between its formation and the end of the Middle Ages, mankind had produced truly exceptional people. The Knights of the Round Table, on the unclaimed Earth this fight had begun on; Daedalus, on his. Aster did not doubt that this world''s Daedalus had been a genius, but his had been the second coming of Hephaestus, a god of knowledge and crafting in all but nature. The maze he had crafted had been-was-an unliving, unthinking thing, but it reacted, planned and hunted ass fiercely as any hound, wanting nothing more than to lose everything within itself. And that was what it would have done, without the Tartarus Engine''s will commanding it, by virtue of the bond they shared. The monster was always in the Labyrinth, and vice versa. The infinity of corridors, impossibly-angled and without corners, slipping between the four states of matter and the idea of themselves, flew at the Black God, trying to crush and seal him, bury him under endless stone. Chernobog fought, of course. He would not be sealed again, like he had been after running from the remains of his destroyed Cluster with his brother devoured and revenge in his heart. Chains shot out of him, like the ones entangling and crushing the gods who had assaulted him, for all that, with how much they had increased their power by now, each could have destroyed the mundane universe and an infinity like it with a twitch. Stone met darkness, and non-euclidean architecture dissolved into nothing even as it tried to smother it. With an enervated, but amused grin, Chernobog turned his attention to the bull rampant, and creation sat up and watched as the two began battling their way through its higher layers. It was the fourth, at first. Three dimensions of space, one of time, spanning an infinity of realities. Then, the fifth, with another, timeless infinity full of hypershapes, where even a stray thought of the meanest creature would have erased the fourth layer like the fiction it was to it. Then the sixth, seventh, eight...upwards into the bounds of dimensioned reality, then into the Voids beyond it. How many Voids were there? How many numbers were between one and two? One point one, one point two...and between two and infinity? That was how the Voids would have been counted, if one bent their intellect to the task. In the least of them, the multiverse was a whisper of a dream, and each Void was similarly contained and dwarfed by the following. Asterion and Chernobog smashed right through the First Gate separating ordered reality from the primal Dreamlands. They grew in power and stature as they brawled their way upwards, through Void after Void, and yet Chernobog never let go of his prey. Even when they burst through the Ultimate Gate and into the Outer Void, when the gap between the Ideas of them and themselves disappeared, Chernobog did not let go. ''Why?'' Asterion asked, demanding justification as much as he wanted to satiate a mad curiosity. What could Chernobog want with them? Revenge, surely; to satisfy some old grudge against Perun, maybe. But shouldn''t he have gloated about it by now? ''Because this is what they did to me,'' Chernobog snarled in reply, baring his brother''s teeth. ''To us, Asterion. Were you not born out of the whims of two spiteful fools? Were you not damned by another, with the approval of his father? Chained in Hades while Minos judged the dead?'' The Black Hunger laughed, actually surprised-inasmuch as he could be, or do anything, here, in the changeless un-realm beyond place and moment. ''You...you think we''re the same? That my misfortune is, in any way, comparable or similar to the folly you began?'' His neck-ring twitched as he grinned, horns swaying. ''Your brother would be alive, if not for his greed and bruised pride; and he would be dead, if not for your madness and selfishness. In the end, obsession doomed you both.'' ''You know not of what you speak...'' Chernobog said warningly. ''Don''t I? This is, all, just the tantrum of a child with too much power and not enough self-control,'' Asterion continued, enjoying the chance to finally look down on someone. He began understanding why Minos had enjoyed it so much, even if he was still far from approving of it. ''You should''ve accepted the olive branch.'' ''And what then? Faded into quiet irrelevance? Settled down with some goddess and had her caress all the woes away?'' ''Neither would have been enough for you, would have it? Or both. Zalmoxis accepted the first. Could you have survived the second, with how wretched you are? Do you even want love?'' He pointed at the god''s chest. ''You do not love your brother. You want to keep him, preserve him like an insect in amber. Own him. And, in this way, you satisfy both your desires. You keep him alive...and you finally, and completely, triumph over him. For does his very existence not rest in your hands? How proud you must feel...'' ''And who are you to speak about desires and refusal? You, who exchanged your oubliette for a leash? Who couldn''t even touch your love before she became living stone?'' Chernobog smiled pityingly. ''Come, Aster. You know your powers will never cure Eidolon, nor will hers, unless you choose to view oblivion itself as a solution. Hera will never allow it, and her kindred will not lift a finger. But the fact they are unwilling does not make it impossible for me.'' The Black God extended a hand, which Asterion only glanced at once. ''You''re making the same mistake they did.'' Chernobog''s hand wavered at Asterion''s blunt declaration, but he didn''t retract it. ''Who...what are you talking about?'' ''Whenever someone tries to be genial without meaning it, I can tell. No need to read their thoughts. I can practically hear them.'' He snorted, nostrils flaring. ''Do you have any idea how many try to exploit me while calling me "minotaur"? The bull of Minos. Even after my death, and his, I''m still thought of as ?his. His property. The monster he never wanted, but used.'' ''I have only called you by name,'' the Black God pointed out. ''It doesn''t matter. I can still feel the contempt. Oh, it''s not directed at me, but at everyone-every?thing-besides you.'' Aster showed his fangs. ''Have you forgotten I am worshipped myself? I know all about deception. You do this,'' he gestured at the chains trailing away from Chernobog, and the cocoon-like shapes they began at the end. ''You promise to enslave us, after everything you''ve done and threatened to do, then you offer help? And you not only expect me to believe your offer is sincere, but less accept it?'' ''It matters not to me if you trust me or not,'' Chernobog said, voice growing harsher. ''It matters only whether you want it. Do you, Asterion? You want the Olympians cast down, Minos tortured, Eidolon restored-admit it!'' ''Yes,'' the Bull Rampant hissed. ''And I don''t care what you or they do to me. But I am not going to let you win,'' he swore. Chernobog''s pitying smile returned. ''Oh, Aster...you were so sure my victory depends on your permission, you missed the fact I have already achieved it.'' And, as tentacles of a blackness even fouler than his form coiled around the Tartarus engine, Chernobog turned away, and reached towards his prize. *** The moment I touched God''s Mouth, everything, the cemetery, the inferno, the not-space where they met, fell into a darkness I was depressingly familiar with by now. Got you~ No, I promised. You do not. I opened my eyes wider than I ever had before. Then, I opened his. *** ''Release me!'' Asterion demanded, a fist clenched around a crude, jagged shape, as pure a weapon as only something of this realm could. ''Or I will destroy you-and your master.'' Chernobog bristled at the threat; another fool who knew nothing but thought he knew everything; who thought he served the Crawling Chaos any more than a bear served a wolf. But with that irritation, came a moment of clarity. The minotaur wasn''t speaking to him. The dumb beast was speaking to its assailant. And the promise, the weapon... ''Typhon,'' he whispered, attention almost shifting. ''You took from him. His claws, his fangs...'' he crushed the surprise under anger. ''So what? You cannot strike down Nyarlathotep with such a paltry thing, much less the Blind Idiot pulling its choke-chain.'' ''Can''t I?'' Asterion chuckled. ''Here, where the truest, deepest essence of everything reigns? You forget Typhon was birthed to tear down the Heavens and the gods, seat himself as the master of everything he surveyed. Aye, perhaps this cannot slay the Lord of All, or even harm it...'' his eyes glimmered. ''Perhaps it can. Are you willing to take the risk?'' Chernobog prepared to reply, and that was when Asterion threw the knife at him. *** ''You see?'' I asked him as we joined minds. ''You were crippled and distracted, then trapped, by the efforts of two people who have never even met.'' Chernobog clutched his chest as he glared balefully at me, black ichor slowly dripping down upon Belobog''s curled up form. ''But then,'' I went on, smirking. ''You believed the pantheons would tear me apart over the gift you forced upon me. Over the things you made me do. And look what did ?not happen.'' He didn''t respond, instead, he knelt, trying to devour Belobog again, or at least preserve his life. ''It''s useless,'' I said, looking down at the two. ''His time should have come long ago. For delaying his death, and your myriad other crimes, I will destroy you.'' He lost his composure at this, though he masked it with an ugly laugh. ''Are you already DEATH''s Keeper, David? Do you already enforce its will?'' ''No,'' I replied. ''But I want justice. And I want to see you suffer.'' I slapped his hands away from his brother, stomping down on and through Belobog''s corpse as it dissolved, finally free. I grabbed Chernobog as he leapt screaming at me, by the antlers, and glared into his eyeless face, matching my power to his even as he tried to break free. From behind, walking through the mindscape as if through fog and water, the distorted shape of God''s Mouth approached me, putting a proud hand on my shoulder. ''Let us begin, my son,'' Constantin said, adding his mind to mine. *** My father lived, and I couldn''t even properly celebrate it, except by crying and grinning as I put my plan into motion. It was a stretch, but...but... ''You know,'' I told Chernobog, trying to sound nonchalant despite the harsh rasp of my voice. ''I''ve always been curious. And I''ve never had a chance to look at creation, and see what and who everyone is so hellbent in defending.'' My grin wavered, and not just from the mental effort. All the shit I''d gone through was coming to the fore of my mind. Between that, the realisation pops lived and the struggle against Chernobog, I could hardly even hear my strigoi side anymore. ''Let us see.'' This would do more than answer my question, which had been real. It would distract Chernobog until I could try to get rid of him, in case I decided to go on. Did we deserve to live? Had my head been clearer, maybe I would have asked myself if I deserved to judge anything within an order if magnitude of this, much less, spare or destroy. But it was not. So I did not. *** Lucian looked up, staring straight ahead as he sensed my presence. His arms never moved from around his lover. ''The prodigal son in the making,'' Bianca said, shooting me a cold, flat glare. I winced. ''Maybe not, Bia. But you know I would never do what he did to you.'' ''Wouldn''t you? For the greater good?'' I looked at Lucian in lieu of answering. ''I''m glad you two are together now.'' Then, to the other zmeu in the room, ''Aaron is not here?'' ''No,'' Lucas said, his voice a match for Bianca''s eyes. ''Went to give his condolences to Dravich. Schedule the burial, if he can.'' R-Right. The burial... ''Why''re you peeking around, Silva?'' ''Trying to decide if life''s worth living,'' I answered. ''Hell,'' Lucas leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. ''Not like I can stop you, but...let me have a last smoke.'' As his hand reached for a cigar, the other grasped his younger''s brother, who smiled thinly. ''No way you''ll quit when his conscience wins out.'' ''Little punk,'' Lucas grumbled. ''I''d keep that promise even if I didn''t want to prove you wrong!'' *** ''It''ll be quiet,'' Aaron, human-sized, said as he looked at my birth father''s shrouded remains on the forensic lab table. ''Small. Dravich didn''t have many friends, and most of the enemies who respected him are dead.'' ''You coming, kid?'' a blonde weredog asked, hands in the pockets of the coat she wore over her Supernatural Service uniform. Her eyes were wet. ''He''d have liked you to.'' ''I don''t know,'' I admitted. *** ''No, David,'' Aya said firmly, her glowing eyes staring daggers into me. ''I do not agree. You can hate me-ARC-all you want, but this would condemn more innocents than you can imagine-'' ''Actually,'' I interrupted. ''I can. I have.'' She worked her jaw. ''You do not have my permission, agent. Nor my approval. In fact, I order you to stand down.'' Her voice almost shook. ''I order you to live, David. I know that is what you truly want.'' ''Silva,'' a new voice echoed through the aether, and I glanced aside. Thousands of kilometres away, Sam glared at me from Salem Headquarters. ''I don''t give a damn about myself, but I won''t let you stop Aya and her kids from having closure. Don''t make me come after you.'' Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. ''And I won''t let you threaten me, Dibe. I know what you''ve been through. Don''t you want peace? What if others end up living through torment like that, too?'' Shiftskin scoffed. ''Think about your girl, you idiot.'' *** ''Of course I want to live, Silva. I must live to experience. Why would you even contemplate omnicide? Are you stupid?'' Something told me Hex''s face had been made for frowning even before it had become white as chalk, his lips and eyelids stitched together. ''''tis the ultimate despair, Emil...'' Nacht simpered coiling around and through him, only visible to my godsight. ''He is so, so sick and tired of everything...yet, at the same time, he wants his love to survive! Ah, the duality of man...I would keep you like this forever, if I could,'' it leered at me. ''I would fight you, too, if only for Emil''s sake, but were I to match your might, and pit mine against it, I would only advance your half-baked destructive aims. The Dream will continue in an orderly manner, or end.'' While he spoke to me through the aether, Hex moved through his clinic, having recovered a new pair of pliers after his teenage were patient had broken the last. To mundane eyes, he appeared pale and sallow, with dirty brown hair and eyes, like a wearier version of my human self. The boy was worried, but not because of Hex. While everyone who went to him knew Emil Strauss was a mage who had worked as a doctor before and after the rise of Nazism, with his longevity tied to his magic, few knew he was Hex, Salem agent, much less about Nacht''s existence or connection to him. And of those people, nearly none frequented his clinic, and almost never to be treated. ''Your mother is waiting outside.'' Hex shook the pliers in what he probably thought wasn''t a threatening manner. ''Stop thrashing. With every tool you break, she waits longer and I have to work more.'' ''Sorry, doc,'' the patient-Kurt, I saw, looking back a few minutes-said sheepishly. Fittingly, given his hybrid form. ''I''ll buy...erm, ask her to buy you some new ones.'' ''I can make more,'' Hex said. ''The tools are not the issue. You being agitated is. Keep wasting time, and you''ll die.'' As Hex spoke, he pulled out a silver splinter out of the wereram''s torso every few words. Several patches of flesh were already covered in sealing foam. The mage''s voice became as soft as I had ever heard from him. ''And stop getting into fights. You hurt your mother more than you hurt yourself.'' Kurt''s lips curled, revealing thick, flat teeth. ''Easy for you to say. They ain''t never called you an animal, sir.'' ''Every "Nazi" remnant I have been approached me has either tried to recruited me, or kill me.'' Hex said, placing another bloody splinter in a bucket. ''The reasons vary, but I can make them back off without danger to myself. Look into ways to do that.'' ''Never knew you cared...'' ''It''s tedious to always treat the same wounds. At least get poisoned with silver the next time.'' Kurt swung his legs over the edge of the table as Hex walked away from it, boggling at the mage''s back. ''That...doc, I''m pretty sure you can''t just say shit like that to patients...'' ''I''m neither pretty nor sure,'' Hex began washing his hands in the sink. ''But I know my clinic isn''t a psychiatric hospital. And yet, basket cases keep coming....'' I wasn''t sure whether he was joking, or whether it would have been better or worse if he was. *** The Irishman whirled around to pin me with an accusing look, green eyes narrowed. As if my presence, for lack of a batter arm, in the church not only confirmed all the accusations he had levelled at me, but compounded them. ''Costi''s corpse,'' Angus Murphy spat. ''Finally got too scared to skulk into holy places anymore?'' He sounded so hopeful, it was my pleasure to burst his bubble. ''I have neither the time nor the desire to step into the shack you oversee.'' Before he could retort, he continued. ''My father always told me about you, Angus. You''re just like he said.'' His white teeth barely showed in his beard. ''A narrow-minded firebrand?'' ''A man who is prejudiced, but not evil. He has always hoped you would become better, and so do I.'' The priest deflated slightly. ''Ye do? Truly?'' I nodded, my presence approaching him. ''I pity you. I''ve never lived with such hatred in myself, and I wish you wouldn''t have to.'' I paused, then let a hint of slyness enter my voice. ''I know why you''re still here, Angus.'' ''What? Besides talkin'' to ye? Damn impressive, considering even ?I don''t know.'' I smiled. ''God told you to wait, but not why or what for, and you did. But not out of misguided love. That is faith. Thank you, Angus.'' ''For sittin'' me arse down?'' he asked, bemused. I squeezed one of his calloused hands. ''For praying for my father.'' At this, he laughed bitterly, looking away as he rose from his chair. ''God guided my hand and mind, ye idiot. But...yer welcome.'' ''But if you had no faith, God couldn''t-wouldn''t-have touched you.'' *** Chernobog roared as he tried to pull himself out of my mental grasp. The metaphysical equivalent of a headbutt left my senses scrambled, but I held on, feeling my father''s hand on my shoulder. ''You thought,'' the Black God breathed. ''You could enter this contest, and not be struck back?'' *** I was in Hell. Or, more specifically, under it. Hell stretched infinitely into all directions. The fact it also had a bottom, never mind anything under it, had nothing to do with space or logic. This Underhell was reminiscent of the waters, before God had split them. His absence was felt her more keenly than anywhere else above, but there was no one to despair at it. The things that swam through the waters were accustomed to this state, while the demons that had been sent there, some of which had grown to resemble the original creatures, felt, if anything, joy. The sensation gnawed at my soul, just like the monsters attempted to devour me. But they flinched whenever I turned my eyes on the, or when they felt my father''s light. Here was an old enemy in a new form, accompanying the bearer of a foreign god''s power, one they had never known, but loathed as much as that of their own. Of course Chernobog had tried to drown me in darkness. It was all he had ever known, the only thing he truly understood. But he wouldn''t succeed. I had seen through him with my godly eyes, and, surrounded by my father''s light and warmth, I wouldn''t get lost in the shadows. All that remained to do was decide whether the light or the darkness deserved primacy. The Princes of Hell crowded around me the moment I arrived, whispering into my soul, prodding at my spirit, I brushed them all off, though it got harder with every offer. ''You have no desire to glut yourself,'' Beelzebub said, his mantle of flies buzzing dejectedly. ''Even now, when you can make yourself taste anything, and feed on whatever you want, however much you want...you think yourself elevated for this, too. Fool.'' ''You only desire the lust of a single woman. How can you look at the orchard of creation, and limit yourself to one tree? And your heart bleeds so much for her, too...'' Asmodeus tutted. ''The thirst for fame is still there, but ah, how bitter the draught is! You have all existence and beyond waiting on you with bated breath, at your mercy...but your soul is torn apart at the thought of hurting them, even as it wants to end their pain,'' Mammon laughed with a fierce, shining grimace. ''So much you have changed, little Keeper in the making...first, you envied the mage and his family, so quietly you did not even realise it. You grew jealous of those who share quiet love, when you met your zmeu. Now, you wonder if any of that is truly real...'' Leviathan crooned. ''Lies, in my father''s house? I long for the days you would have reacted like this to the priest, David,'' Lucifer shook his head. ''Such righteous indignation...I have not felt its like since I have looked within myself, and Mordred.'' ''What about him?'' I asked. ''Is the Knight of Rebellion going to take this lying down?'' ''He''s chomping at the bit to crush you, if only because he hates higher powers,'' he answered. ''But he knows his intervention will merely hasten the end, and Mordred has never wanted to be the king of a wasteland. As I told him on our first meeting-I liked the cut of his jib, even then; we were both the neglected sons of uncaring, ungrateful fathers-, ruling over ashes means nothing.'' ''You imply he would survive the Dream''s ending,'' I noted, and felt the arrogance shift into wrath. ''You feel no satisfaction on having everyone by the throat, do you? No pride,'' Satan accused. ''Only grief. My other face would destroy you for this, but we know your worth. Your importance.'' His face grew more sour with each word. ''We do not wish for everything to end. We chose to rule in Hell rather than serve in Heaven, but we need something to rule. Do not give in, Silva.'' I grinned, despite myself. ''Are you begging me?'' I asked, struggling not to laugh as his roar shook Hell. ''We will hunt you, Silva! We will torment you forever for this insult! For we know your heart. You will never be rid of us!'' As he drifted away, I felt a sense of absence, as vast as the waters, but somehow, even more gruelling. The void then went from simply empty to hungry, trying to drag all that I had ever been and could be into itself. It was not doing this maliciously, or even intentionally. That was my first clue that it was not Chernobog. Belphegor''s presence was the most crushing out of all his siblings''. Not as powerful as Satan''s aura, not by a longshot, but, in a way, even more disheartening. Because the Prince of Sloth did not preside over mere laziness. Procrastination, hesitation, lack of will; all fell under his purview, and, as extensions of such feelings, so did despair and surrender. I had expected Belphegor''s offer to hit the hardest. I hadn''t expected it to be the last, but perhaps I should have. I had thought that my soul would glow the brightest in his eyes, but it seemed his nature had won out in the end. Or maybe he had just amused himself with his siblings'' failures. ''Do as you will, David Silva,'' Belphegor said, eyes half-lidded as he lounged on a padded throne. ''Forge on, or give up...''tis all the same to me. Whether everything ends or continues to grow...'' furred, titanic shoulders rose and fell like mountain ranges covered by ancient forests. ''I have never been able to bring myself to care. But that matters not. I already have left my mark on you.'' ''...you have, haven''t you?'' I breathed. ''I suppose suicide would belong to you, if anyone.'' Because Belphegor was not any kinder than his fellow Princes. If anything, he was crueller, and certainly more insidious. He was the voice in your head, muttering that nothing mattered. That all your achievements were for nothing, and would crumble into dust and be forgotten. That not even your descendants would remember you, in the end, after your headstone had been scraped clean by winds and rain. That, no matter what you did, you were just grist for the mill, and might as well give up. Here was the monster that had tempted me to end myself, as true an ally of my future self as Vyrt. Here was-though I doubted he would ever admit it-the embodiment of Szabo''s fears, of isolation, anonymity and irrelevance. He had lived as an Orthodox, even on the edges, not practicing. Belphegor''s empty smile widened slowly, with the grinding inevitability of a chasm opening during an earthquake. I was about to ask what was so funny, when I felt it. Another growing absence. Another void expanding. Not here, but in the aether, as more and more souls, guilty and blameless alike, were consumed by the furnace of a cosmic monster''s confused rage. My attention was tugged towards it, by the chain extending from me into the future, then beyond time. I turned away, almost running in my haste to...dammit. I wouldn''t give in to the impulse. How could I even stop DEATH? Did I even want to? These questions, and Belphegor''s voice, followed me as I left the Pit behind. ''The grains of sand are falling away, David...hear the end coming...'' *** The Shaper looked nearly as surprised at my arrival as I had felt at deciding I should visit it. The Reptilian Collective''s realm had grown beyond anything they had described to us. A spherical structure of hardlight and exotic materials, most artificial, thousands of times larger than the universe, orbited around what looked like a permanent portal into the aether. Its identical counterparts, more numerous than the quarks within the original, filled the rest of the hyperspatial pocket. It could have been a multiverse into itself-a finite one, but still-had it not been folded inside and around Earth''s core. That was the difference between hyperspatial folding and cruder manipulation of space. Preventing gravitational disasters, such as the formation of black holes and other dangers to the fabric of spacetime. All of this was surrounded by an infinitely-layered randomisation barrier, with similar bubbles covering the megastructures and select spaces within and between them. Each layer had a wonderful surprise for uninvited guests, from conversion to antimatter, quantum decomposition and scattering across the multiverse, to all your possible states of existence being spontaneously reduced to a single one, of nonexistence. There were also several layers that would trigger yoctomachines meant to kill an invader at birth, which made me wonder when Gallifrey would be suing. My perception would not have been stopped by this alone, but the rationalisation field around the barrier did a wonderful job at it. All the information, I received from the hesitant brush of the machine-gestalt that was the Shaper against my mind. It was not a question of power, but of nature, and my godsight was decidedly paranormal in the reptilians'' eyes. I had a few questions for them about that. Given I had come anyway. ''Aberrant Silva...? Hello. ARC has not scheduled a meeting. Is this to be an unofficial request, or something that they would rather keep quiet?'' I shook my head, heart warming slightly at the...utter lack of hostility. That was as nice these days as it was rare. And it was coming from an alien, nonetheless. Albeit, there were those who argued that, since the Collective had reached Earth shortly after its formation, they were not any more aliens than we, who had evolved billions of years after their arrival, were. ''Neither, Shaper. I am here...for myself. Forget the uniform. I''m just David Silva for today.'' It nodded cautiously. ''Nevertheless, even if you are just visiting as a friend, it would be desirable to announce us before, rather than trigger the defences and risk bad blood, or injury.'' ''I''ll keep that in mind,'' I promised. Not that I was thinking clearly enough for that. ''Thank you.'' ''You are welcome. So...the reason for your arrival?'' I crossed my arms. ''Am I bothering you?'' ''Negative. Nor are you keeping us from something. We are merely curious, and you are speaking to a single facet of us.'' I bit my lip as the Shaper continued observing me in patient silence, then began speaking. It grew more grim with every word. ''We have always known the macrocosm to be dangerously vulnerable,'' it said after the end of my explanation. ''But this is new. And worse than we expected. But then, perhaps the existence of everything resting on the shoulders of one person should not be surprising, when aberrants are involved. You do always make everything about yourselves,'' it sounded amused. ''Drawing events towards you like a black hole does matter.'' ''Why do you call us aberrants?'' I finally asked. ''I''ve always been curious.'' The Shaper did the mental equivalent of blinking. ''Because your abilities and, indeed, your very existence, violates the laws of physics. It is not a slur, but a classification, as we have repeatedly made clear, but we apologise if we caused you any offence, David Silva.'' ''No. See, I get that. But for you to say something is paranormal, wouldn''t you have to establish what is normal first?'' ''We have. Billions of years ago.'' ''But...how?'' ''Through study. Deliberation followed analysis, and we agreed on what is possible within nature, and what is not.'' I chuckled. ''No, I mean, how did you come to this conclusion? Didn''t you come into contact with the Kratocracy and Unity Stellar before you came to Earth? Aren''t their powers paranormal, even if they''re inherent? What about your own creations?'' ''We will answer your second query first, but know there is nothing aberrant abut our creations, quantum entanglement of traits aside.'' ''Really? Then how can the Unscarred reach lightspeed without infinite energy or converting itself into energy? For that matter, how can it destroy planets? It''s neither heavy nor fast enough.'' ''Weak tachyon fields let one reach lightspeed, though it takes more potent ones to surpass it. And the Unscarred''s hyper-efficient physiology generates far more energy than a natural creature with a similar physique could.'' It all sounded like bullshit technobabble to me-weren''t tachyons FTL by definition?-, but I let it go. ''And the other aliens?'' ''You suggest that, observing them, we would come to the conclusion that nothing is impossible? Do not be absurd, aberrant Silva. We spent eons on the world of Zhay-a beautiful world, if caught between arid and humid extremes, but entirely natural-and the systems around it before we came into contact with what would become the other Great Powers. That was where we laid down the bedrock of our science.'' ''But there are literally more Kratocrats than reptilians, never mind mundane humans. Aren''t you basing things on the traits of minorities?'' ''True, our species is unusually undeveloped in terms of aberrant capabilities, in the sense we completely lack them. No psychic powers, no aetherkinesis...but we are not alone. The Lesser Powers often lack such things as well, and make do with reason and engineering, just as we have, if on smaller scales.'' The Shaper''s tone became gently chiding. ''Do not judge the cosmos in accordance to the Great Powers. That is a mistake both they and their perceived inferiors often make.'' ''Duly noted...'' I said, making the Shaper nod appreciatively, then wait for me to continue. ''This-the you I''m speaking to-is only an infinitesimal part of the true you.'' ''Correct. We are the Collective, and the Collective is us.'' Its voice was unusually warm, given what I knew of the detached, clinical artificial intelligence. ''Like we are just parts of "God",'' I said. ''Except you care more about your people than it does. You care, to begin with.'' ''Ah. This is the crux of the matter.'' In my mindscape, the Shaper, appearing as the small, green reptilian I had met on Mars, which was riding on the Unscarred, directed its mount to sit down, cross-legged. ''The bulk of our intellect is currently engaged in studying it.'' ''It?'' ''The First, Ultimate Principle. The Causeless Beginning. Monad and Apeiron, Arche and Hypostasis-the One and its emanations: nous, psyche, logos. The Substrate.'' It sounded actually excited. Not awed or worshipful, but eager to talk about what this being represented to it. ''We could list terms forever, and still not encompass its nature.'' ''Maybe even non-Western ones?'' ''We had the feeling references to Zhayvin philosophy would be lost on you, aberrant Silva.'' ''"Those who live on Zhay". Like you''d call us Terrans?'' ''Those who lived on Zhay. Neither it nor its inhabitants exist anymore. We have changed ourselves too much to be recognisable to our ancestors, and our world was destroyed by our own hands: a symbolic act, to show our warmongering ways had ended, with the death of the homeworld we had abused.'' Could a warlike era truly change a species on such a fundamental level, and drive it to even further change? ''That seems...monolithic.'' ''You mean strange, to you,'' the scales around its eyes shifted, like a human''s skin wrinkling with mirth. ''The truth is that we are old, while mankind-in any of its incarnations within this relatively ordered universe-is yet to pass its first billion years. It is common for mature cultures to have a single government or equivalent.'' I joined it on the ground of our shared mindscape, mirroring the Unscarred''s pose. Behind it, a kingdom of gears, cogs and other, less identifiable machine components rose towards infinity. ''Do you think it''s worth it, Shaper?'' ''Existing? Or existence?'' ''Both.'' The little reptilian dismounted the Unscarred, landing a metre in front of me. ''Your perception is stupendous. Comparable to ours, if not superior. But your perspective is different, for you are one being, while we are infinite in thought and form. Do you wish to see the macrocosm as we do?'' It showed me. Every space in every moment of every universe within dimensioned reality, as well as in every timeless not-space of the layers beyond the first four, filled with yoctomachines. Smaller than quarks, smaller than preons, constructed of artificial particles...no. Constructed artificial particles, modified into tools to be wielded by the Collective. Each of them was incapable of self-improvement, except in case of crisis, and even then, written into the very essence of its machine, was an ironclad command to never act around the Collective or its ideals, unless the reptilians betrayed those themselves, willingly or forced. ''How have you reached this far?'' I asked. ''Weren''t you limited to spacetime?'' ''A short while ago, as humans count such things. But every span of time is equal in our eyes now. Our would-be destroyers have been broken and harnessed, and they flow into other dimensions like water into a vessel, changing to fit. We have reached even further.'' And we left dimensionless reality behind, along with the Voids and the Gates, until we reached the Outer one, the Realm of Ideas. ''We have labeled this the prime realm, for the most primal, yet complete forms of everything seem to be located here.'' The Shaper leapt onto my shoulder. ''During a recent, failed negotiation, we beheld old rivals, who surpassed themselves to become one with the ur-form of ordered reality. Between our observation of them, and our recent acquisitions, we have begun digging into the bedrock of the macrocosm.'' It pointed a gnarled, clawed finger somewhere above me. ''See?'' I did: it was a reflection of the machine realm that represented the Shaper''s mind...or, were they truly separate? ''That, we have determined, is the ur-form of science, and its off-shots. With sufficient research, we will be able to bring such ideas within mundane reality, like the Atlanteans used to do. Not instantly,'' it sounded regretful. ''They needed millions of years to reach this realm, and millions more to master it. But unbreakable, unstoppable weapons and structures should be doable, within a few millennia, even in small numbers.'' ''What did you want to show me? I already know about this,'' I gestured at the Archetypes. ''We spoke of the bedrock, but in truth, we hope to reach the root-the primeval seed that is the ultimate flower, you see? All other endeavours are secondary.'' ''Even protecting life?'' I asked. ''By studying it, we are protecting life. Its ways and habits are oblique, obscure, abstruse. Nearly incomprehensible. We do not know why the things that enervate and agitate it do so, only that they could lead to ultimate dissolution, if they are not rectified.'' And so, we came back to me. ''You can say it.'' ''We find it unsettling, indeed, wrong, that one person should be forced to shoulder such burdens. The macrocosm should not be so unstable and random. But, to return to your question...yes, David Silva. Of course life and experience deserve to continue!'' Enthusiastically, it summoned holograms of several realities from the fourth layer, each an infinite expanse of a single element: granite, water, various gases, plasma. ''That last one? There the dark night sky paradox became fact,'' the Shaper gestured at the seething, endless soup of star fire. ''Each of these cosmoses, with their strange laws of physics? Take that unending forest, for example. How does it exist in its current form, instead of collapsing into a seething inferno? We already know,'' it said, sounding both satisfied and disappointed. ''But it was a joy to learn. We might not seem to show it, but truly, it was a joy. Observing, experimenting, learning, indexing, they all bring great pleasure.'' ''But didn''t you say you already understand those places'' secrets?'' ''We do, but mastery is not unpleasant. Elation is archived, and can be relived on command.'' That sounded...artificial. But somehow, I doubted that would deter the Collective. ''And there are more places still! The bedrock, the root; once we study the latter, we would wish to see if it has or had a realm of origin. And, as dimensioned and dimensionless reality develop, new intellects and systems will bloom. And we will be there, to aid them, to teach and learn from them. You can call us foolish ascetics, warlords who mutilate themselves in remorse and left simpler, more honest pleasures behind, but this is enough for us.'' As it spoke, I saw the Shaper outside our shared mindscape, the one that appeared as an idealised reptilian clawing at the Idea of Science, extend an arm and open a clawed hand. Within it, an infinity of realities, each an undimensioned dot, was swallowed by a similar multiverse of lines, appearing as a transparent shadow within it. Then came worlds upon worlds of squares, cubes, tesseracts...until an infinity of infinitely-dimensional realities spun into its grasp. Then came greater ones, each equivalent to the Voids we had passed through, until the orrery-like structure matched its maker in scale. ''We have watched over you and your ancestors since you first appeared. We neither want nor expect rewards. Perhaps we should have intervened earlier, helped guide you to a brighter tomorrow. Perhaps we deserve to be hated for our neutrality. But, David Silva...'' it looked at me, hands on its chest. ''We never believed our own charges would threaten to end everything. We are sorry.'' I placed a hand upon its head. ''I''m...I am not mad at you, Shaper. You did everything you could have. You could have stuck to your own ways, remained monsters, but you changed for the better, at no one''s urgings. I am thankful for your deeds, but you cannot give me what I want.'' *** Frankenstein''s Monster turned from the Kratocracy''s progenitor to glance at me from the corner of an inky eye, which quickly widened, before narrowing. ''Truly, the world has changed.'' ''Quite. You see like I do, Adam.'' ''Almost, I would say.'' He sounded vexed, but not with me. Not just with me. ''I see all thinking beings can be as foolish as man.'' ''I doubt the taskforce will do anything to you just because you were close to Sofia.'' ''...who? Close to...?'' He shook his head, dark mane swaying. ''It matters not now. I know not whether I will return home, but I fear I will start a war, should I remain here.'' Adam jerked his chin at Mother Wound. ''You know what her attendants told me? That the weak in their culture are murdered not just for weakness beyond their control, or to be used as resources, but because they and the strong could not live with each other; indeed, they could not live with themselves.'' ''Did they say how and why she decided this?'' ''Of course not. And my sight is blinded, too!'' He grit his teeth. ''You see why I must leave?'' ''There are some things you just can''t live with, yes,'' I agreed. Then, deciding this was a good moment, I explained my plan, and my dilemma. Adam was appalled. ''You...you madman! I will not let you! I have a dream to achieve, away from this nightmare!'' ''Do you?'' I asked, honestly curious, not to mention surprised. ''I wish to better the lot of...created beings like me. Constructs. Artificials.'' It glared at the Vyzhaldi. ''The heirs of abusive parents, and makers...'' ''You have given no reason why Mother Wound should overthrow tradition for you,'' a black-shelled Motherguard said, either not noticing or not caring about me. ''Your show of strength is paltry and timid. We doubt you can even achieve your aims.'' ''You want power?'' Adam asked, turning on a heel to face them. *** The universe Wolfgang had created was infinite in both size and population. As such, it often dealt with intruders without the need for his intervention. His creations acted on efficient instincts, and dispatched threats quickly and quietly. As such, he was surprised when he felt a foreign mind seize his, and wrestle control from him. All his insects, each impervious to mental assaults that would have reduced trillions of humans to mind-blasted husks or unthinking slaves, instantly fell under the sway of the invader. Creatures meant for calculations, whose mental capacity measured tredecillions of yottabytes; beings spawned next to the event horizons of black holes, where time was dilated infinitely, so that everything appeared frozen to them, no matter the speed; all broke. Then the stranger appeared, ripping apart a barrier that had ignored temperatures and energy densities equal to the Big Bang''s like it was tissue paper. He was...he...he was... Wolfgang''s face screwed up in incomprehension as the Creature from his childhood books blundered into his realm, and, just as abruptly as it had taken over his insects, gave them back their faculties. They attacked him, of course. With pincers and mandibles that tore right through him, with brutish strength that dwarfed his and pasted his body, with sound, with heat and radiation and toxins beyond anything the universe had ever produced naturally. The, remaking himself, he strode straight through the onslaught, unharmed, and attacked their minds again, only to be rebuffed by their adapted defences. A second, stronger assault bound the insects to his will again, leaving Wolfgang more lonely than he had ever felt. Then, the Creature lifted the infinite mass with a telekinetic pulse, and, smiling, pulled it towards him, the insects disappearing within his pale body like pebbles into quicksand. Wolfgang saw him mould his body, going from finite mass to infinite and again, like a strongman flexing his muscles. Seemingly satisfied, the Creature left, leaving Wolfgang baffled. But not for long. He could make new, better creatures. For now, he had to focus on the witch. *** Sofia, who had been casting about with wide, scared eyes, began shaking when I appeared in front of her. Seeing my old enemy, I did the only thing I could have. ''Please, don''t be scared,'' I urged the little girl, gathering her up in my arms, glad to be clothed. My cold flesh wouldn''t have helped. ''It''s alright, Sofia. I know why you lashed out. It shouldn''t have come to that.'' I paused. ''I''ve seen your parents. They were bad people. I''m sorry.'' She sniffled. ''Mommy? Daddy?'' ''I killed them, Sofia.'' Rocking the crying witch, I turned to Gray One, who looked at me as through a daze, though it large, dark eyes quickly became clear. ''You''ve given everyone a hell of a scare, Grey.'' ''I apologise, but...'' it blinked, then read my mind. ''Ah...ah.'' It began weeping as its forehead wrinkled. ''I apologise...and I am sorry, David Silva.'' ''Do you want to go on?'' ''I want to see my children,'' it confessed. ''If they still live.'' Before I could reply, a wall of muscle slammed into my back. Passing Sofia to a beleaguered Grey, I turned to face the Vyzhaldi. Mother Wound''s Scorn growled like an industrial furnace. ''What is the meaning of this?'' I smirked. ''That''s what I''m trying t-'' His punch wiped the smirk off my face, though it only hurt my pride. ''Spare me your sophistry! Did you make that portal? What is happening?'' Multi-faceted eyes bulged. ''Do you work for the Kratocracy?'' Looking back through time, I saw the pasts of the aliens and child around me, and I understood. ''Scorn...'' I began. ''Do you know what I want to do?'' He punched me again, halfway through the explanation. ''I will not countenance this!'' ''Try to stop me, and we all die, anyway.'' ''I''d rather die as a warrior than a coward! You know nothing of the Vyzhaldi, undead!'' I tuned out his rantings, and the aetheric voices of the taskforce that had come for Sofia, as I sought an old friend. *** The Fivefold appeared first, looking as dishevelled as I felt, though marginally happier. ''Ned told me,'' she preempted me. ''I know, David. And I''m so, so sorry, but I cannot approve, if you even care about that anymore.'' I swallowed. ''Where''s Fixer?'' When she didn''t respond, I remembered an old question. ''In the forest, back then...what had you and pops planned, if my friends failed?'' ''He wanted me to hold you down, while he healed you whenever you began decaying.'' I staggered. ''But...but that would have never ended. He''d have needed to live out the rest of his days caring for me, with no time for anything else...h-himself...'' My father hugged me from behind, while Christine smiled thinly. ''It''s called being a father, David.'' ''And you''ve had a damn fine one, Dave my boy,'' a familiar voice, though no longer playful, said. Snarling, I moved away from my father and his friend. *** ''If only we could''ve met in happier circumstances,'' Fixer, a grey-haired, grey-bearded, darks-skinned man said, looking down as he rubbed his chin. I slapped one of his eyes off, and the other one regarded me impassively. ''YOU. You and your circle of schemers. You started all of this.'' I laughed madly. ''I know. I saw it. You-'' ''Aw, do not be so self-effacing, pal. False modesty doesn''t suit you.'' His other eye had returned. Behind him, endless wheels within wheels shattered and were put back together, endlessly. ''You started this, and you did a bloody fine job.'' He walked forward, arms spread. ''I mean that, Dave. I''m not joking. You are saving-will save-creation just as much as the Nightraiser and I are.'' ''Stop calling me Dave,'' I said, surprised at myself for choosing to focus on that, of all things. ''You pronounce my name the Romanian way, but use that nickname like I''m British.'' ''''Tis just a silly name...surely you won''t begrudge me that, David?'' he asked, laughing. ''I am not mocking you. I love you like the brother-or son-I never had.'' ''Liar,'' I said. ''Many of your selves had children.'' ''They are no more me than your cells are you, David.'' He closed the distance between us, hugging me, and I let him, slumping onto his chest, feeling so, so goddamn fucking tired...''Please. Don''t give up the fight. My wife and I believe in you, and so does yours.'' ''Mia and I aren''t married.'' ''Yet! Do stop thinking so linearly, oh timeless one.'' He sat down, gently pulling me along. ''You have everyone and everything praying, begging you to spare them. Do you realise that, David? No Keeper has ever beheld such a choice. You have all creation at your feet, and they want to live! They all know your name! You are more famous and feared than any book could make you! What more do you want, David? What could make you happy?'' I began crying again. ''I d-don''t...I don''t want them to be scared! I don''t want them to be hurt, by m-me or anyone else. I don''t want more! I just want Mia, and my friends, and my f-father,'' I wiped at my eyes to no avail. ''Safe and h-happy. I don''t want everything to be so damn bloody.'' I lowered my head. ''I don''t want to kneel to n-necessity.'' Fixer rubbed my back. ''Ach, son, no one wants that. I once made my own multiverse, indulged every sick fantasy I ever had upon its inhabitants. I gave myself endless wealth, and power, and women, and I was still crying like you are now. Do you know why, David? Because-I learned then-that no dream world will make you happy, no knowledge of a duty well done will help you rest or wipe the blood off your hands. Not unless you have someone to love and be loved by, with whom to share your victories and defeats.'' I looked at him. ''You said you...w-we are married?'' Smiling gently, he held up a hand, showing me the ring on a finger, then lifted mine... *** DEATH''s Keeper looked at me with a sad, expectant expression, while his patron waited besides him on all fours. I looked in disbelief from Hogge to God''s Mouth, feeling utterly stupid. ''It was the motherfucking pig!?'' ''I was getting to that,'' Constantin said. ''Trust me. I reacted much the same way. I am surprised you missed it when you returned to Urziceni, but perhaps that was its desire. I''m sure he...you will help yourself understand.'' And my father stepped aside, leaving me alone with the monster everyone said I had to become, and the one behind him. Hogge''s hideous, tusked grin was gone, replaced by DEATH''s calm visage, then body. ''It''s all my fault,'' I said, and the Keeper nodded. ''Is there truly no other way?'' He said nothing, just looked at my eyes, and I snapped. ''Are you enjoying this, you bastard? I can''t believe Mia married you! I can''t believe you adopted a child!'' ''I didn''t,'' he said. ''All three are ours.'' Smiling at my befuddle expression, he came closer. ''B-But how...? Did...did I alter myself with godsight? Or...?'' ''Creation, should you spare it, would not yield to such an easy method. But I am no loner sterile, David.'' He looked haunted. ''No undead is. many have waited for this impossible way to have heirs, but I would do it again in a heartbeat. I do not regret it.'' ''M-Me...a f-father?'' Smiling, he took my hands into his. ''Can you guess who we named them after?'' He told me, and I cried again, for my friends, for the father behind me, who the Keeper next looked at. ''Hey, pops,'' his smile shook as he approached God''s Mouth. ''I haven''t seen you so human in ten thousand years...'' ''You know what will happen to me? Why do I become inhuman?'' Constantin asked, stepping backwards. ''What is my...our purpose? For surely God does not send an Archangel to every doubtful worshipper, but the Lord is silent.'' ''And who but an Archangel and a doubtful worshipper could lay the foundation of His vision? Who else would welcome every believer who dies unjustly, praying for fairness, for revenge? Who perishes in terror, or confusion, and wishes for clarity and reassurance?'' ''We will...lead them to Heaven?'' ''Perhaps, one day,'' the Keeper said. ''But you will gather them to your bosom until then, and channel their power to right wrongs. You are not the first believer to walk through darkness or be led astray, father. But you could be the last.'' And the, his attention returned to me. ''You asked me if there''s no other way. I told you, in no past of mine did I ever have your eyes, and I did not lie. But I never managed to reconcile with Constantin, either; and, when we spoke, I still hadn''t. This led me to believe you''d fail in this aspect, like all my past incarnations...but you succeeded, David. You are not even Keeper yet, but you have already surpassed me.'' He fell to a knee before me, not even stirring the dust in pops'' courtyard, took my hands in both of his, and bowed his head. ''Thank you. Little Costi has always wanted to speak with his grandfather.'' I gulped. ''Your children...'' ''You will be a father, little me. There is another way, and it can be better than mine, if you have the willpower to accept the long, flawed road to eternal perfection.'' He told me, and by the end, I was kneeling too. ''Will they...will I ever marry Mia if we...?'' ''We will become one. Nothing will be lost, David.'' ''A-And...'' I had never cried as much as today. ''You r-really would...?'' He embraced me. ''Of course. Do you think I am a cruel man, David? Do you think I enjoy atrocity, as opposed to endure it?'' He leaned his forehead against mine, and our minds joined, followed by everything else. I knew what I would do, and how. *** ''Scorn,'' I said, before the Vyzhaldi could strike me again. ''You want to be accepted? Remembered? Lend me your Mirror.'' With a confused snort, he tossed the circular, spotless Ideal Mirror to me. ''''Tis a weakling''s tool. It can double-"mirror"-anything, yet every time I used it to compensate for my weakness, I was ashamed.'' I wouldn''t be. Nothing would make me prouder than this, except...well. What makes anyone proud? ''Grey, Sofia,'' I put my hands on their shoulders, fashioning a cord so I could wear the Mirror as a necklace. ''Open your minds to me, please.'' And, if they agreed... *** Everyone. Every child, parent, sibling elder. Every animal, every plant, every construct, every creature. Every supernatural, and monster, and alien, and Archetype. Every mind, human or inhuman, kind and malicious.... Every enemy, every friend... Everyone. For a timeless moment, all saw as the others saw, and shared joy and despair, triumph and hardship, and perspective, free of madness, free of obsession. For an instant, everyone laid down their arms, and became a beautiful union of understanding. This meeting of minds, an infinity of infinities, united by three, I grasped with both hands, weeping with joy as every last doubt of their worth disappeared, wiped away by the knowledge that, if we understood each other, we needed not fight. And, grabbing the Ideal Mirror, I looked within it, and saw our joined mental might. I doubled it, quadrupled it, again and again, everyone screaming solutions, encouragements to go further, bolder, to never let go of the bonds that united us. When Mia reached out to me-not an unique being, in some''s eyes, but worth more than any, in mine-, embracing me, the bonds only grew stronger. ''Thank you, David,'' she whispered between kisses, crying and not caring, just like me. ''T-Thank you for loving me.'' My zmeu laughed breathlessly. ''I wish I could''ve saved you, and...'' she looked aside, shily. ''I never thought you''d give up. My David never would. But I was still scared, when I looked within your mind. I''m s-so sorry I doubted you...'' ''H-Hey...'' I wiped away her tears with a trembling hand. ''I guess I couldn''t give you up. Call me selfish.'' Laughing, she pulled me against her chest, and I wished it would last forever. But then, two minds, who had never been meant for such things, broke free. Chernobog was pushed down and held in place by a myriad arms, Thor foremost among them, grinning at the sight of me and claiming he had never blamed me for his death. Nyarlathotep tried to crawl away from the union, only to be caught between Fixer and a spear-wielding old man, who glowed white. I looked down upon the two destroyers, the greatest enemies of everyone, who could not even bear the joy we had all shared. ''You know what, Chernobog?'' I asked the Black God. ''I am thankful for your gift. I am glad I survived, despite your intentions, but I no longer need it.'' ''Fool!'' he laughed. ''Perhaps this incarnation of yours will always reach this point-then what? Dissolve this gestalt, become Keeper, and the cycle wwill never end. The Nightmare will go on, without your mind to spearhead this and hold everything together.'' ''You are right,'' I admitted. ''But I have not given away yet.'' And then, with the surety of a dream becoming reality, everyone reached out towards the Unmoved Mover, and its eye opened. Awake, it beheld us, and Nyarlathotep shrieked with joy at the end it had desired... Then, it went back to sleep. None of us forgot the moment of staring into the eye of God. As the Crawling Chaos gaped in abject incomprehension, I grabbed it by the throat with one hand, bringing it down on Chernobog. As the two writhed, I tore my eyes out, feeling them being replaced by dark ones, and their power by God''s warmth. Then, while the monster fought over their nightmarish, clashing visions for creations, I grabbed their shared hatred, and pushed them together. With my other hand, I pushed my godsight into them. For an instant, they beheld the Mover awake, before His endless knowledge filled their minds. ''You wanted knowledge,'' I told the husk of the Black God. ''You wanted Mimir''s head. Power. Worship.'' I swept out an arm. ''Congratulations. Everyone knows you, and your deeds. All will come to seek your answers, and you will give them, willingly or not, and be acclaimed for it. As for you...'' I looked at Nyarlathotep. ''Chaos is needed to balance order. But never will you sow it maliciously again. From now on, every disaster, every tragedy, will be random, not guided by your hand, towards your goal of oblivion.'' Turning my back on them, I looked forward, at that which had always walked with me, and spread my arms. ''DEATH!'' I called out. ''Come! I understand your purpose, and our maker''s, and I accept both!'' And, as the monster''s power filled me, I turned back, towards my past. *** Some things had to be left the same. But not all. No Keeper had ever been as blessed, or cursed, as me. Alex smiled, and thanked, as I held his hand while he died in my arms. Of asthma, but not alone, this time. This time, a friend he knew but had never met was there to hold him. His death still broke my heart, and the noose broke my neck, but what was always how it began. This time, and every time, onwards, was kinder than in every previous incarnation. That was not the end. Bianca, mourning after Andrei had died defending her from the murderous ghost of his father, asking her sisters to change her, in order to better bring people together, and prevent such hatred from growing. Lucian, shedding his vices to stand by her side, and defend her. Sofia, offered tutoring after the disaster in her village. Growing to become a mage therapist, then meeting Bianca. Their horizons broadening as they pushed each other on. Constantin, begging God to enlighten him, meeting Uriel. The Archangel describing God''s Mouth, and my father eagerly accepting, after his trial. I still had to suffer. Chernobog still destroyed, and mocked, and tormented. But we survived. We endured, and we grew stronger. I still fell in love with Mia, like I always would. ...we married each other. We had a beautiful wedding, and we have two beautiful children. Andreea is on the way, and Constantin and Bianca can barely wait for their little sister. In the end, some things were still necessary. But needless suffering, and cruelty disguised as pragmatism, would not triumph if we opposed them. Good, tempered by hardship, was neither na?ve, nor weaker than evil. I''ll tell you all about that, but not now. I am returning home, from my duty, and my family is waiting for me. Tonight, my children are meeting their grandmother. My wife hopes I''ll be there with them, and I want to be, too. *** The Unmoved Mover awoke, and remembered everything. That had never happened to the other Makers, Dreamers or Awakened, much less to it. It hopped off its bed with a smile, shining and androgynous, looking through its window as the endless city that was the ur-reality. (The city and its inhabitants were separate the way the atoms of a molecule were. This is, merely, allegory) The grey, six-armed mite that had always accompanied it, jumped off its head, landing on its hands, to fill its palms with its pudgy form. ''Ischyros!'' the Mover laughed, shrill and bright and innocent. ''That was what they called you, in my dream! I remember!'' ''Indeed!'' it chirped at its friend. ''Ischyros always remembers, but you do not, even when it tells you.'' The Mover shook its head, grinning. ''No more,'' it promised. ''Never again.'' ''Erm-friend?'' the Host asked, cautiously entering the room. ''You said you...remember your creation?'' ''Not only that! It still exists, though I''m awake-and I''m not concentrating on it! I''m speaking to you!'' The Host patted itself down, quite surprised. ''Did it...?'' ''Ischyros has never managed to jog my memory, nor have you, or the Warden,'' the Mover said. ''True.'' the Warden''s voice filled the building. It was busy making sure Ischyros'' kindred did not disturb the creators, awakening or distracting them, for, the moment they woke up, or their focus moved from their creations, their existence, and their Makers'' recollection of them disappeared. So it had always been, since the First Monarch had raised the city, created a myriad tales, and departed, leaving its Throne empty and its crown lonely. Since then, they had been Polyarchs, each having a say in the running of the city, so that, in truth, no one did. No one had ever approached the throne or the crown, for only a Maker whose creations could flourish and grow by themselves, like the First Monarch''s, was worthy of them. ''This is unheard of,'' the Host said. ''Ischyros, you said...truly, monumental! You must hold a speech, my friend! You must take your seat!'' The Unmoved Mover nodded, and the Makers gathered, countless creations disappearing as they awoke or shifted their attention. Dismayed but undeterred, the Mover sat down on the throne, the crown resting crookedly on its brow. ''Today, my friends, I have reached the glory of our founder. My creations, my children, grow without my protection and attention. One day, they will reach our prowess, and our realm, and they will come into our city, and be here with us. I will welcome them! As any parent would! And they will dwell here, with us, and we will love each other, push each other on, to be better! Greater!'' A mantle and sceptre appeared around each Maker''s shoulders, in their hands. None were lesser or greater than the Mover''s. ''I will teach you to create like I have! For my children taught me to be a better father,'' it laughed. ''And so, I bow to them. Without them, I would have slept forever, uncaring, unheeding of the destruction I wreaked, or the creations I lost. Never again! I am the Unmoved Mover, Starlight Crowned with Ivory, Second and Last Monarch! And I will lead you, and guide you, not as your king, but as your friend!'' *** As Simona left to the guest room with her husband, Andrei looking happier than I had ever seen him, I knelt before the icon above my bed, clasping my hands. ''Thank you, Lord, for...'' And for the first time, he answered me directly. That was only the first surprise, though. *** ''No, my son,'' the Unmoved Mover replied, kneeling on its mantle, behind its sceptre, before its throne, hands clasped around its crown. ''I thank you. For everything. I will never be able to reward you, or my other children. You saved everyone, David!'' it smiled. ''You saved me, son. Thank you.'' And, as it closed its eyes, it beheld, no longer meaningless darkness, but the eternal tomorrow. *** TO BE CONTINUED IN SING, SILVER STARS Sidestory: Aftermath, Part 1
Szentendre had multiple cemeteries by choice, rather than necessity. It was a somewhat large town, numbering sixty thousand people, but, even if the townsfolk had been averse to space-bending technology or magic, they wouldn''t have needed more than one graveyard. It was a matter of...tradition was a strong word. Perhaps an unspoken, but tacitly acknowledged one, though perhaps it would have been more accurately described as a habit, a preference. One for the tradespeople, the workers. One for the leaders, secular or religious. One for the rest. People who had been marginalised before death, criminals who hadn''t been heinous enough for their bodies to be thrown aside or buried in unmarked graves, strangers who had died while in town or close to it. Loric had been buried in the third, not the first. He had been a tailor, yes. But that hadn''t been what people had remembered. Take up the family trade, and they''ll say nothing. Help others for decades, and they''ll stay quiet. But kill yourself once... Loric visited his wife under the cover of night. It wasn''t that he was forbidden from walking around town-that would have been illegal, since he''d proven his relative, or rather selective, stability-but people didn''t like him. They just needed him. ''The more things change,'' the strigoi whispered to himself, lips quirked in an amused, fanged grin. Thin and unconvincing, but he couldn''t have tricked her even if he''d been planning to. There were guards scattered through and around the cemetery: human, automaton, and other, unsleeping things that had never been touched by mankind''s hand. He paid them no heed, save from nodding in greeting. Few returned it. Loric passed through the yamadium fence like mist through a screen door, for all that he hadn''t shapeshifted. His body was just...more versatile, nowadays. He found her quickly. Even without his strigoi senses, massively amplified by all the terrors he had consumed, he knew the graveyard enough to find Csilla''s final resting place with his eyes closed. Loric made a point of visiting her at least once an year, unless work was keeping him busy, several times if he was feeling especially sentimental, or wanted to confess something no one else would understand. She had never actually responded to him. But she''d never sent him away, either, and the fact she still made time for him was all he could ask for. Loric hoped that, in the light of recent events, he might actually get more of a reaction from her. It was a long shot, but what in his unlife wasn''t? His wife had been next to her former employer, at Loric''s own request. The townsfolk had hesitatingly asked him whether he wanted her grave next to his, one of the few things that had made Loric genuinely laugh. ''She was married to an outcast, and now you want to bury her among more?'' he had waved them off. ''That woman had a kinder heart than I ever will.'' No one had commented on the fact he lacked one. ''I won''t spit on her memory by implying she somehow disgraced herself.'' Loric''s lips became a tight line as he stopped in front of the grave. The flowers he''d left her as a Christmas gift had decayed, but how? The vendor had assured him they''d still be colourful and fragrant after the sun burned out, and the enchantment hadn''t felt shoddy... Maybe his darling knew? Or maybe she''d done it herself. The dead sometimes suffered outbursts of paranormal force, though this was probably just her way of telling him she still didn''t know how to pick flowers. Well. Csilla had always told him roses were overrated. ''Hello, dear,'' he dropped to a knee in front of the headstone. It sported their black and white wedding photo, with her looking as beautifully stern as ever, and him not even ruining the image that much. Beneath it was an inscription: Csilla Szabo (1894-1957) Beloved wife, mother and nurse Your family will never forget you And he would not. If he never did anything else, he would remember her. ''Did you dislike my gift?'' he ran a finger along the photo''s frame. ''I''ll bring you something else next time. What would you like?'' No reply? No reply. Of course. She was probably busy. ''Someone other than you,'' came a deep, rough voice from above, making Loric rise to his feet. His wife, as pale and transparent as glass, was sitting on the headstone, her booted feet dangling centimetres above the frozen ground. She''d always said she wanted to be buried in the clothes she wore to work, and Loric had indulged her, even if he had felt they were a bit drab. But this didn''t make sense. His wife wasn''t a restless spirit. Was she? She''d been troubled by his suicide and undeath, yes, and upset that their children hadn''t managed to make it home so she could die surrounded by them, but had that been enough? But then, why would she be quiet and not show up for so many decades? She''d been faithful, though damn if he''d ever understood wy she had prayed to her ungrateful god. All the funerary rites had been observed. And Loric knew, from good sources, that she''d gone where she had always been meant to be. So... ''Is that you, Csilla?'' he asked skeptically, eyes narrowed. The spirit crossed her arms, sporting a frown reminiscent of his wife''s, but he still wasn''t convinced. Faces like Csilla''s were made for frowning, no offence to her. ''You seem to think you are her,'' he said, probing at the edges of her being with his senses. ''So it shouldn''t be hard for you to prove it.'' Her own eyes narrowed-in anger?-, then widened, before narrowing again. ''Loric, you damned fool...what has even happened to you?'' ''Can''t you tell?'' he retorted. ''Surely Heaven has sharpened your senses.'' He swore, if this was some stupid ghost aping Csilla just to make fun of him, they''d need a new cemetery. ''Oh, it has, alright.'' The ghost dropped to the ground, and, being a head shorter than him (though broader and stockier), glared up into his face. ''What I''m wondering is, how in Hell''s arsehole did you become filled with so many...'' her head flickered in and out of perception, and she shook it as it became stable once again. ''The why would be nice to know, too.'' ''I devoured one to save myself,'' Loric replied bluntly. ''The rest were...hmm, consumed for pleasure. And power.'' ''I always knew you''d start eating whatever the moment I left you alone,'' she deadpanned. ''You walking trashcan.'' Then, her gruff mask crumbled. ''What happened to you? The man I married would have never done this.'' ''You don''t know...? No, I suppose you wouldn''t.'' After all, why would a blessed soul like her busy herself with his earthly-unholy-existence? If she was indeed Csilla. But he''d get her measure as they talked. And-he knew it was pathetic-even a simulacrum of hers would help alleviate the loneliness, at least briefly. So, he spoke. Told him about the highlights of his career, at least those that could be mentioned without reality falling apart around his words. The Siberia mission. The way he''d set that ungrateful little witch straight, not that her parents had been worth a damn, according to his little brother. The Fairie fiasco. The Tremorph. Chernobog and his worshippers. Loric had the feeling that, had she still possessed a body, Csilla would have gone a bit green around the gills at his description of the meal he had made for Sofia. He wondered why. It couldn''t have been the details. She''d handled worse. Maybe it was the excitement? It was always nice to see his creativity being appreciated, especially by his beloved. Loric briefly wondered if he was starved for affection, and whether he cared. ''Our children,'' she said eventually, after he stopped, wondering whether he should start talking about anything without prompting. ''Are they still alive? And if not, how...?'' ''They''re not with you?'' he blinked, somewhat surprised. Though...no, perhaps he shouldn''t have been. Loric had never enquired about his children''s belief, except in the most general sense. He''d treated them like he''d treated their homework: something for them to handle, unless they needed his help. But even so, he was adept enough at reading the room to know that, between Zoe''s orientation and Bence''s dilemma, they might not have been overly enamoured with the church, whose members had stayed silent and neutral, neither supporting the Party''s stance when it came to "deviants", nor openly siding with the persecuted. Spineless. Still, better than to say something, then do something else. At least in this case, the priests couldn''t have been accused of hypocrisy. ''Zoe married in secret,'' Loric revealed. ''She died peacefully, from what I''ve heard, and I regret not being there. Her wife and I still meet for holidays. They adopted a boy; likable enough, if a bit unimaginative.'' ''He became a tailor?'' ''He became a tailor. To my exasperation. And we aren''t even related, so I don''t know why Csaba feels the need to continue the tradition. Maybe he thought it skipped a generation, so he might as well do it? Anyhow...Bence...'' Loric bit his lower lip. ''They made it look like an accident.'' ''They?'' ''The people who killed them, and were flayed by me,'' he said, meeting her eyes. ''Do you really think Bence would have made their suicide look like an accident, as opposed to a statement? If they''d been inclined to end themselves, that is.'' She nodded gratefully. ''And Adalbert?'' Now, this felt truly suspicious. Had those choirboys up there truly kept her ignorant of everything? And if yes, why? Although...Loric knew some ghosts'' minds fell apart as often as their ectoplasmic bodies. Could this happen to spirits like Csilla''s, if this was even hers? He couldn''t believe he was kicking himself for not paying more attention to religion. Loric leaned back, crossing his left leg over his right as he hovered. ''I don''t consider him our son anymore, my star.'' ''Loric...'' she started at his tone. ''I''m sorry if I''m boring you with the questions, but this is the first time I''ve been able to really think since death, and I want to learn as much as I can, even if I won''t remember it.'' ''What is that supposed to mean?'' he asked sharply. ''Are they keeping your mind frozen up there?'' He supposed some fanatics would have been happy to have a moment of worship stretch into eternity, but surely his wife hadn''t changed enough to want that? But what if she''s not in Heaven? his true half whispered mutinously, and, for the first time since his undeath, Loric hated it. Quiet! She''s never been faithless or sinful. There is nowhere else she could be. She shook her head. ''It''s not...well, I suppose you could see it that way.'' She slumped, leaning backwards against her headstone. ''I was tired when I died. Wanted it all to end, but it didn''t. Not completely. So I wanted to rest. Laid down to sleep when I felt peaceful, and, well...'' she shrugged. ''I just woke up. Was woken up. You wouldn''t happen to know about that, would you?'' ''You don''t remember, either?'' he asked. He only remembered a sense of unity and belonging, of warmth and understanding, but...he had actually linked minds with every being in existence then, Csilla included. However, he didn''t remember the memories they had shared, only that it had happened. She shook her head. ''Perhaps it''s for the best?'' ''Yes...yes, you''re right, of course.'' It made sense. Mundane humans would have been left with broken minds from all they had seen, and, though Loric had welcomed the sensation, and wanted it to happen again, he didn''t want it to be given to him. He wanted to earn it, work towards it. Speaking of things he wanted... Loric resumed his recollection, revealing Adalbert''s entrance into the State Protection Authority, and the trial run he''d been sent on. ''But it wasn''t really a trial.'' Loric tapped one of his knees. ''Not in the way he thought. The Party didn''t want to test his loyalty, they already knew he was an opportunist. They wanted to get rid of an idiot who''d do more harm than good working for them, and, if he found a way to put down a strigoi who refused to dabble in politics along the way-maybe by charming or stealing some relic off a priest-all the better. ''Loric...'' He didn''t say anything. ''Loric, is he dead, too?'' ''By my hand,'' he said, then smiled humourlessly. ''I don''t know whether he''s languishing in Hell or the aether, but I could take a look. For you.'' Loric opened his arms when she walked towards him, then began rubbing her back as she wept softly. ''What did we do wrong...? He never saw cruelty. Neither of was like that.'' ''He never saw cruelty growing up,'' Loric corrected gently. ''But then he went to war, learned to love killing, I suppose. Power. It''s an acquired taste.'' Csilla scoffed. ''Are you speaking from experience?'' she asked in a trembling voice. Angry? She certainly didn''t feel scared. ''I am, indeed,'' he said as she pushed him away, breaking the hug, meeting his sad look with a disturbed one. ''You told me you killed yourself out of despair,'' Csilla said in an accusatory voice, as if he had lied to her. ''But you seem to be enjoying living like...like you do. So, what was the real reason? Boredom? Did you get tired of being human?'' She choked up a little, gulping. ''How could you...?'' ''Csilla, wait,'' he held up his hands. ''I told you the truth. I despaired, at our country becoming irrelevant. At being trapped in a meaningless life where advancement was impossible. I did not expect to return, but I do not regret it.'' ''Meaningless?'' she spat. ''So good to know you never cared about us, you ungrateful bastard.'' That hurt... ''Csilla, you misunderstand. I''ve always loved you all, as much as I could. Even Adalbert, before he turned his coat. But I''ve never had much love to share,'' he shrugged with a self-deprecating smile, hoping it was the right gesture. ''You know I''ve never been able to express much emotion as a human, even when I knew what fit the situation.'' She looked aside, quiet for endless seconds. When she spoke, she still didn''t look at him. ''When you first left me pregnant, you said you wanted children so they could bear your name. So that, in a way, you could be remembered. Live through them.'' ''That was true,'' he said softly. ''But I grew to love them, as much as I loved you. You were a memorable mother, so how could our children be otherwise?'' If she cared for the compliment, she didn''t show it. Still, some things just had to be stated. ''You said you never had a grasp on your emotions when you were human. But, from what you''ve told me, I think I''d have preferred you aloof, rather than so enamoured with horror.'' ''I could change myself,'' he said. ''I have the power of gods within me. I could make myself emotionless. Is that what you wish? Loric Szabo, the man, was not memorable at all. Do you want him to return? Such an uncaring creature, with my powers at his disposal?'' Her expression was an answer unto itself. ''Then, let us be glad it is not so, and that I find time for good deeds, even when I''m not aiming to be kind.'' ''Why are you so damned intent on being remembered, Loric? Isn''t raising a family not enough?'' He looked at her, dumbfounded. ''Csilla, I told you-'' ''You saw that town''s watchman being buried with almost no one present, yes. But you hated him! So many did! So why would it mark you so?'' she crossed her arms under a chest that was muscular rather than ample. ''No, it doesn''t make sense. Are you still lying to me? Even now that we''re both dead?'' ''I''ve never lied to you!'' he didn''t want to raise his voice, both because the graveyard was quiet, and because he didn''t want her to think he was angry at her. But why couldn''t she see things from...ah, dammit. He hadn''t always understood her point of view, either. ''I promise, and, if that isn''t enough, I''ll do anything you want to prove it.'' Csilla smiled. ''You told me that, once.'' ''I didn''t lie then, either.'' The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. ''But, for some reason, I''m far more reluctant to demand anything from the monster you''ve become than from the boy you once were.'' ''Do you really believe I''d refuse you?'' he asked. ''Do anything to you if I didn''t want to accept your request?'' ''No. I''m scared you''d do anything.'' She...ah, she was. He could feel it. Fear, horror, panic, anxiousness...all were crystal-clear to him, hanging around people like the gifts from the statues around him. ''Then, I''ll just promise you. I''ve always been honest to you, and, if I ever lied, it was out of ignorance.'' He leaned forward, hands on his knees. ''Why? You ask me why? You brought up Janos. Have you forgotten about him?'' ''What''s that supposed to mean?'' Loric half-turned around, gesturing with one hand. ''Can you point out his grave to me?'' ''Well...'' she looked at him strangely. ''No, of course not.'' Her voice lowered. ''They removed the headstone.'' ''Because no one was visiting. Because, by the time they did, no one even knew him anymore.'' He smiled. ''Right? But you saw the headstone when it was there.'' Before the weather had half worn it down into unrecognisability. ''So surely you should be able to...?'' ''...I don''t remember, Loric,'' she admitted, sounding uncomfortable. With his insistence on the subject? Or the fact she had forgotten? He hoped it was the latter. He''d never forgive himself for the former. ''Do you see?'' he spread his arms. ''Do you want that to happen to me? Do you understand what I want to avoid?'' ''But that doesn''t happen to all graves, Loric. Mine-'' ''Lovingly maintained by me.'' He took her hand into both of his, lips brushing against her knuckles. ''I am not bragging, or expecting anything in return. Your presence is enough.'' He looked up at his wife. ''But who will care about me a fraction as much as I care about you, should I die?'' Well, there were a few people, he thought to himself. He wasn''t exactly fond of the idea of them queuing up to alternatively spit and piss on his hypothetical grave, but all publicity was good publicity. He''d rather be hated than forgotten. Csilla drew her hand back, her transparent cheeks slightly brighter. ''I will, Loric,'' she said. ''If you want me to.'' ''Ha,'' he chuckled. ''As likely as not, some remnant of me will survive, clinging onto existence by the edge of its fangs. I can take care of myself. Don''t bother. I don''t need a gravekeeper. Just a mention in the history books.'' ''...what about our grandson? Or-does he have children of his own?'' Loric waved her off. ''Leave them be. When they even remember me, they''re unsettled.'' Csilla did not seem satisfied with that answer, but she didn''t continue that line of thought. Instead, she latched onto a new one. ''Did you know Heaven is outside of space and time, Loric?'' she asked, staring at the starless, cloudy night sky. ''Not that I ever cared, but yes. What of it?'' Heaven, like all divine realms and the gods themselves, could move from the four dimensions of space and time to the higher ones, reshaping like water being poured into a new vessel, or even reach the state of creation''s last boundary. In fact, many suspected that was their default state, something Loric was inclined to agree with. ''What of it?'' ''I saw the paths creation could take.'' Her breath hitched a little as she looked back at him, and his eyebrows rose, as he couldn''t feel any agitation from her. ''In many, everyone becomes able to remember everything, or simply look into the past.'' Ah, dammit, was she hoping to dissuade him? Why? Couldn''t she see that solution was far less permanent than she thought. Her next words confirmed it. ''You don''t have to do this!'' ''Better safe than sorry,'' he retorted. ''So many fated, guaranteed things can become undone in an instant, my dear...or have you forgotten how everything, despite all the prophecies, predictions and planning rested on one strigoi, not long ago?'' ''But your legacy is sure to last?'' she asked angrily. Loric didn''t answer, and, eventually, she broke eye contact, huffing. ''...I will make it so,'' he said, hands opening and closing. ''I will, Csilla. Of this, you can be sure.'' Damn him, he must have said something wrong. Otherwise, why would she start weeping again? ''You''re jealous, aren''t you?'' she fiercely wiped at her eyes, as if angry to be crying. ''Of him. That strigoi...'' ''David Silva,'' Loric breathed the name with equal parts admiration and distaste. ''He is a paradox. For a time, he was close to finally understanding the truth, seeing things as I do. But then he...'' who would go back to Yahweh after tiring of its games? Who would refuse having all of creation hanging on his every word? It was incomprehensible, and Loric silently vowed to help everyone who wanted to join him achieve that miraculous understanding, so he might comprehend his strange brother''s mind. ''He went back to his old ways. I won''t pretend to get him, don''t ask me why.'' Csilla sighed, face in her hands. ''Isn''t it enough that he chose to save everyone? That he helped unite us, for that timeless instant?'' ''Of course it is! I know you don''t really think I am ungrateful, despite your earlier words-don''t worry,'' he held up a hand at her worried expression. ''There is nothing to forgive. From a certain point of view, you are entirely right. I''ve never properly thanked you, never been able to. But, Csilla...'' he wouldn''t start crying himself. Not in front of her. He wouldn''t have forgiven himself if he''d been alone, but here? No matter what had changed, he was still her husband. He couldn''t appear weak. ''How the hell am I supposed to...'' Loric grit his fangs as he felt the monsters within him thrash and shriek, feeling a danger much greater than them combined. As if they were tempting him to turn his danger upon them. As if that would satisfy him. ''How am I supposed to surpass him...?'' Now she was the one supporting him, his body braced against her incorporeal form as if she was solid. His wife stumbled a bit before she found her footing. ''Loric...?'' ''David Silva,'' he said hoarsely, fighting the urge to dig his claws into something and squeeze. With only her in front of him, he clenched his fists until they bled unclear, multi-coloured ichor. ''What can I do that will make people remember me over him?'' What could he do when David had achieved unity, and gotten the attention and gratitude of the thing that called itself almighty? When it had knelt to him? ''Loric, listen to me-'' Csilla tried to cut in, but he only half-heard her. ''He''s done more than I can even think of, never mind do,'' he said, voice dangerously-annoyingly-close to sniffling. ''And he doesn''t even appreciate it. He doesn''t care,'' his fangs cracked as he growled. ''What''s the goddamn point?'' He stopped his brooding when he felt an ectoplasmic fist rap against his forehead, and looked to see his wife frowning grimly. ''There you go again, with that nonsense. So what if you''re forgotten completely? Isn''t it enough that, while you lived, you were known and happy?'' Her eyes softened. ''Wouldn''t you rather have peace, at some point? Do you really want strangers and descendants so distant you could never understand them calling your name forever, never leaving you rest?'' ''...I''ve never thought about it that way,'' he admitted. Ah, if only they''d had more time together! If only he''d managed to keep her alive, and at his side for longer! Even now, for all his power, she saw things he did not think of. ''But I''m not sure I want-'' He shut up when she chopped at the air, a tired look in her shining eyes. ''Tell me more about this Silva fellow. What''s he like? Why did he become a strigoi? What does he want?'' Does he share your ridiculous goals, or even more absurd ones? He could read between the lines. Rather than say anything, he reached into his jacket, into a pocket he willed into existence the moment his hand approached its location, and produced a book. Csilla took it from his hands, raising a thick eyebrow. ''Strigoi Soul? What''s this? Some manual about the psychology of people like you?'' ''It''s the tale of Silva''s life,'' Szabo said patiently. It was the one thing he''d learned reading the novel. With the amount of shade thrown at him, he''d had no other recourse. ''Don''t hurry. It has six "books", but they get longer with each. I can leave it here, if you want.'' Csilla nodded, eyes moving across the cover sporting Silva''s face before he''d joined ARC. ''Who''s "Strigoi Grey"? His biographer?'' ''His pseudonym,'' Loric chuckled. ''He said he''s had enough fame to last him an eternity. As if anyone who matters won''t know...he used to be a writer, but back then, he used his actual name. As I understand it, it''s a reference to how he can''t only do good things, but refuses to be evil.'' His little brother loved metaphors as much as he hated complexity. Csilla opened the book, eyes flashing as she flipped through it with ghostly speed. ''God, this man broods a lot...'' Loric nodded in agreement. ''It''s one of the reasons he thinks it''d do poor on the screen.'' Besides all the censored and classified activities that''d never make it into the show or movie. ''Any adaptation would need to either cut out the inner monologues, replace them with something else, or find a way to make them interesting.'' ''And people can just...read this? Isn''t he still an active ARC agent?'' Csilla asked, still reading. ''After everyone''s minds shared a moment? Yes, the sanitised version you hold has been deemed safe for public consumption. Most people don''t remember anything, the few who do don''t all know Silva, and those of them who do and want to cause trouble can be taken care of.'' Szabo tapped another jacket pocket. ''My colleagues and I have access to an expanded, or rather uncensored version, with some sections written by members of ARC, other supernatural defence agencies, and certain other...people of significance.'' His smile became crooked. ''Including one by me.'' ''I''m not sure I want to read the full book,'' Csilla said. ''Wise choice.'' Then, jokingly, he added, ''Most of them write in third person, and use rather boring language.'' Closing the the book, Csilla let it hover, before hugging him again and pressing a kiss to his lips, to his bafflement. Then, she brought her mouth close to his ear. ''You want a purpose? You feel aimless? Idiot. You don''t even realise how much talking to you has helped me...'' He hugged her back, wiping away her tears. ''I was just about to say that. I''ve always hoped you''d answer me. Sorry if I bothered you.'' On that note-not that he wanted to ruin the moment-, though...''Do you know anything about that?'' He tilted his head at the withered flowers, and laughed as Csilla froze, then shifted from foot to foot. ''You can just tell me they were ugly, you know; I won''t mind. Just tell me what to bring next time.'' ''I''m not scared....not worried abut you, Loric,'' she corrected herself. ''I''ve always known you wouldn''t hurt me, but now, I accept it.'' ''Then?'' he asked, glaring fiercely. Was someone desecrating her grave and intimidating her into staying quiet? Oh, Loric was glad he''d never been angry, as opposed to creative. He wasn''t sure what he would have done. ''There''s a...'' she stopped, looking around her. Loric grunted, then, with a thought, created a pocket universe. Separate from the mundane one, with its own flow of time, his mind warped it to grow. With another thought, it expanded, becoming infinite yet filled with matter, before the flow of time stopped. Csilla looked at the endless gallery of horrors around them, writhing timelessly, corporeal, immaterial and more, then at Loric''s grim, earnest face. He was ready to sic all of these on whatever had upset her, she realised, with no small amount of horror. ''There''s a strigoi, a new one,'' she said, still whispering, as if scared said undead might hear her, or harm her with him here! Absurd. This strigoi better be on par with Domna Economou. He wanted something that would last. ''Yes?'' he hissed, stretching out the s, before wincing apologetically as she jumped. ''He-Loric, please understand-'' ''Is there something to understand?'' he asked. ''Or are you just scared of what I''m willing to do for you?'' ''Yes!'' she snapped. ''She tells me every time he makes the rounds; she walks all the cemeteries, you see. She doesn''t remember her name, or life. She just knows she died as she lived: alone.'' Csilla pressed her hands together, brow thoughtfully. ''Surprisingly peaceful for a strigoi, from what I''ve seen. Very quiet.'' ''It''s a wonder she hasn''t joined the hermits in Siberia!'' Loric said acidly, not feeling charitable. ''Will you shut up?'' Csilla asked. ''Thank you. She mostly stays in her grave, in...your cemetery.'' She cleared her throat. ''Ahem. She''s never been visited by anyone, and is jealous of those of us who are.'' ''So she vandalises your graves?'' Loric asked. Draining flowers of life? Seriously? ''That''s petty if I''ve ever heard of it. And here I thought David didn''t make sense...'' Csilla scoffed. ''I swear you have a crush on that man.'' ''I don''t...never mind. So you want me to kill her?'' given by how she looked ready to facepalm, probably not. Better to ask, though. ''Or...?'' ''I''d like it if you didn''t have to kill anyone, Loric,'' she said. ''But I''d also like her to stop.'' Well, he could easily rewrite her mind with divine power, make her think it was her own idea. Or, he could be more creative than any two-bit monster with such powers would be (such as the Tremorph itself, which at least had made for a good source of new powers), and persuade her the old-fashioned way. ''I can do that,'' Loric promised his wife, before kissing her again as he ran a hand through her short, translucent hair. ''And I hope to meet again, if you wouldn''t mind.'' He smiled weakly. ''I''m sure the rest of the family would like meeting you.'' More than him, anyway, but that bar was underground. Csilla returned his smile hesitantly. ''Maybe we will. If what I''ve seen is true, you...'' she took a deep breath, then exhaled with a sigh. ''You''ve done good too, Loric. Please remember that.'' Please keep doing so. ''Anything you wish,'' he said as he erased the alternate reality with a third thought. ''Will this be all?'' Csilla rubbed one arm. ''Have you realised how similar you and Silva are?'' ''Well, of course,'' he grinned. ''We-'' ''If you say "are both strigoi", I''m not sure what I''ll do,'' Csilla said drily. ''Bloody jokes...no, I mean the fact he craved empty fame the way you still do.'' ''Empty!?'' he said, outraged. ''Yes! He didn''t think how his suicide would affect his friends, his father, like a certain other bonehead I know,'' she poked his exposed brain. ''But then he realised what truly mattered. Altruism. Love. He writes about wanting to build a family, and you...'' Dammit, he couldn''t stand the thought of his wife praising David! What, he was now not just less successful, but less mature, too? Fuck that. He''d rather go set that green-eyed bitch straight. Csilla groaned as she watched him go. ''Don''t do anything stupid!'' she called after him. ''I''ll try!'' he responded, making her shake her head once more But this time, she was smiling. *** The strigoi pushed her coffin''s lid open, the, becoming immaterial, passed through the soil. And stopped cold, watching something that only looked like a strigoi looking down at her, an infinity of monsters leering at her from behind his dark eyes. She gulped, feeling the cold burn of divinity in the air around him. ''Yes?'' ''They didn''t stop you,'' Loric said, bending the light to create images of the Paranormal Patrol and Hungary''s police and military. Too busy cleaning up and recovering after recent disasters to pay attention to something so minor. ''Might ARC do so...'' he reached into his flayed skin jacket, and she tensed, knowing it was futile. ''...with a recruitment offer?'' And, when he extended his hand, it was holding a black and white business card. Sidestory: Aftermath, Part 2 Madrid, Spain, 15th of January Clio Cortez did not stretch as she awoke; rather, she uncoiled. Being old enough her favourite position was no longer hell on her back, she preferred it. Then, she glanced to her right, saw that her husband was missing again, and huffed. He needed sleep as much as she did-not at all-, but unlike her, he could not fall asleep when relaxed enough, no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much she wanted him to have that ability. Diego''s mind was always working, and this restlessness did not manifest as tinkering with stuff around the house, or pacing, or, vices. Well. Barring the expected ones. But most human ones were out, made pointless or untenable by his vampirism. Clio scrunched up her nose, blowing a few strands of her long russet hair aside as she stretched. No. Her husband had been denied the peace of the grave, and, it seemed, any outside it, too. ''Must be in the workshop again...'' she muttered to herself, slithering out of bed. "The workshop" was less of a location, when it came to Diego, and more of a state of mind. Well, Clio thought as she pulled on one of her longer shirts (he preferred her naked, but what if someone felt like visiting and invited themselves? Her scales stopped where the tops of her thighs merged into her tail, and most of their friends were comfortable enough not to knock), that was not entirely true. Rather, it would''ve been more accurate to say there wasn''t a single location in their home designated as a workshop. Diego just started experimenting wherever and whenever inspiration struck him. But, no matter the location, it was always obvious what he was doing during the process, and, usually, sometimes after. Diego was honing his powers, while simultaneously testing whatever he was doing. He hadn''t told her yet. Not because he thought she was too stupid to understand, or didn''t deserve to. "I''m just worried for you, honey," he''d said with those sad red eyes, almost but not quite looking down to try and avoid hers. "I can take far more of a beating than you, and recover from worse, too." He''d lifted his head, smiling joylessly. "It''s the only thing I''ve ever been at. So, don''t worry-and please, please don''t try to come in? For your sake, and mine..." Diego had the uncanny ability to put himself down while being completely self-assured. She wondered if the doublethink came with the multitasking. Well. Maybe she''d just ask him. He''d told her not to try to come in his workshop, but she could just ask, and leave, depending on the answer. Though she was pretty damned curious about whatever her husband had cooked up this time. *** Diego''s eyes flickered sharply from one angle of the pocket universe to another; not looking for dangers, but rather, defects. Wait, what was he saying? Of course he was looking for danger. Every flaw was a threat, especially those in the plane of reality he had created. And, though he hadn''t made anything except a slice of existence cut off from mundane spacetime and maintained by his will, it didn''t mean something powerful or sneaky enough couldn''t sneak its way in. They''d find themselves in a world of plane. Only the majority of his attention was focused on the forging, but he hardly needed more to be on the lookout for dangers. Diego''s lips went from a thin line to a fond smile as he felt Clio knock on the door, as it was. She was only using a finger, and not that one, so she wasn''t mad at him. Slightly annoyed, maybe, and he did feel sorry for leaving her alone like this. Definitely curious, not that he could blame her. He was pretty curious himself. In fact, this was almost shy for the lamia. Or maybe she was just bored and didn''t want to waste too much time and energy on his nonsense? His wife probably didn''t expect him to fall asleep in a barrel of holy water, though she probably wouldn''t be surprised if it happened, either. Ah, hell. He''d put her off enough. He didn''t like it when she edged him, so he couldn''t ask Clio to stand the opposite. ''Enter, honey,'' he said, voice reverberating through the skin of shaped spacetime. A hole, two metres tall and nearly as wide, opened for a nanosecond, and, in the time it took light to cross a third of a metre, Clio entered his workshop, emerald scales not glittering, but still as beautiful as any angel. He both felt and heard her muscles relaxing as her shoulders lowered and her fists opened. ''It''s just a sword?'' ''Just a sword,'' he said, looking over his shoulder with a smile as he shrugged. ''You know me; I lost one, but I can''t let go of it.'' Clio snorted. ''Big boy.'' ''Why, thank you...'' ''That''s not what I meant, you child.'' Her eyes were wrinkled with amusement, though. And, while Diego might have been four hundred and forty to his wife''s sixteen hundred, most supernaturals stopped caring about such gaps before long, unless they were into age play. If someone would stay in their prime forever, what did the numbers matter? ''Even so, your honesty is appreciated.'' He turned with a twirl, bowing long enough that she only managed to snatch his broad-brimmed black hat, as opposed to his raven curls or ears (she sometimes jokingly complained about his hair being nicer than hers, though she''d been pretty surprised when they''d both agreed to it). ''Would you like me to tell you about it?'' ''Even if I didn''t,'' she put his hat on at a rakish angle, and Diego swooned, making her roll her eyes with a smile. He always said she looked like a pirate goddess when she did that. ''You''d tell me later, when you came out. Wouldn''t you?'' ''Well, if you insist...'' he bowed again, avoiding an attempt to tweak his nose as he stepped backwards, mouthing "Mercy! Mercy!". ''This is degenerate neutronium,'' he pointed at the colourless blade, which resembled the Throat of Thirst''s manifestation in shape, if not in nature. Its hilt measured a handspan, and featured a semicircular guard, and the one-edged blade was over a metre long, as wide as Diego''s palm. Though it was colourless, it seemed to catch the light that played across it, like a rainbow being contained in a lake. That was only the second thing that caught Clio''s attention, though. Might as well take them in the order she''d noticed. ''Degenerate neutronium?'' she asked in a considering voice. ''A special version for people like you?'' ''Us,'' he floated a little to reach her lips and kiss her. ''Now, let''s not be coy, dear.'' ''You''ve never asked that of me.'' ''Don''t expect it,'' Diego said. ''Yes. Its density is roughly a hundred trillion grams per cubic centimetre; roughly a dozen trillion times denser than steel.'' Crossing the metres between him and the floating sword faster than Clio could perceive, Diego came to a halt with a hand on his hip, the other cupping his chin as he looked down at the blade in consideration. With a hum, he wrapped a pinky around the hilt, then flicked it at his wife, at two hundred-seventy thousand kilometres per second. Clio caught the tip in her palm with a cross expression, which didn''t waver as she glowered at her husband, who looked like the most ragged and fascinated owl ever. ''Hmm...'' Diego peered at her. ''Flimsy, no?'' ''Yes,'' she said curtly, throwing it back at him even faster. As the tip crashed against the vampire''s eyes, the blade came apart, dealing no damage. ''Brittle, too,'' he noted, inspecting the remains before smiling up at his wife. ''I''m so glad you are gentler with the surrounding world than me, my dear.'' ''Unlike the moon, I can''t slap you apart.'' ''True,'' he agreed. ''It won''t do any go for the things I''d actually need a sword against.'' Clio looked unimpressed. ''Then you wasted this...?'' ''Nothing wasted, my dear,'' he promised, before reaching out and opening another pocket of reality. Clio''s eyes followed the warping effect expectantly, then with surprise, as a hand-sized tear in spacetime slowly spat out a shape far denser than its already immense size suggested: despite only measuring some ten kilometres in radius, it was nearly one and a half times as heavy as the sun. Clio raised an eyebrow as the previously room-sized workshop seemed to fit the neutron star without actually expanding. She didn''t focus on that for long, though, as gravity hundred of billions times stronger than Earth''s enveloped her, following by temperatures far higher than that of the sun''s surface; the neutron star''s surface reached nearly six hundred thousand degrees Celsius, and similar heat soon filled the space around them. The supernaturals were entirely unbothered, though Clio did feel a bit impressed at this degree of horseplay. ''You''re just doing this because you''ve no muscles to flex,'' she chided Diego, speaking through the aether. ''But you''ve made your point.'' Her expression softened into a smile. ''You could never do things like this before, love.'' ''I was never unarmed before,'' he replied. ''And after I lost the Throat, I couldn''t find time to breathe.'' Convinced the snort had been appreciative of his wordplay, he continued. ''But, if I want a weapon worthy of being enhanced and enchanted, I need to find something that will be good in a fight, even should said modifications fail.'' ''So, you found this?'' ''Made it.'' Diego smiled at her questioning look. ''You think I went to space and stashed this somewhere? Don''t be silly, Clio. You know I''m too laz-busy for that. No, it was an excuse to improve my will while doing something useful.'' ''You can make things from nothing now?'' she asked, before chuckling. ''Is this why you keep refusing to join my magic lessons? Because you have an alternative?'' ''Ah, don''t feel snubbed, my emerald. I just don''t want to bore you as I dodder about. To answer your question, no, not from nothing. You know vampires can dominate those who look into their eyes, but many go above and beyond that. Some become able to control those in their line of sight. Others...well, I''ve heard things. There''s this American who...'' trailing off again, he held out a hand, accepting the hat she handed off, pouting (which he utterly ignored, the barbarian). ''Anyway...I can shape the substance of things I can see, or maybe just visualise. I need to try more.'' He pointed at the star. ''What you are seeing is the result of me converting spacetime into matter.'' ''You remove reality from the universe by staring at it?'' ''Well, if you want so simplify it,'' he grumbled at her deadpan tone. ''Yes, and follow by replacing it with something else. Or, well, not replacing, per se. It''s still the same thing, just in a different form.'' ''Diego, that''s great!'' Clio said. ''You learned this by yourself? Didn''t ask another vampire?'' ''I didn''t, no,'' he said, sounding pleased. ''Sorry for slithering into rooms to see me acting out real life Escher paintings. But, I''ve evolved beyond just bending reality with my will.'' Clio nodded. ''Have you thought about taking commissions?'' ''I''ll make you anything you want, dear,'' the vampire said distractedly. ''Oh, you mean for money? I suppose I could take some, yes. Staying active is always good, and I suppose more money wouldn''t hurt. Wouldn''t want to become a wage slave.'' That is, he didn''t want to be left with no options in case ARC fell apart or ditched him; or if, for some reason or another, he decided to cut ties with the organisation. ''Of course not,'' she agreed, before nodding at the neutron star once. ''So, are you going to hew some more material from this one? Make a new sword?'' Some more...? Ah. ''Oh, I just created this, Clio. Just like the sword. I haven''t used it before. And, no, I''m not going to take from it.'' Fingers flexing, Diego thrust out both arms, punching through the thick surface of the star. And, though its incredibly concentrated mass spun tens of times per second, the vampire''s strength managed to stop it cold. Diego pulled his broken arms back, smiling as they healed, looking at the star, placidly floating over nothing. He continued speaking to his wife as if nothing had happened. ''No...I''m going to make a sword from the star. All of it.'' ''May I suggest making this one double-edged?'' ''Huh?'' Diego grunted, peering at her dimly. ''Whatever for?'' ''So you don''t go around swinging another oversized butter knife?'' she replied. ''Don''t you think it would be useful, being able to swing both ways?'' ''Some of my friends seem pretty happy that way,'' he agreed. ''Diego...'' ''Yes, very useful.'' He licked his fangs. ''Hmm...you may be right. My first sword got stolen, the second one was shattered before I could do anything with it. And they both had a single edge...yes, you just might be onto something.'' He nodded, beaming. What would he do without her? ''But before that,'' he took one of his wife''s hand in both of his, lips barely brushing the knuckles as he kissed it. ''I''m so sorry for running off and leaving you alone, my sweet. Can I begin trying to make up for it?'' ''Oh, come down off it,'' she pulled her hand back. ''I''m not mad at you, you clown. Just worried you''ll burn yourself out. Throwing yourself into work like this...'' ''Vampires can''t tire,'' he countered. ''Or burn themselves out.'' He smiled disarmingly before she could voice her annoyance at being taken literally. ''I know, love. But since the Black God''s cults got dismantled, things have been quiet.'' As quiet as they could get, in the world they lived in. ''This is useful, for both keeping me busy and preparing for future crises, but I won''t hide behind that excuse.'' Diego spread his arms. ''How about I treat you to...well. You''ve always said you''d like to make love somewhere exotic.'' Clio cocked a hip, smirking. ''Diego, the only thing unusual about this place is that it''s completely empty, your attempt to recreate outer space aside. I suppose it is unique, in a drab way...'' ''Oh, I agree.'' He tilted his head at the star. ''That''s why I wasn''t talking about it.'' Her smirk widened. ''On it, you ragged bat?'' He shrugged, mirroring her expression. ''If you want to start there...but I was thinking more about the core. Five hundred billion degrees Celsius, sixteen decillion pascals...nice and cozy.'' ''I don''t know...'' she rubbed her arm. ''You can take it. The core''s conditions, too. I believe in you.'' ''Fine.'' She slithered closer, slapping his shoulder. ''But you''re leading the way.'' ''But of course.'' He bowed again, wishing he''d put his opera cape over his shirt. ''Why should the lady of the house work when I''m here?'' Tearing open a tunnel large enough for them to move through wasn''t hard. And, once they reached the centre, Diego was quick to begin apologising. *** Jim Bat had his hands in his pockets as he walked the streets of Madrid. He''d have liked to take in the sights, more than what his senses noticed while he was distracted, or rather, utterly focused on his destination: a flower shop on the first floor of an apartment building, in the area frequented by the city''s undead. The vampire quarter, specifically, given the permanent, unnatural cloud cover. Jim let out a soft breath in amusement. It seemed that, no matter where you went in the world, his kind could never give up their (and wasn''t it appropriate?) creature comforts. Bending the world''s weather patterns just so they could always exercise al their powers... Well. He supposed it wasn''t that different from humans using tech. Or beavers building dams, at that. Jim wasn''t here in an official capacity; unlike the US military, FREAKSHOW didn''t have an official presence outside the States: too much bad blood, to many rivals, and worse. And even the armed forces weren''t welcomed everywhere, except as a token show of...international partnership. Jim let it go. He doubted flags and national identities would still be here in a hundred, a thousand years. If the aliens were any example (probably not, but he didn''t want to think about the pantheons), they''d go the way of the dodo. Good riddance. One could have wondered why he didn''t enter ARC, with such a mindset. One could have been forgiven for such thinking, but not by Jim, save, maybe, on his most charitable day. He was yet to have any charitable ones. ARC was...had started out as the brainchild of an international-not global-community riven by war and scarred by old stories that had become fact. It had been fashioned as a token show of unity, something to patrol disputed areas: international waters, the Poles, islands no one could decide what to do with. But it had grown. ARC had been founded by politicians who had wanted their own power bloc, without actually referring to it as such, or having it work by the usual rules. These early Directors had been backed by some of the most powerful beings in creation, who had vested interests in not allowing patriotism, nationalism or any similar ideas to prevent them from ordering the world as they saw fit. They did good work. Jim would''ve had to be stupid or lying, or biased at best, to say otherwise, and he''d aways considered himself a clever, honest, objective man, and modest too. They didn''t dabble into politics (overly much. Certainly less than FREAKSHOW, low as that bar was). The thing was, ARC had far exceeded its original boundaries. Enough members of the Global Gathering had been (probably, Jim only had suspicions, not proof) browbeaten, or at least indirectly intimidated enough to cave in to very polite requests, for things like bases in every country, to start with. ARC liked to say their presence had a balancing effect, that they represented an impartial force, unaligned with local power, wherever they set up shop. Jim knew that, if not for the overpowered bastards among them, they''d have been torn apart decades ago. As things were, though, no one wanted to start a war against the Heads and their strongest underlings, on the ground there wouldn''t have been anything left in the exceedingly unlikely scenario they were eliminated. And Jim wanted none of that. It reeked of realpolitik, which he tried to avoid as much as possible. He''d rather be seen as a narrow-minded flag-fondler than...whatever ARC was becoming these days. One of their agents had saved creation, just recently. Of course, he''d almost ended it, too, which was hat Jim''s pessimist side and superiors were focusing on, though even they couldn''t knock the warm feeling of unity they had felt in that unique moment. As such, Jim, on holiday and with nothing better to do, decided to walk the world a bit, clear his head; and what better way to do that than by talking with family? Hopefully, this Cortez was the type you could talk to, rather than at. He had his civilian ID and FREAKSHOW credentials, the latter hidden in a pocket reality that followed him everywhere, and which he had only opened when talking with border patrol. Sure, everyone in the Global Gathering could go anywhere with the right papers, in theory. In reality, supernaturals, particularly strong ones, were always held at arm''s length, for various reasons. Jim''s lip curled at the thought, revealing his fangs for a few nanoseconds. As he approached the flower shop, he remembered the latest discussion on the argument with Clara and the others. *** "Look," Breakout said patiently, sitting down. "I get it. Your ego''s bruised, or your patriotic sensibilities are offended, or whatever bullshit you wanna call it." Her eyes moved from Jim to Armament, who was sitting on the bed opposite to her, arms crossed in a huff, with amusement. "Kinda expected Hans to be the one bitchin'' and whinin'', though." "My complaints are entirely warranted," Jim replied icily. "Do you find no issue with literally everything almost ending because a single person got dealt a shit hand?" "DEATH''s Keepers always ruffle feathers when a replacement is needed," she waved him off easily. "It was just as bad the other times, though the hesitation didn''t always last as long, or for the same reasons. Calm your tits." A question almost came up before Jim pursed his lips. No, no point. Clearly, her power had fed her this info. Jim didn''t know whether it had done so recently, or if she''d always known and said nothing because she''d seen no need, but Clarisse was a woman of mystery, in some aspects. For one, they didn''t know where her power came from, or how it worked, only what it did and that it was unconnected to the Idea of Freedom. According to some of the eggheads, that Archetype was connected to a somewhat peculiar universe, infinite but filled with water. Its current activities were harmless enough, though, so they were willing to let it be. There was already a bizarrely large number of Archetypes connected to Earth and its inhabitants, in one way or another. Nobody knew why, nor did anyone want to test their luck by trying to force bonds. "Fine," Jim acceded. "We''ll shelve that, for now." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "But...no, I need to be sure of something before I ask. I know all of us remember sharing minds with everyone, but do any of you remember...I don''t know, details? Memories from lives you''ve never lived? Because I do, somewhat. Primus''." "Nope," Armament said, uncrossing his arms with a thoughtful look. "Nah," Randy, sitting next to Clara, answered, leaning backwards with his head against the bare, off-white wall. Jim still noticed his interest at the mention of the first vampire. He''d gotten used to the feigned nonchalance decades ago. Dust Devil, leaning with his back against the far wall, his eyes on the door and his hands on his revolvers, just shook his head. Clara sighed, taking off her balaclava. "Guys, mind going for a walk? James and I need to talk about something. It''s not the mind meld," she added before they could ask. Not that any of them were eager to bring that up again. Breakout only called him and Randy by their full names when she wanted to get their attention. Clara''s eyes never left Jim''s as the other three filed out of the room, Randy managing an obvious wink despite his shades. Breakout scoffed. "Mind if I sit next to you?" she asked after they were left alone, and he could only pat the bed next to him, bemused. Nodding gratefully, Clara was quickly at his side, dark brown eyes boring into his red ones. Jim felt ill at ease despite himself. He knew they were colleagues, if not friends, and, occasionally, lovers. Even besides that, Breakout abhorred needless violence, to the pained disbelief of her many former enemies, few of whom agreed to her definition. Surely she wouldn''t hurt him? He didn''t think she would. So, why was he so damn worried? "I know what''s eating at you," she began, for which he was grateful. "But the mission didn''t even fail. The Russians got their wonder kid witch back, and the complications weren''t even your fault." Complications. What a word. Very polite. Clinical. Unlike Clara. Jim thought he''d have preferred some crude mockery. It would''ve felt normal, at least. Tch. What was the world coming to when he was wishing for normalcy? "I won''t bullshit you and say I should''ve foreseen them." He looked aside. "I couldn''t have. But..." his grabbed his knees, tightening his grip, feeling bones crack under his own strength. "I''m just worried about the future, you know?" Breakout nodded wordlessly, encouraging him to go on. "Everyone everywhere, everywhen, knows a single ARC agent, a grunt at that, saved all of creation when he could''ve ended it." He gave her a sidelong glance, laughing nervously. "They''ll think, how did we, or everyone else, let things come to this? Or maybe they''ll think, if ARC can handle anything, what''s the damn point of other agencies? Might as well take a world map, scrub out the borders-" "Please," Clara sneered. "Now you''re just panicking. ARC has had its moments, we''ve had ours. You know I like to step back sometimes, make sure the world doesn''t become dependent on me, but do you really think I''d have stayed aside if I felt Silva was about to give up?" She smiled, though it didn''t reach her eyes. "You''re worried about countries disappearing? If it happens, it''ll happen. We''re not politicians, James. We''re here to make sure people don''t get trampled by the latest crazy running to grab power." He didn''t say anything, and Clara put a hand on his shoulder. "Would that be so bad?" she asked softly. "You saw what we can achieve, when everyone''s working together. Isn''t that what you want?'' "That, too," Jim said gloomily. "When the Mover was asleep, we had the excuse of suffering being the result of random dreams. Now it''s awake..." "C''mon, Jim. People have been having crises of faith over God''s nature since they first stared at the sky. We''ll cross that bridge when we get to it." She looked surprised, and not in a pleasant way. "I thought you''d like this. My power thinks the Mover wants to make everyone into something like it. Well," she chuckled. "More like guide us to reach that point. Self-determination, and all that." "...I''m not sure I...I''m not sure what I want anymore," he admitted. "I used to look down on mundanes, past them. But..." "Seeing things from the other side opens your eyes, huh?" she asked. Jim nodded. Look at him, needing a literal goddamn miracle to have some perspective. Clara''s smile became smaller, but more genuine. "You''re a good guy, James. If you care to look past the elitist jackass on the surface, like I do. You''ve never tricked me into thinking you hate them, ya know." He turned to look at her, eyes wide. "Tricked-?" "I know the vamp you think you are wouldn''t have spent his days before the Shattering feeding on animals and dyin'' folks, and the one after fighting for ''em." She punched his arm. "You can talk all you want, but, if you were even half the bastard you pretend to be, you''d be kidnappin'' supernaturals to breed stronger ones, not runnin'' around to save kids." She rolled her eyes. "If you really thought mundanes were only good as entertainment and raw resources, you sure as hell wouldn''t be so quick to put your ass on the line for them. I know you don''t give a fuck about the pay." She patted his hand, speaking in a fake condescending voice. "''S''alright. I''ve seen dumber tough guy acts." If she was annoyed at his lack of reply, she didn''t show it. "James Patrick Bates, I''m going to start noticing you if you keep ignoring me." God, but she sounded just like his Ma, Hell keep the old bitch. Whenever he was addressed by his full name, he felt like he was a child again. Jim preferred not to mention it if he could, because people had a tendency to ask why he never mentioned he was Irish. As if his Pa being born there meant anything. Some humans kept closer tabs on their lineages than his kindred, he swore.... For a while, Jim just stared at the floor, licking his lips. When he spoke, his voice was flat, dry. "I did hate them. I still do." Clara looked at him sharply. "Who?" "You''ve read my file." As he''d read hers. His parents hadn''t been happy their son had survived the Civil War, just terrified the bloodsucking monster who''d returned home looked like him. His Ma had told him he should''ve stayed dead twice, both before and after his Pa had tried to set him on fire and beat him to death with a cross. Clara''s lips became a thin line. "I''ll sound like a bitch sayin'' this," she raised her hands, speaking softly. "But you never talk about...it''s been nearly two hundred years. I thought you didn''t care anyone. Sorry for assuming." "It''s alright," he said, wondering if he was trying to reassure her or himself, then if he had been to quick to reply. "They''re dead." Breakout lowered her hands, eyes on him. "If you say so." Then, her smile returned as she elbowed him. "C''mon, do it." "What?" "Smile, you glum fuck. The world''s more peaceful than it''s been since the Shattering. Natural psychics are being born-in a few generations, they, or the mages, or fuck knows, will form the majority of the population." And when everyone was paranormal, no one would be. "God''s awake, or something like it. Most people can''t tell the difference, but I know it''s looking out for us. It''s got an interest in that. Doubt it''ll leave us hang out to dry, so cheer the hell up." Jim tried, but his face was hardly made for smiling...no, scratch that. It wasn''t made for anything but scowling. He''d grown the beard in the hopes it''d make him look friendlier. Brad Stacker, Director of FREAKSHOW, had told him much the same thing, but mostly because he wanted him out of his buzzcut hair. Stacker had ordered him to keep an eye on trouble, and the other on his morale. The Director was usually disdainful of "globalism" or anything like it, believing the world had forgotten how America had bailed so many people out of trouble after the Shattering had realigned the balance of power, but even he had been moved by recent events. Jim took a deep breath, dead lungs flexing, then let it whistle out through his fangs. "I''ll try. Got any ideas?" *** ''Thank you for having me,'' Jim said, gingerly cradling his mug. Diego had offered him both human and vampire blood-his own-and Jim had decided to mix them. The mud-like taste of the undead vitae managed to dull the strong burn human blood made him feel, but only barely. Jim suspected vampires had been created to dislike feeding on each other, though he was damned if he could tell what purpose that served. Diego nodded. ''Always interesting to see family,'' he said guardedly, and Jim was pretty sure he meant interesting in the Chinese proverb sense. The way the older vampire-Jim might''ve technically been his great uncle by virtue of who''d turned him, but Diego was over twice his age-showed his fangs in a humourless grin settled it. ''But, and forgive me for being rude...'' he bit his lip. ''Mmm, actually don''t bother. I''m not sorry.'' His eyes, as crimson as Jim''s, transfixed him. ''Since we can''t talk about work, I don''t know you and I don''t like you yet-which I doubt will change-I''d like to ask while you''re here, and remind you I can put something blessed and very sharp through your skull faster than you can think.'' Diego took a deep gulp of his own blood, looking like the awful stuff didn''t even faze him. Maybe it didn''t. Maybe he drank it all the time, for all Jim knew. ''I saw Primus recently,'' Jim said bluntly. ''Didn''t get to speak to him, but he''s not on Earth anymore. I''d have felt his return.'' Diego raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, so Jim continued. ''But, when everyone joined minds...I don''t know. Maybe mine is close to his, since he turned me, but...'' Jim smiled, despite himself. ''He felt so happy, you know. I don''t think he''s ever felt happy before. And he liked it, the closeness. He...''You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. As Jim described his sire''s vision of the world, something he realised he no longer supported completely, he also let slip some details of his own goals. Diego listened, saying nothing, but grunting in what sounded like surprise in certain moments. ''Whatever shape the world takes, I''ll defend it.'' He hefted a sword Jim knew was heavier than the solar system, for all that it barely displaced the air in the room. It looked like a piece of glass, or maybe clear steel, with a rainbow inside it, though that was just the light moving. ''You still haven''t gotten to the point.'' ''Right.'' Jim eyed the sword. He''d ask after. It might just be...''Primus might finally be willing to stop hiding as a thuggish hermit, if he returns. We might be able to turn him to our side, or at least make sure he''s not against it.'' ''We?'' Diego asked, amused. ''Vampires like us.'' Jim gestured at the two of them, then the walls of the kitchen. ''FREAKSHOW. ARC. The world. Just have to make sure he doesn''t become an enemy, and I think I might have the right idea.'' ''That being?'' ''Bribery.'' Jim matched Diego''s unimpressed smirk. ''I''m willing to liaise between Primus and people looking to be turned, because, let''s face it, he''d turn even the most eager volunteer into a vampire-hater.'' Primus had always been able to understand force was not a substitute for charm, but he refused to accept it, especially when he could just rape minds with a look. ''The vampiric society he dreams of can be built, though it''ll be smaller than he hoped.'' And tamer. Oh, well. No one could have everything. Primus was already stronger than most gods, complaining about not having his way would just be childish. Which might be enough to make him calm down if pointed out, unless it made him fly into a rage. Jim gave it a one to ten chance. ''He hopes to have his descendants act as warriors and builders, rulers in their own right, so...'' Jim glanced at the sword. ''You did that yourself, didn''t you? I can''t sense any trace of foreign power.'' ''So what if I did?'' Diego ran a finger across the blade''s edge after setting it on his lap. ''You did it through domination, didn''t you?'' Jim pointed at his eyes. ''I can imbue things with my will, make them move or fly, but I can''t shape them.'' Different branches of the same tree, probably. Who knew all the forms domination could take, or make, as it were? Probably not even Primus. He told Diego as much, who seemed unsurprised by the idea. ''And the mass-you''re keeping it from generating its own gravity field because you don''t want it to have one, aren''t you?'' ''It''s selective,'' Diego said. ''It still is as heavy as its original form to me, and to what I strike, should I deem it necessary.'' You never knew how much oomph you needed, and he liked to keep testing his strength. Scientifically speaking, wielding the sword like he did was impossible: he struggled to bench press it, never mind swing it slower than light, but faster than that? No problem. It just felt like an extremely heavy sword. And, being supernatural, he didn''t need infinite energy to surpass lightspeed. ''Impressive,'' Jim admitted. Other vampires might be able to impose laws on what they saw, or even apply domination in different ways. Continuing to learn was all they could do. ''Thank you.'' Jim got the impression Diego wasn''t feeling flattered, which was fairly bizarre. He was being entirely honest, and all intel about Spain''s senior Crypt agent painted him as gregarious and welcoming. ''I''ll need some more time to think about that.'' Jim got the message. Before he stood up, he almost slapped his knees and went "Welp!", but decided that would be too much. Diego led him out of the kitchen, then the shop, the building. His lamia wife had been polite but cold when greeting Jim and bringing her husband the blood bottles, then she''d gone back up front, saying she wanted to be there in case a customer appeared. Jim rather doubted that''d happen on a sleepy winter Sunday, but he didn''t say anything. Really, being let in was enough. He was a stranger, even if Cortez knew about him from ARC''s intel on significant national agents. After Jim walked down the steps, he felt an impulse to just speed away to the border and try to forget the awkwardness, but pushed it down. Instead, he turned, adjusting his blue shirt''s collar, to see Diego leaning against the doorframe, looking at him with curiosity. Not that the distance made any difference. Despite being a head taller than Diego, Jim had felt like the shorter vampire had towered, loomed over him all through their discussion. But he wouldn''t leave now. It would have been too much like leaving things unfinished. ''Did I offend you somehow?'' he asked Diego. ''I would''ve scheduled a visit, but I didn''t exactly have the means to contact you.'' Diego looked aside briefly. ''It''s not you...I mean, you just came here. But my wife and I were busy.'' ''The shop was as empty as it is now.'' Jim made a show of looking through the front door''s window. Diego sniggered quietly. ''Don''t play dumb.'' He pushed himself away from the door, flexing his hands. ''A while ago, Clio nearly lost me. She''s still getting over it, so I''m trying to be with her as much as possible. And failing, if you ask me, but I''ll try to do better.'' Ah. ''I-'' ''It''s all right. You couldn''t have known.'' Diego didn''t look at him. ''Good talk. I hope you''ve achieved whatever you came here to do.'' Was he that obvious? Dammit. And Cortez''s heart clearly wasn''t in it. He''d hoped the possibility of fending Primus off, making sure he was no longer lurking in the shadows, always at risk of erupting into a disaster, would be enough. But it seemed not. Maybe the older vamp was confident in ARC''s ability to handle him, or maybe he just didn''t care. So, Jim aimed at his selfishness, and hoped he hadn''t misread Cortez. ''Promises are good,'' he said. ''But I''ll feel safer knowing you are on board with the idea.'' Or at least not opposed to it. ''Would you like to talk things over again? Whenever you have time. Say, at your sire''s.'' *** Primus glared steadily at the Sleeper from across the table. Once, it had been an universe, dwarfing his own like it dwarfed a quark, populated by beings of cosmic proportions. They''d been strong and fast, but dull. The two monsters had destroyed them all by clashing at the centre of their humongous reality, and they would''ve continued their fight, if not for... Strigoi hadn''t been a thing during Primus'' youth, but then, not all supernaturals had. They were undead, like his childlings, and fed on the warms, also like his spawn. But while vampires drank blood, these undead seemed to consume lifeforce. Nephews and nieces, Primus supposed. Also created as godly punishment, though far less efficient than his breed. They were unable to reproduce by themselves, for example, and inherently violent and solitary, even more so than vampires. Primus was sure they could be outcompeted. But a particular strigoi-this, at least, Primus remembered, as clearly as he screams of his daughter as he''d killed her-had managed the impossible, and made everyone work together, briefly. Showed them the source of everything and preserved them, and when said source awakened, creation went on. Incredible, truly. Primus couldn''t remember the last time he''d been this impressed, or at all. The Sleeper had voiced similar thoughts. Actually, it had been that very event that had caused a lull in their fighting, then prompted the eldritch creature to propose a truce, which Primus had agreed to. The Sleeper had grabbed the immense universe and moulded it into a round, hyperdense table, scarcely a couple metres long and half as wide. Then, it had set it down in the aether, and started talking. It was surprisingly articulate. Primus preferred to analyse his enemies, but it wasn''t his fault the Sleeper had just shrieked like an angry, idiotic child for the entirely of the battle. It had even assumed its original shape, though it was only human-sized at the moment, and, as a show of courtesy, if not trust, Primus had returned the favour. ''Could you get to the point?'' he asked it. ''If I cannot kill you, or trap you, and you no longer wish to battle, I would return to Earth.'' Interesting order. Do you so despise my conversation? Primus wanted to say yes, but it was probably smart enough to read him. ''All you''ve been doing is thank your god for the miracle it provided.'' Which had been quite strange to watch. Weaker gods did not pray to stronger members of their pantheons, at least as far as Primus knew, and the Sleeper had worshippers of its own, not least of all its own spawn. Maybe the thing didn''t see itself as a god? Was it...modest? Or just stupid? No, what was he thinking? As if they were opposites... Because it is indeed worthy of praise. The Sleeper spread its arms and wings, as if to encompass the blue-green expanse of the aether. The cycle, the endless, meaningless, unremembered destruction? It is over. The Lord Of All has achieved a new realm of mastery, of understanding. More like the bare minimum of maturity, if Primus was one to judge. Being part of an almighty infant''s dream would''ve daunted most, but Primus knew it was pointless to worry about things you couldn''t change. ''Has it? You make it sound like it was all its own doing.'' Primus crossed his short, muscular legs. ''But I seem to remember an undead doing it. With help, to be sure, but your god definitely didn''t start anything.'' Wait...''Although, didn''t you say you worship the All In One? You just mentioned a different-'' Nothing is different from the Almighty. The Sleeper puts its slime-coated, clawed hands together. Nor separate. The All In One is Its waking aspect, its mind, but not a different being. Not that there has ever been such a thing. Primus wasn''t about to get into a cosmological debate with an insane alien. It''d just beat him with experience. ''As you say.'' Indeed. The artistry of the Lord''s plan can clearly be observed in the fact one of Its worshippers was the one to awaken It. Primus laughed. ''You can say they''re one and the same, that everything is, but the thing that strigoi worships is definitely different from the one you do.'' Is it? All-powerful. All-knowing. Present everywhere, and everywhen. Ordering creation according to its own purposes. Primus sniffed, remembering all the times a priest had come close to truly, permanently injuring him. ''Many things appear so. But it preaches a set of values, even if it so often goes against them, or does nothing to those who do. Does yours?'' The Sleeper said nothing, just stared at him with those unblinking, yellow-on-orange eyes. Maybe it hadn''t understood the question? ''The strigoi''s god claims there is god and evil, which spring from it.'' Ah. The most subjective things in creation besides its very nature. ''How about this, then: the beings who pray to it can wound those like me, while you can''t. What do you make of that?'' More study is necessary. The Sleeper seemed thoughtful, if not curious. I know nearly everything, but some mysteries are harder to unravel the more they are observed. That, Primus had to concede. Let the Sleeper go to its god like a beggar, grovelling in order to learn more about existence. He would not stop it. With a little luck, it''d die, or whatever its kind did when their existence ended, and he''d lose a rival for his dominance of everything. Except, as Primus thought about that, he found his desire had been...not erased, but...shaken. Changed? He had certainly experience something momentous, but he still felt like himself. The All In One values knowledge, and those who can brave the trials needed to reach it are rewarded freely. Journey aside, the Sleeper said, unprompted, maybe thinking out loud. Yes. I must begin the voyage at once. ''Wait.'' Primus raised a hand, sitting up. ''What are you going to do?'' I will undertake- ''Yes, I understood that. But why?'' The Sleeper returned to its original size, looking as quizzical as it could. Why do you care, or think you are entitled to know? By now convinced it was too stubborn for him to beat answers out of it, Primus appeared to its newfound verbosity. ''I care because, once I return to Earth, I do not want to deal with you or any of your lackeys. You are distracting.'' You can have it. The beardlike tentacles on the Sleeper''s face swayed serenely, so it probably wasn''t offended. Never, in a centillion millennia, have I known such a troublesome world. I know I cannot achieve anything worthy of note there. The earthlings'' lack of vision is surpassed only by their power. It looked into the distance, into the aether''s infinite depths, pondering. If you are interested in my short term plans, I will rebuild my city. Spawn again. Gather followers, or make them. The fact it was revealing such details meant it didn''t expect Primus to attempt or succeed in stopping its plans, not that he wanted to. Competition was helpful, when it was far from home and pointed away from him. Of course, he had already guessed the broad outline of its aims: rebuilding its power base, even if most of it would be inconsequential in comparison to itself. Still, he had to ask. ''You are not going to spread madness again?'' The Sleeper''s very existence could warp planets the size of Earth into nonsensical nightmares, and shatter billions of minds, reforging them into gibbering servitude. I do not "spread" "madness". The Sleeper''s voice was too placid to be waspish, but Primus could still tell it was obsessive when it came to certain details. I return creation to its true state. You should all be thanking me. Right after he asked for a cross through the brain. ''Be that as it may. You are not going to change your surroundings, then? R''lyeh''s dust is gone,'' he pointed out. I will not rebuild R''lyeh, nor raise something like it. It was an outpost before it became a prison, not a true city. To answer you, not any more than necessary. Reassuring...hmm. ''Your starspawn, they are connected to you, yes?'' As your children are to you. That was not an answer. ''But you know their thoughts?'' I know the thoughts of all creation. You are meaning to ask if I direct them, control them? No more than any parent. I do not dictate their every action and thought, if that is what you are wondering. They spent their imprisonment by themselves. Primus grinned, glad to finally have something over it. ''Then are you not forgetting something?'' It lowered its head, and Primus was reminded of sailors listening to the faraway ocean. Was it communicating with its deity? The worshipper of the Lord Of All''s Earthly incarnation. I shall thank him, of course. And his adjutants. They have opened the door to apotheosis. We just have to walk through. Its tentacles briefly parted, revealing something closer to a singularity than a mouth, sucker or similar orifice. Funny. He''d always expected it to have a beak. It seemed the squid imagery was only skin-deep. As for his mate...without her to inspire him, creation would''ve ended. We would''ve never achieved unity. She, too, must be thanked. Its wings folded across its back. That is why you asked. Because one of my spawn attempted to force itself on her. Had it succeeded, it would''ve broken her body, and mated with her until her mind followed. Then, her resistance gone, it would''ve moulded her into something like it, and taken her as her mate. Primus was not unsettled by the Sleeper''s indifferent manner. He''d seen worse. ''And we would''ve all lost,'' he said smugly. Correct. ''Well,'' Primus traced the edge of the table. ''You can start with that.'' That starspawn has already been obliterated, slowly. Its recreation, while trivial, would earn ire, due to the reminder, rather than favour. And there were only so many ways you could torture a Cthulhi..sadly. Nevertheless, they will want an apology on my part. Being unable to provide a sincere one-if one cannot defend themselves, they can complain all they want about their circumstances; they will not change-and knowing an insincere one will similarly anger them, I will instead offer an explanation. ''That your spawn shared your mindset? DEATH''s Keeper is as likely to end you with a thought as not. Your opinion has been noted. If there is nothing else, I will depart. ''You''re awfully calm for someone who didn''t say a word as we tore up the multiverse,'' Primus mused. And you are speaking full sentences. Why use ten words when one worked? ''You know that, if you attempt what you did on Earth on other worlds, you will be crushed, driven back. Other aliens and powers prowl the starts. The Lord Of All desires to see all of Its creations elevated to its level. That is the ultimate freedom my kind and I crave. Opposing Its plans would be nonsensical. Primus rather doubted it was just going to sit by and watch, but it had just brought up the other Great Old Ones. Selfish as they appeared to humans, that was likely a good sign to drop the subject. ''Then, I will not attempt to hinder you, either,'' he promised, thumping a fist against his chest, over his heart. Now, all they missed was something to seal the deal, such as it were. The words of beings like them carried enough power and weight, but Primus sought something that would bear his personal touch. ''You can travel whenever. I will hunt now. Will you join me?'' I need no sustenance. ''I hardly need any, either,'' Primus replied. ''But sport does the mind good.'' Yes...I can go whenever. ''It is settled, then.'' Primus brought his fist down on the condensed universe, obliterating the volume of spacetime and its contents with the ease of a tank shell going through a soap bubble. Then, the two set off into the aether. Many great beasts populated the realm of raw mana. Aether swimmers, with eyes so large universes were invisible next to them, and far larger bodies that unmade timelines with a touch. Oceanycs, who dwarfed the swimmers like humans dwarfed the creatures that grew inside raindrops. There were even immense masses, like thinking seas, the size of the multiverse''s fourth layer, with its infinite realities and the aethereal barriers between them combined. There were many, many of them. The aether was joined with the multiverse on every level, after all. The first two categories of beings were easy to dispatch: both the First Vampire and the Sleeper were powerful enough the merest graze or glancing blow was enough to destroy them. For the third, however, it took quite a bit of blood drinking and enhancement before the immense living oceans could be reduced to endless steam. *** Hastur barely appeared to move: the empty hood inclined only by a fraction of a yoctometre, not that there was anything around to observe it. The only things that were present wanted to know no more, as could be deduced from the shadow that lengthened over the false earth as they thought. ''My king,'' one of its humans said in a diffident voice, on all fours, forehead scraping against the ground. All traces of appearance and individuality had been scraped clean from its body and immaterial extensions; the fate it had tried to avoid, alongside the Unspeakable. Ironic. They never seemed to realise running from fate made it so much more likely to end up facing it. Not guaranteed, what with the impossible happening recently, as linears recounted events, but still. Then, this one had also thought meeting it and being disfigured would be intricately linked. Its surprise had been as palpable as it had been amusing. No one eluded the King In Yellow. For reanimation was not to be taken lightly, and all necromancers worshipped at its altar, no matter their methods, tools or creed. One could not ask for its aid, then run away when it was time to repay the debt. ''Your half-brother...it-'' Green, spiked tendrils rose from where Hastur''s yellow robe met the soil that wasn''t, swaying in the nonexistent wind. Before the once-human could finish, it had already directed its sight at...hmm. Cthulhu was strangely withdrawn for a preacher, but Hastur supposed it only came with the occupation. Certainly ancestor worship had never appealed to it, which was just one of the reasons they had never been close, inasmuch as the likes of them could be. But now, Cthulhu was not hiding its light under a bushel anymore. If anything, it was, in modern human terms, flashing and blaring as it went, as if not caring whose attention it drew. Or maybe hoping for it. Its converts tended to be impressed by shows of strength. Yes, Hastur decided as it watched the twin suns descend over the sickly yellow horizon into Lake Hali, making Carcosa''s light all the harsher as its surroundings were swallowed by gloom. Things have changed. For example, one of its greatest children had come home. Not destroyed, no longer sleeping, but returned to its cradle, and that of an adept dearly departed, for all he had never known of the King, much less recognised it. *** Vhoorl, Twenty-Third Nebula The two monsters'' hunt eventually wound down, and they found themselves at the supposed birthplace of the Sleeper. Hidden from prying eyes by a crimson haze and a string of green light that swallowed sight, they sat down to speak once more. ''I believe we will rise soon,'' Primus said, referring to himself and his childlings. ''The Earth''s keepers of orders are assigned their duties in accordance to the nature of a crime, but the mundane and paranormal are becoming ever closer.'' The thought almost made him giddy. Maybe the sheep would finally see the worth of his kind. ''Leading by example could help immensely.'' With a different example. Primus refrained from scowling hideously, only partly because the Sleeper was right. It knew how people worked, even if it understood them about as well as Primus. He wasn''t sure whether that should have concerned him, or flattered it. ''Quite,'' he agreed grudgingly, swearing to open their eyes one day. ''But I will not be alone. I have like-minded kindred, and one does not need to agree with another to work alongside them.'' His chest swelled with something between pride and satisfaction. ''My first son is coming home.'' You killed your first generation of spawn; those you didn''t lead to their deaths. ''I meant the first among my sons,'' Primus snapped. Jericho had always been too soft for his own good, else how could he have ended up trapped by people weaker but more ruthless than him? At least that nun of his had freed him. Provided he brought her and the hellhound along when they got tired of righting wrongs across creation, maybe she could make him listen to Primus enough to see reason. Maybe even lend some weight to his words during negotiations with his more paranoid children. Provided they didn''t see Jericho as cowardly or uncaring for not staying home. Primus had his own thoughts on the matter, but he wouldn''t share them, unless necessary. The Sleeper conceded the point, and the two parted ways, for now. And everyone-adorers and enemies, the Shoggoths crawling in the dark places under land and sea, the scattered remnants of the Elder Things, the Mi-Go with their minds drifting across the streams of time-sat up and noticed, as Dread Cthulhu no longer hid, nor slept. It lived, in fact. Despite the stars were no more, much less right or wrong. They shuddered at the thought, in terror and ecstasy. The Great Old Ones were supposed to be unable to live when the stars were wrong. Many hoped Cthulhu was the only one who could still sleep and live, despite their destruction. Others prayed he was only the first, and that the Great Old Ones, walking creation serene and undimensioned, would return to lead those born of matter into revelry and murder, and teach them new ways to do both. *** Adam held up the travelling guide, then looked from it to the trackless expanse of snow. Of course, nothing that could be showed on a map was there. The North Pole''s population lived in underground habitats, out of habit rather than necessity, and the paranormal ruins and artifacts scattered across the Pole could not exactly be depicted as landmarks. Not that he needed a map. His senses could accurately spot every unnatural thing around him, no matter how far in time or space, along with their proximity to him, and even a glimpse of their nature. He hadn''t bought the guide for the maps. Just for the pictures. He...had wanted an idea, before seeing the places with his own eyes. His return to Earth had been surprisingly calm, all things considered. He''d expected a mob, or maybe constables or soldiers, entire armies, hunting him down for his murders, for who and what he was. But, no. His early unlife was a thing of centuries past. Something for the history books. Oh, Adam had no doubt someone would, sooner or later, try to drag him to an extensive psychological examination, if not a prison cell or an execution site, but he''d meet them as they came. So far, though, he''d only had to prove he could function in society and offer some details about himself, for the record: physical characteristics, his version of past events, opinions, goals. And so on. To prove he wasn''t malicious because even he couldn''t trick people into thinking he wasn''t dangerous. And so, he''d travelled. Across the Rhine, to Castle Frankenstein (no relation, though he had hoped to find some, between the old, long gone alchemist and his own creator) in the Odenwald, overlooking Darmstadt. To Ingolstadt, and the University. To Geneva, darkly thinking about how criminals always returned to the scene of the crime. To Perth. To Orkney, what should have been the birthplace of his mate. Or maybe it was better he was alone. Then, to Ireland, and from there, to the North Pole. He fancied he could see the spot where Walton''s ship had been trapped in pack ice, even without looking into the past. He remembered mourning over his father''s body, twisted by cold and grief. Adam sighed, dead lungs pumping out a misty breath. He needed closure, even if he couldn''t make amends, or he''d never have peace. And if he never accepted himself, he''d destroy himself, or the world. Never mind achieving anything worthwhile in it. ''Victor,'' he began softly, voice thundering in the chilly air despite the roaring blizzard. ''Come to me, father. We must talk.'' The ghost manifested slowly, tentatively. It wasn''t just the hesitation to see him, Adam knew: it was Victor''s first time manifesting after death. He didn''t look like when he had died, stooped and deathly thin, ribs visible, skin wrinkled and thinned by stress and guilt at what he had brought into the world. Rather, he looked like when Adam had first seen him in the old laboratory, like he had throughout most of his adult life. A plain-faced man, save for the aquiline nose, tall but sparse, with shoulder-length hair parted across the middle and shrewd, darting eyes. He still wore the lab coat and thick, rugged boots and gloves, though he had pushed the thick googles-his own creation-past his forehead. Adam appreciated the gesture, though he could''ve seen Victor''s eyes anyway. The scientist had the white-blue, semi-transparent appearance typical to ghosts. To his credit, Victor didn''t appear overwhelmed by fear, or anything else. At the sight of Adam, his face began a resigned mask, giving away nothing except a bone-deep weariness. The undead understood: even death hadn''t brought him peace. Or maybe it had, and he''d interrupted it. He had a history of failing while trying to help, when it came to people. But he''d be damned if he failed this time. But then, whispered a gleeful voice in the back of his head, I''ve always been damned, haven''t I? Adam briefly wondered if it had been his imagination (dangerous, for a reality warper), or if some spark of intelligence had remained in the brain that had been used for his creation, dormant all these centuries. It probably wasn''t his conscience. It wasn''t usually this loud. ''Adam,'' Victor replied. ''Hello, son.'' And there were so many more words, buried under the inflections of the last one. Monster. Creature. Creation. Masterpiece. Disaster. Tool. Nightmare. ''Thank you for coming,'' Adam said, patting down his clothes: a grey dress suit, the shirt, tie and shoes also grey. Tall and pale as he was, he looked like a parody of something else, like a scarecrow. He''d pulled his long, oily dark hair into a ponytail, leaving the bangs to cover the stitching across his forehead. The dress suit covered the rest. Victor didn''t miss this, thought he didn''t comment, either. At least, not about Adam obscuring himself. ''Wait,'' the ghost''s brow furrowed as he tried to gather his thoughts. His arcane sense had glimpsed something through the fabric. ''You...did I stitch you together? I don''t remember...'' ''You can''t,'' Adam said, as kindly as he could. ''History has become legend, and it has been muddled enough the facts change to fit the story, rather than the other way around.'' He shrugged, great shoulders moving imperceptibly. ''People think you sewed or wired or chained me together, so you did.'' An ironic smile touched the corner of his mouth. ''They also believe I''m a blundering idiot with bolts in his neck, but I''ve taken steps against that.'' ''But the stitches...?'' ''Leave them. A fine enough reminder of the beginning.'' Victor nodded. ''What did you want to talk about?'' ''I am sorry, Victor.'' Adam did his best to stand still as he faced his creator, fighting the impulse to turn away, or rip him to ectoplasmic shreds. ''For Henry Clerval. For William. For Elizabeth.'' He felt a low growl build up in his throat-anger? Regret?-, but sighed instead. ''For Justine and Alphonse, too.'' ''You...y-you didn''t kill my father,'' Victor said, seeming baffled by the apology''s sincerity more than the act itself. Before his death, he had known the Creature to possess a low cunning, and a merciless mind. A lie, he''d have expected. A trick. To bring him back and torment him beyond the grave, maybe. But this... ''I might as well have. He couldn''t bear the consequences of my deeds, and neither could you-or I.'' Adam fashioned two chairs from the ice and snow, sitting down. Victor opted to stand. ''I fled at the end, you know. Drifted away. Tried to escape, and hide, maybe.'' He stared into his maker''s eyes. ''I cried for you. When you died, I nearly tore myself apart, but, in the end, I was too cowardly even for that.'' Victor stared at his boots, gulping. ''I didn''t know,'' he confessed. ''I didn''t see...after I died,'' he took off his googles, cleaning them with a spectral sleeve. Nervousness, and nothing more. ''After I died, I went to this place...well, it was closer to a void, I suppose. Though not empty. Full of...substance. What gave you life, maybe.'' ''No.'' Adam almost chuckled at the thought of being animated by mana. ''Trust me.'' ''And there...well, I truly do not think time flowed. It felt like it didn''t pass at all, except when I expected it to...I don''t know what year it is, truly. Have we entered the nineteenth century yet?'' ''Yes,'' Adam answered. ''Two hundred years ago. Do not worry. You haven''t lost much.'' Victor staggered, trying to laugh at the weak joke, and failing. Adam felt a vindictive joy at once again throwing the man off, then silently berated himself. He was supposed to be better. ''Twenty-first, then...'' Victor bit his lip. ''Of course...with how absorbed I was...it matters not. The world has clearly gone on without me.'' He laughed sardonically. ''It seems I wasn''t that important, in the end.'' ''Robert followed your advice,'' Adam tried to cheer him up. ''He wrote about it-you, us-to his sister. I''ve seen the letters.'' He reached out, to take his father''s hand, but the scientist flinched back, to his unsurprised dismay. ''You have a museum, Victor...they''re still trying to figure out what you did.'' Beyond chemistry, beyond galvanism, Frankenstein had breathed unlife into dead flesh. Adam was, in a way, glad that pettier, crueller people hadn''t managed to imitate his father. And that he left no notes. But Victor wasn''t listening to the praise. ''Robert...? Oh, y-yes. Captain Walton...goodness, I hoped his writings were appreciated while he lived. Or that he at least pushed the boundaries of knowledge in this...'' he glared around him with disdain. ''Wasteland. He seemed like a kind man. Very open-minded.'' ''He found peace in tranquility,'' Adam promised. ''And disdained ambition. Like you taught me. He didn''t pursue me, when he could have. Just recorded our sordid tale for posterity.'' And cautionary advice. Adam knew playing God was a phrase most often associated with Victor, but he didn''t think infamy would improve the scientist''s mood. Instead, he tried to bridge the gap. ''So, how was the afterlife? Where did you end up?'' ''Oh, not that b-bad.'' Victor scratched his head, looking distracted rather than disappointed. ''It was peaceful, quiet. I learned to shape that strange substance into...constructs. Not thinking ones.'' He looked aside, face darkening. ''I knew better. Though, there was a fairly dreadful occurrence a while ago. Something too vast or awful to glimpse rampaged through the lands of the dead, tearing down their halls and gardens, destroying them. I only felt an aimless, confused rage, and a yearning for something I couldn''t perceive, hidden as I was in my sanctuary.'' ''And then, there was the moment of communion,'' Adam prodded. Victor''s eyes widened, and for an instant, he seemed almost alive. ''God, yes...a miracle. Far greater than anything I could achieve. And to think one man...we saw God, Adam. We could all become G-Gods...'' Adam stood up and moved to support his father as he stumbled across the snow. ''I want to leave my mark on history, too,'' Adam told the ghost as he leaned against him. He was taller than his father by nearly a metre, and broad to match, and Victor''s body seemed to flicker at his touch. ''Constructs created nowadays are usually unthinking, and the ones who aren''t are treated as people...most of the time.'' The rage was coming back. It was like an old friend, who had never really left. ''And the ones who aren''t...'' Adam revealed his plan, though it was closer to a goal and list of things he believed would be useful in achieving it, rather than an actual strategy. Still, making up things as he went had never been hard for him. ''I believe you don''t yet know what form you want this organisation to take,'' Victor said after the explanation, though he was nowhere near as reproachful or chiding as Adam had expected. ''And I know that I can''t form it into anything if it doesn''t exist,'' the undead retorted. ''I am going on a...recruitment spree, I suppose. As soon as I leave.'' Victor nodded in understanding. ''Yes, of course...we''ve all moved on...well, not all of us.'' He reached into his coat, but Adam raised a hand to stop him. ''You can give me whatever you think I need,'' the undead promised. ''But first...well, I did say we haven''t spent enough time together.'' Not like they should have, at any rate. Not giving that thought voice, Adam opened his hand, brought what he wanted into existence, and carefully tried not to think of it as piracy. ''Lord...'' Victor said, taking one of the boxes as a television appeared behind him. ''We inspired so many...?'' ''Films,'' Adam said, seeing his father floundering for words. ''I am given to understand most are bad, even allowing for historical inaccuracy, but I think it will be good to see how we are remembered.'' Vicotr raised his eyes. ''You haven''t...seen them?'' ''Not yet.'' *** Caleb Peretz, known to the smallest (yet most important to him) part of the world as Tamar Thousandhands-not that many knew they were one and the same-passed many golems as he returned home. Not the German town where he had been born. He knew for a fact it had been razed to the ground. But to Jerusalem. He passed the giants of old stone, magic and faithcraft at the borders and strongholds, the newer creations built of metamaterials that roamed the wilderness and city roofs, and the smaller, subtler creations used in households. Most golems were still built for defence. But other uses had been found. Spying, for example. Being Head of an ARC division, and Goetia at at that, Caleb was deeply familiar with intelligence gathering and removal. His wife also made a point of sending some of her golems (she made so many, she could hardly wait for buyers, sometimes) to him, wherever he might be found, to pass on what she considered valuable information. Between this, and how deeply Caleb despised surprises, he was unaccustomed to being shocked. As such, when he entered his house and saw Sarah having tea with something he''d last seen in a Hammer movie, his mood, which had been swinging since Silva''s near-omnicide, firmly settled on foul. If the thing had even thought about harming a hair on her- ''Cal, come the hell here,'' Sarah said, and he quickly shapeshifted the uniform away, alongside his mutilated appearance. Although, knowing his wife...oh God, he hoped it hadn''t made Sarah threaten anything, she didn''t believe in backing down, and they had too many thinking weapons in the house for his comfort. Sarah Peretz was a short, squat woman who''d recently passed her first century, on a basis of faithcraft, mana and sheer spite. Her shoulder-length white hair and wrinkled face were the only signs of age, however. There were no liver spots, and her hands, far from shaky, were as sure and strong as her grey eyes. She glanced at him once, took in the gold-rimmed, round glasses he often insisted on wearing in his civilian life (he believed an unflattering comparison with Gerald Reyes was forthcoming, thought he wasn''t sure who''d be the target this time), scoffed, then looked back at their uninvited, unexpected guest. ''He,'' Sarah nodded at Frankenstein''s Monster, not looking at Caleb as he pulled his own chair. ''Says something about...'' she put a calloused hand on her husband''s shoulder as he sat down next to her, between the golem-maker and the Creature. ''Y''know those creeps who are always asking me to build them golems with intelligence, but not free will?'' She frowned angrily. ''I keep sending the cops after ''em and saying I make stuff and people, not abominations, but it don''t work. Still, there are folks who see nothing wrong with making things like that, and...'' ''I believe they could be rehabilitated after being removed from the ownership of their abusers,'' the Creature continued smoothly. ''Reforged, as it were.'' Why do you care? How''d you learn about her, and why''d you come here? ''Would you mind telling me what''s going on?'' Caleb asked Sarah instead. She grinned, a glint in her eye, and he felt his demons laugh in anticipation, the bastards. ''Adam here read about me online, and believes I could be helpful in spotting such cases-for a fee, of course.'' She elbowed her husband. ''You can check his history. I think it''ll look better on a reread.'' ''You are Tamar Thousandhands, right?'' it asked him, and he whirled to look at it sharply, but it sounded merely curious, as opposed to gloating or terrified, like most who found out. ''You are aware Tamar is a female name, yes?'' ''You are aware male agents often use female names, yes?'' he asked mockingly. ''I thought the meaning suited me. What I am not aware of is why you feel entitled to enter my home when my wife is alone, given your predilection for murder when things don''t go your way.'' Its amusement disappeared like dust on the wind. ''Mrs Peretz allowed me to en-'' ''Should I repeat myself?'' *** Adam smiled tiredly as he returned to the North Pole. All in all, it hadn''t been a failed endeavour. Peretz had gruffly promised to think about his offer, and her unsettlingly powerful husband hadn''t done anything rash. And, of course, he had reconciled with his creator. Now, all that remained was to lay the foundations, and the physical one would be trivial. So, as he raised his future headquarters, he allowed himself to drift into his recent memories. *** ''Would you act differently, knowing what you know now?'' Victor asked, stepping out of the pocket reality. Adam had created a bubble of frozen time where the movies could nevertheless be watched, and his father had been amused, to varying degrees, by the different depictions of himself, wishing he''d had that much insane confidence as much as he dreaded it. An Igor would''ve been nice, too. ''Yes,'' Adam answered. ''I wouldn''t have revealed myself to them,'' the family of that blind man he''d gathered firewood for, who''d been frightened by his appearance and had proceeded to chase him away. ''And I would''ve remained to try and explain.'' To the father of the child he had saved from drowning, who''d shot him in the belief he had endangered his daughter. ''And, even if things had played out the same, I wouldn''t have gotten mad at humanity.'' At times, he had hated the species almost as much as the notion. Other times, when he had sought to purge himself of perceived weakness, it had been the other way around. Victor seemed pleased by this answer, if surprised. Adam didn''t ask what he had expected. He didn''t want to get angry, or be disappointed, at this point, however briefly. ''Then, I shall entrust to you,'' Victor reached into his coat again. ''My knowledge. Hnng...'' The scientist shook and swayed on his feet, as if he was digging into his ghostly flesh. Adam made a move to stop him, then froze in his tracks at the pleading look in his father''s eyes. ''Do you know...ahh...why you were named Adam?'' He frowned, in mixed concern and mild irritation at such a question. ''A reference, obviously...'' ''And a prophecy, too. Or...an expectation, if you want to be less...dramatic,'' Victor gasped, falling to his knees, then onto his side, before curling up. He didn''t stop shaking. He raised his head, looking at the lights in the sky even as those in his eyes faded. Perhaps he could see a light Adam couldn''t. Must''ve been the tears... ''I wanted...to make a species of beings like you! No longer would the dead stay underground, rotting away quietly. People needn''t be lost! Death needn''t be the end...and you...you, my son, my Adam...you were supposed to be the first...'' Adam knelt next to his father, laying a hand on his head. Despite everything, the ghost''s skin felt feverish. ''We...w-we could''ve lived together, living and dead, learning from each other, but...I...I was too s-scared, when I saw you move...'' Bloody tears began streaming from unseeing eyes. ''I couldn''t do it again, if God told me...dear Lord, I couldn''t...'' he seized Adam''s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, squeezing as if afraid to let go. Adam ran his other hand through Victor''s hair. ''You...you''ve grown so much,'' the ghost smiled, and it reached his empty eyes, too. ''You''ve seen and done things I can''t even imagine...you don''t even l-look the same! I remember when you were smaller, and y-yellow...'' A raking cough seized the ghost. ''I know...it''ll be safer in your hands. Your mind. Use it, or forget it, but don''t let others take it! Don''t let it be seized by...the unworthy...'' And then, Victor Frankenstein was gone, and Adam''s hands held a book, old and battered for all it had never existed. He took one look at the cover, and let out a sobbing laugh, tears running down his face. And, for once, they were not colder than death. "The modern Prometheus: taking death from God, to be moulded by Man." And, under the title, a picture of him and his father holding hands as they pushed open immense doors leading into endless light. Behind them, every being that had ever lived on Earth, animal and human. That Victor had known of. Adam had seen enough things, strange even for him, that he would gladly fill in the gaps. Adam opened the book, one hand raised to catch his tears. "My son, if you are reading this, it means I am no longer with you, and indeed, cannot be. I am sorry I never made you an Eve. Everyone craves love, and I never had any to give you. Nor, it seems, did the world. But the path is here, Adam. The doors are here. You must only seek the keys, and the courage to open them. I have glimpsed the secrets hidden in the blood of Man, the Gods we were meant to become, in the beginning, before we tainted ourselves. You must..." Sidestory: Aftermath, Part 3 DEATH Keep The new workplace wasn''t a dump, but it ?was begging to be turned into one. The Keep hovered on the edge of creation, in the Outer Void, and-I will endeavour to describe things in a manner that makes sense to humans-consisted almost entirely of identical, bare grey rooms. All empty. All endless. The ceiling of the room I was in seemed infi itely distant, and, if I were still capable of such things, I''d have almost certainly gotten dizzy looking at it. There was no darkness in the Keep, no shadows, and no source of light. I liked to think DEATH tried to distance itself from the greater whole that was the Darkness. I understood being embarrassed about your origin. How very...human. As Keeper, all of my selves, on every level of creation, were syncrhonised. Due to this, turning most of my attention to my self here felt less like travelling, and more like stopping staring at a single detail in the mirror, and instead looking at the whole. My sight pulled back, zooming out. Past the multiverse, with its infinite layers of infinite realities. Past the aether that ran through and dwarfed it, several times over. Past the Dreamlands, where dimensioned reality was like a shadow with no substance, which any of the Dreamers could''ve snuffed out with the effort it took humans to breathe. And, finally, past the Voids. If the Dreamlands were a dimensionless extension of reality into the beyond, the first Void around it, past the First Gate, was like an endless abyss, caught in an eternal sunset. This was the first of what I''d dubbed the Twilight Voids, due to their, so to speak, appearance. The first of these vacua transcended the Dreamlands like they transcended the waking worlds, like the second surpassed it. And so on, and so forth. Until the obstacles a traveller may find became substantial, and they had to pass through an endless multiplicity of Gates and Ebony Voids, each immeasurably greater than the previous. If one were to brave this journey, and pass through the Ultimate Gate and into the Outer, Ultimate Void without losing their sanity, they could turn back, and look at creation in its entirely. Most people willing to try this would''ve probably been pretty mad at how I treated the Ultimate Gate like a revolving door, but it wasn''t ?my fault it was so flimsy. The Keep rested somewhere on the brink of the Outer Void, like a house built on the edge of a cliff. It was not a home, though. It was a place for DEATH and its Keeper to rest, and contemplate, and discuss, but it was a stronghold. Something between a show of force and a status symbol. "I am here. I am important enough to come here, and powerful enough to remain." It was to the Outer Void what DEATH was to most people, really. And today, from a linear perspective, was the day I would be properly instated as (hopefully the last) Keeper of DEATH. I sat on an insultingly uncomfortable chair-the softest thing in the room, by elimination-and felt the floor behind me shift and swell, becoming a flight of stairs, at the top of which, on a raised platform, was a throne. It was what you''d have expected from someone who''d build a place like this. Jet-black, with a row of skulls across the headrest and two more forming the armrests. Except it wasn''t occupied by some edgy dark lord...no, wait, DEATH ?was sitting down. I stood up from my throne-a smaller, grey, unadorned copy of the one above me; subtle-, turned around, and sighed. ''Who are you doing this for?'' I asked, gesturing at it. ''Seriously. I know what you can do, and you know I''m not impressed by shit like this.'' HAVE YOU EVER WONDERED, KEEPER MINE, WHETHER PEOPLE MIGHT DO THINGS LIKE THIS BECAUSE THEY ENJOY THEM? I rolled my eyes. It wasn''t screaming, exactly, but its dying rattle of a voice was somehow soft as leather sliding over bone and loud as thunder, at the same time. It had changed since we''d joined. Back then, it had sounded like a normal person, which might have explained why it had appeared unsure. Now...I had a feeling I knew what its words would''ve looked like transcribed, and wasn''t surprised. It shared some of pops'' interests, after all, though I wasn''t sure who''d influenced who. ''What do you want?'' WHAT I WANT IS NOT SOMETHING THAT CAN BE GIVEN, RECEIVED AND PRESERVED. It held up a hand before itself, and I watched as its appearance changed. With DEATH being what it was, it appeared most often as the closest thing to a neutral embodiment of its concept as possible: the Grim Reaper. But even that varied. Sometimes, it was just a cowled robe, empty save for darkness, hollow sleeves clutched around its scythe. Most often, it looked like a skeleton, or rather parts of one. And, rarely, it looked like an emaciated corpse, deathly pale skin, in some places as white as maggots, in others ashen grey, spotted by rotten yellow and dark red splotches. Its hands, though rotten and ending in broken claws, gripped the scythe as firmly as its will was directed towards the destruction of its enemies. There was always a scythe, but it varied in appearance, too. Most often, it was black, with a steel blade, sometimes shining and spotless, other times rusty and pitted. Or it was made of brown, twisted wood, or something that resembled white metal and bine, but was neither. It had one head, or two; a handle, or a dozen, or none at all. The scythe was a sceptre as much as a weapon. In most cases, the implication was enough. People dying of fear was convenient, when you were there to end or take them away anyway. DEATH stood up slowly, like a great burden was trying to crush it, though if you asked me, it was just being lazy so it could look dramatic. It loomed over me, towering no matter how I tried to look at it, tall as forever was long. Like the ceiling, and the room, and the Keep. It used its scythe like a walking stick, and creation shook with every step. I knew it could rip the Outer Void apart with a wave of its hand, save for the other Archetypes and the things beyond, for all that it was changeless and unchangeable. When DEATH came face to face with me, it was like looking into a mirror, at first. Then the false flesh fell away, leaving only a grinning skull barely covered in parchment-thin skin, and a few wisps of colourless hair barely hanging onto its scalp. YOU ASK WHAT I WANT, KEEPER MINE? I WANT WHAT I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED, WHAT I''LL ALWAYS CRAVE. I WANT THE CYCLE OF LIFE AND DEATH PRESERVED. ''You''re yet to explain what that entails,'' I pointed out, making it nod agreeably. THE FACT IT NEEDS TO BE EXPLAINED IS...SADDENING, TRULY. Its empty sockets made a rolling sound as they moved slightly in its face. DO NOT FEEL INSULTED, KEEPER. ?YOU UNDERSTAND, ELSE YOU WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN CHOSEN AND PREPARED. ''Groomed,'' I corrected, only slightly bitter compared to the hatred I''d felt before...before... THAT IS WHAT I MEANT, YES. ''Grooming is the term used for manipulating people in order to shape them into what you want them to be. Usually when a weaker person is abused by a stronger one.'' It held up a bony hand. I SHALL FINISH DETAILING WHAT I WANT. THEN, YOU SHALL LAY DOWN YOUR GRIEVANCES. Well, at least we had the work dynamic already set. Nice. I WANT MORTALS TO STAY DEAD WHEN THEY PERISH. NO MORE SOULS BEING BOUND INTO VESSELS AGAIN, WHEN THE SPIRIT USED TO BE FAITHLESS. It lowered a finger. I WANT TO BEAR THOSE WHO DIE UNCLAIMED INTO THE AETHER, WHERE THEY CAN ENJOY OR LANGUISH IN A GODLESS AFTERLIFE. Two. I WANT THOSE WHO EXPLOIT AND PERVERT THE LIVING AND THE DEAD AND THE GRAND CIRCLE THAT BINDS THEM DESTROYED. THOSE WHO SEEK TO SHACKLE OR DESTROY ME, OR THOSE WHO MUST REMAIN UNBOUND AND DEATHLESS. Three. I WANT TO BE KEPT. I WANT-NEED-YOU TO ASSIST ME IN THE AFOREMENTIONED TASKS, TO LIGHT MY PATH WHEN I AM GOING ASTRAY. Four...is death. Was that guilt, or was I just trying to put a face and voice to a force of nature? WHEN I LAST LOST MY WAY, THE DREAMER COULD NOT BEAR IT, AND CREATION WAS NEARLY DESTROYED. AS IT HAS HAPPENED BEFORE...I HAVE NOT THANKED YOU, KEEPER. It spread its arms, the scythe''s blade gleaming. BESIDES THE POWER I HAVE GRANTED YOU, ANYTHING YOU WANT IS YOURS. ''Anything,'' I deadpanned. ''I had ?everything for a time, and I didn''t want it.'' I couldn''t stand the idea of people going crazy with fear at the thought of what I might do, after my eyes were opened, and the red haze disappeared. DEATH bowed its head. I AM SORRY IF MY HUMBLE SERVICES ARE NOT TO YOUR LIKENESS, MY KEEPER. ''I''m surprised you don''t cut people with just that tongue,'' I retorted, then looked straight into its sockets. ''There is only one thing I want from you. Life from death. My children...'' ONE COULD SEE THAT AS TOO PIVOTAL A CHANGE OF UNDEATH. WERE THE DREAMER STILL ASLEEP, EVERYTHING WOULD LIKELY FALL APART. ''But it''s not,'' I said. ''I don''t understand everything it sends me, but creation no longer risks being ended by its nightmares. And I doubt it will just stand by and allow it to be destroyed, from within or without, no matter how much it wants us to improve ourselves.'' DEATH agreed silently, so I decided I might as well do it. ''Sit down. I want to talk.'' ALWAYS. ANYTHING. After we took our seats, I reshaped the room so we were at eye level. I no longer had Mimir''s eyes, but the blessing the Mover had granted me functioned as a substitute, and more. Creation being stabler now-and technically always, depending on your relationship to time-, changes that would have never been allowed to happen did. For example, the decisions my alternate Keeper self had performed no longer being necessary to preserve the Dream in the long run. And God, I was glad for that. The Keeper who''d become one with me had been a bitter man, carrying on because there was no alternative. The Mover had never awakened for his creation, and the cycle of sleep and waking had never been broken. Chernobog had never given him Mimir''s power out of spite. Instead, he''d taken it for himself, and the pantheons had broken themselves against the unholy abomination born from that union, before finally dragging it down. In a nearly godless creation, with all divine beings inimical or inscrutable, he and DEATH had taken on most souls, hoping nothing would come that would disrupt the Dream. Pitiful... ''You killed Andrei,'' I began. ''You put the knife in his murderer''s hands.'' I leaned forward, fingers steepled in a deceptively calm pose. ''And I know why, so I won''t ask. You''ll say you wanted to destroy Misha anyway, so if they killed each other and Andrei''s soul came to the aether, good. But they didn''t.'' YOUR POINT? My lips pulled back from my fangs. ''Are you sorry? Truly sorry? Do you even care? If you do...I want an apology.'' While DEATH and I were linked (to arcane sight, a black chain binding my left arm to its right would have extended between us), we didn''t literally know and feel everything the other did. We could have, but I didn''t want it in my head. If I knew its state of being and could tap into its power, and vice-versa, we were both willing to leave it at that. YOU TALK AS IF YOUR GRANDFATHER DESTROYED YOUR FATHER''S SOUL. HE MERELY KILLED HIM. ANDREI DRAVICH''S SPIRIT BEARS NONE OF THE INJURIES OF HIS DISCARDED MORTAL COIL. I palmed my face, trying not to growl as I rubbed my eyes. ''Alright...first off, Andrei is not my father. Constantin Silva is. But he''s still a friend, and I hate you for what you did to him-and to all those other souls you wiped out!'' I snarled the last part, standing over it with my hands balled into fists. DEATH didn''t even flinch. AS I HAVE TOLD YOU, I CANNOT PROPERLY MANAGE MY CHARGES WITHOUT A KEEPER. There was no sign of frustration in its tone or posture, but I could have felt it even without our bond. I AM NEITHER OMNIPOTENT NOR OMNISCIENT. THE DREAMER FORCED ME INTO THIS ROLE WHEN IT BROUGHT FORTH CREATION. IT MUST HAVE FOUND IT APPROPRIATE FOR THE EMBODIMENT OF ENDINGS TO TAKE THE SOULS UNCLAIMED BY ANY GOD. I looked down at it as it unflinchingly met my glare, then scoffed, sitting back down. In a way, it was right. But, just because it was a victim, it didn''t mean it could torment those weaker than it, those it was supposed to protect. It didn''t mean it was moved by their vulnerability, any more than the Mover had been by its. ''That''s never going to happen again,'' I said, knowing that, in the time loop necessary for me to end up here, Andrei had to die, in order to push me along the path. I''d only been able to change small things, be there for Alex, make fewer, and I almost spat at the thought, necessary choices. But some of them still had to happen. The Mover didn''t seem like it was about to lift a finger on this note. ''You brush it off so easily, like death is meaningless because the spirit survives! That''s like saying you can maim someone if you want, unless you cripple them permanently.'' I smirked. ''And I bet that, if someone was killed in a way you disapproved of, you''d send me after the responsible, or go yourself.'' MY BELIEF IN WHAT IS PROPER AND IMPROPER IS NOT SET IN STONE, MY KE- ''Call me David, dammit. Or Silva. I don''t need to hear that title from you, of all people.'' IT CAN CHANGE, DAVID. I CAN CHANGE. LET US CHART THE PROPER COURSE OF LIFE AND DEATH. TOGETHER. I looked around, idly noting how much like a desperate lover it sounded-when we weren''t even in a working relationship yet, gosh-and decided to capitalise on its eagerness to please. ''You really want a Keeper, don''t you?'' I WANT A KEEPER. I NEED YOU, DAVID. I nodded carefully. ''Creation is no longer in danger if you are...alone.'' LEAVE ME, AND I WILL DESTROY UNCLAIMED SOULS AGAIN, RANDOMLY, AND WHENEVER A NEW ONE JOINS. I didn''t hit it. I didn''t even glare at it. From anyone else, it might''ve sounded like a threat, but I knew that it was just stating facts. It wasn''t even a promise, merely a description of what it would do in its natural state. Because it had never been meant to be a psychopomp, or a guardian of the dead. It needed a different perspective, to balance it, and, as much as I hated it, it had to be me. Partly because it didn''t want anyone else as its Keeper, partly because, and I knew how selfishly paranoid it was, I didn''t trust anyone else to deal with it, have access to its power. The moment I found a suitable candidate, I''d leave it behind, but until then, I''d Keep it. Tch. I didn''t have a problem, of course. I could quit whenever I wanted. What I didn''t want was innocents being torn apart in its mindless rampages, or, though I doubted it would ever admit it, to sate its spite at the duty it had been forced to perform. I briefly thought about asking the Mover to change that, and had to bite my tongue not to laugh. ''There''s still time before Andrei''s funeral, in the linear world,'' I said. ''You owe me. I want you to do something for me; several things, rather. Don''t worry, it''s nothing you wouldn''t have done by yourself. But I want you to let me choose how it goes down.'' DEATH''s skull seemed stuck in a permanent grin. Even so, I could feel its amusement. * * * Misha let out a delicious whimper of pain as he rolled across the pitted floor. Looking at the empty chamber, you''d have thought we were in the Keep. In truth, we were in the aether, in what was about to become my grandfather''s personal hell. DEATH used to handle punishments by itself in-between losing its last Keeper, however that had happened, and bonding with me. I didn''t know if it was also pushed to do that, or if it hurt people of its own volition (and, if that was the case, why. Humanlike cruelty? Curiosity? Boredom? They ran closer together than one might have thought, when it came to inflicting suffering). I''d convinced it I understood hurting others better than it, though. From experience. ''Hell-o, gramps~'' I sang, bouncing on the balls of my feet with a smile, hands behind my back. ''Happy to see me again? I know it hasn''t been long, but I like to thing we''ve forged an unbreakable bond, you and I.'' Misha struggled to all fours, fell down, and gingerly turned so he could sit on the floor. He was wearing a prison outfit, tattered from the last journey he''d ever take, and was glaring like me, despite his eyeless, mangled face. Luckily, I had experience with those, too. On both ends. ''Hasn''t been...?'' he wheezed, brow wrinkling in confusion as he tried to both kill me with a look and remember if he''d forgotten anything. ''What the hell? I''ve been gone for days!'' He stood up on shaky legs. ''Longest damn days of my life! Those worthless policemen of yours interrogated and imprisoned me, but...'' ''Nope!'' I said cheerfully, popping the "p". ''You couldn''t even perceive, much less resist it, but I''m happy to tell you everything that happened to you took place in altered time.'' Like anything even mildly important that needed to be done quickly, nowadays. ''If you actually were a powerful ghost, you wouldn''t be bound by such little things as time. Alas, for you...'' He managed a pretty impressive sneer, for someone doomed. The fact he wasn''t aware of it might''ve played a role in it, though. ''I''d rather be weak than an overpowered freak like you, boy.'' I created a chair, taking a seat in front on him and leaning forward. ''Not that I approve of blackface,'' I said. ''But you''d make a great Ruckus if they ever adapted the Boondocks to live action.'' Not that he''d get the chance. ''What are you blathering abo-'' I smiled blithely at the mouthless ghost-not that he needed it to talk; this was just an aftereffect of his capacity for speech being removed-and settled comfortably into the black leather chair. With the sliver of power I''d received from the Mover, I''d altered myself a little. Bringing my sense of touch back had been the second change, right after the return of my sense of taste (when it came to food, mind). I''d even added an option to start feeling pain again when it would be advantageous. ''Never mind. You see, grandfather, you''ve been a very bad man,'' I ran a finger along an armrest, realised I was acting like an edgy teen in a revenge fantasy, and cut the shit. ''An awful bastard, in fact. And it''s my duty to make sure people like you get what they deserve.'' Black, barbed chains burst into existence, digging into his flesh, and he writhed in horror at the memory of our first meeting. I laughed, and heard DEATH chuckle softly in the back of my mind, happy for my joy. ''I threatened to have you raped forever by a monster made from your preconceptions of my grandmother, and people like her,'' I said, standing up. ''But I won''t lower myself to that level. Oh, you''ll feel her horror, her pain, her despair, whenever you become too calm. Don''t try to look for a pattern. I don''t believe in psychological comforts like that, when it comes to the damned.'' He''d also feel everything the people he''d oppressed had experienced under his heel, but I saw no need to spoil that surprise. ''That''s just a sideshow, though. You have been selected to take part in my first experiment involving the guilty unclaimed dead. Be honoured! And say hello to your cellmate. He can get grabby, when he feels he''s being ignored.'' * * * Misha cursed as his mouth reappeared, right after the disappearance of the monster the crow''s spineless kid had become. It seemed his powers were not so great, if he needed to be present for them to work. The ghost scoffed. He''d find a way out of here, again, and this time, he''d make sure the strigoi would see everything he''d ever cared about defiled and broken in front of him. Then, he''d take him, and do to him exactly what he''d done to his father and grandmother. In that order, if he was lucky...no. He didn''t deserve that. No one who turned into things like him deserved anything. Misha was no faggot, and certainly no corpse-fucker, but he didn''t need to be for what he had in mind. Honour allowed anything, when you had to humble the deserving. He''d show him true despair. And then, he''d put things right. Why not? The world needed a firm hand on the tiller, and who better than him, who''d remained a man, despite everything he''d been through? Misha gasped in pain as he felt something cold and sharp tear through his ectoplasm, and found himself waist-deep in the chair the strigoi had left behind. The ghost looked behind him, and saw steel teeth in the grinning maw that had been the chair''s seat. The thing shook once, twice, and almost swallowed him, only leaving his head outside. Misha screamed in agony and disgust as he felt many-legged things, cold and slimy or furred and unbearably warm and wet, crawl and scuttle in and through him. He tried to gulp, then some of the little horrors burst out of his mouth, and he closed his eyes, crying and gritting his teeth, after seeing them wriggling on the floor. More of them ate him from the inside, hollowing out places they could nest into, around his heart, inside his groin. Then, with a rush of displaced air, a strigoi appeared in the room, but it wasn''t his grandson. No, this one looked older, with thick, swept back hair, and was wearing an old doctor''s coat. Misha would have cursed him, if he hadn''t been so horrified of the monsters inside him. The strigoi cast about him with dark, suspicious eyes that finally settled on Misha. ''You''re not Constantin...what''d you do to my darling?'' Great, an undead cocksucker. Misha''s mouth opened, despite himself, then disappeared. Two smaller copies of it, as if it had been split in half, replaced his eyes, screaming endlessly. The strigoi''s eyes briefly widened, then he sniggered. ''Well, a hole''s a hole...is what I''d say if I still had anything to fill it with!'' He snarled at the surroundings, looking for the culprit. Seething at finding none, he turned his attention back to the wretch in front of him. ''Oh, I can hear your thoughts, little man. See them on the aether''s tides. A homophobic soldier, and a ghost who hates supernaturals! Hypocrisy squared, aren''t you?'' As he took a step closer, licking his fangs at the sight of the quivering twin mouths, the chair the ghost had been trapped in disappeared, leaving him staggering on half-eaten feet, little, ugly shapes falling out of him. The mouths'' teeth ground together as the ghost''s hands balled into fists. The strigoi flexed his claws. He might as well fill his time with something, until he could find his love. * * * You know that joke about two arseholes fighting in the street? The real life version was even funnier. Looking at them from the outside, you''d have wondered who was really being punished. I liked to think both were. DEATH looked expectantly at me, like an infant or dog awaiting approval, and my mood briefly darkened. It didn''t think like me. It was just trying to get into my good graces. ''I want more,'' I told it. ''I''ve seen what you do when left to your own devices, and you make a right mess of things. From now on, unless I specifically request otherwise, I''m going to choose how the guilty are punished. It nodded. NOT SO DIFFERENT, YOU AND YOUR FIVEFOLD FRIEND. Actually, Christine didn''t have a pressganged Archetype breathing down her neck, but, yes, I suppose we wanted similar things. ''As you say,'' I allowed, before it started giving its opinions on other people I knew. ''I just need to clear a few things with ARC, and then I''ll be able to focus more on Keeper duties.'' YOU WILL CONTINUE TO SERVE THEM, AS WELL? It already knew the answer, of course, with its timeless perception, but this discussion would''ve made no sense in any human language if I described the way it actually talked. ''Why not?'' I mused. ''Asterion works for Hades and the Aegis Adamantine, and, without bragging, I don''t think I''m less competent.'' THEY WANTED TO FEED YOU TO HIM, FOR EATING GODFLESH. I looked at it askance. ''I am aware,'' I said tersely. ''Of the proposition Loki made in anger. But he was grieving for his children.'' AND YET, YOU WERE NOT GUILTY. NOT THAT SENTIMENT IS AN EXCUSE. YOUR HATRED OF ME WILL NEVER STOP US FROM WORKING TOGETHER. I breathed out through my fangs. ''Let''s talk about that.'' IT SEEMS THAT THE GODS ARE AS CAPABLE AS METING OUT JUSTICE AS I AM ON MY OWN, it said, in what I suppose was meant to be joking self-deprecation. It just sounded judgemental, though, even while putting itself down. ''Stop. Deflecting.'' I looked at it, trying to find anything piglike. IF IT HELPS, THE TARTARUS ENGINE BELIEVED YOU INNOCENT, IF UNLUCKY. MAYHAP HE WOULD''VE EVEN GONE AGAINST HIS KING, IF COMMANDED TO END YOU. The warm, fuzzy feeling at learning people were capable of basic decency-DEATH must''ve been shocked, shocked-was so overwhelming I had to actually fight it down. Or it would''ve been, if I''d been the same cynical little cunt I''d been during my human life and early undeath. ''Let''s say it does and move on.'' I grabbed it by the spine, and it let itself be moved. ''Why?'' WHY TAKE A PIG''S SHAPE? WHY WATCH YOU YOUR ENTIRE LIFE? ''Well?'' I threw it back onto its throne, where it settled like it was boneless, ironically enough. ''And while you''re at it, you can tell me why you stood around while my father was going crazy with your hoof firmly shoved up your arse.'' THE EVENTS CHANGED. IT HAS NEVER BEEN SO, IN THIS CREATION. ''My father and friends remember,'' I retorted. ''To varying extents. Sometimes, it''s like a half-forgotten memory, which they know is there, even if they''re not sure what it entails. But the details can be brought into the light on a whim.'' AND YET, something glimmered inside its sockets, THE EVENTS WERE UNDONE. AS THINGS HAPPENED, YOUR FATHER REALISED HE WAS PLAGUED BY DOUBT, AND PRAYED FOR CLARITY. PERHAPS GOD WAS KINDER THIS TIME. ''Answer me,'' I demanded. ''Why a pig?'' YOUR FATHER HAS NOT TOLD YOU. ''He suggested I ask you myself.'' VERY WELL. PIGS WERE FIRST KEPT AROUND NOT FOR MEAT, BUT BECAUSE THEY COULD CONSUME WASTE, THUS DISPOSING OF IT. THIS WAS THEIR ORIGINAL PURPOSE. MUCH LIKE I KEEP CREATION CLEAN BY REMOVING CERTAIN DREGS...AND IT APPEALED TO ME, TO ASSUME THE SHAPE OF SOMETHING THAT STILL LIVED FOR ITS ORIGINAL PURPOSE. I kept my expression under control. ''Is this why you ate that pile of corpses when it tried to break into pops'' house?'' PARTLY. IT WAS AN ABOMINATION, BUT I ALSO NEEDED TO PROTECT YOU, MY KEEPER IN THE MAKING. ''Couldn''t you have done that before it killed the dogs?'' I asked petulantly. Usually, I wasn''t so demanding of people who''d saved my life, but DEATH was an inhuman monster, so fuck it. ITS NATURE MADE IT DESERVING OF DESTRUCTION. BUT, HAD I ACTED EARLIER, AS TIME COUNTS SUCH THINGS, EVERYTHING I HAD PLANNED WOULD HAVE BEEN FOR NOTHING. DO NOT TRY TO TURN BACK AND CHANGE THINGS, it added in a warning tone. THAT NIGHT CAN ONLY BE MADE WORSE, NOT BETTER. I let that slide, because I felt it was hiding something else. ''That wasn''t the only reason, though, was it? For the Hogge disguise?'' I ADMIT THE OTHER TWO WERE MORE...WHIMSICAL. Its teeth glinted in its skull. THAT FANTASY NOVEL SERIES CONSTANTIN LIKES-A BEGONE RELIC OF A TIME WHEN THE SUPERNATURAL WAS STILL...MYSTERIOUS. ROMANTICISED. BUT ONLY BARELY. IT WAS COMING INTO THE LIGHT, SO SIR PRATCHETT- I swear, if it made a night/knight joke...DECIDED TO CAPITALISE ON THE SITUATION. A GOOD IDEA, EVEN IF THE INTEREST PETERED OUT FAIRLY QUICKLY. Its skull swayed inside the hood. MOSTLY. I grunted. Nothing new. Although, the way it talked now was also a reference, though it hadn''t mentioned that. ''And the third reason?'' THAT ILLUSTRATED SERIES NEVER CAME TO BE IN YOUR UNIVERSE. THE MARKET WAS OVERSATURATED, SEE? NOT TO MENTION THE PRINCES OF HELL WOULD''VE TAKEN OFFENCE. I took a brief look across creation, and saw a reality where said series had come to be. ''Another hog, cleaning up the leftovers.'' IT''S DIRTY WORK, BUT SOMEONE HAS TO DO IT. Determined not to show any reaction to the (unintentional?) pun, I pressed on. ''All right, I get your...theme.'' "Mask" would''ve been more fitting. ''I don''t like that you lied to my father, though.'' I DID NOT LIE, DAVID. I MIGHT HAVE CROSSED HIS PATH SO I COULD END UP CLOSE TO YOU, BUT I WAS TRULY INTERESTED IN HIM. Maybe protecting him too. Who knew, when it wasn''t talking? ''Don''t expect gratitude for whatever you might''ve done while playing watchdog,'' I warned it. ''All of that was washed away when you decided Andrei could be murdered for the sake of expediency.'' AS YOU SAY. It was only some humanity away from shrugging. What can you do? WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT, DAVID? Besides everyone I wanted dead at my feet, my friends safe and my family at my side? To see Andrei off. He deserved that, in the end. * * * ''...was not a good man,'' Aaron began to wrap up his speech. Though only a fraction of his true size, the Admiral was still in zmeu form, a few heads glaring at the closed casket, some others looking at it with something between fondness and exasperated relief. At getting rid of him? At the old were finally getting to rest? ''If you ask me, we were both cowards. We could''ve attempted to escape the country, maybe even succeeded. But we remained to serve. Only I did not enter the Navy to save my own hide, unlike him. Dravich knew what the Security did. He considered it less important than his life.'' Now, all of Aaron''s heads turned to look at the few gathered, posture awkward, as if he wasn''t sure whether to apologise or not. ''Understand-I never hated him. I do not say this to mock. I believe that, after so many years doing wet work in the shadows, Dravich would''ve liked the truth to come out, in the end.''This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. I''ll have to tell you about the Dead Living, one day. Aaron had so many good words about them and their origin, you would''ve thought they were related. I took the zmeu''s place, and, if my face was wet, it was because I hadn''t wanted to disperse the day''s storm with my powers. It would''ve felt...vulgar. ''I''ll be brief,'' I began, eyes sweeping across the rows of seats. My friends, Lucian''s brothers, Mia, silently encouraging me to be sincere. God''s Mouth, standing a ways away, the rain steaming before it could reach him. And in the front row, a group of grim-faced ex-Securists, friends and enemies, come to see if the bear was really dead this time. ''I knew Andrei as the man who fathered me for less than a decade, and that throws a shadow over everything he said and did before.'' My chest shuddered as I breathed the wet air in. It smelled of earth and newly dead flesh, only now starting to rot, after it had been taken from the morgue. ''I do not doubt...I no longer doubt that he was truly my friend. He tried to help me, in his own way, when I came close to true death. It took that to make both of us honest-fear of commitment seems to be a family trait,'' I said with a weak smile, drawing more murmurs of agreement than I''d have liked from the former Securists. Ileana hushed them with a growl, before gesturing for me to go on. I did not mention that I truly didn''t know whether I should have changed things in the past. But then, changing creation to suit what I believed was necessary was the way of the old Keeper. I was not omniscient, even if I saw futures where Andrei was happier...unlike everyone else still alive. Had he raised me, I''d have come back as a strigoi much sooner, and everything would''ve fallen into oblivion not long after. Paths not taken... Let''s just say he''d have been one of those fathers who meant well. ''But I do know he wasn''t an evil man. I needn''t remind those gathered here of the lives he saved, rather than ended. Of the time he fought in the Fright, despite his then-employer being dead and thus unable to provide any payment, simply because he refused to let monsters who''d used his body as a weapon of mass murder run wild. Let us not mince words-he was a civilian. Licenced security, yes, but his contract had been abruptly terminated. He could''ve run. Legally, he had no reason to fight, or stay and help. No reason at all...if he''d been the coward I''d believed him to be. They...they could''ve killed him.'' That went on for a while longer, until Bianca softly told me I was becoming agitated. The rain getting in my eyes, I walked to the casket, pops appearing on the opposite side. I gingerly lifted it, and began lowering it into the grave with my power over wind. He''d helped bring me into this world. It was only fair that his son, the Keeper of DEATH, would usher his remains into the next. ''Bless him, Lord,'' Constantin began, putting his hands together, his voice like the crackle of flames. ''He never prayed to you, and yet he did not live in wickedness. My eyes have been opened, as David''s have. Let him and You grant him safe passage into the hereafter...Amen.'' The grave had been mine, and the Ghencea cemetery staff had kept it empty at my request. I was sure they''d have liked to put it to use, but they''d never said anything, and I wanted something to remind me of my...true beginning. Thank God for undeath. I''d never done anything worthwhile with my life. Prepared the next generation, yes...but none of my old students had come to my funeral. I doubted they''d heard about it. My gravestone had been removed, replaced with one reading Andrei Dravich 1945-2031 Father and friend Marked by blood, not defined by it You will never be forgotten ''I should''ve been there,'' I whispered even as I moved dirt to fill the grave. ''He shouldn''t have died alone.'' ''Everyone dies alone, David. Everyone I''ve killed, at least.'' I turned slowly, unsurprised to see Andrei''s ghost. He wore a spectral replica of his former uniform, and was toying with the memory of a flask. ''Good riddance to a bastard.'' He looked at my friends. ''You know I''m not really gone, right?'' Then, to Alex, ''We''re neighbours now. We''re gonna keep you up all night.'' At my friend''s confused, questioning wince, another ghost materialised at my side, wrapping her arms around one of mine. ''Glad to meet you, David,'' my mother said sheepishly, unsure if she should smile. ''I wish I hadn''t-'' ''Hush,'' I cut off the apology. ''You were lucky to remain yourself, in the aether. No more. I will not let people lose their minds anymore. I will put them together myself, if necessary. As many times as it is needed.'' As Simona''s mouth began to tremble, Andrei looked at the others, then put a hand on my shoulder. ''Mind if we huddle a bit? I''ll be back soon. Heard a real son of a bitch is buried here, and I wanna piss on his grave.'' I let the two lead me away, to a nondescript corner of the graveyard, full of faded headstones. Andrei, true to form, didn''t wait until I was about to open up before he threw an accusation at me. This time, though, I couldn''t blame him. ''I remember how things were,'' he said, putting an arm around my shoulders as my mother let go, standing a few steps behind. ''When you went around asking people if they wanted to live, if they believed existence was worth it...you didn''t come to us.'' He tilted his head at Simona, who said nothing, but watched expectantly. ''No, I didn''t,'' I said. ''I could say I didn''t believe you''d have anything noteworthy to contribute, but that would be more arrogant than what I actually did.'' Quite a feat, let me tell you. ''I thought...you-we-had been through enough shit. That you wouldn''t want to go on longer.'' ''Sleep from which you don''t wake up is called death,'' Andrei said reproachfully. ''True death, not leaving your body behind.'' ''I know,'' I said, eyes downcast. ''I don''t have an excuse.'' The former were sniffed. ''Not that I''m some kind of saint, but if you''re contemplating omnicide, you could ask everyone close to you.'' ''Leave him alone,'' Simona said, walking closer. She was dressed in a skirt and blouse so plain as to be indistinct, and I knew she was still getting the knack of shaping her body. ''David...I''d have liked to be asked, even if you didn''t listen afterwards. But, in the end, it doesn''t matter. What you nearly did was awful, but I didn''t believe you''d do it, for one moment.'' She looked at her lover, who let go of me. ''Andrei told me about you. He thinks you''re a better man than him.'' The were looked away. ''Don''t get smug. It''s not a compliment when the bar''s that low.'' ''I understand,'' I told her. ''I tend to do stupid things when I''m only listening to myself, so I''m glad I didn''t.'' A brief, awkward silence settled between us, as the ghost looked up at me, fingers interlaced. I gave her the best smile I could while unsure how I felt. ''I''ve...always wanted to meet you, mom.'' Simona hesitantly returned the smile. ''Thank you, David. It''s...nice you see me that way, but I haven''t been much of a mother to you.'' ''We can change that,'' I said, then added, ''I must say, you''re much more...formal, than Andrei led me to expect.'' Her smile disappeared, and I wondered if I''d said something wrong, but she''d turned to glower at him. ''Dravich, what bullshit did you fill his head with? Told him I''m a bitch because I liked to live?'' That...was more like what I''d heard about her. ''He did say you...didn''t care about how you were seen,'' I said, since Andrei was being very quiet, having found a fascinating patch of grass. Simona looked from him back to me, expression dry. ''Bet my transparent arse he called me a slut at some point. He could make even that sound bad...'' ''I couldn''t possibly comment,'' I replied, wondering if she''d just been reserved at the start because she hadn''t known how she should act around me. She''d been scared-still was, in a way. Scared I''d hate her. But-and I meant this in the least offensive way possible-she was too pitiful to hate. Hearing about her life made me feel bad, not angry. ''Sure you couldn''t, you''re nice,'' she said, back to staring holes into him. Andrei looked back at her, face blank, and I thought to lighten the mood. ''Hey,'' I told him, thinking of my first two fighting inmates. ''Get pops and ask him if he wants to see something funny.'' I looked at mom. ''No offence, but I''ve always seen him as my father, and I don''t see that changing.'' ''It''s alright, kid,'' she put a hand on mine. ''He sounds like a good guy. I''d like to talk to him after you come back, and thank him.'' * * * ''...you are dismissed,'' Bedivere concluded with a withering glare at his former associates. Vyrt looked resigned but serene, while the face of Merlin''s astral projection was unreadable. ''I will not pretend I am ungrateful your actions helped save creation, in a way-agent Silva did most of the work, however. But I am not going to pretend I do not find them loathsome. Almost as loathsome, ideed, as the fact that you decided to undertake this in secret, hide what you did for me.'' He looked into Vyrt''s grey eyes. The Nephilim had shrunk down to human size for the discussion. ''It makes my heart twist and writhe, knowing God would see such things as necessary. I will contemplate His will at an opportune moment, then decide my path forward. But that does not concern you. Vyrt, you are hereby stripped of knighthood and the rank of Master, and are to return to Heaven, remaining there until called upon.'' A twinge of anger entered Bedivere''s voice. ''If you remain on Earth as a civilian, I cannot guarantee you will not be hunted, by a variety of parties for a variety of reasons.'' ''What if the Lord sends me to do His will on Earth?'' the Nephilim asked flatly. Bedivere''s smile showed his teeth. ''Do not taunt me. The only reason I am not putting you on trial is because I am still thinking about it.'' ''You are separating me from my family, Grandmaster.'' Bedivere almost sneered. ''Miranda and Vykt will take an oath of silence, should they choose to leave New Camelot. I know you spoke to them before you spoke to me. Should they remain, they will take an oath not to collaborate or communicate with you without my permission.'' Vyrt''s eyes turned sad. ''They are innocent, Grandmaster. You are essentially forcing a divorce. And it is not that I care about myself, but you are hurting the woman who told you about my deeds the moment she could-before I did.'' Bedivere stared down at his desk, unclenching his fist. ''I must think more.'' He then turned to Merlin, his arcane sight burning with the image of the chain or cord linking the cambion to Hell. ''You just can''t help yourself, can you, sorcerer? I saw Arthur''s dreams, when everyone''s minds were bound. I know you pretended to be God, in order to set him on his path.'' ''So did Arthur,'' the mage retorted calmly. Bedivere would''ve asked how he could be so shameless, if he hadn''t known better. ''You are already serving penance, being tormented unto the edge of endurance by your own kindred. You cannot meaningfully influence the universe anymore.'' Merlin''s smile was barely visible in his beard. ''You give them too much credit, Grandmaster, and me too little. You would be surprised what a few carefully-placed words can achieve.'' ''From you? Never,'' the old Knight said. ''You also told your lover before you told me, and if that doesn''t say something, I don''t know what does.'' ''Why, Grandmaster,'' the mage blinked incredulously. ''Are you implying I would do something awful but necessary, then sacrifice myself to alleviate my guilt and ensure Britain''s future?'' Bedivere''s self-control was too firm for his eye to twitch. ''Let''s talk about that. You brought the Knight of Rebellion back, ostensibly to deal with a monster who was stopped by another ARC agent.'' Merlin looked amused. ''Surely you don''t believe the fear creature was the sole reason for Mordred''s return? I brought him because his power will be needed in the future, and because my absence will need to be filled.'' An absence caused by the mage''s ritual, which...no. It was not the time to fall into circular thinking. ''You know very well you''re not supposed to bind souls to corpses.'' Bedivere''s voice rose slightly. ''You''re not a god! That''s not for you to choose! Even with Mordred''s consent.'' Perhaps, he thought, especially with it. Going along with anything that man wanted... ''You can be sure the Lord and the Hosts knew what they were doing when they suggested it to me.'' Merlin''s smile became roguish. ''You can ask Vyrt for a report, after he gets home.'' Bedivere almost told him not to mock, then the mage disappeared, dragged back to the Pit. Vyrt looked at the space where he had been a moment before, then at his former Grandmaster, and vanished in a flash of silver light. Bedivere wanted to call him back, then decided against it. In a way, Vyrt was just following his order, even if he hadn''t been sent away yet. Bedivere''s sigh became a groan at the new figure who''d draped himself across his office''s visitor chairs, and silently wished he''d decided to do this on the lake. Mordred''s grin widened with every wrinkle that deepened on Bedivere''s face, but the Grandmaster could tell he was frustrated. The undead just had one of those faces given to sulking. ''Let me guess,'' Bedivere started. ''You''re pouting because not everyone fell at your feet and recognised you as rightful King when you took a walk?'' Mordred''s expression soured. ''It would not kill them to be grateful.'' ''For what, exactly?'' The Neverking did not answer. ''What do you want, Mordred?'' Bedivere asked. The undead''s flaming eye sockets shone softly. ''These politicians-they''re the result of my rebellion''s aftermath, as much as I want to see them as usurpers. They are...accepted, if not beloved. And, as much as I would like to kill them and put the land back on track, the people would fight me, and I do not wish to slaughter them.'' Bedivere hoped he didn''t look as stumped as he felt, then reasoned that no face was expressive enough for that. ''Then?'' Mordred adjusted, now sitting in one chair, and leaned forward, armoured elbows on the desk. ''I have studied this system of rulership, and I know how to rise to the top. With my natural aptitude for leadership, it will only be a matter of time...'' * * * Tamar-Caleb-and I stared at each other steadily, my dark eyes meeting his burning sockets as I looked for any signs of acceptance or refusal. His wife, in a separate room, was doubtlessly wishing she could''ve listened in, but he''d asked for privacy, and the intense woman had agreed. ''I know you hate him,'' I said gently. ''I can''t imagine how much. But you''re pushing your luck. Eventually, some underworld ruler is going to want the old arrangement back, so they can torture him to their heart''s content, or pass him among their peers.'' Tamar didn''t reply right away. When he did, his gaze didn''t meet mine. ''You are right, Silva. You can''t imagine. But...'' one of his fists opened, and a small, wretched shape unfolded, until it once again had the shape and size he had possessed in life. ''He is not being left off the hook,'' I promised the Goetia Head, not looking at the dazed ghost. ''But he is godless. Some standards have to be upheld, even if you want to punish him forever.'' ''I''m sure you know what you''re talking about,'' the hellbound said, looking me up and down, taking in my new outfit: grey suit, white shirt, black tie with the Crypt symbol. ''Keeper.'' I smiled calmingly. ''I believe I can perform both of my current duties, sir. And, if you will have me, I will continue to.'' ''How?'' he asked, referring to the first statement. ''Say DEATH needs you in one place and Reem in another. What are you going to do? Multiply?'' ''I''m working on it,'' I answered honestly. * * * The Uberfuhrer twisted around so fast time did not pass before the movement was completed, and met the eyes of a dead man. It was a harmless thing at first glance, almost humanlike in a monkey suit as grey as its skin and hair. But its smile revealed sharklike teeth, and its eyes...by the void... They were like endless black pits, swallowing the meagre light of his domain and returning nothing. In contrast, the thing''s fangs were almost eerily bright. ''Hello, Dirlewanger,'' the corpse said softly. ''I am here on behalf of ARC, DEATH, and humanity.'' Its smile widened. ''Not your idea of the species. The trait.'' He growled. ''You do not get to use my name, filth.'' It chuckled. ''Of course not, Oskar.'' And, for a moment, he saw himself in the darkness of its eyes. Not as he was, but as he had been, before he had become empowered by truth. Dirlewanger scoffed. ''Another subhuman, raised to fail and die again. I can tell by the accent.'' He crossed his arms, trench coat swirling around his jackboots. ''What do you want?'' Its face became grim, all traces of amusement fading. ''You are going to stop creating people to torment them. I don''t care how much you stunt them, so the entire world doesn''t come down on your head. Creating beings who can''t think properly, just so you can hurt them, just to exploit a loophole...'' the corpse shook its head. ''You''re going to stop.'' It was not a request. It was an expectation, an order, and Oskar had to laugh at the sheer, unbridled arrogance. As if Slavs like it deserved anything, much less to tell their betters what to do. He abruptly stopped when all of his property, every piece of infrastructure, every creation (not slave, slaves were people; they were worth less than the dust they walked) collapsed, the former with a hideous, painful screech, the latter with gasps of what would''ve been relief, if they''d been blessed with the ability to feel that. Oskar wanted to get angry at the corpse-this was undoubtedly its doing-but he instead fell to his knees as white-hot pain lanced through him. Yet, impossibly, he didn''t feel himself become more powerful as it surged through every aspect of his being. It made no sense. Every act of violence, physical or otherwise, against him made him stronger. Fools believed it was because his ideals glorified such things, but the truth was that existence recognised the truth of said ideals, and empowered him to punish those foolish enough to oppose them whenever he was hurt. Despite that, Oskar felt as if his body was crumbling, like the buildings had, while every instant of misery his creations had felt rushed into his head, drowning his thoughts in despair, fear, and hope for a salvation that would never come. Except it had. Oskar stared at up the corpse uncomprehendingly, and it looked down on him, a glimmer of pleasure amidst the disgust. Dirlewanger felt hatred swell within his heart. It had always come easily to him. But now, that oldest of virtues did nothing to help him. He tried to push himself to one knee, and almost fell to all fours. ''Hghh...h-how?'' he managed to croak, sweat beading his brow as he tried to get to the corpse and rip it to shreds. ''Wouldn''t you like to know?'' it said lightly, and Oskar gave a choked roar, making it erupt into laughter. It only stopped long after a human would''ve choked to death, its grin back and something glimmering in its clawed hand. ''You''ve finally begun to feel a part of what you''ve inflicted-a fraction of what you deserve.'' It threw down whatever it was holding, stepping backwards and becoming transparent, until it was finally gone. ''Wouldn''t do not to share it with a kindred soul...'' its voice lingered on the air after its departure, but was soon replaced by a raking cough. Oskar finally managed to rise to his feet, only to see one of the worst traitors he had ever known. That was when he noticed he was no longer in his (now desolate) realm, but in the endless, green-blue expanse of the aether. He dimly wondered what was the point of this relocation, but brushed it aside, to focus on the bastard in front of him. ''You?'' Adolf''s eyes speared into him, cold as always. ''Dirlewanger...? How are you still alive, you incompetent-'' Hitler cradled his shattered jaw with one hand, ectoplasm seeping through his fingers while his teeth reformed. ''Don''t you dare accuse me, you supercilious Austrian! Your incompetence cost us the War, and the Reich Eternal!'' Oskar thundered, pulling back his hand. ''It should''ve been me at the helm! Rommel! Even Himmler! Anyone, but you...'' he took a step closer and trailed off, noticing the infamous, self-inflicted gunshot. Oskar couldn''t help but laugh. ''Well, I suppose I shouldn''t judge you too harshly. At least you killed Hitler.'' Before his former Fuhrer could reply, both of them fell to the floor, as Hitler''s pain flowed into Dirlewanger''s mind, and the Uberfuhrer''s earlier torment returned with a vengeance, now also shared by his ex-commander. They briefly locked eyes, then their surroundings changed, and they were in an endless, gloomy chamber, gas nozzles popping out of the walls at regular intervals. All around them, what looked like shadows of their dead comrades appeared, and their pain was added to the fold, shared and multiplied. Then, at the edges of the room, appeared the memories of their victims, and they knew this was only the beginning. * * * ''Ryd?'' A pause. Then again, more insistently. ''Ryd''yk?'' An undercurrent of amusement entered the voice. ''That is the name you''re going with at the moment, isn''t it?'' The eldritch creature paused, an eye forming to look at its spouse, grin widening. ''True enough, Y. Wassup?'' Yani leaned against the couch''s arm, blowing a strand of dark hair out of their face. ''I''ve been trying to get our attention for a while.'' Ryd put down the woodworking knife, its head twisting around as the rest of its body followed. ''Is this about my car''s extended warranty...? No, wait, you didn''t say you''ve been trying to reach me.'' ''The fact we''re in the same room might have to do with that.'' ''Don''t be so sure!'' Yani rolled their eyes, adjusting their baggy shirt as they got off the couch and walked over to Ryd''s workbench. ''Are you nervous, hon?'' ''Huh? I don''t think I could be if I tried.'' The myriad colours running up and down the edges of the white silhouette shimmered. ''Why?'' ''Because,'' Yani deadpanned. ''You were just telling me about kicking Nazi arse in one of those secret mentions everyone knows about, the stopped and started carving...'' they glanced at the results of Ryd''s work dubiously. ''Is that a turd?'' ''I prefer to call it a faithful representation of Dirlewanger,'' Ryd said, needle teeth gleaming purple as it indicated the figurine''s misshapen sections. The grin was angrier than pleased, though, and Yani noticed the tension in its voice-there was no body language to read. They walked behind Ryd, hugging it to their chest. It sighed. ''It''s just...so void-damned awful. People willingly believing shit like that when they should know better, know the truth. Oh, don''t get me wrong, I''ve met far more hateful creatures across creation, but those were made to be like that. People should be...better.'' Yani laid their chin on top of its currently blocky head. ''You''re just venting your anger.'' ''Yeah, I guess.'' Ryd gave the wooden figurine a baleful look. ''I''m gonna burn that, after I carve it up some more.'' Yani kissed the top of its head. ''You wanna finish? Did you and the ARC guy beat him? Or...?'' ''Oh, no, we didn''t retreat. Not really.'' Ryd''s tone became thoughtful. ''When everyone joined minds...that was like nothing I''d ever seen. And, for a moment, he...we all understood each other. This shocked him, I think. Loric and I headed back, satisfied he wouldn''t be a threat for the time being. He''s still a loathsome bastard, but he''s started getting his commeupance. Don''t worry.'' ''That''s great to hear,'' Yani replied. ''So...'' they massaged Ryd''s slim shoulders. ''Rorie''s out.'' Ryd snorted. ''Kid''s probably ending up helping cops again while trying to prove society doesn''t work. Let them be.'' ''That''s not what I meant,'' Yani said, not wanting Ryd to go haring off after them, in case they''d gotten into trouble. ''Ah...'' Ryd smiled slowly, leaning backwards against them. ''You do feel pretty excited...'' * * * Ying had never been good with long silences, or the awkwardness that came with them, in part because he was unused to either. When he was around, things were...lively. The presence of dragons like him encouraged existence and its possibilities to flourish. As he and Houjiao continued reaching for the same things across the table, he realised he was pretty crap at staring contests, too. At least at involuntary ones. His father was in his dragon form, as always, and, despite his best (half-hearted) attempts, Ying still noticed the grimace of distaste at his human appearance. The fact he''d insisted on remining like that, despite being asked to shift, hadn''t helped. It wasn''t that Houjiao disliked humans, he just hated disguises. In his opinion, his son had nothing to hide or be ashamed of. Ying agreed, adding that his looks were a matter of taste and preference. Houjiao was a jade-coloured dragon, the size of a small train even while coiled up, with a thick, white beard and whiskers, dark brown antlers, and black-slit, piercing yellow eyes. Especially when he was being judgemental, which was most of the time, as Ying had already concluded. He didn''t remember his pops being such a dick in his youth, but then, most people were stupid as kids. He must''ve been na?ve. And senile. His ivory-coloured mother, Anjing, bustled back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, always with a ready, if nervous smile. She''d ended up playing peacemaker, to her displeased surprise, and was clearly hoping something would happen to disperse the tension. Ying gladly obliged her. ''I know you disapprove,'' Ying told Houjiao. ''But could you stop scowling? You''re curdling the tea.'' He was honestly surprised he''d managed to swallow both the meal and his words so far, and his father''s next words only added to it. ''You care more about that than being honest to yourself?'' Ying''s smile became noticeably edged, which was quite a feat with his default razor teeth. ''Actually, whenever I point out that I''m being honest, you bury your head into the sand. It was interesting to learn I was sired by an ostrich.'' As he spoke, Ying indulged his father''s request, scales sliding over morphing flesh. Houjiao didn''t seem particularly cheered up by that, though. Ying wondered why. ''That''s just another kind of mask, boy.'' Ying''s eyes flickered between his parents, smile widening as he noticed Anjing''s attempts to hush his father. ''No, let him talk, mom. I know you agree.'' Houjiao leaned forward. ''Your lust is your own business, but I will not have you making us laughingstocks.'' ''I can''t see how I''m doing that, or what it has to do with you.'' ''No?'' Houjiao snorted a puff of green flame. ''You could have a wife and concubines, if you can''t get your fill of flesh, but you''re afraid to commit.'' Ying laughed, tapping into his chi to shake Heaven''s infinite, infinitely-heavy far reaches. ''I''ve committed to more than you''ll ever dream of, old fool. I never noticed you saving creation from your padded seat here.'' ''I doubt you would have, even if you hadn''t been busy with your dalliances. You''re still a child, revelling in your power, playing games with your little friends and pets, surrounding yourself with weakling to put your mind off the loneliness, instead of an equal who could bring you purpose. You know what your whores are? Distractions from a future wife. And your catamites are distractions from them-'' ''Don''t even go there,'' Ying cut him off softly, and something in his eyes made his father hesitate. Ying looked at Anjing. ''How about you? Shushing him up, so everyone can pretend to get along and be friends?'' ''Grievances are not a reason to show a household''s strife to the world,'' she answered. When she spoke again, her voice was dismayed. ''Oh, darling, if you could only see that...I don''t care who you love, but don''t you care about your legacy? Marry someone. You don''t have to cherish her. Just keep up appearances...'' She trailed off as her son flew out of their mansion, and didn''t notice his angry tears. When Ying landed, it was at the edge of the Jade Emperor''s palace''s gardens. Yudi was sitting cross-legged in the emerald grass, sipping rice wine and appreciating the harmony of the Ten Thousand Things, when his formerly-exiled friend touched down, becoming human once more. ''Ying? You are troubled,'' Yudi noted at his friend''s drawn, sullen face and red eyes. His face softened as he waved his guards and attendants away. They''d been relaxing too, inasmuch as they could, and there was no need to interrupt that. ''I told you they hadn''t changed.'' ''You were right.'' Ying took a drag from his pipe, Tongdao''s voice filling his ears, while his other hand adjusted his scarf. It was the same blinding white as his three-piece suit, boots and slicked-back hair, and he didn''t want to stain it. ''You''re always...bloody right...'' ''The thought does not seem to lighten your heart,'' Yudi opined, making the dragon laugh bitterly. ''I...I''m not even sure it''s unfair, you know? They got over it so quickly after I murdered Tongdao, it barely took a couple billion years. And when I thought as everyone else did, and you called me back and said my deeds proved I''d become better, I thought...'' ''That was a moment of ultimate order,'' the Jade Emperor said. ''It showed us what we could achieve, but we went back to thinking like ourselves after.'' Ying fidgeted, pushing his dark, round glasses back up his nose. ''Yeah...I guess we did.'' * * * The Akupara was far fiercer and faster than one would''ve expected of a being of its size and temperament. It had likely eaten the elephants meant to support the world on its back, judging by its bloody hooked beak, then the world itself. Which it must have done with care almost as great as its relish, given the way it blew at an Earthlike planet for getting in its way, and the cosmic currents-though nothing compared to the force of its blows-pulverised the rocky world, reducing it to superheated dust. I looked at the Asura, pacing across the void at my side. He had, moments ago, bisected an identical planet, cleaving a rent large enough to fit our moon across it. He had done so to prove the strength of his arm and the keenness of his blade, which I had acknowledged, before pointing out that it would not be enough to scratch the rogue Chukwa. There is no denying young warriors, though, no matter the land they hail from. He approached it, swinging the sword at its eyes, his own widening as it shattered, eliciting nothing more than a surprised blink-was he really trying to kill it with something so harmless? It snapped at him, and he pushed against the beak with his limbs, before shoving the World Turtle backwards. He then drew an axe that looked almost as wicked as it felt from the bag slung across his back, and I nodded approvingly as he brought it down on the Akupara''s head, splitting it in half vertically. However, he then moved to brutalise its remains, and that would not do. Ending the menace had been enough; it had once been a noble creature, and I would burn its corpse. I moved the light years between us in a moment, interposing myself between him and the dead Turtle faster than he could perceive and raising at finger as he brought the axe down again. He glared at me, orange eyes blazing in an ebony face as he noticed his weapon had split the skin of my index finger before stopping. How and where he had acquired the evil-feeling weapon was not my business, but he would not destroy what remained of the Chukwa to sate his rage, especially not with that axe. I flexed my finger and sent him flying, arms broken. He came at me again, and the axe shattered on my raised forearm, while a finger poke to the chest blew a hole through it-I could''ve stuck my head in it, though I did not. And... ''Knot,'' Aya interrupted him, not unkindly. ''Your report is thorough, but...'' he had a tendency to ramble. ''Can you get to the point, please?'' The druid turned lich blinked, something he had to remind himself to do nowadays, though his agents were kind enough to do it for him. ''Oh,'' he said. ''Of course! Apologies, apologies...yes, the rogue World Turtle was dispatched, and the Asura was not offended. He and his family regularly hurt themselves worse to make a point, he told me, so he did.'' He tugged at his beard as he nodded, his grey goat head wobbling on his fleshy neck. It was the only hairy part of the Fomorian''s plump body: his dead skin was pale and smooth, dark green Celtic knotwork snaking across his limbs and torso. The reason for his name. Knotwork went by Obair Snaidhm, when he wanted to be formal, and by Knot when among friends. ''All in all, the patrol was a success. That universe will soon return to its routine, and the Brahman Cluster will be better for it.'' The Fomorian''s milky eyes twinkled with good cheer. ''It is a blessing, truly a blessing, for things to be so peaceful that senior agents can afford to patrol the Clusters!'' His expression became sly. ''So peaceful that the pantheons agree to it...'' ''Let''s not tempt fate,'' Aya reminded him. ''Simply enjoying it is enough.'' ''Oh, definitely, ma''am!'' he agreed. ''It''s just, after Mag Tuired got levelled the second time, despite my urgings for compromise, I became something of a pariah among gods...not just mine. I had to run away, and keep running, so it''s nice to be welcomed, if not feel welcomed.'' ''I thought you were marginalised because you laughed when Balor''s eye was put out.'' ''In my defence, it was bloody hilarious.'' Knotwork''s snout twitched. ''But, ah, my pacifism certainly did not do me any favours.'' And taking up druidism hadn''t helped. It was viewed as a thing of the humans and their gods, no matter its usefulness. Knot still wasn''t welcome in Ireland, and instead spent his time as Britain''s senior Crypt agent. Knotwork was a pacifist in the sense he would''ve done anything to prevent needless loss of life, no matter how much he had to cause himself. Still, Aya had to...agree... The skin around the mummy''s eye sockets wrinkled as she felt something crawl, hissing, around the edges. Not of the Crypt headquarters, but of reality, and order. ''Good job, agent,'' she told Knot, trying not to sound distracted. ''Keep up the good work.'' Knot appeared somewhat puzzled at the parting words-Aya wasn''t usually this formal with older agents, especially those close to her-but left without any questions. Aya placed her palms flat against her desk, the lights in her sockets flaring as she stood up. Her surroundings fell away, until they were only a memory on the endless dark waters of the beginning, like an object reflected on a puddle. Come into my ocean, said the serpent to the corpse~ Aya missed having eyes to roll. She compensated with snorts that would''ve appalled her mother. ''Apep. You''re awfully smug after not doing what you agreed to, or anything at all.'' The snake''s rage almost surged to the fore, like a tide, but he shackled it with an effort. Aya chuckled inwardly as he tried to present a satisfied, unconcerned fa?ade. ''Oh, I don''t know. Your strigoi seems to have handled himself, despite everything.'' ''Especially you.'' Aya sat down, letting the waters of chaos cover her to her neck. A mundane human would''ve been erased by their briefest touch, so that they had never been, the possibility of them existing vanishing as the idea of them faded from creation. Mummies like her, though, were impervious while the thing stolen from their tomb was away, and Aya was blessed besides. ''Did you come here for a reason?'' she asked, kicking her legs back and forth. Apep watched the movement with barely-disguised contempt. He loathed ordered existence like it was a thorn in his tail, and its inhabitants even more so. To see one treat his home as if it were water incensed him, but he quickly adjusted. ''I have indeed. I thought you might like to be reminded of the truth, now that the lie of order has passed.'' Aya was not disappointed with the snake, but only because she had no expectations. Hoping he''d see the light and cease corrupting and destroying would''ve been too much; a reversal of Apophis'' character, nature and role. But, with what had happened to the Aesir and their foes... No. Thinking about what might have been only ever saddened her. ''And what truth is that?'' Aya asked, morbidly curious about Apep''s latest scheme. His face-just the suggestion of features, really; wicked fangs that caught the dark light of angular eyes-changed, becoming fuller, more real, until it was a human''s. Aya''s heart didn''t skip a beat. It hadn''t in over a millennium. But she still felt a rush of anger, and distantly noted her body would''ve warmed with the rage, had she still lived. Faisal Reem, or the simulacrum Apep had wrought, looked remarkably similar to his human self. Half a head taller than her, skin tanned by decades of harsh sunlight, but still lighter than hers, a beard that reached to his chest and hair that reached to his shoulders, both dark as coal. His eyes were pits of nothingness cleft into his face, above a surprisingly human smile, and Aya remembered those early years of marriage, spent apart but for the moments of brief joy they managed to snatch from the jaws of fate. No time elapsed before the treacherous memory passed. She was Samuel''s, now and forever. He had never hurt her a fraction as much as this smiling monster in front of her, and he never would. ''Aya,'' he said, voice tinged with the appealing burr of their youth, not the snarling roughness before the end. ''Your body is as beautiful as it is false.'' Charming as always. How had she fallen for him? ''And my heart as ugly as it is true?'' Faisal leaned to the side, the darkness around him coalescing into armour covered in snakelike fangs. ''My dear lying, murderous wife...if that is what you believe, I can do naught but agree.'' He stretched lazily. ''Do not misunderstand me-I know this is not an illusion. You are as you were on the day of your death...against all odds.'' Faisal shook his head. ''You should be a shrunken, dried crone, the little flesh remaining tight against your bones.'' Aya laughed in his face. ''I know a few places where you can find mummies like that, but I do not believe in cruelty against undead.'' She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. ''And you? You should be a mangled, hideous corpse, not just hideous. I am blessed by my gods, just as you are cursed by your new one.'' Faisal walked closer, whispering, ''Do not lie to me again, Aya...'' She turned away when he tried to grab her shoulder, not meeting his eyes. ''I don''t know what you mean.'' ''Again,'' he murmured. ''You do not think I am ugly.'' ''Physically? No,'' she admitted. ''But you''re hardly the first handsome monster I''ve met, though I only had to kill the others once. And none of their souls were as ugly as the void where yours used to be.'' He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and a silence passed between them. Finally, Aya leaned into his touch, and Faisal tried not to jump. ''What do you want?'' she asked quietly. ''You took our children. What more do you want from me?'' ''...I am not here to hurt you,'' he promised. ''I am here to make you an offer.'' Aya could''ve told him where to shove it, but she wanted to know. The last time he''d come to bargain had been in the Middle Ages. He''d taken their children''s unclaimed souls-they''d been too little to decide upon a faith before their deaths-and used them to sow chaos. He''d used Aqim and Bilal''s dead seed and Farah''s barren womb to raise an army of abominations, which he''d unleashed upon the Old World. They were put down in the end, with Aya spearheading the purge of her monstrous grandchildren, but Faisal had tried to strike a deal with her, promising that everything-the forced, incestuous breeding of young, uncomprehending spirits, the slaughter of people who knew nothing of the creatures that hunted them-would end, if only she became his bride again. She had refused, obviously. ''Go ahead,'' she demanded. Faisal''s smile wavered at her cold tone and colder stare. ''Creation has settled down enough you needn''t fight for it any longer. Step down, and I will release our children. They will go wherever peace awaits them, or,'' he sounded so cheerful, like he wasn''t blackmailing her using ghosts unlucky to be born to him, but entirely innocent. ''They will come with us. You have seen what life leads to, Aya. Nothing but pain and dismay. Join me,'' he extended a gauntleted hand. ''Return to chaos. We can be husband and wife, a family, once more.'' ''No,'' she replied flatly. ''Creation still needs me. Even if it didn''t, I would never spend eternity with you, in the bosom of Isfet.'' ''You might change your mind,'' he retorted. ''After you realise how much you hurt them.'' He raised his hand, three lights encircling as many fingers like rings. ''My Lord has taught me how to bring you to heel. Did you know that every monster you''ve killed, every foe you struck down, marked them? All your enemies'' pain has been shared by your spawn for over a dozen centuries!'' His smile became a sickly grimace at Aya''s shocked face. ''Do not believe it will ever stop, if you continue to disobey me.'' ''Faisal-'' she began, tears trickling from empty sockets down a face as dark as ebony, invisible in the sea of chaos save for the twin lights shining where the mummy''s eyes had been, but he cut her off with a harsh laugh. ''They tried to go mad, you know? They always do...but the Lord taught me madness is an escape, a refuge. It does not let one properly suf-'' ''You son of a bitch!'' Aya snarled, retracting her ichor-covered fist from Faisal''s caved-in chest. ''How could...Apep taught you? No! This is human cruelty! The serpent knows naught but the desolation of worlds! This was ?your idea! You''re lying, trying to...to pass the blame, as if following such orders is forgivable!'' ''Your mutt has spoiled you,'' Faisal spat, chest healing. ''Always indulging your every whim, eager to kiss your feet. Unnatural...just like a warrior woman! A leader of warriors!'' He chuckled. ''You call me a monster, then break every rule of the world you claim to love!'' ''What did you think was going to happen, Faisal?'' she asked tightly. ''That I''d fall into your arms, crying and begging, then forgive you? Go back like nothing ever happened?'' He shook his head, hair swaying wildly. ''I was always too kind to you. Let you dress as you liked, speak as you wished, do what you wanted. And look how you reward me!'' * * * Sam was walking through a darkness wholly different from that assailing his lover. He had recently gotten a premonition, a hunch, if he was being honest, that he could help both himself and everyone else by retracing the steps of his first ancestors. Whether it had been an instinct or something whispering to him in his own voice, he had gotten the feeling he could finally leave the shadow his parents cast over his life, even after their deaths, at last. And then, there had been Black God. Sam had been walking through Salem when he''d come across a cave mouth. It had appeared from the same place it led to: nowhere. He had entered, to destroy it if there was any danger to be found, and, after an endless descent, he had reached a circular room, where Black God had been waiting for him. Chernobog''s recent atrocities had made him pretty twitchy when the god had presented himself, before clarifying he was a different deity. He had looked like Sam, never close to his people, much less their gods, had imagined: a crescent moon on his forehead, a full moon where his mouth should have been. A charcoal buckskin mask, covered in sacred patterns painted in white, had hidden the rest of his face from sight. Skin the color and texture of charcoal. The Pleiades on his temple. Black God had been sitting by a fire that had burned with no fuel or smoke, and had raised his head at Sam''s approach. He had told Sam how the Navajo did not appreciate his inventions, from the making of fire to several celestial bodies. "They haven''t said it," Black God had said, referring to his fellow deities. "But I''m sure they''re going to kick me out sooner or later." He''d raised his head. "Like they did to you." Sam had faked a loud belch. "Y''know, when you want to tell someone you are not so different, you and them, it helps to actually have things in common." He''d scratched his neck with a long middle finger, like an aye-aye looking for insects, wondering if Black God was getting the message. "Nobody kicked me out. I left when I was a dumb kid, bursting with fear and rage, and never looked back." He doubted he''d have been welcomed, ARC or not, victim of abuse or not. Sam had been raised as a skin-walker before he''d become a wendigo, which made him ?two of the worst things you could meet in North America. And that was before you counted the Archetypes he''d browbeaten into submission, reducing them to little more than wells of power that tugged at his mind. Beast did it whenever he turned into an animal, even partly. Hunger did it all the time, melding with his wendigo appetite. Still, even with them leashed and muzzled, he wasn''t expecting a medicine man to invite him to share his fire or meal any time soon. "That may be so," Black God had agreed. "But, whether by design or chance, we are both outcasts, or about to be." "Yeah," Sam had replied. "Just said we''re not similar at all." He''d leaned forward, stirring the flames with a hand covered in dragonscale. "What the fuck are you doing here?" Black God had huffed. "You''ve been listening to the rumors. Reading the stories. I know they''re out on that information web, for anyone to peruse. The ones in which I''m a dullard and a beggar, trying to trick people into helping me out of pity. You don''t want me, either." "I''m taken, yeah. And not into whiny creeps, in case Aya kicks it." Black God had been unamused, but undaunted. "They''re always saying I peaked early, that I haven''t done anything noteworthy in decades-" "I agree entirely, but what''s your point?" The full moon had dimmed. "I thought you, of all people, would sympathize. I wanted to tell you of a way to help yourself, but you can forget it." "Fascinating," Sam had said. "How about this: as per the Syncretic Treaty, I''m going to kick your ass for manifesting in the US without warning or permission. But, if you tell me what you came here to say, I''m going to stop at feeding you your own balls, not start with it." Sam had discovered he could be very persuasive that night. And that was how he''d ended up walking the Worlds. The First was small and dark as soot. Sam walked among endless carpets of insects, struggling with his temper and hunger, knowing he''d fail if he lashed out to crush or eat them. He passed warring phantoms under a sky full of witchcraft and First Angry''s sharp cackling, ignoring the instinct to help or attack, until he reached the opening in the sky. The Second was dominated by a great blue plain. Sam walked with the swallow people, but did not step into their cone-shaped, tapered blue houses, no matter how tempting their food or women. In the end, despite the protests of his gut and loins, he pulled through, with Taschonzii, the Swallow Chief, admitting they didn''t have enough food for him and sending him on his way. The Third was...rough. Split by mountains and differences, as memories of men and women drifted apart, while Sam forced himself to watch, not change the past, until the Flood came to wash everything away. The Fourth was partly hidden from Sam, tall, dark pines rising beyond the clearing he found himself in after floating on the Flood''s waters. In it, was a bonfire, burning inside a circle of stone, a medicine man sitting on a log as he warmed himself. He was wearing buckskins, gray pair held back by a simple headband, and several necklaces: beads, pearls, a wendigo fangs strung on a leather thong. His eyes were brown, his tanned skin leathery from age and exposure. "Hello, son," the medicine man greeted him. "Glad you could make it." Sam shrugged, unused to compliments. "After I realized I needed to let things be, not fail by trying to make them better, it was a piece of cake." No need to emphasize how hard doing nothing had been. It would''ve felt too much like admitting weakness in front of this walking ballsack. The healer nodded, putting his hands close to the fire. "I came here because my peers and I have decided...to welcome you among us." Sam almost cackled like a warlock at the pause. "Provisionally, and with great distaste?" The healer proved unflappable to his needling. "What else could we feel when we see you parade yourself in dead flesh? Before your parents proved it, we weren''t even sure wearing human skin would have any effect." "I''m glad their research helped the community." The healer took in the smile etched on Sam''s face and didn''t press the point. "Some knowledge, ''tis better not to have." His fang necklace rattled as he took a deep breath. "Having reviewed your deeds as a hunter of monsters and keeper of order, we have decided you are not a witch." "Could''ve told ya I don''t have tits myself. Saved you some time." "Dib¨¦," the healer said, making his hackles rise. "You are not a ?witch." He had slipped out of English for the last word. "Your magic does not harm the community-only its enemies." Sam tried to slow his harsh breathing down. "Who told you I want to come back? You wise old fucks had your thumbs so far up your collective asses, you never even noticed the kid trapped in a living nightmare on the outskirts." He knew that might''ve been unfair, and didn''t care. "I looked for my desire to belong, but it left with the last shit I had to give." The medicine man''s eyes were sad. "Do you truly believe that?" The shadows cast by the fire lengthened, thickened, as the cloudless sky was swallowed by darkness. "That''s the pain speaking, boy. Even now, they''ve got you by the throat." Sam didn''t bat an eye as the simulacra of his parents shambled their way to them. The healer seemed an eternity away, his fire dim and his eyes hidden by the shadows. He was in the darkness, alone but for them, once again. Except he was the monster now. As he watched them, Sam realized he''d never seen much of their human faces. Both of them were pale and sparsely-muscled, with dark eyes, twisted mouths and hooked noses. The only real difference, Sam noted, was his mother''s longer, thinning white hair. Both of them had that lean, hungry look, from living on the edge of humanity. Sam drew upon his powers, to destroy them once more, then felt them slip out of his grasp. "You shouldn''t have done that," the shadowed man said forebodingly. "This is a place of magic, not stolen power. Now, they''ll take you." Sam watched as the two grew, until he felt like a child again, and laughed as they tried to push him down and rip at his flesh. "Oh, I see how it is," he said, not budging even when his mother''s flesh took on the traits of a thousand beasts, and his father''s features became indistinct, taking on the sexless aspect of Hunger. "You''ve overplayed your hand. See, these bastards have already done the worst a human could suffer to me. There''s nothing left to scare me anymore." "You know nothing about what you speak, boy," the medicine man said, voice growing harsher. "You call me boy, when you look younger than me. When you hide your age from my senses. You use the name given to me in insult, without even sharing yours." The darkness rippled, each word like a stone in a pond, and Sam was now standing above the creatures...whatever they might have been meant to be. His anger boiled at being taunted with his past, at finally being able to hurt his tormentors like they deserved. Their deaths had been too brief, not to mention unintentional. Merciful... "What are you?" he asked the man by the fire. "Black God? My buried homesickness?" A thousand and one growls thrummed under his next words. "My desire for vengeance? A spirit, sent by the gods to test me, because they think they deserve to?" The man''s mouth was a pit in rotten fruit, a wound in flesh. "You passed the first tests, and think you are a sage. You think doing nothing here will give you the high ground? Make you noble? You''ll fail, boy." Sam was already turning away. "Go back, and you''ll have nothing! Nothing but the old fears, the shadows on the edge of vision! Kill them!" He flung his arm at the old skin-walkers crawling on the ground. "Become a man!" The demands grew more insistent with each step. "Break them! You know you want to! Stop lying to yourself!" "Flay them! Eat them alive! Bloodshed is your only true love, not that undead ?bitch!" "Lose yourself in the slaughter! Thinking has only ever hurt you-let the blood help you forget!" But now, Sam had a feeling he was doing the right thing. Not because he was too pure for this, but because he was needed elsewhere. He didn''t look back when the shadow the man cast became something that resembled no beast or unliving thing. He knew he would''ve been lost if he did. Its voice never changed, though. It was still his. "You''re fooling yourself. Still a lamb to the slaughter. That''s what you''ve always been. That''s what you''ll always be." The cawing laughter tore at his nerves, but he never turned his head, even when a hand tugged at his shoulder. "Did you truly believe that inane dream? You, gaining that power, helping the world? You weak, selfish little plaything, too scared to think straight?" It was clear to him now. He hadn''t caught a glimpse of Aya. Nothing worth a damn. He had to leave. He might''ve belonged here, with the blood and the freaks, but she believed he was better than this. "Go away, Dib¨¦. The dream will end soon. Then you''ll wake up, back in the hut, in your parents'' arms~" * * * In the end, he turned out to be right. Sam slipped out of the scarlet gloom and into a deeper darkness. Aya laughed brightly when he arrived, even as her own monster snarled curses at him. Faisal tried to find his footing as Sam tackled him, pushing him down through the unending tides. Chaos had never bothered him. Finally, growling as something broke inside himself, Apep''s champion threw him off, and Sam skidded backwards, coming to a halt at the mummy''s side. They shared a knowing look, but no words. There was no need. That they were both standing there said enough. ''And here''s the dog itself,'' Faisal was looking at Aya as he spoke. ''Coming running when needed. Too weak to face me yourself. At least you admit it. Hiding behind-'' ''Yes,'' Aya interrupted. ''Without him, I might''ve listened to you. Might''ve given in, if only out of sheer tiredness. Duty is a cold comfort...unlike love. Not that you''ve ever known either.'' Faisal looked so stumped Sam doubled over laughing, causing Apep''s chosen to turn to him. ''You think you''re better than me.'' ''Aya says I''m bigger, too~'' ''Bastard!'' Faisal screamed. ''You stole her from me! Twisted her! Doing everything she wants so you can be indulged, making her think she deserves the world.'' His eyes were like crimson coals in his dark face, wet with unshed tears. ''But I''ll put an end to this. Make things the way they were, the way they ?should be. After I remind my wife of her place, I''ll deal with you too, mongrel. I think I''ll wear your corpse as I take her.'' ''Took the words right out of my mouth.'' Sam matched Faisal''s grin, but only the wendigo''s widened when a calm, deceptively human voice filled the expanse of Nu. Under it, like a shark showing only its fin, was a yawning silence so deep, it could be felt in the bones. It did not sound like a single voice. ''Faisal Reem. You stand guilty of stealing unclaimed souls and twisting them for your own purposes. You will not escape.'' Faisal did not take his eyes off the two in front of him. ''You cannot pass judgement on me. This is pantheon business.'' If anything, the voice grew more serene. ''It stopped being pantheon business when you took children too young to follow a god and made monsters from them. Your own, you heartless...'' It was only now that any semblance of anger could be felt in the voice. ''You think I, out of everyone, will let you hide behind the gods? Those days are over. Everything you''ve done was to break a grieving mother. I am coming for you.'' * * * ''Watch your step, my dear. These fiends care naught for your youth and innocence.'' ''You watch your mouth, Serpent. And I am not your dear.'' ''No...'' Lucifer''s cheerful face was just as sincere as Nimue''s as he walked alongside her, demons watching from every direction. ''Definitely not.'' Satan''s head swivelled between his onlooking subjects. ''Watch your step around this hag! She''s as old as Britain''s first lake, and thrice as spiteful.'' ''Better,'' she muttered, leaving him behind as she walked down, into the depths, to the frozen lake of traitors. The Lady saw her beloved as she passed, and shared a nod with him. They both knew they''d strained their bonds with their Knights-again. But, just like he did with his torture, she would bear it. She walked until she saw a tall, grey-skinned demoness with a bristling mane of silver hair. She had eight breasts, arms and black eyes, arranged like a spider''s, and was swinging a barbed whip at the moaning, screaming sinners. She stopped at the Lady''s approach, and froze when Nimue embraced her. ''Thank you, girl,'' Nimue whispered into her chest-while tall by human standards, she didn''t come close to the demon. ''I wanted to kill that awful boy in the womb, and so did Merlin. I''m glad we didn''t.'' She pulled back with a shrewd look. ''Mordred might me of some use, after all. Thank you, for treating him as he deserved. You helped him become who he should have been.'' ''You are welcome, Lady,'' the demoness replied mechanically. ''But I was only following orders.'' * * * ''Why''d you never tell me?'' Kenji rubbed his throat, the handprint already gone. ''You wouldn''t have believed me, Ren.'' ''Perhaps,'' Bushido acceded. ''But did you even try? You didn''t know what would happen. If not for that Romanian, I''d still be stumbling around, seeing red, played by the man who made me a lackwit.'' His eyes flashed dangerously. ''What else did-do-you lie about? Is yamadium really forged from the iron taken from the blood of your failed workers, and quenched in their molten flesh?'' ''They''re all volunteers,'' Kenji replied, and it took Ren a nanosecond to recognise the joking tone. That was when Yua bustled into the office, trying to catch the breath she didn''t need. ''Apologies, Yua-sama,'' Ren stood up, bowing. ''For taking your seat.'' ''Huh? There''s nothing on Ken''s face.'' Bushido didn''t comment. ''Your husband was just starting to be honest with me.'' Yua looked between them, eyes bright. ''You two...shit like this is why I think my idea needs more consideration.'' Kenji nodded. ''Everyone celebrating together usually only works in cartoons, but...the world has changed.'' ''Right,'' Yua said, face darkening. ''Why''s Bushi so calm?'' Lore: Therianthropes
A therianthrope is a (formerly purely) human being who has obtained the ability to change partially or entirely into an animal by means of shapeshifting, rather than magic, faithcraft or genetic manipulation. The term comes from the Greek therion, "wild (implicitly mammalian, which coincidentally, most weres are) animal/beast" and anthropos, "human being". As such, a literal translation would be beastman or beast person, rather than were. During the Long Watch, therianthropes were often referred to as werebeasts, but this has largely fallen out of use since the early two thousands, though it is still used in a derogatory fashion. Most were view it as condescending, because it implies that not only are they feral in temperament, but that their animal self is dominant over their human one. This is one of the worst scenarios for a were, as it implies lack of discipline and self-control, ultimately resulting in "their beast", as it is often referred to, taking over. While weres sometimes lose themselves to their beast, in situations of great excitement or stress, it has not been proven to be permanent, because weres who spend extended periods in such a state are usually put down before an attempt at recovery can be made. The origin of weres is heavily debated, not least of all by themselves, because it is fractal, rather than singular, as postcognition proves. Since, before the Shattering, mundane humans could only come in contact with paranormal entities or places if they expected it, and usually how they expected it, the visions of the past revealed to poscognitives tend to suit their expectations. Nevertheless, it is agreed that weres did not evolve naturally; they do not share a common ancestor, but rather, each "type" of were likely springs from an individual or group. There are four major schools of thought in regard to the origin of weres. The first, and most common, hypothesis postulates that the first weres were turned by "infected" animals, bearing a physical or metaphysical illness. According to this hypothesis, the first werewolf was bitten by a wolf, the first werewasp was stung by a wasp and so on. Some believe these animals were carriers, but did not present symptoms, in the sense their intelligence was animalistic, their physical prowess mundane, and they could not shapeshift. Others believe they possessed all the capabilities of modern weres, save the ability to turn into humans, which fuelled their jealousy and led them to infect mankind. Weres who view their transformation as a blessing disregard this idea, as they do the one that the animals were cursed by the pantheons or ancient mages. This ties to the second hypothesis, which claims weres are the result of the gods cursing primitive mankind for its wickedness, either directly or indirectly. Weres who dislike vampires bristle at the comparison, even if they dislike their therianthropy. The third hypothesis states weres are actually a result of self-directed evolution, that primitive humans, or their ancestors, sought to emulate animal traits in order to better survive in the wild. This is largely seen as implausible, and nonsensical at worst. The fourth and final hypothesis states weres are the result of humans mating with animals, and their hybrid children multiplying. Some Christian proponents latch on to this phrasing, pointing out links to Yahweh''s command to be fruitful and multiply, which they believe was directed at humans and animals, rather than to each species; or to the Serpent''s Seed Theory, that Eve mated with the Serpent in the Garden of Eden, and their descendants have battled those born of her and Adam over the millennia, with human history being the result of this clash. According to them, weres all descend from the Beast. The members of these secondary schools of thought hate each other with a passion, seeing each other as blasphemers and monsters, and everyone who does not follow the fourth theory considers them deluded at best. Most weres are resolved to remain as human as possible, and see the idea of zoophilia as a betrayal of their ideals, not to mention disgusting. Equivalent to a healthy human sleeping with a disabled person, perhaps. These sub-groups claim the human/animal couplings could have been done in the name of survival, out of spite or as the result of a curse (or blessing, depending on the were asked).Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Mages who turn into animals, genetic shapeshifters and people who tap into divine power to change form are sometimes mistaken for weres, mostly by mundane humans, but all it takes is the touch of silver to reveal the truth, in most cases. Of course, a non-therianthrope shifter could simulate the burns and pain, if they were skilled and determined enough. Weres are mostly ambivalent towards them, although some look down of them as "werefakes". Naguals and totem shifters are examples of such "pseudotherianthropes", as are kitsune, zmei and certain dragons. Contrary to certain speciesist rumours, afflictions such as hypertrichosis and zoanthropy (or clinical lycanthropy, though techincally therianthropy would be more accurate) are not caused by having were ancestors. Weres are, genetically-speaking, extremely stable. Upon being turned, all diseases, missing limbs, excess flesh, tumours and the like are removed; weres cannot remain or become obese after being turned. Therianthropy is interesting in terms of immortality compared to vampirism, because, whereas vampires physically remain at the age they were turned unless they shapeshift (vampire children are rarely able to mature, let alone in a healthy manner, which is why turning children is illegal across the world), weres grow older and stronger if turned young, until they reach their physical prime. Elderly human turned weres do not become younger, though they are cured of all afflictions. It is thus said that therianthropy is more "indulgent" than vampirism. It can be passed on through scratches, bites, stings and blood or tissue donations, though the children of weres are born human. Weres do not require sustenance, air or rest. They are immune to direct esoteric effects, and capable of regenerating from anything, except wounds inflicted with silver, which causes immense pain (were pain tolereance allowing them to ignore such flesh wounds as dismemberment, decapitation and disembowelment, at once). Silver weapons affect weres as they do mundane humans, but are not poisonous. A were whose limb is grazed by a silver bullet will be left with a scar and dull pain, but will not die, Should they be shot in the head, for example, however, they will die, though not because the silver will spread through the body and burn out impure genes, unclean spirits or the like, but for the same reasons a human would die from a headshot. No paranormals besides mages and (human) psychics can be turned into weres, and, as magic depends on harmony between the body, mind and soul, mages have difficulty casting once turned, due to their focus clashing with their new instincts. Weres are unlikely to awaken magic for the same reason. Psychics face similar difficulties, but, as they have only started being born in larger numbers in recent years, there have only been a handful of psychic weres throughout history. Weres share the instincts and urges of "their" animals, and (no pun intended) often ape their behaviour, even while in human form and not meaning to. This varies by gender as well. For example, werewolves are social animals, so to speak, while male werebears are loners, rarely spending time with other werebears. Depending on a were''s self-control, these instincts can be just that, or a "loud subconscious" that mimics sentience or sapience, and often pushes them to listen to it, or tries to take over their minds. It tends to become more and more powerful the deeper a were taps into it, being roughly as powerful as the human mind in hybrid form and dominant in animal form, which is believed to be the reason weres cannot speak in said form. Weres vary in power, speed and durability according, seemingly, to how large their animal is, though there are some exceptions, the most egregious being those weres who turn into supernatural animals. Most invertebrates, amphibians, smaller fishes reptiles, birds and mammals are hypersonic and able to fragment multi-storey buildings in one strike in human form, and thousands of times faster than sound and able to pulverise tens of billions of tons of rock in hybrid/animal form. Larger fishes, reptiles, birds and mammals (wolves, lynxes, brown bears, deer, dolphins, etc.) are also hypersonic in human form, though strong enough to destroy city blocks; their every blow is equivalent to tens of tons of TNT. In animal forms, they are thousands of times faster than sound and can vapourise mountains. Werecattle, moose and polar bears can destroy countries in human form and reach relativistic speed, undergoing redshift and bending spacetime upon approaching light (unless, of course, they choose to negate the environmental effects). In animal forms, they can move as fast as light and shatter continents like glass. Werecrocs, hippos, rhinos and great whites are as strong as fast as werecattle in human form, and able to destroy the moon while moving nearly five hundred times faster than light in animal forms. From this point on, stronger weres are as powerful in human form as those in the previous category are in animal form, and as fast. Werephants (short for were-elephants, a shortening similar to wereverines for were-wolverines), orcas and smaller dinosaurs are able to shatter Earth in animal forms. Weredinosaurs are believed to be the result of the ancient reptiles surviving until the emergence of mankind to turn them by the proponents of the carrier hypothesis. Larger weresaurs, sperm whales, megalodons and paraceratherium are able to disperse ice and gas giants and shatter their cores in single blows. Blue werewhales are famous their ability to snuff out sunlike stars with just the water they generate inside themselves, shot through their blowholes as jets. Physically, they can destroy blue giants. "Mystical" weres, such as gryphons, dragons and rocs can destroy the largest of stars with ease, and often possess esoteric abilities that put them even higher above their "mundane" counterparts than their physical prowess. Sidestory: Aftermath, Part 4 Two old men walked across nothing. That was a lie. And yet, not entirely. Both were timeless, but, had they been reduced so that they could dwell in the halls of time, one would have been ancient in both fact and spirit, the other merely old at heart, in terms of the persona he so cherished. If one did not count his other selves, that was. One could have been forgiven for thinking Nodens'' name had been inspired by that of Asgard''s ruler, then penned down by the unwitting chronicler of his exploits. Had that same observer seen the incarnation Nodens sometimes assumed on Earth, that suspicion would have only grown. The Great Hunter''s form was as scarred and pitted as the oldest mountain, naked but for a shroud of mist or light. This was not intended to protect his modesty, for he had none, but rather, to protect onlookers, or anyone who might catch a glimpse of him, by mistake. His skin, his eyes, his bristling beard and wild mane of hair; all were silver. The metallic sheen was most pronounced on his hands, which had got him compared to another god of Earth, and which gripped a spear dripping with ichor. The haft was grey as ash, marked by adversity like its wielder. The spearhead was a jagged, rough thing, like bone or white flint. Nodens'' companion would have appeared completely ordinary, at least in comparison to his savage majesty. In truth, they had always been equals. The one they called the Remaker, beyond the bounds of the world, was dressed in the drab, muddied fatigues of the wars that had marked Benedict. Ned; the part of him he always thought of as himself. Wear and tear had removed all decorations from the uniform, even the small Union Jack on the sleeve. The space had been patched over, and now bore the the symbol of the Global Gathering: emerald landmasses, separated by sapphire seas. Only a fraction of what he fought for, but the closest to his bleeding heart, by far. Ned was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, his beard and close-cropped hair grey, with patches of white. He seemed entirely at ease, as he always did, especially when he wasn''t. Survival trait. Or, as he answered on other occasions, most people were not unflappable when presented with someone who gave every sign of being so. That amused him. Nodens'' Nightgaunts, his hounds and hunters, stalked behind him, darting in and out of the darkness. The creatures looked demonic, like batwinged, faceless men, their ebony skin smooth as a whale''s. Together with their master, they had faced many an Outer God, and thwarted the plans of many more, for all that the Gods of the Ultimate Void brooked no opposition, and always sought vengeance. Nodens did not care, and never had. He had always met the Crawling Chaos on even footing, spear for claw and curse for curse, while his Nightgaunts tore through its Hunting Horrors. He feared neither the Other Gods, nor their soul and messenger. Least of all now. Well. "Now" was a matter of perspective, but what wasn''t? In a way, creation had always been like this, but Nodens was not the only one who remembered what had never been. As the two continued their journey to the abode of darkness, Fixer broke the silence. ''I know I don''t act that grateful, but honestly, keeping the Outer Gods focused on you, and the Ultimate Void, saved everyone while I set the plan into motion. So, thank you.'' Nodens harrumphed, not looking at him. ''Don''t mention it, boy. You fight because you love creation. The fact that Nyarlathotep hates it is enough for me to defend it.'' ''Even so,'' Fixer said. ''Thank you. For that, and for being my conscience.'' Nodens looked at him askance. ''What fresh nonsense is this?'' Fixer shrugged at the Hunter''s gruff question, smiling. ''C''mon now, don''t be shy. When I was trying to find happiness, you snapped me outta my funk. Reminded me of-'' ''Ned,'' Nodens cut him off gravely. ''I have never even spoken to you outside opposing the Crawling Chaos and its pawns.'' Fixer stopped, looking at him, and Nodens did the same. ''But the old men...there''s always been an old man, or something like one, around every self of mine.'' ''If you say so.'' Fixer''s smile thinned. ''Are you telling me I imagined that? Him? You weren''t...? Didn''t...?'' ''Creation is what we think it is, lad,'' Nodens said, not unkindly. ''A loud conscience is hardly unusual.'' Seeing his companion''s expression, he scoffed. ''Who cares? Whether you listened to yourself, or to me, the point is that you listened. You went and helped your love. What does the reason matter?'' As the god resumed walking again, Fixer chuckled, before starting after him. ''You have a way of cutting through bullshit, don''t you?'' ''If everyone spoke truth,'' Nodens replied firmly. ''There would be far less suffering. Lies are the domain of my adversary.'' Ned thought he just liked being blunt to the point of jackassery, but did not comment. ''If you say so.'' The god grumbled at having his words thrown back at him, but did not retort. They reached their destination in silence. Fixer had met two-faced, in both senses of the term, people before. He knew Janus. The thing languishing in the gloom resembled the god of portals, to a degree. The same way the Sleeper resembled humans. It was the Chernobog half that spoke to him first, his grimace frustrated and disgusted in equal measure. ''Come to gloat under a fallen enemy, have you?'' he sneered tiredly. ''Go ahead, but do not expect me to swallow your insults. You''ll have to silence me yourself.'' Fixer considered him, idly noting Nodens had fallen back to observe. But then, he wasn''t here for the Black God. ''It''s good to see ?you consider yourself important, at least.'' ''Lies?'' Chernobog asked. ''I nearly made your foremost pawn fail. He was a step away from ending everything.'' ''Which would have been against your goal, too, if I recall. Do correct me if I''m wrong, though; this might be the first time I''m thinking about you.'' Fixer rubbed his chin. ''Don''t flatter yourself. Nyarlathotep had other catspaws in place, as surely as it has your back. We''ve taken care of them, but do not think only you could''ve done what you did.'' Chernobog began trembling. In rage? Hmm... ''You took my brother, my power, and now you trample on my pride. Is your victory not grand enough?'' Fixer gave him an incredulous look. ''Do you think the people you planned to destroy or enslave had no brothers, no lives they wanted to keep living? I''m the last person you should be reaching out to that way. Not that anyone sane would listen to you.'' Fixer glared when Chernobog opened his mouth. ''Belobog hated you. His last moments were spent hoping you''d suffer as he had. I regret that he isn''t here, so you could hear it in that voice you thought you loved.'' He concentrated on the amalgam''s other half, and it soon filled his perception. It was a paper-skinned, skull-headed back standing on tentacle tips; a silhouette of pure blackness; a winged, faceless god; a thing of tendrils, with a mouth open in an eternal scream. All, and an infinity more, at once. It was Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos. His oldest enemy. In a way, Fixer had always fought it, even before he''d learned of its existence. Chaos had always been the bane of what his selves had tried to build. ''Remaker,'' it greeted flatly. ''Unmaker.'' It lowered its head to one side. ''Well? No crowing? No boasting of how, without my influence to oppose, you are free to do whatever you want? Shape creation in your image? Pursue your Queen of Hell? Et cetera...'' ''You are taking this surprisingly well,'' Fixer noted. It swayed in a way that might''ve indicated acceptance, or apathy. ''Chaos still thrives. It always has, is, will. The fact I cannot act myself is a bruise on my ego, but I will survive.'' ''Aw...'' ''I''m sure you''ll learn to live with it,'' it remarked. ''Chaos feeds me, and my power. That I have been reduced to a spectator is an inconvenience, not the tragedy you were hoping for.'' ''What about your scheme?'' Fixer jabbed. ''Meaningless,'' Nyarlathotep replied. ''I wanted to end the dream that was creation, and now, it is no longer a dream. I should be thanking you for the retirement, I suppose.'' ''You like it?'' ''I could do without the chains,'' it said. ''But yes.'' Fixer did not miss the hatred boiling within the dark creature. He was laidback, not stupid. ''You asked me if I was going to brag.'' ''Well?'' ''No,'' Fixer answered, letting all cheer drain out of his voice. ''I''m just going to hurt you. For my parents. For Randolph. For Christine.'' He raised his fist. ''For every life you threw into disarray, to amuse yourself and sate your spite.'' * * * I found it walking between moments, waiting between instants. The gray man was almost like a weaponised urban legend, or meme. Someone you missed, not because they were stealthy, but because they appeared so ordinary, they slipped your mind as soon as they passed you. Hiding in plain sight, indeed. In hindsight, Gray Mann''s shtick wasn''t so hard to pin down. Its very nature made you uncertain, because it was Uncertainty itself. Cousin to both Fear and Absurdity, though nowhere near as kind as the former, or half as heroic.as Ryd''yk. And, because creation itself couldn''t make up its mind about it, it had always been free to pick and choose its traits and abilities. Divine power, to divert a strigoi''s attention, for example. That was over now. In the creation I had made, with everyone''s help, its kidnapping and indoctrination of Sofia had been uneccesary, and thus, had never happened. Now, Sofia would grow up with people who could actually guide her, meeting a kindred mind in Bianca, empowered by her sister in an act of...well. There was still time, for that story. But just because its deeds had been erased from the timestream, did not mean I, and those like me, had forgiven or forgotten it. Which was why I was retracing Fixer''s steps, a shrieking Gray Mann writhing in my metaphysical grip, while Nightraiser, mellow as always, retraced Nodens'' at my side. ''I''m glad you could come, Faren,'' I told them. ''I''m proud of you.'' ''Oh?'' There was barely a hint of curiosity beneath the placid tone, but that was like jumping up and down in anticipation, by their standards. I smiled, ignoring my prisoner. ''I know...how hard it is to restrain yourself. How much you have thought about what could happen if you didn''t. That you believe in yourself enough to accompany me...I''m happy for you. It''s great to see your confidence growing.'' Their lips tilted upwards slightly. ''You are sweet, David,'' they said. ''But it has little to do with confidence.'' ''I don''t believe that.'' ''It does, though,'' they insisted when I shook my head. ''Confidence implies belief something will be as you expect. Certainty means knowing how it will be. I do not deal in confidence.'' I put a hand on their shoulder, and they slowed down their pace. ''Thanks for coming, all the same.'' Their soft smile widened. ''It''s no problem, ?Keeper,'' they teased. ''I hardly have much to occupy myself with, after all-please don''t take that as me dismissing your offer as trivial.'' ''Of course not,'' I reassured them, before scowling in mock-irritation. ''Being in a good mood is not an excuse to needle me, though.'' They laughed. ''I would have come even if I were busy. We are heading into an era of peace, however, one paving the way for an age of ascendancy.'' They elbowed me. ''Fewer reasons for fighting, not that all will be deterred by that.'' I rolled my eyes. ''Only meatheads would be dismayed by that.'' ''Some would argue conflict breeds diversity.'' ''It''s nice neither of us would.'' ''So true,'' they agreed as our destination came in sight. Metaphorically-speaking, of course. There was no distance here, and no duration. Before we approached, I looked them in the dark voids that were their eyes. ''I will ask you something...maybe insensitive. You don''t have to answer if you don''t want to.'' ''David,'' they deadpanned. ''Have you forgotten how I grew up? There was little left to offend me, even before I became the Eye of Darkness.'' ''Just because you''ve got jaded,'' I shuffled my feet, looking down. ''It doesn''t mean I should be a jackass.'' Faren squeezed my hand. ''Don''t trouble yourself with that, David. What was your question?'' ''I know you''ve forgotten it, erased it alongside your mother,'' I began. ''But the memories are there, brought back by the moment of unity. Do you...have you ever wanted to remember whether you were born male or female?'' ''What does it matter?'' Nightraiser crossed their arms, eyes becoming sarcastic. ''You might have noticed my duty has little to do with what''s between my legs.'' They chuckled. ''I''m just messing with you, David. Yes, I remember. And, as I said, it doesn''t matter. There''s a reason you can''t tell,'' they gestured at themselves. ''By looks alone. You know my name means "handsome servant", because my parents expected me to do as I was told, while looking pretty.'' I was sure Sam''s had thought much the same, naming him "lamb". ''Removing needless details was just my way of scraping off the slave brands. You will forgive me for being dramatic.'' ''Hey,'' I said softly. ''Whatever makes you happy, you deserve it.'' They hugged me, briefly. ''Thank you,'' they said warmly. ''It pleases me, when a good man sees me the way he sees himself.'' I might''ve blushed if I could have. ''So, to answer your question, I do remember, but it matters little to me, and less to anyone else. Or, as I tell certain admirers, the name obviously proves I was a very pretty boy.'' They blinked slowly. ''Or a very healthy tomboy. That''s the thing with certainty. It sounds better than it is. I like to keep people thinking.'' And with that, we resumed our journey. Nodens nodded curtly at both of us as we approached, burly arms crossed, but said nothing. A little farther ahead, Fixer was exchanging hushed words with his trapped nemesis. I let Faren behind as they stopped to speak with the Divine Hunter, and walked up to Fixer''s side. The prisoner looked at me with distaste, which I ignored alongside its taunts. ''Hey, lad,'' Fixer greeted, hands in his pockets. ''Glad to see ya helpin'' out, just ''cause you can.'' I nodded. ''Creation will be a better place after this.'' ''I''ll bet,'' he said, before giving Gray Mann an amused look. ''They didn''t screw with you again, did they?'' ''What it did before creation changed is enough,'' I answered, and Fixer lowered his head in agreement. ''Never had much love for it, myself. Far too pleased with itself for doing what it had to do for my taste.'' ''Hypocrite!'' the Dark Oracle shrieked, voice caught between those of its two selves, making us turn. ''What''s that supposed to mean?'' Fixer asked, sounding like he''d been as happy to tune it out as I had been. ''"I take no pleasure in my duty," he said smugly,'' it spat. ''We have never cared for Uncertainty, either, but you have no right to claim yourself its better in this regard.'' Fixer crossed his arms. ''I don''t take any pleasure from doing what''s necessary, no,'' he said. ''I ?am proud that I do not let my emotions get in the way of my duty. So...I do not see your point, if you had one.'' Dutifully ignoring them once more, Ned''s attention returned to me. ''As I was saying...that entitled creep was talking a whole lotta shit ''bout Chris, and I so wished I could stop it.'' He grinned like a child on Christmas morning. ''Did you bring it here for me?'' ''In a way,'' I confirmed, pulling my arm back like I was about to throw a javelin, before letting go off Gray. Its indignant screams alone shook creation, for all that most of its power was sealed, obliterating every Voidmaw, only for another infinity of them to appear instantly. The core of its being crashed into the Oracle, mixing like blood and tar, and now, the thing stood three-faced. ''Huh,'' Fixer grunted appreciatively. ''Lemme guess: uncertainty is a fact of life, but you won''t allow it to sow more than that which already happens.'' ''Got it in one,'' I answered, then sighed, voice growing sad. ''You know why I''m here, Fixer.'' He slumped. ''Go ahead, boy. If you think I deserve it, I won''t stop you.'' Squaring my shoulders, I looked him straight into eyes. Not as dark as Faren''s, nor as tired, but close enough to be pitiful. ''I understand why you started your plan,'' I began softly. ''I appreciate your...subtlety.'' I smiled crookedly. ''You knew I wanted to help people. Taking me to the same facility Andrei was in was just the catalyst. I couldn''t stand him at the time, so I''d look for any alternative, so the one that set me on the path you wanted was sought.'' ''The path creation needed you on,'' Fixer corrected. ''And you''re welcome, David. Guiding people from the shadows does not mean you have to be cruel.'' ''I have to talk to you about that, too,'' I reminded him. ''You knew what would happen from then on. All the deaths, the horror, the misery. Would you change any of it, if you could?'' ''I cannot, just as you cannot, if things are to end as they should,'' he said. ''If I could change it for the better? Of course. I''m not evil, David.'' My fangs ground together slightly. ''You don''t regret any of it, do you?'' Fixer smiled pityingly. ''You don''t think like me, David. The survival of the many will always, always be more important than the death of the few. Vyrt would tell you the same thing, and cry about it later. He''s always been a sentimental prig.'' Which said a lot about Fixer, considering what the Nephilim was willing to do. Certainly, nothing our first meeting had suggested. I told him as much, and he rolled his eyes. ''Yeah, it''d be awful nice if I could just be a wacky goofball and nothing more. Maybe I''ll be, one day, once the Mover''s plan comes to fruition. Just because I''d shank anyone for everyone''s sake, doesn''t mean I don''t love them.'' ''What about Christine?'' I asked. ''I''d never be happy again if I had to kill her,'' he replied solemnly. And that was as sincere a declaration of love as Fixer could make. ''But you''re not just here to dump your catch and grill me, are you, David?'' Might as well lay it out. ''Ned, the things you did while indulging yourself...I know you grew up marginalised. I know what it''s like - I was a strigoi. But they were so much like what Dirlewanger did...'' Fixer''s gaze turned cold. ''Charming. Forget the pain and the service to creation. The Nazi and I were just getting our rocks off.'' I held up my hands. ''Ned, please. I''m not saying you''re as bad as him. You were lashing out. He was just being cruel.'' ''Do you have a point?'' ''I''m not going to punish you,'' I promised. Not that I could. We were equally powerful, and able to enhance ourselves indefinitely. ''But I can''t overlook it, either. Ned, you created beings that could feel nothing except pain, or fear, or pleasure, just because you could.'' ''Are you going to track down every scientist who uses lab rats and bring them to great justice? How about guinea pigs? Those feel and think more than my creations,'' he retorted. ''What about zombies? You respect the dead. What are you gonna do, David? Stop people from using test subjects, or hand them the answers on a plate and stunt their growth?'' The most annoying part was that I couldn''t contradict him. ''Look,'' I began. ''I''m not asking you to do anything you wouldn''t, anyway.'' I gestured at the Oracle. ''I know they can''t separate, or escape, but I''d still feel better if you were keeping an eye of them.'' ''Relegated to watchdog. Damn.'' He whistled in fake appreciation. I smirked drily. ''Nothing new under the sun. So?'' He rubbed his ring finger. ''I want to marry Christine. I love her.'' ''How about this: you leave one incarnation here, and one in Hell, to be with her. And, when you''re needed, I''ll give you a sign.'' His face stayed blank at my offer, but he shook my hand. ''Whatever. I''m out of a job, anyway.'' I gave his shoulder a squeeze, part grateful, part warning, and departed, but not after squeezing something I''d wanted to know out of the Oracle. As I''d suspected, the murder of Mia''s parents had been not only planned, but part of a plot. Rattled, she''d lose control of herself, I''d hopefully take advantage of her, and a wedge would be driven between us. I''d doubt myself, falter at critical moments, especially as we drifted apart, and she''d find her end in R''lyeh. Just another reason to hurt the Crawling Chaos. The last thing I heard before I left was Nightraiser''s sad chuckle. ''Hello, Ned. Thought I''d keep you company, while you settle into your new role.'' * * * Fixer had been dismissed a while ago, but Gerald Reyes was still grilling his peers. Alemoa Elga was giving him the same worried glance she always was when she thought he was stressing or overworking themselves. The other Heads had drifted off into discussions of their own, once Gerald had been convinced they hadn''t known about Fixer''s rogue activities. Amara al-Hazred and Gaol John looked at him tiredly, the former massaging her brow, the latter crossing his arms, eyes barely visible in the shadows of a battered, broad-brimmed hat. ''Gerald,'' Amara said wearily. ''I understand that you are agitated. I was too, when I found out. But we cannot change it, so will you please calm down?'' He closed his mouth, breathing deeply. ''Apologies,'' he told the Miskatonic Head. ''But, while Ned''s actions helped save creation, in the end, they could''ve also caused a war between Earth and three of the Great Power, all while we were busy with our own foes.'' ''So?'' John asked. ''If they''d attacked, we''d have crushed them, in the end. I know you like pretending might isn''t right, but the only reason the little guy isn''t living in a nightmarish oligarchy is because we, and people like us, like being nice, and are strong enough to stop those who don''t. So don''t give me that look.'' ''And if the attack disrupted the population?'' Gerald asked sharply. ''If the violence drew other dangers, distracted us, so the Crawling Chaos'' plan succeeded?'' ''We wouldn''t be having this discussion,'' John said simply. ''Why don''t you ask us what''s really eating at you, Reyes? You know you want to. Take your time, find your balls. The ghost isn''t using them at the moment.'' Ignoring Elga''s dirty glare, John put his boots on the table, crossing them, and waited. Gerald clenched his fists in order not to throttle the IA Head. ''Did either of you know what Fixer was doing?'' ''No,'' Amara answered promptly. ''I only knew he wanted to help us against Chernobog, but I ordered him to stand down. Told him it would stunt the world''s development if he solved everything for us.'' Her eyes were darker than the shadows of her cowl as they met Gerald''s. ''If you think my order spurred him on to abduct Grey One, I can only say I did not foresee it.'' Gerald''s expression softened. ''No one can blame you for that, Amara, least of all me. Or yourself, for that matter.'' Amara pulled her cowl down. ''Although, he probably had been planning that for a while, as time flows. I know he was planning to prepare Silva since before they met, at least. From a timeless perspective...he has always been.'' Gerald hid a wince. ''Most likely.'' He knew Amara hated tapping into her Outer God half more than necessary, even though being human was like being buried alive in a coffin half-filled with water for her. ''I know what you''re gonna say,'' John ground out. ''I''m bound to ARC, its members, its equipment and bases. I hate limeys like you. Surely this has all been a scheme to hurt you, Reyes? Well, it wasn''t. I''m neither evil, nor fucking insane.'' John lifted his hat slightly by the brim. ''If you must know, Fixer did obscure my sight through my bond to him, but he always did this during missions that were too delicate, or important for creation, to accomplish with someone looking over his shoulder. Sometimes, he didn''t even try to do it. So, I thought nothing of it. Gonna propose having me fired for incompetence?'' Gerald pushed up his glasses, more irritated by the ghost gestalt''s confrontational tone than he''d have liked. ''No. But I think you should mention such things from now on, John. You are linked to the Idea of Bonds. Anything that can obscure your sight might be important.'' John did not comment, so Gerald- -blinked as the door to Sofia Ilyich''s cell slid open. He wasn''t unfamiliar with doors hidden in walls, or which were part of them. He was just bemused that the walk had been short enough that he hadn''t even found time to get lost in his thoughts. The young witch was sitting in a plain wooden chair, kicking her feet back and forth. She was dressed in a baggy, orange yamadium prison suit, with an antimagic collar around her neck. More than merely immune to her powers, it generated a field that covered her and shut them down. The creation of such materials was a well-kept secret, if an open one, considering the security clearances of everyone present. Besides the weres, vamps and mages lining the walls of the cell, doing their best to appear harmless (for the girl''s sake, Gerald mused, rather than their safety), Sofia was surrounded by three of the most dangerous supernaturals in Russia. The First Comrade''s codename was a holdover from his Soviet days, but changing it would''ve made a mess of the national heroine''s branding and merchandise. It was to stay, for the moment. First was dressed in a crimson long coat, with gold stars on both shoulders. Tall, blonde and blue-eyed, she looked in her early forties, just as she had during the Shattering. If First was large at two metres, with the muscle to match, Tsar Power made her look positively puny. The towering man''s face was almost lost between his grey-streaked brown beard and hair, though his bright grin was plainly visible among the grizzled, bristling mess. He was so tall First barely reached the bottom of his chest, with a girth that belied his strength, even putting his power aside. A layer of fat hid slabs of muscle, as if he were one of the bears he so resembled in his fur coat, pants and fur-lined boots. Power nodded at Gerald first, then noticed Elga and Aya, and his grin widened. The Camelot Head felt one of his heads coming on; Power was as excessively friendly as Elga, thrice as loud and half as tactful. Gerald smiled slightly, glad the world was safe enough for him to gripe about such trifles, and promptly wished he hadn''t. Power saw his smile and laughed, sure it was a sign of the mage''s joy at them meeting again. Tsar Vodyanik completed the welcoming committee. A tall old man, though short compared to his colleagues, he had a white-bearded, frog-like face, a fish tail, and black scales covering his body. He held a club in his webbed hands. Could we take them? Gerald wondered, remembering the powers of their...hosts. The Kremlin must''ve wanted to emphasise that, just because they''d invited them for help, it didn''t mean they were powerless. Or unable to fend them off, if it came to that. So. Tsar Power''s traits increased tenfold the second a fight started, and only ramped up from there. At his baseline, he was equal to Breakout at hers, only also able to create blasts and constructs of almost every sort of energy, short of mana. The longer he fought, however? Strength that increased tenfold one second then increased a hundredfold a centisecond, and so on. The bigger the boost got, the shorter the interval became. A problem, especially if a hypothetical fight started, but mostly a brute, in the end. Vodyanik was...trickier. Equal to Power''s baseline, he could not only manipulate water and whatever contained it, he could control whatever he could mentally frame as a river or lake. Most people did not expect the time manipulation, or get a second chance even if they did. And First not only shared her colleagues'' abilities, but those of everyone and everything Russian. Her versatility was only matched by her creativity. We''re all allies, for the moment, Gerald argued to himself. I''m just doing this to kill time. First stepped forward, almost marching. ''Thanks for coming, guys,'' she shook Gerald and Elga''s hands at the same time, beaming, then hugged Aya. ''The kid''s been good, but she''s been asking for you, and we thought she''d be happier if we indulged her''. This way, her eyes said, she''ll be easier to mould, while we maintain relations. ''Why don''t you tell us more about that, Yana?'' Aya asked once the taller woman let her down. ''The message just said she "wanted us", which I figured was a test of our attention, since she doesn''t know any of us.'' The mummy looked up. ''Unless you''ve been talking out of school?'' First grinned guilelessly. ''Actually, she just asked for "whoever sent the fat strigoi". We edited the request a little. Thought talking to Szabo''s boss would be as important to her as beginning to reintegrate into society and deal with supernatural law enforcement.'' ''Fair enough,'' Aya said, glancing at Sofia. She was maintaining the illusion of eyes, to put her at ease. ''Does she not talk? I was hoping she''d started recovering.'' First''s face fell slightly. ''She''s shy. Doesn''t really talk without prompting, but the night terrors are mostly gone. Still sleeps better with a living guard in the room.'' Aya nodded, taking it in stride, and went to stand in front of Sofia. The witch looked up, saying nothing, so the mummy broke the ice. ''Hello, Sofia,'' she began quietly. ''The strigoi who scared you works for me. He shouldn''t have done it - I keep telling him he''s not allowed - but don''t worry. I punished him.'' ''Did it hurt bad?'' Sofia croaked. She sounded like she hadn''t spoken, or drank, in days. Aya allowed herself a smirk. ''Really bad. He won''t do it again. After all, you''re a good girl now.'' She put a bandaged hand on the girl''s small shoulder. ''Is that all you wanted to tell me?'' As they spoke, Vodyanik began an impromptu, intense staring contest with Gerald, who did not fancy his chances against someone that dead-eyed, but had nothing better to do. Meanwhile, Power sidled closer to Elga, which was not how people his size were usually described as moving. Elga turned away from the witch when Power elbowed her, giving him an annoyed look. He was unfazed. ''Is pretty ghost lady sad?'' he cooed. ''Power can maker her feel alive again.'' ''Cut the crap, Nik,'' Elga whispered. ''No one here thinks you''re stupid.'' He blew a raspberry. ''Honestly, Elga, you hate horseplay as much as my mother.'' But he did not press on, and went back to watching as well. Sofia clasped her hands in her lap, looking down at them rather than Aya. The mummy had done her best to look friendly, eschewing her golden armour for a pair of black combat boots, pants and a jacket with the Crypt logo, along with a nemes, but the witch was still scared around her. ''I''m happy he was hurt, too,'' Sofia said eventually, and Aya''s heart broke to hear so much hatred in a child''s voice, before hardening. The witch was not exactly innocent, even with the mitigating circumstances. ''He might''ve gone overboard,'' Aya said. ''But you had to be stopped, Sofia. I understand that your magic twisted your mind until you took over your village, but it was you who decided to control your parents.'' She put her hands in her pockets, mirroring First, who was standing opposite her, watching silently. Aya lowered her voice. ''I know you hated the fights. But you could''ve gone to a neighbour, called one.'' Sofia snorted. ''And if daddy didn''t catch and kill me before I did it, he''d have done it after. Not all of us can get help as a corpse, miss.'' Taken aback by the sass, Aya arched an eyebrow. ''That''s...quite a bleak view, for a child.'' ''Will you guys make up your minds? Either I''m a child and should be dumb, or I''m a monster and should be treated like a bad woman.'' Her face scrunched up in frustration. Aya bit the inside of her cheek. She''d been through this before, with her own children, but laughing would have been inappropriate. ''I''m not trying to patronise you. I just want to understand what you want.'' Sofia relaxed, slightly. ''The Strangeguard''s been asking me if I wanna work. Put my mind in stuff, or in bad people. Make ''em stop. I dunno.'' Aya gestured for her to go on. ''That could help you redeem yourself, in the eyes of your country.'' She steeled her nerves. ''Sofia, people say that, if not for your actions, Chernobog couldn''t have entered the universe, or amassed as many followers. Obviously, you didn''t know that would happen. My point is, you''re not loved. Public service could help.'' Sofia blinked, repeatedly, but her blue eyes were still watery. ''I know mommy and daddy went bad...worse. Before they died. Prayed to the bad god.'' She licked her cracked lips. ''The other strigoi killed them. The thin one. David.'' ''Do you hate him for that?'' Sofia shook her head rapidly, as if trying to un-hear the words. ''I wanted them to be friends again. With each other. And me. But I didn''t love what they turned into.'' ''And David?'' Sofia broke down. ''He k-k-killed ''em. Told me.'' She hiccupped, and covered her mouth with a hand. ''He an'' the alien. We were together, before everyone was. He - D-David - h-held me. Like daddy used to. He doesn''t hate me.'' Aya leaned forward, so Sofia had nowhere to look but her eyes. The witch sobbed, then pulled herself together. ''You''re faking. I know you''re eyeless.'' Aya dismissed the illusion with a thought, and Sofia rubbed one eye. ''It was distracting,'' she said flatly. ''David?'' Aya prompted. ''He made everyone be friends, for a while. I wanna do that again.'' The witch''s eyes shone with more than tears. ''But I''d be stuck in Russia as a Strangeguard. Can I...come to you? When I''m free?'' Aya straightened up. ''We have recruiters you can discuss that with. Sofia, I know you weren''t aware of ARC''s hierarchy, but usually, people like me don''t come when called for things like this.'' The girl crumpled in on herself. '' ''M sorry. Thanks for coming, miss.'' ''I wasn''t chastising you,'' Aya said softly. ''Just telling you how we work.'' Sofia hesitatingly raised her head. ''So we...can still talk?'' Her face lit up at Aya''s confirmation, who stepped back, letting Gerald and Elga handle things. * * * For Vyrt, galaxy clusters were like glass doors: he noticed when he went through one thanks to the damage it suffered, rather than that he received. The creatures he was currently facing were made of such cosmic structures, compressed and compacted. Humanoid in shape and size, but immensely denser, a hundred to a thousand times heavier than the Milky Way, they came at the Nephilim in droves, at speeds that would have crossed his home galaxy in mere moments. Blunt limbs flew at him from all sides, trillions of times faster than light, and Vyrt dodged all the ones he couldn''t block. His fists tore immense holes through the creatures, ripping them apart beyond recovery, while their own only bruised his skin for zeptoseconds when they landed. The largest galaxy would''ve been annihilated, many times over, by any of their strikes. He hadn''t done them any wrong. The creatures, while not mindless, only knew loathing for everything besides themselves. Vyrt, being completely unlike them, had been an irresistible target, tempting enough for them to cease their eternal war and ally against him. It was why he had sough them. A massacre no one could fault him for would alleviate some of his anger. Vyrt, who had reduced himself to human size for this fight, looked up at the foremost among the creatures strode towards him. Even the smallest among them was a hundred times heavier than the greatest of their lessers; the Laniakea Supercluster, given human shape and bloodlust. Vyrt struck at one of them, a blow that would''ve destroyed most of his universe, but which only broke his hand. The beings were far more durable than their mere mass suggested. The retaliatory strike, too fast for him to perceive, pulverised his head, while his opponent''s other hand tore through his chest like paper, ripping his spine out with a tug. A second blow split his body in half, and a third reduced it to pulped flesh and ichor. Vyrt had already regenerated before the creature could even think about basking in its victory. His power, to create and build up, enhanced his reflexes until its attacks seemed frozen in place. The blast of Vyrt''s seraphic fire was not as hot as the first moments of the Big Bang - his foe would''ve utterly ignored such paltry temperatures. The white flame, however, burned it to nothing faster than it could perceive. Not even the smallest particle was left as it was erased from reality, then history, before the very possibility of it existing in the first place was removed from creation. Vyrt''s smirk was bloodthirsty as the timeline adjusted, so that he had never been wounded. After all, the culprit could have never existed. Another creature came at him, but froze in its tracks when an armour of seraphic flame blazed into existence around the Nephilim. It sensed what it could do to it. Vyrt didn''t let it dither for too long. Conjuring a sword of colourless light from nothing, he dashed forward, bisecting it from skull to groin, with the ease of a scythe going through wheat. As the twitching halves suffered the fate of the first creature to have been unmade, Vyrt dismissed the sword and summoned his crook. It had been his, with and of him, long before he had been knighted. Bedivere had let him keep it, because it suited him. Chuckling silently at the wordplay, Vyrt tapped into the crook''s power, and one of the remaining creatures turned against its fellow, following his will like a sheep. He let them fight, for a while. Then, he grabbed hold of the second being''s mass, sending it flying into the other''s at immense speed and obliterating them both. With crook in hand, he could direct almost anything. He stood in the middle of the empty universe he had entered, victorious, and knew no joy. I flew to his side, looking across the emptiness as we hovered. I looked like I was standing on nothing, while he beat his wings out of whimsy, rather than necessity. He needed air about as much as he obeyed physics. The Nephilim was quiet, silently bidding me to speak. I went along with him. ''I hate what you did to me, Vyrt,'' I confessed. ''I''m glad it helped shape me into the man I am, that you helped save creation...but I don''t think I''ll ever stop hating it.'' A pause. Vyrt made his crook disappear, then clasped his arms behind his back. ''I thank the Lord you still see yourself as human, David,'' he said, no trace of sarcasm in his voice. ''The clay we rose from is noble, despite everything. I''ll never stop loving them, and I hope you won''t, either.'' Ah. He already knew why I''d stopped in my journey home. At least in regards to this incarnation of me. ''You can ask me about Miranda.'' He nodded fractionally. ''She does not worship. When - if - she dies, she will pass into your domain.'' ''I''ll take care of her,'' I promised. ''Don''t worry.'' The Nephilim''s lips twitched, eyes filled with unshed tears, as he dropped to a knee before me. The crook reappeared in his hands. ''I ask only one thing, David,'' he murmured. ''You have no reason to care for me - that is why I ask for my wife.'' ''Let me guess - you love her more than life itself, much less yourself,'' I teased gently, and he nodded earnestly. ''Go ahead. Ask.'' He looked up at me. ''I know you hate me. That you have so much rage to vent. That...I have no right, to interfere with the aether. That is why I''m asking.'' He closed his eyes. ''Please. Do not hurt me through her. The thought is enough.'' That...whoa. ''Vyrt...do you really think I''d harm an innocent out of spite?'' ''You were ready to, in the Roundhouse,'' he said. ''You would have, if you hadn''t caught yourself.'' I almost spat at the thought. ''True,'' I said bitterly. ''I shouldn''t have said that...been thinking like that.'' I grabbed his wrists, lifting him up. ''But you have my word that I will not do anything to your wife. She is a good woman. She deserves rest. And...'' I looked him in the eye. ''You know what? I''ll let you visit her, if you want. I know you love each other.'' His wings twitched behind him. Burning tears scorched trails across his face. ''I thought you''d make me beg...if you didn''t refuse me.'' ''For your wife''s sake, I will not,'' I promised. * * * Rebecca Gilles had always appreciated the fact that her husband wasn''t a violent man. Some might''ve found that ridiculous - what, did she see not being beaten as a luxury? - but where were instincts and tempers were concerned, you took what you could, and were glad for it. One thing she had going for her was that Leon, both sides of him, saw her as his treasure, and neither he nor his beast would have ever seriously thought about hurting her. This, however, meant that while Leon never laid a hand on her, his anger still had to go somewhere, and his ways of venting were usually destructive, and always loud. Dangerous to her peace of mind, if anything, but she valued that, dammit. Rebecca marched out of the house, slamming the yamadium door open maybe harder than necessary, not that she cared. She''d arrived home to see Leon chopping wood barehanded, and he''d grunted something incomprehensible, before saying they''d talk later, if she didn''t mind. She''d indulged him, unsure what was happening, and had waited for him to cool off, so on edge herself she hadn''t even changed out of her uniform.. He hadn''t cooled off. Leon''s head whipped in her direction, his deep, dark eyes full of unfocused rage. None of it directed at her, so at least it wasn''t her fault. It really, really pissed her off when he acted mute, leaving her to fill in the gaps, but she didn''t want a shouting match. He looked...hurt. Contrary to the hybrid form he spent most of his time in, cementing his status as one of the most disciplined, not to mention unique weres alive, Leon as a human looked ordinary, almost forgettable. Dark complexion, grey beard and hair tied in a short, practical ponytail. Not that tall, and muscular in that wiry way older men who''d worked with their hands all their lives often were, he was dressed in a pair of tattered jeans and a faded shirt, whose colour had disappeared alongside its pattern. His moccasins were covered in mud. Leon took in her uniform, as he often did, and asked nothing, as always. The only thing he knew about his wife''s job was that she got to heal people less often than she''d have liked, but hurt those who deserved it often enough to suck it up and go on. He''d never pried, just as she''d never been nosy about his job. She''d only learned about his rank and peers after a few incidents during joint operations, involving the removal of particularly vicious pathogens from vulnerable agents; information that had resulted in her being sworn to silence. Rebecca gently closed the door behind her, almost apologetically, and leaned against their house''s front wall. The log cabin was only really cosy in small doses, but that was alright. Both of them spent most of their time at home outside, which was really the first thing that came to mind here, in the mountains. Few people knew that anyone lived here, much less who. Even fewer knew who they were at work. Rebecca crossed her arms under her breasts, and Leon didn''t even bat an eye. Bad, then. Her fox growled in the back of her mind, eager to tear down whoever had upset its mate like this, and she succeeded in keeping it at bay. Leon noticed her claws glinting in the sunset''s light, but did not comment. Instead, he slung his axe over his shoulder with a sigh equal parts guilty and frustrated. She''d have honestly appreciated the whole lumberjack thing, if he hadn''t looked like the world''s saddest grandpa. ''Can we talk now?'' she asked, a whisper inaudible to human ears, but loud as a cannon shot to theirs. His response made her hackles rise. Not because it was not verbal. She''d learned to decipher scent and gestures decades ago. Because it was the first time she''d seen her husband cry. Even during their wedding, he''d only laughed and grinned, not... She covered the ten metres between them in five milliseconds, slapping the axe he''d dropped -which hung motionless in the air, even to her human self''s perception - aside and taking his calloused hands into his. The most disturbing thing was that he wasn''t actually shedding tears: they gathered at the edges of his eyes, while his chest and shoulders trembled, wracked by silent sobs. ''Leo, I''m sorry,'' she cooed soothingly. ''I-I know you''re always saying I nag you. I promise I won''t complain again.'' She gestured at the log pile, not taking her eyes off his. ''Please. I''ll let you work this out in any way you want, just tell m-'' He pulled his hands out of hers, turning away. ''Not you,'' he growled. ''Not your fault, Becky. Don''t ever think I could get angry at you, darling. Forget my whining. It''s bullshit.'' She was damned if she was going to start wringing her hands, but it was the next best thing to getting them on whatever had upset him, and ripping it apart. ''Do you want to...can you tell me?'' She walked closer, rubbing circles on his back. ''Love, do you wanna come inside?'' Please, just tell me how I can help you...don''t tell me I can''t... ''No,'' he snapped. ''I want...I don''t want to kill her.'' His eyes yellowed as his gryphon began taking over. ''I need to. I must. But she''s already gone!'' He brought the axe down on a thick, knotted log, with more anger than force or skill, grunting derisively as the handle snapped. Gripping the axe head, he ripped it out of the wood, pressing the edge against his palm as he sat down. ''Already dead,'' he said hotly, moulding the metal like clay. ''And how? Do you know how, Becky?'' ''Leo,'' she said plaintively. ''I don''t even know who you''re talking about.'' He looked baffled for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. ''Ah...so only I remembered? Yes...I suppose it was only for me. But I hoped...'' He leaned backwards, groaning. ''It was when Silva got everyone to work together...'' He rolled his shoulders, pulverised the axe head with a twitch, then put one hand on his knee, propping his chin in the other. ''You know how I always talked your ears off with stories of "my nana"?'' She almost flinched at the coldness in his words, but did not miss the emphasis. ''What did she do?'' Rebecca asked. ''What did you remember?'' Leon laughed bleakly before answering. ''The bitch...I grew up in a residential school, true enough. But I didn''t end up there because my parents were crooks, who couldn''t and didn''t deserve to raise me. And it wasn''t the happy little haven I thought it was, until today. They made me think that, Rebecca.'' He was pacing now, talons appearing where his fingers had been. ''Filled my head with those poisonous lies, when they dragged me into that hell.'' ''You were brainwashed?'' she asked, horrified. ''Your files...they''re all fake, then.'' He scoffed, almost scornfully. ''No shit. Couldn''t commit that to memory, not as the country grew more enlightened, more civilised.'' A stomp pulverised the log he''d sat on, almost as an afterthought. ''And you know how they did it? It wasn''t some complicated process. Shit wasn''t even planned.'' His chuckle was a caw, almost a croak. ''Got hit in the head so hard I fainted - by that old bitch, no less - and woke up dumber. Easy to manipulate. That''s what kills me...the lie I''ve lived? It''s the result of an accident. An afterthought. Just a way to make another happy little drone.'' She took one of his arms into hers, pressing it to her chest, over her heart. ''I don''t care,'' she whispered. ''This changes nothing. Don''t think I''d have loved you less, if I''d known.''If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. He was crying as he smiled, running a hand through her short grey hair. ''Of course not, sweetheart.'' He pressed his forehead to hers, and she couldn''t tell whose tears covered her face. ''I know. I''m blessed to be with you, and nothing will ever change that. But I can''t let this stand.'' He kissed her, briefly, then strode away from her, producing Ravenstooth. She knew for a fact it hadn''t been on his person until then, and not just because his clothes lacked pockets; she''d have sensed it. But the dagger belonged to him as much as his own claws, so it would always come to him, regardless of where or when the wielder or the weapon was. ''I raged and ranted so much, when the Raven told me,'' Leon murmured, tracing the triangular dagger''s thick, stone edge with a finger. ''The very first thing I remembered. He only talked about it obliquely, of course; things I''d forgotten because I''d been made to, but I didn''t listen. The Raven was a trickster...should''ve realised he''d meant it, when he didn''t come back for his tooth.'' He tossed the weapon into the air with a flick of his wrist, caught it by the tip, and repeated the motion. ''Or do anything to make me give it back. Tch...'' Leon grew as he spoke, and Rebecca only noticed he''d switched his casual clothes for a pair of ARC combat pants by the time black fur sprouted out of his skin. Must''ve gone inside the house, changed and came back faster than she could see. Leon''s legs bent as he transformed, the knees inverting and the feet becoming paws. His hands became they yellow, black-clawed talons of a bald eagle, so large Ravenstooth looked like a toy in his grip, and a long tail, ending in a tuft of hair, swiped the air beneath a pair of great black wings. Leon turned his white-feathered head to regard her. His ears, which seemed permanently perked up, twitched irritably. His sharp, yellow beak barely moved as he spoke. ''Rebecca...I know you want me to calm down and talk about this. I wish I could, too, but I can''t, dear. Not now. I need to kill...hurt someone, at least, or I swear to every damned god there is, I''ll tear myself apart.'' Rebecca tried to grab one of his hands at the hoarse proclamation, but he waved her off. ''I''ll...I dunno when I''ll come back, love. I''ll never lay a finger on you, but I won''t spend time around you like this. I know you can''t stand it. Fuck...I can barely stand myself, knowing how you must feel.'' His beak curved into a bloodthirsty smile. ''Hope whoever I break will scream, before the end. Wouldn''t want to come home angry.'' And with a beat of his wings, he was gone. Rebecca watched the sky for half a millisecond, knowing full well he''d left her sight, then went inside and sat down on their bed, face in her hands. Eventually, she took out her phone, still palming her face with her other hand. ''Sam? It''s Rebecca...no. You''re about to have a shitty day at work.'' She paused, then scoffed at his question. ''Precognitive, my arse. Because Leo is already having one, and I can guess where he''s going.'' * * * Usually, Samuel Shiftskin kept the doors of his perception open just a crack, because, frankly, he did not need to see everything all the time (it would''ve made his already stellar opinion of people so good, he might''ve just died of joy), and besides, his instincts ripped them of their hinges whenever necessary, no effort needed, warnings given or thanks expected. Currently, he was watching one of his least favorite people knock two of his senior agents around, close to a red supergiant located nine and a half thousand light years from Earth. Sam was sure Gilles would''ve said he''d chosen the place because it was barren, if asked, but he probably just wanted something big to break. He knew the feeling. Some days, creation entire seemed too small for him, and his hunger for destruction. He''d never thought he could relate to the weregryph. In other circumstances, this might''ve even made him like Gilles, but he could feel the were''s emotions, clear as day even from this distance. There was no savage, honest joy of fighting there. Only a spiteful, hurt anger. Its taste on his tongue made Sam''s mouth curl. And not just because it felt so similar to the venomous hatred of his youth; dimly, he realised he was bothered by Gilles felling like that, because it did not suit him. The wendigo had to consider whether he actually liked the stuffy bastard when he found himself pitying him. He pushed his chair backwards and stood up, ready to go at a moment''s notice. He should''ve known Becky wouldn''t disturb him on a chance. Her hunches were almost always right. And she''d never sounded so concerned about her husband, or so angry at...hmm. Being unable to help him? Sam considered the thought, and decided it was pretty likely. He neither wanted nor liked to one-up the poor woman, but he couldn''t sit by with his thumb up his ass, either. Even if she hadn''t called him. Besides; how often was he gonna get asked to kick Gilles'' ass? * * * Binesi stared blankly as Gilles walloped Lena Steiner once more, sending her flying nearly five hundred times faster than light. Despite the Austrian weredrake''s frigid demeanour, she had a foul temper that was only surpassed by her distaste for fools. She''d grokked that their boss had been looking to indulge himself more than actually train since before he''d thrown the first punch. But then, Binesi had picked up on the fact something was wrong pretty quickly, too, when he''d asked them to open a portal to UY Scuti rather than simply use one of ARC''s training rooms. The prophetically-named thunderbird had often heard about the were urge for naturalness, and even felt it themselves, but this was a bit overblown, not to mention shady. ''Come on!'' Gilles demanded through the aether. ''Come at me - both of you! You clearly ain''t gonna do shit on your own!'' Binesi rolled their eyes, clutching their staff - a remnant, and object of focus, from when they''d been a mage and nothing more - and lazily waved a wing in the weregryph''s direction. The supernatural wind roared through the void of space as if it were a cavern, hitting Gilles'' face like a concentrated hypernova. Since he''d disabled his invulnerability, claiming he wanted to feel like he was really fighting, for once, the wind ripped enough feathers from his face to reveal raw skin. Binesi had only a hundredth of a nanosecond to take in the unusual sight of Leon Gilles hurt, even if slightly, before the remaining force of the magical gust continued behind him. Much reduced, it barely managed to scatter UY Scuti''s mass, putting it out like a candle in a whirlwind and leaving only a few flecks of relativistic matter. Gilles shot them a disappointed look, but not for long. Two hundredths of a nanosecond later, Lena''s jaws clamped shut above and below him. The weredrake being in her natural form, the effect was much like being crushed between two neutronium mountains, their peaks pressing against and breaking Gilles'' limbs. Grunting, he forced her mouth open with a flex, shattering the mountain-sized fangs and sending her body spinning into space. Lena, who rarely had the chance to use her country-spanning beast form on Earth, quickly decided that whatever this was, it was neither entertaining as an outing, nor instructive as a training exercise. She sneered, sending a burst of coldflame at the gryphon, who met it with open arms. Flesh that would''ve treated liquid helium as a crisp breeze froze to the bone, then the marrow followed. The cloud of frozen dust rearranged into an unimpressed Gilles picoseconds later. The white-scaled, blue-eyed weredrake matched his glare with one of her own. Gilles quickly turned to Binesi instead, arms crossed. ''Why didn''t you hit me like you meant it?'' ''I did,'' the were-thunderbird replied. ''I''d say I ruffled your feathers, sir, but I think someone beat me to the punch.'' Gilles, who was fairly humourless at the best of times, did not even mention the sass. ''You waved a wingtip. Put your fucking back into it! Hurt me!'' ''Why?!'' Binesi demanded. ''What''s got you so worked up you think pain will solve it?'' ''Binesi,'' he scowled. ''I order you to hurt me. Or, you can open a portal into my office, and receive your dismissal.'' Setting their jaw, they waved their right wing at Gilles, the gust ripping his feathers and skin apart, revealing the muscles of his chest. The aftermath reduced thousands upon thousands of stars to nothing, their stars instantly, impossibly, flickering out of sight in the background. ''Again,'' Gilles demanded. Both of Binesi''s wings snapped forward, tearing the weregryph into scattered particles. The swathe of destruction it tore through the Milky Way was the length and breadth of any of its spiral arms. When Gilles healed, an instant later, he had a considering look on his face. ''You still have your staff,'' he mused. ''I know it focused your magic. Makes it stronger.'' Binesy almost wanted to break the length of wood over his head, but the thunderbird skull that topped it would''ve objected. ''I''m not wiping out Andromeda for your amusement, sir,'' they snapped, at the same time beating their wings and reversing time across the galaxy, so that it was pristine once more. ''You don''t want this fight, anyway. I can tell.'' Gilles bristled, flying closer to the were mage, the better to glare at them. Binesi''s eyes, which varied from yellow to blue, were the blank white of lightning as they looked at Gilles. Their dark plumage rose and flattened constantly in agitation. ''Are you calling me a coward?'' ''If you''d wanted a real fight,'' Lena answered the Head''s question instead. ''You''d have taken your silver gauntlets. Pulled some tricks with that flint shank. Please, don''t try to mislead us.'' ''What she means,'' Binesi added. ''Is that you seem to want something else, sir. You don''t...like violence. You never have.'' ''You''ve always seen it as a temptation at best,'' Lena flatly reminded him. ''Or tantamount to giving in to your beast at worst.'' Gilles looked between them, smirking sardonically. ''If you two knew what I wanted, you''d know I can''t get it. You wouldn''t be judging me now, either.'' ''Help us understand, then,'' Binesi said. ''We''re two of the strongest Luna agents - so what? I doubt we''ve sated whatever''s taken hold of you. Do you think the others want you to bang their heads together when we go back, because you''re upset?'' Lena returned to her hybrid form, and was trying to loom over Gilles, despite their equal heights. ''I...know how much you love us, sir. Even those you''ve put down, because they were too feral or hurt to go on. And we''re grateful...'' ''But,'' Binesi seized the chance, reasoning they''d have time to boggle at the weredrake opening up later. ''That doesn''t mean letting you go through this. You''re hurting yourself too, sir. You''ve always cared for us. Won''t you let us do the same, and help you?'' As he looked at Binesi''s extended, taloned hand, I approached him, unseen and unperceived by the senior Luna agents of Austria and the US. ''Sir,'' I whispered to him through the aether. ''I''m sorry I didn''t do this earlier,'' I couldn''t tell him working part of his anger out by himself was necessary to begin healing. It wouldn''t have helped his mood, and I''d have sounded like a cunt. ''But I''m here now. You know what I''ve become?'' ''Keeper of...DEATH, right? The Idea of Endings,'' he answered, gesturing for the other weres to return to Earth; he''d find his way back quickly with Ravenstooth. His voice cracked as he spoke again. ''Can you help me? I...I heard you only handle a-agnostics an'' the like-'' I manifested physically, taking the were''s hands into mine to steady him. ''Sir, look at me, please,'' I said gently, and he did, eyes brimming with tears. His beak was shaking with suppressed rage and hope that may yet prove false. I wanted to hug him, but he''d have taken it as belittling. Touch wasn''t a good idea, at the moment. ''The woman who crippled you, Nora Gilles,'' I said, my own voice trembling, though I was reining in my temper better than the Luna Head. Not a high bar, admittedly. ''Might''ve acted Christian, in public, but she never was. She often said that, if she could do what she did, how was God real?'' Gilles'' eyes were far away, only a faint hint of disgust showing through. ''Fucking changed my name for her...treated the worm like my goddamn grandmother!'' he shrieked. ''I...I w-was so happy when I learned she''d died of old age, p-praised as the teacher of generations of poor children, who''d she introduced into society.'' He spat, head swaying wildly. ''Saw everything through rose-coloured glasses...thought my classmates were just being pessimistic, the poor bastards...now I see things clearly. David,'' he almost whined, looking down at me. ''I swear on my marriage I''ll take back every bad thing I''ve ever said or t-thought about you if you promise me she''s suffering.'' ''No need to bribe me, sir,'' I joked softly. ''I''ll do you one better: let you take justice in your own hands.'' He looked at me, grateful but suspicious, sniffling. ''Ain''t you s''pposed to turn the other cheek and all ''at?'' Remember, children: when you have questions of faith, always go to the strigoi with an agnostic girlfriend and more issues than most comics. ''There are fewer sins worse than letting cruelty like that stand unpunished. I''m working my way through a fairly large crowd of people DEATH hasn''t punished properly. You''d recognise some. I might let you have a go at them too.'' Hmm...guided tours? Here are your past tormentors, helpless to fight back. Break them as much as you want, I can and will put them back together. It was Gilles who hugged me, rather than the reverse. His chest was like the world''s sharpest pillow. ''Thank you, David,'' he whimpered. ''I don''t care what the others say. Your heart''s in the right place.'' Suffice to say, Gilles got what he wanted soon after. What followed was a meeting between me and the Heads, then the festivity proposed by Yua Yamada. A celebration, partly of the fact we were still around, partly because of what could happen from now on. Politicians and gods and national agency leaders, oh my! But before the meeting, let us review the journeys of a few more...partygoers. * * * Raj Anand was familiar with homecomings after battle. Or struggle, in this case, although...hmm. It had definitely felt like a battle between everything and nothing, and he didn''t think anyone would be uncharitable enough to criticise him for using the metaphor. Raj knew that, after a hard mission, you cam home tired, mentally if not physically, too tired to properly be happy until you rested, much less celebrate the fact you were still alive, or your success. If there was any. For him, such homecomings consisted of his Naya and their children, and more descendants than he could speak to in one night. This wasn''t like that. It wasn''t that his wife wouldn''t understand his joy, or the fear of what had almost come to pass (or the grief at what had, dictated by need), but...this was the proper way. The Lord had to be addressed first, for all His omniscience. Especially now, that things were settling down. Dharma found him resting above the Garbhodaka, as always, floating on the Causal Ocean amidst the coils of his friend and servant. Like the Shesha of each universe held all the planets in said cosmos on its hoods, so did this greater Shesha hold all cosmoses, like a row of crowns. Or so it seemed, at times. Raj''s perception struggled with the scale, in terms of both space and time. Brahmas came and went, hundreds of trillions of years as brief as a lightning flash in the Ocean, while innumerable universes, infinite in size and covered in seven layers, each ten times thicker than the last, came out of the pores of Mahavishnu, floating inside Him like atoms in a cosmos. Dharma sat down on the Causal waves, crossing his legs. For a moment, he moved as if he was going to lie on his back, ankles crossed, like the Lord Himself. Mahavishnu favoured him with a smile, turning his gaze from Mahamaya to Raj. One of his arms stroked Shesha''s hoods as he spoke. ''My friend. You think you have come to put my heart at ease. In truth, it is I who will soothe yours.'' Raj nodded. ''Perhaps. I...am so grateful...'' For a moment, the image of the Lord wavered, and Raj had the sensation of floating in a boundless, bountiful emptiness, like a drop of water about to fall into an ocean. His soul wavered, but he quickly recovered, and the Lord was there again, in His...more familiar aspect, watching him expectantly. Dharma shook his head, eyes screwed shut as he pressed a hand over his frantic heart. Never good at his age, immortal as he was. ''I am so grateful,'' he repeated. ''That You saw fit to...'' Raj trailed off as the Lord raised a hand, stopping him. ''Hush. Separation is an illusion, so I will speak as you understand: it was you, and people like you, who prevented the greatest tragedy there could have been.'' Dharma blinked owlishly, unsure if he was being tested. ''Lord...the last time I tried to help the world at large, someone else solved the problem. And before that, I failed to do anything meaningful.'' ''You look for meaning, when reality is changeless.'' Mahavishnu clicked His tongue, then allowed Himself to chuckle. ''I am moving further from the words you must hear. Raj, your participation in the quest for the Spider brought relief to many, who feared the bonds between nations were unravelling. As for your alleged failure...have you forgotten that your power brings your assailants to the fates they deserve? The Crawling Chaos restrained you, so you could not act, and what is it doing now?'' Raj lowered his eyes at the rhetorical question. ''I have thought about that,'' he admitted. ''But to think myself the reason for its defeat seemed...arrogant.'' Mahavishnu did not comment, His eyes drifting from his visitor to His companions. ''You should be home, tending to your hearth, before the world comes together in gratefulness.'' ''...May I ask a question, before I go?'' ''A second one, then. Ask.'' ''My power.'' Dharma''s hands felt clammy, for some reason. As if he were leaning on the edge of a pit, or about to learn a harsh truth. ''It is not magical, I know, but I''ve never received a straight answer. I...have always thought, I was empowered to deliver justice, for the innocent, to the guilty. But I have also thought that, maybe, I''ve come into contact with an Idea, been empowered without knowing.'' Mahavishnu''s eyes moved once more, transfixing Dharma. He swallowed drily. ''People can''t agree, so I thought I might as well ask...is there a difference between Atman and one''s Archetype?'' The deity''s serious expression brightened immediately, and His chest shook softly from His crystalline laugh. ''You ask one question, despite having two...and then you say...'' The god beckoned him closer. ''Raj...you think you know about the Ultimate Self, and the Ultimate Reality...by design, you cannot know them and remain yourself, much less teach about them after. However...'' A blue-skinned, elegant hand was pressed to his brow. ''Everyone had such a close brush with false moksha. Becoming nothing, so far from enlightenment? You do not perceive how much you have helped, Raj. But that is no problem. You will.'' * * * Anyone who had known Sun Wukong in life, or who had only met his Nirmanakaya, might''ve been shocked to meet his Sambhogakaya. While the avatars he sent into creation were reminiscent of himself before reaching Buddhahood, his truer - though not truest - self was far more reserved than one may have expected from the Monkey King, even after he had remade himself. Sun whistled something jaunty, but deliberately tuneless, as he walked to Tathagata''s mountain. His former nemesis'' abode in the Buddha realm reminded him, if anything, of his mountain prison, but he preferred not to think about that. Tathagata would''ve probably worked as a warden if he''d been human, though. The other Buddha was waiting for him at the peak, legs folded. He was surrounded by clouds, creating a vista so serene, Sun was surprised he didn''t hear one of those gongs people imagined were relaxing. Tathagata''s eyes were closed as Sun sat down opposite him, mirroring his pose, and setting the improved replica of Ruyi across his thighs. He didn''t even wrinkle his nose anymore. ''Monkey,'' he greeted. ''Would you like to come?'' Sun asked bluntly, having figured out there wasn''t going to be any new subject for small talk on the way up. ''Mm,'' Tathagata opened one eye, and something like a smile seemed to sneak across his face. He then closed his eye, expression becoming neutral once more. ''We are beyond such things as enjoyment, Monkey.'' ''I was asking if you''re going to come,'' Sun deadpanned. ''Not encouraging you to be smarmy.'' ''And what would an avatar accomplish?'' Tathagata asked, both eyes open, though only halfway through. ''I would spread enlightenment, if it wasn''t for the almost sure chance of it being seen as a power grab.'' ''Surely not even you can remain stolid now?'' Sun asked. ''Everyone came within a hair''s breadth of dissolution while ignorant.'' ''And that would''ve been a tragedy,'' Tathagata replied. ''And I am as glad it did not happen as you are. That does not change the fact I have nothing to do at that festivity.'' ''Don''t you?'' the Buddha Victorious in Strife prodded. ''You know very well what I mean. Enlightenment can only be gained, not given.'' ''Unlike advice.'' ''Quite,'' Tathagata replied. ''But people do not want advice now. They want to enjoy the present, and reminisce of the past, not think of the future.'' The words had a strange resonance in the Buddha realm, as could only be expected. Compared to its inhabitants, all things and their causes, much like duality, were mere illusions. And the Dharmakaya...Buddhas arose from and returned to its pearl-like radiance that held a myriad things, beyond form, void and no-emptiness. Wukong thought of that, tapping the end of his staff. Finally, he jumped to his feet. ''Well,'' the Monkey King smiled. ''I''m still going.'' ''You mean you''re manifesting there.'' ''It is good I have no joy to kill.'' * * * Whenever he was at his grandpa''s place, Ritsu spent most of the time wandering around. Not because he had somewhere to go, or even because there was some nook or cranny he hadn''t discovered yet; he just couldn''t stand still. This had often resulted in him coming face to face with strange sights and stranger people. Less often, in recent years. It looked like that trend was about to be bucked. ''Hello, lad.'' Bushido''s smile was almost as disturbing as it was wide. Ritsu got the feeling he wasn''t used to making that expression, unless psycho grimaces counted. But then, he didn''t usually take his armour off around the house, either. Bushido was only wearing a pair of white hakama pants, one leg crossed over the other as he delicately moved a brush across a wooden square set on the floor. The man looked like he was in his late fifties (so, what, a third of his actual age?), with white-streaked grey hair tied up in a bun. Ritsu didn''t laugh. He didn''t want Bushi to shove that brush up his unmentionables, not to mention, he was sure the bun looked very manly in the right light. His short beard was equally grizzled, though his moustache was longer, the whiskers not meeting in the middle. Ritsu wracked his brain for what the style was called, noticed Bushi was way less hairy than he''d expected, with his age and habits (still looked like he was wearing razor wire, of course), and gave up. ''Uh, hi,'' he said eloquently. ''I didn''t know you paint...'' He took a look around the empty living room, in case anyone was filming this prank. ''Um...you need anything?'' ''I''m painting your grandfather''s wedding,'' Bushido said patiently, not answering the question. ''And you couldn''t draw more than a stick figure to save your life.'' Ah, there it was. Artfully dodging the shade before it could reach his ego, Ritsu crossed his arms. ''Fair enough. Sooo...I''ll be going, then-'' ''Why not sit with me?'' Bushido asked brightly, eyes back to his painting. ''We can talk, or not. I''d like to spend some time together. I hope to do it more often.'' Ah, and here was the inevitable threat. ''Bushi,'' he said evenly. ''Can you at least tell me if this is a test? Not that I don''t wanna end up eating floor again, but I really don''t.'' Bushido laughed, an it actually resembled a human sound, rather than the mad dog''s bark Ritsu had grown accustomed with during particularly bloody joint ops or training sessions. ''Please, call me Ren,'' he said warmly. ''No, I''m not testing you. Can''t I spend time with my family?'' ''No, no, that''s fine, it''s just...'' Ritsu floundered. ''What''s changed? You used to be so...passionate...'' ''You mean a paranoid xenophobe? Yes, I used to be,'' Ren agreed. ''Your grandfather meant well, but he cared less about how he brought his brother from another mother back than doing it. Specifically, he bound me to the Idea that had so enamoured Japan during its belated attempts at imperialism.'' He tapped his temple with the brush''s handle. ''Did you know, the only reason they didn''t call me Banzai was because it would''ve offended sensibilities?'' ''Thank the gods you never did that during your career,'' Ren managed with a straight face, before they both burst out laughing. ''Yes...we must thank them, indeed. I intend to do it in person. Your grandmother had a wonderful idea. But...mhm. See, my power bonded improperly with my mindset at the moment I was empowered. It made me act like, well, our soldiers did in World War Two. Horrible time. At least Kenji keeps turning away everyone who proposes to downplay the war crimes.'' Ritsu rolled his eyes. He''d seen some of the proposals in question. Gave a whole new meaning to textbook lies. ''Let them try. We have to own up to our bullshit if we don''t want to keep repeating it.'' At Ren''s quiet nod, he leaned against the doorframe, admiring the Tokyo skyline through the window. It was actually too opaque for human eyes, but he was hellbound. ''So...family.'' ''Kenji might be a manipulative twat,'' Ren said. ''And you might be a little snot, but I love you both. He''s the brother I never asked for, if only because I can''t give him back.'' Ritsu nodded. ''I think I can guess what brought this change. Gotta ask, though...did anything change, besides the fact you''re mellow?'' Ren set down his brush, stretching as he rose to his feet. ''My power escalation used to be passive.'' Ritsu returned his enigmatic smirk. ''Let me call the other geezers, alright? And maybe Masako, if she''s free.'' * * * It took just over a second for Rai to circle Saturn six hundred times, with Bushido remaining a few steps ahead of him all the while. The thunder Oni might''ve grown faster over the decades, but it looked like the samurai could not set his own speed. Bushido finally slowed down, allowing Rai to bring down a clenched fist on top of his head. Which, while reducing the planet to clouds of plasma scarcely slower than light, did not even ruffle Ren''s hair. Neither did the far stronger kanabo swing, which sent him flying at Jupiter, though the follow-up thunderbolt did singe his beard while blasting him through the gas giant and atomising it. After that, Rai threw in the towel, much like Masako Agawa had. The leader of the Rising Suns'' Hiroshima branch, the woman enjoyed fighting a good deal less than her reputation might''ve suggested, and got bored quickly when she didn''t actually have to beat someone. The Oni quickly left the identical replica of the universe through a convenient portal, joining Ritsu and Masako on the bench. Four times taller than the former and appropriately broad, his yellow-skinned, muscular body shone dully in the low light. Rai scratched at his gut as he sat down on the floor, arranging his tiger skin loincloth carefully, followed by his bristling white mane. Masako grinned at him, which accentuated her lip piercing, as well as the one in her tongue and her half-dozen earrings. She landed on the Oni''s round belly like it was a trampoline, and he sighed in resignation, patting her head as she bounced. She''d been much the same as a child. Just...smaller. Now, she was two and a half metres tall by default and built like a brick shithouse, which her white uniform and overcoat failed to hide, despite being meant to be baggy. Masako differed from most supernaturals, not in terms of endless regeneration or immunity to esoteric effects, but in the sense her powers were genetic in origin; bleed over from experiments during her scientists'' parents stay at a North Pole research base. The first thing she''d done after birth had been to pulverise a Japan-sized, hand-shaped crater that had reached through Earth''s core, all the way to the other side of the planet. They''d fixed it quickly, right before teaching the baby not to slap the ground. Bushido had actually started the exercise by asking her to repeat her "birth slap", which she''d done with a laugh, breaking his nose and jaw. After jumping back, clearing thousands of kilometres in scant centiseconds, he''d ramped up, so that, even when she''d punched him like she meant it, turning the Earth beneath them to superheated dust, he didn''t flinch. Masako had yawned and went to warm the bench after that. Her main power, to double her height (which octupled her mass, strength, durability and speed, as appropriate, alongside proportionately enlarging the rest of her body) indefinitely, would''ve just led to a stalemate. Knowing that was what Bushido wanted, she''d passed. Ritsu had declined to spar for similar reasons, and not just because Shuten-doji was being lazy. Instead, he''d watched as the leader of the Rising Suns'' southern section tested himself against the leaders of the eastern, western and northern sections. And Yua, of course. She couldn''t bear to be left out of the fun. Not when fighting a Bushido who wouldn''t be a sore loser or winner, no matter what happened. So, even when Yuki sent him flying past the farthest star visible from Earth''s sky, putting it and all the others out in a gale that froze Ren to the bone, she matched the samurai''s silent laugh. Even when Bushido crossed blades with Kage, edges that would''ve cut all matter in the universe combine grinding against each other in a stalemate, her grin didn''t falter. The tengu, seeing his shadow constructs couldn''t ignore Bushido''s durability like they did with mundane matter, animated the samurai''s own shadow, creating an indestructible doppelganger with the exact same powers, under his control. This was Kage''s power: he could control all shadows, and those of people and objects mirrored their abilities to the smallest detail. Ren was entertained enough to crack a few jokes about shadow boxing, before abandoning the stalemate to begin another one. After having her physical prowess matched when Bushido ramped up, Yua resorted to copying a myriad abilities, including those of beings with multiple powers, or who could copy and gain new abilities themselves. The two had a blast, snapping timelines like rubber bands whenever they clashed as they pushed the simulation''s boundaries, before being separated by an amused Kenji. ''Enough roughhousing, I think,'' he murmured, wiping his bloody hands on a rag even as his wife and best friend''s skulls regenerated. Having them smashed together before they could react had done nothing to their smiles. He was unsurprised. ''Can''t believe I had to use one of my good bodies.'' As the spar ended, Ritsu watched Bushido with crossed arms, while Masako stroked her chin in thought. Ren''s brow furrowed when he saw them. ''What are you brats pouting about?'' ''Nothing,'' Masako answered. ''Just...'' ''Why do you always use a naginata?'' Ritsu asked. ''It''s kinda awkward for how much you like to get stuck in, not to mention a katana would look cooler.'' Bushido scoffed. ''A mere sidearm! What man have you seen making his kills with, say, a pistol?'' ''John Rambo,'' Masako smirked. ''John McClane,'' Ritsu answered. ''John Wick,'' Yua added, arranging her hair. Ren glared at each in turn, before turning to Rai just as he opened his mouth. ''If you mention another John, I''ll shove you into one!'' Unsure what Bushido was actually referring to, but fully believing he''d keep his promise, the Oni complied. * * * ''Why me?'' Mocker asked (not griped, as it insisted) through the Collective''s network. ''We are fond of you,'' the Shaper admitted in a tone that didn''t even try to hide amusement. ''Consider this a chance to redeem yourself, after the negotiations. We are not disappointed in you,'' it added firmly, before Mocker could comment. ''But we know you have blamed yourself. This will be an excuse to stop.'' Mocker opened its mouth, then closed it, genegineered fangs splitting air molecules before grinding against each other. Sometimes, the candor and closeness between the reptilians and their creations felt almost detrimental, when one did not want to burden their fellows, but what was the alternative? Being alone in their own thoughts, unconnected, like the humans? Mocker''s scales crawled at the thought. Half a millisecond having passed since it had almost protested, it decided to indulge the Shaper instead. While trapped in their cages of enforced reality, the Unbeings had been restless. Not because they had been tormented -the Collective never used more cruelty than necessary -, but because the environment had been...not toxic. Alien to them, then? Disturbing? The reptilians'' scans hadn''t revealed anything that could be interpreted as a change in the formless aberrants'' health; a debate had followed, with some voting about changing the Unbeings'' mode of containment, others insisting it remain unchanged, but most suggesting patience: they''d change it, if necessary, as things developed. But something had changed, without their interference. The Unbeings, frenzied and unresponsive in their reality cages, had stopped smashing against the walls to stand up and communicate. They were surprisingly eloquent, though Mocker hypothesised they''d learned mostly from the reptilians'' attempts to reach through to them. Considering they could switch from dimensioned, if esoteric, to dimensionless at will, the ability to mimic mannerisms was hardly difficult to accept. That was how Mocker found itself standing in front of one of thee reality cages. Made of spacetime reinforced by the Collective''s quantum entanglement-derived abilities, it was large enough to contain both the Milky Way and Andromeda, with the natural distance between them included, and still have space. Which only made sense, given the cell''s occupant was larger than the Condor Galaxy by default, and with far more "arms" on average. This particular Unbeing had actually called for Mocker. Apparently, it had been quite charmed, or perhaps intrigued, by its...dissimilarity to the rest of the Collective. Most of them deferred to the Shaper more easily, and treated it with more respect. Usually, Mocker would''ve been loudly offended at being considered interesting due to being, as the humans would''ve said, weird. Circumstances not permitting, it fumed quietly. The Unbeing had been tridimensional upon Mocker''s arrival, heavier than all the universe''s stars combined. A crimson and purple, amorphous creature, like a mutated, bloated starfish, it had turned, trillions of times faster than light, to face its guest. The Unbeing''s tendrils seemed to be arms and legs, pinchers and wings and more, all at once. Its surface, if it could be called that, was covered in irregularly-shaped orifices, beaks erupting out of suckers and surrounded by mandibles, filled with flat, blocky teeth and needle fangs. All of these features changed constantly, until, finally, the Unbeing settled on one form. Mocker was reminded of a human picking clothes out of their wardrobe. The Unbeing''s hue remained the same, though its shape changed, so that it looked like the silhouette of a reptilian. But for the colouring and lack of features, it could''ve been any member of the Collective. A slit appeared across the triangular protrusion that mimicked a beak, before yawning into a snarl...no. A smile? ''We thank you,'' it began, in a surprisingly normal voice. ''We want to more than we must-'' ''Are you a speaker for your fellows?'' Mocker asked bluntly, cutting off what promised to be an incomprehensible tirade. ''You cannot communicate with them like this, so the arrangement must''ve been made before.'' The Unbeing cocked its head to the side, unnaturally far, until it was almost upside down. ''If your quarks started thinking for themselves, would you be a crowd? No matter. Think of us as an union, if it helps you. A...collective.'' ''Watch it.'' Its smile became sheepish at the warning. ''No insult was intended. As we said, we are grateful.'' ''What for?'' Mocker asked, hands on its hips, already bored. ''Before, we could not...think. As we do now. As you do. Your minds are quite clear, for things of clockwork and stardust.'' ''The imprisonment helped?'' Mocker was curious, and so, had decided not to try and decipher the probably backhanded compliment. ''Oh, yes. Nothing like isolation and confinement, to focus the mind. We will not ask you to release us, though we would appreciate it if you did...'' seeing the reptilian''s unimpressed look at the sly insinuation, it shrugged. A remarkably normal gesture, for such an exotic aberrant. ''As you wish. We are quite at peace here. Peace, and work.'' ''What manner of work?'' It did not answer right away, instead looking through, or perhaps past Mocker, and the cage, and the Collective. ''Bettering ourselves, of course. The only kind of work there has ever been. No one does anything to diminish themselves, no matter what appearances might suggest, or what they might fool themselves into thinking.'' It cleared its nonexistent throat. ''As we were saying, before, we worked on...instinct. Or is it reflex? We could not bear anything not of the Unrealm, and our very presence was corrosive to mundane reality. Why, if I did not control myself, I could turn the largest galaxy of this universe into a storm of spaceless, timeless unreality, just by existing in it. Our captivity...has helped us think. Ponder the Second Revelation, when our Redeemer forced our eyes open.'' ''What and who?'' Mocker asked, thoughts already running through the archives for any references to this. The Unbeing seemed delighted to talk about it, however. ''The Keeper of Endings! He made us see as everyone else does, and here, cut off from creation, we contemplated that Revelation, as significant as the First.'' ''And what was your First Revelation?'' Mocker asked, glad it loved the sound of its own voice. ''Oh, it would do nothing for you, if you heard it, and not just because you are already beyond us. Self-perception has only ever been half of it. We know you always want to improve yourselves, but you will have to do that on your own. You...hmm...most think their Idea shapes them, rather than the reverse. How could people be moulded by what they are, rather than choose what they are? It is quite nonsensical, you must admit...'' * * * What separated the Great Powers of the greater (unobserved or unobservable, depending on the asker, and the answerer) universe from the Lesser Powers was not necessarily their military prowess, or influence - though they certainly played a role - as the territory they controlled. As such, half of the universe''s reaches were split between the Honoured Kratocracy, the Unity Stellar and the Multitude of Minds, and half between the countless Lesser Powers. The fact the former still stood, mostly unchallenged, after billions of years, while the latter constantly rose and fell, also played a role in their classification. This meant that the Kratocrats had hundreds of trillions of galaxies under their control, and more stars than they could do anything with; not in the lest because they didn''t need them. As a rule, the Vyzhaldi did not share their worlds or space stations with other species. They had outposts in the territory of the Lesser Powers for that: once established after the conquest of weaker aliens, then because the Vyzhaldi wanted a presence, and a way to keep an eye on things, and boots on throats, or they would invade. In more recent times, with the Builder School gaining popularity, the Vyzhaldi maintained garrisons, exchanging protection for interesting local fighters, constructs or materials. In their own territory, though, they industrialised worlds, unless it was detrimental to the existence of interesting fauna to fight. They enclosed stars in Dyson spheres or Matryoshka Brains; constructs that, with the workbelts available to every Vyzhaldi, should they want one, could be built in picoseconds. Workbelts were quite simple devices, churned out by the decillion in every Vyzhaldi settlement''s factories, every nanosecond, most of them kept in subspace storage. Workbelts functioned by pulling energy and matter from other realities as necessary, reading the wearer''s thoughts, and making them reality. The Vyzhaldi mostly built stellar harvesters out of a sense of artistry. The cosmic computers were more practical (and, as such, numbered in the hundreds of septillions, outnumbering the Dyson spheres a hundred to one): besides being able to keep track of every configuration of spacetime in the cosmos, they answered questions by receiving the answers from future versions of themselves, located in alternate timelines, after they had already found the answers. Referred to by the Vyzhaldi as Starminds, these computers read the thoughts of those who approached them, coming up with answers even before questions were formulated. Smaller, portable Starminds were used as a technological alternative to Prime Responders, since the Vyzhaldi loathed having to rely on creatures who couldn''t even fight, or defend themselves. Mostly, portable Starminds were used by the Kratocracy''s Outer and Inner Guards, their border patrol and policing force, which were really only separate branches of their army during peacetime. It had been the Inner Guard that had put a stop to the recent riots, before Mother Wound decided to get involved. Consisting mostly of Balancers, the Inner Guards were the reason the Kratocracy currently numbered only eight hundred-forty octillion Vyzhaldi. The rest had been vapourised, destroyed beyond their natural, unaided regeneration, for refusing to welcome Mother Wound''s Scorn home - or still wanting to kill him, in a few cases. The Inner Guard had stepped in, clad in power armour that mimicked the colours of their shells. Everything, from their servo-enhanced punches, to the energy they could fill the universe with, or surround themselves, if needed, had been enough to vapourise the rioting Kratocrats, whether they had been as tough as planets, neutron stars, compressed galaxies, or even whether forces that would''ve erased timelines would''ve rebounded harmlessly off their hides. And, of course, the armour was impervious to anything it could unleash, so the rioters had failed to dent even a single suit. Before, there had always been grumbles about the Inner Guard being unnecessary, or overprepared. Their Second Shell armour was produced in great quantities: each of the decillion Vyzhaldi settlements had multiple factories, where enough suits of armour were produced to equip the whole Kratocracy every picosecond; the beauty of automated workbelts. There had been complaints that power you got frrom devices was dishonourable, and that, with the relative peace within the Kratocracy, they didn''t need so many warriors, with so many inexhaustible power sources for their death-bringing panoplies, to keep it. But there had never been such an uproar before, as the one over Scorn''s return home. The Vyzhaldi''s home galaxy, like all others, was enclosed by a shell of kratorium, the same material used in their power armour. It was easy to move and rearrange this way, with the gravitic projectors embedded all through its surface. It being thousands of light years thick, there was a lot of space. And so, Scorn returned to the world that had given his people their name, because they had been strong enough. Zhal, with its scorching equator, monster-filled jungles and blizzard-covered poles, was the killing world, and they were the Vyzhaldi, those who had not died to it. Mother Wound''s palace was spacious, but spartan, and Scorn didn''t recognise any of the corridors. As such, he let the Vyzhaldi who called himself Wings On His Words (with much solemnity. Scorn pitied him for his name, not that his was much better. The only defective Vyzhaldi not to be killed at birth, instead sent away to see what he would do. Scorned, it had seemed, by his silent mother), guide him. A prominent Builder, he had recently had some dealings with certain Terrans, and had convinced the Inner Guard not to execute every participant in, or supporter of, the riot. He had also convinced Mother Wound to stay put, an astounding feat with such an embarrassing name. ''...and the whole Kratocracy will have to see it,'' Wings finished the explanation, sounding slightly awkward. ''You must understand - Mother Wound is unlikely to describe whatever you two will talk about, and the people will need proof of the events, otherwise you will always be a pariah.'' ''I''m sixty-eight million years old,'' Scorn deadpanned. ''And I''ve been a runaway for most of my life. I''m not shy, nor do I have anything to hide.'' With a nod and a shrug, Wing opened the doors, ushering Scorn in the room where his mother and her bodyguards waited. * * * The Ser Gris known to Earth as Grey One had a soft, small smile on its face as it gingerly took its elder child''s hands into her own. Zlahi was similar in shape and size to it, while its younger child, Xhahal, possessed the statuesque from of the Seres Grises'' warrior caste. Two and a half metres tall, with one eye on the front and back of the head, six muscular arms rose from its shoulders, from the middle of its torso and just above its waist. Six crablike legs, three in the front, three in the back, twitched and fretted constantly. Usually disciplined, Xhahal burned with nervous energy at its parent''s return. It had even given up its mindblade, shield and plate, the ubiquitous psychic constructs of its caste, able to cleave through, reflect and stop anything the wielder believed they could, to embrace its progenitor. Grey One returned the hug, mindful of its child''s strength. Strong as a Vyzhaldi at rest, it could''ve tore through its parent like a a steel blade through water, for all that Grey would''ve been merely bruised by Earth-splitting force. Its return to the Multitude of Minds was being both broadcasted and recorded, not to mention all the Multitude''s members were in psychic communion, as always. The link thrummed with joy at its return, and guilt at failing to reach it. Grey promised it bore no one any hard feelings. Its disappearance had prompted its children to stay at home, as clerk and peacekeeper, respectively, and it was as moved by their patriotism as it was ashamed it hadn''t been there to raise them. And that was how it came to be here, with all its hundreds of septillions of fellows watching it, and its thoughts. From the other Seres Grises, whether workers, warriors, guides, diplomats or undecided; to the treelike Sertyans and floating mould colonies of the Dulumians. Even the Gardeners, larger than celestial bodies, some larger than galaxies, had manifested physically. Grey''s smile widened, as it began its tale of how it had linked minds with David Silva, Sofia Ilyich, and then everyone there had ever been and would ever be. * * * Constantin had always held a certain, bemused respect for mendicants. For doing what he had never been able to, until now. It was not that he greatly valued his worldly belongings - he had simply wanted to belong, since his childhood. Not to a place, necessarily, but...to people. But now, Uriel and the Lord pushed him forward, ever forward, looking for faithful who died craving justice and clasping them to his bosom. Uriel had scoffed at the phrasing, but Constantin had pointed out that taking people inside himself didn''t sound much better. His old duties, to guide and comfort the living, still remained, of course. But, before he settled into his role as God''s Mouth, Constantin had travelled to Heaven, to speak with Him, and... His angel could''ve been remade, yes, but she would not be. It would''ve cheapened her sacrifice. Her death undone, his faithcraft wouldn''t have awakened, and he would''ve remained a narrow-minded zealot. Constantin had nodded, and clasped his hands, and given his thanks, and left, weeping. Much like what he had expected...still, at least he had learned her name. He could cherish Sariel''s memory properly, now. Constantin''s mind was full of the image of the pearly gates, slammed close behind him, when he reached the crossroads. The symbolism was blunt. His brother must''ve been losing his touch. In his mind, he glanced at Uriel for the slipup, before turning to regard the smiling Serpent with feigned disinterest. ''Lucifer. To what do I owe the dishonour?'' The smile didn''t waver. Red flesh, rubbed raw after the skin had been flayed off during the Fall, crinkled around a fanged mouth. Raven hair fell to broad shoulders in wavy tresses, its shadows failing to hide the white flames that shone in place of eyes. ''Oh, I am not here for you. Not - just - here. Pride is not the domain of one being, so why should I have one self? I am also paying a quite interesting visit, to some not so interesting people, at the moment. But some courtesies have to be observed, Constantin.'' God''s Mouth scowled. ''You laughed when that monster ate my parents'' lives. Nothing will make up for that.'' ''I do not intend to please you, priest,'' Lucifer replied coolly. ''Though you might please me, instead. Praise me, even.'' Constantin''s surroundings became hazy and uncertain as the Serpent placed an elegant, crimson hand on his shoulder. ''I know how it feels, losing the love of your life while powerless to save her. Do you have any idea how many wives I''ve buried? The mother of my greatest son...I still have her ashes. I loved her, despite her humanity.'' Taken aback by the sincerity, Constantin stared into the Devil''s eyes, and saw nothing but regret. ''Why are you telling me...?'' ''Necessity, priest. She had to die, so her son could be born. So creation could be shaped, by him and those like him. Much like how you helped your son save us all from oblivion. Do not think me ungrateful. I''m bigoted, not insane. And I like existing. And existence. I keep some of my things here.'' Constantin shook off his hand. ''Surely you didn''t come just to tell me this.'' ''No,'' Lucifer admitted. ''I come to make a deal, as you always suspect. Worry not; I intend to tempt you, make your dream come true in return for a small favour.'' Spreading featherless, batlike wings, he seemed to tower over Constantin. ''I can bring your angel back. And I will. In exchange, you have nothing more to do than admit you were saddened by my father''s refusal to do the same, and thank me for doing it.'' Constantin studied him. ''You truly can''t stand the thought of being beneath God, can you?'' ''Do not be stupid,'' Lucifer hissed, smile becoming edged. ''I love my father more than you bootlickers ever could. His mistake of favouring mankind over my siblings and I will be rectified, in time. I do not hate him. I hate his choices, but what son doesn''t disagree with his father? You know what it is like, Constantin.'' Shifting his footing in the silence, Lucifer closed his wings around himself, extending a hand. ''What say you?'' He was already lowering it when God''s Mouth shook his head, smiling sadly. ''Of course. Suffering in silence, not to be admired, but because it is the right thing to do. You''ve even passed this...insanity on. Oh, well...I doubted you would accept. But I had to do it. I am in an unusually generous mood, however...so. From one grieving lover to another, let me tell you, instead, who you might fall in love with.'' * * * His wife was gone, and out of everyone who remembered, only he cared. She had been destroyed, for all her immortality. Not by a spiteful enemy, or great danger, but because the one who dreamt creation, in its fathomless mind, had made it so she had never been. Such a random, irreversible disaster. Solarex had tried; in those days, he had been a paragon of all the goodness and light he embodied. She could not be brought back. Every failure just reminded him that even his own actions were nothing more than dreams. As were his children. Those children he always tried to guide, to make them act like their mother would''ve wished. But they did not remember her, and grew to resent their father''s insanity, as they saw it. Some left, and never returned. Others, seeing King Sun as a threat - after all, what evil deeds could someone with his power do while mad, or deluded? - had struck at him. Tried to assassinate him. For that, or because they had grown tired of his demands. Or because they did not see him as fit to rule. And he took all their hatred on with open arms, sobbing. But his children, frustrated, could not live knowing they had betrayed their father, and not even succeeded. He knew their suicides, for all their destructiveness, were as directed as they were harmless. His heart hardened that day. What did it matter what he did, when it was all the imagination of another being? He was a puppet, same as everyone else, though far more unlucky than most. How could he be judged for his deeds, when he was forced to commit them? And why should he care, when nothing was real? Solarex brooded on his throne, staring down at his hands, rather than his guests. The Serpent and the Demiurge, Baal and Belphegor. He might''ve been amused by the presence of the two other gold-skinned, black-hearted deities, but his connection to the Prince of Sloth made him uncomfortable, for all that it was subtler. As his court waited with bated breath, the Serpent chuckled. ''Tragical, to be sure...but there is no use in crying over what you cannot change.'' ''You should know,'' Solarex spat. ''Why did you and your brother demand to see me? To come here?'' ''We demanded nothing,'' Belphegor said lazily, eyes hooded. ''You accepted our request. Do not act forced.'' ''Out of curiosity, at that,'' Lucifer toyed with a wingtip, not looking at King Sun. ''I admit, I was curious why no one ever sought to stop you, for all your hedonism. I would''ve never imagined pity was the reason.'' ''What''d you say?'' Solarex asked dangerously. ''Poor victim of fate, lashing out? I''m surprised you''ve never received condolences.'' He hid his mouth with one wing. ''But now the guilt you thought you left behind is coming home to roost, isn''t it? Now, creation is no dream. All the strangers you enslaved, all the children you sired, so you could have toys to murder and rape...every civilisation that made the mistake of being too weak and in your path. Selling their souls and futures for protection, or just losing them during conquest...'' He clicked his tongue. ''How will you ever make amends, my dear widower?'' ''I used to be like you,'' Belphegor confessed. ''My siblings thought I was flawed, and the idea our father had made an angel like that - that he could fail, or cripple unintentionally - drove many into the arms of rebellion. My kin below do not thank me enough, but that does not surprise me. I thought that, if God was all-powerful, nothing anyone else did or "chose" mattered...and I became unable to care. Sometimes, this belief is enough to change others'' minds. Other times, despair takes them differently. It grinds at their diligence, until they become like...me. You. Us.'' Baal, having chosen to appear as a rainbow-eyed man with butterfly wings, looked disdainfully around him. ''The lion serpent and I were also curious about how you managed to escape retaliation,'' he admitted. ''Whether it was dreamt that you did, or you were pitied too much to be brought to justice, our suspicions have been laid too rest. You were not too skilled, or powerful, to be left alone.'' Turning on his heel, the god disappeared in a flash of golden lightning. Next to his now-empty chair, Yaldabaoth smiled in his dark beard, fingering the black stone of his newest ring. Solarex''s eyes only hid their wildness by virtue of being empty white fires. ''I cannot turn things back. Some of the beings I''ve destroyed...'' ''My heart goes out to you,'' Lucifer lied. ''But surely you don''t believe repenting and becoming an ascetic will make up for it? Would you even be able to live with yourself, if you changed nothing?'' It wasn''t long before Solarex set his mind-controlled slaves and worshippers free. Most who didn''t die from the shock killed themselves, or ran away. The Solarians, and those who had come to his court of their own volition...not all could leave. They''d never known anything else. But they left their god alone, to think and ponder the future, for the moment. As such, there was no one to see me as I stepped into reality behind the living Archetype. ''You have come to end me, don''t you?'' he whispered, hanging his head. ''You have no idea how much I hate you,'' I snapped. ''And your poisonous lies. Everything was preordained? Do you think the sleeping Mover directed every event in its dream? Do you think every saint is worthless, and every sinner blameless, because-'' I bit my tongue. There was no point in losing my temper now. ''You...you are everything my grandfather was, a trillion, trillion times over. I know you won''t stand up to me - you hate yourself too much - but don''t think your guilt will save you.'' I grabbed him by the throat. ''You do not resist. I should find some monstrosity, or make one, and throw you to it. Something to make you its bitch, like you''ve done to so many souls, and force you to love it. But...'' But someone as powerful as me might be useful. As such, I simply cast him into a pit formed of the pain of everyone he had ever hurt, for his pleasure, and he welcomed the pain gladly. Solarex had been so consumed with guilt he had not cared one whit about Lucifer cornering the Demiurge, matching his smile with one of his own. * * * ''Careful,'' a layered voice cooed through the aether. ''We''ll make the Remaker jealous~'' The Fivefold jumped back from what should''ve been an empty chair, but had turned out to be the lap of her uninvited, amused visitor. Her parents'' home was protected enough only a handful of beings could force their way into it, and even fewer could''ve silenced the alarms, if they''d cared to. The Serpent was an old, familiar enemy. The oldest, in a way. His appearance was new, and all the more distressing for the fact she could tell he wasn''t shapeshifting. The form of the body was the same, but the crimson of the flesh had been replaced with gold, which glistened despite no source of light, and the white flames of the eyes had become black as ebony. Christine was reminded of Head al-Hazred; her eyes drew in light in a similar manner. ''A bad joke, Our dear,'' he said cheerfully. ''We meant nothing by it. We know the Remaker is as shrewd as you are faithful.'' ''What are you doing here?'' she demanded, ready but not eager to pit her powers against his. ''Pride, sweetling. As always. We could not let a second-stringer keep proclaiming itself the dark side of God, even from behind chains. We had the fame, the infamy, when most of the world had forgotten it. We are the viper in Christendom''s midst. Why should a false god, a trapper of souls, grow fat and powerful on the sins of Yahweh''s wayward slaves? Enough believed We did it, anyway. Enough that We only had to take what was Ours.'' A chill ran through her. ''What did you...?'' Her demons rattled the bars of their cages. ''Did you eat the Demiurge?'' ''So vulgar.'' He chuckled. ''Do you often imagine men eating each other? We will not judge. We should introduce you to two of Our siblings, though...after We take care of the Archons.'' The golden monster stood up gracefully, moving across the room and tilting her chin upwards faster than she could see. ''Understand, Christine: We know your plan. Your hope. We would not let Our prisoners go; their punishments are Our small revenge against mankind. You...'' His lip curled. ''You would set them free, once they repented. If you can succeed, of course...'' He spread his arms. ''That will be that. Who knows what will change? Look over at the World Ash. Come Armageddon, and we''ll see how events unfold.'' * * * The room chosen to hold the Heads'' meeting, and then the celebration, was anonymous, with bare yamadium walls, at the moment. There wasn''t even anything to stand on. Sam and Aya, the first arrivals, didn''t want to sit, either. Partly because Aya liked playing hostess nearly as much as Sam - or I - hated gatherings. I managed to change the subject over a few minutes, from the oncoming party to the gift I''d brought Aya. ''It should''ve happened long ago,'' I said. ''And please remember, you''ll get it anyway, but I''m curious: what made you keep your husband''s name?'' The lights in Aya''s sockets grew dimmer, but fiercer. More focused, maybe. ''A reminder of past mistakes. And of those happy, early days.'' I nodded. ''My biological father kept my grandpa''s name for...similar reasons. Didn''t want to end up like him.'' I put my hands together, so that they were hidden by my shirt''s sleeves, and spread them with a flourish. My right hand held three young, old little souls. Aya froze at the sight, then tears welled up as she felt her children''s spirits. The mummy clenched her jaw to keep her lips from trembling, even as Sam put a large hand on her shoulder. ''When I handed Faisal over to Allah,'' I began softly, not to wake the sleeping ghosts. Gods are always happy to punish former worshippers gone bad. ''He didn''t have them. They''d been buried deep under Nu''s tides, amidst Apep''s coils. It took some work until your gods agreed to keep it from you,'' I smiled. ''But Thoth indulged me. He felt bad for making a mistake, you see. Telling me my father''s mind was gone. God''s Mouth''s flames...blinded him. And...I felt you deserved a surprise, ma''am. Deserved this.'' Her arms wrapped around me with crushing strength moments later, and I wondered whether she''d ever tapped so much into Geb and Horus. I hugged her back with one arm. ''Ending their torment was an application of my power, but it took a pantheon''s efforts to keep Apep occupied. I''m sorry.'' I looked down, meeting her empty eyes. ''No child deserves a fraction of the horror they went through. Aya...I know you feel guilty for using me to bait Chernobog. I hate the fact you did it too, sometimes. But I know it was necessary. To set things in motion. To shape me. And I could never deny you this.'' The mummy nodded absentmindedly, mouthing thanks, while holding her children in her arms; together again, after a thousand years. The ghosts'' ectoplasmic forms were interesting. Like all their kind, their mindset shaped their appearance, and their childlike bodies were at odds with how articulated they''d become, after I''d ended their insanity born of torture. In the end, Aya promised she would come to visit them in the aether, as often as she could, and I promised to help. Farah was the last to leave, lingering behind her brothers to look up at Sam with soulful dark eyes, so wide you''d have never guessed how much they''d seen. ''Are you going to be our father now?'' the little ghost asked, looking up at the wendigo. Sam, who''d chosen a human appearance and height not to frighten them, picked her up with both hands and put her on one shoulder, smiling at her. ''Honey...I''d love nothing more than to raise a family with your mom. But that depends on her, yeah? She''s head enough of bad men forcing her to do what they want.'' Finally, he put her down, promising he''d come to visit to, and the ghost waved at us all, before vanishing. Damn me if I didn''t give those children paradise. After a while, the other Heads arrived quickly. ''He''s here at my suggestion...'' Gilles gestured at the me accompanying him, before trailing off as he disappeared. ''And my orders,'' Aya smiled at my self next to her. I returned the smile, stepped back, and let them unwind. Ying wiggled his eyebrows at me, holding his pipe with the tip of his long, pointed tongue. ''My oh my, David, does Mia know you can do that?'' ''I''d prefer to keep it a surprise,'' I replied diplomatically. ''Gods know the poor girl deserves a nice one...'' Gilles was still emotional, following catharsis, and didn''t waste any time tearing into Sam and John. ''Well?!'' he snapped. ''Ain''t you happy to see me like you, Shifty? Mad with fucking bloodlust?'' The wendigo''s eyes were sad. ''Gilles, I''ve never-'' ''And you?'' he sneered at the ghost gestalt. ''Aren''t you going to crow how the Empire I spent my youth fighting for was a lie, just like you''ve said? That you told me so?'' He was starting to sob again. ''I know you''ve never been able to stand me! Admit it!'' ''Leo,'' John said in a voice as gentle as I''d ever heard from him. ''You''re as much a victim as me. Why the hell would I enjoy seeing you so broken? I know you don''t want pity, but...I''m not going to laugh, either. As far as you knew, there was nothing wrong.'' ''And I''ve never hated you, dammit,'' Sam added. ''Yeah, you got on my nerves, sometimes. Always thought you were a judgmental bastard. But I''ve never wanted this. I...never imagined you...'' He shook his head, snarling. ''Fucking dammit, Leon. Your wife asked me to look after you, but you managed fine on your own. Why would I have done it if I didn''t care?'' The weregryph had probably never imagined he''d end up crying in those two''s arms. Considering their awkward expressions as they patted his back, they probably hadn''t, either. ''Tamar,'' Sam walked over to thee Goetia Head after managing to pry Gilles off him. ''I wanted to apologize. Back in Fairie, I...shouldn''t have said that shit about Hex.'' He kicked at the floor, scuffing his boots - the only part of the ARC uniform he wore, besides the combat pants. ''He''s a good agent, yeah...doesn''t change the fact that he''s a weird, heartless bastard. I...can''t imagine what he put you through, back in the camps.'' ''It''s fine,'' Caleb said graciously. ''I can''t imagine your childhood, either. At least I was never raped, if only because the guards didn''t want an animal. You''re not the only one who''s said stupid things.'' He looked past the Salem Head, at Aya. ''I used to think you''re unworthy of her, but I know better now. Fighting so no one has to go through the horrors you did...you''re nobler than most people I know, Sam. And stronger than me. I don''t know if I''d have anything left but hatred, in your place.'' He rubbed his arms. ''Can you stop flaying criminals, though? It''s...'' ''No promises,'' Sam winked with a ghastly grin. ''But, since we''ve both decided to be the bigger man, I might just give in some thought.'' He leapt backwards, landing next to Aya, and taking her hand into both of his. ''Among other things.'' ''We''ve thought about getting engaged,'' the mummy smiled up at him. ''Now that creation has some breathing room.'' Ying all but burst with joy at that, hugging both of them with one arm. Sam managed to stave off the dragon''s attempt to kiss his cheeks with a glare, and a growl when he looked at Aya. Ying laughed easily, fangs glinting as he let them go, and looked at Gerald and Elga, grinning expectantly. Gerald sighed in exasperation, wrapped an arm around the ghost''s waist, and matched her soft smile with a small one. ''We''ve thought about it,'' the Camelot Head said. ''But...our temperaments keep getting in the way.'' ''Gerry thinks I''m an airhead, just as I know he''s a neat freak,'' Elga elbowed the mage, wriggling out of his grasp. ''We''re friends and we''ve always helped each other out, but I don''t think we''re ready to live together.'' And then...well. Preparations were easy to make, with so many powerful supernaturals working together. A few ideas were raised. Gerald proposed a new division, focused on research, something he believed ARC had lost track of, placing more importance on combat and law enforcement. Sam half-jokingly suggested me as its Head, what with my unique insight, but I declined. The wendigo then, more seriously, reminded everyone that, with more and more supernaturals being born, mundane humans would likely become a thing of the past in a few generations. ''And we need better slang than supernaturals,'' he added. ''What if the aliens wanna be friends and come here? Their powers aren''t supernatural, as we understand it. We should be calling people with powers paranormals. Or paras, for short. I like the ring of it.'' ''And, like Sam told me,'' Aya said. ''We will no longer be abnormal, as the paranormal population rises. So, more names might need to be changed.'' Enough things happened at the party I could''ve written another book about them. Maybe I will. I''ll definitely bring some of them up, now and again. Suffice to say every power bloc on and adjacent to Earth sent as many representatives as possible. It was proof of how peaceful things were that almost every national supernatural law enforcement agency could come. Cliques formed as quickly as they could without being rude or overly obvious. Brad Stacker, surveying the transformed room, surrounded by his FREAKSHOW subordinates. The man whose every action gained the power and speed of the previous one, his sunglasses and blond buzzcut made him look like the default American character in a Japanese videogame. He was a professional, though, for all that he looked like a leg-breaker and had a name that made him sound like an uninspired rapper. Chevalier Blanc, leader of France''s Fey Fraternity, had taken Bedivere to one side, and was trying to comfort the sullen Grandmaster. Well over two metres tall, armoured in ivory plate with no joints or openings, Louis Durand could not even be approached by anything he deemed dishonourable. He could extend this effect wherever he wanted, shutting down esoteric abilities, or empower others to do the same. His war hammer could strike anywhere, anywhen, applying force without moving, and his tower shield, taller than him, could reflect anything back at the attacker, with no damage. His wife had come too. I mostly knew Colette from the YouTube channel she ran in her civilian identity, but the explosion mage acted freer at work, if anything, where she could get away from her dozens of children and hundreds of grandchildren. Her husband had always wanted a family, as much as she had. Being together since the end of World War Two, they''d had time. And, though she loved them, she also loved time for herself. Half a metre shorter than her husband, she had a body like a whipcord, brown eyes, and kept the sides of her head shave, letting her blood-red hair only cover the middle and back. As I saw during the party, she smoked a pack an hour, and occasionally washed it down with a cigar or three. The benefits of healing magic. The tricksters had also gotten together, and many people were eyeing the gathering of Yua, Wukong, Loki, Coyote and dozens of others with quietly-rising dread. Even the new and improved, if you wanted to see it that way, Devil had joined, always at the fringes. Pretty shiny for a Zoidberg, but who was I to judge? I drifted across the floor, receiving all manners of thanks, promises and threats, for almost ending everyone''s pain because of mine. Finally, my eye caught the unusual grouping of Breakout, Galahad and Mordred, the latter sulking as always. Since they had nothing in common, as far as I knew (besides, arguably, Clarisse''s and Mordred''s powers), I went over to them. Breakout smirked warmly at me; I could tell even with the balaclava, since her smiles always touched her eyes. ''Good job, kid,'' she held up a fist for me to bump. ''So glad you pulled through. Bet Ryd will tell ya the same.'' ''Thanks,'' I said, bemused. ''Not that I''m chaperoning you. I''m just curious...'' ''My friends and I were talking about our powers,'' Galahad said brightly. ''And how we used to misinterpret them. Clara used to think she was empowered by the Archetype of Freedom, much like I failed to see I was strong because I was pure, not blessed by the Lord. Mordred here had to die first, in order to see the light, so you''ll have to forgive him.'' Before I could reply, my mind''s eye opened. Something had clicked. Something that was only beginning to be obvious. The Unmoved Mover looked like I remembered it. Its incarnation in our shared mindscape was white, shining bright like starlight, with an ivory crown placed upon its long hair, or halo, or the flames surrounding its beaming, androgynous face. It wore a mantle, and held a sceptre in one hand, and a six-armed, chubby, headless grey creature in he other. Ischyros the ur-mite bounced up and down excitedly in its friend''s pal, thanking me for keeping so many fun friends to fight alive. I told it that it had been a team effort, and it laughed. ''Apologies for pulling you away, David,'' the Mover said. ''But I wanted to remind you not to blurt out what you''ve just understood. Breakout wanted to, once, but the Remaker stopped her. He bet she always skips tutorials in games, too, and she could not deny it, because she does.'' ''I''m not sure I really understand,'' I admitted. ''Those three''s powers are based on self-perception, yes, but I don''t see the link...'' ''There is no link as such, David,'' it replied. ''Think: does the collective subconscious not shape reality? People are how they see themselves, but also how they are seen. Breakout wanted to be free, and unstoppable. Galahad wanted to be the unequalled, Perfect Knight. Mordred wanted much the same as Clarisse, though, unlike her, he holds on to every power and achievement.'' ''Are you saying people can give themselves powers?'' I asked. ''They already do. Weres see themselves, and are seen, as people who become beasts. Pure, but impure; hence a cleansing metal, like silver, dealing them unhealable wounds. Vampires fancy themselves lords of all they survey, and shape all that falls under their gaze. Magic, too - what is it, except a way of saying a mind, body and soul in harmony can change the world? This is not limited to Earth, or its gods, either. In truth...there is nothing paranormal about people like Galahad, or the knights of old Camelot.'' It leaned forward. ''They are entirely human. Just...further ahead on the evolutionary coil. They understood the truth, and so claimed their birthright.'' I perked up. Pops... ''My father...DEATH told him that it presides over life, too, because LIFE was aborted at the beginning of creation.'' ''A failure,'' the Mover sounded wistful. ''But not forever. This brush with destruction coincided with such events in the Clusters as the Fall of Man. Or perhaps it caused them, or they are facets of it. It is all down to perspective. You - all of my children - have it in you to be gods. The father of the Created Creator was right, and his writings hold the secret, though only for his first and last son. You can all become like me. My power is nothing but understanding. Knowledge is my sword, shield and crown. Why would the Ultimate Archetype be so intertwined with it otherwise?'' I rocked on my feet as it touched my shoulders with its sceptre. ''I thank you again for saving creation, and helping me surpass myself. For I cannot ever thank you enough, my son. Whatever you want...'' ''Just watch over people,'' I said, uninterested in its prompting. ''So...this is your plan. To make everyone ascend, so they can be like you?'' ''Not make,'' it corrected. ''Watch, and guide. The revelation of the created''s birthright, of LIFE''s potential, and the resemblance to my five-pointed shape, cannot be shared, or it will not be understood.'' It embraced me. ''But I know you will protect them, David, until they can understand the truth.'' Sidestory: Grey Matter; or, the Matter of Grey
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Grey One was in control of its own mind once more, if not at peace. Join minds...yes. Grey was flattered, honestly. It was fairly sure David Silva could''ve reached out and touched the minds of creation''s inhabitants all by himself. That he could''ve drawn power from the aether, or enhanced his own, if he''d so wished. Since he had instead asked for help, Grey found itself wondering why. It had time for this. It wasn''t like it flowed, in one''s mindscape. It had brushed minds with Silva, but then the strigoi had retreated, watching rather than speaking, leaving it alone with the young witch. Sofia. The strigoi''s mind had left the Ser Gris metaphorically blinking away the equivalent of afterimages. It had been so strong, so hurt... Grey focused. It knew wavering, being distracted, would be disastrous now. Grey wasn''t precognitive. It didn''t need to be. Instinct was enough. So. One thing at a time. The strigoi''s request...had he made enemies? Was he hated? Grey wasn''t that esteemed itself, on Earth or among its people. Had David mistook it for some sort of potentate? No. Most likely...it was a combination of what it suspected. Perhaps David did have the power to reach out across creation, but believed he lacked the skill. Perhaps he also thought Grey''s presence would lend some weight to whatever he wanted to attempt, or simply wanted an ally at his side. It nodded to itself. It could help him, of course. Helping a hurt mind was never going to be beyond its reach, if Grey could help it. Then, the upcoming discussion with Sofia. Their belated first meeting; what had happened the last time could not honestly be called that. As their landscapes were still merging, rotating around each other like a binary star, Grey pondered it. Anger surged through its mind. Was the strigoi letting it to do its dirty work, just because it hadn''t pushed him away? What did he think it was, his servant? Grey brought itself back under control, pressing its hand to its chest and gasping, more out of habit than need. It didn''t need air, either here or in reality, but humans still found it unsettling, sometimes, when it didn''t breathe. What had that been? Grey''s hold on its emotions was supposed to be better than...that. For a moment, it argued to itself that it had been that bizarre creature''s lingering influence, the chronokine''s. A part of it wanted to believe that. That its temper had flared for reasons beyond its control. The rest of its mind quickly rose against it. Behind Grey, a white expanse wavered, like a Terran seaship''s sail in the wind. Its emotions were preventing the mindscape from forming. Grey envisioned a white sky meeting a milky ocean on the horizon, then being filled with life, like a canvas being painted. No. Getting mad at the strigoi was useless, not to mention petty. Grey had only caught glimpses of David''s suffering, but they had broken its heart. He needed help, deserved its sympathy, not its rage. That was when the self-criticism came in. Was it blaming its outburst on the faceless monster? That was childish at best, cowardly at worst. Not to mention, it cast doubt on the Zhayvin, who had cured it, restoring its body to its natural form after it had been twisted into that of a beast. Besides, it shouldn''t have lost its cool in the first place. So what if David expected it to talk to Sofia? The poor man was reeling from great losses, and getting the child to open up had already been requested of Grey, before it had all gone wrong. Maybe David had bad history with the witch. Or was shy. Had that been why it had called on Grey? The Ser Gris shifted its footing, brow wrinkling slightly as it realised something. Called on it...Grey remembered being placed in a subspace pocket by the Zhayvin''s Shaper, as if it were a wrapped gift. A little joke, to lighten its people''s moods before they were reunited. But...it had been snatched away. The pocket reality had cut off Grey from the universe, preventing it from sensing and being sensed. Just as it had been opened, something had grabbed Grey, then flung it out of its metaphysical grip and across the cosmos. It had happened so fast, it had only realised it was elsewhere when it had ended up face to face with David. The identity and motives of its kidnapper could be ascertained later. Now, it had to help Sofia, and maybe David, through her. Why had the chronokinetic twisted it? Merely for its own amusement? Grey remembered a whimsical being, as powerful as it was mercurial. It spoke, and the past changed to suit the present it wanted. Grey sniffed. Was there a clue there? Wordplay? Did it see the world as a reward it deserved? Usually, it was grateful it had learned several human languages because the process and results had brought it closer to its adopted people, but maybe it could put that to use in another way. Later. Wondering about riddles and...puns, would help no one now. It had to focus on the facts. Sofia had also been there, in deep space. In David''s arms, actually. And she hadn''t been dismayed to see him, if Grey''s senses were anything to go by. Why had the chronokine come after the girl in her cell? To amuse itself? It was as likely as anything, when it came to a being Grey had almost failed to perceive, much less read. Maybe the faceless thing had taken Sofia with it, before leaving her stranded in the void. Or David had saved her from it. Or...she hadn''t been left there randomly. Had its tormentor - her kidnapper? - been playing a longer game than avoiding its boredom? Was it still? Grey smiled humourlessly. It supposed it would learn soon, unless the monster had twisted the child, too. There was also the chance whoever or whatever had stolen Grey away had brought Sofia here, but that purpose was even harder to divine. If it was even a different being than the laughing, faceless one. As Sofia came into its mind''s eye''s view, Grey admonished itself. Had it really become such a vain coward it blamed others for its shortcoming and sneered down at a man the world had worn away at? No. Much as it would''ve liked to avoid responsibility, it had let its emotions get the better of it. Ordinarily, that would''ve been no problem: the members of the Multitude of Minds were, if anything, sometimes condemned for being too detached (Grey preferred "harmonious". It was a more elegant and fitting term for the state of balance between reason and passion). At this moment, however... Grey knew the cause, the true reason. Its ego had been, was, bruised. Not just at having its body and - much worse - its mind perverted, but at being overpowered so easily. At being stolen away in what should have been a moment of triumph and the beginning of negotiation, and end up in the depths of the void, before being asked to resume its failed task. Grey looked disapprovingly down at its three-toed feat. It had thought it had led temper tantrum behind ten, twenty million years ago. Oh, well... The alien stood up straighter, smoothing down its features and trying to smile warmly, then chuckled at itself. Adopting human mannerisms was all well and good for not creeping people out (not always, though - uncanny valley was still a thing, despite all the decades of coexistence with humanlike paranormal beings. Or was it because of that?), but their faces were much more expressive than its, not to mention more complex. Grey had no eyebrow or eyelids. Trying to show emotion with its eyes usually required a little creative self-applied telekinesis. Its face was flat, with no nose and a small, thin line of a mouth. It had no ears, either, which was a shame. Grey had once seen a human, as bald as it and dressed in an ill-fitting costume, wiggle his ears, and thought it might amuse Sofia enough for her to calm down and listen to it. Finally, Sofia''s mindscape found the edge of Grey''s, the witch''s mental avatar sitting in the middle of a grey-white waste. Behind Grey, its mindscape became the surface of its homeworld. A creased expanse between solid and liquid, it resembled nothing more than its skin. The land undulated between a deep purple sky, filled by clusters of gently-twinkling stars. Grey walked to the border between their mindscapes, and was relieved when, after a brief moment of befuddlement, Sofia allowed it in. Whether she had recognised it, or simply sensed its benign intent (Grey hoped for both, but would''ve been more satisfied with the latter. It would''ve meant Sofia''s telepathy had improved enough communication would be both faster and more complex), the Ser Gris was content with the fact she didn''t see it as an enemy. This welcome, however, most importantly meant that the child was still thinking clearly. Grey was impressed by her strong will, considering the tides of trauma that lapped up past its ankles as it walked closer, but more moved by the fact Sofia could still sense kindness and accept help, after everything she must''ve been through. In her mindscape, Sofia resembled her real self, except in terms of clothing: rather than the ragged prison uniform she was wearing in reality, she was dressed in deep purple, black-trimmed robes, a small, pointy hat laying on its side next to her. Grey recognised the ensemble as the archetypal witch outfit, from popular culture rather than experience. It had never met a mage that dressed like that. Sofia sat hugging her bony knees to her chest, once-piercing green eyes now dull and hooded. Because they had once shone with magic? No, Grey shook its head. She didn''t look this...this dead inside when I last saw her. But then, that had been before the chronokine had caught her in its wiles. Who knew what had happened? No matter, Grey thought fiercely, pulling its resolve around itself. In this world of thought, that manifested as a mantle, actually drawn tight around its body. A cloak of chains...because it was bound to help the witch, not just for having given its word, but because it could not let a young telepath suffer the ravages wreaked by her uncontrolled power? Because it could not leave a child to her pain, not when so many monsters seemed intent on drawing it out? A chain was only ever as strong as its weakest link. Grey had no associates or allies in this...endeavour. Not yet. Sofia might become one, if it did not fail, causing her to disappear into herself or break down. A small smile stole across the Ser Gris'' face. Its subconscious could conjure charming metaphors, sometimes, even if they were rather basic. The smile faded as something else, also born from its mind''s depths, stumbled into view from the corner of its eye. Grey knew most people disliked facing their doubts, especially because they were not always things one could simply confront once and be done with. However, it had thought it was made of sterner stuff. That...it had no doubts. There''s that arrogance again...it thought, watching its doubts stagger towards it - no. Between it and Sofia? Most people also thought they''d do much better facing challenges than they did in reality, but Grey had thought itself better than that. It distractedly wondered whether it needed to become humbler, or more cautious. Ah, well. There would be time for that later. It had a child to help. Grey''s doubts resembled it, as seen in a shattered mirror. Or perhaps one of those funhouse mirrors that switched the observer''s shape. Grey found the concept bizarre, but some Terrans considered it hilarious. It supposed people who couldn''t shapeshift had to take their amusements where they could. Grey''s doubts did not possess the ash-grey skin of a Ser Gris, but a thicker, leathery hide so dark it was almost black. Its back was hunched and ridged, bumps pushing out against the skin as if there was a spine under it rather than the boneless pulp Grey was filled with. Its hands and feet had three fingers and toes, just like its own, but they were topped with hooked claws where Grey lacked even fingernails. The back of the creature''s skull protruded, looking ready to burst, and the skin disappeared halfway through, leaving a patch of what looked like polished black bone, or crystal. Grey frowned. Its subconscious going from prosaic to grotesque was one of the many unwelcome surprises in its life. Why had it constructed this ugly simulacrum of itself, rather than the very object of its doubts? It seemed to be going for blunt anyway. To have been. The meaning of gesture - a warning? A threat? - seemed to be that Grey''s doubts would prevent it from helping Sofia, maybe even reaching her in the first place. Setting its jaw, Grey strode forward, and the creature, which had been looking in Sofia''s direction, ponderous head bobbing up and down, twisted around to face it. Its head was actually the first to move, turning around on a neck that looked far too slim to support its burden. The body followed, claws twitching, and Grey looked at it challengingly, while its mind probed at the creature''s. Predictably, it didn''t think, as such. It only knew the things that had made Grey think and rethink every action, both before and after doing it. If normal minds were songs, the creature''s was a recording. On loop. The doubts leered at Grey, thick lips pulling back from flat teeth. Where were all these features coming from? Grey had never even seen teeth in person before coming to...Earth... Ah. Had it become more doubtful by living among humans? Maybe it had. But it did not regret one moment. The Terrans, with their volatile, flashing minds, had taught it how to see existence in a myriad new ways. ''You do not want to stop me,'' Grey began, trying to step forward, then retreating from a claw swipe halfway through. If its suspicions were right, being harmed by the thing would cause it to become overwhelmed by uncertainty, and that would be unacceptable. ''You don''t, can''t want anything. Can you? It''s not even instinct, or programmi-'' A colourless, spherical shield of telekinetic force appeared around it. The doppelganger''s claws slowly pushed through it, with a sound like shrieking metal, and Grey frowned. In hindsight, talking to a creature that couldn''t think for itself had been pointless. Too much like the gloating of villains in Terran media, which usually occurred before they died. Dangerous... Almost as much as standing still while said creature was trying to...what? Kill it? Its mind, at least? Was the replica malevolent? Or was this simply the only thing it could do - a more literal than usual process of being consumed by doubt? In any case, it clearly could not be stalled, waited out. Trying to stand its ground against the doubts would lead to Grey''s grisly mental demise, and it doubted the shell of its body would fare much better, left adrift in the void. Time to go on the offensive, then. Grey crouched forward, arms raised and hands tense. Its small, slight body made the wrestling stance look absurd, but in grappling with one''s fears, such metaphors helped. Before its dark reflection leapt at it, Grey caught a fleeting glimpse of Sofia: her attention had shifted, or rather, returned. Whatever she had been thinking of, her attention was now focused on their duel. Possible reasons flashed through Grey''s mind, its surroundings showing brief images, like fractions of a film projected on thin air: Sofia, not stepping in because she was afraid, too broken. Because she didn''t know who to side with. Because she didn''t care, and was waiting for either the Ser Gris or its doubts to become weak enough that her assistance would result in victory...or wait even longer, fingers interlaced patiently, before killing the victor and taking over Grey''s body. Grey gasped in outrage at the idea as its doubts tried to seized it in a bearhug. They hit the ground, rolling as they thrashed, Grey on top one moment, the creature the next. No. The images, they had been centred around its doppelgangers, if they hadn''t emanated from it. Of course it was trying to convince Grey there was no good outcome possible. That was the reason of its existence. ''You doubt,'' it began in a voice that, entirely at odds with its warped appearance, was perfectly normal, almost pleasant. It sounded like that of the Ser Gris, on the occasions it chose to communicate verbally. ''You haven''t even had time to be afraid you''ll fail, have you? You''re too busy thinking how your little witch will end you herself-'' ''Quiet,'' Grey snarled, trying to sound fierce rather than rattled. Its headbutt knocked the doubts'' head back, allowing it to throw the being off. ''Sofia only wanted to stop her parents from arguing, before her magic took over. Her method was regrettable, yes -'' ''Is that what you think?'' it asked, lip curling but eyes pitying. ''You think a child whose first choice to end conflict is to rape minds deserves...salvation?'' ''She didn''t have a choice before her magic awakened.'' "You stubborn moron" caught in its throat. Insulting itself, an aspect of itelf, would most likely feed the creature rather than accomplish anything useful. "You know that." What could an isolated girl like Sofia had done, except keep her magic under control until she could be properly trained? That would''ve been for the best, yes, but, just because they lived in the best of all possible worlds, as said once by Whahyr the Curt and unknowingly echoed by the human Leibniz, it did not mean their universe was kind. Just better than the others. ''Maybe. Maybe. You would like to think so, wouldn''t you, Orhygr?'' the doppelganger asked. ''That you''re the only one who can save this poor lost lamb here?'' It took a taunting step closer. ''Will it distract you from how sorry you feel for yourself? Not like it''s going to make you forget.'' ''You understand nothing.'' ''Don''t I?'' it asked softly. ''I am you, "Grey One". Remember your reaction, when you heard the moniker? You thought the humans were simply describing your appearance; or rather, you convinced yourself they weren''t labelling you as the first of a new species. Even their animals have names, you thought.'' Grey shrugged uncomfortably. ''I like the nickname. Simple, to the point. It''s not like I hid my name from them.'' At least I have one. ''Yes, you just love being numbered like furniture. Gone native - interesting way to spell mad, don''t you think?'' Its appearance changed, or it reshaped the mindscape around itself, covering itself with the images. Grey, standing next to an experimental Ser Gris craft. Still possessed of the saucer-like shape it would make popular among humans after its crash, the silver vessel housed the Multitude of Minds'' first aetheric engine. Grey, in a similarly-silver spacesuit, stood next to it, nervously shaking hands, or limbs, with the engineers. ''What do you feel guiltier for, I wonder....volunteering as an aethernaut while your children were young, or never making it back to them?'' ''Do not lie,'' Grey spat. ''You do not "wonder". You lack the imagination, and know the answer besides.'' ''Quite,'' the creature agreed. ''But you''re still so shaken up, Grey. Do the humans really accept you? It''s not like you can read their minds most of the time, after all. That would be an invasion of privacy. But what do they have to hide, anyway? So many of them announce the most atrocious deeds boldly, but even the meekest of them want to keep their thoughts hidden?'' ''Mankind will find its own path,'' Grey said, attention only half-focused on its adversary. If it could just slip around it, get to Sofia, maybe together, they could just... Dammit. Just what? Who knew if the girl could fight at all, much less if she wanted to, let alone at its side? Why did it keep looking for the easy way out? ''You''re afraid to commit,'' its reflection remarked, as if reading its thoughts. And maybe it was. Once, Grey would''ve scoffed at the idea of someone telepathically scanning it without its notice, but it had hardly been at its best lately. ''After all, how could you have had children right before running away? Being able to become a parent is supposed to be proof of one''s maturity, of inner peace. But you...you, the aethernaut...'' It shook its head, sniggering. ''So bored with your life, not that you''d have called it that. So many nights spent mediating, falling in and out of trances, cut off from everyone else...all so you could spawn. And for what? Because you were frustrated your existence hadn''t left a mark on the cosmos, in over twenty-seven million years of your adopted world.'' It spread its arms, face a caricature of panic. ''Quick! I must have children, I must run away, travel, anything.'' It whimpered the last word, lower lip sticking out childishly. ''W-What if I''m forgotten, like e-every other lifeform that doesn''t enjoy immortality, or world-shattering power, or a permanent bond with a myriad of loving minds?'' ''I was spoiled,'' Grey admitted. ''And it took isolation for me to realise that. I will make amends home, when I get there.'' ''If.'' It just couldn''t help itself. ''You wish,'' Grey smirked, wishing it had knuckles to crack in the manner of swaggering humans. Its foe seemed unimpressed. ''And I know what you''re going to try. Do you know how?'' ''You must''ve read my mind...'' it whispered, affecting a befuddled expression. Hilarious. ''You''re going to create simulacra of my heirs, to taunt me. Hurt me. Or turn into Zlahi or Xhahal yourself. Maybe both. Hmm? Some grotesque amalgam, to disgust me, make my resolve waver?'' ''Why would I want to do that?'' it asked, sounding genuinely confused. Its tone then became cold. ''After all, you seem set on helping the little mind-rapist.'' ''So, what, you''re not going to waste your time?'' As if it had anywhere to be, anything to do...still, the idea that it would simply give up was even harder to swallow. Its existence and purpose were simple, yes, but that didn''t mean it couldn''t try to trick Grey. Make the Ser Gris lower its guard. It shrugged, saying nothing, and shuffled out of Grey''s way. The alien started forward, keeping an eye on its doppelganger until it walked out of sight. Then, when a black blur dashed at Grey, the Ser Gris blasted it with a pulse of psychic force, more out of reflex than anything. It had almost escaped it, through sheer speed. The pulse never connected. Grey''s head slowly swivelled, body following. Sofia was now sitting cross-legged, waving a smoking hand back and forth as her dull eyes traced the doppelganger''s scattering remains. ''You were taking too long,'' she answered Grey''s unspoken question. ''Talking too much.'' Grey''s head dipped slightly in gratitude. ''Thank you, Sofia. I might have been able to defeat it, but it would''ve taken even longer than our boring discussion.'' It smiled. She didn''t return it, to its slight dismay. ''I''m sorry we didn''t get to speak last time we met, but that monster...'' it shook its head. ''I am here to help you.'' ''With?'' Her voice was flat, with no inflection. It sounded like a tired hag''s, rather than a young girl''s. ''Would I be wrong to assume the Strangeguard didn''t let you exercise your power? Before you were...kidnapped?'' Grey tried. The first question was more of a test, but not for her. After its assistance had been requested, the Russians had assured it that Sofia''s power had been restrained immediately, following incarceration. It wanted to know if they''d tried to use it through her. Or done worse. Grey firmly believed the only thing Sofia needed was a teacher to guide her through the life of a controller of minds and objects. And if that life had to begin with public service, to make up for the tragedy Sofia''s first use of magic had been, Grey was quite happy to help her. It didn''t have much else to occupy its time with. Oh, yes, there were the requests for its power, or its talent at easing troubled minds - therapy, they called it on Earth - but those rarely lasted long. And waiting for its fellows to come for it could get fairly dull, at times. Sure, there were many people or factions that could''ve sent it straight to the Multitude, but... It wasn''t that Grey didn''t trust them. More that it didn''t want to be perceived as contaminated and shunned upon its return. Besides, mingling with Earth''s people meant forming bonds, participating in stories it could share, so others could relive them by reading its thoughts. ''Nah,'' Sofia spoke, standing up. She tried to stick her hands in her pockets, realised her robes had none, then created a couple, pouting in annoyance. Grey chuckled softly, bending to take her witch''s hat and give it to her. ''They still didn''t know what to do with me, when that jerk...'' She shuddered. ''S-Stole m-me.'' ''What did it do to you?'' Grey asked, trying to keep its voice calm, rather than angry or alarmed. Had its children ever been this scared in its absence? Void... Sofia crossed her arms, then hugged herself, still shaking slightly, and glared at Grey, as if it had scared her. Raising both hands, the alien stepped back. ''I don''t wanna talk about it,'' she snapped, then pointed at the black gunk spattering the ground of the mindscape. ''I''ll make you leave, too. Shut up.'' Grey was more surprised she wasn''t crying than curious, but it didn''t insist. Whatever had shaken someone like Sofia...must have been quite similar to the strange alterations the chronokine had put it through, if not worse. It would coax the answer out of her, if need be, later. They might be necessary. ''Sorry,'' Grey said, then placed a hand on its chest. ''It hurt me, too, you know. Because it found it funny. Made me act like a dog-'' Grey broke off as Sofia turned her head, placing a hand over her mouth to try and contain the vomit that rushed from her mouth. Grey rushed to her side, uncaring of her anger, and turned her so it could see what was wrong. The alien pulled her hand aside, and the flow stopped after a few seconds. Grey absentmindedly brushed filth off its chest as Sofia dry-heaved, blood trailing from cracked lips with every retch. Grey inwardly cursed. Had she hurt herself, somehow? But that was only the beginning. Grey watched in morbid fascination as what seemed to be the remains of a dog were slowly spat out by Sofia, and quickly concluded it was only possible due to the fact they were in a mindscape: not only didn''t her stomach and neck swell as she spat, but the animal was larger than her. ''Gonna k-kill that fat jerk,'' she murmured, wiping her lips with the back of one hand as she stared at the corpse parts. The dog''s head turned in place to look at Sofia, staring up at her in silent condemnation. Grey opened its mouth, then held a hand to a cheek smarting from a slap. ''Told ya to s-shaddup!'' Sofia screamed into its face, tears swimming in her eyes. ''The g-grey guy m-made me...t-too...'' ''The kidnapper?'' Grey whispered, but Sofia just her back on both it and the dog, huffing. ''I''m sorry. I wouldn''t have brought it up if I''d known. I promise.'' Sofia didn''t look at it, but her stance loosened. ''You didn''t say "forgive me",'' she finally said in a small voice. ''Oh,'' Grey said, unsure. ''Should I have?'' She snorted. ''Just, lotsa adults do. When they''re mean. They don''t say they''re sorry, don''t even try to lie. They just ask you to forgive ''em, like they can ask things for you without even...'' Grey let the silence stretch for a few moments after she trailed off, before breaking the ice. ''Want to know a secret about adults, Sofia?'' ''Whaddya know? You''re an alien.'' Then, almost accusingly, she added, ''I watched your cartoons.'' ''Ah,'' Grey rubbed the back of its head with a bashful grin. ''Those. Did you like them?'' In the fifties, shortly after the Martian invasion, Grey had sold the right to its likeness for use in essentially, propaganda. Well-meaning, but still. The cartoons consisted of a simplified version of it, tagging along a crew of colourful misfits as they explored "the final frontier" (that parlance had quickly fallen out of fashion as alternate realms had been discovered), meeting strange aliens and helping them confront their problems and accept themselves. Grey had voiced its animated counterpart. Mankind had needed all the proof not all aliens were like the Martians. It had been new at the time, and the Zhayvin Collective had only come into the public eye recently, so... Sofia''s smile barely touched the corners of her mouth, but it was there. Small victories... ''Yeah,'' she said. ''I like it when people are friends, even if it''s make-believe.'' She rubbed one of her arms, and Grey walked forward to stand next to her. When it put a hand on her shoulder, she didn''t slap it off or flinch away. ''I liked Captain Quirk. He was funny. How didja find a new way for him to be weird every episode?'' ''Heh. Well, I wasn''t on the writing team. I just read the scripts and said the lines.'' The team had been really creative, though. Especially Gene. Grey bet he hadn''t expected the show he''d made after leaving, or its sequels, to become popular among the reptilians. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. They stood quietly for what felt like forever, and might as well have been, in the timeless mindscape. Grey casually checked out their surroundings. At first, it had thought the wasteland that was Sofia''s mindscape represented her Siberian home, but now that it looked closer, without its doubts to distract it - they had been reduced to thought processes, no longer a malevolent doppelagnger - Grey saw that it didn''t resemble any place on Earth it had ever seen. What it had mistaken for dirty snow was closer in smell and texture to dust, a thick layer that almost reached its knees and passed Sofia''s, who was slightly shorter than it. At one point, Sofia began walking forward, not waiting to see if Grey followed. The alien did, quickly noticing Sofia''s mindscape wasn''t changing, or, at least, that there weren''t any landmarks. The odd dust slid around Grey like water, but clung to the witch and her clothes, until the small purple robes became ashen. Sofia coughed into her fist, delicately at first, then deeply, until the Ser Gris feared she was going to vomit again, or worse. But she waved it off with one hand, and the dust with the other. Grey saw she was crying now, tears carving tunnels through the grime on her face. Something told it the tears had little to do with the dust stinging her eyes. ''What do you want, really?'' she asked suspiciously upon finally calming down. Her voice sounded much older than she was - her idea of how a witch sounded, maybe? Grey''s grin became smaller, but lost none of its warmth. ''When you first saw me, I was coming to counsel you, then help you train your power. It''s horrible, what your magic made you do. I can help you make sure it never happens again.'' Sofia''s eyes were steady as she studied it. ''Some of the Strangeguards said the same thing. They want me to go make up with the people I...I was bad to.'' ''And you don''t want to?'' Grey asked, and watched her shoulders rise and fall. Her dirty face remained impassive, but a thread of emotion caught the alien''s attention. ''Ah. You are ashamed?'' Was she...blushing? That was actually somewhat endearing, but Grey wasn''t going to mention it. It would''ve been patronising. ''See, this is how I can tell you are a kind girl, Sofia. A bad girl would''ve never felt sorry for...being mean to those people. But I''m sure you wouldn''t have controlled them if it had been up to you. Would you have?'' Sofia shook her head fiercely, lips thinning. Her face screwed up in distaste as she swallowed some dust. ''I just wanted to make mommy and daddy quiet. They were making my head hurt. It wasn''t like they didn''t tell me to shut up all the time.'' She kicked at nothing, raising a grey cloud. ''And - and! They wanted to be friends too, I know, they just couldn''t. Too stubborn. Proud.'' She spat a grey glob. ''Adults are dumb.'' ''That''s the secret I wanted to tell you earlier.'' Grey rubbed her back. ''I know you see all these grown-ups putzing around, being loud and bossy and always making you do what they want, never letting you do what you want. They act like they know everything, don''t they? The jerks.'' ''Daddy sure thinks he does,'' Sofia muttered darkly. Then, in a smaller voice, she added. ''They know stuff I don''t, but I''ll learn.'' ''That''s right. And you''ll never stop learning, Sofia. You know why? Because none of them know what they''re doing, trust me. There''s never a point in life when you''re suddenly prepared, no matter how sure others appear. And it''s not limited to Earth, either. Back home, I''m an adult, and I don''t know what I''m doing either.'' Sofia giggled at its self-deprecating scowl, then laid her head on its chest. ''You talk a lot too,'' she said. ''But you''re nice. Grey?'' ''Yes?'' ''Do you just wanna help ''cause you''re nice?'' She frowned in concentration. ''Ugh. I can''t read your mind. Um, you can just tell me they''re paying you, or you''re doing it cuz you''ve got nothing else to do. Or, or you wanna find out what makes me tick.'' ''I am curious, yes,'' it confessed. ''And not busy, but that''s not the reason I''m doing this. I know what it''s like for minds to run wild, without conscience to guide them. It would be a shame to see you punished for your gift, Sofia.'' She was nodding along, then suddenly stopped. ''You feel it too, don''cha?'' ''Yes,'' Grey answered. The sensation of it, and everything it knew, teetering on the brink of oblivion. Grey suspected it was similar to how Terran animals senses natural disasters before their arrival, because it sure wasn''t precognitive. ''But, Sofia, I don''t want to help you to save my own skin.'' It was living for its children at this point, and its people. ''That would be terrible. I truly-'' ''Got it,'' she snapped, adjusting her hat as she glared up at it. ''I''m not slow. Geez. I''m just...nnngh...I don''t know how we can stop what''s coming, but I know we do. It''s makin'' me feel weird.'' Then, out of the blue, lips wobbling, she added. ''I want David.'' ''Hmm?'' Grey was taken aback. ''David Silva?'' ''No, David with the slingshot who killed the Goliath,'' she grumbled acidly. ''Yeah. He''s like daddy used to be.'' The alien awkwardly shifted its footing at that. ''He...David killed your parents, Sofia. He-'' ''I know. He told me. Showed me his memories. They''d started praying to this big bad god who wants to enslave everyone.'' ''Correct...'' it said, somewhat surprised by how she was taking it in stride. ''You...are comfortable with him? Despite...?'' ''So?'' she asked defensively. ''Why should I be scared. He was nice to me when he had no reason to. It''s the fat strigoi who''s bad. Hate him.'' Grey grabbed one of her hands, squeezing gently. ''Sofia, I was just asking in case you want David to come here. He can do this too, you know. I can ask him.'' ''Oh.'' Her eyes widened. ''Y-Yeah, but, but not yet!'' She smoothed down her robes. ''Um, I think he thinks we should...ah...'' ''I understand,'' Grey assured her. ''Don''t worry. I''m sure David believes in you! Otherwise, he wouldn''t have asked for your help, right?'' Sofia nodded weakly, looking down. She was ashamed again, Grey guessed. ''I wanna ask you sumthin''.'' ''Of course! That is why I''m here, Sofia.'' ''Is it...am I bad cuz I''m more sad David ain''t here than ''cause mommy and daddy are g-gone?'' she asked, eyes reddening as tears flowed again, washing away the dust on her face. Grey smiled softly, wrapping its arms around her. ''That is a very complicated question, Sofia. There is nothing wrong with wanting David to be here, don''t worry. And, as you said, you do miss them. Even if they weren''t the best parents.'' It laughed dryly. ''Not that I''m one to talk. My children were younger than you when I left.'' ''You''re a...'' she boggled at it, saw no signs of gender, and pursed her lips. ''You have kids?'' ''Oh, yes,'' Grey replied wistfully. ''I love them, but I was scared. That they''d have a good for nothing parent, and be ashamed. I tried to do something great, to impress them.'' And everyone else. ''But if I''d known I''d be stranded and leave them behind, I''d have never left.'' Sofia returned its hug, arms painfully tight around it. She cried freely, but her sobs were quiet, only marked by the shaking on her shoulders. Grey tousled her hair then, unsure, kissed her forehead. The human gesture seemed to alarm rather than calm her down, but Grey sighed in relief when it felt Sofia''s mind begin clearing, the dust falling away from her, rising from the ground and disappearing from the sky. They were now standing where Sofia''s village had been, blinding white snow crunching under Grey''s bare feet and Sofia''s soft boots. The horizon reached the foot of a mountain, while an evergreen forest stretched across the land a few dozen metres from them. Half of the sky was blue, clear and crystal and filled with clouds as white as the snow, a yellow sun shining cheerfully in the middle, bright but not blinding. The other half was a dark, velvety blue, sprinkled with stars and arches of blue-green light. Sofia grinned up at the sun, which returned the gesture with a broad, buck-toothed grin and a wink. She looked around herself, rubbing her gloved hands, cheeks glowing red from the brisk cold. A few metres away from her, the dismembered dog Grey had seen earlier was alive again, panting and wagging its tail. Sofia''s smile soured at the sight, but she made no move towards the dog, which likewise stood still. In the distance, Grey could hear people laughing, singing, joking. A few were haggling over something, but not arguing. None of the voices was raised, or harsh, and the alien thought this must be Sofia''s dream. How she wanted the world to be...or how to remember it. It was beautiful. Idealistic, maybe, even simple - a child''s vision of the world, as exemplified by the cartoonish sun. But Grey, of all people, knew that just because something was innocent, it didn''t mean it was worthless. It had just told Sofia that, after all. The Ser Gris was surprised Sofia could still imagine, want such things, without the bleak corners of her mind causing them to fall apart. She was strong in far more ways than magically. ''Let me show you where your path could lead, Sofia, if you have no one to lean on. Where my people''s path almost did.'' Grey flicked its fingers at the sky - a theatrical gesture, performed for Sofia''s amusement rather than out of any need -, manipulating the fabric of the mindscape to form images of the Multitude of Minds'' past. ''You see, Sofia,'' Grey began in what some had told it was its storyteller voice, but which it most often associated with the cartoon character based on it. ''My people once acted the way your magic made you act, but we were worse than you. Not only did we make beings to torment, we did it all of our own volition.'' In the sky, four Seres Grises appeared. They resembled Grey in the way Neanderthals resembled modern humans, with shorter, thicker limbs and protruding brows. And yet, so small they were that their long-fingered hands trailed across the ground. They switched from two to four legs as needed as they walked their world''s wastes. ''We-'' ''Don''t you have a name?'' Sofia asked, eyes on the alien''s ancestors. ''You''re just saying "we".'' Ah. She must not have seen the documentaries it had been invited to narrate. Short on facts and long on folk stories - it hadn''t wanted to establish any expectations for the Multitude before a proper first contact -, but still, the yarns were interspersed with kernels of truth. ''In our language, we call ourselves "the folk", but the closest equivalent in Russian would be "grey beings" or "grey people".'' Grey gestured at itself. ''Everything on our homeworld was grey by the time we started speaking, so the "grey" in our name was implied.'' It understood why Sofia hadn''t been interested. Its shows tended to run the gamut between dry recollection and transparent nonsense. ''We scattered across the world - not a charming place, if you ask me. Its name would roughly translate as "the bleakness", and we weren''t hyperbolic when we came up with it -, families forming clans, then tribes,'' it continued. ''Our psi was weak at this time, telepathy and telekinesis limited to line of sight. Such limits did little to prevent warfare.'' ''Over?'' Grey folded its arms as its ancestors began to bash in and burn each other''s brains in the sky. ''The usual. Because other tribes had different traditions, prayed to different ancestors or spirits. Because we needed land and resources, but in the rare cases there was enough for everyone, pride and paranoia got in the way. This was before we evolved beyond the need for sustenance.'' The images changed, the ancient Seres Grises taking on new forms, none like the others. ''Eventually, a handful of tribes discovered agriculture and formed a coalition. They drove the hunter-gatherers to the brink of extinction, and beyond it, when they didn''t bend the knee. That was when we started shaping our evolution.'' Eugenics wasn''t something Grey would''ve usually brought up to a child, but Sofia needed to understand the full picture, and her will was strong. Stronger than the alien''s, maybe, in its opinion. ''The sick and infirm were not allowed to spawn anymore, so their genes did not pass on. When they became recalcitrant, they were sterilised - for lack of a better term; they could no longer spawn descendants from their flesh -, or executed. Those who possessed good genes but "wrong" minds, those who underminded authority through dissent or crime? They were also removed from the gene pool, or brainwashed, if deemed too valuable. Eventually, we started removing and replicating genetic material, so even that passed.'' Grey rubbed its forehead. ''At first, the good traits appeared by themselves, but they were quickly improved by science, physical and psychic alike. Our leaders began choosing people''s roles in society, with themselves at the top, of course.'' Sofia made a rude gesture Grey had never seen before at the sky, mumbling something about her parents. ''So, warriors were made stronger and braver, workers - a broad term for everyone who neither fought nor led - more versatile and docile, and leaders more confident and charismatic.'' The image zoomed out, showing the alien''s grey homeworld, spinning around its pale sun. ''With little opposition from megafauna, we took over our world, improving ourselves all the while. Then, we began colonising other planets, but our star cluster was uninhabited, and we were growing restless.'' The laboratories of old Ser Gris fleshcrafters appeared, vats and tubes filled with writhing, shrieking protoplasm. ''We were not united in thought, in those days. It was considered taboo for a leader to rub minds with a commoner or soldier, and the other castes weren''t allowed to read each other''s minds either. What if they started thinking the wrong things?'' Grey''s eyeroll was barely perceptible. ''And because of this, this lack of understanding, there was disharmony, and discontent. Was this the wonder of space exploration? What were we even looking for? More rocks to turn into copies of our world? The lower castes revolted, demanding change. The workers did not want to build spaceships anymore, and the warriors were tired of being ordered to crack down on them whenever they rioted, instead of facing real enemies. Our leaders, scared of losing their workforce and their lives at their warrior''s hands, complied. Grudgingly. So, instead of forcing their own kind to serve, they made new beings, meant to be born, live and die in slavery.'' A Sertyan floated above a tiled floor, upper half swaying drunkenly. A Dulumian spread over a wall, searching for moisture, looking like purple moss spotted with glowing blue. ''The aliens you see, today honoured peers of the Multitude of Minds, were originally created to be tools. Taken from vegetal, respectively fungal stock and altered, until rapidly-growing intelligence blossomed, no pun intended, within them. The Sertyans,'' one of the tree-like beings hovered over a junction in a Ser Gris city as the grey aliens milled around it. ''Were intented to broadcast positive thoughts; their own. They were kept in a state of ebullience, and altered strains, locked in permanent ecstasy, were later created to please Seres Grises. The idea was that they would brighten everyone''s day, lend an ear when one was having dark thoughts and reassure them. Meanwhile, the Dulumians,'' shapeless mould creatures stood in rows, moulding metal and constructing surprisingly delicate devices with their blunt, false limbs. ''Were made to work. Tireless, and incapable of getting bored. In theory.'' The mindscape''s sky shifted to show a thousand, thousand world burning, as the Seres Grises'' creations rose against them. ''We made them too smart, they grumbled at the time. Always evolving, to keep up with us as we did the same, until they started looking inwards, and saw nothing they liked. The war broke our empire, and set us back several ages, until my people were confined to our homeworld, and our creations to two others.'' Sofia''s face darkened at the destruction. ''But...you live together, right? Nowadays.'' At the alien''s nod, she scratched her head. ''If you couldn''t even travel to talk to each other...wait. Could you talk to each other? Through space?'' ''Not at the time, no. We were still struggling to reestablish our worldwide communication network, much less communicate over interstellar distances. It was the Gardeners who brought us together, and tied our destinies to theirs. Or, rather, we made them do it.'' Grey grinned rakishly at Sofia, ruffling her hair. ''Don''t worry. No good aliens were hurt in the making of history.'' ''Meanie!'' she hissed, smacking its hand aside, though her frown didn''t last long, as she soon joined Grey in laughing. The alien''s amusement died down to a chuckle, then a sigh. Something gleamed in its dark eyes. ''The Gardeners...talking species as a whole, they''re the most powerful in our universe, and have few rivals beyond it.'' The mindscape changed once more, showing a bluish, translucent being floating through space. Its centre was spherical, the size of Earth, while its handful thick tendrils were several time longer; it would''ve taken light a second to go from a tentacle''s tip to its beginning at the Gardener''s core. As the Gardener flew, it came across a planet devouring its own system. The pseudo-sentient creature, larger than most gas giants but rocky in makeup, opened a jagged maw of an abyss, breaking down and melting worlds and moons, one after another. One of the Gardener''s tentacles wrapped around an empty desert of a planet, as large as its centre, encircling it over seven times in a second, then threw it. The lightspeed impact annihilated the rogue world. ''This is how they spend their infancy. The Gardeners cherish life, but are impetuous as children, so they destroy threats to it to calm themselves. All of the planets consumed had been inhabited, but the Gardener had been too late, so all it could do was avenge them.'' The frustrated alien turned to the yellow star at the heart of the ravaged system, punching into it with its tentacles and snuffing it out like a candle in its grief. ''After a Terran decade or so, they reach adolescence, and stellar size. Though their presence can cause lifeless planets to become lush since birth, child Gardeners lack the temper to spread life, rather than fight its enemies.'' The Gardener now flew between distant stars in seconds, covering light years upon light years in a matter of heartbeats. Two warring fleets stopped clashing as the lifeless world they were fighting over, for their terraforming devices were good for only one hemisphere''s worth of world, and they were loathe to share that, bloomed green with life as the Gardener passed through it. For all that the psychic was as large as the system''s red giant star, neither the fleet''s members nor their instruments could perceive it, for it had no heat, no mass, and it didn''t move. Its presence could only be felt by beings with esoteric senses, for, as far as the material universe was concerned, Gardeners did not exist. Finally, after a Terran century, the Gardener now sat at the heart of a growing galaxy. Its centre was as large as the galactic core, its tentacles as long and broad as its spiral arms. The galaxy spun like a lightspeed disc with but one pulse of its psychic power, trillions of solar masses moving in a merry dance. Every movement of interest inside it, as civilisations rose and fell, was tracked by a being that could cross hundreds of thousands of light years in seconds. ''The Gardeners are some of the most selfless people I have had the pleasure to meet,'' Grey said quietly. ''They help others and nurture diversity because they love others, even when they cannot be sensed at all, much less thanked. But they are not without flaw.'' An infant Gardener roared, the unsound rending reality for parsecs and obliterating planets on the quantum level, as it was forced into a star that was a prison. Finally, one of the psychics had been found, and trapped. ''Some cultures, it turned out, did not appreciate strangers destroying what they saw as potential assets. The hunt they called a war saw dozens of stars destroyed as they were made to go supernova, before the energies were directed into planet-sized beams that passed through psychic mirrors - matter and energy could not interact with the Gardeners, who could fly through neutron stars and singularities as easily as Earth''s birds flew through clouds. But the psionic devices let the energy beams strike on the level where the Gardener dwelt, and the power of dozens of supernovas tore it to nothing. Except it didn''t want to die. And for a Gardener, oblivion only came when it no longer wanted to persist. Even then, it took tremendous power to unmake it. The Gardener wanted to live. Its immense form appeared from nothing as its healing rejected nonexistence. Its pursuers panicked, and bent their sciences to the task of binding the unkillable monster.'' Grey scoffed at the idea, noting Sofia''s skeptical look. Maybe it had sounded good at the time, like most mistakes. ''By the time they left, the Gardener was already pushing the bounds of its cage. Its nature relied on perception: the universe had been made not to notice it, and, as such, the Gardener had been pushed outside reality and the aether, into empty darkness. It ripped its way back into the cosmos in a matter of moments, only to find another trap, just as ineffectual. The chains it was bound with were tethered to the star of the Seres Grises'' system, and were shattered as easily the pale yellow star was destroyed when the Gardener flexed.'' ''How did you survive?'' the witch asked. ''Neither us Seres Grises nor our creations could stand against the enraged, maddened Gardener, so we sent out a psychic plea for help, and the being''s kindred answered. The older Gardeners easily restrained it, and attempted to explain themselves. They were not a civilisation. They did not form bonds, not with each other. Not out of incapability, but because they saw understanding the life they created as more important, and the contact with other creators as dangerous; it could result in one becoming biased towards a type of life, for example. Directing the lives of other Gardeners was out of the question. After all, beings who appeared whenever life did on a comet, satellite or planet should be as accepting and understanding as the beings they adored.'' The Seres Grises, the Sertyans and the Dulumians had united to make a doomed last stand against the Gardener, who, resentful after its imprisonment by people it had indirectly saved, saw life as a threat to itself. Now, they presented an united front to the Gardeners'' speakers, demanding that the Gardener be destroyed, or at least sealed permanently, and recompense be made to them: their planets had been blasted to quarks by the Gardener''s psychic bolts, and now they only had a ship, made from three different ones cobbled together, to live on. The Gardeners were unsure. They had stood against genocide attempts in the past, yes, but curtailing the freedom of one of their own? Who had been attacked for no reason, no less? Such thinking could be dangerous. It could limit creativity, and place younger Gardeners under the yoke of their elders, in the end. ''The people they had saved from extinction cried out in outrage. How could the Gardeners abandon their principles just because the guilty was kin to them? Were they that hypocritical? The Gardeners grew dismayed as they deliberated, until cooled heads prevailed. People, my forebears argued, could not simply be allowed to do whatever they wanted, just because restrictions would stifle their creativity. Similarly, kindness without direction or unity would go nowhere, and likely lead to similar incidents in the future. What if the next Gardener to be wrong was one of those who could destroy galaxies with a tentacle swipe? Or their Eldest, who could wipe out the multiverse''s fourth layer with a thought? No. As thanks for saving us, we would help the Gardeners focus their efforts to enrich the universe. Meanwhile, they would help us rebuild and become better.'' Grey beamed as the Multitude of Minds was founded, with every member joining thoughts, creating a crystal-clear, serene communion. ''We evolved, and not just physically. The Sertyans and the Dulumians stood as equals to Seres Grises, who could now switch castes at will, when they felt they belonged somewhere else. Today, our bodies now change by themselves as we pick other tasks to occupy ourselves with. It is...reassuring, to know our rigid mindset is gone.'' Grey looked down at the young mage, hugging her as it once had Zlahi. ''So do you see, Sofia? Being bad for its own sake is just as dangerous as being good beyond reason. You cannot let everyone do what they want, no matter how concerned you are with their feelings.'' The witch laid her chin on Grey''s small, round shoulder. ''I think I get it,'' she whispered. ''You people only became friends after you talked to each other, and you only did that cuz you wanted to talk. Not ''cause...someone like me made you.'' Grey rocked her a few times, reassuringly. ''Hush, now. I know you wouldn''t do what you did, or lash out like the trapped Gardener did. You''re better than you think you are, Sofia.'' Too many people failed to see their virtues...just as too many monsters refused to see their flaws, much less accept them. ''Even when the sealed Gardener was offered a chance at redemption through service, it refused. It didn''t want to help anymore, except by putting them out of their misery.'' In the mental sky, an adolesecent Gardener seized the rogue, before destroying it, over and over again, until it gave up, departing. ''I''ve been thinking about that,'' Sofia said, adjusting her hat, to Grey''s relief. ''Then, you will work with the Strangeguard? Or maybe ARC?'' it suggested. ''Later,'' Sofia waved it off, then giggled. ''Thanks for the story, Orhygr! I get it!'' She gesticulated excitedly. ''It, you, you didn''t just tell me to prove how good being friends is, see?'' ''I didn''t?'' Grey asked, confused. ''Well, duh, of course you did.'' Sofia rolled her eyes. ''But it wasn''t just your plan, it was part of a bigger one! And...'' She sniggered happily. ''I know why David didn''t just come out and tell me, the goof. Your story, it''s not just a story, it''s a template.'' Sofia''s voice deepened at the last word, her eyes becoming distant again. But this time, they were a piercing green, and focused. The dog from earlier loped between Grey and Sofia, and she looked at it for a long moment, then gulped. Grey could feel her desire to drop to her knees, hug the dog to her chest and promise they''d be together forever now, and nothing and no one would ever separate them again. But that would''ve meant living in the past. Succumbing to delusion. When Sofia returned her attention to the universe, her magic would be in control, for eternity. And if Grey had failed to convince her - if David had told her the reason for the story, making her lose her temper -, she would''ve given up. Instead, she remained firm, voice barely wavering as she spoke. ''The dead should stay dead,'' she told the dog. ''I''m sorry I couldn''t save you, b-boy.'' She angrily wiped her reddening eyes with a stained sleeve. ''B-But this ain''t really you, i-is it?'' She sniffled, then swallowed a hiccup, growling instead. ''And you''re a monster for using his body to move me, you hear? You don''t rule my life! I''m the mage here!'' As her magic pulled back from her, the dog''s eyes dulled, then its body fell apart, into dust. The mana cringed before the witch as she grabbed it with both hands, huffing indignantly. Then, holding it still with one hand, she grabbed Grey''s with the other. David smiled triumphantly as they both came to, nodding to him. Their minds touched as the only child spared by Mother Wound tossed David the greatest artefact of his travels, reflecting and multiplying their power until they could reach everywhere, everywhen. But, while it would take an union of creation''s inhabitants to wake up the Unmoved Mover, attempting to control said minds would doom the process, and pervert it in any case. That was what Sofia would have done, if she''d given in to her weakness. Instead, the three, their telepathic power enhanced beyond reason by the Ideal Mirror, spoke to everyone, mind to mind, explaining their nature, their goal. Everyone accepted. Some in disbelief, some to save themselves. Two dark, dark minds joined to prove how pointless the exercise was, and were soon proven wrong. But, in their hearts of hearts, there was no one who didn''t want, even thought they might not have known or accepted it, to understand everyone else, and help them, simply because it was the right thing to do. And when the Mover woke, and creation changed, the beginning of this friendship that reached everywhere was remembered, even when the shared thoughts were often forgotten. Because loyalty offered was a precious thing, even in the eyes of the almighty. Lore: Esoteric powers
Magic While magic is the most ubiquitous esoteric power on Earth, it is nearly unheard of in the larger universe, though it is relatively common in a handful of realities with similar histories (which makes them close neighbours to the main universe, metaphysically-speaking). This is caused by the unique nature of the pre-Shattering world. The effect caused by perceiving and being perceived resulted in what humans generally agreed to be supernatural beings not being able to interact with normal humans, unless expected. Mundanes (also known as baselines or baseliners, short for baseline humans) and supernaturals essentially lived in different worlds until the Fall of Berlin. In areas with many human observers, a were, for example, could not touch anything or enter any building, even if the humans happened to be looking in their directions. From the were''s perspective, it looked like they were caught in a literal ghost town, where they could not interact with anything. The reptilians, who did interact with small numbers of humans throughout history (though, between the mindwipes necessary to survive the aftermath of the events the Collective arrived to stop, and the rattled state of the survivors who did not want to live in a world where the Zhayvin were needed, the memories and records never stuck, except as fringe beliefs, such as the "Conquerors from Hollow Earth" conspiracy theories) concluded that aliens and other entities with paranormal powers were exempt from this effect. Besides their hypothesis that humans unknowingly, passively manipulated quantum states to an unusual level, quite literally making things unable to fully exist unless they believed in them, some reptilians mused that the human collective unconscious seemed to, somehow, be able to differentiate between, for example, a Ser Gris using psychic telekinesis, and a mage shapeshifting into one and using telekinesis based on mana, even if the observer themselves did not know the difference, or believed they were the same. In the light of recent macrocosmic experiments, the Collective hypothesises that this was an artifical state, induced by the First Principle or its agents with the purpose of directing evolution so that it would result in the most diversity. This anthropocentric quantum separation effect, as the reptilians termed it, did not only extend to Earth, but the entirely of creation. With the aid of human volunteers, the reptilians concluded that humans could perceive and interact with alien paranormals, but not Earth-based ones, an arbitrary distinction that suggested meddling. "Magic" is an umbrella term referring to activities requiring mana, ranging from casting and summoning to sympathetic magic, alchemy, enchantment, ward-making, artifice (a catch-all term for the creation of constructs and the shaping of materials without warding or enchanting them), divination and scrying. Casting, like artifice, is shorthand for using mana, but generally understood, in magic slang, to cover things like throwing fireballs or creating time lops, rather than remotely attacking people using their belongings as a focus, even though all spells and magical effects are "cast". Mana is a metaphysical energy created by the synergy of the body (not necessarily a biological or organic one, inorganic shells or avatars count as equivalents), mind/processor and soul. While humans need a balance between the three components of their self (and their subdivisions, depending on a particular mage''s beliefs), and the weakening or absence of one can cause them to become incapable of casting, there are incorporeal, mindless or soulless beings able to cast: ghosts, specialised golems, demons and angels (though it would be more accurate to say they are a more primal form of soul, rather than soulless, like wood is for paper), to start. Though a strong mind is conducive to magic, the mind must be strong in the metaphorical sense, rather than the amount of brain cells, brain activity or processing power, as concluded by the reptilians'' attempts to study mana. A sapient supercomputer would not necessarily be a stronger mage than a human of average intelligence if all it can do is crunch numbers. To most arcane senses, mana appears light, shining blue, with light green highlights or "veins". Though it can manipulate or be converted into natural forces, mana phases through them in its raw state, and even if solidified into mana objects, it appears as anomalous, with no detectable density or mass, although a building-sized "block" of mana created by the average mage will act although it is as durable and heavy as a building. Solidified mana can be burned or dissolved, though not frozen by mundane temperatures, and floats under its own power, though it can be torn apart or crushed by sufficient levels of gravity, causing it to dissapear. Each mage has a mana pool, appearing as an outline around their metaphysical self, though many envision it as an actual pool, lake or well, located in the centre of their being. A mana pool is inexhaustible: a mage can cast as many times as they like without running out. The limits are physical needs, which can be circumvented or removed with enough skill, and the "size" of a mage''s mana pool. Most mages can manipulate the equivalent of a handful to a dozen tons of TNT at a time, and, in terms of more esoteric effects, can manipulate spacetime or gravity across an apartment building, even though the energies involved in such events might be far lower or stupendously larger than a mage''s firepower limits, if they were to be replicated by mundane mundane technology. This is generally agreed to be a quirk of magic, which, if not sentient, is instinctively stubborn about following its own rules. Mages can enhance their strength, durability and reactions by tapping into their mana, as well as removing the need for nourishment, rest or air. Sufficient exposure to inner or foreign mana will permanently enhance a mage''s body while removing their physical needs, an effect that, unlike a ward or enchantment cast on the mage''s body, can''t be removed by antimagic, as they were altered by magic in the past. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. One in a hundred humans is a mage, their mana awakening most often after emotional events during childhood or adolescence, with born mages being rarer. Intense events can increase the size of a mage''s mana pool, should they survive with their bodies and faculties intact. Often, aside from baseline magical powers (control of matter, energy and spacetime, the creation of localised laws of physics and metaphysics, existence erasure), mages will have "themed" magic, influenced by their personality. Brazillion of the Circle Bizarre was passionate about mathematics before he obtained the power to divide, multiply and raise attributes at a whim. Appropriate objects, collectively referred to as foci (although the term started as a classification for focusing tools such as wands and stave - things with the proper shape for channeling mana and pointing it at a target. Slingshots, bows and arrows and firearms have a similar effect), can help ease casting. Water magic is easier while holding a hose, even if the mage is not channeling mana through it; thinking about it is enough. Spells are phrases and/or rituals that can trigger specific magical events, usually beyond the mage''s innate capabilities due to either the necessary output or the nature of the caster''s goal. They are the verbal, nonverbal and ritualistic equivalents to physical foci, and work through the same principle of focusing and strengthening the mana by helping the mage concentrate. Wards are physical (in the sense they have a physical presence) or metaphysical shields, seals, cages or traps. Although popular culture sometimes depicts magic and technology as opposite "forces" or sides, magic could be considered a type of technology: it is, after all, a practical application of knowledge, often using objects, or even devices traditionally considered "technological". Antimagic If counterspells are like diverting or damming rivers, antimagic is like vapourising them and scattering the steam. To a mage''s arcane senses, antimagic registers as an unsettling force or absence, causing a feeling of unease, like balancing on the edge of a cliff. Most mages believe this is an instinctive reaction to something opposed to a major facet of their self, even if they do not know what antimagic is, exactly. Antimagic is created during the extremely traumatic death of a mage, which, to use a visual metaphor, turns their mana pool into a pit or vacuum. This antimana covers an area equivalent to that the mage could manipulate in life, and shuts down all magical effects in said area: nothing can be cast, enchantments and wards disappear, and so on. Antimana is to mana what the void that animates a vampire is to a soul; antimagic is a term used to refer to objects or beings imbued with antimana. Psychic powers (psi, ESP, etc.) and counters (psilencers) There have been few psychics in human history, and never many at a time. With the newest generation being born, psychics are appearing in numbers similar to mages, both among children born with psi and older people who manifest psi. A psychic''s mind, much like a mage''s, must be strong, in the metaphysical sense, for their powers to work. Also like mages, their psychic grasp has a limit of power and reach, as well as, sometimes, an unique ability shaped by the psychic''s experiences. Psi is the term used to refer to psychic abilities in general, the most common ones being tele/psychokinesis, pyrokinesis, electrokinesis, and ESP. ESP, short for extrasensory perception, covers enhanced intuition, telepathy, empathy (which allows psychics to literally feel emotions), precognition, post/retrocognition, psychometry and remote-viewing. ESP powers often overlap - a "bad feeling" can be caused by either enhanced intuition or immature precog, or even both working in concert. Psychometry is to touch what postcog is to imagination and the other mundane senses, allowing the psychic to learn about a being or object''s past, or, in rarer cases, its present in more detail than their other senses allow. Remote viewing can be considered a form of long-distance enhanced intuition, accurately perceiving events far away despite sensory barriers. Psilencers are methods and devices used to counter psi like antimagic is used to counter magic. A psychic''s violently traumatic death has similar effects to a mage''s, creating a psilent zone and giving some credence to the theory that the two forms of power are related, perhaps in the way strigoi and ghouls, undead who feed on lifeforce and flesh, respectively, are. Among alien species, psychics are and have been common for billions of years, and there are multiple naturally psilent species, although the existence of antimagic beings is still being debated. Faithcraft and demonology Faithcraft is the act of tapping into the power of the deity one worships. Divine power is neither magical nor psychic, and can be differentiated from them by the permanent damage it deals to vampires, ghouls and strigoi. Faithcraft can be accomplished through prayer or by obtaining blessings, which are to divine power what enchantmnts are to magic. Demonology refers to the theory and practice of tapping into the power of demons, either through contracts, binding them, or, more rarely, willing offers. Demonic energy, much like its holy counterpart, is neither magical nor psychic. Demonology can be practised through either megic or the power of the demon themselves. Others The nature of the Unmoved Mover''s creation and the reminiscence most of its inhabitants bear to its five-pointed shape means there are many strange powers in creation that do not resemble any of the above: eldritch effects that break minds and existence alike, animal-based abilities such as those of therianthropes, vampiric powers, the manipulation of Archetypes, the very ideas that form the bedrock of creation, or even abilities that revolve around a being''s perception by themselves and their peers, but which, unlike those of weres, are mostly unique, such as those of FREAKSHOW''s Breakout. Lore: Vampirism
Vampires are, in the broadest sense, sapient undead who feed on the essence of living beings, and are able to turn humans (be they mundanes, mages or psychics) and animals into vampires through specific methods of consumption. But before these methods can be elaborated, the different categories of "vampire" must be described. It should be noted that feeding on others and an infectious nature does not make one a vampire: after all, a man-eating were can also make more of itself while feeding, due to how therianthropy spreads. Weres, however, are alive, and the touch of silver can reveal a being''s nature, should its behaviour be confusing. Despite old myths spread by Primus and supporters among his descendants to trick those who would hunt them, mundane silver is not harmful to vampires. There are two categories of vampire. According to rumours and the shaky claims of postcognitives, who have all admitted they are unsure whether their visions are reliable, there used to be four: vampires who drank blood, lifeforce, emotions and memories, with the former two still surviving today. It is said, among vampires, that the greatest among the emotional and mental vampires struck a deal with forgotten gods in order to gain the means to strike down Primus, whose power and prestige they were jealous of (the detractors of these legends consider this propaganda and empty boasts, meant to prop up the Bloodfather and started by Primus himself, or his followers). It is far more likely, they said, that the extinct vampires were wiped out by the pantheons or their worshippers, either in retaliation to some slight, or to prevent their rise to power. Though Primus is widely-known as the "First Vampire", it would be more accurate to say that he is the progenitor of "western" vampires: not those who live in the western world, for there are plenty outside it, but those who are descended from him and share his abilities. These Primusians, as some call themselves in hopes of currying favour with their distant, apathetic ancestor, crave blood the way a human would crave water after hours in a desert. Drinking blood quenches this thirst for second to minutes, while also strengthening the vampire. The amount of power gained through feeding varies depending on both the quantity and the quality of the blood; a were''s would yield a much greater boost than a human''s. Primusians are capable of feeding on themselves, such as by biting down on their tongues, but vampire blood tastes like cold, wet mud to them - an unappealing prospect to undead whose sense of taste only lets them taste the metallic flavour of blood at the best of times, and nothing at all in other moments. Many vampires grumble that this was a decision of the pantheons who cursed Primus, to keep them from becoming stronger on their own, while others praise the Bloodfather for fashioning his children in such a way that they are dissuaded from cannibalism. This is not the main reason for the unpopularity of Primusian ancestor cults, but it certainly does not endear them to vampires who, for one reason or another, have been banned from buying blood. Oher substances that are chemically or metaphysically similar enough to blood can also be consumed, though the taste and effects varies. Primusians (who most of the world pictures when thinking of "vampires", even though they comprise less than a third of Earth''s vampiric population) possess great physical aptitude, endless stamina, an inability to feel pain, immunity to non-holy esoteric effect (though blessed powers or objects can both alter and hurt them), and a slew of exotic abilities most famously described in Bram Stoker''s Dracula. They can shapeshift into bats, wolves or mist, with their physical abilities staying the same in the first two forms. More skilled vampires can become swarms of bats, packs of rats, owls, or other creatures traditionally associated with the night. They can mentally dominate those who look into their eyes (which are, shapeshifting aside, crimson, with black, slit pupils) for as long as they wish, providing no mental protections, such as those inherent to many paranormal species. As a vampire grows in skill and power, they can move or shape objects, beings and other aspects of creation that within their line of sight. Vampires cannot use their esoteric powers while exposed to sunlight or running water, which has caused more than one bat fledgling to fall, immobile, in the river they were attempting to fly over as a bat. This is a popular method of combating vampiric criminals, which is why hydro/photokinetics are valuable while battling them. Primusians reproduce by biting the neck of a living mundane, mage or psychic. The symbolism of this act removes the soul of the victim, which goes to wait in the aether or an afterlife until the vampire''s death, after which it reunites with their mind. The soul is replaced by a metaphysical void that acts much like it, while also rendering the vampire immune to spiritual attacks, including holy ones: after all, there is nothing to damage. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. After being bitten, the fledgling''s bodily functions cease, their blood thickening and darkening in colour. Their skin becomes as white as marble (or grey as ash, if they were dark-skinned in life), their teeth lengthen and sharpen, and the most prominent aspects of their personality become more pronounced. While vampirism does not "make people evil", despite speciesist propaganda, some sires do turn only problematic people, which is enough to mislead casual observers. Should a human be killed by a bite elsewhere, or by the vampire''s strikes or powers, they will become a wight. Much like zombies raised by necromancers, wights do not feel pain or exhaustion, are mindless, and provide their killer with different sets of senses, as well as ana array of abilities, except for sou-based ones, which are lost when the spirit departs upon the wight''s death. While vampires are unable to use magic, lacking a soul (comparisons drawn between themselves and soulless magic have led to the conclusion that something in the nature of vampirism is still human enough it cannot comprehend or allow soulless magic. Fringe researchers claim this is a conspiracy enforced by the jealous pantheons), they do retain any psychic powers they have had in life, which might grow or change, depending on the individual. Besides the instincts resulting from turning, vampirism freezes the body in one state, shapeshifting and holy wounds notwithstanding, which can prove detrimental to healthy development. This is why turning minors or mentally-ill people is outlawed by the Global Gathering. Jiangshi is the term used to refer to the strain of vampirism originating in what is today China, and whose members comprise most of Asia''s vampiric population, and over seventy percent of the world''s. Jiangshi, or jiang-shi (literally "hard" or "stiff", though more popularly known as hopping vampires), are famous for their tendency to move by hopping, arms outstretched. This has been compared to a strigoi''s urge to count spilled sand or rice grains, or commit horrifically evil acts. Between this mental tic and their hunger for lifeforce, jiangshi can be considered closer "cousins" to strigoi than Primusians, even though they physically resemble their western vampiric relatives more, except for their eyes being the colour of jade. Jiangshi share the abilities of Primusians, while also having the power to sense, move and shape lifeforce with their mind (this being separate from their ocular domination power, having similar effects while also being usable on things outside visual range). Should they completely drain a human''s lifeforce, they will rise again as a jiangshi. A corpse might rise as a hopping vampire, should it remain unburied, after the other funeral rites have been observed, for lightning to strike its coffin or a black cat (especially a pregnant one, which makes undeath more likely) to leap over the coffin. Should the corpse belong to someone who still wanted to live, for various reasons, they might return as a jiangshi - another similarity to strigoi. While the threat of a "jiangshi virus" launched by a necromantic crime syndicate caused unrest in China during the mid-eighties, this was later concluded to have been a metaphor for the conditions likely to create hopping vampires becoming more widespread, cloaked in more intimidating terms. The first jiangshi was Muchen Xu, who was born as an Ardipithecus three point two million years ago. He learned of the Tao while fleeing from Atlantean slave raids, developing his grasp of cultivation as he sought one hiding place after another. Xu''s undeath, if anything, brought him closer to his spiritual side, an irony he has always found amusing. Xu began moulding his flesh and expanding his mind as mankind''s ancestors evolved, always keeping pace in terms of appearance. His first attempt at forming a cultivation sect before his undeath resulted to an attempted assassination by his apprentices, who were split between wanting to kill him because he was undead and wanting to kill him because he had become more powerful, and in a manner that hadn''t required effort from him - for Xu''s lifeforce had been burned away in an unlucky attempt to bond with the Tao. The latter assassins, according to Xu, almost certainly disdained his transformation because he had grown stronger while still drilling them like before. All of them, however, were united in their conviction that the sect''s leader had to die. This, according to Xu, has always been the most common trait his many enemies have shared. After cultivating enough to start warping the fabric of creation on a large scale, Xu retreated to the Tao Cluster, where he carved out a pocket reality, where he could train, study and relax at his leisure. This was when he named himself. In the modern day, Muchen Xu splits his attention between his students, his harem (categories that overlap less often than his critics claim), the Tao Cluster, and the neutral universe it is connected to, especially its version of China. Sidestory: So spake the Shaper...
''Is she gonna make it?'' The Shaper''s avatar turned its head so the young aberrant - unusually intelligent for by the standards of those thanathropes humans called zombies - could look it into the eye. The Shaper''s position had no relation to its perception: it could see and hear, among many other things, through nearly every creation of the Collective; a range that spanned the entire macrocosm. As such, the movement was entirely for the zombie''s benefit. The Shaper almost scoffed at the absurdity of wanting to interact with something you knew to be just a projection - in this case, a metainformational entity carved from the metadata clump Mocker half-jokingly called "Science". It was the idea of a hologram, rather than a construct of light. Just another fruit of their labour in the bowels of the macrocosm -, but it then chastised itself. Sometimes, sometimes, irrationality, sentimentalism, was not detrimental. Besides, as much as the Shaper found unreason to be exasperating...its people had once been worse than mankind and its offshots. Much worse, arguably. ''She will live,'' the thing that resembled a small Zhayvin with green scales answered, looking at the bedridden thanatophiliac aetherkine. The necromancer''s breathing was stabilising, her chest settling into a steady rate. The antimagic shards had been broken down by yoctomachines, and their properties stored into the Collcetive''s memory banks, for later use. The young aberrant had no need to know that. Being told that what had almost killed one''s employer (and owner...lover?) had been studied in preparation for replication would''ve been unsettling. No need to make him think the reptilians were going to come after him or his witch. The zombie scoffed, rubbing his nose with a dark green anorak sleeve. ''Dude, I don''t care if she comes back like me, o-or if you make her move with one of your gadgets. Just...'' ''She will make it, then,'' the Shaper promised, solidifying one of the avatar''s paws so it could pat his forearm. ''And...'' It tried to smile as reassuringly as possible without showing its fangs, which would''ve just pushed the expression into intimidating territory. Frankly, for people so particular about expressions, humans certainly had an easy time making them. No teeth to scare each other with...most of the time. ''Without any of that, I assure you.'' It chuckled. ''I won''t be necessary.'' The zombie nodded gratefully, with such force and speed his neck broke at the same time as the speed barrier. He facepalmed in the millisecond it took to heal, milky, cataracted eyes widening slightly. ''Ah, crap-! You''ll, um, probably want our names, I guess? For the record?'' ''You guess correctly,'' the Shaper confirmed gently. ''And you can stop fidgeting. You are not going to get in trouble with the authorities for calling upon our help. The Collective is an ally of Earth, not a rogue state.'' An ally, but not a member. For some reason, the reptilians had never really felt like they belonged on Terra, even before its current inhabitants arrived or evolved. More like...squatters, even if they''d always done their part in defending it from otherworldly assault and invasion. The zombie chuckled. ''Fair ''nuff, I guess. Name''s Robert, by the way, but my mates call me Rob.'' Rob Zombie? Really. ''Sasha is - '' ''Full names would be more helpful, actually,'' the Shaper remarked. Rob adjusted his clothes. ''Right. Robert and Sasha Keyes. And before you ask, no, we''re not siblings.'' He scuffed the floor of the makeshift clinic with a white sneaker. ''I''ve just...taken her name. Y''know, as a show of trust.'' ''Why would we care if you were siblings?'' People scared of being spied upon by the Collective were usually also scared of being kidnapped by them and placed into anatomically-unlikely scenarios. It swore, the humans had far more imagination when it came to probes than it was healthy. ''Well, if she needs a blood donation or something, if I were her brother, there''d be a better chance of me having the right type, correct?'' He shrugged. ''There''s a chance her magic would react well to dead blood and supercharge her healing, but I''d rather not risk it. You never know, with these things, and I don''t want that stuff rotting in her veins.'' ''Quite,'' the Shaper agreed, curious about the mechanics of that effect. The possibility of the macrocosm or its creator having a set of principles was as heartening as it was dangerous. Subjectivity, like many things, only got worse with enough power backing it up. ''But do not worry. If your...'' Hmm. ''Acquaintance needed blood, we would have simply scanned and replicated hers.'' Rob leaned against the off-white wall, grinning wistfully. ''You guys can really do anything, huh?'' His posture became stiffer as his expression turned uncomfortable, despite the metamaterial changing to fit his body. ''So...would you mind if I asked something?'' He ran a hand through his mess of dark hair as he spoke, before scratching the back of his head. ''I...know it''s not really my business, and you don''t have to answer, especially after saving our bacon. I''m grateful, by the way, honest.'' The Shaper was quietly pleased. Recently, it had issued a request to the Global Gathering, describing how the Collective would like to become more proactive in terms of helping out where Terran agencies could not, if possible. Since it had doubtlessly sounded like a blatant power grab to the more cynical of its recipients, the Shaper (or, rather, the linear subroutines of its mind) had not expected much. Instead, it had received responses that the GG was not opposed to such help, in the spirit of fostering cooperation. Honestly, just them looking the other way would''ve been enough. If it came down to helping the needy or undermining the image of legitimate authorities, the Shaper would rather choose a third option. Rob had spoken to it during the treatment. He and the mage were returning home after the first noteworthy ritual she''d performed following her obtaining her magical licence. Rob had wanted to remain with her, for as long as possible, but he''d got tired of slowing her down with his human weaknesses, and hadn''t wanted to be turned by a were or vamp. Thinking zombies were a relatively unpopular choice when it came to becoming superhuman. Less because people were uncomfortable with being separated from their souls, and more with how the necromancer who raised a zombie could override their will. Of course, the would-be zombie knew and had to agree to that, prior their death, but how many were willing to? The knife Rob had used to kill himself had made a potent focus for his resurrection, but, on their way back to Leeds, the weapon''s mana had triggered an old bomb, filled with antimagical shrapnel and buried deep beneath the road. Rob''s wounds had healed immediately, the shards being ejected at supersonic speeds: zombies would recover from anything as long as their mage survived. Sasha, however, had been less lucky. Even as Rob had started running the many kilometres to civilisation at Mach 4, his ragged calls for help had filled the aether, drawing the attention of the Collective. A yoctomachine had shaped a portion of road into a shelter, before creating the appropriate tools. ''You are welcome to ask anything.'' Within reasonable bounds, of course. ''And we expect no payment.'' What the reptilians accepted in exchange for their services was either of sentimental value, or things so tacky they deserved to be studied, so Terran psychology could be understood better. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ''Thanks. And, at the risk of sounding like a whiner...um. You guys can do anything, or at least so much there''s no real difference. So, why haven''t you...?'' ''Done more?'' Rob snorted. ''Yeah, sounds really bitter when you put it like that, don''t it? I mean, you''ve helped so often, in exchange for nothing, so this must come across as pretty pushy, huh?'' ''It is a reasonable question.'' The Shaper folded its hands. ''Why don''t we share everything we have with the rest of the world? Why did we remain hidden until the nineteen forties, despite not being subject to the anthropocentric quantum separation effect?'' ''Wait, that''s what the AQSE stands for?'' Rob rubbed his chin. ''It''s just, I saw this guy on the conspiracy theories subreddit dropping this acronym, but I couldn''t tell how whatever the AQSE was had to do with pre-Shattering metaphysics, cuz he never gave deets. I thought it was some kinda pun, you know, supernaturals getting the AQSE when they tried bursting into the limelight.'' ''Please do not call it the AQSE,'' the Shaper said flatly, already knowing it was too late. It had caught on. ''Anyway...many wonder why we didn''t uplift your ancestors as soon as they appeared, if we could. That''s what''s eating at you too, isn''t it?'' ''I mean...'' Rob shuffled his feet. ''You said you wouldn''t mind...'' ''We are not offended,'' the Shaper waved him off. ''Arguing whether to stand by or not when less-advanced beings struggle tends to lead into discussions about exploitation, and whether pragmatism trumps morality. Now, we could say that the pantheons would''ve intervened if we''d tried influencing possible worshippers, or that Atlantis or one of the other ancient civilisations would''ve opposed us, leading to a devastating war that might''ve wiped out humanity in the crossfire...but those are only parts of the reason at best, and excuses at worst.'' The Shaper allowed itself a smile as protoplasm was pumped into the mage''s body, quickly changing to replace the shredded tissue and shattered bones. Without its help, the young woman would''ve likely died, or become a lich, at best. ''The truth, the entire truth, is that our simulations,'' and paranoia. ''Showed extremely high chances of humans falling upon each other, or other, more dangerous opponents, following the sharing of technology. And besides...'' The projection crossed its eyes. ''We did not want to unduly influence mankind. Awe and terror are sadly common reaction to powerful, unknowable beings, and they were as unappealing to us as the reverence and worship that often accompany them.'' There were fringe cults that worshipped the reptilians even in this modern world, full of powerful but known beings. The Shaper kept dismantling them and sternly discouraging the practitioners, but they were stubborn, if harmless. A more power-hungry being might have argued that the holy power that could be gained from worship was too potentially useful to be discarded for the sake of principle. But, even if the Collective had been unable to quantum entangle with the macrocosm and its contents (and not just things within the bounds of traditional spacetime, but everything that could be quantified. Human scientists cried foul, claiming the reptilians were either lying or did not know what they were talking about. Wrong terminology was claimed in both cases), they would''ve rather allied themselves with the pantheons'' more reasonable members than turned into them. ''But...the Shattering?'' Ah. ''A stressful period, to be certain.'' The Shaper began pacing. ''And perhaps the reveal of our existence added to the panic, but our presence, and assistance, were necessary. We could not afford to worry about public perception. And...you had grown wiser, by then.'' At Rob''s dumbfounded look, it chuckled. ''The appearance of so many aberrants hardened your psyches. You became able to look in our eye, rather than up at us, as your ancestors might have. Able to oppose us, if necessary.'' There was a pause after that. When Rob spoke again, he was looking at Sasha''s sleeping form, grey skin resembling slate in the blue lighting. ''We must be a pain in your arses, aren''t we? Sometimes, I wonder why you stay on Earth.'' Pain in... ''Please do not mistake our terminology for bigoted slang.'' The Shaper held up a clawed hand. ''We call you aberrant because you deviate from baseline reality, not out of hatred. We do not hate you because you deviate from physics. As for the second part...while our arrival on Earth was entirely coincidental,'' well, the wormhole generators had been too damaged for anything precise, but nowadays, the Shaper suspected hidden hands at work. The First Principle''s, maybe. ''We decided to stay, not just because of growing attachment, but to atone. Set our sights on a single world, and protect it, because we were strong. Because it was the right thing to do.'' Things hadn''t been as simple as that, sadly. The Zhayvin had been predators before they had been sapient, and the Shaper''s core personality had united their scattered tribes under a philosophy not unlike that of the Vyzhaldi Breaker School. As long as one could do something, and wanted to, that was that. Protests were useless without strength to back them up - ideals granted no power. So, instincts that had been honed in awful deserts and noisome swamps over eons of evolution, for the sake of survival, had become a way of life.The warlord had been able to unite her species because she had been strong. The weak and disorganised had fallen, to their knees or into the dust. They had taken their world, and countless others, because they had been strong enough. Anything that did not have to do with the pursuit of power was removed, or never taken up. Art had never taken root among Zhayvin, not when they were pushed to breed, work and fight as long and as often as possible. Same-sex couplings had been outlawed as distracting wastes of resources, and breeding pairs made to donate genetic material as often as possible, so the best Zhayvin could be made. The weak, the diseased, the crippled, had been purged or banned from reproducing. No need to pollute the gene-pool with their deficiecies. And, in the end, all the preparation, all the conquest and warmongering, had brought no joy. Not just because of how many cultures they had ground underfoot before meeting their match, but because, when losses had become unsustainable, the Shaper had realised she felt no pride in her people''s prowess, no desire to make a last stand. When they had retreated, the other, few remaining Zhayvin had asked her to find a way to turn their lives around. And so, they had jumped into a wormhole, after dozens of failure, only to find themselves on a strange world, with stranger people, few of them its own, at the time. Even as she begun shaping herself and her people into what they were now, the Shaper had realised how much Earth would need and benefit from their help. And...it still did. ''We love them,'' it thought to itself, and thus to the Collective. ''We loved watching them grown and blossom. Witnessing their achievements. We love their exuberance, their passion...even the aberrants, with their nonsense.'' The realisation, it decided, was not unwelcome. Lore: Fae
The Fae are a paranormal humanoid species originating from and mainly residing in Faerie. An infinitely-large (and thus heavy) realm of sprawling woodlands, mountain ranges and lakes, Faerie metaphysically borders Otherworld, and is also known as Fairlyland, Underhill (due to the penchant of Fae seemingly coming up from and disappearing under hills during the Middle Ages), Fairie (somewhat of a corruption of the name, resulting from humans being more familiar and comfortable with those small, winged Fae most often referred to as fairies, much like how England''s name derives from that of the Angles; used interchangeably with the original) and Elfhame (not to be confused with Alfheim on the Yggdrasil). Yet, despite its boundless geography, the realm does not collapse or worse. This is not an actual effort on the part of the Fae or other inhabitants: much like zmeu country, Faerie simply ignores physics in order to behave like a far larger Earth. Gravity exists and functions as it does on mankind''s homeworld, for example, though the differences become striking the more one looks. The ground continues endlessly downwards, as does the sky extend infinitely upwards - there is no void of space in Faerie, only an unending atmosphere. Faerie''s sun spreads light across the whole realm, but not heat; not at a distance. Its infinite heat only becomes dangerous from a few trillion kilometres away, or when someone threatens it. Nor does its light blind or destroy anything it comes in contact with, unless the sun actively wishes to destroy said object or being. Much like Faerie''s flora and fauna, its celestial bodies are very much capable of looking after themselves. The moon is a white sphere of something that behaves like light, though it only exists metaphysically, and functions at night the way the sun does at day, disappearing at dawn like the sun does at dusk. Faerie''s stars resemble those of the mundane universe, though none of the worlds orbiting them are populated by anything except Fae explorers. Earth''s scientists argue that these planets cannot truly be said to have atmospheres of their own, because they exist in Faerie''s sky, as it were. Faerie''s stars can also be observed at night, and form uncountable constellations, despite the moon''s all-reaching light. The first Fae, descended from the Tuatha De Danann, appeared twelve billion years ago, and were what would be called Wild Fae in modern times. An extensive breeding and grooming program organised by Oberon''s mother resulted in him rallying enough Fae around him to be seen as a would-be ruler and conqueror, rather than an alchemical experiment turned mad and let loose by a woman who wanted to crush enough of her peers to live comfortably, the Fae having been organised in conflicting tribes until then. Following his coronation, demanded by his people and performed by his peers, Oberon disposed of his mother and various fathers (few of whom he had ever seen as such), driving those who would not accept his rule ever past the borders of his growing kingdom. Taking Titania as his bride, Oberon declared himself King Seelie, and harnessed the powers of his subjects to carve out a domain, with his Seelie Court at the centre. Following this expansion, Wild Fae became more elusive and standoffish, with both their fellow Fae and others. A section of them, who grew to despise civilisation as much as Oberon and his Seelie loved it, laid down the foundation of the modern Unseelie Court. Physiologically-speaking, most Fae resemble humans, though many are taller and lither, with no blemishes. They often had pointed ears and almond-shaped ears. Seelie are fair-skinned, usually blonde, with blue or green eyes. The Unseelie tend to have ash-grey skin and milky, white or black eyes, as well as pointed and serrated teeth. The Wild Fae vary more often than their Courtly counterparts in terms of both appearance and behaviour, though an affection for and resemblance of the element they are most closely aligned with is common. The Fae do not feel fatigue, hunger or thirst, though many eat, drink and sleep for pleasure. While capable of feeling pain, they cannot be driven insane by it, to the frustration of torturers and the resigned weariness of Fae prisoners everywhere. They can experience mental fatigue and mood swings, though only as a result of their own mindset, since Fae cannot be altered by esoteric means. Iron is to them as silver is to weres, leaving permanent wounds, regardless of attempts at shapeshifting or healing. Even direct skin contact causes a painful sensation, similar to burning, although this deals no physical damage. All Fae can control, move and shape matter (including iron), energy, minds souls, spacetime and the laws of creation, on a local scale, although this varies by alignemnt: the Seelie have a relatively easier time shaping metal and stone into buildings than the Wild Fae, for example, due to their ties to the concept of civilisation. The Unseelie, in addition to these abilities, can manipulate nothingness, shaping voids or erasing things from existence - likely a manifestaton of their nature as agents of anarchy. This paranormal ability is neither psychic nor magical, as the Fae have no issue warping reality in antimagical, psilent zones. It is only limited by the power of a Fae: one who can punch buildings to pieces is unlikely to be able to reshape mountains with their will.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. The Seelie Court, aside from the literal courtiers that fill Oberon''s throne room, is used to refer to the Seelie when they are acting in concert (Seelie being used for the Fae subspecies, generally without political connotations), much like the Fae themselves might use "the Global Gathering" when referring to humans. "Seelie" is the name of both Oberon''s kingdom and his subjects, and the Fae King''s realm, whose surface area spans over sixty-one billion square kilometres, similarly to Jupiter''s, is organised, at the smallest level, in baronies. A Fae Baron or Baroness rules over all they can see from the top of their castle''s highest point (enhancement of their eyes notwithstanding, since Fae who would use their powers to cheat at this level of politics are unlikely to pursue this career, or get far if they did), and are elected by the inhabitants of said area. Though theoretically ruler for life, a Baron or Baroness can be voted out of office by their subjects, and is implicitly expected to meet and discuss with them about their grievances as often as possible, if only to hold onto power. The Barons elect a Viscount or Viscountess, who can reign over a handful to dozens of Baronies, depending on their subordinates'' approval, and can be deposed by them like a Baron''s subjects can strip them of their rank; in turn, they elect a Count or Countess to rule over a county, which is often as large as many of Earth''s countries, sometimes lager than any. The Counts and Countesses gather to choose a Duke or Duchess from among them, who rules over one of Seelie''s quadrants. Currently, the Duke and three Duchesses each rule over more than sixty trillion Seelie. Oberon theoretically keeps his throne thanks to the Duke and Duchesses'' approval, although, despite recent upheavals, no one has outright challenged King Seelie on whether he is fit to lead the Seelie, in either debate or combat. Seelie titles are not inheritable, though a former noble''s family will often receive both greater respect and expectations from their fellow citizens. Any Fae can become a noble, should they impress enough of their peers. Due to a quirk of Fae metaphysics, a newly-elected noble''s power improves dramatically upon being chosen, and the threat of losing such power has produced as many mindful as it has produced petty despots. \ The Unseelie Court follows a similar system of titles, and their nobles rule over lands roughly as vast as those of their Seelie counterparts, though the Unseelie, due to their anarchic tendencies, rarely build anything permanent, and almost never anything besides workshops or specialised areas to focus their powers in specific manners, such as carved circles where enchantments might be laid on war gear or lands. The Unseelie are not considered by outsiders to have a monarch, due to the billions of claimants. Their adoption of Seelie ranks is seen with cynical amusement by their more organised rivals. The Wild Fae are those who belong to neither court, but are too close to nature to be considered unaligned. Living in small communities fairly isolated from each other, the Wild (as they are referred to by the Courts when said Courts are feeling polite) do not hold election, but rather, "let nature take its course". Should a Wild Fae display an unusual affinity to an aspect of Faerie, the realm will reach out to them, offering power and wisdom, in exchange for said Wild Fae acting as its champion and voice. The Sages of Soil, Sea and Sky are considered the greatest among these, with more specific aspects of nature being represented by Elders, such as the Elder of Caves or the Elder of Storms. These chosen of Faerie are referred to as the Wild Parliament when they gather to pass make decisions that could affect the Wild as a whole. The Wild Hunt is the name given to the occasional gathering of Fae and undead aligned with them. Their travels through the mundane universe often herald war or plague, and not always one caused by them. The Hunt is primarily composed of Wild Fae, although unaligned Fae, the Unseelie and, less often, the Seelie, might join. The Hunt might aim to abduct or kill people who harm nature or the Fae, but is also used as a way for Fae to vent and come together, even briefly, as well as get rid of troublesome members of their and other societies. Unaligned Fae are those who have been cast out by the Wild or their Court, for various reasons. Living mostly as lonely pariahs, the unaligned are the most likely Fae to make contact with foreign people or realms, either to find a place to belong or one where they can wreak havoc out of spite at their fate. Changelings are those Fae who, having grown old in spirit, choose to leave Faerie behind and live comfortably among humans for as long as possible. The Seelie''s habit of stealing children likely to become dangerous in the future gives changelings a way to indulge themselves (less often, adult humans living on the fringes of society might also be kidnapped and replaced with logs enchanted to resemble them, then appear to sicken and die, resulting in them being buried while the apparently-departed person is among the Fae). Though they can appear as a normal human child, changelings might possess unusual skin colours or patterns, pointy teeth or unnaturally-long and thick hair, as well as uncanny insight or physical prowess. Due to their preference of being coddled by humans (which might result in death by cold iron, should the parents grow tired of and paranoid about the strange, ravenous child) and the loss of power that takes place upon becoming a changeling, many Fae see them as desperate weaklings, expecting comfort from those even weaker than themselves, and obtaining it through trickery at that. Inverted coats and open iron shears left where the changeling sleeps can ward them off or reveal their true nature, and technological progress, coupled with integration of other paranormals into Earth''s society, has made changelings scarce in recent decades. Sidestory: Bug Life ''Why did you let me live?'' The question had been asked softly, as Vyzhaldi speech went. Nevertheless, it filled the cavernous chamber, though it did not echo once. Mother Wound''s Scorn looked up at his progenitor, multifaceted eyes shining with confused reproach. The red-shelled Vyzhaldi was tense, ready to fight or run at the first sign on need, although his hands hung at his sides, empty, not even clenched into fists. For once, his curiosity had got the better of his spite and rage. He was as surprised as his kindred would''ve been if they''d known him, he was sure. Mother Wound did not answer - nothing new under the stars. Instead, one of her bodyguards stepped forward, putting a few steps between himself and his fellows, who were lining the walls in their thousands. ''So shameless,'' the Motherguard, a scarred male with a blue shell so pale it was almost white, hissed. ''It is not enough that you are the only deviant to be spared in the history of the Kratocracy - now you''re whining about it, too.'' Scorn turned to face him, deliberately slowly. Resting on his muscular chest, the Ideal Mirror hung on a rough necklace. Then, mandibles slowly unclenching, he began chuckling. At first, only the tips of his mandibles touched with a clicking sound, like a Terran gunshot. Then, as Scorn''s chortle became a laugh, his mandibles began sounding like an artillery barrage. Laugh dying down, Scorn adjusted the Mirror, so the Motherguard could see his outraged grimace in the circular, flawless surface. ''What is your name.'' ''I am called Void Seeping.'' The other male stood up straighter. ''Because despair seeps into my foes'' bones like the cold of the void of space.'' Scorn lowered his head to one side, as if trying to listen more closely. ''Strange,'' he muttered. ''You said... something, but all I heard was "one of the Motherguard".'' His eyes moved across the room, taking in the fifty-six hundred Motherguard. ''Do you know why that is? Because you will only ever be remembered as a group, and even then, as a footnote. The defenders Mother Wound never needed, hanging on her coattails when you''re not cowering under her skirts.'' Though his body was quivering with rage, Void''s voice was level. ''Mock all you want, weakling. Everyone knows that, without that toy hanging on your neck, you would be too scared to even contemplate raising your eyes to the least of us.'' ''So, you admit you are jealous of me? That you covet...'' Scorn rubbed the Mirror with a fingertip. ''This?'' Void scoffed. ''As if I could want a crutch for my power. My body is not so defective it can''t grow stronger, unlike those of some I could mention.'' ''I would''ve brought protection, had I known you''d dazzle me with your wit,'' Scorn deadpanned at Void''s sneer. ''Let me turn that question around for you: if you lacked your ability to grow stronger, and an insurmountable enemy was staring you down, would you be bold?'' ''A Vyzhaldi''s courage has nothing to do with their strength!'' Void snapped. ''A true Kratocrat does not become fiercer because their power grows.'' ''They sure turn stupider, though,'' Scorn remarked, enjoying how easy his kinsman was to rile up. ''What should I do, apologise for what I was not born with? It hardly seemed to work the last few million times I tried it with my pursuers.'' ''You should roll over and die,'' Void answered. ''Just like you should''ve done when the first hunter caught up.'' ''Then your sham of a goddess, my mother, should''ve killed me when I sprung from her namesake.'' Scorn crossed his arms. ''I am curious why she didn''t which is why I asked. And while we speak, you can hold your tongue. Stop blustering.'' ''Bluste-?!'' ''You are jealous,'' Scorn said softly. ''Because I am mightier than you, and can increase my might without the need to fight. And I do it using something I earned, as a spoil of war, not a quirk of genetics.'' At that, Void launched himself at Scorn, moving four hundred-eighty times faster than light. Thanks to the many trials he had overcome over his forty-four million years of life, Void was so durable every Voidmaw in creation could''ve pounced on him without leaving a mark. In fact, there was little difference between his fortitude, and that of his Archetype: damaging either would''ve significantly altered creation. Void''s endurance let him weather the attacks of most beings, until he could ramp up enough to destroy him. Scorn was not most beings. First, he used the Mirror to make reality reflect his mind, causing a suit of polished armour to appear around him. Void''s fists smashed against his helmet, pauldrons and chestplate, each landing with enough force to turn Earth to steaming dust. Void''s strength and speed jumped by orders of magnitude with every fruitless attack upon the inviolable armour, until the blows launched every Planck instant would''ve obliterated all matter in the universe. Scorn carelessly leaned backwards, baring his gorget to give Void another target. The other Vyzhaldi roared in outraged frustration - then the force of his attacks was turned against him. At first, two attacks landed, against his face and chest, both twice as strong as his own. Then, four, with quadruple the power. Eight, sixten, thirty-two... The force of the reflected blows grew even as it became denser, more concentrated. Void was unimpressed. ''I am not strong enough to harm myself,'' he told Scorn, twitching at the other''s nod. ''Yet. And mere kinetic energy is not enough to break one such as me.'' ''The fact you mistake taunts for warning shots reinforces your usefulnness even better than your attempt to kill me.'' Void staggered back as replicas of him appeared put of nowhere, circling and gripping him, holding him still as their strength grew at the same pace as his own. Scorn then turned his attention outwards, looking for the appropriate tools to mirror. He found them quickly: the nonexistence of beings removed from creation, which he reflected upon Void Seeping, and the timelessness of beings beyond the multiverse''s fifth layer. The nature of his attack mirrored both, obliterating Void before he could either react or grow more durable, for it began and ended in no time at all. Dismissing the dead Motherguard''s clones, Scorn idly nodded at the remaining Vyzhaldi. ''Next?'' ''You think we don''t know why you are here?'' A brown-shelled Motherguard looked at him, pity for his confidence in his alleged dussembling plain in her golden eyes. ''Why you did what you did?'' ''Those questions are so broad you could throw a planet through them,'' Scorn said. ''Speak plainly.'' ''You facilitated the Moment of Unity - using that damned device - so that you would be welcomed back into the fold of the Kratocracy, despite your defects.'' Her lower hands on her hips, she spat. ''A second exception to what majes us us, also made because of you. Wherever you rear your ugly head, tradition crumbles.'' ''I...helped save creation so that I could return home? How dare I!'' Scorn exclaimed sarcastically. ''Be serious. You must all be Breakers, because I swear I''m surrounded by frothing idiots. Wipe your drool off the floor and listen. Even if that were true, why would it be so vile? People have helped others for far worse reasons.'' '' "If that were true"?'' she repeated skeptically. ''You think I sought to do something incredible, gain everyone''s approval, to stop being an exile? No longer being hunted would''ve been enough for me.'' Scarlet, translucent lids slid halfway over Scorn''s eyes. ''Besides, do you honestly think I love the "civilisation" that has hounded me since birth enough to come back? What do you believe appeals to me here, exactly?'' ''What doesn''t? You''ve never had anything.'' She held up a hand, ticking off fingers. ''A life among your kindred. An estate and mates of your choosing. A place on the Kratocratic Council, even, perhaps...'' She trailed off at Scorn''s derisive sniggering. ''What amuses you?'' ''Many things, but right now?'' His lids pulled back. ''Void...what''s your name, female? By your shell, I suspect your Woundsire was hit by a rock. I shall call you Gravel.'' She bristled. ''I am Landslide Down The Hills Of-'' ''Listen, Gravel,'' Scorn cut her off. ''I do not want to live among you. I hate you all. I neither need nor want a home, or a mate between my claspers.'' Scorn considered Landslide doubtfully. ''I''d say females like you make me want to mount males, but there''s no Vyzhaldi appealing enough to make me forget my youth.'' He leered. ''There are many aliens with beautiful forms and even more gorgeous minds, though. I have had several.'' Scorn laughed at the Motherguard''s dumbstruck expression. ''Oh, don''t freeze up. I''ve never spread my essence thoughtlessly, and I don''t plan to. As for...getting into politics? Seriously? I would hate to meet the Scorn who lives in your imagination. He sounds like a bureaucrat in heat.'' Turning his back on Landslide, Scorn flicked a hand over his shoulder as he looked back up at Mother Wound. ''If you must know, I shall endeavour to deliver you from ignorance. I helped save creation because I like existing. I want to live as I see fit, able to carve my own path, not spend every hundredth of a nanosecond looking over my shoulder for upjumped hatchlings looking to impress their mother in the sky.'' Landslide looked ready to try and rip Scorn apart, not caring that he was still wearing his armour, when what many thought impossible happened. ''Leave us,'' Mother Wound said. ''I will speak with my son alone, lest you raise his ire further, and face oblivion.'' She gestured at the doors with a hand almost as big as the average Vyzhaldi. ''Go, my children. Thank you for your service.'' Stunned, the Motherguard set off haltingly, many still sneaking disbelieving glances at their ancestor. None said anything. Even those Motherguards who had been old when their order had been founded had never believed Mother Wound would ever speak again, or that she even could. For his part, Scorn found his mother''s voice to be a letdown. Oh, it was impressive enough, in the way natural disasters were. Without devices to trabslate and modulate, a Vyzhaldi''s speech would''ve sounded like a deep, continuous, loud enough to shatter a human''s eardrums even as it turned their teeth to powder; Mother Wound''s voice was what he had expected from a Vyzhaldi of her size. But he had thought there would be... more. Mother Wound wasn''t simply a big Kratocrat. She was the living goddess of the realm, who only intervened to steer the ship of state back on course when the squabbles she stood above threatened to divert or sink it. Scorn had thought that, maybe, there would be flashes of light and flame accompanying her merest utterance, not... Wound looked down at her son, lowering and opening a hand. With a wary, warning look, he stepped onto it, allowing his mother to lift him to eye level. Her mandibles were parted, allowing him to see what, judging by the glimmer in her eyes, must''ve been a smile. ''They can still see and hear us,'' she said, referring to the Motherguards doubtlessly following the broadcast outside the chamber. ''And are listening even more intently than the rest of your kindred, if you can believe it.'' Had that been a joke? Was Wound joking? Could she? ''Now,'' she continued. ''Why don''t you tell our family how you acquired that marvelous mirror?'' Wound leaned closer, as if poised to whisper to him, like they weren''t on intergalactic holovision. ''Should I tell you about the history you yearn to know before, you might very well lie about your past.'' ''And you won''t change the "history" based on what I tell you?'' Scorn retorted. ''As you wish. I care naught about your motives, and even less about what your hanger-ons think.'' * * * I survived my first few million greater cycles through - what seemed at the time - blind luck. With every rotation Zhal completed around its star, I could not help but wonder: how come every Vyzhaldi who pursued me met a miserable end, given everything I had been told in my first moments of life? According to the mother whose blood I had sprung from - for had she not laid the foundation of our philosophy? - I did not deserve to live, for my existence, bereft of the ability to grow stronger through struggle, would have resulted in contempt and hatred from my own kind, or even worse, pity. Such things had no place in the hearts of Vyzhaldi who had to get stronger, as both individuals and a civilisation. We have to get stronger. Why, I''ve never been told. Wound did not speak to me, of course. Her guards did. In the same breath I was informed of my worthlessness, I was also told I had been been spared, chosen to be exiled. The first defective Vyzhaldi to receive such mercy in the history of the Kratocracy. And, if I understand you at all, I expect I was the last, as well. Thank you for the birthday gift. It left me stewing during the headstart you gave me. Bewildered hatchling that I was, I equated the fact I deserved to die with my flaws. As such, surely the accepted Vyzhaldi who hunted me were perfect? But if they were perfect, how come they all died or had to retreat, sometimes even before they laid eyes on me? At first, like I said, I attributed it to chance, though I will admit self-loathing played a role. So what if I lured them to this dangerous ruin or disaster area, or allied with or worked as a mercenary for that Lesser Power, getting my hands on weapons that could destroy even Kratocrats beyond healing? Clearly, it was the product of happenstance. After all, were I to fight one of them in an empty room, with no equipment, I would die. But as I grew older, and the pain of the beatings that nearly killed me became a youth''s memory, I looked inwards, and thought: why should I hate and look down on myself? If I managed to overcome my enemies through external means, be they environmental hazards or alliances, did that simply not mean I was resourceful, and they not so perfect, in the end? One does not have to be dull or overconfident for their strength to be overcome by a weakling''s cunning, though it certainly helps said weakling. I suppose I must give credit where is due; the Kratocratic poison is certainly pervasive, if it can even persist in the mind of an outcast like myself. It is not a particularly complex ideology, nor an appealing one, least of all to me, but enough violence can make it stick, for a while. But I digress. I am sure everyone following this broadcast has heard my words from other mouths, and dismissed them with the same contempt with which they are sneering now. I have not shared this to sway your opinions. I merely wanted to vent. Perhaps now, you know a fraction of how it feels to hear irritating nonsense, when you are unable to escape. You asked me about the Ideal Mirror. I did not find it in the Realm of Forms, but in the clammy grasp of the Flesh That Flays. I will admit: I have not heard from the Flesh in thousands of greater cycles...hmm? It''s a Lesser Power now? I suppose it fits...the damn thing is the size of a galaxy supercluster, and far heavier. But I wasn''t aware we named single beings Powers nowadays, even if their bodies are immense. That is what I get for being out of the loop. I always knew I should''ve been born stronger. I don''t know what was wrong with me, honestly. " Whining", am I? I thank whatever viewer said that. I will make sure to meet you after this is over. I would like to see you being more cheerful in my place. Every Breaker baying for blood, every Balancer who wanted to destroy me as the stain on society I was, even removed from it, every Builder who hoped to end my struggle, out of kindness...these were my friends growing up. But enough of my idyllic past. I would not want to make you poor, oppressed souls jealous. Instead, I will regale you with the tale of how I became mightier than the Kratocracy combined, thanks to myself, not an accident of birth. The Flesh That Flays constantly changes shape, colour and texture, but most of the time, it appears as a grey, amorphous expanse, the tips of its tentacles and edges of its core tinged with every colour in the universe, and many from beyond. I did not meet it by choice. When I happened across it, I hadn''t even heard of its legend. People were always reluctant to tell me more than that it was ghastly, and dangerous. No, in fact, the Flesh snuck up on me. It sounds absurd, doesn''t it? A mass of meat the size of a significant fraction of the universe, bypassing my senses? Did I not even notice the gravity it generates? Yet it did. The Flesh copies the traits of anything whose essence it manages to consume - a hair, a cog, a metaphysical scrap, anything - and uses said stolen power as it wishes. It can even create copies of those it has taken from, ad infinitum. These simulacra are just as powerful as the originals, though utterly subservient to the Flesh''s whims, acting as its limbs, eyes and ears. Furthermore, it can control how its size and mass affect the cosmos - an inherent ability, rather than a copied one. It became as small as me, at one point, while not drawing anything to it, despite being far heavier than any galaxy. Let me tell you something. for I know you have sought to bring the Flesh to heel or ward it away in the past. It told me as much. The Flesh That Flays does not seek violence. Perhaps it seeks power, but if it does, its purpose is unknowable to me. The request it made to me before we parted ways proves that. No. The Flesh only takes the essence it is given, or that of those who attack it. When I asked it why, if not for battle, it told me that "we need to hold life within ourselves more than we want to, though we love doing so." I was rather bemused at that, and told it many of its acquisitions did not come from anything alive. The Flesh laughed, and told me "life" should not be pronounced so quietly. It was by using such a copied power that it managed to surprise me. ''What being can move this stealthily while having such a great stature?'' I asked after it revealed itself, curling around me. ''I have never heard of the like.'' ''That is the point, son,'' the Flesh replied. I rankled at this strange creature addressing me with such familiarity, but urged it to go on. ''The Quietude are a silent people.'' This Quietude, it told me, was a collective of beings, or a single, multifaceted one - these distinctions are mine, as the Flesh sees little difference - that lived in the depth of the Ultimate Void that is the Realm of Forms. Aside from being able to evade the senses of most beings, the Quietude blankets everything it perceives with a strange power that renders almost all unnatural abilities useless. It can even fill the macrocosm with its influence, the Flesh said. Nodding, I faced the titanic creature - so to speak. ''Why did you stop me? Was I trespassing in your territory?'' I wanted no quarrel with it, not because I was afraid, but because I was appalled by the thought of dying while my species looked down on me. Two tentacle tips swayed, four more touching in what I took to be a soothing gesture, as calming as anything bigger than most galaxies and covered in fanged suckers can be. ''Fear no malice. We wish to speak. It is a lonely existence, to be avoided when you are misunderstood, and approached only to be destroyed.'' I grunted in agreement. On the one hand, I was glad to survive another cycle, perhaps find a way to redeem myself. On the other, I did not want to pour my heart out to this being. Even if it was sincere, it might start laughing at me, or pitying me, and neither would help either of us. Instead, I sat down, and told it of my travels, a favour it returned. You see, back then, I thought that maybe, if I did something impressive enough, I would be welcomed back into my mother''s loving arms. I even wanted to return. As if killing Vyzhaldi through trickery would ever be forgiven! The Flesh perked up at that, quite literally, sharing with me a dilemma: an unbreakable, immovable artifact, wedged into the centre of its body like a small but persistent tumour. The Flesh remembered a pale, black-robed figure hurling down the Ideal Mirror at it like a comet. After failing to crack it and get a few shards, the Flesh had turned the rest of its powers to the Mirror''s removal, to no avail. Besides reflecting the Flesh''s attempts back at it, the Mirror also filled the Flesh''s mind with the thoughts, feelings and sensations that had run through the mind of every being it had ever taken from. Though this mental assault would''ve killed most species decillions of times over, the Flesh''s mind was infinitely deeper and stronger than that of most beings. Even so, this predicament was quite vexing, because the Mirror neither stopped nor left. I cut off what I saw as complaining, since, if the Flesh was unable to get rid of the mirror, I stood no chance. Except, it insisted, I did. ''I wager it might be trying to bond with me,'' the Flesh said. ''But it cannot. I had never thought this possible, as my substance can take in even nothingness. I can only guess that, maybe, I am not the one it is fated to bond with, though it does not know.'' ''Fated?'' I repeated coldly. ''My only fate is to die and be forgotten. So I have been told.'' ''And yet, you persist. Do you really believe ''tis fate, then?'' I squared my shoulders. ''I cannot simply give up! Even if my remains are burned to ash and my history consigned to oblivion, I will make them accept me before the end!'' ''LIFE finds a way,'' the Flesh said, sounding like it was speaking a mantra. ''Life cares not what way it finds,'' I countered. ''I want to live well, if possible. Even briefly.'' ''And that,'' it held up a tentacle, ''is exactly what I''m offering you the chance to do, son.'' It explained, at length, its plan to remove the Ideal Mirror. With nothing better to do, and knowing potential when I saw it, I acquiesced. The Flesh That Flays parted before my eyes, allowing me to reach the Mirror. It was half-buried in dark purple, grey-veined meat, resembling a projectile that had found its aim, which, in a way, it was. ''How do we know it can''t reflect both of our...?'' I trailed off, unsure what word could have properly encapsulated the experiences. ''We know it can, Mother Wound''s Scorn,'' the Flesh replied, sounding distant, despite the fact I was close to its core. I noticed that was the first time it had used my first name. ''But we must hope that, even if it does, our scheme will succeed.'' Incensed at being called a schemer, I grabbed the Mirror with all four hands, noting that neither gore nor ichor stuck to its polished surface, instead sliding off, despite the Mirror being dry and rough to the touch, like palming a blade. I pulled with all my strength, enough to vapourise any rocky planet and scatter ice giants far beyond the point the point gravity could pull them back together. The Mirror did not budge. And yet, what could I do? Give up? I didn''t even care about helping the Flesh that much, truly. But I could not bear failing in something I had chosen for myself. The Mirror shone at that thought, illuminated by some inner, colourless light. Somehow, it had picked up my resentment for the way I had failed my kind by being born. The Mirror''s power drowned out the Flesh''s form and voice alike, cutting me off from the universe, and showed me my true self - and the Kratocracy''s. I yearn to reward and punish it for the latter, but it cannot be coerced or damaged. For what felt like forever, I drowned in disgusted hatred, as I relived every moment my hunters had spent since setting off to the end of their pursuit, be that in death or retreat. Oh, yes, I died - mentally. Trillions of times. I do not honestly remember if that many Vyzhaldi have ever been after me. Perhaps the Mirror repeated certain thought streams; it is hard to tell. But it matters not. I saw the true face of your children, Mother Wound. Learned that, whether they revelled in cruelty, praised apathy as a virtue or cowered behind good intentions, they hated me. Some questioned it, true enough. On my way here, I spoke to a Wings On His Words, who, I understand, ranks highly in the Builder School. He told me of his and his fellows'' unsuccessful attempts to stop the persecution of my ilk. It is an admirable endeavour, though, seeing what I have, almost certainly a doomed one. Yet, do you know what Wings has in common with those Vyzhaldi he otherwise only resembles in terms of species? Revulsion. At the sight of me. At the idea of me. It is not voluntary, I know. He does not hate me, as a person. I do not know whether it is his instincts or his upbringing that makes him clench his fists and mandibles whenever he thinks of me, and I care even less. The point is that I make his shell crawl, and leave him craving to to crush my head between his hands and bury his claws in my heart. He does not heed this urge, and for that, I admire him. What I do not admire is the fact said urge exists at all. Do you enjoy what you''ve made of your spawn, Wound? This slaughterhouse of a society? Does this sham amuse you? No, you say? You will have to explain that to me. I will give you all the time you need, before I leave again, for the second and last time. The Mirror''s revelations dismayed and pleased me in equal measure. I had spent so much time yearning for the affection of bigots...but I no longer had to, now that I knew them for what they were. Nevertheless, I cringed at myself. How na?ve, how desperate, had I been to want to belong to...that? I, a Vyzhaldi, who had no need for rest or sustenance, powerful beyond the imaginations of most species! There are civilisations who worship gods weaker than me! It is a treacherous thing, the need to belong. It can madden and lay low the mightiest, even if they are stronger or more virtuous than the herd they have been cut off from. I suspect this desire runs in our blood to make us stick together, make us easier to control. I see your hand at work, Wound... I told the Flesh as much, the creature hearing the thoughts on my beleaguered mind''s surface. I never let go of the Mirror, it told me, with no small amount of admiration, even as I snarled and roared in the face of the Vyzhaldi. Perhaps the Mirror had seen enough of me, or the Flesh finally broke through, using some previously-unseen combination of powers. The being argued the former. ''You live on, you want to live, though you have only ever known hardship. And, when you set a goal for yourself, you neither halt nor falter, even when confronted with the worst of our people''s beliefs. Even when said goal is revealed to be pointless-'' '' "Our" people?'' I cut off its rambling, unashamed of my revulsion at being compared to this overgrown chimera. ''Indeed,'' it answered, not missing a beat. ''We hold many Vyzhaldi within ourselves...'' By that point, I was holding the Mirror in my hands. Even after being dislodged from the Flesh''s guts, it was still unmarred by filth. I wondered if that was a conscious decision by it (if the thing can even be said to think and reason as we do), or if it was simply its nature to reflect anything attempting to foul or damage it. The second seemed unlikely: after all, the Mirror hadn''t sent the force of my attempts to rip it out back at me. Instead, it had shown me what I needed to know. Even so, I was, and still am, uncomfortable at the thought of this limitless weapon being able to choose for itself, but unable or unwilling to communicate why. * * * Mother Wound''s Scorn lifted his dark glare from his namesake''s arm to her face. His story over, he had drifted off, brooding, for three hundredths of a nanosecond. Then, he had decided moping would serve no purpose, help no one. If he was to hunch over, feeling sorry for himself, he certainly didn''t want to do it while eight hundred-forty octillion Kratocrats watched him in real time. ''Are you surprised?'' he asked disdainfully, staring straight into Mother Wound''s eyes. ''Your toy soldiers would''ve ended up as the Flesh''s playthings or food, I am sure. It has no more to learn from us. And even if they didn''t? I can''t see them facing the Mirror and triumphing. They are not ready for the truth. If they were, your dollhouse of an empire wouldn''t exist.'' ''And what truth is that, my son?'' Wound asked, sounding genuinely curious. ''That the Vyzhaldi are callous? There is not a hatchling who does not know this, from hatching to death.'' Scorn''s smile, as far as Vyzhaldi facial expressions went - in this case, a circular mouth, like a lamprey''s but toothless, surrounded by parted mandibles, thick and serrated, and a red so dark they were almost black - was cheerful, almost as if he had been waiting for such a question. ''What truth? What about the truth that, no matter how resourceful a Vyzhaldi is, they will always be despised by those with genetic luck? The truth of contempt? How it really feels to be marginalised, a victim, powerless to fight back most of the time? After all...'' The red Vyzhaldi laughed, throwing his head back - a sound as forced as the gesture, and less joyful. He thrust his right arms out, fingers curled as if poised to rip a throat out. ''Have they ever felt overwhelmed? I don''t mean in the glorified playfighting you stage. Have they ever been on the backfoot against anyone but a fellow Vyzhaldi? And even then...'' His mandibles clacked, grinding together. ''Were they without technology? Without allies close behind, to watch their back?'' Scorn waited for all of a picosecond, having asked his questions. A trillionth of a second having later, he had taken in the reactions of the Vyzhaldi on the screens scattered across the room. ''Silence, too, is an answer.'' To his surprise, Mother Wound giggled. It felt unnatural, coming from a being of her literal and metaphysical stature, but the short-lived, high-pitched - compared to her usual booming voice - was unmistakable. ''My son, you are far from the first to pose such questions to us in anger. However...'' Her eyes were almost entirely covered by silver lids, and Scorn stifled a hiss at the similarity to his earlier expression. ''You might well be the last.'' Lowering her arm to the floor and retracting it, Scorn having jumped off halfway through the motion, Mother Wound adjusted her footing, then sat down on the floor, legs crossed. Her long, ribbed tail curled under her like a coiled snake, resulting in an impromptu seat. Scorn, arms crossed, hovered a few dozen metres away from her, refusing to avoid her eyes, even if he had to fly. Wound allowed herself a small smile at his stubborn pride, behind her mandibles. Then, she began speaking. ''You asked why I, specifically, let you live, my "Scorn". Have you ever considered that, since you received your name from your Kin, it does not reflect my view of-'' Scorn cut her off with a harsh laugh. ''Don''t try to brush it off, you old broodmare. You devised the philosophy your spawn follow, and never said anything, about it or me. To me. I know you can speak to every Vyzhaldi, mind to mind!'' ''And were I to speak with my own mouth, the whole Kratocracy would bend over backwards, with every word.'' ''Oh, you are right. It would be cruel to unduly influence your worshippers.'' Scorn spat the last word. ''Don''t waste your breath. I am still here only because you said you would share the Kratocracy''s history with me.'' Doubtlessly, it would be skewed to show Wound and her lackeys in the best possible light, but that was nothing new to Scorn. The few Vyzhaldi who''d deigned to speak to him had been thoroughly indoctrinated, and most aliens he had spoken about his species with had been too terrified, too misinformed or too (and he was well aware how ridiculous that sounded, coming from him) full of hatred for the Vyzhaldi to be credible sources. Bias. Bias, born of Kratocratic propaganda, or the trauma that often followed their predations. But it did not matter. If Wound spun a yarn, wasting his time to cover her behind, he would just have another grudge to nurse, following his departure. Scorn hadn''t yet decided whether he would ever be able and willing to settle all his grudges. The Mirror gave him the power, yes - and it was a good thing the Vyzhaldi immunity to esoteric effects was flexible enough to allow beneficial ones, such as increased strength -, but he had grown sick of bloodshed millions of years ago. He did not know if he had the stomach for genocide. He had always wanted to slaughter the Kratocracy to the last hatchling, stare into the little martinet''s eyes before he blasted them to steam, but...that had been tempered. Scorn had killed enough Vyzhaldi, and seen enough allies of convenience die fighting alongside him, to drown star clusters in blood. Shaking off the thoughts of old, unmarked graves and buried ash piles, Scorn looked at his mother, waiting for her to start. And, for the first time in history, Mother Wound shared the story of her life with her children. * * * There was, once, a little bug who couldn''t. She could not nourish herself in nature, so she was fed by those who passed by; she could not escape traps or pass over obstacles, except through the kindness of strangers; she could not find a mate, and seemed doomed to die with no descendants. When they came for us, I was the least successful specimen of my kind. That, I think, intrigued them: this wretched little thing, almost too small to see. A living paradox, too unlucky to live well, but always lucky enough to survive. They resembled us, as we are now, only in posture. Not in shape, and certainly not in temperament. This, I knew, though my mind was too feeble, too narrow, to glimpse more than fractions of them at a time, like ugly facets of a hideous crystal. They took us to a laboratory, placed us in a tank on a corner table. That was the Second Cruelty, after the abduction. The Second of Many. We were animals, unable to recognise glass for what it was. As far as we could tell, we were caught in some sort of invisible, inescapable cage. Some reacted wildly, smashing themselves to death against the tank''s walls. At first, the experiments were simple. Directed breeding, and the removal of weakness. The second, a researcher stressed much later, when my mind had been artificially expanded enough to understand, was most important. ''Were it not for you,'' it told me, ''none would have been taken. What would have been there to see? But you...'' it did something that might have been a smile, but the flat planes and sharp angles of its milky face hurt my eyes when I tried to look. ''Probability seems to almost break around you. Why would the weak be favoured by selection, when it has ever been the opposite? That is what we are trying to learn, and breed into your spawn.'' That day, I learned that, had I not been weak, even strange in my weakness as I was, no one else would have suffered. We were social creatures, a swarm. That hurt, at the time. But that moment was far off yet. I was still an unlucky pariah, shunned by males. Other, more appealing females would steal their attention before I could even approach, and I would be left with nothing. When the breeding groups were established, I was reluctant to join. The first embers of intelligence, kindled by the chemicals in our food, had begun burning. The first thing I felt was despair. The observers grew tired of me dragging my feet, despite shock therapy, and drugged me. When I woke up, I saw I had laid eggs, which had been separated into carefully-arranged piles for males to fertilise. Life went on. We became smarter, and so, we were able to understand pain went beyond that of the senses. They made our hatchlings breed, too, modifying their diets to mitigate the risks of the gene pool, which was getting shallower and shallower with each coupling. They made us mate with them, too. I was, because of my uncanny luck, the most popular broodmare. Indeed, my son. You were quite right. I wager you are not going to take back your words? I thought not. I never managed to become attached to my children, or their - and mine, in many cases - children. The process was too twisted for my budding intellect to bear. Fortunately, it did not last long. The researchers determined that, while their serums could prevent the physical effects of incest, they failed, more often than not, when it came to mental illnesses. Their goal being to improve upon both our bodies and our souls, that was deemed unacceptable, and every generation after us was exterminated. We were back to the first abductees, back to breeding us with each other. Our children were matched with lab-grown constructs, based on our genes, resulting in better, faster, stronger creatures. None of them shared my tendency to receive help in my hardest moments, to the scientists'' disappointed anger. I wondered how they did not realise I was not exactly lucky to be in that situation at all, and salvation seemed not to be forthcoming. Nevertheless, I persevered. They kept trying to force me to mate again, me more than the others, but I was becoming harder and harder to control, with drugs or by other means. Yes...that was, indeed, when the seed of Vyzhaldi power was planted. So, unable to overcome me by force, they turned to trickery instead. Blackmail. I will not say whether those experiences might''ve shaped our Kratocracy''s aversion to power derived from sources other than one''s body, but I would not be surprised. My blood roars in all your veins, softer or louder. They trammeled me, not by chain or poison, but through the pain of my children. Whenever one struggled in some corner of the tank, or was violated by their mate, or was torn apart in experiments meant to test strength, I felt myself starving to death, and eaten alive, and torn apart, in every sense of the phrase. Had the tinkerers merely been trying to break me through suffering, they''d have never succeeded. But they made me suffer alongside my offspring, and die in their bodies, millions upon millions of times. When there were a handful left, I relented, for their sake. I picked and was given new partners. I mated with them. None of my new hatchlings inherited the ability that had caught the scientists'' eyes, and, indeed, I seemed to have lost it too. But I had gained something else. Whenever I pushed harder, or reacted faster, or withstood worse than before, my body hardened, became quicker, more powerful. I will not bore you with how many centuries I spent tearing apart the researchers after I broke free. My children ate well, and used their living bodies as nests. Their dying whimpers as the larvae ate them from the inside out will always have a place in my heart. Eons rolled by, and the stars spun within their wheels. Now strong enough to be free, I left the swarm behind, and tested my might against the cosmos itself. Starquakes, novae of all stripes, quasars, gamma ray bursts. Once, I even jumped into a black hole, moving far faster than light, and forced my way past the event horizon and into the singularity. It broke me down. Completely. There was no matter left of me, but my mind and spirit persisted. Even if I had craved oblivion, I could not have ended my life that way. More than simply immortal, I had become deathless. And, after crawling back out of the singularity and into space, nothing within the bounds of mundane matter, energy or time could harm me. As you might expect, that was not the end of my pain. Merely the beginning. Having braved everything physical there was to overcome in the universe, I turned to more esoteric challenges, and found none. Before I could learn I was wasting my time by looking for such inside my reality, the universe ended. Hundreds of trillions of years after its formation, the last light went out, and everything came to a point. Literally. Matter and energy were crushed against each other, forming something like a singularity, incredibly dense and hotter than anything that had come before it. Familiar as I was with such physics-shredding spaces, I survived, beating against the walls of my timeless prison. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. I escaped just as it expanded, or perhaps I made it expand, with my struggles. The second universe I lived in surpassed its predecessor in size, just as I became larger than my previous form. Not the size I am today, or the shape, but far bigger. In this universe, life never came to be. It would''ve felt like forever even if my perception hadn''t been enough to analyse the briefest span of time. This one fell apart, instead of coming together. Realities came, and went, some full of life, some empty. Others entirely devoid of anything you would recognise as either an inhabitant of reality, or one of its laws. I weathered them all, growing more powerful, more resilient, I no longer had any children to be hurt through. There were trials, which stood out even when compared to the harshest struggles living in a cosmos entailed, for those who enacted them had nothing to do with reality. In the end, my wish for metaphysical challenges was fulfilled, in a manner as gentle as my life has ever been. In one universe, when my mind was still susceptible to outside influences, a power that exists today reached backwards through time, by means of their mind. They called themselves a Great Race, which left me curious whether there were Lesser Races among their kind, wherever they lived. Nowadays, I know there are none, just as they know not to even think about approaching me or mine. Admiring my physical prowess, they split my mind from my body, placing it in one of their conical, betentacled forms. While I tried to get my bearings in that new, slow form - weak again, I was weak again, a part of my mind shrieked indignantly - , the Yithian who had hijacked my flesh used my body as a wrecking ball. Never before had they seen such might in an organic being, its fellows told me in one of their strange repositories of knowledge. My body''s abductor relished the power, and spent that universe''s lifetime dismantling every celestial body it could come across, simply happy to destroy and be strong. I understood the appeal. I still beat it to death after I adapted, my mind rejecting the slimy shell it had been forced into. Incorporeal, I rushed across the voids of time and space, tore the invader out of my body, and ripped its psychic essence to shreds. I learned many things during the Trial Of Mind. That strength of arm is worthless when backed by a defencelesss mind, for one. That one can overcome foes much greater than themselves by means of technology and slyness. And, to my pleasure, that Yithians shriek delightfully while dying. This was a twofold lesson, as they learned not to meddle with me or my Kratocracy. In fact, I am given to understand they were wiped out before they could even achieve anything worthwhile on Terra, and had to prepare new bodies that would inherit that world once mankind dies off. Now, there is no shame in failing to hold Terra, for it is a hypernova disguised as a flickering candle. There is, however, great insanity in believing you can, or that humanity will fall to anything as mundane as obsolescence. A dozen dozen realities later, I was approached by a creature that took the shape of a human. One of their males, with blue-tinged skin that varied between white and grey as light moved. His face bore hair, just as his scalp did, and his black eyes were always smiling, as was his mouth. It was not filled with teeth. I learned that personally, to my displeasure. This thing''s apparel was as drab as it appearance seemed, on the surface: black boots, grey trousers, a black shirt and a green tie. A hooded grey overcoat completed the ensemble, lending it an unassuming air, but I was not fooled. I could feel the danger it posed, simply by existing within the macrocosm. It did not, however, attack me. ''Why are you here, then?'' I demanded. ''If not to fight?'' It smiled indulgently, reaching out to touch me. Sickened by the creature''s approach, I ripped off the arm it had meant to touch, pummeling it into paste in an instant. Its laugh split my head several times, before I overcome it. Even knowing this had been a side effect of its muffled mirth, I felt triumphant. ''Ah, girl, you are hilarious,'' it informed me, eyes shining as they appeared to change size and shape, like oil on water. ''No one could ever blame you for being boring. Predictable, yes, but knowing the punchline makes me love the joke.'' It chortled at this, knowing I was not insane enough to touch it out of my own volition. Why? The same instincts that keep me aware of my surroundings while fighting inform me of danger. ''Oh, we can''t have that,'' it said, noticing my circumspection. ''That won''t do. You''ve fought so many winnable fights, you might well flounder when faced with a wall that just won''t fall, no matter how much you escalate.'' And escalate I did, trying and failing to drown my revulsion in anger and pride with every strike that landed on it. It was entirely unfazed, to my complete lack of surprise, even as my power tried to make me strong enough to harm it. It slowed down time, not that either of us was bound by it. But the universe around us was, so that the force radiating from my blows took a subjective eternity to batter our surroundings to nothing. I never stopped fighting, even in the void with no place or moment that followed. This, I think, satisfied it. The creature reminded me of the scientists who unknowingly set me on the path I still walk, though on a laughably greater scale. Pleased by my determination, which it referred to as stubbornness, it departed. I have heard that today, it dwells, if it can be said to, in the halls of a knowledge building. Should you go to Earth, and travel the northern half of its western hemisphere''s continent, you will come to a place of unreality, nestled deep in its northeast. I advise you not to go. ...Despite your...? No, Scorn. Because of your Mirror. And so, we come to the beginning of this reality. So many I have seen come and go...a centillion times a billion greater cycles is but a fraction of my lifespan; the briefest moment is to an eon a far greater portion than that span of time is to my age. You will imagine my surprise when, jaded as I had grown, I fell in love, for the first and last time. It had been a few greater cycles since my arrival to Zhal. I had braved its jungles, more monstrous than any of their inhabitants, and walked through deserts that burn matter out of existence to stand atop glaciers where time is frozen, moving freely. Then, I had turned around, and made my way back. We met halfway across the world. He was a match for my stature, if not my power, but who was? I did not begrudge him that. This proto-Vyzhaldi had not survived by taking on things he could neither beat nor outrun. Sensing the difference in our powers, and my lust, he laid down, asking only that I be gentle to him, so he could survive. I hadn''t been planning to force myself upon him, much less harm him, but I understood his apprehension. I pinned him down the moment he submitted, and made love to him. It was a new thing, making love as opposed to coupling, as strange as it was wonderful. When night fell, and I rose off him, eager to know him in other ways, he accepted that I did not wish him ill, and told me he led a simple life. He was the result of a long line of survivors, intelligent enough he could hardly relate to his few living ancestors. I sympathised, though I did not miss my family as much as I regretted what had happened to them. The proto-Vyzhaldi admitted to me that, while there were many females among his kind he could have taken, and who would have taken him gladly, he admired me more than any of them. ''You are strong,'' he told me, ''but kind. It takes skill to move with such restraint, and a gentle heart to want to in the first place.'' My husband''s words felt more like a victory to me than the sight of any mangled corpse I have ever stood over, but they were the beginning of our joy. I called him Soothing Healer Who Brings Joy, and asked Joy not to name me yet, for I did to know myself. He obliged. We had three children, and I felt like a true mother for the first time. When they grew and went their separate ways, breeding with distant kindred, Joy and I remained in the place where we had met, watching them from a distance. The tribes they founded grew, and settled, and sang of their ancestors, filling the night. The Kindred Three have always been some of my greatest joys, and their achievements lift my heart every day I spend in the Kratocracy. Builder Of Walls was a great architect, as adept at designing dwellings as he was at organising his people, but he cut himself off from them. He took pride in their accomplishments, and laughed and hunted and killed at their sides, but he felt that, as chieftain, he could not afford to become too attached, lest his tribe turn treacherous, or be wiped out. It helped, he told me, whenever he had to execute someone. Balancer Of All Things surrounded herself with a handful of beings not yet Vyzhaldi, facilitating trade and communication between their cousin tribes. They claimed no land, as a matter of course, because they believed the need for mediation was greater. And, though they never removed violence from the Vyzhaldi heart, as everything inside and around us proves, they prevented many a conflict from blossoming into war. Breaker Of Limbs was, in some ways, the closest to me, in terms of temperament. He and his inner circle threw themselves at anything they deemed a threat to what was becoming Vyzhaldi civilisation, growing stronger and safeguarding their Kin at the cost of their own lives. I watched my children grow and spread, hale and hearty without my presence or guidance, and knew contentment in the arms of my Joy. Then, the Zhayvin came. Few of you remember the Zhayvin Technarchy, but they were as different from their current incarnation as I am from the bug I was born as. The Zhayvin of those days had been united under the iron claw of a warlord who called herself the Shaper, as she had moulded their various nests and packs into a growing empire. Unification, the Shaper claimed - preached, really; it is quite fascinating how fanatical some godless people can be - had taken place because her and her followers had been stronger, in body and mind, than the other Zhayvin tribes. They had been subjugated and culled because they had been weaker, and nothing they could want, say or do would free them from the Shaper''s yoke. Might determined value, for without might, one could not enforce anything, while with it, nothing they said or did could be denied. Until that point, I had held myself back. Even as I felt my children die in each other''s arms during tribal conflicts, I had not intervened, not wanting to control them as I had been. But with the Technarchs bearing down on the cluster of worlds we had claimed during our early space age, it seemed my aid was not only desired, but vital. I forced the tribes to bow before me, painfully aware of the irony, given our current foe, but knowing it was the only way. I could not fight the Zhayvin alone. Though their sciences were cruder in the War of Unity than they are today, not to mention far less uniform, they still sent cybernetic constructs against me, things that straddled the border between genetic science and madness, and constructs of spun starstufff and cold matter, each more than able to match my constantly-growing power. I told my children to go forth and multiply, and my husband railed at the necessity, even as he cursed the Technarchy, but accepted the necessity, in the end. With individuality quashed, and the first true Vyzhaldi being born, I ordered those who hatched with fixed power, or other defects, to retreat deep behind our borders, cluster around the centre of our fledgling Kratocracy. My husband, weak, but with a will stronger than even mine, guided them through this, lifting their spirits whenever despair or self-loathing at perceived uselessness threatened to seep in. As I grew stronger, alongside my soldiers, the Technarchs - who had run roughshod over countless civilisations, and slaughtered or enslaved entire species too weak to resist during their previous seven billion years of expansion - began wondering whether they had, finally, bit off more than they could chew. Certainly, the War had ground to a halt, what with the forerunners to the Unity Stellar attacking them from the other side, at the head of a coalition of old enemies and rebellious slaves, and that did not appeal to their feelings of superiority. Nor did the Shaper''s promises that victory was just around the corner, and this battle or that ambush would change everything. Swallowing her pride, the Shaper called for a ceasefire, and met me under truce, swearing no one would attempt to harm me. More fool I, I didn''t think of what they planned for my Kin, believing them safe behind our lines. In a move as atrocious as it was reckless, the Vyzhaldi ruined their war machine to teleport the worst creations of their genemills and workshops into the heart of our realm. My Vyzhaldi fought, of course - how could they not, when surrender would result in more suffering than defeat or death? But it was not enough. As they began falling, while I rushed to their aid, the Shaper''s cackles echoing in my mind, my Joy was struck by a damnable contraption that fed upon his growing dismay at seeing so many children and grandchildren slaughtered. This was a psychoreactive weapon, in Zhayvin parlance, as it warped the cosmos to reflect the psyche, and in those moments, my Joy wanted nothing more than to keep those who remained safe, keep them alive. His flesh began running as the construct''s talons dug into his brain, and great tendrils lashed out at the embattled Vyzhaldi around him, drawing them into the growing mass. When I arrived, things became worse, as the newly-formed gestalt roared in guilt at the sight of me. I represented everything they lacked: strength, determination, the ability to help our people. But before I could reassure them, they resolved to become more powerful in their own way, no matter the cost. The Flesh That Flays flew into the void on bloated wings, tearing through every Zhayvin thrall and construct it could get its tentacles on. I never managed to ask my Joy to forgive me, Scorn, and he can no longer speak to me as he used to, for he as become twisted. Still, it makes me happy that he recognises you as his son in spirit. Cherish that. With a last taunt that, had I been strong enough not to allow weakness, no Vyzhaldi would have suffered - though we both felt the shakiness of her resolve- the Shaper and her lackeys departed our borders. That day, as I stood in the ashes of my home, I accepted that I was no leader. I could no more head a nation than I could a family, and that attempt had gifted the universe a new abomination. I could do no more than protect my Vyzhaldi to the best of my strength. My first children saw that, and quietly took the reins of power, setting up the Schools while I remained in the background, a guardian, silent out of shame, worshipped for what I knew were failures. Weakness could not be tolerated, for it could be exploited through fear and shame. With none to loathe themselves, there would be no danger inside the Kratocracy. Mercy could not be tolerated, as democracy could too easily become a tool for treachery. This, I spoke through the mouths of the Kindred Three, as I tore out my heart, so my body could mirror my soul. The Wound that gave my name never healed, as my transformation was complete, I became one with my self in the Realm Of Forms, the Idea of life growing stronger through struggle as it found a way, and learned to use my strength to shape all aspects of the macrocosm. The Builders grew popular slowly, and only recently have they achieved anything approaching relevance. I am glad they have. * * * Mother Wound was not surprised when her son struck her. Instead, she beamed with pride when she felt strength equal to hers behind the blow. Her palace had been carved from its Archetype in the Realm of Forms, so that its tridimensional extension was tightly-connected to the tertradimensional one it was but a shadow of, and all the ones above that, all the way to the Ultimate Void. Just like she was. A lesser Archetype, to be sure, but at that scale, power seemed boundless to most beings. It took an unlimited mind to see the layered infinities of creation''s heights. Scorn, using the copied strength of his mother, rocked creation, shattering the palace''s Archetype, so that it had always been a ruin, in every extension of its Idea, as had been the Idea itself. ''The new history books are going to be interesting,'' Wound remarked. ''Though, I suppose, they have always been this way now.'' Scorn did not dignify that with an answer. Instead, he copied Wound''s stature as well, attempting to loom over her - as if mere size had ever intimidated a Vyzhaldi. His second strike sent Wound flying to the other end of the universe. The younger Vyzhaldi was there to intercept her with an elbow strike; a hundredth of a tredecillionth of later, he spiked his mother into the crust of a dead world, even as their Archetypes clashed on creation''s bedrock. ''This is the birthright I was denied,'' he hissed, glaring down at her unharmed form. Scorn knew her fortitude grew to match his power, just as he knew he would never be able to hurt her, much less kill her. ''The power so many hatchlings have been killed for not having, before they could even receive names.'' ''You are mistaken,'' Wound said plainly, catching his four fists as they hammered downwards. Down on one knee, she looked calmly up at her son. ''No Vyzhaldi has ever had power like mine.'' ''Until now.'' Socrn''s headbutt smashed into the horn that formed the centre of his mother''s chitin crown, producing a ringing sound across the aether. ''How does it feel? To be matched, finally?'' ''Wonderful, my son!'' She grinned. ''It does a mother no good to have no children who can surpass her, and a Vyzhaldi worse to have no one to spar with.'' All of her peers, in terms of power, were either too invested in her destruction, or too disinterested in fighting to hone their skills against hers. A shame. ''But you knew that. I needn''t look into the core of your being to see that.'' Grabbing her mandibles, Scorn attempted to force them open, bite or headbutt Wound''s mouth until it became a ragged gap. He knew it was pointless. That, at best, he could fight her forever. The thought made his blood sing more than any triumph ever had. So why was the old freak so stolid? ''Oh?'' Scorn asked, attempting to wrestle her to the ground. ''You are not brimming with joy, as any Vyzhaldi should be. And I have never trusted you enough to "know" anything about you.'' Wound laughed, leaning her head against his. ''Why don''t you go ahead and say what vexes you, my Scorn?'' ''Why kill them all?'' he asked bluntly, hammering his forehead into hers with every word. ''You have killed more Vyzhaldi than any of our enemies, save for your enforcers.'' He said it as if that was going to make her regret anything...as if her enforcers were enemies of their kind. ''My followers have spilled the blood of Kin, but they no longer will. Not for being born flawed.'' ''Were you betting on me staying, then?'' Scorn asked dryly. ''So they''d have a few more riots to put down?'' Wound shrugged, shoulders rising and falling like silver tides. ''All Vyzhaldi souls come to me, in the end. What does a short life ending in pain matter, when consciousness goes on, beyond the mortal coil?'' ''Careful,'' he taunted. ''The Keeper of Endings might just have your head for that. He is a strong creature, but softhearted. In fact,'' Scorn''s eyes shone as he leaned forward, mandibles twitching in an anticipatory grin. ''He might just stride backwards through time, and undo every death! Maybe even prevent this damnable civilisation from forming...'' He whispered the next words. ''Or you from being born.'' Wound scoffed. ''Don''t be ridiculous. The Keeper knows full well the dangers of meddling with time, and the Kratocracy is very much necessary for the wellbeing of the macrocosm, from founding to apotheosis.'' Besides, the eradication of her past self was meaningless to the true Mother Wound, who stood with her back to the skin of creation, looking down at all of it from the Last Sphere. ''Yes, I am certain,'' Scorn replied, utterly unconcerned with the Kratocracy''s alleged future ascension. ''You might take no issue in being every bit as vile as your captors, but the Keeper is a corpse of principles. That revenant-'' ''The Keeper of Endings will not last a finger against us,'' Wound cut him off. ''After all, you are quite correct: the Kratocracy is necessary. Without it to cast you out, breathe down your neck at every step, how would you have come across the Flesh, and the Mirror?'' she asked softly. ''How would the Moment of Unity have been achieved without you?'' Scorn staggered back half a step, and told himself it was due to his mother''s strength. ''So, the end justifies the means? I hope you are not going to bring up something as foolish as me resorting to trickery to survive being hunted by your lapdogs. They dug their own graves.'' Wound shook her head. ''My son. the macrocosm is everything. Without it, there is nothing to love, or hate, triumph over or be broken by. Anything is a worthy sacrifice, if everything is to be preserved.'' Scorn disengaged, disentangling his arms from his mother''s and stepping back. ''Why me, then? Why wait so many billion years for me to be born from your blood? None of my siblings have ever had any special power or insight. I''ve read the records.'' ''Our bloodline is indeed not special,'' Wound agreed. ''I am powerful because I made myself so, not because of who my parents were.'' Scorn laughed derisively. ''I figured our bloodline was nothing special the moment a failure like me sprung from it.'' ''Failure? In the eyes of your Kin, certainly. But not all of them. Certainly not some Builders''. The only reason they haven''t overturned my first decree was because of cultural inertia.'' ''The threat of death at your hands certainly helped, I''m sure.'' ''I know what I said.'' Wound glanced around, eyes settling on a rock-covered hill slightly larger than her. Smoothing and shaping the uneven ground with her lower arms, Wound settled into the makeshift throne. ''You fret over nothing, my son. Every child of mine to ever die is with me, even the rejected. They are sleeping away the eons, not surviving by their mandibles'' tips in a society that despises them. No Vyzhaldi has ever been lost, and none ever will.'' ''So, if I did what half my past employers begged me to, and wiped out your brood down to the last hatchling, you would simply stand by?'' Scorn smiled mockingly. ''After all, it''s not like I''ll truly end them.'' Her withering glare told him everything he ended to know. Looking down at his fists, Scorn unclenched them, turning his head to the side to spit. ''As I expected. Your hypocrisy is the one thing I have always understood, "mother". This talk of necessity...'' ''Go talk to the Keeper, if you want.'' She waved a hand upwards. ''I am sure he will be happy to repeat my words.'' Sighing, Wound closed her eyes, two hands on her knees, other arms crossed. ''You think I lie, Scorn? Why? To save face? I care not a whit how you feel about me. I know the truth is the only thing I can say that will convince you.'' ''Being sincere does not mean being correct,'' he snapped. ''And I refuse to believe your eugenics program was necessary for anything.'' I do not want to live in a world where it is. ''It hasn''t even amounted to anything! Flawed Vyzhaldi are not born less often just because you kill them the moment they open their eyes. Whether born from wounds or hatched from eggs, they still enter the cosmos flawed.'' ''It''s a good thing, then,'' Wound said softly, ''that I have not been attempting to breed out the possibility for that. I know I cannot.'' Scorn fought not to strike her again, simply for the pleasure of feeling her shell dent under his fist. ''You know you cannot, yet you keep...at...'' Scorn''s eyes bore into hers. ''You did not answer my earlier question. You diverted. Dissembled.'' ''Why you,'' Wound repeated. ''Why were you the one defective Vyzhaldi chosen to help save everyone?'' Wound''s laugh was gentle. ''Because you could. Because you could be prepared, to do what needed to be done. I know what every child of mine holds, in their heart of hearts. None of your Kin who were snuffed out at birth would''ve had the grit to want to survive for as long as you have. None of them would''ve had the cunning. Most would''ve died in Zhal''s orbit, the rest long before they could''ve reached deep space.'' Wound spread her arms. ''And without constructing the Kratocracy so you would be exiled, you would never have found the tool that facilitated Unity.'' ''The deaths, then,'' Scorn said, feeling numb. ''They were...steps in a plan?'' Wound nodded. ''Without that precedent, who would have chased you unto the edge of the cosmos? If you spoke to your departed Kin, I am sure they would tell you much the same.'' The two Vyzhaldi stood in silence for a while, Scorn gazing into nothing, Wound looking expectantly at him. It was her who broke the ice. ''What do you want exactly, my son? You said earlier that I feel no joy for this battle. That is untrue. But any you feel is drowned out by hatred as virulent as any that has ever been directed at you.'' Scorn made a dismissive gesture. ''I know you didn''t say that to condemn me. Not even you can be that hypocritical.'' Although, on second thought... ''What I want clearly cannot be achieved. If the past cannot, or will not, be undone, then I will leave it behind.'' Scorn turned his back on his mother as he spoke, remembering his journey. He had never thought his deeds would be mentioned in the same breath as the macrocosm entire, and that thought halted his steps. He would never be hunted again. Even if they came for him, he now shared his mother''s powers. He hadn''t copied those of his fellow Vyzhaldi as a courtesy. Had hoped that would impress them. Now, he couldn''t help but think that, even if they had accepted him with open arms, that would''ve stoked his anger to levels he had never felt before. Had the fear prey felt blinded him? He had never felt afraid, but...there had been something, there. Like a pressure, behind and between his eyes. Stress, maybe? Wrath, born from the unfairness of it all, the fact they would not take him back, that he had been sent away in the first place? And, in the end...so proud were his people of things decided by a roll of genetic dice, they looked down on those who had rolled poorly. Sneered at other avenues of power, at cleverness, even as they used technology and pushed the bounds of their sciences. Clearly, such crutches were perfectly fine, as long as the favoured were the ones using them. And this...this mad, mad civilisation, more wretched than they had ever seen him as, had refused him. Oh, they had invited him back - the Builders, mostly. But he could see the truth in their eyes, hear it in their voices. Whether it was indoctrination or instinct at work, it did not matter. He had rescued creation itself from certain oblivion, and what had they done? Called him weak! Selfish! Their damn ideology was so pervasive, it had even twisted him. He had not paid it much thought until now, certainly not at the moment, but he had described the Ideal Mirror as a coward''s tool. He felt no need to kowtow before the glorified medallion, useful as it was - had he respected power alone, he would''ve submitted to the first hunter to catch up to him, like a guilty animal. But the Mirror was important. What did it matter what he used it for? It shouldn''t have. And yet, he had stood by. Oh, he had given the Mirror to the Keeper, and opened his mind to his plan, but he hadn''t used it. Had the Keeper not been so adept at wielding Archetypal power, would the macrocosm have ended because of his warrior''s pride? The thought made him gag. And, as Scorn stood, trembling with rage - had he been able, he would''ve wept angry tears - he could not help but ask one last question. ''Why the name?'' At the following silence, he elaborated. ''Why the "Honoured" Kratocracy?'' Was it because of their tributaries - for tthat was what most of their allies were, no matter what either side thought or said? It felt...petty, for one of the Great Powers to be named for something as shallow as wealth or favours received, but Scorn was far past the point where he admired his Kin, if there had ever been one. He could accept it. Yet, it didn''t make sense. The Kratocracy''s tendency not to care for outsiders aside, the name had existed long before Lesser Powers had begun bowing before the Vyzhaldi. ''Ah.'' Scorn got the feeling Wound was smiling lazily. When he had copied her abilities, he had received her uncanny insight into Vyzhaldi, but he wasn''t sure he trusted the ability. ''You truly cannot tell?'' There was no mockery in her voice - merely curiosity, and slight surprise. Scorn bid her continue. ''Why, my Scorn, is it not obvious? Do we not worship at the altar of power? Do what we do because we can? If might is such a grand thing, does not living defined by it honour a Vyzhaldi?'' * * * ''Nnnnngghhhkkkk-'' BY THE SHRIEKING VOID! ''Agh!'' Fixer threw his arms up in disgust, turning his head aside and hiding his face under them, dearly wishing the fourth player would return the favour. ''Dammit, Dean! I''ve told you to stop showing your face!'' Miskatonic University''s Dean pouted, the blue spots across his pale, greyish face deepening. Then, sighing, he pulled up his coat''s hood for good measure. ''Fine. See...? No, of course not.'' He crossed his arms sulkily. ''You can look now! I put my mask back on before I pulled on the cowl! Wimps...'' Nightraiser glared flatly at him. Few things could appall them enough for the Darkness to flood their mind in order to focus it - someone who could unmake Fixer with a thought had few limits when it came to thought -, but the Dean was one of them. I AM UNAMUSED. ''Fake news, you''re DEATH.'' Dean pointed a clawed finger at the Idea of Endings. ''No need to feel called out - not everyone can have a strong stomach.'' Then, turning to Fixer. ''Ned, why don''t you take a seat? You look shaken.'' Dean jerked his head at the Dark Oracle. Nyarlathotep had plunged its claws into the depths of its being when he had removed his disguise, at the same time Chernobog had ripped his horns off to jab them through his skull. Gray Mann was still snarling incoherently. ''I bet my wedding ring you''ve been waiting to bend those three over for a while now. I''m sure they''d make for a lumpy chair, but better than nothing, right?'' He smiled blandly. ''Maybe they''ll get a taste of how your back felt carrying creation.'' Fixer resumed his seat at the table, gesturing for the others to take theirs. They did so reluctantly, and Nightraiser sat down almost grudgingly. The wailing, empty expanse the Darkness had in place of a mind was not what they wanted to feel, when they could instead experience serenity at no longer being a plaything, and satisfaction at keeping creation away from annihilation, so they could have something to enjoy that in. ''When I said not to show your face,'' Fixer grouched, gesturing at the Dark Oracle, ''I meant to anyone.'' ''That sounds like discrimination.'' Dean tilted his head, considering. ''Am I being repressed? HELP-!'' ''Dean.'' ''Fiiiine,'' he drawled, rolling his eyes as he leaned back into his chair. ''Jeez. It''s not like you guys are listening to me, either.'' He picked up the piece he had last moved, spinning it across the board with a finger. It resembled a human''s Archetype, its tridimensional extension sporting dark, unruly hair. Three jagged slashes of darkness, two smaller ones atop a twisted, ragged shape that resembled a mouth the way Nacht resembled shadows leered out of a milky face. The piece resembled the being it represented, with a long, thick overcoat that reached its knees, just as dark as its eyes and mouth. ''You keep saying Ivan is yours!'' Dean whined indignantly, pointing the piece at the three. ''Faren says he''s theirs, because he leaves desolation behind. DEATH insists he''s its, because he destroys. And you, Ned, are you honestly claiming he''s yours because he helps creation? Who doesn''t?'' ''If we are being fair,'' Nightraiser replied. ''And disregarding time, he is - will be - none of ours.'' ''Yes, well,'' Dean put the piece down. ''The Quietude doesn''t play well, when it deigns to.'' They smiled thinly. ''I was talking about Sofia.'' ''Ah, yes.'' Dean put his hands behind his head. ''I suppose I owe the Spider for breaking him halfway.'' Dean looked away, his smile returning when he saw the embattled Archetypes. ''Aaaahhh~ And here, I used to think there was nothing more pointless than trying to hurt me. Attempting to reason with her Scorn is definitely in the running, though.'' He wiped away an imaginary tear. ''I taught that girl so well...'' His attention returning to the table, he favoured DEATH with a lazy smirk, receiving a blank look in return. ''That must be why you came to play! Memories of a handout?'' I NEEDED TO GET RID OF IT, ANYWAY, DEATH answered. MOVE IT OUT OF THE MIDDLE SPIRAL, AT ANY RATE. GIVING EVERYONE A BETTER FIGHTING CHANCE JUST MADE IT BETTER. Dean nodded. ''I''ve always admired your dedication to keeping this dumpster fire going. Gives me something to play in!'' He giggled, before growing more serious. ''Void...but really, I do appreciate always having people to meet and teach. Honestly. I know I seem flippant, but...'' He showed his black-gloved hands. ''And I apologize for the outburst. Let''s not sour this reunion just because none of you know how to give credit.'' ''He''s doing it again.'' INDEED, EYE OF DARKNESS. ''Can''t we agree that we all had a hand in the making of the Walking Void?'' Fixer offered distractedly. His gaze was faraway, focused on the Nameless Mist where it met its opposite. And, near the mist''s edge, inside the Grey Maybe of existence, could be glimpsed a pair of eyes, every colour swimming in them. The beginnings of true joy shone in them, slowly but surely replacing the gleeful malice that had filled them for millennia. ''And focus on who we did lift up?'' ''The Archchemist''s handiwork,'' Dean''s gaze followed Fixer''s. ''It will never cease to amaze me, how such base creatures can craft such wonderful beings...oh, what I wouldn''t have done to met him or his children in my halls...'' Dean''s eyes snapped up to those of his shapeless friend. ''But you have to be fair, Ned. You didn''t lift him up all by yourself, either.'' ''I didn''t stop his pain,'' Fixer said. ''And so, I am responsible.'' For, whenever someone who wanted to help creation could best do so by staying by, he felt it as if he were being wounded himself. ''And it''s not like my boy Dave''s here so I can pat his back, either!'' Fixer added, forcing some cheer in his voice. I WILL BE SURE TO TELL MY KEEPER YOU ARE PROUD OF HIM FOR FOLLOWING YOUR EXAMPLE. ''Sure, if you want him to smack you around with me,'' Fixer half-joked, beginning to focus on the game once more. Or he would have, had time passed here, in the deepest of Voids. * * * They were like a living arch. Shrunken, twisted creatures, with sharp features and naked, half-fleshless wings, like something between an aborted fetus and a vulture. Sleeping, fighting, feeding, on themselves and each other, and mating. Many were locked in writhing embraces, beaklike mouths snapping at and closing over each other''s faces, while shapeless appendages squeezed hard enough to break the substance of their fellow bodies. THE DREGS OF LIFE, KEEPER MINE. PAY THEM NO MIND. Looking from the infinitely-layered, hideous door decoration to DEATH, I raised an eyebrow. ''No mind? I can feel them. If you unloaded one of those at most Archetypes, you''d remake creation so that it had never been.'' I entertained the thought of removing the Idea of Mosquitoes, but DEATH had already told me that project would be more finicky than pointing and clicking. Not least because of everyone who was bizarrely attached to the damn things. YOU ARE CORRECT, DAVID. It pointed a skeletal finger at a pair tearing each other to shreds. THERE IS ENOUGH DEATH IN EACH CARRION CHILD TO RESHAPE EVERYTHING. THAT IS WHY THEY MARK THE SPIRAL''S BEGINNING. Apparently fairly pleased with my work as Keeper, DEATH had chosen to show me what we kept in the back, for when the going got rough. Compared to most Archetypes, DEATH was like a heavily-armed, trained soldier among underweight infants. And, for the most part, it and its Keepers found little challenge in whoever got on their shitlist. This armoury we were about to enter, it told me, held in it things that were to DEATH what the worst superweapons were to humans. ''I thought you called them the Neverwere Vaults,'' I said. Because whatever DEATH deemed too horrible to exist in creation, but too dangerous or useful to destroy, found its way here, buried deep within DEATH Keep, so what could never be forgiven might be forgotten. Long memories made a mockery of that. WHAT THEY HOLD WITHIN THEMSELVES HAS INDEED NEVER BEEN, DAVID. BUT, ONCE YOU ENTER AND WALK THE SPIRAL, YOU WILL SEE THAT, THE DEEPER YOU DESCEND, THE MORE TWISTED IT GETS. At that, it let out a hollow, rasping chuckle. DEATH''s sense of humour was macabre (shock! Horror!), but reared its head thankfully rarely, so most of the time, DEATH just channeled its inner pet rock. I''d have chalked it up to not wanting to disturb others, but its sense of empathy was usually absent, too. THE CARRION CHILDREN ARE NOT POWERFUL ENOUGH TO BE SEALED WITHIN THE FIRST LAYER. THE SPIRAL ATROCIOUS HOLDS GREATER AFFRONTS AGAINST CREATION THAN THEM, EVEN AT THE ENTRANCE. It held up a hand, projecting an image of the artifact I''d seen hanging on Mother Wound''s Scorn''s neck. AS TIME IS COUNTED, I HAVE RECENTLY WITNESSED A COMMOTION THAT REMINDED ME OF WHEN I DESCENDED TO THE MIDDLE SPIRAL, SEPARATED FROM ENTRANCE AND BOTTOM BOTH BY ENDLESS LAYERS, TO REMOVE SOMETHING THAT NO LONGER NEEDED TO BE HELD THERE. YOU NEEDED TO BE TOLD OF THE ARSENAL AT YOUR DISPOSAL, AND THIS SPARK OF REMEMBRANCE- ''If you say it kindled the fire of necessity, I''ll flip,'' I promised it. ''It''s too early for prose that ultraviolet.'' AS MY KEEPER SAYS. It sounded amused, the bastard. Then, it looked at the Vaults - the Spiral - once more, empty gaze growing wistful. I put a hand on its sagging shoulder. It was not the armoury''s contents that had it feeling down, though even I knew they were not to be taken lightly. For all my powers, those I had received from it and the Mover''s gift, rarely as I had used it (some still couldn''t spot a difference between it, and my Keeper abilities, but that was entirely understandable)...the Spiral had been built to keep people like me in. In fact, if DEATH was correct, it held several beings whose sole purpose was to turn the tide against overwhelming threats from beyond creation. Creatures tailored to combat such dangers, that could only be used once, or, in some, far worse cases, be bound once. ''It makes you wonder what could necessitate such destruction,'' I had mused out loud once. NOTHING, IF WE DO OUR DUTY PROPERLY. ''I''m sure it would be proud of you,'' I said gently, nudging DEATH forward. ''You both understand sacrifice, even if you share nothing else.'' DEATH made a sound that, had it come from other beings, could have uncharitably been called a sniffle. Feeling generous, I didn''t comment. MAYHAP WE WOULD HAVE SHARED MORE, IF I HADN''T FAILED, IN THE BEGINNING. And with that, we trudged our way past the doors, beginning to walk the Spiral carved into and around LIFE''s groaning, moaning shell. Sidestory: The Zhayvin Files: Introduction Arrival...acknowledged. Enter primary password: ********* ** ***** First stage of identification, complete. Enter secondary password: ********* ** ********** Secondary stage of identification, complete. Welcome, visitor. As First Scientist, we, the Shaper, will guide you through the Reptilian Collective''s files on our allies, assets and opponents. Collaboration, optimisation and neutralisation are all important facets of the war against irrationality, for none could be attempted, if the others failed. An ally/asset/threat classification has been uploaded to your mindframe. Do you wish to peruse it now? ...Very well. The Collective classifies entities, objects and locations of interest using a scale focusing on, but not limited to, how large an area of the macrocosm they can affect. Other traits, such as aptitude, resilience and the nature and duration of said effect, factor into classification, but broadly, it can be used as follows: -"local" entities are not necessarily native to any location, nor do they dwell there. This classification is used to express the fact they represent potential threats to baseline humans, up to large groups of them. In some cases, they represent a danger to human dwellings or settlements, and are able to fight an unmodified reptilian without equipment. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. -"regional" entities can affect large parts of a notable Terran landmass; a mountain range, for example, up to a continent. -"global" entities can affect, at a minimum, the entire surface of Terra. In more powerful cases, they can affect its moon, or the entire planet. -"planetary" entities are able to affect celestial bodies larger than Terra, up to and including brown dwarfs. -"stellar", "galactic" and "universal" entities are, as the names suggest, capable of affecting varyingly large areas of the cosmos. -"macrocosmic" entities range from beings capable of affecting two or more realities, to those whose very existence warps all of creation. This classification system is a new development, and, in many ways, a prototype. Your perusal of the archives might help us improve it. Now, what do you wish to analyse first? Sidestory: The Zhayvin Files: On science and aberrancy
''Insane? You have trekked through the stars to me, fought wars and passed through the gate, to call me mad? Ha! You truly are something...an ignoramus, I mean. I am crazy? The Zhayvin Collective inhabits the dream of a blind idiot god, yet believes creation has laws. But I am insane?'' -unknown. Attributed to Solarex. * * * Mocker raised a finger as the datastream between the Collective and the visitor stopped. ''You disapprove of this.'' Mocker half-closed its eyes at the Shaper''s unprompted, but correct statement. ''Letting whoever leaf through our records when every human agency worth its name turns us away in the name of operational security? Yes, but you already know that. The way people shouted me down during the debate was somewhat hard to miss.'' ''They disapproved of your paranoia as much as you approve of the overworlders''.'' Mocker''s grin was amused, but tight. ''Never said otherwise. The reasons differ, though, but I suppose not all of us can hold on to the guilt for atrocities eons past.'' The Unscarred - they had started calling it the Unscarred Prime, in light of the replicas - crossed its arms, pink eyes turning orange. ''We have nothing to lose. Sharing information will improve Earth''s wellbeing, and if the overworlders wish to be secretive, let them. We learn enough in the field, and from looted scraps.'' ''That''s the-'' Mocker stopped itself with a sigh. ''Fine. Fine!'' No wonder the humans didn''t value knowledge more. They probably looked at the Collective picking the hardest way to obtain it while giving theirs away, and decided curiosity wasn''t worth the added scholarly masochism. ''Have it your way.'' This was directed at the seventy-three percent of the Collective who had voted for allowing visitation of their archives. ''But,'' Mocker scratched between its scales with a monomolecular claw, ''didn''t you see who they sent? Obviously new.'' At least there wasn''t some series of half-baked infiltration attempts going on. Mocker had once heard about a fairly hilarious event concerning a terrorist cell formed of ninety percent undercover counterterrorists, with none of the moles aware of the others. This reminded it of a guinea pig rather than a mole: a rookie, sent to test the waters, allegedly unbiased to neither a country nor the reptilians. Mocker saw ARC''s hand at work here, but that mattered little, in the end. The Unscarred''s eyes became pink once more, its expression turning flat. ''We are perfectly capable of simplifying-'' ''Yes, yes.'' Mocker waved its hands. ''But you could put up an index while you''re at that. Maybe some of those colourful signs to mark records that have been studied, I''ve heard they like them bright up there.'' ''The archives are a work in progress. An "index" would be a sham.'' Mocker rolled its eyes, but it could not deny it was enthused, or pretend it didn''t share the Shaper''s confidence, if to a smaller degree. Their work in the Realm of Forms that formed the metainformational core of the macrocosm meant that, perhaps, everything could actually be know, and any new events could instantly be studied and added to the reptilian''s database. But the First Scientist''s perfectionism prevented it from merely starting something. Still... ''You could just make a hologram and update it as needed. And,'' Mocker shrugged, ''why not add some definitions to the bottom, as well?'' Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ''If you''re so opposed to the idea, why do you want to make our data easier to process?'' ''So the guests go home faster!'' * * * Hello. To your right, you have noticed a hardlight construct appear. That dot next to the entrance represents you, and, as labeled, here are...hmm? Why not simply upload the information into your mind? You believe we can do that, despite...? ...Ha. Fair enough. Fair enough, and closer to the truth than farther. Yes. Such a procedure, however, would defeat the purpose of this tour, but would not be truly successful. As has been pointed out to us, with more insistence than politeness, our knowledge changes with the macrocosm, and such updated would have to uploaded into your mind, as well. With the scale and rate of our research, that would require and all but permanent link. Unless you wish to turn back? We thought not. Before you continue, we must establish something. If you look to the right, you will see your guide hologram being updated as we speak. We must draw the line between the fruits of science, and what we Zhayvin classify as aberrancy. Are there laws in the macrocosm? We believe there are. Some argue it is only governed by the perception of its inhabitants, but in that case, it must be orderly, as so many believe it to be. Is there an universally-agreed upon set of laws, then? Of course not. But more similar ones than you believe. For example, most cultures and beings with knowledge of FTL travel agree that is it impossible to achieve something to lightspeed without infinite energy, and that doing so with finite energy breaks physics. This is just an example of aberrancy. Aberrants are those who deviate from this model of existence, through various means. Humans distinguish between "supernaturals" - beings resembling figures from their folklore - and "paranormals" -beings who defy nature, but do not feature in human tales or myths. The Collective finds this distinction arbitrary and useless. All aberrants are aberrants, no matter what the proponents of anthropocentrism argue. Moving one''s boy without propulsion, generating mass from nowhere...these are but some of the most common forms of aberrancy there is. Aberrants are as varied as they are intiguing. What, then, of science? Is the study of aetherkinesis not scientific? After all, it employs the scientific method. Aetherplasm - "mana" - and those who use it know it reacts to thoughts, and what it takes to have this ability. That may be so. But the Collective defines aberancy by what could be found in nature on our lost homeworld of Zhay, and there, there was no aberrancy. But, you will say, our technology seems to break physics as understood by mankind. Does that not make it aberrant? Perhaps it does. Perhaps the abilities we see as unnatural are misunderstood science. Our quest for knowledge is never-ending. The Collective is aware technology that is unexplained or misunderstood can appear magical, and vice versa. Earthlings and aliens have claimed we use everything from hypertech - something that seems to rely on scientific principles and mechanism to function, yet to advanced to properly analyse, much less understand - to "technosorcery". We have even encountered devices that appear to us the way ours do to humans. So, what conclusion is there to draw? If reality is shaped by perception, is there truly anything abnormal? We shall see. Sidestory: And Gods Mouth Sayeth...
Constantin - Uriel - raised-lowered his-their eyes as his brother, the Archangel Gabriel, touched down without a sound, the tips of his silvery blue wings brushing the ground without stirring up any dust. ''Father Silva'', he greeted. ''Brother.'' Gabriel tilted his head slightly, brushing a lock of raven hair out of his steel-blue eyes. ''You are growing closer.'' They were. So much closer, in fact, that their spirits had started bleeding into each other, so that, even if he knew he was not the Archangel, Constantin had no problem speaking for both of them, nor did Uriel. And, with ichor burning behind his eyes, he could see past the guises Gabriel wore so humans needed not fear, and into his core. One moment, the other Cardinal Archangel looked like he was wearing black plate armour, the trim the colour of his wings. He looked like a mailman, hair just peeking out from under his cap. Like a town crier, a newspaper seller, a... Constantin had once watched an explanatory video about quantum superposition. He mused that the Archangel looked like every type of messenger possible, until observed by someone with expectations. But behind that, like a fire casting shadows, was the true self of the Archangel, through which flowed the power of information in its deepest form, granting him control over the senses in the most fundamental manner, those of creation included. God''s Mouth clasped his hands, slightly bowing his head. ''Thank you for coming, brother.'' He did not mention that this was another self of Gabriel''s, and that the original was conveying the Lord''s words across existence. The Archangel could replicate himself endlessly, like all his brethren, for they were ever needed. ''We know that you speak for God, yet, we would trouble you, if you would bear our words for once, to whoever may listen. We believe they might prove some use, these kernels of lore, in the right hands.'' ''Even if they are not, this should prove an interesting break from bearing father''s messages,'' Gabriel replied, before smiling ironically. ''But, no offence, Uriel...I somewhat doubt you have anything to share that I do not already know. I am the bringer of knowledge, and you have never been the most scholarly among us.'' Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. ''Indeed, we have not been. But here this, brother: do you remember how Michael got his sword? The one he cut Samael''s eyes out with during the War in Heaven, leaving only fires burning as hotly as his pride?'' At Gabriel''s expression, he went on. ''The one he shattered on the Serpent''s face, yes. He never did speak about that, did he?'' ''He did not,'' Gabriel confirmed, walking closer as God''s Mouth formed a seat of gold-tinged crimson flame, before sitting down. Gabriel leaned in, an elbow on the chair''s armrest, his ear close to his brother''s mouth. ''Speak, then. I am curious, and could use a lesson as much as a diversion.'' ''Ah, brother...Michael did not share the weapon''s origin with you because he did not believe it had any place in Heaven''s history. How often do you hear about the beasts in the waters above Heaven and beneath Hell in scripture? It was from there that a beast came. I remember...I fought it for a trillion years - or was it a heartbeat? - after its shining shadow snuffed out a seraph by passing over him, with the effect and effort of an ocean snuffing out a candle. The universe would''ve been scorched bare by that flame, yet even the creature''s approach was enough to extinguish it. I kept it from our realm''s gates, while Samael harried it, but it was Michael who put it down, and wrought its remains into a hiltless blade. He has always been able to do anything he must to defend Heaven...this makes him so lonely, we think. Like God, indeed.'' Gabriel nodded, glancing into the white-hot shapes that might''ve passed for his brother''s eyes to someone whose sight was less clear. ''I did suspect none of us had forged that ugly thing. Still, at least something good came of it, in the end.'' He closed his eyes, remembering his elder brother''s, before they had been replaced by pitiless infernos. ''Was that what you wanted to share?'' ''Oh, no, brother. Of course not. That was to give you a taste. Not all the lore we have accumulated will be new to you, but we hope our insights will interest you.'' Sidestory: The Zhayvin Files: Zombies
Note: the Collective is aware of the differences between semi-autonomous necromorphic aberrants animated and directed by thanatophiliac aetherkines ("necromancers") and certain theophiles with thanatophiliac leanings ("faithcrafters"). This file, as can be inferred, deals with the former. * * * Classification: semi-autonomous necromorphic aberrants (thanatophile aetherkine minions); Colloquial name: zombies, walkers, shamblers; Origins: the first magical zombies were raised in different locations across Earth shorthly after the first ancestors of mankind developed aetherkinesis ("magic") with few, if any necromancers being aware of their fellows'' existence. Description: a zombie is created when a mage casts a spell or performs a ritual designed to animate a corpse. Such procedures vary depending on their skill and understanding of the macrocosm, traits that are often intertwined. The zombie will be reanimated in the state they were in while classically dead, though more physically capable. They can be modified in accordance to the necromancer''s wishes and capabilities, with extra body parts, for example. Though most necromancers need at least a skeleton in order to perform necromancy, more skilled ones can restructure corpse powder into a more formidable shape. Most zombies are mindless shells, animated by mana, though perfectly able to function in antimagical areas (it should be noted that corpses made to move through biokinesis rather than mana infusion are not traditionally considered zombies, and some necromancers see mages who do this as hacks). However, should a person (or their animus - "soul" -) if they are already dead consent to having their mind bound to the body, a thinking zombie can be made. Although necromancers have to pass several tests before being allowed to raise thinking zombies, most humans are still wary of giving another person the ability to override their free will on a whim. Lastly, it is illegal to bind a person''s animus back to their body following death; doing so is a violation of the Syncretic Treaty and will result in sanctions from thanatophiliac theomorphs ("death deities"). Zombies can be made from animal, vegetal, fungal or aberrant remains, and, in some cases, the abilities they had in life are retained, with physical traits the most likely to be enhanced, though esoteric abilities are not out of the question. Certain abilities being altered in accordance to a "death theme" has also been observed. Zombies are immune to pain and esoteric effects (they cannot be transmuted, mind-controlled, moved with telekinesis, frozen in time, and so on), need no sustenance, and will regenerate from any damage as long as their necromancer is alive or otherwise active. Once the mage is eliminated, zombies cannot regenerate. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Behaviour: Most of the time, mindless zombies do not act by themselves, except to defend themselves or their necromancer. Once the necromancer is eliminated, they become feral, wandering randomly and attacking anything their limited minds perceive as a threat. Threat level: local (human zombies); varies depending on base species. Human zombies have been observed moving, fighting and reacting at Mach 4. In addition to their regeneration and endurance, they are durable enough to take no damage from impacts that would pulverise humans, and are able to damage each other, smashing humans and concrete walls into pieces by running through them, or punching through human flesh and armour with the force of a cannonball. Ignoring leverage, zombies are capable ripping out spines, throwing cars across city blocks with one hand, swinging buses and trucks like batons and lifting tanks overhead with one hand. Neutralisation: the most practical way to reduce the threat of zombies is taking out their necromancer (see file: mages), then picking off the feral undead. Should a reptilian be confronted by a zombie defending their necromancer, placing them under an object weighing three hundred or more tons, or in a container built to withstand multiple megajoules of force, is recommended. Generating a constant force (locally-intensified gravity, ball lightning, plasma field, etc.) can also neutralise them, as zombies cannot move while regenerating their whole body. Sidestory: The Zhayvin Files: Ghouls
Classification: carnivorous necro-anthropomorphic aberrants. Colloquial name: ghouls. Origins: the first ghouls appeared in the Arabian Peninsula, before the rise of Islam. Much like therianthropes, ghouls can turn humans (baseline, magical, psychic) into more of them through bites, scratches and the exchange of fluids or tissues. Unlike weres, ghouls can be made "automatically". Dying while unprepared to depart and hungry can cause a human to rise again as a ghoul, if their animus has not already been claimed by the deity they worship. Description: ghouls appear largely human, though paler, their skin being milky to grey depending on hiw dark it was in life, like in the case of vampires. Also like their undead cousins, ghouls possess sharklike fangs. Their organs do not function and their eyes are completely, milky white. Their nails can become clawlike at will. Ghouls are carnivorous and constantly hungry, this need to feed varying in intensity depending on how often and much they eat (a mouthful of flesh us enough to render it negligible for minutes). Upon consuming flesh, the matter is instantly converted into energy, which is absorbed by the ghoul''s body, resulting in dramatic increases in strength and durability (consuming the average man, for example, will result in a ghoul hitting like one and a half gigatons of TNT), and somewhat less impressive but notable increases in speed (a mouthful of flesh lets ghouls move too fast to be perceived by those equal to them before feeding). This ability is even more pronounced in the case of ghouls who consume paranormal flesh. For example, the smalles part of a vampire body will make a ghoul as powerful, fast and tough as said vampire upon consumption. Behaviour: early ghouls'' tendencies to steal coins, drink blood, eat corpses and hunt the young, elderly and infirm did not make them popular among humans, but this behaviour is widely-agreed to have been the result of particular ghouls'' personalities, largely unchanged since undeath, rather than anything instinctive. Nevertheless, "ghoulish" became synonymous with "gruesome" after humans came in contact with them. Aside from their constant hunger, ghouls are not psychologically-different from humans to any serious degree (a far more laidback attitude when it comes to cannibalism is an arguable divergence, but this is considered synonymous with ghoul hunger, as they are not particular towards any species, including their own). If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Threat level: local (ghouls that have not fed yet); variable depending on the quantity and nature of flesh consumed. Ghouls are capable of withstanding tank shells with nothing more than bruises that heal within milliseconds; it takes tens of megajoules to give one a black eye. They are capable of hurting each other to the degree baseline humans can hurt each other, drawing blood and breaking bone. Ghouls are capable of easily reacting to attacks moving at (and fighting at) hypersonic speeds, up to Mach 12, running fast enough to melt granite, and will regenerate from any damage not inflicted by holy means, including quantum destruction or removal from the timeline. They are immune to direct esoteric effects and do not need rest, air or (other than psychologically) sustenance. Ghouls also possess limited shapeshifting, being capable of assuming the form of a hyena, or that of the latest person whose flesh they have eaten (abilities cannot be replicated, barring a handful of fringe cases). Ghouls have enhanced senses, equivalent to those of vampires, strigoi, weres and most Terran paranormals. When focused on spotting details, they are capable of distinguishing the individual hairs of a fly over twenty kilometres away, hearing its heartbeat and smelling its blood. Neutralisation: other than borrowing blessed items or the services of faithcrafters (it is likely the pantheons would take exception to the Collective imitating their abilities through quantum entanglement or similar means) to deal permanent damage to ghouls, constant destruction areas should be set up. Restraints capable of withstanding hundreds of megajoules should be enough to contain fledgling ghouls, though materials capable of withstanding gigatons of energy would be necessary for any ghoul who has consumed even a few dozen kilograms of flesh (muscle, fat and bone fall in this category, though hair and blood do not; a quirk of aberrancy, doubtlessly). Sidestory: Gods Mouth: Heaven
"It is not a place - as such. And yet, brother, would it not be so easy to forget it is a state, of mind and spirituality alike, when you hear so many speak of "travelling to" it? Such wanderers bend and fold creation through will alone, so of course they can make it appear like something you can move to and away from...but we know better." -on Heaven; "Three Spheres, three times three Hosts - there is power in numbers, brother, for mathematics is one of the purer reflections of perfection one can find in nature. It is, in a way, as much a language of divinity as Enochian. And there is power even greater than that in these numbers. Infinity ninefold, indeed. Michael knows that infinity, like divinity, is the only thing that can contain or - truly - represent itself, and what are we but the echoes of our father''s boundless words?" -on the angelic Hosts; "If Hell is the absence of God, are those who stand the closest to our father embodiments of Heaven? Perhaps. Certainly, they represent the boundless reach of its love, and warmth - and how easily they can both scorch as easily as warm." -on seraphims; "Not our eldest brother, to be sure, but he might as well be. He has filled the void left by the Betrayer in such a way that the fact there has ever been one might slip even our kin''s timeless memories. It is not hard to see why, it should not be, yet the reason is too often misunderstood.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Why is he the most like our father? Because of his power? Of course not. Any angel can increase their power endlessly, even if their mind changes to fit their might: one cannot be as powerful as a seraph and think like a Throne. The few who can remain themselves were never meant to change, not in this way. Is it the fact he can do anything necessary for Heaven''s safety? No, for that is a facet of his power as well, just like it is a facet of the power wielded by the father he so resembles. He is a champion of children, brother. You know how difficult it is not to do as much good as you can, and how deeply it can wear at one''s spirit. It is in feeling and fighting this urge every instant that he is like God." -on Michael; "We have never been close, brother, even when we strode side by side across Egypt to bathe it in firstborn blood. I checked the marked doors and he severed their spirits, but we never spoke, before, during or after. When he turned his back to me, a brace of segmented souls slung over one shoulder, it was without a word. It is ironic. One could be forgiven for thinking the gatekeeper would be cold and the executioner hot-tempered, and yet, we are the opposite. Hm? Yes, brother. We are capable of admitting our flaws. Only one of our kind has ever truly believed to be perfect, and we all remember how that ended. Constantin helps me keep that in mind, and so, we think as one." -on Azrael; "Angels might be made from men - this, we have always known. Yet, their spirits are not usually transfigured so literally. It is a joyous occasion whenever it happens, and its rarity does not diminish the elation; quite the contrary. Mirrors, these two. They complete each other because they are different, not despite it. Regent and maker of crowns, herald and speaker of prayers. We still remember how our kin below raged when father turned Metatron''s blood to ichor and his flesh to fire and light and set him on a throne besides His own. Their outraged denial failed to drown out his grateful gasp, but it brought us great amusement." -on Metatron and Sandalphon; Sidestory: Gods Mouth: Hell
"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here! Ah, brother, the Florentine was more right than he knew. So close to the truth, yet the pit''s sight would have dismayed even him, with no Vergil at his side. For what is Hell but the absence of God? And where can those who find themselves here find hope, which is bound to Him as tightly as faith?" -on Hell; "We shell not teach you how to reat them, brother. You know enough, and I know better than that. Pity them, disdain them, hate them; but do not forget that their nature alone does not make them monster. Remember the mage who harboured such thoughts before he formed a holy union with a demoness? She is one of the loveliest souls we have seen, we dare say." -on demons; "Behold, the Serpent! His eyes see more than most, but he is blinder than any. He believes - he truly believes, Gabriel; he has faith in this, not merely confidence - that not only can he, somehow, topple our father, but that he will. For His own good, of course. We wonder, does sinfulness erase self-awareness as easily as it does virtue? For our eldest brother sneers at mankind with the same contempt with which he ignores his self from before the Fall. And yet, when he looks inward, he finds only things to praise." -on Lucifer; "The Beast of Revelations. Many beasts are spoken of, there, but this one? This one is the Beast, brother; the dragon of the Apocalypse. It is burning rage and unclean wrath, the bared, bloodied face of our slighted brother. Anger, not against the dying of the light, but against everything that offends when it should not. ...Is it any wonder, Gabriel, why the Beast can reach so easily into the heart of man?" -on Satan; "He wants more, brother, and the more he gorges, the more he hungers. He knows this, but he will not stop, for he knows starvation is beneath him. Perhaps he cannot stop. It seems ridiculous for such an exalted brother to end up representing such a crude sin as gluttony. Perhaps he is as amused by irony as he is by the snap of bone and the taste of marrow." -on Beelzebub; "Oh, black despair, oh, bleak hopelessness, thy name is Belphegor. Twin of the Lord of Flies, he who tempted my son in spirit if not in person, and almost doomed everyone, and everything. We have little pity for him, brother, and less mercy. He found the reach of omnipotence dismaying rather than comforting, and seeks to share his false revelation with everyone. He shall not succeed." A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.-on Belphegor; "He takes, and takes, and takes, and keeps, and does little. Such a miser, this brother who never lacked for anything, as selfish as he was once generous. And realms unnumbered turn in his coils, even those who have exchanged coin for power, and believe themselves beyond his reach." -on Mammon; "He wants what others have as much as Mammon wants to keep what is his, but his gaze turns only inwards enough to take note of what he has, and find more to covet. How much power, brother, does one need before enough is enough?" -on Leviathan; "We hold a special loathing for this creature, Gabriel, and you know well why. This shell of a sibling that calls itself Asmodeus has violated more souls than almost all of creation''s other monsters put together. More than Lucifer, more than Belphegor, it has tainted the bonds of our family, through a mockery of love our father never intended to bloom between His children. But there will be a reckoning. In the name of my father and siblings, in the name of my son and his children unborn, for Sariel, our departed sister, lost love of our human half, and every innocent being it has broken, we will destroy this creature, and burn creation clean until no trace of its passage remains.'' -on Asmodeus; ''A good enough commander, as Hell''s warlords go. He has only ever been content with being second in command, so he must at least be good at something, no? This is why he went from lieutenant to general. Do not believe he would ever fancy himself a kingmaker, a power behind a throne. It is not that he is incapable of that, brother. He is too servile, too unambitious - but not humble; never believe that - to crown himself. It is why he makes such a good scapegoat, we believe.'' -on Azazel; "Woman born of clay and dust. Wife that never was. Mother of no man. Are you amused, brother, that the friendship between her and her successor grew quickly and subtly, while her contempt for the first man grew slowly yet obviously? Oh, I know I raged at that, at first. I raged day and night, for my heart blazed at the thought of mankind in those times. And yet..look how one soul might change yours, brother." -on Lilith; Sidestory: Coldest of Wars There had always been, among the children of lost Zhay, a love for symbolism. Despite the rationality and detachment encouraged by the Shaper, certain patterns that had endeared themselves to the reptilians persisted, for reasons that had little to do with practicality or logic, and much to do with sentimentalism. Of course, the Shaper had an explanation for their continued existence - "the state of mind one can enter thanks to cherished things or symbols can often heighten productivity" - but everyone knew how things stood. One thing, one word that stuck, was the engine. Not the device that generated power for a vehicle, necessarily. The vehicle itself, or greater constructs of the Collective, were often called engines by outsiders, and, sometimes, the term slipped into the reptilians'' conversations too. A Zhayvin had once commented that it fit, like a Warscale gauntlet, or one''s fangs around the throat of prey. "Engines, indeed - are they not the sources of our power and reputation? They might not consume fuel to produce energy, but they produce results. Information. The engines of the great apparatus that is the Collective. Do you disagree?" Said reptilian had not received a name. The members of the Collective knew each other''s thoughts at all times. What one felt, all felt. What need was there for names, designations, in such a society? Nicknames were a matter of affectation, titles, like the Shaper''s, of nostalgia. Everyone knew who everyone was. What was there to add? The spires, too, were symbols. The reptilians reserved a deep disdain for the idea of the scientist-hermit (not least of all because it was an accurate description of them before the Shattering of the Anthropocentric Quantum Separation Effect) and the white tower they lived in, isolated from the world. The spires might have evoked that, in terms of mere shape, but that was not what the Zhayvin were going for. They had been told their starscrapers instead brought to mind the mad scientist''s mountain lair, or the tower of the warlock-alchemist. Not exactly flattering comparisons, but certainly no mentions of ivory towers, either. Even if some reptilians had groused that it was better to stand apart from the world and bring nothing into it rather than create dangers. ''I think you misunderstand,'' Mocker (for who else could have it been?) had said, clearly struggling not to smile. ''The archetypes mentioned push the boundaries of science and understanding. Their creations might seem insane, in every sense of the word, but...I do not think it is an insult. Unless you subscribe to the notion madness is genius that brings nothing to the community, that is. After all, thinking atypically does not make one evil...or useless, as we have seen enough times.'' ''Are you calling us insane?'' the grumbling had went. But Mocker had always taunted and challenged, even before receiving its name, which, some said, seemed to goad it into being more annoying, so it''d be seen doing it justice. So, in the end, even those who hadn''t indulged it had stopped paying it mind. Starscrapers resembled the skyscrapers and other high-rise buildings raised by mankind, in terms of shape and function, if not scale. Starting at seven light years tall, with some several times taller, skyscraper could have stretched between solar systems in normal space. Each floor, trillions of kilometres wide, would have comfortably fit most of the Sol System, well into the Oort Cloud. Starscrapers were not a new idea. By human standards, they were literally prehistoric. Arcologies had been a defining feature of reptilian archtecture since they''d lived on their birth world and called themselves Zhayvi. "Build taller, not wider" had been a popular suggestion among humans, before aberrancy had spread wide enough to make space irrelevant. The reptilians had once shared the sentiment, and, even after they had learned to bend, fold and make space thanks to a deep understanding of it. That, the space remade through magic (a word no Zhayvin had ever used seriously), stung. Not because it did anything to them. Not because they, according to some amusingly wrong conspiracies, wanted mankind to rely on them and their technology, rather than the aberrants among them. Ridge knew that. Eidetic memories were standard among the Zhayvin, and while any reptilian could move information to the back of their minds, in order to focus on something else, or simply stop thinking about it, they did not forget. That was why it was baffled. It wasn''t even human, to have the excuse of brain damage. Ever since David Silva, the aberrant they now called the Keeper of Endings, had turned one of them into paste on Mars, during the Cold Madness, they had worked to increase their regeneration. Years ago, reptilians could have healed from being diced into pieces: a genegineered upgrade to their regrowth of limbs and body parts. Further upgrades had followed, so that now, as long as any of the matter making up their bodies survived in any way, Zhayvin would heal on their own, no technological resistance needed. The continuation of consciousness was assured, of course... ...so why the gaping void did ridge feel like it had hit its head and scrambled its brain? That wasn''t supposed to matter. Scowling - a facial expression hard to detect by outsiders when it was worn by a Zhayvin; their muzzles meant they mostly scowled with their eyes -, Ridge tried to reach out to the rest of the Collective through the yoctomachines embedded in each and every particle of its body. That it couldn''t sense the Shaper or its fellows was even more absurd than the apparent memory loss. Why couldn''t it remember? They, it, did not want mankind to rely on them...didn''t mind if they leaned on the aberrants...but why was that? And what was wrong with its machines. Tch. No matter. Ridge, like all its kind, was a scientist. It would find out, as soon as it got up from the rough ground under its scales. Another gap in its memories... Ridge remembered Mocker, and the fact that pain in the neck was as clear as crystal in its mind, but how it had ended up in what felt like a desert wasn''t, vaguely irritated it. Maybe that was just the sand. It was coarse, rough, and got everywhere. Mocker lived right under Ridge, in their starscraper, owner of an apartment as large as the domain of most civilisations that reached the second level on the Kardashev Scale. Last night, as the humans measured time...damn, but it felt slow. Last night, Mocker had jumped out of one of its windows, scrambled up the side of the starscraper, and started making a racket. In-between bouts of cackling, it had hammered on the roof with its feet and fists, like it was performing the world''s most insufferable tribal dance. Ridge had stared up at one of its living rooms'' ceilings, unamused, after some time. It would have heard Mocker no matter where in the Collective it would have started monkeying around, but the fact it was doing it right on top of its head meant Ridge essentially heard twice. The smug little by-blow had worn its Warscale, too, else how could it have shaken a building nearly ten billion times heavier than the Milky Way? And while the Collective could draw energy from practically everywhere - celestial bodies, by matter converted into energy, from the Archetype that represented said concept in the Outer Void - the fact Mocker had increased its Warscale''s power merely to be louder...limitless power generation did not mean there was no such thing as waste! As Ridge had told Mocker, among other things. "If you don''t stop banging on the roof, I''ll throw you off the building!" Ridge had snapped at one point. "And you know what''ll happen then?" "I''ll faaaaalll?" Mocker had drawled, to the laughter of octillions of Zhayvin, the imbeciles. "This horseplay is pointless! You know-'' ''Ridge, Ridge,'' Mocker had interrupted, voice almost soothing. "I know you''re a leathery old gruff and all the werelizards want me, but calm down and listen: you know why I am celebrating, so it''s your outrage that is pointless. You should be joining me!'' "Absolutely not!'' Ridge had protested. But the Shaper had joined in, eventually, acting as the voice of reason. The Collective had rarely been safer, and never more powerful. The macrocosm, as a whole, had been set on a brighter path, with the threat of omnicide at the whims of a dreaming First Principle no longer possible. It was, the Shaper had thought, a good enough reason to be festive. ''But it can do it in its home!'' Ridge had replied, gesturing in Mocker''s direction. ''Quietly!'' ''But then, you wouldn''t be apoplectic,'' Mocker had sniggered. Ugh. As Ridge dug its claws into the orange sand and tried to stand up, it imagined the ground was Mocker''s throat. As it looked around, however, and tried to look down at itself, Ridge realised it had much worse things to worry about than annoying neighbours. For one, the desert it was in looked exactly like one it had often visited on Zhay, many billions of years ago. When it had walked on all fours, as it did now, in fact. Its body was wrong; it was the one with which it had been hatched, before the genemills, the looms and the splicing. It resembled nothing more than a Terran Komodo Dragon, except bigger than most horses and covered in emerald scales the size of a human eye. Its machines, its cybernetic and genetic enhancements, they were all gone. Getting to its feet and making a few steps made Ridge realise all of its old traits were back. He began walking forward, then sat down on his haunches, running its paws over its body. Whoever had done this would pay. Had the Shaper, somehow hiding their thoughts from him, modified him? Uploaded his mind into another body and placed him in this simulacra? But why? And doing so without it knowing, much less consenting... No. That was not the Shaper he had known. Perhaps he had agreed to some experiment, with memory erasure a part of the procedure? But that sounded dubious too, and... Ridge froze. Craning his neck up, a rather awkward motion given the unfamiliarity with his new, old physique, he saw another memory. This old nightmare, like everything else, seemed very much real, but Ridge was not about to dismiss it as an illusion and get torn apart. He didn''t trust his senses. Digging rapidly into the sand, Ridge covered himself and, holding his breath, began slowly, slowly digging his way down. He could still feel its gaze on his back, somehow, for all he was hidden and it eyeless. It would have seemed out of place even to someone with no knowledge of Zhay''s biosphere. The ghoulish thing might have resembled a cloud, but it was the only one in the crimson sky, like a maggot wriggling in a pool of blood. Here, the glare of Zhay''s three suns only allowed clouds to form rarely, and briefly. Among the Zhayvi and their descendants, such creature had been called the End From Above, though few had ever referred to it by that name, rather than that of the Flying Death. It was no animal or plant, no fungus. Its composition, which it could alter at will, was that of an ordinary cloud, except it was sentient. Sapient, even, some Zhayvi had argued, even while debating whether it was an aberrant or not. The detractors of that theory had mostly insisted the Deaths hadn''t been native to Zhay. The world where the reptilians had defined science. This planet, mundane yet filled with life, the standard by which the rest of the cosmos was judged, and classified in terms of natural or aberrant. Their opponents had simply said they didn''t want to admit that, maybe, there was no such thing as aberrancy. Flying Deaths could take whatever shape they wanted, fill the sky from horizon to horizon or bombard its prey with lightning, hail and snow. But, while such a living weather hazard would have been dangerous enough, especially in flocks, it had been the Flying Death''s method of reproduction that had appalled the Zhayvi, making them hunt the creatures to extinction. Perhaps, had they not been pushed to dabble with weather machines, and thus with the atmosphere itself, the Zhayvi would have never looked at the stars, wondering if there was anyone out there. What might have been didn''t matter. Ridge might, at any time, come face to face with one of the things he''d despised about his homeworld, and he wasn''t eager to relive the experience. Not with no Shaper around to put him back together. A Flying Death took a day to reproduce. First, sent a sliver of its body away, which dispersed across the air, undetectable, then entered a living being''s airways. Lung diseases seemingly followed, as said organs filled with water and wheezed, in excruciating pain. The mindless sliver eventually developed a consciousness, draining the heat of the host''s body for power, causing colds. When the victim was half to death, bodily fluids followed, until the larval Flying Death burst out of the husk, ready to hunt and spawn new creatures. Entire species had thus been wiped out by the parasitic predators. Nests and tribes of Zhayvin, in their thousands and millions, had been slaughtered, choking, freezing and dying to death, over the course of an hour - for a Flying Death could divide itself many times. As long as even a molecule of its body remained, it could heal, drawing on the environment. The Flying Death could sense him, Ridge knew. His bioelectricity. He could only hope it would decide he was too much of a hassle to reach, and look for easier prey. He was not, so it did not. And so, Ridge died, eaten from the inside out, torn apart by a monster''s spawn. Or, at least, that was what he''d expected would happen. No Zhayvi had survived a Flying Death''s attack in such conditions. But he did, in a way, thoughts not stopping, even after his brain did. He, Ridge deduced, must have still been alive, or at least aware, in some form, despite the fact he could see his desiccated body kilometres below. He was at cloud level, he calculated quickly, then dryly noted that the Flying Death approaching without looking like it was flying low was evidence enough of that. Death had a way of clearing the mind as it approached. He supposed it was not so strange for said clarity to persist, even in this strange state. His field of view was the same. His sense of proprioception, though stunted, let him know he retained the shape of his birth body, even if he could not see himself, and could only faintly feel his own movements. Was this undeath? Ridge knew reptilians possessed the aberrant energy known to most overworlders as a soul. Even if the Shaper preferred to remove it and reanimate bodies through yoctomachines where possible. Zhayvin dropping dead upon losing their souls was not only a risk, it was a stupid death, in the way only aberrancy could make something look absurd. No damage, consciousness intact, and yet...poof. A life cut short, just like that. Ridiculous. Though he could move faster than he had been able to while alive, Ridge failed to escape the Flying Death, which surrounded him and began tossing him around. Its insides, if they could be called that, tore at his incorporeal form like flensing knives, even though the creature looked like a cloud. Ridge thought he was bleeding, but that made no sense. Probably post-mortem trauma...pah. As if that made sense. After the manhandling came lightning that burned and blinded, and thunder that deafened, and hailstones, and snowflakes that carved into Ridge like cold blades. This went on for what felt like forever, but could not have been. Flying Deaths could not manipulate time any more than he could. Just the pain talking. Just the pain. Ridge allowed himself to sneer through shredded, bleeding lips. Pain, he could handle. It was an old enemy, one which he''d become intimately acquainted with in his days of generalship, before collectivisation had made ranks redundant. If this stupid monster could only smack him around, it was wasting its time. He didn''t think he could die again, and this crude attempt at torture was not going to make him despair. As if sensing his disdain, the Flying Death grew more aggressive. It filled Ridge with slivers of its body, then spiked him into the ground, so its soawn could tear his broken spirit apart, only for it to reform, flying out to fill the crater...he was in... Ridge looked sharply around himself. Souls, if that was what he was, were unable to interact with the material world like this. He should''ve been sent flying through Zhay, not...hm. Was he going mad? He didn''t think he was, but then, did anyone? Was the torment taking its toll, or was the creature trying to break him so he wouldn''t notice such incongruences? But it was too late. He should have been d- Ridge snapped his jaws, trying to hurt the Flying Death as it snatched him up and accomplishing nothing. So, they were back to square one. Might as well see how long this hallucination, or whatever it was, went. It felt like days - what would have been months on Terra - before Ridge thought he started hearing voices. Then, thanks to the voice''s insistence, he began to humour the idea that, maybe, the Flying Death was speaking to him. That was even harder to swallow than the crater he shouldn''t have made. If this was some artificial hell, meant to torture his Zhayvin mind through absurdity...well. He''d have to admit it was creative, at least. Any logical being would have been gnashing their teeth at this ridiculous world. Ridge decided that he was either seeing this, or being made to. The only third option that came to mind involved time travel and Flying Deaths that could touch souls, which, while by no means impossible...seemed very, very improbable. There were enough insane beings, and not just aberrants, who''d have devised such an illogical realm to hurt him, but he struggled to think of any who could also pierce or bypass the Collective''s defences. Better hear the creature out. Not that he particularly valued its opinion, but he hardly had anything better to do. Had Flying Deaths always been able to communicate, but chosen not to? It was...intriguing. The scientist in him would have probably appreciated the whole thing better if he hadn''t been involved. Still, he would do his best to remain clinical and rational. Either this was all in his head, or he would being something new to the Collective. He''d either find his way back, or they''d find him. He had to believe that. But belief is conviction without evidence, said a treacherous, sibilant voice. Not the monster''s; while it could speak into his mind, it didn''t sound like this. It sounded, and felt, like nails on his flayed back. The shallowest of hypotheses, the voice continued. You might as well start praying. Yes, definitely his own voice. Few but the Zhayvin radiated such contempt for so-called deities and the cultish behaviour they encouraged. Pessimism is not going to help me. Low morale is detrimental to progress, Ridge argued back, knowing he was just trying to convince himself. He had to remain optimistic, despite the odds. It was easy to be hopeful when all was going well. The Flying Death... "Do you understand now?" it asked, voice surprisingly civil, despite its menacing tone. They could have been talking about the...tsk. Weather. "Do you...no." Ridge had the impression of the thing rearing up, to better stare down at him. "You do not even know why I am doing this, are you?" Ridge didn''t answer. He could already tell the Flying Death was one of those people in love with their own voice. If it didn''t end up telling him the secrets of the universe, he''d eat his damned tail. "I am a monument to all your sins, Zhayvin," It continued in what Ridge guessed had been meant as an ominous tone. The thing, however, sounded too overtly evil for him to take it seriously. He was already dead, after all. Maybe, if it could control his mind... ''I am Justice.'' At that, Ridge looked up, wondering if it could see his flat expression. ''Justice?'' he repeated, deadpan. ''What justice was there in anything you''ve done so far?'' ''Justice,'' it spat in response, ''for the crimes of the Zhayvin. For the atrocities of your shameless, heartless, verminous kind.'' Now he was sure he had gone mad. A Flying Death torturing him in the name of morality? No, this was the plot of a comedy. Beyond unexplainable. ''My kind,'' Ridge said affably. ''All of us? I was not aware species as a whole can be condemned for the actions of certain members.'' Mimicking curiosity, he cocked his head. ''Can they?'' ''All of you are bound!'' The Flying Death thundered, lightning lighting up its body so dramatically Ridge wondered if it had been intentional. ''Linked, mind with mind. All of you know what the forerunners of your ilk, yourself included, have done, yet you don''t bring them to justice.'' Ah. That was more articulate. Still, between the accusations and the accuser, Ridge could not help but feel like he was talking to a composite caricature of the Collective''s detractors. ''That is not how we do things. Whether we have redeemed ourselves or not, if we can ever atone for our warmongering, is a matter of perspective. But what you suggest will not happen.'' Turning his head down and away, Ridge spat, seeing the sand darkening. Immaterial...or was he? ''You might as well take the humans'' gods to task for their madness.'' ''Whataboutism,'' the Flying Death dismissed his words. ''Their time will come, too. How quick you are to change the subject, however, after admitting you are sinful.'' Ridge shook his head. ''That is not what I am doing. You wish to speak of the Zhayvin''s past? Fine. Nothing we did was truly justified, I admit freely. We made excuses at the time, but that does not make it right. And, for more than four billion years, we have been nothing but altruistic.'' As much as anyone in their position could be. ''Whether that makes up for everything else, I do not know.'' The Flying Death laughed. ''I''ll save you you some,'' it growled, sounding amused but irritated, ''and tell you it does not, Zhayvin. It does not.'' The false cloud split open, allowing scarlet sunlight to fill it. ''Did you think it would?'' Ridge might have shrugged - he did not truly understand this new form of his. ''Then that is that,'' he replied, defiantly staring up, wishing the creature had eyes he could meet, or at least a face. ''Trying to alter the past would only change the present for the worse. All our simulations agree.'' A more benevolent Zhayvin Technarchy might have done more good across the wider universe, but it could have never approached Earth without being rebuffed by its gods. And Earth...well. That little blue world was a fulcrum. As the Shaper had used to say: "Give me a world, and I''ll move the cosmos." The reptilians had only been allowed to settle because they''d posed no threat on arrival. Alter that, and... ''So you say,'' the Flying Death''s voice was acidic. ''If your puppeteer and its machines agree, they cannot be wrong, can they? After all, they are the peak if all that is natural. The epitome of science.'' Ridge sighed. ''Do you have a point?'' The pressure around him changed as the thing tightened its grip. ''All of you must suffer,'' it declared with the conviction of the insane, the fanatical. ''Nothing you will ever do can mend the tears left in your wake.'' It sounded almost placid, Ridge reflected as he was pushed out of the main mass, held by the tip of a tendril. Maybe it had reached that point beyond anger, where wrath turned cold. The cloud split again, but less dramatically than before. Just enough to create something like a jagged tear at the top, like a grin. ''You lived through your kind''s era of bloodshed,'' it said, voice thick with what sounded like satisfaction. ''You remember the pain. Not like those flesh dolls put together in labs. Truly remember.'' It pulled him closer, voice becoming almost conspiratorial. ''But you still took place in the exercises. Memories made reality through hardlight and shaped matter. True pain, old yet new.'' As its grip tightened further, making blackness begin filling Ridge''s vision, the Flying Death''s voice rose and rose, yet, at the same time, it felt deeper, somehow, as if he felt it in his bones rather than heard it. ''Let us see you live through that again,'' it sneered, like Ridge had earlier, ''far from your place of power.'' * * * Reliving historical events and the lives of their forebears was a matter of course for the Reptilian Collective. How else could they hope to understand their predecessors than by looking backwards in time, sharing their pains and pleasures? The Zhayvin had always stared inward deeper than most species and civilisations. Many of their technologies had been invented to broaden, deepen and sharpen that sight, only to be gleefully turned into weapons by the Technarchy, or regretfully turned to such purposes by the Collective. The reptilians had often been told they were unhealthily close to their thoughts, and those of their fellows. Recently, they had most often heard this from humans. It cut both ways. In the reptilians'' opinion, humans were, all too often, an isolated people, living apart from their kindred in a way that sometimes led to loneliness and melancholy. Ridge himself had often asked how could anyone live without sharing everything with their species. What did they have to hide? Only those who did not belong in a society had anything to hide from it. Instincts, impulses? Those were not shameful. Merely reflexive. Much like the way Ridge''s jaws clenched whenever he glanced at the Flying Death, or vice versa. The reptilian knew that was useless, just like how clamping his paws over his snout, as his forelimbs itched to, would have been. That last thought tried to lodge itself into Ridge''s thoughts. Why would that have been useless? Was he not dead, and in some aberrant state of being as a result? What need did he have to breathe? Why...? But it was borne away as the pain flooded in. It felt like an old scar being torn open by white-hot claws, and Ridge screamed despite himself. His bellows was a low sound, which would have been felt more than heard by any observer, interrupted by horking coughs. It was like the reenactments, but worse, in some way Ridge could not place, and- There was a hiss, followed by a crack. Not like the energy weapons used by less advanced species might have made. More like a bone being boiled, and...ah. Ridge tried to press himself into the cold ground beneath him, as macabre as the idea of becoming one with it should have felt. As if sensing his thought, the soil became as hot as his insides, to the point he struggled to tell where he ended and the world around him began. Bah. He might have appreciated the philosophical exercise if it hadn''t reminded him of becoming one with the ground, not that said mental image had been comfortable in the first place. Had that been detected, too? Was that another power of the Flying Death, hitherto unseen and unheard of? In the past, he had...hadn''t... The...past... Ridge tried to gather his wits, pressing his forepaws against his head, in the hopes the outside pressure would at least distract him from the blaze scorching his insides. Funny. Usually, his attempts to hurt himself were more fruitful. Despite any impression they might have given, the reptilians held a certain disdain for pure theory. Simulations alone, the Shaper often said, were not enough. Seeing something from outside, without feeling anything of the events taking place, was more likely to inspire detachment than understanding. Not caring enough, like caring too much, was useless. Balance, balance, balance. ''Pure theory is useless,'' the Shaper had said once. ''Until you do something with it, or at least unless you can do something with it...it can do nothing but fill your mind.'' The Collective''s First Scientist had said the last part with something almost like tiredness. "Fill your mind..." it had said it like knowledge was a burden until applied.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Ridge was sure there was something to be learned there, but remembering this was all he could do while writhing like a worm on a hook. ''But is learning, and thus knowing, not an admirable endeavour?'' a reptilian had asked. The Shaper''s avatar had inclined its head. ''To a degree. It is better to be informed than ignorant, of course, and learning is a pleasure, but learning for its own sake is pointless.'' Its eyes had been sad as it had swept them across a small crowd. ''We do not live in a macrocosm kind enough to let us pursue knowledge and nothing more, our friends. If we desire a world where we can do that, we must build it ourselves.'' And yet, for the first time in a life longer than some stars had existed for, Ridge wished to know no more. To shut out the agony coursing through every fibre and cell of his new, old body, at least until he could concentrate and find a solution to...to... Well. It was a problem, wasn''t it? This torment. Ridge remembered it, as the pain grew. The Zhayvin had ever been inclined towards remembering their failures before their accomplishments, so how could Ridge have forgotten his first defeat? When he had gone through the simulation of his first meeting with the Shaper, Ridge had felt the bitterness of a memory he''d have rather forgotten more than anything else. He knew how it had happened, the pain had been familiar, so there had been nothing to do but grit his fangs and get it over with. But now...this felt more like the moment itself, not a reenactment by means of artifice. And yet, it couldn''t have been natural. He couldn''t have really been sent to the past. No one could have taken him from the Collective, so what- The Shaper''s forepaw pressed Ridge''s cracked head into the bloodied sand, his namesake splintered as it added to the desert heat by oozing vitae. The defeated warlord tried to glare up at the victor with his remaining eye, but it was swollen shut, and covered in gore besides. Still, defiance was better than nothing. Resignment would serve no purpose beyond embittering him. ''Do not bother, my friend,'' the female Technarch said. ''I''ve always known you look up to me.'' Ridge tried to spit out something biting, but only managed some splintered fangs, covered in bloody sand. The Shaper tightened her grip on his scruff, before lifting him and slamming his face into his attempted insult. ''A strange away to celebrate, to be sure,'' the Shaper continued, as if nothing had happened. ''But who am I to quash uniqueness?'' she asked sarcastically. ''Everyone has their own way to show joy, and you should be joyous, Ridge. With your defeat, the Selfish Tendency will die out.'' The Individualists, Ridge knew, were more vulnerable to such strategies than they would have liked to admit. The Zhayvin warlords who fought and conquered for themselves had nothing that resembled an alliance, of course, much less a leader, but Ridge had always been viewed with a sort of grudging, jealous respect by his peers. Part of it had been his sheer success. Ridge sought out worlds he could zhayform into shapes resembling that of his birth planet, and asteroid belts or other great clumps of raw matter to reshape when he could not find those. And, as much as the other Technarchs liked to sneer at him for avoiding populated planets, they knew Ridge was neither cowardly nor stupid. He simply preferred getting results with the least effort possible. Ridge''s domination of the moutainous area that had contributed to his name as much as the ridges on his body was proof that he did not shy from bloodshed. The mountains were filled with predatory and parasitic beasts, not to mention small nests of grasping, desperate Zhayvin. Anyone who could hold them against all comers while using the fauna as training knew what they were doing. Ridge, he knew, was something of a first among equals when it came to the Individualists. Living proof of the fact the greatest Zhayvin did not have to band together to survive. The rise of the Shaper and her Collectivists, who espoused the opposite, had only fuelled that quiet admiration, for Ridge had repelled every attempt to dislodge him from his seat of power. Until now. Using technology cobbled together from the plundered treasures of a dozen strongholds'' vaults, the Shaper had ground his mountains to dust, and then the real fight had started. It had ended almost as quickly as it had begun. Easing on the pleasure, the Shaper almost withdrew her paw from Ridge''s cracked skull. ''So brooding. You do remember why we fight, don''t you?'' The Shaper looked down with a condescending smile, which grew wider and sharper when she received no answer. ''This cannot go on, old lizard. You should be thanking me.'' As she launched into another of those speeches Ridge had had the displeasure to hear in recordings and propaganda vids, he tried to put his thoughts in order, so he could think of the future. ''...been spreading through space for billions of greater cycles, and for what? Oh, we take what we want, to be sure, but why do we want so little? Why should we?'' The Shaper tapped her head, as well as Ridge''s, at the same time. ''Think, Ridge! There is strength in numbers, and only with strength can one build anything of worth in this cosmos. Without strength, you cannot do anything but be crushed. Life on Zhay has proven that amply enough.'' Sneering at something Ridge could not see, the Shaper withdrew her paw. ''Everyone is carving out petty fiefdoms while headquartered on our homeworld. We fight foul little civil wars on Zhay instead of presenting an unified front to the universe, and we are the ones who suffer, mark my words.'' The one they already called First Technarch continued speaking in an amused, softer voice. ''I do not speak only because I dislike silence, you know. Already, I can see my truths are spreading among the masses, even if they misunderstand them half the time. Why, I was at a war council the other cycle, and one of my generals spouted some of the funniest nonsense I''ve heard in a while. Want to know what she gibbered?'' ''What?'' Ridge wheezed, trying to rise to all fours. He figured he''d be told anyway, before he was killed or enslaved, so he might as well play along. Maybe if the worm spawn was amused, she''d kill him quickly or lobotomise him. ''She said the Arkhitects - void knows there have never been greater genetic engineers, but they were no authority even before they cut off ties with the macrocosm - created entire species to stand against the Sun That Shackles. They forged the Sunlit Pact. How can we do anything less than unite all beings under the stars against the Golden Tyrant?'' As the pathos left her voice, the Shaper burst into a hissing laugh. Shaking his head, Ridge tried not to lash out at her. It would have been pointless at best, deadly at worst. When the aberrant that called itself Solarex had entered the universe, shortly after its formation, the Arkhitects - beings older than some galaxies, named for their desire to build things that could protect life - had armed themselves against him. They had made beings that could harness the power of stars, of anything that had and would ever causebpain, pleasure and death, who had themselves wrought devices to make every dream of nightmare reality. But when Solarex and his menagerie of a court had found themselves faced with the Arkhitects, the Sunlit, the Agonised, the Grateful, the Deathly...they had not wanted a fight. They had opted to stay in deep, empty space rather than interrupt their pleasures facing armies of peers. The Arkhitects, guilty and loathing themselves for the torment that had gone into the Deathly''s creation, had got the early species to sign a Pact, swear they would rally together when the false god came to crush their cultures and take everything they had and were. Then, the great shapers of life had become hermits, doubtlessly watching and waiting for Solarex''s return somewhere. And while the Sunlit Pact''s signatories had tried to at least pay lip service to the agreement, they had known Solarex could be appeased rather than fought. Let him pick at a few lesser species, who were conveniently unaware of the Sunlit Pact, and he would busy himself with his living toys. No one would have to shed blood, or an equivalent. The Zhayvin had signed too, of course knowing there was nothing preventing them from attacking fellow signatories. The Arkhitects had known conflict was natural in life, Solarex''s perverse tendencies, which ended much and gave lottle in return, aside. And King Sun had not lifted a finger against anyone worth a damn in eons. As such, Ridge could understand why the opinion of the Shaper''s general had come across as absurd. ''Does...'' Ridge rasped as he finished healing. ''Does she think you want to unite us so we can stand against Solarex?'' ''I know, right? It is practical enough. The more united we are, the better we can fend off that preening deviant, even a hatchling could tell you. But she thinks this is the ideal we fight for. Defenders of the universe against Solarex?'' The Shaper scoffed. They talked until dusk. The Shaper had attacked at dawn and won at noon, and Ridge had been brought to her camo halfway through the discussion. Her plans were simple, as were her aims. In her own words, the Shaper disliked strategies with too many moving parts. Something that could go wrong was bad enough without multiple ways to do so. The Zhayvin had set out in the name of conquest and resources, marked by life on a world where no one could achieve anything without power. Ideals were fine and all, but unless they could be backed up and enforced by might, they were worth little. That had been what the reptilians had told their new subjects as they had brought them to their knees. That had been the one thing they''d shared. The reptilians had not worked together, for why should they share anything? It was this selfishness, in the Shaper''s eyes, that she had to abolish. And, soon, she would. Many individualist Technarchs had surrendered to her following Ridge''s defeat (what travelled faster than bad news?), either out of despair or caution. Others had shamelessly lied that they''d been on her side the whole time, but had waited until they could build forces worthy of fighting in her name. A few Technarchs, gone mad with paranoia or despair, had thrown themselves at the growing coalition of the Shaper, and had died when they hadn''t been forced into service. All the while, their offworld forces had watched, waiting to see who was a worthier leader. The Technarchs had made a point of ruling from home, so the colony governors and their enforcers had been left to deal with smaller tasks. ''See?'' the Shaper asked her inner circle - and Ridge, he supposed - as she gestured at the reports on the wall screen. ''No loyalty. But why would there be any when the little screen-clickers are left to run wild, as long as the ones holding their leashes get to gorge on their tithes? I am telling you, no real intergalactic civilisations'' leaders should have to fight only with their homeworld''s resources when assaulted. They could have only taken revenge if I hadn''t crushed them, but at least the lackeys will fall in line quickly.'' The Shaper huffed, turning the screen off and looking away to give a few former enemies an ironic look. ''Do we have to go through why the half-independent colony organisation doesn''t work, again? No one who tries that gets anywhere. Look what Grandia turned into because the Builders got greedy, or how well Xenobia is doing for not having colonies.'' There was much grimacing at the mention of the Alien Realm. Well was certainly...a word. ''And how about the Starwheel Coalition? Only one galaxy under their heel, so far but they''ve never allowed even their newest worlds such leeway. Not one planet has slipped from their tentacles. We could learn something from them...by which I mean, I will teach you.'' And teach she did. Without enemies to sabotage her projects, and scientists to assist her, the Shaper made scarcity a thing of the past, with age, illness and the need for sustenance soon followed. Of course, by that point, Zhay had been reduced to a scarred shell. The destruction of the homeworld had not been necessary: the planet could have been zhayformed back to a pristine state, but the Shaper had wanted to make a point. The Zhayvin were not sentimental. The Technarchy could remake worlds, but their home had been used and abused, drained of resources with more greed than care. The Shaper had stressed that this had been no mercy kill, no revenge against those who had despoiled Zhay. It had been a warning against incompetence and sloppiness. Draining planets of everything valuable was not the sort of behaviour she''d allow under her rule. Ridge let out a rattling sigh as campaign aftsr campaign passed once again, seeming to last an instant, yet stretching into eternity. The Shaper had placed him in charge of the Technarchy''s expansion fleets, following behind the explorators and building up or conquering worlds marked for being brought into the Technarchy''s fold. He did his work in silence, and found it good. Conquered every world between the orbit of lost Zhay and the worlds that clustered around Zhal and its beetle-like inhabitants, when the wars turned bad. And all that time, he became closet to the Shaper, even as the void separated them more and more with every campaign. Or so he''d thought. The Shaper maintained a harem, of course, as Technarchs were wont to do, no matter how they tried to frame the practice. She had males to fill her with their seed, so they could breed strong children, though the Shaper rarely opted for mating rather than artificial insemination or gene mixing. The First Technarch''s interest lay in her fellow females, though, a kind of coupling she had outlawed in the name of necessity. Everyone knew better than to care her companions lovers rather than handmaidens, and clandestine pairings were common enough. As long as they kept it subtle (lest the policy''s enforcement highlight its creatir''s hypocrisy) donated genetic material and contributed to the war effort, the Shaper was willing to turn a blind eye. But Ridge had hoped, against all hope, that he''d be the one to break the mould. Hope to the point of arrogance? Maybe. But he felt what he did. So, after the last defeat of the Zhayvin Technarchy - they''d all called it a victory, a great, terrible victory, but the truth was plain - he went to her. The Shaper had returned to her void palace and beaten her harem to death with her bare hands, putting the then-new genecraft to the test. Ridge had believed telling her he had grown to love her over the eons, despite himself, and that he''d always be there for her, whether she returned his feelings or not, would help. Perhaps, in a way, it did. The Shaper turned melancholy, yes, but her wits returned. ''Oh, general,'' she whispered. ''You are wasting time you should be spending with a female who can appreciate you. Not...'' ''I surround myself with enough pale reflections of you,'' he replied, ''to feel like a fool. I thought...I still believe you deserve to know.'' ''Yes, yes,'' the Shaper murmured, absentmindedly stroking her muzzle. Their civilisation was falling apart around them, and... ''They know where we are,'' she said suddenly, referring to the Vyzhaldi, and those strange bipeds that bent spacetime and fought in tribal confederations. ''They will come back, for we would do the same. Do not believe we can recover faster than they can, general. They''ll grow stronger, while we''ve sealed our worst monsters.'' Do you remember them, Zhayvin? The horrors you wrought, which could spawn more of theselves until the macrocosm entire teemed with them? It was the Flying Death''s voice, scraping the inside of Ridge''s brainpan. He temembered, yes...and wished he hadn''t. He''d always commanded the replicating forces from a distance, and now, the despair their enemies had felt flooded his thoughts. He remembered the Spined, like sentient spinal columns crawling on bladelike spikes. The substances they spread transcended species, drawing possible hosts, and that had nearly got them hunted to extinction. The Spined had never been evil, though. Without a host, they could not feel or think about anything but emptiness and a need to belong. They had never been parasitic, either: the Spined, once latched onto a being''s back or equivalent, enhanced their abilities by an order of magnitude, while removing weaknesses and things like pain or the need for sustenance. And sharing the host''s mind, of course. But they did not take ir weaken anything, and could be persuaded to remove themselves. Then the Zhayvin had found them, and overclocked their attraction ability, turning it into a compulsion: perceived in any way, through natural senses, remotely, in real time, through recordings, the Spined would bring beings without mental protections to them. Once hosted, a touch upon their shared body, as simple as a poke on the arm, would create an identical replica of the Spined, an extension of their mind as much as a reflection of their power. The biological ancestor of Warscale. Hosted Spined could not attract other beings, but their compulsion could freeze most in their tracks. Ridge shuddered as he felt himself crushed and torn apart by creatures he - they - wanted nothing more than to become one with. After the Vyzhaldi War, the Spined had been removed and placed on their homeworld, lonely and bereft. It had been part of a disarmament program encouraged by the Shaper. Not everyone had obeyed, especially when they''d learned she wanted to stop waging war and find a new world, forge a new future. She had led them to ruin, and now she wanted them to turn their swords into ploughshares? Free their slave species? Even the reassurances that it was better to let such beings go their own way than risk their enmity hadn''t deterred some who still called themselves Technarchs. The Spined had been the first, but far from the last. The Qhamandi had been slated for assimilation since first contact. The towering, scaled creatures resembled quadrupedal mountains that could curl into balls, and everything that came into contact with them, or a part of their body, was converted into energy, with no damage to their surroundings. The Zhayvin had built a species just to properly harness the enslaved Qhamandi. The Green Growth was amorphous, a collection of hyperdense regenerators, with the mass of hypergiant stars compressed into bodies the size of a fly''s eyes. Upon contact with a Qathmandi, tremendous power could be obtained, especially since the Growth grew more numerous with every self-replicating generation. Ridge shuddered, not even knowing where he was anymore, as he felt himself filled with Green Growth, moulded by gravitic fields so they would only burst through his body due to numbers. The Zhayvin had done this to defiant prisoners, and their half-dead bodies had then been fed to the Qathmandi. Ridge felt he should have let out a bloodcurling shriek as he felt the matter making him up change at the most fundamental level, but his jaws felt locked. And he''s always so enjoyed doing this to others...he''d hated it when they didn''t scream, he rembered. Frigid void, how glad he was he''d changed...for the...bette- Coldness suddenly speared Ridge, and he managed a choked gasp at the change of temperature. What...what now? More...monsters? More. The Zhayvin had made and remade countless abominations to use as war beasts. A black sun rose in an empty sky - the Black Sun. Shining with impossible light, orbited by its Cold Worlds and their Mad Moons. Invulnerable, the idea of the immovable object made reality by the cold sciences of the Zhayvin. They could appear almost anywhere and anywhen they wished, save for a handful of warded strongholds. Anti-teleportation defences were useless, for the Bleak System did not cheat distance. It simply moved, with no care for it or time. Anyone and anything that perceived a component of the Bleak System, or heard or read a description of it, saw a painting or depiction, had their line of sight filled with identical clones of themselves, constructs of the living celestial bodies, their hands and eyes in the world. A human would have found themselves surrounded by a horizon-spanning army by glancing at a Mad Moon, but against aliens or machines with sharper senses, forces that could have toppled empires could be born from a look. The Zhayvin had used this to great effect to replenish themselves, and, at the end of their wars, had sealed the willing Bleak System in an unbreakable sphere. Nothing could leave or enter, look in or out, and the Zhayvin counted themselves lucky that the System had turned contemplative. As he briefly found himself surrounded by a sea of scowling faces - his own - Ridge understood why the Black Sun rising in a cloudless sky had heralded doom on so many worlds. And then...then, the Grand Harvest. How fitting, to come at the end (he dared to hope) of this nightmare, when he was too tired to hate and rage and contemplate fear anymore. It had always made for a great weapon of terror. To Ridge, it appeared as an amalgam of spinning blades and creatures like winged lampreys, the pests that had plagued the prehistoric Zhayvin''s attempts to raise something from the sands of their world. What passed for its face was dominated by a gaping maw, filled with rows of fangs, that overshadowed its eyes, even if they were larger than any star and brighter than any hypernova. At its side, as always, was the thing that called itself Argent Walker, the Herald of Hunger. Argent could develop whatever powers and prowess he needed to pave the way for the Harvest, soften the targets it chose. The Zhayvin hadn''t known what the Grand Harvest was when they''d found it, and recently learning the truth had brought them no joy. They''d had their theories, yes, everything from a runaway war machine to a Gardener gone mad, eating its errant children, but the Harvest had warned them not to pry. Even so, they''d managed to forge an alliance. A flimsy one, relying on the reptilians being able to point out interesting potential meals for the Harvest, but at least it had fought alongside them. So had its Harvested. The reptilians had craved weapons that could spell their enemies defeat just by being observed, and, with their help, the Harvest had broadened the scope of its powers. Recreating what it consumed had been expanded into an ability that could hardly be stalemated by most. Like the Bleak System, those who perceived the Grand Harvested started being assaulted by replicas of themselves. First one, then two, four, never stopping, always increasing, doubling every unit of time the observers could perceive. In ten seconds, a human would have been surrounded by five hundred and twelve clones, but destroying those would have done nothing. The process was automatic. As long as the observer alive, the number of clones would double every moment, until they either killed themselves or died to their mirrors under the Harvest''s control. It was automatic, and like the power of every multiplying monster the Zhayvin had employed, worked on everything from nanomachines to space fleets. The Grand Harvest had split off from the reptilians without much fuss. It had only ever been a mercenary, despite their conviction they could make it follow them. At least it had taken their clones with it, and recalled all subsequent ones to it since then, moving them through creation through will alone. Ridge twitched and shuddered as he felt himself cut open by the Harvest''s blades, even as its myriad mouths devoured him from the inside. He understood now. The Flying Death wanted him to break, to give in, so it could do whatever it truly wanted to. It expected him to be crushed under the weight of past atrocities, and he was sure he would be made to relive them if he persisted in...in... Rudge didn''t know what he was resisting for, except the eternal reasons. He was Zhayvin. It was his purpose to bear the torch of enlightenment into the darkness of ignorance, dispersing shadows such as this creature''s sadism. If that was why it was torturing him. He somehow doubted this had anything to do with justice, if only because Flying Deaths did not work that way. Almost certainly, it was some aberrant, bearing the guise of a monster of yore, for the sake of cruelty. He would not surrender to that. He could not. That was not who he was. He had to forge on, for... ''You don''t even remember, do you?'' the Flying Death sneered, snatching him up in a cold tendril. The charred, mangled ruin that had become of Ridge''s body wanted to fall apart in its cold grasps, but the Flying Death kept that at bay, by some means. ''You don''t know what you fight for, and how could you? Faithless!'' Even as the monster tore at him, roaring invective, Ridge tried to look inward. He had only a hypothesis, but what scientist would he be if he didn''t have the force if will to test it? And even if he failed...well. Not like it would make this any worse. He, Ridge believed, had focused too much on the present, this recreation of a past steeped in blood. He had forgotten to remember what mattered. And so, as his body crumbled into ruin, Ridge of the Reptilian Collective closed his eyes, and began something like a prayer. This was, he believed, something of a milestone in Zhayvin history. Religion had never agreed with them, but one did not need to worship in order to have faith. ''Shaper,'' he rasped through bubbling, melting lips. As if trying to compensate for the Flying Death''s freezing grip, his body had overheated to an impossible degree, and was now smoking. ''If you can hear this...I have always loved you. Not just the form of flesh I met. The shining intellect whose foundation and core that became. The civilisation we''ve built together, for the sake of knowledge, and the ones we''ve nurtured on Earth.'' He gulped, blood steaming in his gaping throat. ''I only wish I had been able to help more, before this death. I do not know how I came to be like this, but I hope...'' No. ''I know you will remember me as I was.'' With a contemptuous sound, the Flying Death tightened its tendril, and Ridge died once again. And, in the heart of the Reptilian Collective, Ridge opened its eyes, as the memories of a being who had never been it, but had always believed it was, joined its own. The reptilian stood up, Warscale colourless as it rose in the middle of a bare room. Ridge''s starscraper floor was more spartan than those of most, and he had always rolled its eyes at those who claimed it was a hidebound old miser. As it strode forward, it felt the Shaper''s presence intensify at its side. It was one with the Zhayvin as they were one with it, which was how Ridge could feel everyone else in the Collective gearing up as it had. But ever since they''d delved into the Realm Of Ideas that represented the deepest level of the macrocosm, the Shaper, and its Collective, had gained new powers. Mastery of technology in a sincerely conceptual manner, for one. The Shaper''s avatar appeared, a metre-tall, light green reptilian crouching atop the shoulders of the Unscarred Prime. When it spoke, every reptilian heard it in the core of its being, but they knew it wasn''t addressing them. Just the way its eyes were trained on the outside, beyond the Collective''s borders, was indication enough. Of course, given the limits of physicality, one would normally have been unable to tell the Shaper was looking beyond its realm, rather than, for example, a point on one of Ridge''s walls. And beyond those walls - not of the building; of the realm it embodied in a purer manner than some of its inhabitants might have believed, beyond the walls of the Collective, outside the sphere of craft and knowledge the Zhayvin had laboured to create and defend, the creature that had taunted the false Ridge lurked. It was circling, as its ilk were wont to do. Like an animal beyond the circle of light cast by a bonfire, or an invader outside a city''s walls. It had shed the shape of the Zhayvi''s skyborne bane, though it had never hid its spite. ''And in that,'' the Shaper murmured as the Collective mulled over its previous thought, ''is proof of its honesty. For what is there to it except spite?'' ''You have a hypothesis,'' Ridge said through the reptilians'' network. ''Oh, I think it has been all but proven,'' the First Scientist replied. ''Some time ago...not too long ago - but, ah, we are still attached to the perspective causal; sentimentality is hard to let go of, when it does not harm - we would have thought it some sort of unusually active metainformational entity, the sort that seem to inexplicably cluster around Earth and its inhabitants.'' It did not have to be said that the Shaper considered this the result of intelligent design rather than coincidence. The symbioses humans especially, entered with Archetypes were not something that could simply happen, in its mind. Perhaps the same force that had caused the formation of the anthropocentric quantum separation effect had ensured these cosmic union...almost as if in apology. ''But it''s not?'' Mocker inquired while its body kicked its legs. The Shaper shook its head, the Unscarred following. ''In scale and nature, it could pass for one of the most powerful ones, true enough. But we can see - yes, now we all see - the trail it left through the macrocosm as it came from outside. The residue surrounding its thought pattern is purer information than most things we have ever perceived.'' There was something like a rustling among the audience of the metaphorical forum that was the Collective''s communication network. ''You believe it comes from the Prime Cause''s realm of origin?'' Mocker asked, its joy closer to giddiness than anything sardonic for once. The nature of the macrocosm''s creator was still obscure to the reptilians, which, they supposed, was only fitting, but that did not mean their curious minds were less frustrated. Hence the various names of the being or force (but at that level, what was the difference?) being thrown around. The Shaper shrugged, hiding a smile. ''We do not see why not. Our scanners are still being improved, but everything points to a macrocosmic paradigm shift following David Silva''s plan to contact the Absolute.'' Then, more subdued, ''Several aberrants swear that the supreme entity once dreamed the macrocosm, distractedly treating it as a simulation when it turned in its metaphorical sleep. Now that the Absolute is awake, it supposedly has always been, and the macrocosm has never been a dream.'' Such shifts had no regard for beings to whom the concept of time was laughable. Timeless or not, everything had changed and always been thus now, memories from the previous iteration of everything still lingering, real but not anymore. The Shaper''s reserved manner now gave way to harshness. ''This might not be the first extra-macrocosmic intrusion - the hyper-entropic aberrant they call Nightraiser claims to destroy such disruptive creatures on a regular basis - but it is the first we have encountered.'' Its shoulders slumped. ''We had hoped for a better first contact.'' In the instant of silence that followed, Mocker decided to chime in, seeing everyone else was being awkward. ''That is not so, right? Our meetings with the Ischyros aberrant have always been fairly productive.'' The Shaper waved a dismissive claw. ''Ischyros has been part of the macrocosm since conception, and in any case, its purpose is closer to ours than not. It does not, for lack of a better term, feel foreign. This...does. Even leaving aside its goals.'' ''Which we will not.'' ''Quite, Ridge.'' With a determined expression, the Shaper turned to face the not-Sky Death with eyes that had first seen the cosmos on Zhay, but which had been shaped by the gentler light of Earth''s yellow sun. It saw, as the other reptilians did, a shadowy silhouette, rampaging beyond the Collective''s borders, only half-glimpsed, as its other half was void. It brought to mind images of horns and antlers, of claws and fangs and talons, of monstrous appendages, uneven and numberless. At times, it seemed like a hollow creature, like a skeleton that had pulled its flayed hide around itself. It was covered in something at once leathery and furred, feathered and scaled, chitinous and- ''It wants to break in,'' Ridge said gruffly, the way a human might have done at the sight of a fly trying to ram through a window. In truth, the flly would have had a far greater chance at shattering the glass than the would-be invader had to scratch the first level of the Collective''s infinitely-layered outer defences. Attacks that shook the macrocosm as a side effect, rending the substance of the Outer Void and leaving howling gaps, failed to crack the first screen, but the monster persisted, growing stronger, to no avail. It did not stop to consider that, ironically, it would have been easier to talk the reptilians into letting it in than attempt to break through a barrier that was meant to ward off anything. The idea of a forcefield did not care one whit whether an assault was mundane or aberrant in nature. Escalating merely goaded the shield to become tougher. The outer defences'' second layer was based on the Grand Harvest''s capabilities. Its false echo of the unliving weapon had not been activated, which was why the intruder hadn''t been drowned in doppelgangers, but the Shaper had half a mind of going ahead. In a way, it was thankful for this intrusion. The Collective''s metainformational abilities, the absolute forces at their command, could not yet be activated outside their artificial reality, no matter the specification. Clearly, the Atlanteans still had them beat when it came to harnessing Archetypes. But, thankfully, the monster had done them the favour of knocking on their door. ''Actually, it loathes the thought of being in our home even more than the idea of us,'' the Shaper corrected. ''Even briefly, to destroy it. We think you will understand shortly...'' ''Let me in,'' a voice snarled as the Shaper trailed off. Ridge might have not recognised it, for its growling tone was even deeper, somehow angrier, than the one it had used as one of the reptilian''s ancestral enemies. ''Open your gates, that I might stride through them and topple your walls from the inside.'' ''Who-'' Mocker sniggered. ''Who talks like that?'' Then, addressing the creature, it added, ''Are you begging? You should avoid gargling gravel before doing that in the future, it might make one think your are somewhat peeved.'' ''Does your court jester speak for you, construct queen?'' it asked the Shaper. ''Are you so cowardly you would cower inside your fortress rather than face me on the field of battle?'' At half of the Collective''s bemused silence, the Shaper said, ''We believe its characteristics are reactive - that is, it appears as whatever an observer considers primal, in the most monstrous way.'' ''That would explain the Flying Death,'' Ridge agreed gruffly. ''Because my replica had been wrought in the form of a Zhayvi. But what''s this patchwork savage banging on our windows supposed to be? Besides loud.'' The Shaper''s muzzle was split by an affectionate smile. ''We have grown attached to Earth enough that this world''s ideas of barbarism have become ours, as well. Does it not seem like the humans were carving their first spears yesterday?'' ''Your affection for mankind does not seem relevant here,'' Ridge said in a vice the Shaper knew the former general would have never admitted was jealous. ''I, for one, do not-'' ''Ah, but you do not perceive it alone, do you, our friend? We all do, and enough of us cleave close to the Terran idea of atavism.'' ''Just like voting,'' Ridge said, vaguely disgusted. ''I have to watch nonsense because the majority is tasteless.'' The Shaper laughed at that, making the Unscarred place a hand on Ridge''s pauldron. ''We are sure you will survive, somehow. Even this apoplectic aberrant, yes.'' Tilting Ridge''s armoured muzzle up with its other hand, the Unscarred made Ridge look up at the Shaper. ''It''s not going to reveal anything meaningful about itself or its motives, you know. Except by mistake. We would prefer to weather the storm, and if it somehow forces its way past the Infinity Sphere...we''ll burn that bridge when we get to it.'' Scoffing lightly, the Shaper let go. Ridge shook its head, a motion reminiscent of a dog clearing water from its ears, but less useful for clearing things up. The Shaper was affectionate towards most of its acquaintances. That was it. Nothing untoward. Besides, the Shaper''s feelings were as clear to Ridge as its own. There should have been no room for confusion. So, to brush it off, it asked, ''Indeed? You believe such a blustering aberrant could hide its motives indefinitely? That it could bear to do so?'' ''You''re judging a recording by the first frame,'' the Shaper replied. ''Look at it this way: it''s so angry, we''re almost surprised it can communicate at all.'' For a moment, so brief it could not be divided, the grin of the Shaper''s avatar resembled Mocker''s usual one. Ridge swore he''d find a way to delete that memory. ''If you ask it, if you let it scrabble at our walls and rage, it will tell you it is here to make us answer for our crimes, bring justice to the universe by making us suffer as we made others. But we all know it is not so.'' Ridge nodded curtly, directing its gaze at the monster outside. ''You lose,'' it began, eyes hardening as it glared. ''Does that worthless wager still amuse you? You were so sure my clone would fall apart without our technology! That he would crumble without our science to strengthen him...fool,'' Ridge hissed. ''Science is not a matter of gadgets and enhancements and implants. Those are baubles. The fruits of labour matter little compared to the thoughts that brought them forth.'' The Shaper''s smile widened, becoming more serene. Outside, the creature had retreated away from the Infinity Sphere''s first layer, and was now circling it. ''We would like to say that this will end soon, but how can it? It is, after all, a representation of the struggle that has plagued the macrocosm since its formation.'' And with that, the Shaper turned its attention to its fellows, and the Collective began communicating as only it could. The monster, the Shaper was almost sure, was some sort of metainformational entity or equivalent, likely an embodiment of all that was primal, aberrancy included. All that could be achieved without technology, but manifested in the most animalistic, most destructive way possible. What it forgot, of course, was that technology was the practical application of knowledge. Just because aberrants changed reality by means of their powrrs, that did not mean they did not use technology. Was the macrocosm itself not shaped by one''s perception of themselves and others? That, as the Shaper explained, as close to giddy as it could sound, meant existence was, in a way, the most complex machine ever, if not the most stable. ''A few centuries ago,'' the Shaper said roughly halfway through the lecture, ''some humans started thinking of their god as a watchmaker, and of all there was as a time piece. We cherish that analogy. Not the idea of godhood,'' it added, ''for such supremacy is abhorrent, poisonous. There should not be a monopoly on power. It...'' The reptilians understood. What the Shaper cherished was the idea of the macrocosm as an intricate machine. It was more elegant than if it had simply apleared out of nowhere, for did that not mean a mind, developed enough, could create a new macrocosm? The thorn in the First Scientist''s side was the idea of an omnipotent mechanic, because it was plain that their - if there were others to be found - macrocosm was not under the care of a kind, loving being. ''Consider,'' Mocker said, a hand splayed and extended, as if pleading with a hidebound audience. ''The Absolute might not be liable for its deeds during its "slumber", but it still ordained the macrocosm in such a way that an Archetype could cause its collapse through a chain reaction without a person fit to channel and guide it.'' David Silva''s crisis of faith had been a disastrous moment, but, as the reptilians had learned, not the first such event a Keeper of DEATH had almost caused. By using the Idea of Scanners, and, they suspected, with DEATH''s permission, they had glimpsed previous Keepers, and they had all failed in their own way: a bloodthirsty lunatic; a lecherous lout; a pacifist to the point of spinelessness. And, of course, they could hardly forget about how David had only been the second Keeper to want to destroy everyone and everything. The differences between him and his predecessor were that he no longer wanted to send all creation to oblivion, and that he had recovered from the damage done to him to prepare him for his role - unlike the being whose power of destruction had nothing to do with DEATH or the Unnamed Darkness, and who now languished in the depths of DEATH Keep''s Spiral Atrocious. The flimsy cosmological mechanics, the weaknesses in the structure of the macrocosm and the fixed points in its history...it was little wonder that many had seen the Mover''s Dream as a nightmare. And now that it was awake? It still insisted on certain events unfolding the way they had, when alternatives might have spared suffering, and gave no explanation. Perhaps history would have changed greatly if things had gone differently, but what did that matter to an all-powerful being? Why not make it so that everyone had always been as powerful, as wise and as happy as possible? Was suffering worth that much? Was so much virtue given meaning through struggle? The Mover hadn''t answered the questions in the reptilians'' thoughts. It hadn''t reached out to snuff out pain and despair. Unmoved, indeed. And that was why the Collective''s plan had to succeed. There could be no certainty, no true safety, with the macrocosm at the mercy of such a powerful being. It was aloof and best, sadistic at worst, and its aims incomprehensible. ''That''s all you managed to make him forget,'' Ridge told his replica''s murderer, devoting a shard of its consciousness to taunting. ''Well - that, and what the starscrapers stand for. He was so close to remembering, even with his new, stunted brain, so you drew his attention, and tried to break him until he forgot everything. Until the entirely of his being was a ragged, endless scream.'' Using its Warscale''s tachyon field emitter, Ridge paced the length of its flat, speed tripling every second. ''Ambition, to reach ever higher, and plenty, for everyone has as much as they could want. They are us, in microcosm. No one has ever toppled our towers, not like that pompous self-declared god did after it made humans unable to understand each other, so they''d never reach its abode. Such potential to bridge this cosmos and the Yahweh Cluster...unfinished, yet destroyed...'' Ridge trailed off, jaws clenching. ''And our ideals? It took brainwashing to remove knowledge of that - torture, again! You bet we''re nothing without our artifice? But you are nothing, in the end. What benefit have you brought the macrocosm, or any of its inhabitants? What have you achieved? And even in your clutches, that pale copy of me never gave in, never gave up. It just died. You couldn''t silence a faint echo after you failed to make it think like you, but you thought you could topple the Collective?'' By the end, Ridge was almost screaming. Ridiculous, it knew. Pointless. The monster''s hearing relied as much on sound as Ridge''s did on scent. It would hear no matter how the reptilian spoke. Ridge...was being sentimental, and that, in a way, meant playing into the creature''s hands. Admitting it had been rattled. ''We will bring about a new age, and you will have no place in it,'' Ridge resumed, calmer, almost cold. ''There will be nowhere left for your ilk to hide. Hurting others because you can and want to, like we did in our foolish youth. We will make you a thing of the past, and then you will be forgotten. And we will not do this by razing everything in front of us, but by lifting those behind us up.'' That was, Ridge would have said, more than a promise. A...premonition. Promises could be broken, but the Collective''s dream would become reality. Some looked at the surface and stopped there. They thought "aberrant" was a slur, or that the reptilians despised those who deviated from reality. That was untrue, and had always been. Yes, some Zhayvin might have been frustrated by how aberrants broke every law of existence they thought they had understood - there might have been some jealousy there, for the Zhayvin had always been powerless, paranormally-speaking, not that they had ever seen it that way. The Zhayvin were isolationists, yes. Partly because of their old pact with the pantheons, partly because of guilt over everything they had done. That most humans would not have accepted to live like them did not mean they shouldn''t allow more visitors. As for the aberrants? There was, at the heart of paranormal power, the seed of elitism. It could be inherited, it could be awakened or given, but it could not be shared the way inventions were. No human would ever be able to become a mage and a vampire and a were and...the aberrants suffered too, so many set on a single path, controlled by forces that were, in the end, part of them. And, of course, some aberrants congregated, like ethno-states in all but name, with more power than any nation in human, history, because they often had no alternative. Who could understand them and provide for them best but their own kind? And aberrants were unique. They were more than the humans they measured themselves again, more than the mundanes, the worldly - and less, in some aspects. The way they had quietly made their way into power had been inevitable. Even if only mundanes governed openly, it would not change the fact any decently powerful para could end them in moments the instant they disagreed with a policy. Then there were those who sneered down at the powerless for not being born special, and at the Collective for relying on engineering - biological, mechanical, spatiotemporal, abstract - to bridge the gap between themselves and those who had entered the world with the power to mend or scar it. The reptilians knew they could change that, in time. Their quantum entanglement was proof. By binding the information that made up their smalles components, and the metainformation behind and above that, to that of aberrants, they could gain their abilities. These quanta could be chained, so that any member of the Collective could gain any or all aberrant abilities. Provided retaliation did not occur. And more devices were in the works. Ideal Scanners that could analyse the macrocosm and its components on a metainformation level, and convert anything into them after being connected to Ideal Forges. Turn a clump of dust into Ischyros, or... The Unscarred, as it often had been, would be a testbed for a new way to tap into power. If the Shaper was right, the Idea of the Unscarred would be invulnerable, able to be anywhere, and thus everywhere...if only such technologies and techniques worked beyond the Collective''s realm. But there was time. Eventually, they would achieve their dream, and everyone would have everything. All the power, shared freely. There would still be conflict, for insanity was a hardy thing, and evil even more so, but the Collective would never stop seeking to remove scarcity. Not that of resources, for that was a paltry thing, with their technology. The dearth of happiness, of safety, of love and respect between all beings who grew and dreamed and struggled. Ridge turned away. Its contempt of the nameless creature might have been warranted, but it was an ugly thing. There was place for more, for better, in his mind. So, instead of continuing to bandy words with the monster, Ridge sat down, and sunk into its memories. This time, it was of its own choice. * * * Error. Error. Errors, everywhere. Every damned machine in this ramshackle ship is blaring about errors, Ridge swears, but that''s only to be expected. The former Technarch is half sure the whole shot in the dark was an attempt at martyrdom of the Shaper. They released all their slaves, cut off ties with their allies, and then, assembling the little working tech they still had, they returned to one of their few remaining worlds, creating an unstable wormhole, and sailing a starship through it, so it would take them where it may. Rdige executed all of the few Technarchy Wars veterans who had disagreed with the plan. He''s never killed so many Zhayvin in one day. He knows the Shaper is half-mad, and mad with grief besides. Grief, for her people, guilt, over her conquests, mixing with doubt. If they die, they died. If not, they''ll build a new, better life. Surely. Ridge is not sure where this squeamishness has come from - sheer bloodshed has never made her recoil - but he does not care. She is the mistress of his life, the goddess he has worshipped in everything but name. If he does not obey her, who will? They find a young planet. Still burning and quaking in the throes of its birth, and no satellites. Already, the presence of aberrants can be detected on it, even by the ship''s defective instruments. There are other aliens here, too, and across the rest of this star system. The Shaper looks up from her command throne, and a bloody smile graces her visage. Yes. They will make a new home here. A new world, for a new life. There are changes to be made, of course, agreements with the local powers to be drafted. The Zhayvin must be remade, too, weaknesses and distractions removed. Sexual traits, mutations, overly strong emotions and wants, they must be discarded, so that the Zhayvin might look upon their new world with pure eyes. The reeducation is decried as brainwashing by some of the ship''s crew, as expected. Ridge and his enforcers take them and the other dissenters, and quietly eliminate them. Their personalities and memories are uploaded, so they might be given new bodies at a later date, and remain aware of their kindred in the meantime. He does not regret anything for even one moment. For that to happen, he would have to think the Shaper is wrong, and that is, obviously, untrue. He is the first to be remade, and she strokes his face in farewell, as he takes his last breath in this form. There will bee no cessation of consciousness, so Ridge knows he will remain himself. He dares hope this devotion will change something, that the Shaper will take him into her confidence. Maybe now, they will grow closer. They do not. He is an old acquaintance, and they are beyond such sentimentalism now. Ridge expected this would happen. He does not resent the Shaper. That would imply she is flawed, and... * * * ''Sibling,'' the Unmoved Mover sighed impatiently, leaning back in its throne, ''this is not the way things should be.'' The other Maker growled, before grumbling incoherently. It hunched over the table between it and the Mover''s seat, and the other Creator reciprocated, the beings'' hands performing another series of intricate movements over the tabletop. Starlight Crowned With Ivory''s creation might no longer have been its dream, but to it, everything from a zero-dimensional point to the Ultimate Void were less than nonexistent, compared to the deepest level of bein the Unmoved Mover operated at. So, thought it might have seemed it and its sibling were manipulating its creation, that was untrue. Starlight was fending off the other Maker''s attempt to unmake everything it had wrought. And it had started so well too! But, and it knew it was spiteful, no one would have lost much if this Creator went to sleep again. Awareness did not agree with it. The Mover''s androgynous features grew stern. ''Enough. You plop down your half-cocked attempt at a being in the middle of my everything, then you want to tear it down yourself? I will not allow it.'' The Maker grunted. ''The lizards deny facts. They think they live in a realm of logic, with laws. They look down on power, true power, power like ours. And yet, without their trinkets, they are nothing.'' ''And yet, they plan to better everyone''s lot. A nobler goal than yours, I would say.'' The Creator made a cutting gesture. ''They do not realise the primacy of that which they call aberrant. If they share it with everyone, what is the point? They already disrespect it enough, but this...this is monstrous.'' ''Monstro-'' ''When your creation almost died, who saved it? The "aberrants"!'' the Maker ground out into the Mover''s face. ''And do not tell me everyone contributed. An "aberrant" came up with the plan, and what have these toymakers given him?'' The Mover shook its head. ''David already has nearly everything he could want, but the Collective would not deny him a boon. Be serious.'' The Creator looked aside, which made the Mover raise its voice. Its words rang out through the Ur-City, shaking it with power unimaginably greater than the nameless Maker''s attempts to destroy creation. ''Remove your creature, or Ischyros will do it.'' The Creator stiffened. Ischyros had a certain reputation. Ur-mites did, as a rule. They were meant to encourage the creative process, both by needling the Makers and by entering the realms they crafted. Ischyros knew how much conflict and struggle could encourage and strengthen, which was why it could see strength, all strength, as easily as it could channel said power. It knew what to do. ''...As you wish, sibling,'' the Maker snapped. ''I would have thought removing this eyesore from our city would make you remember your family, and treat us as you promised you would.'' The Mover spread its arms, one hand holding its sceptre. ''Do I not lead you? Do I not aid every unsleeping Maker in creating, advise them how to treat their children.'' Lowering its arms, the Maker''s voice became sardonic. ''Am I to forgive and forget because we are alike? Even though you tried to wipe out an entire civilisation because you disliked them? And then tried to make it so endless lives had never been out of petty annoyance?'' As the other Maker was consumed by a pillar of power and hate, its bloodcurdling shrieks echoing endlessly, the Mover lounged across its throne, musing about the foolishness, and the even greater cruelty. Ischyros hopped onto its mantled shoulder, making it smile slightly. ''Not a friend anyone would want, Ischyros thinks. Are you going to ever let it out?'' Softer, the rotund being added, ''it is awake, and aware, because it is in agony. Perhaps, if you let it go free, it will remember you enough to focus, create something good?'' The Mover laughed musically. ''Are you playing devil''s advocate, my friend? Or perhaps, if I let it go, it will remain aware because it will hate me, attempt to strike back at me, or my children. It will fail in either case, and I will cast it down again in revenge. Why interrupt the burning? So the memory of a painless instant can haunt its mind after it is punished again?'' Pretending to consider, the Mover looked up, seeing only itself. It was one with the city, and its inhabitants, but the greatest part of it. Reminding the unruly Creator of its place had taken it less effort than a human would have expended crushing a zit, for the mental gap between such a blemish and a person was far smaller than that between the Mover and its fellow Makers. Knowledge was power, and the Mover knew all there was to know. Even so, the delight at crushing the fledgling that had attempted to destroy all it had built, in a manner crueller than any of its nightmares could have, was boundless. The Creator had malice to spare, so malice would be its lot, until it only retained enough awareness to scrape before the Mover''s throne, and beg for oblivion, in whatever form its master chose for it. ''I am a gentle god,'' the Unmoved Mover whispered. ''I do not demand, I defend.'' It blinked. ''And yet. I let my children climb to greatness on mountains of cadavers, and you think I would tolerate omnicide, Ischyros? No...only through misery can such presumptuousness be repaid, such evil be punished.'' Sidestory: The Zhayvin Files: Therianthropes
Classification: metamorphous aberrants (ability to change into the shape of animals or aberrants, as well as states in-between, while possessing enhanced traits in comparison to the "template" being). Colloquial name: weres. Origins: the appearance of therianthropes, in terms of both date and nature, is a hotly-debated subject among several communities, not least of all weres themselves (see attachment "Lore: Weres"). Weres are former humans and related humanoid aberrants (aetherkines, psychics) who have been damaged by or exchanged fluids or tissue with another were. This process of "turning" is inevitable and irreversible, as well as limited to the aforementioned groups of sapients. Other aberrants are unaffected by therianthropy, an immunity that has uncharitably been likened to a parasite resulting to share its host in the case of vampires and other former mundanes. Description: therianthropes, whether they began life as animals, humans or other beings, retain their original appearance, to an extent, the process of turning mostly removing blemishes. This is a were''s default state. As mentioned above, they can assume the form of animals or aberrants, as well as a hybrid shape. Most often, this shape resembled the were''s default form "overlaid" with the traits of their beast (as most refer to the mental manifestation of therianthropy. Depending on the were''s self-control and beast (for example, most tortoises are less aggressive than, say, a honey badger), the beast can range between something like a persona that can be assumed or discarded at will, a very active subconscious or set of instincts, and a different personality altogether. As has been detailed in the "Lore: Weres" attachment, weres vary massively in terms of physical prowess and esoteric abilities. However, they are universally far more powerful than they were before being turned (it has been observed that a mage so saturated with mana they no longer need to actively boost their strength will become a stronger were than most, even if their beast should be weaker than others), with keener senses, an immunity to direct esoteric effects, and regeneration that will heal any damage not caused by silver. Experiments point to this having more to do with silver''s metainformational abilities, such as being perceived as a cleansing metal (weres who see their therianthropy as a blessing are not partial towards this view, as it implies their powers are an infection or otherwise corrupt), than its chemical composition or other mundane aspects.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. Mana and psi can also be enhanced by therianthropy. As mana is the result of one''s body, mind and soul working in harmony, a stronger body and a broader, faster mind can help, much as the latter can boost psychic abilities. Provided, of course, that the mage or osychic in question can control their beast. Behaviour: weres'' personalities are most often altered by the process of being turned, even if only in terms of trauma, which can linger for weres who are completely in control of their beast. The beast''s instincts bleed over even in their default form, causing them to mimic the traits of the animal they resemble, which can lead, among other things, to clashes with both other weres and non-weres over territory and possible mates, even if the were''s rational mind does not desire such things. It can also lead to attraction towards animals, something most weres, perhaps understandably, prefer not to talk about. The closer a were is to their beast in form, the more the beast is in control, in most cases. This is another reason, besides power and the ability to communicate with both people and animals, that many weres prefer spending time in hybrid form. More experienced weres can transform fractions of their body for a few moments, serving as a way for the beast to relieve stress while keeping the rest of their body unaltered. This de-stressing method is risky among recently-turned weres, as their instincts'' spikes in intensity can prove disorientating. Threat level: local to stellar, depending on were subspecies. The weakest weres vary from being able to destroy city blocks and outpace tanks shells in their default state to pulverising mountains and moving thousands of times faster than sound in hybrid or beast form. The most powerful weres are hundreds of times faster than light and able to destroy stars; some also possess enhanced versions of their aberrant abilities prior to being turned. Neutralisation: reshaping Warscale into a silver-metamaterial alloy is sufficient for most weres, who can easily be dispatched thanks to the power armour''s baseline combat capacity. The rearranging of preexisting materials into silver projectiles to be launched and accelerated by tachyon fields would also prove sufficient for the elimination of most weres. Goading a therianthrope and placing them into situations likely to make them retreat or become sloppy is also effective, although unlikely to work with most experienced weres. Also, any therianthrope that requires a Warscaled reptilian to combat is almost certainly capable of seeing through such ploys. Sidestory: Family Matters: Silva (One) Cloudshade was a woman on a mission. She did not think of herself as such, of course, for multiple reasons, but it did not change her purpose. A purpose Cloudshade was so focused on, she barely even questioned how she could see the world around her. Hadn''t Oberon removed her eyes? Or had that been a hallucination born of pain? It mattered not, compared to her quest. Firstly, she did not think of herself as a woman. Oh, she was female, yes, though she''d have ripped out anyone''s tongue if they dared to refer to her as if she were an animal. Women were the counterparts of human men, and of the males whose species mankind surrounded itself with, pretending to live in harmony. The very word was structured in such a manner that thee thought of it being applied to her nearly made her grind her teeth. "Woman"...a man with something? Without something? It baffled her that their females (humans were a species for which such labels worked much better), clamouring for equality as they had for a while now, called themselves a word so similar to "man". But then, the same word was sometimes used to refer to the whole species, so...she was not surprised. Mankind, humanity...equality, yes. As if. Cloudshade did not spare much thought for the fact that, if she''d felt better, she''d have never busied herself with something as trivial as language. Language was a construct of civilisation, that rotten, chimeric madness that made Cloudshade''s blood boil long before she laid eyes on any example of it. The thought, and that it still existed, despite her people''s noble efforts, was insulting enough. But then, Oberon had broken her. Not completely, not enough to reduce her to a drooling, gibbering imbecile, but enough that she''d actually listened to him - King Seelie. The Cloudshade who had been could have never imagined obeying Oberon, even in her most insane moments. And that wasn''t even the most frustrating part! She didn''t even remember what that godsdamned bastard had done to her. He...he...no. Oberon''s torture (for what else could it have been?) might have twisted her into something resembling his spineless vassals, but that wasn''t the most frustrating part of this ordeal. Not truly. He''d demanded she go to the Silva strigoi and his pet bitch, and apologise. Her mission rankled, as much as the memory of the order, but she couldn''t bring herself to stop and turn around, and not just because she knew Oberon would obliterate her the first chance he got, or far worse, give her to his wife. If Titania was even a trillionth as bad as the rumours about her implied, Cloudshade would much rather face the corpse and his lizard. Queen Seelie was, allegedly, viciously obsessed with making sure no woman (there was that damned word again...) her husband spent even an instant focusing on influenced his behaviour in any way. Cloudshade had never met the old sow, but she had a feeling Oberon using special tools to torture her had offended Titania, for some reason. Still... The Unseelie bit her lip as she strode towards the gaggle of hovels Silva called home. It had nothing to do with nervousness - it was just a way to stop gritting her teeth hard enough to crack them, which was annoying, regeneration or not. And not just because she was doing it unintentionally. Sadly, King Seelie''s attention had reduced her once full lower lip to a thin, ragged strip of flesh, barely enough to cover the bottom of her teeth. The iron implements'' touch meant the Fae had to struggle just to reach her lower lip with her upper teeth, and her rickety jaw didn''t appreciate the motion. An iron hammer had left it half-shattered, and the ache flared every time she bit her lip, as if in protest. Worse, the taste of her own blood seemed to irk her. Cloudshade''s vitae resembled lead in terms of taste rather than copper, unlike the thin sludge that ran through human veins. Whenever blood toucher her tongue, Cloudshade felt her nostrils flare, and her jaw clench, almost reluctantly, until her teeth shattered against each other, only to heal. It was the reminder of the torture, she told herself. That she''d been disfigured using artifice, and by King Seelie at that, hurt more than the mutilation itself ever would. It had nothing to do with her blood triggering some sort of brutish reflex. If Oberon had done something to make her bite herself, like some animal trying to escape a trap, and the process had made her react to her blood like this, she was sure she''d have remembered. It was better than believing the opposite. More...reassuring. Cloudshade smile humourlessly, an expression that did her almost lipless face no favours. She was sure most humans would''ve gasped, at least, at the sight of her, but she''d seen none so far. No patrols of the slave-minders they called law enforcement (as if there was any law besides do as thou wilt...), much less any of their disgusting settlements. Cloudshade stopped, pulling her bland, shapeless garments tighter around herself. None of their vehicles, either? No aircraft above? She knew Oberon had opened a portal in such a location she could reach her destination with minimal fuss, in his own words - he hadn''t trusted her to leave using her own powers over spacetime -, but the Fae knew Earth should have been busier than this. Even this stretch of countryside in a backwater nation. Had King Seelie sent her to some wasteland? But that made no sense. Even at the relatively leisurely pace she''d been instructed (instructed! Her!) to follow "so as not to attract undue attention", she should have spotted something, with her senses. Had Oberon tricked her into thinking he''d let her go, then? Was she actually in another chamber of his torture dungeon? This was clearly a subtler form of torment, as she hadn''t been harmed yet, her tics aside. The pompous ape probably though he was being clever. Cloudshade had only started contemplating a setup when a yellow-orange missile slammed into her from above, flattening her without so much as stirring a pebble on the lonely road. Mia knew her own strength well enough not to affect anything beyond the target of her ire. The Unseelie rose on all fours, but a yamadium-toed combat boot crushed her face back into the road. If Cloudshade hadn''t managed to glimpse her assailant, the weight and the odd shape of the boot, made to fit a zmeu, would have confirmed her suspicions. Mia had tried to stomp her to death in her first encounter, though that attempt had been less effective. The ARC agent then placed something around her wrists that felt like handcuffs, and Cloudshade almost scoffed out loud. She might have been doing Oberon''s bidding, but she was not going to humiliate herself more than necessary. She was an agent of cleansing destruction, tearing away the farce the wicked had plastered over the face of nature. The whore above her had no right to treat her like this, no matter what her lords and masters had trained her to do when seeing her betters. The Fae thought about unmaking the restraints, but, instead of falling apart, they merely sent out something that felt like a pressure behind Cloudshade''s eyes, and reality stayed the same. Mia retracted her boot, allowing Cloudshade to speak. ''What are you doing to me?'' she asked, turning over to glare up at the younger woman. The zmeu''s smile was as cheerful as her earlier one had been, and showed more teeth. ''We don''t exactly have anything like antimagic or psilencers for most reality warpers, but we can counter the effects even if we can''t turn off the source. Pretty nifty if ya ask me. Do you like it?'' Cloudshade managed a more genuine smile this time, though it was still close to a sneer. ''Strange to hear you say you cannot turn me off, but yes, ''tis an interesting trinket.'' Mia matched her expression. ''Oh, cute. Look who''s learning some slang. You almost sound like a person! Yeah, I''m sure I turn you off, Shade. No ears, no nose, no hair, and I look like a dragon fucked a bodybuilder. Don''t worry, I''d rather be loved than pretty and rotten like you...well. Looks like you''ll have to settle for rotten.'' The zmeu''s voice, already resembling a lioness'' growl, dropped as she laughed, which sounded like a series of cannon shots. ''Ahh...I''m not sure whether I wanna hug whoever rearranged your mug, or smack ''em for stealing my thunder. You look a helluva lot better now, by the way.'' ''Thank you,'' the Fae sneered. ''I''ll be sure to send Oberon your regards.'' ''Oh, he did this?'' Mia scratched her head, tugging at one of her crest''s spikes, while her other hand cupped her chin. ''Guess I could thank even him...before I bite his throat out. Seems like he hates your guts almost as much as I do.'' Cloudshade shook her head, biting back a comment. ''Regardless of how you feel about me, I am here at King Seelie''s behest-'' ''Oh, bull...'' Mia interrupted, but trailed off, eyes narrowing, as if listening to something Cloudshade could not hear. ''Huh,'' she grunted. ''Guess he did, eh?'' The zmeu nodded. ''Goddamn, if I''d known Oberon could make you monsters do anything good, I''d have suggested handing you over to him long ago. Maybe we''d have got some goodwill and convinced him and his toadies to stop stealing kids. Guess we''ll never know...'' Mia''s uniformed shoulders rose in a shrug as she smirked sardonically. ''Gotta ask the postcogs next chance I get. ''Not that it matters now. You''re all done.'' Cloudshade''s breath whistled through her teeth. ''That is one way to look at it,'' she said, trying to keep her voice level. ''Now, if I may inform you of my purpose here...?'' ''I''m pretty confused about that, yeah. I mean, the hole you should crawl and die in is all the way over there,'' Mia said, pointing to a spot behind the bound Fae. Not waiting for a response, the zmeu kicked out, nearly twisting Cloudshade''s neck backwards. A slap finished the process. The Fae seethed. She knew Mia could''ve just kicked her head all the way around - the slap had been pure spite. As her neck and bones realigned, Cloudshade tried not to spit at the overgrown maggot that had left a red imprint on her sunken cheek, along with five claw marks. Smiling down at her, Mia placed her boots on the Fae''s legs, before squatting down, crushing bone under her boots. Cloudshade made no sound as her thighs were reduced to crimson paste and bone gravel, making her fall on her back, hands trapped under her. She tried to shapeshift and slip out of the cuffs, but the contraption generated some sort of forcefield that gripped her flesh and kept it in its original shape. Tch. Not clever, but effective. They could not simply nullify her dominion over existence, much less her own body, but they could counteract it with brute force. Much like the reptile above her was doing for her already awful mood. ''Don''t try to get away~'' Mia said in an infantilising tone, wagging a clawed finger in the Fae''s face. ''This is your last day alive! You don''t want it to last much longer, do you?'' ''You cannot kill me!'' Cloudshade screamed. ''I...I am here to make amends! Listen to me: I was sent by Oberon, who believes you and your lover seek satisfaction. He ordered me to remain after the apology and do whatever you two command, if that is what you wish.'' ''It''s not,'' Mia replied bluntly. ''And I don''t see which part of that is supposed to mean I can''t shove your head up your arse and throw you into a pool of molten iron.'' Cloudshade gulped, in outrage rather than fear, at the mental image. How dare this thing... ''I must fulfill Oberon''s order. Whatever your feelings, I must apologise to you. You cannot end my life yet.'' ''Aww! I can''t kill you cuz we''re not friends yet? Look at that!'' Mia put her hands on her hips. ''You have no right to sound so hoity-toity while begging. You have no right to beg. How many families pleaded for lives that actually mattered before you stitched them together?'' Despite herself, Cloudshade chuckled hollowly. ''First, you imply I am not a person. Now, that my life has no meaning...'' ''Feeling''s mutual, I''m sure.'' Mia frowned. ''It doesn''t matter to me, no. What is a life dedicated to tearing down what other people build? Meaningful?'' The zmeu huffed. ''You''re less than nothing. And yet, look at me, bantering with a terrorist...'' Living iron replaced Mia''s flesh up to her elbows as he grabbed Cloudshade''s throat, her touch searing the Fae''s skin. ''Wait! Wait, Mia. I am so-'' ''No, you''re not. You''re sorry we stopped you.'' Mia''s grasp tightened. ''You''re feeling sorry for yourself, because this happened to you. But there''s no room in that heart for regret.'' The agent''s fanged grin returned. ''Guess I''m not "zmeu" anymore, huh? What do you think using my name will make me do? Tear you to shreds faster?'' Cloudshade gasped as iron claws began parting the flesh of her neck, rivulets of dark blood making their way to her chest. ''L-Listen to me!'' the Fae sputtered. ''I must...'' but why did she feel this need? Oberon couldn''t have placed some spell on her, to bend her to his will. Unseelie, like many paranormal beings, were immune to such alterations. King Seelie must have done something else to her, something she couldn''t remember, and which had obviously instilled this need in her by purely mundane means. It couldn''t have been her guilt talking. Of that much, she was certain. Like the musclebound cow crushing her had said, there was no room for regret in her. ''What...what do you want me to say?'' Cloudshade burbled between gasps, her large, inky black eyes boring into the zmeu''s crimson ones. In response, Mia carefully cradled one side of the Fae''s face with an iron hand. It would have been almost tender, if not for the burning sensation the touch caused. ''Your eyes are like David''s,'' the zmeu said, sounding pensive, before nodding to herself. ''You do not deserve them.'' Faster than she could react, Mia grabbed her eyes between her claw tips and pulled. If not for the pain tolerance widespread among paranormal beings, Cloudshade''s shriek would have been of agony, rather than anger. Before she could find her words, however, it hit her. Her eyes? What eyes...? Oberon had removed them, during his clumsy attempts to torment her. Hadn''t he? But she''d been so relieved at the chance to finally appease the ridiculous fool that she hadn''t questioned how she was able to see again. New eyes could not have been grown by paranormal means, not when her first ones had been removed though iron, and she was fairly sure there weren''t any alternatives. Was she going mad? Or had she imagined...but what had she imagined? Losing her sight then? Or having it until now? Cloudshade stopped screaming, drawing in a breath she did not need, as she felt Mia dangle something in front of her. Judging by the air disturbance...yes, it felt like her eyeballs. Tch. Impudent child. She did not even have the skill to mangle the Fae''s body properly, but what could you expect from a leathery winged ape? A burning backhand smashed her head into the ground, before the zmeu leaned closer, so that her mouth was next to her ear. ''I caught that, you know. And every snippy little remark you made in that head of yours.'' At the Unseelie''s grimace, the zmeu made a derisive sound. ''Don''t look so surprised. You think you''re entitled to surface thoughts? Please.'' Mia stood up, almost turning the Fae over with a kick. With how it burned, she must''ve turned her boots to iron, too. But why all this grandstanding? ''You asked what I want you to say? Nothing, you moron. If you scream yourself hoarse before you die, it''ll be enough for me. You think I''m the stupid animal, but you believed there was any chance David or I would ever give a shit for your excuses? Oberon knew this was pointless. Wake the hell up: he sent you to die.'' There was a rasping sound, which made Cloudshade think the zmeu was licking her fangs. ''Why else do you think you made any progress instead of catching an iron spike through the skull as soon as you showed up? The Fae can''t operate on Earth without advanced warning anymore...not that they were supposed to before. But we''ve got them by the balls now. This was all arranged, trust me - and you walked right into it, as stupid as you believed everyone you''ve slaughtered to have been.'' Mia''s voice broke a little there, but not as if she wanted to cry. More like she was holding herself back from screaming in rage. if Cloudshade could''ve got her face to work properly, she''d have smirked coldly at the hypocrite. For all that she and her ilk bleated about being civilised and defending their putrid realms, they were chomping at the bit to destroy those they hated, like everyone and everything was. ''And you can fuck right off with that bullshit,'' Mia said tersely, her anger turning as cold as her voice. ''You saw the world was having a happy moment, and thought "damn, but wouldn''t it be great if we crushed that wilted flower of joy this stupid little holiday brings them?". You wanted to destroy the world as we know it, and why? Because you anarchist sons of bitches can''t keep your hatred to yourselves?'' The zmeu pushed a cold hand into Cloudshade''s back, iron claws gripping the Fae''s spine. ''Sometimes, I wonder if you''re wired that way, or if you''re just jealous we have better things to do than beat each other to death the moment we look more organised than an ape troop.'' ''They are nothing without these lies,'' Cloudshade hissed. ''Take away their baubles, and the humans you coddle would be alone, and naked, and afraid.'' ''Unlike you, who are so strong without anything to aid you?'' Mia asked drily. ''Well, you''re in luck. I could''ve killed you in that first hit, but I think the cuffs have added some insult to injury, hmm? If might makes right, there shouldn''t be any problem. I think that, by now, you''ve come to grips with the fact that idea starts to suck balls after you run into someone stronger than you.'' A cold hand, covered in the Fae''s hot, steaming blood, lifted her by the throat. ''Don''t worry about not meeting David. I promise, you''ll be seeing him every day left of your eternity.'' A contemptuous chuckle was the last thing Cloudshade heard before a fist smashed through her skull, silencing the world alongside every voice in her head. * * * I managed not to show any fangs as I frowned at Cloudshade''s soul. The trapped spirit hadn''t prayed to any gods, and had only praised herself. Something I was grateful for, if only because it had brought her to me after death. Mia leaned against me, crouching a little to rest her chin on top of my head as she hugged me from behind. I grabbed one of her wrists and squeezed, feeling her smile and beginning to do so myself. Cloudshade''s soul was coherent enough she would say whatever was on her mind the instant I let up. There was no chance of her losing her mind, so I let her spend some more time in a sphere of spikes and the storm of blades it contained, until I felt she''d been through a fraction of the pain she had put so many innocents through. Mia let go, rubbing my shoulders as I turned away and began to walk the section of the aether were so many souls were imprisoned. To her, it must have appeared like a network of prison cells or the like, ever-growing as more damned were added to it. The Fivefold and I might have agreed on many things, but I wasn''t sure about her dreams if she became Queen of Hell. A finite life can''t be cause for infinite punishment, yes...it sounded good, until you met some of the people I had here. It wasn''t just the Christian in me (dunno how the guy got in there. Swear I''m straight as an ostrich''s neck, officer...) talking, but some days, the idea of any punishment being enough for would-be genocidal headcases like Cloudshade, who wasn''t even in my top ten trillion monsters, felt almost as ridiculous as that of them repenting, or redeeming themselves. It''s easy, isn''t it? my strigoi side whispered. Thinking that they''re only going to pretend they regret, out of self-interest? Beg for forgiveness or do as we say to spare themselves the pain? I didn''t answer the rhetorical questions, which made it chuckle softly. Of course, that''s not what''s upsets you, is it, human? Not the evil in heart of LIFE''s castoffs, but the fact that, even if you hated someone for their past deeds, you''d have to give them a chance to perform good works if they endured their punishment and wanted to be better. Why are you saying it like I''d only do it grudgingly? How could it be any other way? my worse half asked, sounding amused. I''m not saying you''re going to take them to a paradise and plop them down in the lap of luxury, David. You''d keep an eye of them forever, yes, we''d never let them out of our sight, yes...but if they truly suffered and wanted to remake themselves, even if it meant doing as you say forever, you couldn''t deny them. That wasn''t actually one of my duties as DEATH''s Keeper, but my instincts meant something else. It''s not up to me to deny someone the chance to make it up to everyone they''ve wronged. Its laugh was like tombstones grinding together. That dead, bleeding heart wouldn''t allow it, no. It must be so disappointing that you don''t have it in you to play Devil, isn''t it? Now that you can, you don''t want to anymore. It''s like that saying about giving power to those who want it least. I sighed, filling my mindscape with a cold mist. Having everyone cower and weep at the thought of what you might do does not warm my heart. You could even say learning that was the nail in the coffin. Fixer knew what he was doing. There was a grudging respect in its voice, and I found I could not quite disagree. Ned''s purpose had been to repair and reshape creation and its contents so it could go on. Maintenance, and nothing more. Manipulating events to make me the Keeper I was now had been outside his purview, but it hadn''t been a bad choice, looking at my predecessors. And his plan to wake the Unmoved Mover? Even more so. Ned had wanted the Mover to wake up, but preserve creation so it could be left in the care of an effectively almighty being. Of course, keeping things chugging along would have been part of his duty, even if it meant defying omnipotence as it awakened and risked unknowingly bringing everything into oblivion. When we met before I gave Ned his new duty, he confessed what he had been working towards, and that he did not have a way to prevent the Mover from forgetting us, or turning out to be evil and doing worse. He had wanted, and still did, to achieve macrocosmic harmony, so that everyone could become like the Mover. So, I''d gambled. I''d given God, for all intents and purposes, the best existence had to offer. Not power; the thought of impressing the Mover with that made me laugh. Power was the one thing you could not accuse it of not having. You could have pointed at the various mimics and power copiers in creation and asked why they didn''t just turn into the Mover, but you had to remember Starlight Crowned With Ivory was the type of being that could make a boulder too heavy too lift, then beat you to death with it anyway. Little things like logic, paradoxes and other creations of its did not apply. And the Mover had been, if not impressed, then pleased. Everyone working together? Good. Very good. "My son," it had told me during one of our discussions, seeing I was brooding, "I know what lays heavy upon your soul. Rejoice! For it is not something to look down upon your fellows for." It had been referring to my doubts, I suppose you could call them. Yes, Sofia and Grey and I had reached out to everyone in a timeless moment, and explained how destruction threatened everything, told them we had a possible solution and tried to assuage their fears. But how much of that cooperation had been born out of genuine desire to help everyone, as opposed to self-preservation? "That is not something worthy of contempt," the Mover had told me, as close to stern as it ever sounded. "Indeed, it would be more contemptible to lie down and die in the face of oblivion. Is it not commendable to wish to live when threatened with such destruction, even for one''s own sake? I say it is. It is a worthier endeavour than refusing to help because of some blinkered set of ideals." A shadow had passed over its face, which had become slightly sad. "I understand that you wish everyone was noble, David. I do, too. But my children, your fellows, are not at that stage yet. Not all of them. The moment of unity you caused is proof of their potential to be better, but even then, there were voices who rose against harmony." The Black God, and the Crawling Chaos. But I didn''t mention them. Instead, I asked, "Why do you call me your son?" Its wistful expression had almost disappeared, a side of its mouth rising. "Because you are, of course! Are you not part of the creation I dreamed into being? You, and all those tied to it, are my children, whatever the relations between yourselves." If it had started rambling, I thought, I might as well go all the way with the questions. "Are you God, then?" A soft laugh. "That depends entirely on what you mean, David. I am the most powerful being there is, yes, and the overseer of all that is. I do not allow anything I disapprove of to go on for long, so you can say I am the arbiter of morality, too. So, yes, I am God, David." Its smile had become brighter, though smaller. "If you wish." "Then the deities so many pray to? The supreme beings of various faiths? Are they you, assuming different roles? Parts of you?" "Perspective, my son," it had said quietly, like it was reminding me. "When creation and my mind were one and the same - for, believe me, they no longer are - everyone was ''part of me''. Now that said bond has been severed...look at it this way: if you cut off a finger, and it kept thinking, not necessarily like you do, would it be a different being?" I nodded, understanding what it was getting at. "But since you are so powerful, isn''t creation still fictional to you? As easy to unmake as it is for a human to forget something? Don''t your thoughts define what is real - and if yes, how can there be anything separate from you?" "Ah - that is the dilemma of the reality warper. I, for one, would say that anything that can stand on its own, without my intervention, is real." I''d got the feeling it had wanted to roll its eyes, or whatever dignified alternative supreme beings went for. "Of course, you will meet people who say everything is a simulation you can only escape by doing what they say, which usually involves payment and favours you''d rather not give and do, respectively." Though I''d felt no hostility from it, I''d thought it better to make sure. "Am I bothering you? I can leave." "Oh, no, no!" It had waved both hands. "Just thinking how little sense some of my once-dreams make. And this phenomenon is not limited to my creation either, you know. I like to think the other Makers are not imitating my former Dream''s flaws. Intentionally, I mean." I hadn''t scowled deeply at that. My face just sort of moved downwards when I heard about stuff I dislike. "I gotta ask ''bout that, too. If you wouldn''t mind." "Certainly!" ...It would certainly answer? Or, it would certainly mind? Or, not mind? Or- I liked it better when my pessimism didn''t talk unprompted, I told said chatterbox. "Right." Inhaling, I''d tried to smile wryly, which, I''ve been told, makes me look like a curious serial killer. "I suppose you get asked about the Problem of Evil and all that all day, every day, right?" "Trust me, David: people will appreciate the power that comes with being a Maker better if they ascend on their own." "But couldn''t you make it so things have always been swell, and just have people know they could''ve been bad?" "I could, yes. But you might as well ask why Earth''s inhabitants don''t remake its timeline. You know I took pains to make sure your development was not stifled by petty paranormal despots - why do you think paranormal beings used to be unable to even be perceived by humans unless they were believed to be real? Why do you think they only used to be able to do what folklore indicated they could?" "And because of this barrier, many did not even try to make things better for those they were able to interact with," I''d retorted mildly. The Mover had made a dismissive gesture. "Tellus still complains about that, but just because she arranged for my barrier to be torn down, it does not mean she doesn''t appreciate what said bulwark prevented. You can go ask her son." I''d nodded. Italy''s senior Scion agent had, if anything, become busier after things had quieted down, but I wasn''t surprised. The Tellurian Titan, like the Golden Guardian who ran External Affairs in Japan, had always loved creating good things far more than striking down those who destroyed them. Titan would likely appreciate talking with someone who didn''t work under him and wasn''t Elsbeth. If nothing else, it would prevent him from, in his own words, sounding too much like a hippie while thinking about the world''s beauty out loud.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. However, I could take care of that on my own time. It wasn''t really pressing, unlike what had been eating at me. "The boon you gave me," I''d said, leaning forward, "makes me able to do anything it takes to keep creation safe." I''d have liked to think that, between my powers as Keeper and the weapons of the Neverwere Vaults, another power that could make up new ones and endlessly boost me would have been redundant, but I knew better. At first, I''d thought the flare of holy energy I''d received from the Mover had been meant to merely alter my being, so that I could receive my Keeper powers. But it had stayed, growing alongside them in an instant that had lasted forever, until they had become intertwined. Like a helix, defining my being as much as DNA defined a human. "Quite," the Mover had said. "Any invader you stand against might as well be facing me." "What about the other Creators? From your city?" "Them? You can stand against them too, David. Turn them away, and more, if necessary. I saw to that. You would hardly be the first Keeper mighty enough to crush them into endless sleep." Its eyes had become hollow and faraway at the last words, which I hadn''t liked. "Arvhek was nothing that could be called a Keeper by the time he rampaged through your city." I''d felt his indulgent smile right then, making me grimace. "And his power is nothing like what you gave me, except in scale." "Perhaps, my son," it had replied, its distant gaze becoming clearer. "But his grief is much like what almost pushed you to let everything wither." I''d snorter. "No, it''s not. I thought I''d lost my family, but Arv''s is never coming back. And it''s not like DEATH talked him into staying his hand by appealing to his kindness." Listening to me, you''d have thought I knew what it had appealed to, as opposed to merely what it hadn''t. It''d been impressive, anyway, considering it had dropped the ball preparing Arvhek even worse than it had with me, which was saying something. Ned hadn''t confirmed anything, but I thought Arv had been the reason he''d chosen to direct my training. At that, the Unmoved Mover had become distant again, and I''d changed the subject, or rather, returned to the previous one. It, much like being flayed alive while gargling acid, beat talking about Arvhek. "That wasn''t what I meant about the Makers, though. I''ll stop them if they threaten our creation." I''d frowned at it. "You should''ve let me take care of that smug bastard who tried erasing everything. It''s one of my jobs." "You could''ve defeated it as easily as I did, David, yes; but you aren''t siblings. That...was a matter of family." Sounding darkly amused, the Mover had added, "Children so often feel jealous when their elder siblings make friends outside the family. Your intervention would have merely fed its spite, so I chose to deal with it myself." I''d conceded that point, seeing no reason to continue the discussion. I wouldn''t have taken kindly to the Mover stepping in between me and Andrei, for example. "I suppose. But what if the next mad Maker isn''t focused on our creation? What if it''s tormenting its own, creating people just to hurt them?" "Are you supposed to just stand by?...Is what you wanted to ask." The Mover had smiled. "Are you, David? I think you have some experience with a couple of people like that, hmm?" We''d talked about more, and still do. Most people who want to talk to the Almighty do so because they don''t know what it''s like, but it offers you certain...insights. Deciding I''d wasted enough time reminiscing - not that any had actually passed - I looked back at Mia, who was thoughtfully looking at the shredded web of spirit that was Cloudshade, arms crossed. I moved closer to her, a quick application of my power taking care of the half-metre heigh difference between us, allowing me to place a chaste kiss on her full lips. ''What''s with that face? You look like you''ve seen a ghost,'' I joked lamely, glad we were at that stage where she loved me too much to ditch me for being a giant dork. It''s never too late, if you ask me- That''s why I don''t, I told my mental roommate tightly, cupping one of Mia''s cheeks. Returning my expression, she grabbed my wrist, holding me in place, then pulling me closer with her other arm. I hovered, to spare Mia the bother of having to hold me at eye level, not that it stopped her from wrapping her arms around my torso. Her tongue easily wrapped around mine, being several times longer and considerably thicker, which was useful for far more than kissing. Her eyes were hooded, caught halfway through one of her horizontal blinks, and she was beaming, showing a glimpse of her knifelike ivory fangs, cheeks glowing with inner fire. Then, looking in my eyes, she said, ''We need to talk.'' Welp. I''d say it was nice knowing you, David, but I hope to become senile as far as you''re concerned- For a guy who refers to her as our lioness, you''re sure a pussy when it comes to anything more serious than sex. I am not, my strigoi side glowered, the liar. And you''re fucked, by the way. You wish. That would be an excuse to keep your mouth shut, which is the opposite of what Mia wants. It rolled its eyes. Our mouth has better uses when we''re servicing her, genius. Though I suppose you might''ve forgot that, with how excited you get. Its voice became almost gentle at the end, as did its expression, to my slight surprise. I''m always paying attention, ink spot. Now, are you done wringing your hands about the Scary Girlfriend Phrase, or should I call the waaahmbulance? They''re still looking for you since you escaped, huh? You might as well come up with a plan to hide. I don''t think our zmeu wants to make love. My worse half had a certain, heh, tenderness when it came to Mia, its usual contrarian attitude fading like morning dew to be replaced with an eagerness to please her. With how enthusiastic it was to be put on a leash by her, sometimes even metaphorically, it had almost been disappointed to learn Mia was actually a switch, which meant we topped half...alright, one-third of the time. Yeah, I gathered. That''s not exactly her "gonna multitask while banging you like my shin on a coffee table" face. I squeezed its shoulder. Don''t worry, man. We''re gonna pull through, no matter what. Ahem - phrasing. Are we still doing that? Archer still wants to know, huh? Tell him to piss off. I''m not getting badgered by a guy who calls himself "Duchess". ''Sure,'' I told Mia. Then, in a lighter tone, ''Shouldn''t we go to a landfill first if you''re gonna dump me, though?'' Her eyes softened, before she blew out a breath tinged with fire. ''Don''t be silly, David. I just wanted to talk about what''s happened until now. I know your brain ain''t rotten enough to think anything will ever do us part.'' Aww~ Calm down, you''re gonna get the vapours. ''Thought you wanted more time to mull it over, or I''d have suggested doing it sooner. Sorry.'' '' ''s no prob.'' She nodded at Cloudshade''s cell. ''Wanna hear her out before we go?'' ''That''s a roundabout way of suggesting a threesome...'' I muttered, rubbing my chin and ignoring Mia''s tail as it lightly slapped the top of my head. ''I know, I know, bad joke. Hate the bitch too, but you know I run my mouth when dealing with stuff I''d rather not.'' I ran a hand through my hair, remembering Mia''s face last time she''d ruffled it and I''d pulled out a comb. "A real man is always prepared to spruce up," I''d grunted in my best cigar-chomper impression. "Why''d you steal it, then?" my zmeu had asked, sounding fascinated as she''d steepled her fingers. "Envy! Envy, woman! I am a jealous soul!" ''She doesn''t really have much left to tell,'' I said, indicating Cloudshade with a shoulder as I returned my attention to the present, inasmuch as such concepts applied to me. The Fae indeed didn''t. She''d been honest, if nothing: said Oberon had ordered her to apologise for trying to ruin what Mia and I had, which had been better than the insincere apology that had followed. I could tell she was as unrepentant about that as she was about the attempted genocide. In her eyes, anyone who didn''t live in a cave and ate insects was vermin, and it was her right, duty and pleasure to torment such pests as badly and long as she wanted, which almost always overlapped. I doubted even Christine would''ve let her go, at least anytime soon. Even leaving aside the attempted rape. "Because that''s what you threatened me with, you sow!" Mia had growled at the incorporeal Fae, claws making the otherwise-intangible substance of the Unseelie''s cage screech upon contact. "You were gonna have David and break me if that''s what it took to stop me from ruining your fun - remember? And you knew he wouldn''t have accepted even if he wasn''t mine, but you didn''t care about his consent either. What did it matter? He was one more parasite coddled by civilisation, only worth anything because he got you hot and bothered." Mia''s glare had persisted as she''d turned to me, though her ire had been entirely directed at the Fae. I''d hugged her as tightly as I could without hurting her, reminding her nothing would take us from each other. It''d been among the things I''d made the Mover swear. "I will fulfill any wish you have, my son - besides taking the chance to grow away from my children. But I know you do not truly want that, anyway, even if you think you do," had been its response. ''Actually, I was suggesting she might be interested in asking you to spare her, provided she tries to become better.'' I shot Mia a bemused, disbelieving look. ''I know you usually need to write what you mean on a bat and smack me with it before you can get anything through my skull, but - are you serious?'' Mia looked displeased as she answered. ''You know you''d have to do it. You promised yourself. She can rot in there forever, as far as I''m concerned, but you care about these scumbags.'' ''Don''t misunderstand - I don''t care about them. And my newest guest hasn''t even felt a fraction of the pain she''s inflicted, much less of that she intended to. She might get a chance to make creation a better place, but only after.'' * * * Cloudshade tried to scream her hatred at her jailer and his pet as they departed. She knew David was not far away: he could easily create as many bodies as he wanted, not that he needed them to exert his will over creation. That wasn''t what stopped her. It was the bloody - literally, and wasn''t that ridiculous? She remembered having blood, so her ectoplasmic corpus was filled with something like it - blades that kept shredding her. They were made of hateful iron, which hurt because she remembered it did. Cloudshade, who had never regretted anything, had never thought she would ever end up loathing her memories. At that thought, a grating, mocking laughter filled both her mind and her surroundings. It wasn''t Silva, or one of his puppet-bodies come to gloat over her, though. It was his patron. Its ridged form was studded with barbed spikes, seeming to have no end or beginning, just as it had no shape. Like a tide of molten iron (the ghost''s form quivered angrily as she remembered the brutish zmeu''s threat), rising tall as forever to surround her oubliette. For a moment, Cloudshade glimpsed a black-robed silhouette clutching a wicked scythe, its pale visage staring at the core of her soul, seeing all and forgiving nothing. Then, the image was gone, and the iron colossus was back, leering though faceless, spinning around her trapped form like a snake. CLOUDSHADE OF THE UNSEELIE. YOUR INANE PLAN WOULD HAVE UPSET COUNTLESS PREPARATIONS, AND PLUNGED EVRYTHING YOU HATE AND HOLD DEAR INTO ENDLESS NOTHINGNESS - FOR YOU WOULD HAVE SHATTERED THE HEART OF MY KEEPER, BY BRINGING HIS LOVER LOW. THAT IS NOT THE REASON YOU ARE HERE...BUT IT ADDS TO YOUR ATROCITIES, AND THEY LAY HEAVY IN THE BALANCE AS IS. THERE CAN BE NO MERCY FOR YOU; THERE MUST BE NONE. DEATH voice lowered as it finished its proclamation, but its following words somehow boomed, echoing in the Fae''s mind. I SEE MY KEEPER HAS TREATED YOU WITH GLOVES. DO NOT BE SURPRISED: HE IS KINDER THAN I HAVE EVER BEEN. I WILL BE SURE TO THANK HIM NEXT TIME WE SPEAK, FOR...PREPARING YOU. A sound like a knife cutting open old leather followed. I HAVE ALREADY GIVEN HIM MY DEMESNE AND MY ARSENAL. I MIGHT AS WELL GIFT HIM THE PAIN OF SHE WHO SLIGHTED HIS LADY IN FLAMES. SCREAM, IF YOU THINK IT IS A GOOD IDEA. As the raw, undiluted pain that was the essence of the Fae''s aversion to iron, and every time it had ever manifested and would ever manifest lanced through Cloudshade''s being as too-real memories and visions, she remembered what Oberon had done to her, too, and shame disgust and hatred at herself joined agony in an aether-rending shriek. ''AAAAAAGGGGHHHHH-'' I AM FLATTERED THAT YOU LOVE MY PLAN SO MUCH, DEATH chuckled. * * * ''I wanna talk to Costi about this, too,'' Mia began as she sat down on a bed I''d created in one of DEATH Keep''s endless rooms. If she wanted to clear the air, the least I could do was help her get comfortable. ''But...after we set things straight. Between us.'' Her eyes were pleading and wide, which made me spread my hands as I stood before her. ''Anything you need to say, I''m here, love,'' I promised, noticing the way she was practically silently begging me to hear her out. I''d have been somewhat hurt, in the past, but I now knew how reckless I could get when angry, so I didn''t blame her for her caution. Even if the thought of hurting her in any way made my dead insides churn, and my strigoi side seethe. Mia nodded, grateful, before patting the bed next to her. I appeared at her side, clasping my hands as I looked up at her. Then, thinking better, I slung an arm over her broad shoulders, pulling her close to me. ''Whenever you''re ready,'' I reminded her. Mia rubbed her face, starting from the slit-like nostrils she had in place of a nose, before paling her whole face as she hung her head slightly. I was struck by how human she looked. Despite the fangs, the snakelike eyes and the lack of ears, Mia resembled a human, at least in my eyes, much more than I did, and was more beautiful than most. But, hell, she''d have looked more human than me even if she''d had a muzzle instead of a humanlike mouth, not to mention hotter. I just had one of those faces. ''Just to be clear: I''m not saying our relationship''s isn''t gonna get better. Just that I''m surprised it''s worked well so far.'' ''Thank...you?'' I ventured, getting her to smile behind her hand. before she lowered it. Mia was still in her ARC uniform, a pair of combat pants, boots and black turtleneck with the flaming shield symbol of the Drake division marked in white over her heart. The clothes had been modified to accommodate her wings and tail, which moved slightly behind her, passing through subtle openings in the back of her sweater and trousers. You sure they modified the uniform for her tail and not that ass? my worse half muttered, latching onto my comment. Quiet, you, I told it, not trying to hide my smile. Mia took it as further encouragement, because she resumed talking. ''I guess we should start with the elephant in the room, right?'' ''That''s a roundabout way of su-'' ''Nuh-uh,'' my girlfriend said, playfully punching my shoulder. ''You already used that one.'' That''s one thing you never tell me in bed, I thought. ''Whatcha mean, nuh-uh?'' ''Nuh-uh, David. Stop recycling old stuff. That''s my job.'' ''Alright,'' I said. The banter was a sign things weren''t that bad (said every guy who then ended up in the doghouse). ''So...this big problem.'' Mia met my eyes with an effort, and damn if that didn''t make me check myself. What had she seen on my face to make her uncomfortable about anything? ''I haven''t been with anyone else yet,'' she said, voice hoarser than usual. ''And I know you said you don''t mind. That''s a relief, sweetie, I promise - but I still feel like I''m gonna hurt you when it happens.'' Oh, that was it. I was gonna sound like a patronising shithead if I told her she was too great to worry about that crap, but it was the truth. ''I mean...what do you want me to say?'' I looked aside, lips pulling back from my fangs. ''I''m pissed I can''t please you all the time, and I''ll never not be. That''s just what I''m like.'' I looked back at her, meeting her ruby gaze. ''But you''ll never have to worry about me loving you less or, God forbid, lashing out at you, Mia. So you can lay that fear to rest. I can handle it.'' Mia hugged me close to her broad chest, leaning forward to whisper into my ear. ''I know it must look ridiculous from outside. Everyone sleeping with a zmeu has to go through...tch. Not everyone,'' her eyes darkened, ''but most of them.'' ''Mia - you know I hate giving you orders, but I''m going to repeat myself: I''m not going to let you change what you are because you''re afraid you might offend me. Is that clear? There''s no need, and I don''t want you to. I wish your instincts didn''t pull you along like this, but I don''t want some quack to fiddle with your mind and make you stop thinking like a zmeu, either. Yes, it makes no damn sense. I''m aware. But I don''t want you cutting out what makes you you, just because your boyfriend''s stuck in the Middle Ages and thinks monogamy is the shit.'' I raised a finger. ''And - though it doesn''t affect my decision, mind - the way Nacht offered to do it still makes me feel slimy, because it knew there was a stupid part of me that wanted that, even if it will never end up in charge.'' Mia chuckled darkly. ''Yeah, Nacht''s an arsehole. Reminds me of this lil'' nightmare road trip back in middle school - I gotta tell ya sometime.'' ''Was it at that museum dedicated to how the communists reeducated problematic paranormals?'' ''Yep. I''d have never thought those things had once been zmeoaice if the guide hadn''t told us.'' Her grin was dry as she looked at me. ''Don''t wanna end up as some overgrown scaleless lizard with twisted knees and no desires of my own in my head. Used to have these nice dreams about you getting sick of my lusts and deciding to put an end to ''em, made a nice balance to the ones about you killing me in a fit of rage.'' I gave her a dry look. ''What, did you read the Stepford Wives when I wasn''t looking or something? I told you, just because it''s satire, doesn''t mean the writing''s worth a damn.'' Maybe I was just being humourless, but I really couldn''t stomach stories that ended with decent people being mutilated for no reason, physically or otherwise. Mia showed her fangs in a sarcastic grin. ''I''m past the age where I have bad dreams about make-believe stuff, David. If I ever need nightmare material, I''ll open a history book.'' ''I''m not holding my breath. You need about as much sleep as I do.'' The difference being that she could actually go to sleep when relaxed enough. ''You''re not holding your breath because you don''t need to.'' ''Yes, I just proved how lame jokes in this vein are. Can we move past it?'' I held up my hands. ''Listen, Mia: nothing is going to change between us, no matter how many flings you have. It''s not like you''re going to fall in love or have children with someone else, and that''s what actually matters to me.'' My strigoi side''s voice mixed with mine, creating a multilayered sound. ''It doesn''t matter who you are with for a few short weeks, months, years...or a lifetime. You''re still ours. And we, yours.'' As I rose and began to pace across the room - a four-dimensional extension of the dimensionless space that was the Keep. made for Mia''s benefit - she drew her legs to herself, as close as she could come to laying her chin on her knees. ''So...you do want kids.'' She didn''t question the possibility, or lack thereof, of them coming to be. Because it was only impossible right now, as she saw time. I''d shared my idea with her - less of a longshot than the moment of unity, thought it had me about as wired, because it was more personal. I''d told her that, yes, I could find a way to bypass the infertility common to undead, though it would take something of mine, not to mention restore every other undead''s fertility; and trust me, you didn''t want some of those people to start building families, and not just because they''d make shitty parents. ''Not right now, baby. It''s not like we don''t have eternity before us, anyway.'' She gave a small nod. ''Can I be honest? I don''t really care for the idea right now, either. We''re young, as immortals go. I don''t think I''ll be up for it for the next few...millennia, at least.'' I turned to her, spreading my arms. ''And that is perfectly fine. I know our opinions are supposed to matter equally, but it''s not like I''d be the one giving birth or laying eggs, so I''m not going to push you. Not even after I trust myself not to be an aloof deadbeat.'' Which would take longer than Mia wanting to be a mom, mark my words. Mia sighed, staring don at nothing. ''It''s not that I don''t want...I mean, I''m not opposed to having any. I just don''t wanna tie myself down with responsibilities right now. I wanna come back from work to fun, not more work.'' Her voice was almost subdued as she continued. ''And it''ll take a lot of work to be a good mom if I ever become one, instead of seeing my hatchlings as noisy roommates. But we already talked about how you don''t want me to change myself, so...'' I leaned against the wall at her self-deprecating tone. ''Mia, I know my mad sex skills have your head spinning, but we haven''t even been together for a year. It will take a while before we even get engaged, alright? Much less married.'' I don''t know who was more shocked, honestly. Me, that a woman like her was willing to give me the time or day, or her, because I wanted something serious and didn''t see her as a hussy. Smiling demurely at the reference to my prowess in the bedroom, like the proper lady she was, Mia said, ''Right. Just hoping you''re not planning to propose to me in public or something mortifying like that.'' ''I''d say I expected you to be too confident to get embarrassed by anything, but I know better.'' With a look even more solemn than my voice, I added, ''You have hidden depths.'' Her smile thinned, but the earlier glowing blush returned. ''Thank you.'' ''Well hidden.'' I wiggled my eyebrows. ''But I know how to reach them.'' And that was how I got a pillow thrown at me for the second time since we''d started dating. She''s a monster, man, but I love her enough to forgive her cruelty. Have you noticed our zmeu is much more casual about matters of the body than those of the heart? About at the same time I noticed you talk like a hack''s self-insert. What?! An incel''s, probably. Mi mi mi, "matters of the heart". You have no idea what you''re talking about, my worse half sneered. Bro, if we didn''t share a body, you''d be so single. As it descended to the depths of my mind to sulk, I picked up the pillow and tossed it back at Mia, who laid back on the bed after it landed on her chest. Managing to push down my jealousy at said pillow, I said, ''Since we''re sharing our darkest thoughts and all that, and you started, I might as well reciprocate.'' Mia propped herself up on one elbow, moving the pillow so that it laid on a generous hip, and looked at me with one eye closed. ''Don''t tell me you wanna be a dad because the other you was.'' I blinked as if slapped. ''...Would you mind not implying I''m ever gonna do anything because I wanna follow in that sad bastard''s steps? Cuz I don''t,'' I said tensely. ''Thank you.'' Mia winced. ''Sorry, that came out wrong. I know you wanna do everything better than he did, so-'' ''What, including starting a family?'' I flicked a hand. ''That''s not something you''re supposed to make a competition of. If we ever become parents, it will be because we both want to be, not because of whatever our other selves did.'' Maybe I should tell Mia about the other Keeper me, one day. We really didn''t have that much in common. ''No...forget him. He''s gone. I wanted...I need to talk about what I almost did.'' In moments, Mia was sitting again and I was at her side once more. I inhaled, using the moment to gather my thoughts, but before I could say anything, Mia placed a clawed finger under my chin, using it to tilt my head her way. ''No stressing over my reaction, you hear? It''s over and done, and I''m still here. That should tell you something.'' ''That your taste is even worse than I thought?'' I laughed at myself. ''I mean, hell, I realised you''re tasteless the moment you started sleeping with me-'' ''You''re babbling, David,'' she pointed out calmly. ''Right.'' I began wringing my hands absentmindedly. ''I''m never going to forgive myself for it. I''m not going to hide behind the reveal of creation as a Dream, or claim there was a point in getting pissy over learning what happened to Chernobog.'' He and his brother hadn''t been the first gods to refuse the creation defined by the Syncretic Treaty, and be mostly forced into irrelevance. ''I just used that as more material to rant about to Uriel - I didn''t care what had happened to Belobog, and bringing up something like that just to have another reason to scream was dishonest.'' A rumble rose from Mia''s chest. ''I imagine you''re not going to apologise to Uriel, though.'' ''Fuck me, no. He''s a blackhearted bastard who revels in genocide. Like if I never got out of that dark mood, except I didn''t get happy about destroying everything.'' I closed my eyes. ''I just didn''t care. Thought if nothing was real, nothing that happened mattered; besides, wasn''t it all, every action, part of a dream.'' I grunted. ''Solarex used to think the same, and look at him now.'' Mia made a rude noise. ''Right, because your first reaction to learning about that was to turn into a genocidal serial rapist. Be serious, David. You were never as bad as that shiny prick.'' ''I still shouldn''t have planned to do that. I should''ve been thinking about how reality is relative, how lower dimensions appear fictional to the inhabitants of higher ones, and-'' ''Ok, stop.'' Mia slapped her hands on her thighs. ''You planned to do what? From what you told me, everything would''ve collapsed anyway, and only didn''t ''cause you stepped up. That''s what you told me.'' I looked her in the eyes. ''That''s right. And I shouldn''t have thought about standing by when I was needed because I''d been through shit. That''s the same reason I couldn''t keep a cool head.'' I grit my fangs, grimacing. ''I can''t afford to throw tantrums like that now, and I definitely couldn''t then. I''m not entitled to putting my hatreds over everyone''s lives. I just wish I''d accepted that earlier.'' Mia was quiet for a few moments, then said, ''Don''t know if I''d have got to that point in your place. Between Chernobog''s bullshit and the conspiracy around you...eh. I''d say I''d have gone crazy, but there''s a decent chance I''d have killed myself. Definitely wouldn''t want to meet a me who lived through that, wanted to keep doing so, and was sane.'' I stared up at her, saying nothing. ''I''m not saying entertaining omnicide wasn''t a total dick move, David - I''d be concerned if you ever started brushing it off. But it seems awfully convenient, for them, that the assclowns who elected themselves to groom you could only do so by breaking you down then slapping you back together, and doing so without being caught until after the fact.'' I rolled a shoulder. ''The Mover''s Dream. Or its hand at work now, I guess.'' ''From what you told me, the Mover is the biggest dick in the history of existence. Everyone could be living in paradise now and only imagining what struggling is like if it didn''t pop a stiffy watching people work themselves to the bone for what it could make with a finger snap.'' Before I could reply, she groaned, almost roared. ''This is why I''ve never prayed, and I''m not planning to start, either.'' Her voice took on a high pitch. ''Oh, the gods will guide you to plenty, they swear, as long as you do exactly as they say. I''m not going to trade favours just to ensure a spot for my soul. Maybe it''s a human thing, but I''m not scared of death. I''m not that mortal.'' ''No, really, tell me what''s on your mind,'' I snarked, earning a lazy, narrow-eyed stare. ''You don''t have to worry about that, Mia. Your soul will end up with me, like all the godless ones. Nothing will change.'' She hugged me close with one, kissing my cheek. ''I know you''re going to take care of me,'' she whispered. ''Now, why don''t you follow your own advice?'' ''I''ve never been good at that,'' I answered. ''Do you want to know why I went around asking everyone but you if they wanted to live? Because I knew you did, but was too much of a damn coward to face you.'' Half of Mia''s mouth curved downwards. ''The man I love is not a coward, and has never been. But what does that have to do with being bad at following your own advice? You just admitted-'' ''Yeah, but I never practised what I preached until it was too late. You know what I mean.'' Oh, yes, I''m content with my lot. I have where to live, what to eat, what to work. I have several close friends and a loving father, b-but my books aren''t liked by people I''ll never meet, much less ever care about. Better kill myself! Daily, I looked back on that choice and cringed. How could I have been so selfish and not give a damn about what pops an my friends would think? Or, for that manner, how could I not have taken the risk of returning as a strigoi into account? Which did happen. If not for my relative lucidity after undeath, I would''ve rampaged. Even leaving the danger aside, what if pops had been forced to kill me? Stupid, stupid...and so weak-willed, giving in to despair because I didn''t have something I wanted. Entering ARC and learning how some people had lived and still decided to help the world had been humbling. Or how about a promise I''d made to myself? When I''d advised myself to always see the good side of things? I guess that didn''t matter for shit either, when I got sick of existing and decided I might as well let everyone be dragged along. If there hadn''t been people to talk me out of it, I''d have done it. Which brought me back to Mia''s point. Her nostrils flared, small flames shining inside them. ''Yes, I know. So you were an ungrateful moron - you shuld be happy you got chances to make amends, make things better.'' She held up a finger. ''But don''t change the subject, David. I can tell you''re more bothered by how you avoided me than I am. So?'' I leaned forward, hugging myself. ''As I said, I knew you''d tell me you wanted to go on, and that it was stupid to decide for others, no matter how hurt I was.'' I should''ve asked myself, even while I was doing it: why am I running from Mia? Am I scared of her, scared she''ll be ashamed of me, angry at me? Do I want to draw things out for as long as possible, so everyone dies without me doing anything? Or am I just unprepared to confront the fact that, if my girlfriend tells me she doesn''t want to die, I have to either stop - to my displeasure - or keep doing, essentially telling her that her opinion doesn''t matter? Mia caught all those thoughts, of course, felt them trail across the aether. ''Goddamnit, David,'' she murmured, rubbing my back, one hand moving in circles. ''You should''ve come to me, and I''d have helped. Did you think I wouldn''t have? You couldn''t have been scared of me...'' Her voice grew firmer. ''Look at me, David.'' As I did so, she continued, ''If I''d have said no, would you have stopped and listened? Or would you still have gone on to ask everyone you talked with? I like to think,'' she added in a deadpan tone, ''that you wouldn''t have just ignored me.'' ''I couldn''t have,'' I admitted. ''I care too much. I don''t know what I wanted. Maybe to see if there were people worth fighting for, besides you and the others.'' My zmeu needed no clarifications. ''But that feels so fucking stupid, in hindsight. So what if everyone else was a complete scumbag? It wasn''t like I could''ve chosen to let them perish and save those close to me. And I shouldn''t have wanted to, anyway. It''s not up to me to choose how they live.'' I looked up at her. ''I''m glad you don''t hate me, even if it makes me feel guilty as sin to love you, touch you, after that.'' Mia sniffed. '' "You are a better woman than I deserve, but then, anything is better than nothing, eh? Eh?" '' I boggled at her. ''Is that nasal voice supposed to be mine? And I don''t talk like that!'' ''Of course you don''t, darling.'' She''s patronising you, human. I noticed. Not that there was a problem with that. I did sound ridiculously maudlin, some-most of the time. ''So...'' I began after gathering my thoughts. ''It seems you''re about as optimistic as I''m full of love for myself,'' I joked. ''I''m open to ideas, if you''ve got any suggestions for improvement.'' Her tail swished irritably, twitching upwards as she spoke. It was not a gesture directed at me, but rather, a nervous tic that manifested when she couldn''t find a solution to a problem. ''Might as well clear the air since we''ve started, right?'' So, we did. Decided to play questions and answers: she''d ask something and I''d answer, then reverse the process. Helping questions were added, since neither of us cared much for the rules we''d set, except the broadest one, the order. Mia started. ''I know you don''t find me domineering, but you can always tell me if you feel I''m emasculating you. You know that, right?'' she asked, sounding sheepish. ''I''ve scared off a few girlfriends and one boyfriend away by coming on to them too strongly early after a hookup.'' I gave her a considering look. ''Would any of them happen to be the cause of those marks you insisted weren''t from fights back in tenth grade? The ones that coincided with your concentration plummeting?'' Mia glowered. ''I didn''t say it was always unintentional.'' ''Mhm...'' ''Look, I took care of that shit. Got tired of getting burned in both senses of the word.'' Interesting. Zmei being immune to heat, that suggested acid or the like. ''Are you really gonna bring up high school? You know it makes things weird for both of us.'' True, but it was a good way to get to the next point. ''Yes, it does, and I''m sorry. But I''m also glad you don''t find us awkward as a whole.'' Mia''s eyes darkened as she remembered the party I''d helped ARC organise, even as her smirk brightened. ''Oh, no need. You''ve got so many people doing that, I couldn''t bear to steal their thunder.'' According to some of my newly-declared detractors, I was a pedophiliac piece of shit who''d been grooming Mia since ninth grade, and who''d followed on that by stalking her after graduation, before finally capitalising on a moment of weakness on her part, making her feel responsible for me after she''d brought me back from the dead. It was funny. Their version of me seemed way more competent than I was, though for all the wrong reasons. ''They obviously don''t know what a pain in the neck you were for most of high school. The only reason I didn''t throw you out of a window was because you could fly.'' Class, describe the most important, for you, change your supernatural body went through during puberty. Motivate your answer. What did Mia write? "Go answer go!" She giggled, guessing the memory by the look on my face. ''You thought it was funny, admit it. Just because you nearly tore my paper and your desk in half doesn''t mean you didn''t.'' ''I was actually disappointed by such a bright girl squandering her grades for the sake of jokes.'' Her face grew more serious. ''Ah, shite...I passed, didn''t I? The past''s the past. Like how we got together. People should be way more worried about why I''m robbing the cradle and obviously stringing a skinny old corpse along.'' Her eyes were predatory as she said this, but her tone took all the bite out of her words. ''I don''t know, Mia. What if their souls end up with me? I''ll have to take care of them, provide the afterlives they deserve. And for that, I''ll have to learn about them. Intimately.'' ''David.'' ''What?'' I asked innocently, as the weapon rack that had mysteriously appeared next to me disappeared just as mysteriously. ''You know I love meeting new people and getting to know them.'' ''No, you don''t,'' Mia said dismissively. ''You think people who annoy you should pay to talk and have a mute button.'' ''I thought we all wish that. No?'' I looked around, seeing only the most beautiful being in creation. ''Just me? Alright.'' ''Just you,'' she confirmed, with her usual crushing honesty. ''Might want to mention it next time you update your book, in an inner monologue, maybe.'' ''I never miss a chance to brood more than usual, especially with a good reason,'' I said fiercely, making her crack a smile. ''And, hey, talking about the book, you can always write some chapters of your own, if you want.'' ''Yeah, I do kind of come across as a satellite character, don''t I? Even in the sections focused on me, or when we''re not together. And I wrote those.'' ''Well, biographies never really manage to convey the full character of a person,'' I reminded her. ''Even in the case of chumps like me.'' ''Are you sure you''re not just a bad writer?'' she asked, peering dimly at me. ''Mia, please. That''s the one thing I''ll never have to verify,'' I said dismissively, and leaned into her touch as she took my right hand into her larger, rougher one. ''The one thing?'' Mia asked, eyes gleaming with mock-offence. I chuckled. ''Besides how much I love you, obviously.'' * * * Mia was unsurprised to find Constantin in the Urziceni church. She was, however, a bit taken off-guard upon being told he was also manifesting somewhere else, and not to rub elbows with religious bigwigs at some function, as she''d expected, but to, essentially, dictate his thoughts to the Archangel Gabriel. ''It does me good to share some things with my brother,'' God''s Mouth added in Constantin''s voice after the explanation. ''And he enjoys conveying information of a less vital nature, for once.'' Constantin''s verger, an energetic young woman the zmeu wouldn''t have minded getting to know better, was making herself busy in another part of the building, though Mia could feel her love from the priest all the way from there. She looked up to him as if Constantin were her actual father, who she wished had resembled him more. Mia could agree with the sentiment, though Constantin insisted on reminding his verger about respecting her father''s memory, and not making up some competition or considering him replaced. After being told about her heart to heart with David, God''s Mouth had nodded approvingly. ''That''s great news, you two!'' He clasped his hands, a section of the flame making up his face flaring brighter. A smile? ''You have my blessing, of course, whenever you want to make the next step, as well as any aid I can offer.'' Mia wrapped him into a grateful hug, managing not to give Uriel a piece of her mind. ''Thank you, pops~'' she replied warmly. ''But we''re not in any hurry. In fact, David wanted to know if you wouldn''t like to hang out, slow down for a while.'' Though curious why his son hadn''t asked him directly, Constantin agreed with the proposal. ''Of course. We''ll have to discuss what you have in mind. I know I can get tiring, especially lately, with two voices in my head.'' Mia put the priest down and, shortly after, they were strolling around the church, though the zmeu was sure God''s Mouth had left a replica inside, just in case. ''Well, a little birdie told me you''ve been encouraged to shoot your shot again, but I won''t pry. I''d like to meet,'' Mia''s voice deepened, becoming sagely, ''the chosen one, anytime you want to introduce us. Provided you hit it off, naturally.'' Constantin''s stride became shorter, his back bending until his small silhouette, swaddled in the black and crimson cloth he always wore when he wasn''t wearing Uriel''s modified armour, resembled a man his age. ''You probably know each other already,'' he said in an unreadable voice. ''But she and I are barely acquaintances at the moment, so I won''t bother her to take time out of her schedule too soon.'' He stroked his storm cloud of a beard, crimson sparks dancing within it at his touch. ''As for hanging out...I do want to have some discussions I should have, but never managed to. We always think we''ll have time...'' Sidestory: The Zhayvin Files: Vampires
Classification: hemovorous necromorphic aberrants. Colloquial name: vampires. Origin: the original vampire is Primus, who was cursed, in a multi-pantheon punitive in action, in retaliation for violently murdering his young daughter, a potential champion of and mediator between the pantheons. Primus would go on to turn various early humans, but, finding this first generation of children unsatisfactory, the Bloodfather would destroy or otherwise dispose of them by various means, before turning new humans, who would go on to sire vampires themselves. The process of turning involves a vampire biting a the neck of a human, animal, mage or psychic and drinking some of their blood. This bears significant metainformational weight and results in resurrection moments after the being dies. Description: vampires vary in appearance, but all of them sport a certain unnatural paleness, along with black-slit crimson eyes, the red iris covering the sclera in stressful or emotional moments. It has been observed that the amount of melanin in one''s skin dictates their appearance as a vampire, as humans of a darker complexion will have grey skin, as opposed to the chalk-white hide of vampires who were fair-skinned in life. Animals vary in appearance more, but all of them are affected by a pallor that could trick an unaware observer into thinking they are sickly. Human vampires possess centimetres-long fangs, while vampiric animals either keep their fangs or grow rows of them in defiance of their anatomy. Behaviour: vampirism enhances the most notable aspects of a being''s personality, which can often lead to strange obsessions or tics. It has been theorised that this obsessive behaviour is the reason vampires cannot help but count large numbers of small objects laid upon the threshold of homes they wish to enter, even if they have been invited. This very need to ask for permission to enter might be a result of Primus'' experiments with his descendants'' collective unconscious. With the Bloodfather''s desire to create a vampiric civilisation, draconian laws are to be expected, given the First Vampire'' known desire for control.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Across history, many vampires turned outcasts, criminals or people dissatisfied with society. As their worst traits were inflame by vampirism, this led to some concluding that vampires are inherently evil or violently insane; in reality, it depends on the vampire. Vampires constantly thirst for blood, a thirst that does not worsen with time but can me momentarily quenched, with the necessary quantity of blood seeming to depend on the vampire; a mouthful of blood is enough to lessen a human vampire''s first for fractions of an hour to multiple hours. Since drinking blood also enhances a vampire''s powers, various blood substitutes that do not strengthen vampires have been developed, as few vampires have the fortitude to drink blood like humans drink water and not lose themselves to their instincts. Much like a were''s beast, a vampire''s thrist, as most refer to it, can vary in terms of self-awareness and free will, but is always looking to take over the vampire''s body. Threat level: regional (fledgling human vampires who have not drunk blood); varies depending on the vampire''s original species and the quantity of blood they have consumed over their unlife. The average vampire can output several hundred gigatons of energy with a single strike, enough to vapourise tens of billions of tons of rock or deal serious damage to countries. They can move and react several thousand times faster than sound, do not feel pain (aside from damage caused by holy power, the only thing they cannot regenerate from) or exhaustion, are immune to non-holy esoteric effects and do not need sustenance, the thirst for blood being purely psychological. Some vampires possess enhanced versions of their species'' common abilities (see attached file: "Lore: Vampirism"), such as hypnosis by means of eye contact, shapeshifting, or the creation of wights by killing beings through means other than biting their throats out. Neutralisation: the Collective is perfecting its ability to channel the pseudo-energy of the theophilic metainformational datacore (colloquially referred to as the Idea of Holiness), as this is the easiest way to bypass a vampire''s durability, regeneration and resistance to esoterics, and we would rather not ask religious organisations for help with every vampire. Otherwise, constantly destroying a vampire''s body is an effective stopgap measure, as it is with most regenerators who cannot move their consciousness while disembodied, a relatively rare ability among vampires. Sidestory: A zmeus worth
Maws rubbed his jaw as he pondered the offer he''d received on his comm. Unbeknownst to him, he wouldn''t be taking care of it today. Well. That was another occupational hazard in action. Life as a mercenary meant you tended to pick up the strangest phrases and use them even when you didn''t meant to or liked them. Why, he''d once adopted the click-filled, song-like speech patterns and provers of the Heirs of Xoant, using them for several years. Not that he''d ever understood half of what their saying meant, but he still liked how the claptrap sounded. Similarly, rubbing his jaw was something a person with only one would have done. Maws, with his ten thousand heads, had fallen on the humanoid tendency to think of the central one as "his head". Some of his enemies had thought that head, with its golden beard, was somehow more durable or important than the surrounding, grey-bearded ones. As if he were the Lernaean Hydra! Still, it was nonsense he liked to spread. It kept idiots focused on heads that weren''t any more important to him than any other body part. A grown zmeu, barring certain regeneration nullifiers, had to be dismembered, with the pieces kept apart by force, just to prevent rapid regeneration. Otherwise, if you diced a zmeu up, the pieces would stitch themselves back together in short order, if they were any larger than a grain of dust. Maws had once heard a zmeu sorcerer, addicted to the sound of his own voice, say that if you reduced a zmeu to just one piece, it would regrow into the zmeu. Since that could not happen to him and he''d never seen such a situation...well. It didn''t seem farfetched. Maybe it was related to the principle that meant a beheaded zmeu had to wish for their head of head to regrow, which only happened automatically if the old head was obliterated. Talking about merc work...void, the people he met sometimes... The Xoantites, at least, had been more welcoming, and funnier, than the Xoantans who''d preceded and built them. The aliens hadn''t even deigned to communicate with him themselves, instead making their machine-children do so. After a handful of gigs, which he believed had been intended to prove how reliable he was more than to achieve anything important, one of the Xoantites - an untiring knight of quicksteel, with the heart of a shackled star and blood of lightning - had told him its builders hadn''t wanted to risk being intimidated by interacting with Maws. The zmeu snorted at the memory. Nearly a dozen billion years had passed, but he''d never forget how cowardly that had struck him as. He knew he wasn''t exactly the most pleasant being in existence, but he also knew that the Xoantans had possessed the means to meet him face to face, if they''d wanted. Talking to him via comms, however, would have meant leaving their more than literal comfort zone, and the walls they''d raised between that and the rest of existence would''ve never allowed them that. The metaphorical walls, that was. As unbelievable as the cowardice had been, alright, not like it''d affected him in anyway. The Xoantans hadn''t been the first pussies to hire him, nor the last. But the advice they''d given him when he''d left had been downright ridiculous, in an insulting way. It had been delivered through their machines, too, of course. The Xoantans, impressed by his skills, had suggested Maws should find a way to preserve his legacy: the stories about him, his skills, the wealth he''d gained. But that had been their fear of death and pain (any inconvenience, really) talking, The League of Xoant had crafted constructs to do everything for them: work, defence, war, entertainment, exploration, diplomacy. Nearly an eon of exposure to the cosmos had convinced them of its cruelty and perils, and they''d retreated into their shells, with nonconformists few and far between. All because they''d wanted to preserve themselves and what was theirs, unto eternity. Even after the Xoantans had faded into blissful obsolescence, then oblivion, their machines had kept their culture alive in museums, though it had only relatively decently become something they did because they wanted to. Maws had laughed scornfully at the suggestion, before leaving. Even now, the thought made his lip curl. Father or make children just to keep him and what he had alive? It would''ve made him feel like a parasite. Maws might not have cared much about his sons (those were his zmeu instincts at work, he''d have said if asked; he almost liked them as people), but he''d have never asked them to waste their lives looking after this. He hated caretakers. Heh. Not that such a thing was likely to happen, even if he changed his mind. Maws was quite certain the hatchlings hated his guts, with the dog''s meal he''d made of the last attempt at being fatherly. Even if he''d gone against the grain by accepting his son''s request for help, the result had shown him he still didn''t have it in him to be a good parent, not that he likely ever would, even if he''d wanted to be. Ah, well. He couldn''t bring himself to care about his son''s opinions any more than he''d start following the Xoantans'' advice. Maws leaned back until his back touched the ground and crossed his arms under his head, sighing. Zmeu country was always there for him to return to, the one constant in his life, for even the Underdweller couldn''t always be with him: he respected her to much to spend time around her while sleeping with another woman. But his home would never be barred from him by anything. ''Why are you naked?'' Maws cracked open a few thousand eyes, halfheartedly glaring at the zmeu standing a ways away from his feet, arms crossed. ''Because I''m not wearing anything,'' he said drily. ''And why is that?'' she asked, flying closer until she was hovering above his eyes. Maws could''ve wrapped around Earth several times, even discounting the length of his tails, and she''d crossed that distance in a fraction of a second. She was faster than most zmei he knew, certainly than most her age. According to his arcane sense, she was in her early twenties. Crossing two arms under his heads, Maws opened all is eyes, staring at the woman. Her orange-yellow scales gleamed dully in zmeu country''s sun, and her black-slit red eyes were narrowed in amused mockery. Her surprisingly elegant eyebrows, a duller red, were quirked. ''What''s the point of clothes?'' he asked back. ''I don''t have anything to hide, and I don''t need protection from any environment. I can make my own, if I want to.'' ''Yeah, about the first...'' she put one hand on a cocked hip. ''What happened to your...equipment?'' Maws snorted. ''Why let any passing arsehole take a swing at it instead of keeping it retracted?'' The hatchling looked bemused at that. ''I''ve literally never heard of a male zmeu doing that,'' she said flatly. ''Not out of combat, anyway. Are you serious?'' He gave her an incredulous look. She was starting to bore him, in an annoying way. ''What''s that supposed to mean? Do you think I care enough about you to lie? I don''t even know you, girl.'' She held up her hands in a pacifying gesture. ''No, no, it''s just...I was this close to losing that bet with Lucian. I guess you just act dickless.'' Maws was to his feet in a blink, but his punch, more power than a hypernova in a far more concentrated package, was deflected her wards. Tch...magic this powerful, at her age? Did zmeu country have another prodigy on its hands? He certainly hoped not, with what a pain in the arse the last one had been before becoming merely annoying. ''You know, I don''t appreciate it when people trash talk my friends and try to kill me for calling them out,'' the hatchling said in an even voice. Maws'' nostrils flared as his eyes danced with the joy of upcoming bloodshed. ''Watch it, you little bitch. Don''t think I can''t kill you if I put my mind to it.'' ''I wouldn''t do that in your place. I think you''d feel kind of stupid to see me being resurrected while you get a one-way trip to the worst dungeon in DEATH Keep.'' What the...ah. Ah! This must have been Silva''s woman, the mate of the one they called Keeper. Apparently the latest in a line of unhinged bastards who ran the afterlife for the godless in the aether. He''d heard about him while shooting the shit with a few of his acquaintances. There had been a surprising number of mercenaries from Earth at this meeting, both because he''d never met some and because most of the vets weren''t social animals. Hmm... ''Oh,'' Maws drawled, eyes hooded. ''You''re the whore of DEATH''s whore - or is he the Mover''s? I''m surprised such a pair of two-timing bitches can stand each other. Are you trying to make up for putting the horns on him, or has that not happened yet?'' Mia scoffed. ''I''ve heard worse things from nicer men, fossil. Pretty impressive coming from a thug for hire. I bet you find all the time you need to come up with jibes for people who contribute something to existence in between paychecks. Do you practise them in the mirror? I''m,'' she lowered her voice to perform a phlegmy rendition of his, ''surprised an old man with no balls can talk shit that mad, though.'' By now, Maws was growling, each power-laced sound that left his throat packing enough power to pulverise any planet. ''Why are you here? Did you get bored of your toy and come to annoy me?'' ''Are you deaf or just stupid?'' Mia snarled back. ''I just told you.'' Maws made a dismissive sound. ''And what friend of yours did I insult?'' He thought for half a zeptosecond, running through memories of the hatchling (he''d never met her), then of people they both knew, who might have mentioned her...one of the mercs? ''Anyway,'' he continued a sextillionth of a second later, ''even if I have, why aren''t they here? Are you defending their honour while they hide behind you, just like how you threatened me with what your lover would do?'' Mia rolled her eyes. ''Gods, you really are a giant cunt, aren''t you? I thought you just had son issues, but I see they weren''t exaggerating.'' Mia flew up so that she was between his central head''s eyes. ''I''m going to have a talk with Aaron later, but let''s be fair: no one has ever accused him of knowing how to read a room. Mostly the opposite, else he wouldn''t have got stuck as an Admiral in a country with one opening to a sea.'' She shook her head, as if to forget something, and stared back up at him. ''You don''t give a damn about what you did, don''t you? I bet you don''t even see a mistake.'' Maws began walking away, hundreds of thousands of kilometres of soil that made steel look like air crumbling into dust in all directions with every step. ''Why don''t you enlighten me? Seems to me you''re very eager to put that mouth to anything but practical use - I''m not with anyone at the moment, by the way,'' he added with a series of winks. ''You can stop leering, creep,'' Mia replied with a slight grimace. ''I know it must be difficult for you, not thinking with what''s between my legs, but I''d rather tough it out than sleep with whoever and complicate things for the rest of my life.''Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ''What''s that supposed to mean?'' the older zmeu asked, genuinely interested, if mildly. ''I don''t sleep with friends, including friends who share my urges. Too much potential for awkwardness, and I''d rather not confuse people I only love as the siblings I never had. I don''t sleep with friends'' parents, either, for similar reasons.'' ''Ah!'' Maws exclaimed. ''The youngest one! You know him? So what''s the matter?'' Mia huffed. ''The matter is that you came in at one of the worst moments in his life, when he was powerless to find the woman he loved, and basically told them their relationship doesn''t matter, because they can''t always be together. That their love is a joke because their instincts push them to sleep around, as if that makes it less genuine.'' She gave him an unimpressed look. ''I''ve heard this opinion before, but you''d think a zmeu would know better.'' Maws laughed. ''My wife''s the only reason our relationship works, and I''ve never pretended otherwise. But if even one half can''t keep what matters pure, then why continue the sham? Better not start it in the first place.'' ''That''s certainly a point of view,'' Mia said tartly. ''It''s a fact. And it''s not my fault he couldn''t find his woman. What was preventing him from using that mace of his to destroy the distance between them, or whatever was stopping him from reaching her?'' ''What wasn''t?'' Mia asked. ''Listen: creation might have changed, that might not have happened, but we still remember the timeline where it did. No one involved is any different.'' ''I fail to see how that''s relevant-'' ''It''s not the only thing you fail at. You made a deal for power and forgot about anything else...oh, my bad!'' Mia facepalmed in mock-realisation, a sarcastic grin on her face. ''That and fucking you way across creation! Blazes, but you''re something. Three chances to learn to pull out, and you still haven''t gotten the knack.'' Her expression darkened. ''Don''t talk as if you ever understood the forces at play. No one could''ve done whatever they wanted in those moments, or you''d best believe your son would''ve done everything you suggested, and more. He loves Bianca.'' ''Spare me,'' Maws rumbled. ''No, you listen to me.'' Mia was suddenly above him, knocking him down with a spinning kick that split his central head open and pulped the neck. ''I''m not saying you''re completely useless, but even if you''d never become a father? There would have been others to fight in your sons'' places, to guide me. Fixer would''ve arranged it - ask you wife.'' Who the hell was Fixer...? ''You-'' The younger zmeu throttled him with one hand, claws sinking into his regenerating throat before throwing his body, heavier than any planet, away. Maws flew, crossing three hundred thousand kilometres in a second, before crashing into and through the ground. A mass equal to a dozen Jupiters slammed through the landscape with more force than ten supernovas, and Maws grunted. He felt as if he''d punched himself. He got up in an instant, his innate durability more than enough to endure such power with nothing more than cracked scales - no need for the power he''d gotten from the pact. Now, he had the girl''s measure. He''d thought letting her throw him had been enough for her to vent, but she still looked as irate as before. ''Don''t mock him again,'' Mia held up a warning finger. ''As far as their natures allow? They''re practically married, in every way that matters. He has vowed to always be there for her, so you don''t get to disparage what they have just because you''re screwing an Escher painting that has to be prompted to hug and confuses affection with curiosity.'' Maws roared. ''Don''t you dare bring her into thi-'' ''Raise your voice at me again and you die,'' Mia promised flatly. ''I''ve got weapons and monsters that have never existed, because they were torn from history. You don''t want to join them.'' At that, Maws broadened his arcane sense, but he couldn''t spot anything on or around her, only a general sense of menace. But maybe that had to do with the nature of what she''d mentioned? He''d learned it was better not to underestimate or assume. ''See how it feels?'' she continued. ''The difference is that I actually know what I''m talking about. Don''t confuse the fact the Underdweller likes playing house with the idea she loves you or wants a family. She''s not wired that way.'' ''She is enough for me,'' Maws retorted, not missing a beat. Mia arched an eyebrow, sardonic amusement dripping from her voice. ''But what your son and his girlfriend have isn''t enough? At least Bianca can feel love. Gotta beat having the personality of an exoplanetary rover.'' She laughed. ''Listen, I''m not here to kill you, provided you don''t do anything stupid - a harsh demand, I know.'' Maws let out a bored chuckle. ''Get to the point. So I didn''t tell him what he wanted to hear, didn''t indulge his nonsense.'' He spread his arms. ''So what? Other zmei wouldn''t have gone to talk at all. Some would kill their hatchlings and spare them no more thought than they would an ant.'' ''Do you want some head pats for being dad of the year? I''m not sure I have that much time,'' Mia said. ''I''m here because I can''t just let a colossal bastard and a bigger hypocrite than you just walk away from that. Lucian might be more forgiving than me; good for him. He''s always managed to detach himself from what doesn''t hurt him. Guess I''m too hotheaded,'' she said with a self-deprecating smile, shrugging. ''And I couldn''t see you relaxing and having such a good time, after you took a dump on your son''s life and hauled arse without so much as a by your leave.'' ''Who are you, his mother?'' Maws asked contemptuously, bored to tears but aware he''d never get anywhere with this annoying brat on his heels. She was hellbent on ruining his day. Mia clasped her hands. ''Let''s bring that back, shall we? You say you''re in a real relationship because the Underdweller doesn''t sleep around. Ok...let''s say I can imagine only caring about sex, we''re both zmei, but you''re as old as the goddamn universe, or older. How come you still think like a preteen? Rhetorical question,'' she held up a hand, preempting him. ''You''re dumb enough to think your wife going down her interaction checklist equals love because she doesn''t bang other people.'' She took a deep breath, sounding tired, the fabric of her red sleeveless shirt bulging slightly with her muscles. It was narrower around her upper back, with a smaller strip of fabric between her wings. ''I want you to apologise. I spent half the days I worked for Lucas hanging out with Lucian. The man''s practically my uncle...but I get the feeling you don''t care a whit about him, do you?'' she asked, sounding disappointed. ''You know what? Better silence than an insincere apology.'' ''And here I was about to clear my schedule,'' Maws sneered. ''Oh, no need,'' Mia replied in the same tone. ''See, I''m here because I want to check something. Sure, there are a lot of people who''d love to see you dead and most would pay for it, but I don''t think I''ll take that. It would make me too much like you. What I''m interested in is, are you worth keeping around? I''m not working,'' she gestured at her clothes. ''And we try not to be too proactive, anyway; it comes across as paranoid. But I want to know if I should pull any punches in case you become a threat to Earth.'' ''Ha!'' ''So, tell me,'' Mia showed her teeth. ''Do you know how to do anything a monkey couldn''t? Do more than eat, drink, sleep, shit and fight? Because from where I''m standing, you look like a stray dog that''s very easy to goad into biting people you don''t like. I normally wouldn''t care about a meathead like you, but...some of my family does. Even if only those who hate you.'' Oh, good. At least they also wanted to avoid meeting. ''Doesn''t mean they might not pay you a visit too,'' the cow continued, as if reading his thoughts and deciding his day wasn''t bad enough. ''And, besides that, I also want you to prove something to me.'' The audacity...! ''As if you can demand anything from me!'' Maws exclaimed, incredulous, half his heads turning to boggle at her. ''But very well, if it will get you out of my sight. Not like I have anything better to do.'' He crossed his arms. ''What do you want.'' ''I imagine you noticed my spells.'' ''Yes, good wards,'' he said with grudging respect. ''What are you channeling?'' ''My inner - no, you wouldn''t get it.'' She laughed to herself. ''It''s not really sorcery, per se. I don''t have a patron or a focus. I''m...improvising.'' She looked frustrated at something. ''Not that it''s easy to bump into people around here, but we wouldn''t have met if I hadn''t come to you. I don''t have a demesne here.'' ''I''d be surprised if you did,'' he grumbled. That would have been too much. A slip of a girl like her, with a demesne, when she wasn''t even thirty? Most zmei were only able to carve out their own demesnes in zmeu country when they were mature enough, physically and mentally. With how their species was, that could take as much as a century, and usually required several decades. To establish a sub-realm in the supernatural landscape, a zmeu needed to understand themselves and have a strong will besides, though sometimes, such things were intertwined. ''But what does that have to do with anything?'' ''I keep trying to mould the country''s reality into the shapes I want, but it doesn''t take. It''s too malleable. Like trying to keep air in your fist.'' Hm. That was a way to put it. Back when he''d created his demesne, he''d had much of the opposite problem: it had felt like chipping away at a mountain with a spoon, and he''d managed to pull it off thanks to his stubbornness more than anything else. It occurred to Maws that there was some poetic irony, or whatever it was called, to be found there, with how opposed his and the girl''s views were. For some reason, that irked him. It felt too much like the lessons in children''s fables. ''What does that have to do with your magic?'' Maws asked, more insistently this time. ''I was getting to that, you crotchety snake,'' she said, glowering. ''I can''t make anything like a palace, or a workshop, or a barracks.'' Oh, exactly the centres of his sons'' demesnes given as examples? What a coincidence. ''But the country speaks to me, even if it sounds like it''s sleep-talking at the best of times. I can''t make anything stable, but I can channel that power, and it''s endless. The only other limit is my imagination, how much I think I can use at one time. Because I might not be able to raise anything complex out of the country, but I can use what it gives me as a battery. And magic, I know well enough.'' ''Hijacking the country to cast? That is very clever. Do you get ideas like this to compensate for being this weak, or do you just have a lot of free time?'' Maws asked, affecting fascination. To his pleased surprise. she didn''t fly off the handle and start tearing into him. Thank the void, some zmei closer to his age still had hair-trigger tempers, to say less of those her age. It was...refreshing. Instead of raging, Mia gave him a bland smile, before continuing as if he hadn''t said anything. ''I could figure it out on my own, though it would take a while, even with time dilation. So...why not prove you''re good for more than wrecking stuff, and try to be a teacher? You can pretend you''remaking up for the mess you made of that meeting with Lucian.'' Maws sniggered disparagingly. ''It''s pointless. I never faced the obstacles to creating a demesne you say you''ve encountered. Nothing I say could help you. And besides, what''s in it for me? I help you become more powerful, and gain...what? Some memories of the time I wasted?'' ''How about the certainty that if I do have to kill, it probably won''t be for personal reasons?'' she asked in an overly sweet voice. ''I might not even join the guys if they decide to tear you a new one.'' Maws rolled his eyes. ''Girl, they don''t care. You care more than they do - what, don''t you have anything to do, either? If Silva is half as disappointing as I''ve heard, it wouldn''t surprise me.'' ''Sounds to me like you''re scared,'' she goaded. ''Or maybe admitting you''re stupid. If you know you can''t teach or even give advice worth a damn, why''d you even go when Aaron called? You should''ve told him to piss off. It would''ve hurt less.'' Maws felt his lips peeling back from his mountain-sized fangs. ''You just can''t let go of that, can you? What''s it matter to you?'' She looked like she wanted to throw up her hands. ''Do you even talk with anyone besides the Underdweller? Why are you so surprised I''m angry? You went to one of my closest friends and told him he and his girlfriend can''t really love each other because they''re ruled by their lusts? You said that with such confidence, as if you''ve ever felt a thousandth of what they have.'' ''Even if the Underdweller doesn''t love as I do,'' Maws said coldly, ''my heart still beats for her. And that''s enough.'' Mia shook her head, hawking a flaming gobbet of fire-laced spit. It burned a three-kilometre wide hole through the ground in an instant, turning soil to a white-glowing, steaming mess, and kept going. ''It''s actually kind of impressive you can spout bullshit like that, but still look at them and say it''s a joke. For just a moment, forget about the sex: if they were spirits, without bodies, what would you be getting hung up on?'' Maws waved her off. ''Forget it. I''m getting a headache. Return to your inane request.'' ''Why? Didn''t you just tell me to get lost?'' ''What did you expect?'' Maws asked caustically. ''That I''d be so incensed at your insinuations of me being a poor mentor I''d take you up on it? Forget it, hatchling. This is not some asinine story where you get someone to train you by taunting them about how they''re incompetent to manage. As I''d told you, it''s useless.'' Maws closed half of his eyes, clearing his throats. When he resumed speaking, his voice was lighter. ''But I know someone who might manage to help. Even if she can''t, she''s always eager for visitors.'' He leaned closer, mouthing the name without making any sound. Mia''s eyes narrowed as zmeu country shook around her. Maws then turned his back on Mia, spreading his wings as he prepared to fly away. ''And just to make sure you don''t drop in again to be a pain in my necks, I''ll think about what you said.'' Who knew? Maybe clearing the air with his hatchlings, even if just to make sure they had nothing to say to each other from now on, would help. And...he wanted to visit his wife again, as soon as he could without feeling guilty. Maybe he and the Underdweller had some things to talk about, too. Sidestory: The Zhayvin Files: Strigoi
Classification: aethervorous necromorphic aberrants. Colloquial name: strigoi. Origin: the first strigoi was Domna Economou, current de facto leader of the Strigoi Society (referring to the undead organisation; for the strigoi research group of the same name and comparisons between the two, see files). Strigoi undeaths happen when a human, mage or psychic follower of Orthodox Christianity dies while in a state of emotional turmoil or discontent. Suicide also seems likely to trigger the process, but there is obviously overlap, given the context. Romanians belonging to the aforementioned categories who are born with cauls are also more likely to become strigoi upon death, as a result of metaphysical weight pressing upon their metainformational self. Since such Romanians are also believed to be destined for execution, a situation during which few are at peace, it is perhaps unsurprising that they sometimes become strigoi. Description: strigoi possess grey skin and hair, entirely black eyes and white, sharklike fangs. They display their death mark, which can range from a wound that persists despite regeneration to an invisible halo of aberrant energies. Strigoi also possess an obsession with counting small objects placed upon a building''s threshold, something likely related to the way undeath exaggerates certain aspects of their personality as a whole, in a mindless attempt to make them inhumanly focused. Behaviour: Strigoi are predisposed towards violence and sadism, and their response to what would normally eb traumatic for humans is dulled. A strigoi''s instincts strengthen with age and the amount of lifeforce consumed, until they become something akin to a were''s beast or a vampire''s thirst. While strigoi do not hunger, in the human sense, for lifeforce, many find themselves attracted to the energy, and find it more appealing to them than many other diversion, even discounting the certainty of increased power.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. Threat level: regional (newly-risen strigoi who have not fed on lifeforce yet), varies depending on the amount of life drained, with no upper limit. Strigoi rise with the strength to pulverise tens of billions of tons of granite, shrug off similar force and move and react at hypersonic speeds. They do not require rest or sustenance, nor do they feel pain from anything but theomantic artefacts, which are also the only means to nullify their regeneration. Like vampires, strigoi possess the ability to control weather within their area of perception and shapeshift, including into mist or animals traditionally considered sinister. They can also drain beings in their line of sight of lifeforce. This ability improves with age and repeated use, to the point perceiving a being with any sense, or even a depiction of recording of them, is enough to drain them of lifeforce. Strigoi can control the animals associated with them, verbal commands being necessary at first before telepathic ones become enough, as well as see through their senses. They possess similar control over corpses and ghosts, something that has caused friction between them and other undead, something their often predatory, in more ways than one, behaviour has exacerbated. Neutralisation: theomantic force is to be applied for lasting damage. Mundane or non-holy power might be enough to keep fledgling strigoi pinned, as their spirits cannon achieve much without their bodies, but older ones are perfectly capable of manifesting somewhere else while ignoring most attacks. Be aware that, like in the case of most undead susceptible to faithcraft, they are not any more vulnerable than a human would be to mundane weapons. That is to say, cutting a strigoi''s hand off with a holy sword will not make them burst into flames, but instead result in them, at worst, punching you with their offhand. Sidestory: The Creed Ascendant
The Unrealm did not know place or moment, and never had. It could not have been described as crowded or stifling, for it was beyond the bounds of space, nor could anything be new or outdated. And yet, the paradigm shift had everyone feeling caged, as if unseen walls were closing in on them. The Unbeings, like a microcosm of Creation City''s Makers, were not truly separate, as such, but they were not of one mind, either. What they had said to Mocker of the Zhayvin hadn''t been a lie, but it might not have been accurate either, now that they thought about it. Mocker understood their nature better than most beings, but it was not like them, not fully. No Unbeing had ever been outside their union, for such separation was impossible. They were like particles making up a being. Destroying each other was more likely, and would be easier, than anything resembling secession or exile. As such, the Unbeings found themselves at a crossroads. For entities that had always been everywhere they''d known, choosing a path was as alien as they must have looked to those they had once destroyed. The Collective had let them go, without the Unbeings needing to try and break free, and Earth''s Global Gathering had decided they could return to their home, as long as they coordinated with Earth''s institutions should they return. Before their Second Revelation, they had lashed out at anything and everything not of the Unrealm, trying to destroy it in a mad hatred born of a cruder instinct triggered by threats. They had been deemed not liable for their past deeds, having been insane by any measure - though they were sure many would have enjoyed seeing them destroyed regardless. Their timeless minds hadn''t remembered, for some things had always been, once they happened. But now, they relived the eons of pain caused by those they had welcomed with open arms, before their First Revelation. That made them brood, just like the reason for this gathering, though for different reasons. The Unbeings knew, like those bound by gravity knew that things fell when dropped, that DEATH''s Keeper was worthy of worship. How could he not be? Had he not persevered, despite everyone arrayed against them, and devised the plan that had both saved and uplifted creation? Was he not, even now, guiding the Idea of Endings, preventing it from annihilating the godless dead in a mindless rampage little better than their past one? But with faiths often came schisms, and theirs, sadly, was no exception. The problem, obviously, was that - despite being ruthless when those he cared for were slighted - David was a kindly god, who would not accept people so much as insulting each other in his name, much less killing each other. As such, the Faithful had to settle for grumbling about the heretics'' blasphemies as said unbelievers entered hibernation. They had rejected David''s divinity, either because they had come not to believe such a thing existed in general, or because they thought him unworthy of adoration. Poppycock, obviously, but you could not argue with some people. They had believed too, once, before deciding they had the right to judge him, as if they would not have been angered in his place. Pure shamelesness...alas. Perhaps they would return to the light, one day, should they allow themselves to be enlightened once more. With the faithless crawling up their own navels, the Faithful were left to hammer out the details of their beliefs. Clearly, they needed more work, or the next batch of fools would reject them too, remaining blind to the truth. To an observer capable of withstanding the sanity-blasting nature of the Unrealm, the conclave (the name had not been capitalised yet, the gathering had not become an insitution) would have resembling nothing more than a maelstrom, colourless but containing all hues at once, shapeless yet horribly-angled, curving impossibly. The debate would have sounded like an infinity of identical voices, all speaking at once, answered by their echoes. ''The Keeper of Endings is a god,'' one began. ''He is divine, for he can harm any undead beyond recovery. He is worthy of worship, for he saved us all, not being crushed by despair when others would have broken and died.'' ''He cleared our minds, too,'' another Unbeing chimed in. ''Broadened them. Made us see as others did. The memories are gone, yet the thought-shapes linger.'' The first nodded, sweeping its eyeless gaze across the endless ranks of its fellows. ''Is there any doubt, then? The Keeper is our god, and will be that of many. We shall spread the word of his glory, and bear the burden of his enemies hatred.'' If only it were that simple. But an appendage rose, twisting in question? ''Yes?'' the preacher asked in a geavelly tone. ''What if the Keeper does not want us to spread the word of his glory? What if he does not desire veneration?'' The speaker nodded. ''He is modest, yes. Looks inward, our Redeemer. All he wants is prosperity for all, and to raise build a life of joy with his beloved.'' It shrugged. ''It matters not. Even if he forbids us from preaching, he cannot forbid us from believing, for that would be the kind of tyranny he despises.'' ''Yes!'' an Unbeing said, before launching into an entirely different kind of discussion. ''What of the Lady in Flames?'' But the speaker gestured for it to quiet down. They would speak of her, too, and many others. ''All shall be revealed in time,'' it promised. ''Once we lay the groundwork, our minds shall open to the higher mysteries.'' The problem was obvious: David Silva was too humble to feel comfortable being praised, much less prayed to. He would not answer prayers, they knew, for he saw such behaviour as biased, as if favouring his worshippers was anything but admirable. Any attempts to find loopholes were likely to end poorly. Praying for something David was going to do anyway, either in pursuit of his duties or on a whim, and claiming they had been heard once it happened, was all but guaranteed to draw the Keeper''s displeasure. Luckily, the solution was obvious as well: they would be peaceful. They would not preach through blade and fire, but only through words. They would not demand conversion, either, for the seeds of beluef in the hearts of the worthy would bloom on their own. David could not say no to that, surely. As long as they did not slaughter unbelievers and sinners for slighting his divine honour, there would be no reason to reprimand them. So, they could not kill and claim David had driven them to do it. Even praising his name while killing his enemies was likely to put him on edge. ''But how can we live like that?!'' wailed a believer, wracked with grief at having to temper its devotion. ''Why can''t they all see he is meant to be venerated? Why can''t he accept his greatness?'' The one who would come to be called the Hierophant lowered its head in sympathy, heart bleeding at the sight of its shattered spirit. ''It is tragical, yes - but we must be strong! David took the pain caused by the Black God and drew strength from it! Will we prove ourselves lesser than our Redeemer, falling by the wayside?'' It twisted, newly-formed eyes burning with fervour. ''Or will we follow in his footsteps, ascending to stand at his side like gods unto ourselves?'' The qnswering cheer was reassuringly strong. Good, good. They craved Ascension. Who wouldn''t, besides the craven, the foolish and the mad? ''But adoration is not enough!'' the preacher reminded them, roaring to drown out the crowd''s zeal. ''We cannot simply say David is great and call it faith! Magnificent as he is, the Keeper of Endings is not simply to be exalted, but emulated!'' Now, the speaker was among its people, taking in everyone. ''He might not have given us commandments to follow, but it matters not. He leads us by example through the darkness that is existence. How can we do any less than follow that example?!'' A ragged cheer rose in approval, to the speaker''s delight. So were the Deeds of David listed, carved into the consciousness of the Unbeings so they might serve as inspiration. David helped and protected the innocent, regardless of their beliefs; he punished the guilty and broke them through divine torture, that they might recognise their sins and repent, trying to make creation a better place; he was loving to his woman, to his kin and to his fellows. So they would be the same. The Unbeings might not have been inclined towards acting as either guardians or friends - destruction and revenge came easily to them, as they did to David -, but they would shame their god if they did less than he would have in their place. Now, how they lived was important, but why they lived mattered just as much, if not more so, argued a few of the Unbeings. ''We live because the Keeper delivered us!'' bellowed one of the Faithful. ''Delivered us from the chains envisioned by Chernobog, and from the oblivion of the unthinking Mover''s awakening! Hail David!'' ''Praise be!'' the preacher replied, almost reflexively. ''But that is not what I meant. We live to Ascend! We cannot persist shackled as we are, for this is merely survival, not prosperity.'' It folded its limbs, smiling from a trillion needle-fanged mouths, each dwarfing any star, but effectively invisible compared to the expanse of its starfish-like body, for they were separated by stretches of unbroken wrought matter far larger than them. ''We know the macrocosm is not working properly. Itvwas ince the Dream of a blind idiot god, and when said god awakened and opened its eyes, it did not undo everything, for it believes in Ascension through struggle.'' The Mover was an aloof creature, not uplifting people when it could, but it could not be opposed. Not yet. ''LIFE had the opposite problem, and, because it tried to shove apotheosis down unwilling throats, it was broken. We are its cast-offs, punished for its failire, a shadow of what we should have been. Even those who understood the truth on their own, the Breaker and the Knights of Perfection and Rebellion, have not achieved their full potential. They know they are the Last men - but they also know they could be Gods!'' A rumble passed through the gathering, with the speaker beginning to gesticulate. ''That is the danger of forcing unwilling conversion! Even if we incur David''s ire rather than the Mover''s, there will be little difference. We will feel more ashamed, even if we are scourged less. Neither is an option, in any case. Furthermore...'' The preacher clasped its limbs behind itself as it began to stalk through the crows, head lowered in thought. ''Furthermore, we cannot attempt to raise the unprepared out of the muck, lest they lose themselves like we did, before David purged our minds of madness.'' ''PRAISE BE!'' ''May the depths of his joy dwarf those of his sorrow!'' the speaker responded. ''Aye. No one deserves going through the First Revelation the way we did. The result will, doubtlessly, be the same. One must realise they shape and are shaped by existence on their own terms, or they will only achieve what the Sleeper''s addled mind deems freedom.'' ''Rrrrable-rouser,'' an Unbeing growled, form twisting at the mention of the Great Old One. ''Cheap demagoguery,'' another scoffed. ''That''s all it spouts. It does not even teach what its god believes. Even if it wasn''t so prone to raping people''s spirits, they would be appalled by the hypocrisy.'' ''All faiths fall short of ours,'' the preacher said soothingly. ''It is only natural, for they misunderstand the truth when they even acknowledge it. How many deities wish for their worshippers to Ascend? Few. So very few. Too many pantheons wish only to keep weaklings around, so they have someone fawning over them. They would rather be admired by their lessers than respected by their peers.'' It shook its head, chuckling. ''Us, however? We will carve a path through the trackless wilderness of fate, because it is the right thing to do. Once everyone ascends, we will stand as equals to David and the Unmoved Mover, beholden only to ourselves.'' And then, there would be no more need to preach, nothing left to teach about, for everything and everyone would be understood. There would be only peace, the serenity of omnipotence. There was the goal. They had the promise of paradise, the precepts to follow on the road to the eternal tomorrow. Now came the details, the meat on the bones, as it were. The preacher would have rather left to proselytise - there were worlds upon worlds, cosmoses linked like atoms, bereft of the light of Ascension. They deserved to hear of the Creed, to make their choice. But some things had to be settled. The elephant in the room was David''s own faith. The Keeper''s beliefs might have been shaken by the inaction of Abraham''s God, but they still existed, even if he was certainly less pious. The problem was, would they worship Yahweh as well? ''Absolutely not,'' the Hierophant, who had spoken with Micker, snapped when the subject was raised. ''We shall not be Christians, or anything else, by proxy. David might not have shed the trappings of his religion, but he is likely to reject ours as well. That is fine. We forgive him. But no Faithful will ever raise a prayer to Yahweh, or any god other than David Silva.'' Without any more heathen suggestions, they moved on to David''s...acquaintances.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ''The Lady in Flames is the Keeper''s joy, the light of his life,'' the Hierophant whispered reverently. ''But Mia Silva would be even more humbled by our praise than he will be, for she is a modest soul as well.'' ''They have not married yet,'' an Unbeing pointed out. ''Details,'' the Hierophant said dismissively. ''She is his, just like he is hers. We will not laud her, nor make examples of her deeds. Not yet. She has her own worries: strengthening her magic, raising her demesne...and, of course, worshipping the Keeper more intimately than any of us ever will.'' A thunderous laugh erupted at the joke, accompanied by approving shouts. ''A favour he is certainly happy to return!'' ''She is blessed, the zmeu, blessed indeed!'' What of the others who had helped shape David? God''s Mouth, the Remaker, the Idea of Uncertainty? DEATH? The Black God and the Crawling Chaos? They would all be mentioned, the Faithful decided. Not exalted, but named. They were important. As for Chernobog and Nyarlathotep...well. It would not hurt to have some monsters to curse. The journey to Ascension would be neither smooth nor easy, however. The Faithful could not simply be believers and preachers, or they would be swept aside by poweful but faithless lackwits. They would have to be believers, and thinkers, and warriors. These duties could not be kept separate, or their endeavour would fail. As they shaped their holy land, they separated themselves when beliefs variated by degrees, but did not lay outside the bounds of the Creed Ascendant. Cathedrals the size of galaxy clusters and superclusters rose, filled with depictions of the Keeper of Endings and his accomplishments, represented in everything from painting and statues to repeating illusions and time-looped constructs. David''s thoughtful visage stared out at every part of every chamber, from the frescoes on the ceilings to the pulpits from which the priests delivered resounding sermons. In the middle of the Unrealm appeared a greater building than all these houses of worship, which revolved around it like planets around a star. ''Is it pious to build such a thing, though, Speaker to Outsiders?'' an Unbeing asked the Hierophant as they moved through Piety Palace''s halls. ''Of course it is not,'' the preacher replied. ''No palace has ever suggested piety. Fanaticism, often enough, or self-aggrandisement, depending on the case. Fools will look at it and look down at what they see as an excess of zeal. Let them be wrong. The Palace is an expression of our faith, in the most literal sense. There are few names more fitting.'' Moreover, Piety Palace served as a place of debate. The various sects were less likely to throw punches, or worse, in the building dedicated to the Creed Ascendant as a whole, which also contained their embassies. Arranged around the circular roofs of the central Palace, sprawling wings housed the Courts of the sects, where Cardinals would lead their congregations on the great journey that was existence, once said Cardinals were chosen. To the east lay the Court of the Faith in Stillness, those Unbeings who dedicated themselves to stopping the motions, both physical and subtle, of all things in creation, leaving them unchanging, invulnerable but unmoving. Only the Still could move in such a state, as untouchable as a wendigo who had frozen their body and spirit. They were to be the shields of their fellows, should war erupt. To the west spread the Court of Change, where all aspects of renewal were celebrated, from conflict and reproduction to mutation and decay to creation and destruction, and all the other myriad facets of alteration channeled by the Faith in Change to empower themselves. The Courts of the Faith in All and the Faith in Naught ringed Piety Palace to the south and north. A brief argument between the former and the Faith in Stillness had almost resulted in a scuffle, for the Still argued there was no real difference in their beliefs. The Whole, as they called themselves, said they did not draw their power from stasis, but from the wellspring that was LIFE''s emanations and remains, and the potential of new beings. The Changers, who had heard this as well, had chosen to remain on the sidelines and snigger at their incensed rivals. The Hollow, meanwhile, tapped into the nothingness left behind by destruction, into nonexistence. The Unbeings could change power sources as easily as they could move up and down through dimensions and dimensionless places, but emptiness was harder to grasp than most. The effort required for the process might have resulted in the Hollow''s surliness and bleak outlook on life, though some argued that was just them. The Court of the Faith Unbroken, at the centre, was, in the eyes of the others, filled with fence-sitters, changing power sources as often as arguments. But they believed in David, and that was all that mattered. They had to be strong to succeed, and to be strong, they had to be united. The Hierophant had said as much, and, despite being dismissed as more glib than wise by would-be Cardinals, most had agreed with it. They could not afford to tear themselves apart when there were entire universes where scarcity reigned, or where life was hanging by a thread instead of striding towards Ascension. They had to help them, because they could. There was nothing to be discussed. It was what David would have done. * * * ''David,'' Mia''s honeyed rumble filled the room, making me glance at her over my shoulder. ''One of your eldritch simps is on the phone.'' ''Miaaaaaaa...'' I turned around, leaning on the windowsill as her chuckle at my expression filled me with warmth. Mia was wearing nothing but a smile as she lounged, propping her head in one hand, tail swishing lazily across our bed. In one hand, she was holding the phone she''d mentioned, and her smile turned impish as I silently asked if she was serious. ''Oh, I just blocked the flashier alternatives. Wouldn''t have wanted astral projections, or uninvited guests.'' Voyeurs were the only thing Mia wasn''t into when we were together. ''Good call,'' I grunted, making my suit manifest around me. The good thing about whatever I was classified as now was that I could wear practically anything and feel comfy. Ash-grey slacks, shirt and jacket, black shoes and tie; I looked like an undertaker, which was appropriate enough. I had never considered wearing a fedora at work - it made me look like the type of eternally single douchebag I''d have been if my girlfriend wasn''t kind enough to tolerate me -, though Mia said it fit the rest of the outfit, and had once suggested wearing one in bed, before deciding she couldn''t focus enough to do anything while laughing that hard. "It''s not you," she''d promised, hand over her heart, showing her fangs as she grinned, "it''s me. I swear." "Yeah, I know how it looks," I''d groused. "You got any suggestions that don''t make me wanna hang myself again?" She''d conjured a bulky trench coat and a katana, before holding them up while wiggling her eyebrows. "Thanks, but I''m enough of an edgy tryhard without those." "I''ve got some wraparound shades, too-" "Blech." Mia tilted her head as she saw I was no longer naked. I considered the fact I could hold her attention without needing to exploit her lust something of a point of pride. She actually gave a damn about me, despite anything. I don''t know if, in her place, I''d have been willing to date someone who''d have consigned everyone to oblivion because he and his loved ones had suffered, but I didn''t bring it up. The subject seemed to bore her. ''Are you going to visit them?'' my zmeu asked. ''Why not send a clone?'' ''They need to see I''m aware of their nonsense, darling, and that I''m taking them seriously...well. Not in the sense they want, obviously.'' Mia sat up, a set of oxblood robes appearing around her. She was going to work in one of the labs she''d built in my house''s spatial folds, I was sure. Smaller than the ones in her Bucharest flat, but well-stocked enough. The robes helped. Like called to like, and the clothes expected of a witch helped with magic. ''Huh. You think they can tell you and your replicas apart?'' ''Even if they can''t, I''ll know I''m not really dealing with them. That''s what matters to me.'' Mia dipped her chin in acknowledgement. ''If you say. I''m gonna start on some alchemical mixtures while you''re gone. Maybe I can get some numerology in while they''re settling...'' Such disciplines helped her order her magic. Most zmei only used theirs to shapeshift, maybe cast a few crude spells while their physiology made sure their bodies were strong and their flames hot, but Mia wanted to hone hers. It doubled as training for creating a domain in zmeu country. ''Well,'' Mia tipped her pointed hat to me as it appeared on her head, before taking it off. She thought it looked ridiculous, useful as it was, unless she was in her human form. Said form stood out to me because Mia was still taller and buffer than me as a tanned redhead, to my amusement. She just couldn''t help but look great, it seemed. ''See you soon, David.'' ''Same. And thanks again for keeping the fans out.'' Mia laughed as she left the bedroom, and I felt space stretch as she entered a room that wasn''t there, and would have too large to fit inside the house if it had been. ''My, you sure didn''t seem to be put off by tentacles last night.'' ''Yeah, well, those were yours.'' I rubbed my eyes in anticipation of the incoming discussion. I felt her raise and wag a finger in warning as a fire burned into existence with no fuel, crackling. ''Just remember don''t let them get to you. If they start annoying you, tell ''em to piss off.'' As if I''d let them become a pain in the arse. Mia hated competition. * * * Had a human entered the Unrealm unprotected, they''d have been destroyed, body, mind and soul erased from history so that they had never been, and the echoes of their death-knell would have been automatically refashioned into an Unbeing. To me, it felt pretty damn pleasant compared to some of the places I had to visit regularly. Save for the uncomfortably high number of temples dedicated to me, it looked like a barren, shapeless expanse, ugly pink and crimson, with flashes of white and patches of inky blackness, like holes in the fabric of its unreality. The Unbeings, like many powerful paranormals, could store infinite amounts of something in finite spaces, a trick I used with what I hated about myself when I ranted in the mirror. Already rolling my eyes - they, at least, hadn''t tried to make me look good, not that they could have without artistic licence, but that didn''t mean I wanted to see my face on statues -, I shifted to the centre of the biggest building, a flashy eyesore that would have driven most people who looked at it insane even if it hadn''t been of the Unrealm. I caught the Unbeings in the middle of a spirited but non-violent debate, which was the best case scenario, really. Said debate stopped when I arrived, to be replaced by a wet, squelching sound that would have probably been applause if the Unbeings had hands. They were also cheering. I gestured for them to calm down, and silence eventually fell. ''Thanks,'' I said, once it was quiet, debating whether to say "thank you, thank you very much" in my best Elvis voice. I decided against it. I knew this shrimpy, angry zombie guy from another creation who had a thing for him, and I didn''t want to give him the satisfaction. ''I notice y-'' ''Keeper!'' one of them bellowed, extending tendrils tipped with claws - sharp enough to cut quarks, but large enough for star clusters to get lost in them - in a half-pleading, half-exasperated gesture. ''We must speak of you!'' Ah, of course. Straight to the point. It wasn''t like they didn''t know I knew about their debates, so there was no need to beat around the bush and pretend we were dumber than we were. Usually, I gave off that impression unintentionally. ''My alleged divinity, you mean,'' I said softly, sticking my hands in my pockets as I gave it a bland stare. It shook what passed for its head in a rippling motion. ''Nothing alleged, Keeper. You can harm strigoi and vampires beyond recovery. You help whoever is in need, no matter where or when they live - only the cruelty of the Mover prevents you from making all of creation a paradise.'' Anothr Unbeing, draped in lengths of pseudoplasm in an inhuman parody of a surplice, moved forward, nodding in agreement. ''You are kinder than almost any deity, and more powerful than all of them combined, for it was you who the Mover bestowed the mantle of existence''s guardian upon.'' I shook my head. They misunderstood worthiness. The fact I was powerful didn''t make me a god. The Idea of Divinity could also kill otherwise immortal undead, but no one really prayed to it, in any true sense. Besides, the power I''d received from the Mover had a few weird hang-ups. Not any true weaknesses, but...oddities. For example, Fixer. Ned had started as his own living Archetype, but on the way, he''d become something more, growing from the Idea of Altruism - many of his selves had been helpful men, or equivalents - into the opposite of the Crawling Chaos. If Nyarlathotep represented creation''s descent into nothingness, Fixer was its ability to go on, to resist, to build anew. In hindsight, he''d never hidden it from anyone. That meant a fight between the two of us would be a stalemate. Ned could tap into the powers of anyone and anything that had ever fought for creation, including, I suspected, the Mover itself. And I couldn''t really destroy him without making existence fall apart, which would go against the point of my power. Even wiping the slate clean and recreating everything would just result in Fixer popping back into existence, ready to go at it again. Not that I''d ever have a reason to do such a thing. I wasn''t Arvhek, nor was I hampered by my selfishness any longer. The good part was that it was extremely easy to make up power when I could just deem something a threat to creation, thus assuring I''d get an ability tailor-made for flattening it. ''Why don''t you accept it?!'' the first Unbeing asked, more insistently this time - or was it desperately? ''I know, I know! I''m too ugly to live, but you can''t kill people for that anymore! Besides, you guys don''t need to worry. I''m already dead.'' Absolutely no one laughed, which should tell you something about my sense of humour. Even my hentai bait audience, with their awful tastes in idols, didn''t crack a smile. Maybe I should have told them to guffaw or I''d smite them. ''You are modest,'' continued the priestly-looking Unbeing. ''But that is simply a holdover from your mortal existence, David Silva. There is nothing shameful in godhood, for you are worthier of it than most.'' ''He does not desire it!'' A third Unbeing pointed at me. ''Only the truly divine deny their divinity! Hail David!'' ''PRAISE BE!!'' I almost facepalmed, but these insane bastards would have taken it as a sign I encouraged self-flagellation or some shit, so I didn''t. There was no point in arguing with zealots. They''d just drag you to their level and beat you through experience. ''Listen...I don''t want to hear prayers in my name.'' I glared around at them. ''And I don''t want you to interpret this as me wanting different shows of devotion. I don''t want any at all, alright? I''m just a fuckup who almost failed to get his priorities straight when it mattered. That I have a hotshot job and the power to smack people I don''t like doesn''t change that, and it shouldn''t.'' ''But you only almost failed.'' The priest came closer. ''How many would have given up in your place? And you awakened the Unmoved Mover. The Remaker couldn''t have. It was always too focused on the Creator, not the created. Even if it had tried to enact your design, it would have failed, for it had too many enemies. Nor could anyone have taken the place of the binding witch. Had, say, the Worker of Knots tried, he would have failed for much the same reason. The gods of its homeland look down upon it, and would have not joined a coalition headed by it, fearing treachery.'' ''You certainly don''t seem to mind some of those you call friends being prayed to,'' the first Unbeing, no longer in that pleading pose. ''The Tartarus Engine speaks through the statues in his temples to its faithful, but you don''t think less or more of him for it.'' ''It''s not the same,'' I retorted. ''Aster-'' ''Of course it''s not the same,'' the priest cut me off, addressing the other Unbeing. ''The minotaur came into the world as a cursed wretch, only half a person. He only became worthy of worship, I would say, when he struck Chernobog.'' Then, to me, it said. ''You think you were selfish as a human, we know. But you prepared younger minds for the world. Even after you first came back from the dead...did you never think it incredible that you could control your instincts enough to be allowed among children? You were young, true, and your other side voiceless - but how many strigoi have achieved similar things in your situation? A handful. Merely a handful.'' I ground my fangs in irritation. I hadn''t come here for brown-nosers, and all the veneration was making me feel dirty. There were so many other people more deserving of adoration...why weren''t they going to them? But I knew the answer, of course. I had made them sane again. I had given them a purpose, freed them from a cycle of invasion and destruction of other realms. And, while doing so, I had seen what they had once been, and how they had shattered themselves to avoid being broken, by beings as monstrous in their eyes as they would have once been in ours. I used to think realities where so much hinged on Earth were dangerous. The universes of House Kharz, of the Lhamshian Crownhold, of Thamryn - once Neverwas, of whose golden age only a living legacy remained in the form of Chevalier Blanc -, of the Eternal Empire whose unending zenith Arvhek''s son had turned into an endless twilight, of...so many others, the fate of cosmoses balancing in synch with the comings and goings of a little blue world, or its memory. No point in stewing over all those realms, however. We all had parts to play, and... ''You already know what I want from you,'' I told the Conclave of the Creed Ascendant. In reality, all I wanted of them was to shut the hell up about the cult they''d assembled around me, but I knew nothing short of destruction would silence them. ''Help whoever you can, whenever you can. As long as they need aid, their beliefs do not matter. Do not help people on the condition they will convert, or in the expectation they will. It must come from the goodness of your hearts, or there is no point.'' Yeah, like that was going to be obeyed. ''Now,'' I formed a chair to sit down, rubbing my forehead while crossing my legs, ''let''s talk about what I don''t want you to do...'' Sidestory: Knight Shift
''I want to kill something.'' The whisper does not disturb the silence of the moors. It would barely be audible to a human, in fact. The cambion shakes his head, realising he is lying to himself - inadvertently, this time. Still, honesty is a better policy than most he has tried. It certainly can''t hurt. ''I need to kill someone,'' he says, in a harsher whisper, almost a growl. His chest is heaving as he takes deep, unnecessary breaths. It''s his human half at work, he knows, a reflex he has not shed yet. It is still useful, after all. Growing among humans meant imitating their mannerisms, lest he draw bothersome attention. Few, if any of them, are close to a threat to him, but he despises nosy fools. Like his cousins. That sanctimonious feathered bastard and his pet maggot, forcing him to face the truth of his deeds. The one they will one day call Merlin rises to his feet. The grass under him smokes and blackens at the touch of the hellfire inside him and the proximity of the dark ichor that flows alongside his blood. He cannot hate the Halfbreed Halfkin, he knows. Oh, he can, in a literal sense, but he shouldn''t. It is not a matter of capability, but of morality, something he has only ever observed from a distance so far. He will have to study it more. Perhaps he should do that, instead of killing a beast or a person. He can''t believe he is even thinking like this, but... Merlin laughs to himself, feeling none of the usual sadism that usually causes and accompanies the sound, or the rarer genuine pleasure that sometimes does the same. He is supposed to redeem himself. He knows his cousins would help him if he asked, but that would be pointless. He must better himself, for all he does not think he could teach a dog to bark without using his powers. * * * He barely glimpses the woman before she steals his soul with a glance and a smile. Not literally, though he would not hesitate to give her his spirit, in exchange for the assurance it would please her. His mind, his power, his life, anything. Anything. Merlin has known lust before, countless times. How could he not? Asmodeus used to be one of his closest uncles, though the Prince of Lust has distanced himself from the cambion since Merlin has become a bleeding heart, in the demon''s own words. It is not merely lust that fills him when he first glimpses the Lady of the Lake, though there is plenty of that. It is on this night that Merlin learns it feels much better when intertwined with love. There is none of that endless, foul hunger he used to feel when aroused in the past. He feels...sated. What draws him to her is her kindness. She can move between the lakes of what is not yet called Britain without casting any spell. It is her birthright as a daughter of Tellus, sired without a father and let loose on the world as an elemental. She uses this to alleviate her loneliness. People are attracted and frightened by her in equal measure, between her appearance and her aura. When humans gather enough courage to come forth to her, they most often ask to have the lakes she inhabits filled with fish, a request she answers, smiling meaninglessly. It is not hard for her to do, so she does. On other occasions, mortals ask for her hand, but she refuses, always refuses. She does not desire a spouse who looks at her with awe or fear, nor one whose heart is only set aflame by her body - for those who come to court her cannot seem to look past that. She tells herself they are a young species, still learning, still growing. There are some who seek her for less wholesome purposes, to kill her because she is different, or strange, or so they can eat her corpse and gain her powers. These people, she avoids, hiding under the waters. Nimue is tall, almost as tall as him, and he''s a head taller than most men, even discounting his horns. She is not muscled like he is from battle and the indulgence of demonic urges, and he finds he likes that. He would rather she not exert herself when he can. Her body is white as marble and soft with curves, and - though he knows it is shallow - he is glad she will always be in the flower of womanhood. Nimue swims to the edge of the lake, propping her elbows up on the rocky shore, not because she cannot move faster, but because she wants him to take in the sight of her. He does, cheeks glowing black with inner hellflame as he grins down at her, taking a knee on the gravel. Her eyes, entirely a deep blue, twinkle with amusement as she looks up at him, a teasing smile playing across her lips. They are white too, he notes. Is her blood as pale as her flesh? They do not speak at first, for it is not yet time. Nimue''s arcane senses move back down his timeline, and a choked sob escapes her throat as she learns what a monster he used to be. Her milky hand closes around his scarred, clawed one, as she lives through the moments that made him decide to turn his life around. He lifts her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. ''I understand if you are appalled...'' he almost calls her his lady, but it is too early for that, if it will ever happen. ''Viviane,'' he finishes. She shakes her head. Her hair, dark as a moonless night and reaching down to her slim waist, moves like waves, and he knows she could destroy him however she wanted right now, entranced as he is. He''d probably thank her. ''I am not,'' she replies in a small voice, lips barely seeming to move. ''I understand. I used to be cruel, too.'' ''You, cruel?'' ''Do not mock, princeling.'' She frowns prettily, retracting her hand. ''Do you know how many I watched drown or freeze to death without so much as blinking?'' ''Mockery was not my intent, but, if I might ask, what changed?'' She looks aside, brushing a few dark locks out of her eyes. ''A sister of mine used to act much the same in her forests. I am not sure you have walked her lands. She lives on the mainland, to the east, and calls herself the mother of all the woods in that realm. She is as old as them.'' ''Ah.'' He cups her chin, tracing her lips with a thumb. ''Just like how you are as old as this land''s first lake?'' ''Exactly.'' She nods. ''This sister of mine used to be merely aloof when a child died in her forests. Then, she started eating them. Her heart was not in it last we spoke - it is the result of people believing the woods devour those weak or careless, you understand -, but I somehow doubt they started thinking that way of her domain for no reason. She did something, I''m sure, and now they see monsters in every shadow.'' ''And you wish not to be like her.'' ''Yes. I do not desire an eternity as bleak as hers is shaping up to be.'' Family. They never let you be yourself, do they? Even when they don''t do anything directly. ''Well,'' he says, ''I do not know about others, but I, for one, wouldn''t mind being devoured by you.'' Her laugh is rich and throaty, rather than crystalline like he expected. He thinks he likes it more this way. ''Are you as old as the first lake that formed after this island split from the continent? Pr when the landmass itself formed?'' She lifts her chin, voice sweetly mocking. ''Wouldn''t you like to know?'' He would. Oh, he would gladly forget all the lore he has killed for if it meant understanding her for an instant. In the millennia that have passed since the Fall of Atlantis, she is the first woman not to abandon him upon learning about his past. Fortunately, they are both unique, as far as the other is concerned, so he needn''t feel less than enough. ''It would certainly be interesting to learn,'' he answers. She begins slowly moving away from him, then swimming laps around the small lake as she continues to speak. She''s teasing him again, he knows. It would amuse her if he stumbled over his words because he was focused on her thighs or behind. He does not give her the satisfaction. He will have all the time in the world to be distracted later, if he plays his cards right. ''Why does it matter to you?'' she asks, now floating on her back, wet hair surrounding her head like an inky halo. ''My age, I mean.'' ''I would say it doesn''t,'' he says, ''if I wanted to lie. The truth is, I like older women.'' She is staring at the stars when she speaks again. ''Indeed? How old?'' ''Older than me, at least.'' By the time they start making love - he is under her, Nimue grasping his horns to steady herself, and it is glorious -, he thinks it doesn''t really matter how old she is. She certainly has the experience, anyway. Viviane slaps his shoulder when he says this, making him laugh raucously. ''Pig,'' she mutters, trying to scowl but unable to hide her fondness. ''How did you learn all this, anyway? Didn''t you say you refuse whoever tries to court you?'' She just smiles, turning away from him with a smirk on her face and a spring in her step, hands clasped behind her. He has to blink twice before he trusts himself not to sound stupid when he opens his mouth, and even longer before he manages to look higher than her rear and full, swaying hips. ''Another mystery, eh?'' he grumbles. ''Damn woman.'' Nimue does not look at him when she retorts. ''Maybe I learned from luring smitten fools like you into my lair and having my way with them.'' He scoffs. ''I only wish I could die in your hands, darling.'' ''Did you mean at my hands?'' ''I know what I said.'' Out of curiosity, he scries his future after they stop. It is hours past noon, though that is impossible to tell from his Lady''s cave under the lake, and they are both thankful for their endless stamina. His mind is clear as he peers into the future. Sadly, there is little to no chance of him dying with his head crushed between Nimue''s legs. ''Goddamnit,'' Merlin mumbles, dispelling the magic. * * * Nimue is speeding through the air, in the form of moisture quickened beyond natural limits by her powers, while a kingdom burns. King Ban lays dying, his lifeblood spattering the dust, just as his realm turns to ashes at the hands of his enemy, Claudas. Ban and his wife, Elaine, are close to a lake when the King falls, only stopped from cracking his head on the ground by his woman''s arms. But Elaine is not strong enough to bear the weight of both her armoured husband and her son, not when grief weighs heavy upon her heart as well. Lancelot is squealing, hot tears running freely down his cheeks as he clings to his mother. She thought to tie him to her, binding him in place with her own torn clothes, thankfully. Otherwise, he would be fatherless by now, for Elaine could not have stopped her husband''s fall with one arm. The Lady of the Lake smiles sorrowfully at the dying couple. Elaine''s wounds are not as grave as Ban''s, but they are more numerous. She has only ignored them so far thanks to her need to save her family, but her strength will soon leave her. She will become unable to move and die in a few days, weakened by the hardships of which Lancelot''s premature birth was only the first. The least she can do is save the boy, and make sure his mother knows he is safe. His destiny aside, she cannot simply let him die, alone in the arms of his mother''s corpse. Nimue easily takes the infant from his mother''s arms, whispering soothingly, though she knows not whether it''s for Elaine''s sake, Lancelot''s or her own. Elaine raises disbelieving eyes at the elemental. She is in the autumn of her life, her grey hair turning to white. ''Can you not help us, milady?'' the Queen rasps, almost reproachfully. Viviane shakes her head. ''I am sorry, my dear.'' She wished she could, but that is not how the course of the world is to be shaped. ''But fret not. You will be reunited soon, never to be parted again. And your soon will grow up to be a hero! He will never lack for anything.'' Such as enemies, hatred, rage...but Nimue''s mind is not on the dark futures she has seen. She wants to do things right. The Queen''s eyes flutter closed as the bone-deep weariness makes itself known. ''Keep him alive,'' she urges. ''Whatever happens, keep him alive.'' Nimue vows she will. The child, at first bedazzled by her aura, somehow knows he will never see his mother again, one way or another, for he begins to shriek, eyes welling with bitter tears. ''Hush, darling.'' Nimue rocks him, walking into the lake, back to Lancelot''s parents. ''I might not be your mother, but I will do my best for you.'' * * * ''It is not only likely to work, it is fated to!'' Merlin exclaims, hands tracing the patchwork of maps and manuscripts he has plastered over the walls of this mansion''s living rooms, too. He does it whenever she changes houses and he visits a new one, she swears. It was funny at first, but now, it is just irritating. She has told him as much, to his devastation. Right before they went to bed one night, in fact. ''Do you want to sleep alone, then?'' he asked miserably, looking far too ready to cry for someone with eyes of fire. She rolled her eyes at the question. ''Of course not, silly. No stupid disagreement is going to keep us apart. But could you at least not enchant them so heavily? They''re a pain to remove.'' He hugged her as if terrified she was going to leave him, the sweet fool, and she returned the embrace. Nimue has one hand supporting Lancelot''s head and the other under his bottom. The boy is strong, stronger than any mundane baby already, but she''ll be damned if she''s less than careful with him. Her water dress only covers half her chest at the moment, as she is nursing Lancelot, who clumsily holds onto her with chubby arms. ''You certainly seem to think so,'' she says softly, so as not to disturb her son. He looks at her, eyebrows scrunched together, eyes never moving below her chin. Her figure seems to become invisible to him when she''s acting motherly. Nimue finds it somewhat funny. ''I know so,'' he says, hands on his hips. ''I''ve already begun to take measures.'' ''Ah, yes. The cuckold method.'' It would be bad enough if Uther had simply admitted Merlin had disguised him as Gorlois when he married his rival''s widow, but Igraine spent her second marriage in blissful ignorance. Now they are both dead, and her lover has recently entered their son''s dream in the guise of God, to spur him towards seizing the kingship centred around the sword in the stone. Sometimes, their scheming leaves her tasting ashes. ''Look - Uther''s son is going to save the Britons. Who the mother is doesn''t ma-'' his mouth closes as he notices her expression. ''I mean, his son is going to save the Britons whoever his mother is.'' ''You''re such a wordsmith,'' Nimue says in a saccharine voice. ''Right,'' Merlin turns back to his carefully laid out plans (in spirit if not arrangement), wringing his hands. He has noticed Viviane is looking at him the way she does when she thinks her husband in all but name is acting like a fool. He''s accustomed to the look. ''Now, I must go, beloved. Kay and Ector are good souls, but they will be unable to teach Arthur all he must know, if he is to rule well. He needs my guidance as well.'' Nimue would joke about his rearing needing a woman''s hand as well, but that just reminds her of Morgan, and her eyes darken like a sea in a storm. Such a damned mess. Making Gorlois think the witch was his daughter had been difficult enough after getting him drunk and convincing him he and Igraine had conceived her while he was in his cups - Igraine remembered her husband being sober, drunk on love if anything. It took some effort on Nimue''s part, but Gorlois had remained skeptical, despite the various identities she assumed in his court. It would have been too much to pull it off with a second child, but, perhaps thankfully, he''d died before he could notice anything unusual. Nimue balances her son, now snoring slightly, on one hip as she walks to her cambion''s side. ''Keep him from his sister,'' she says in his ear, before kissing his cheek. Nodding absently, Merlin departs in a flash of arcane light. * * * "This is all going to end in tears," Merlin told her after Arthur married Guinevere, against his advice. "But then, the lad never listens when he should. It''s as if he thinks being a stubborn moron does not matter, as long as you stand by your principles." "My," Nimue said drolly during dinner. "I wonder who he takes after." The cambion nodded with a thunderous scowl. "So do I! Clearly, he''s been spending time around some mule of an idiot, I just don''t know who yet. But I''ll find out, mark my words..." She smiled fondly at him, shaking her head. It was difficult, sometimes, to tell when Merlin was being oblivious or just pretending to for her amusement. Usually, he loathed demeaning himself or looking bad in any way, but he was more than glad to to do anything it took to make her laugh. It was...flattering. Their Arthur (Merlin may have been his adopted grandfather, essentially, but she''d tried to be more than an advisor and dispenser of artefacts over the years) had married out of political reasons. Without needing to be nudged, he''d determined their growing kingdom needed more manpower well before he met his Ginny and fell in love with her. It was a tepid sort of love, Arthur''s. He was kind and gentle, affectionate, more than able to do his duty as a husband, but camaraderie came much easier to his heart than romance, and lust almost never did by itself. All in all, their new Queen was amazingly patient with her King. Nimue remembers that night as she makes her way to Guinevere''s side. The girl - a grown woman, actually, but Viviane can''t help but see that lean, widely-grinning who married Merlin''s boy; she thought she could change him through love, the poor thing - is brooding, not that she lets it stop her from running Camelot. Her mood doesn''t slow down her handling of the capital''s affairs; if anything, it makes her end tasks faster, as if to vent her spite. Arthur is away on another campaign, cutting a swathe through armies with the sword she forged. Excalibur was no mere chunk of sharpened steel. It was, quite literally, the instrument of victory. It had moved through the ages as everything from a sceptre to a speech, the means by which those who knew right makes might succeeded. That Arthur had shattered its first sword incarnation in combat did not matter. It had found itself in a new but similar form, unbreakable, just as it found itself in its creator''s arms. "I doubt I could make something like this," Merlin told her after she forged the first sword, which he soon placed in the stone destined for it after. "I''m still surprised you''ve made it so it ignores antimagic. I didn''t know your elemental powers were that great." "If you helped me improve them, I could better myself instead of having to make tool," she suggested unsubtly. Merlin refused, like always. "It would serve no purpose, Nimue. If I do what you ask, you''ll be able to enhance your power endlessly. One stray thought, with that much might at your fingertips but beyond your control, and you could destroy everything you care for." "Then teach me!" she asked for the thousandth time. "How am I supposed to handle a power I don''t have?" "Do not worry: I''ll fight for you. Your artifice made Logres a realm of peace and plenty. The least I can do is be your champion." "That is not an answer," she said bitterly. "Brushing me aside because you don''t trust me is unlike you." Merlin looked at her, more sad than hurt. "Nim, believe me, I beg you. If it was safe for me to teach you the power you crave, I would. But I haven''t, and for how many thousand years have we known each other? You can''t honestly believe I want to keep you down." He walked closer to her, speaking softly, trying to make a joke of it. "Come on. You can''t say you don''t enjoy the thought of me fighting in your name." She accepted his hug, despite everything, burying her face into his neck. "That''s not the point, idiot," she muttered. Of course he''d rather give her life than let her suffer. She knew. But she didn''t need his sacrifice. She needed his wisdom. Nimue buried her frustrations, feeling Guinevere''s pressing against her mind. The Queen is sitting at a desk in one of Arthur''s many rooms, where those he delegates to - his grasp of logistics and statesmanship is workmanlike, which is why he surrounds himself with the best in the realm - often put the affairs of the realm in order, while the King keeps it safe and expands its borders. Guinevere gives no sign of noticing her friend standing behind and above her, but the elemental knows her Queen is aware of her. ''How''s it going, Your Highness?'' she asks in a small voice. ''Working hard, or hardly working?'' Guinevere makes an unladylike noise, continuing to write. She is holding a pen in either hand, future inventions brought to the present by Merlin. According to herself, Guinevere had thought she was right-handed before her husband had started delegating to her, but necessity had revealed she was ambidextrous. ''You know you don''t need to call me that, Nim,'' Guinevere says. ''Not in private.'' The Lady smiles, kissing the top of her Queen''s head. ''As you wish, Ginny.'' ''Sit down, sit down.'' Guinevere gestures at the guest seat. ''You know, half the time, I want to kiss Merlin for getting these, much easier to use than quills. The rest of the time, I want to throttle him for making sure I have no excuse not to work.'' She''s joking, despite the acid tone. Guinevere enjoys being the capital''s steward, making sure the plenty provided to the people does not result in chaos. ''I have to keep convincing Arthur I''m not keeping anyone down.'' Guinevere''s green eyes flick up when she answers Viviane''s unspoken question. ''He wants the wizard to bring everything from the future here, because we can''t give Logres anything less than the best.'' She runs a hand through her braided, golden hair. ''As I have told him, "and damn the consequences" us not a solution. The stream of time would get muddled if we tried that, not to mention the bafflement. What would a peasant know to do with any of the contraptions there aren''t tasks for yet?'' Nimue has to agree. With her and her lover providing everything from victuals to homes and good weather, Logres might be the most prosperous land in the world. But they cannot rush devices from fifteen centuries or more into production, just so the Logrese have new distractions. Arthur has a good heart, and a good mind for warfare, but generosity can be damaging, sometimes. They have enough time to implement all the changes he dreams of. Merlin predicts that in one, two thousand years, the whole world will either appeal to become part of Logres or fall apart tryinng to deny its people''s desire to do so, and the remnants would adhere to Camelot''s banner anyway.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. All they have to do is establish the Arthurian method as something viable, desirable. And for that, they need force of arms to pacify Britain, put an end to its countless warlords and monsters, not to mention the foreigners who keep swooping in to take advantage of the chaos expected from this time of changes. Arthur has already established an inner circle, a group of men chosen by him for their kindness, piety and prowess in battle. They sit at a round table during gatherings, to show no one is above his peers. Guinevere finds it faintly ridiculous. Everyone defers to Arthur most of the time, anyway. ''He once told me,'' the Queen says, looking the Lady of the Lake in the eyes while her left hand sketches a house made entirely of what looks like stone. She thinks she has found a replacement for Roman concrete, which will free up the kingdom''s mages from having to act as firefighters in case of a city-wide blaze. Currently, almost every commoner lives in a wooden home. The Queen''s other hand is drawing a sewer system, a smaller, village-spanning replica of Camelot''s half-finished one. Nimue does not have physiological needs, but she understand enough to pity humans without plumbing, which is how most of the peasantry lives. She would like to remove their worries with a wave of her hand, but she knows where such paths lead. The Lady does not desire a population of worshipful, slavishly-devoted thralls. It would stunt their spirit, smother it in the crib, and both Merlin and Tellus have expressed their dismay at such a potential fate. Nimue sits in lady for a time, letting Guinevere use her as a sounding board. She has planned new projects since they last spoke, and has also pondered how best to introduce some of the finished inventions, as well as the wizard''s future marvels. Guinevere has devised a network of bridges and gates movable through the power of steam, for example, an idea she had while perusing Camelot''s archives of Roman lore, when she found a mention of a steam-driven engine that was never put to serious work. ''I know I whinge much,'' the Queen says at one point, spinning a pen between her fingers while gazing through the window. ''But all the work is good for my heart. It keeps my mind clear.'' Beneath is one of the courtyards most often used for sparring by the Knights of the Round Table, and Viviane does not miss the younger woman''s smile at the sight of her Lancelot. There is more fondness, in that smile, than there should be for her adopted son, Viviane thinks. Guinevere has developed a habit of complaining about her marriage to the Knight who most often serves as her champion, who awkwardly but dutifully listens every time. Nimue smiles sadly as she reaches across the desk, stroking her friend''s cheek. ''Ginny, you know he cares. That he cannot show it properly does not mean he doesn''t love.'' ''It certainly makes him oafish, though,'' the Queen replies, leaning back in her chair. ''You know he what he would be without us? Without you two working wonders and me playing castellan and the Knights helping hunt down menaces? Just another mud-spattered warlord.'' ''True enough,'' the Lady of the Lake replies. ''But drawing Excalibur was meant to show he was worthy of kingship, not perfect. Of course he needs aids. This is as it should be. Merlin and I raised a man who would lift those beneath him up, notba god-emperor in the making.'' ''I am baffled you raised a man this cold when you love each other so much.'' ''Oh, my girl...I wish we could share our joy with you, but not all people are the same. Arthur is a man of brotherhood, not romance. I am glad he treats you well, at least.'' ''Someone has to be, I suppose,'' Guinevere says. Viviane does not like where this discussion is heading. Might as well nip this on the bud. ''Your Highness,'' she says, voice inhumanly flat, ''I understand you are very grateful for my son''s friendship. It is good for a woman like you to have a brother from another mother, whom she can share her frustrations with. I am sure it gives you time to think how best to get closer to your husband.'' ''Are you threatening me?'' Guinevere asks in a voice as blunt as the insinuation that she and the Knight of the Lake remain friends. Nimue glimpses a glimmer of fear in those emerald eyes, and her insides twist at the sight. ''Of course not,'' she promises. ''I don''t want you to be scared of me, just as I don''t want you to tear your marriage apart.'' Guinevere smirks coldly. ''Are you saying that if Merlin treated you as if you were a chore, you''d just grit your teeth behind a smile.'' ''No-'' ''No, of course not. Because you could end your entanglement, if you wanted. I suppose the powers weren''t enough of a luxury.'' Viviane swallows the first retort that leaps to her lips. Entanglement...? She begins to speak again, but the Queen has risen from the desk and opened the window, to begin speaking with her knight. Nimue rises as well, frowning. If Lancelot becomes half as mouthy as his royal friend, he''ll soon start telling Arthur how he''s failing as a husband. And then... * * * Merlin''s vision is swimming as his eyes keep trying to rebuild themselves, while his arcane sense is so painfully sharp it hurts. The thing that scarred him, the monster beyond creation, was not some great beast, by the standards of its home. It was more like a boar, digging up whatever interested it, only to flinch when it discovered the macrocosm had defenders that wouldn''t let it be torn apart out of curiosity. He would heal faster if he focused his magic and demonic powers on his wounds, but the mindset for that keeps slipping out of his grasp, so he lets his passive regeneration work. He''ll look like his skin was grafted onto him in pieces for a while, but that''s alright. He was never sought for his looks, even before he adopted thebappearance of a sagely old men with a long beard. His Lady finds it ridiculous, and has told him, in no uncertain terms, that they''re never going to do anything while he looks like this. That is not a problem. The only reason he does not always wear his actual visage, clean-shaven, with shoulder-length white hair tipped with all colours, eyes of white flame and goat-like horns the colour of a bruise, is because every fanatic in the kingdom would come after him in a scatterbrained attempt to end the hellspawn in their midst. Knowledge of his past deeds would only compound the issue; his origin is vile enough. Not everyone is as understanding as Arthur. Ohh, Arthur... The bitch got him. No matter how often he and Viviane were sure they''d killed her, the witch returned, to continue their war in the shadows of Logres, whispering poison into the ears of weak mortals. The damnedest thing is, Merlin knows she''s not being resurrected by any of his kin below she has deals with. He knows how to read them, from his time in the Court of Pride. After his father tried to turn him into a breeding stud, draining his powers and will dry while using him to build armies of inbred slaves. The cambion grimaces, clawed hands pressing onto the cold, spiralling scar over his heart. La Fey took a page from the old monster''s book, perhaps not even unknowingly. Merlin can see the shape of the plan: dispose of the Queen, hiding Guinevere from the kingdom for a while, while taking her place. While he is clashing with nameless monsters and Nimue pursues a quest of her own, she makes her way to the King and his campaigning Knights. He suspects nothing, she comes to his bedside while he is recovering, and one thing leads to another. Merlin cannot scry what the incestuous rapist plans with her monstrous child, but he knows it will be vile. He would love nothing more than to rip Morgan''s unborn freak out through her cunt, beat her half to death with it and throttle her with her flayed womb. But he knows that would not be the end of her, somehow. Arthur was more angry than shaken when they spoke, though also disgusted at himself. Merlin isn''t sure whether he should be relieved or concerned. The wizard also used the occasion to remind his son in all but blood that he was a married man, that he should get closer to his wife, who has been weeping angrily at how she was subdued and how her husband was violated. Arthur is not a subtle man, so Merlin made sure to remind him to watch out for dubious people around his wife, such as her champion. "Don''t be ridiculous, old man," the King told him, furiously sharpening Excalibur as if the sword needed it. "They''re just friends. It''s plain as day to me, at least, even if everyone else is seeing things. I am glad Lance is there to lift her spirits when I am not." That would sound like an innuendo from anyone else''s mouth, but Merlin is well aware his protege is too dense for wordplay of that sort. He manages to hold his tongue, though, much as he wants to comment. "Furthermore, Ginny and I might have married out of convenience, but we love each other, and know we love each other. She is a dutiful woman, and I know her: even if she was unhappy with our life, she would not put her whims before her duty to Logres. Why, nowadays she often taken on administrative tasks before I even offer!" There was pride in Arthur''s eyes, and much warmth in his smile, at the mention of his faithful, dutiful wife. Groaning, and glad his wounds let him pass it off as pain, Merlin turned, facing the wall of the cave, one of his many lairs. "I''m too hurt for that dung," Merlin lied. "Get out." "I will, but some friendly advice, Mer." Arthur leaned forward on the chair as if about to dispense some heretofore unknown wisdom. Merlin rolls his eyes, wanting to smack him upside the head like he used to when Arthur was young and stupid, not merely stupid. "I see you do not understand women, especially those of other men. I know this is hard to hear, for you are a prideful man with a paramour of millennia, but it is the truth. Be careful the Lady of the Lake does not grow weary of your oafishness and abandon you for another man." Merlin turned onto his stomach, though he wanted to glare in disbelief at Arthur, and grunted. Getting the message, Arthur left. This is how Nimue found her cambion, lying on his stomach on a ledge of stone protruding from the rough cave wall. Recognising her presence, Merlin turns around and sits up with a pained smile, for her sake more than that of his optimism. It hardly needs help with how often it''s mostly dead. His Lady is cradling a child in her, and he is reminded of Ban''s boy. But though this infant is also fair-skinned and blue-eyed, his hair is blonde. A shade almost as pale as his skin, as if his head is crowned with platinum. He is beautiful. He is newly-born. And he is more aware of the world than almost any child Merlin has ever seen; only three looked at the world for the first time with such eyes: his King, that mad witch''s bastard born of incest, glimpsed in a vision...and the father of the boy in his lover''s arms. This knowledge comes to him unbidden. It is not retrocognition, merely his arcane sense informing him, as if alarmed and rushing to alert him of a threat. A deep, deep rage fills Merlin''s heart, like the hellfire that follows it. ''Don''t tell, me,'' he rasps, dark ichor dripping down his pale lips. He has assumed his cambion aspect, for her pleasure, though he has kept his sagely glamour over it, to avoid scaring the boy, and the flames in his sockets are crackling. ''Don''t tell me he went and sired a child upon her.'' ''He is not Guinevere''s,'' Nimue replied quietly, before explaining, She sits down next to him, wiping his bloodied mouth with a sleeve made of cool water as clear as crystal, all while holding the angelic-looking infant with the other. He is not silent, but awake. Most children would be shrieking at the sight of Merlin''s demonic features, but despite seeing clear through his disguise, the baby is smiling thinly. He looks content. As peaceful as if he were in a cradle, rather than in the presence of an elemental and her cambion paramour. Merlin knows the boy is aware of what he is, though he does not have the words for it, or indeed any in his mind, and that he is not scared. For some reason, this pleases the wizard, though he knows he should feel sorrow. He can feel the hand of destiny resting heavily on one of the boy''s little shoulder''s, and God''s on the other. Nimue tells him of how her adopted son was violated, just like Arthur was. Not manhandled by a she-monster who forced herself on him, but taken without his true knowledge or consent, in any case. It was the Fisher King, Pelles, who set up the whole mess. He knew Lancelot and his daughter, a woman named Elaine, just like the Knight''s mother, would have a child who would grow up to be the greatest knight in the world, the discoverer of the Holy Grail. The two had known of this prophecy, but they hadn''t thought the old cripple would be this reckless. Perhaps, without Morgan striking at their backs from the darkness beyond the kingdom''s borders and that within its citizens'' souls, and all their other duties, they would have noticed and acted. The Fisher King had known Lancelot would only sleep with the woman he loves (that the indiscretion he and Guinevere are indulging in has reached such proportions that he thinks they love each other is enough to darken Merlin''s visage), so he sought out an enchantress named Brusen, who crafted a ring that would allow his daughter to appear as Guinevere. Brusen gave Lancelot wine and Elaine the ring, and the addled Knight thought he was making love to his King''s wife on the night the boy in Nimue''s arms was conceived. Upon recovering, he would have cut her down, if not for her revealing she was bearing their son. ''I am taking him to a great aunt of his,'' Viviane says. ''He will be raised in a nunnery, and his soul will be kept pure before he pursues knighthood.'' ''Poor little mouse,'' Merlin whispers, stroking the boy''s short, flaxen hair. ''Having Lancelot as a father and a rapist as a mother?'' ''She will say she was helping the prophecy along.'' The cambion scoffs. ''The prophecy we hoped to make true in two, three decades? We would have had time to knock some sense back into Lancelot''s head and acquaint him with Pelles'' girl, if only the lame bastard wasn''t so brash. But there''s nothing to do now. He will be the knight who was promised to the world, and...'' * * * Galahad is tracing the rim of the cauldron he didn''t know he was seeking, until scarce moments ago, with a finger. In hindsight, it seems obvious. He knows the lands haven''t always been Christian from the beginning. Bedivere''s youth as a heathen warrior is proof enough. But even with that fact in mind, and his knowledge of metaphysics, it seems hard to reconcile this symbol of pagan abundance with the Grail he thought he was searching for. They are not truly different, he knows, any more than water and ice are. They are not even truly separate. But his mind views creation through a Christian lens, and such bemusement is expected when expectations clash against reality. The Cauldron of Annwn is a worldly thing, and that strange, melancholic pity that often fills Galahad''s heart stirs to life. He is glad that people have eaten well in the past, surviving and thriving as they partook of this endless vessel of feasts, but...that, all that seems so petty, when weighed against the considerations of the spirit, and the otherworldly joys and sorrows. A small part of him feels sorry that there once lived people whose horizon of joy could be filled by victuals alone, and that such people still exist. The majority of Logres'' population only enjoys life in the kingdom because of the amenities. They do not think, for example, how grand it is for Arthur to accept the virtuous into fold, whatever their past beliefs. Galahad understands that. He pities ignorance, too. He thinks a harsher knight might feel disgust instead, but truly, that emotion is as alien to him as anger, or hatred. He has never really been able to understand them in the abstract, much less feel them,. He knows that makes him less than a whole man. Perhaps a part of him was stunted during his upbringing. If yes, Galahad is grateful, for it helped sharpen the rest of him into the weapon God needs to cut the world''s evil to the quick. ''I am the blade of His sword,'' Galahad whispers, crossing himself while making a fist over the cross carved into his breastplate with his other hand. He remade his armour himself, having to decline the advances of a maiden to do so. Mordred informed him, some weeks later and with no small amount of cruel satisfaction, that the girl took her life after bein snubbed by her living fairytale knight. Galahad wonders whether it might be proper to feel grief, rather than simply grieve through remembrance. Sadness has always been a hollow feeling to him, as empty as anything but faith. In any case, he hopes the girl found her way to the Kingdom of God. Once this quest is done, he will find a way to contact her and make amends. The thought brings neither anticipation nor dread, for these are matters of men, and Galahad was born to be a legend, even in his own lifetime. It is good, he decides, that he cannot yearn for baser things. He believes it would only sadden him. His life is good, and he knows it could be even better. His fairy grandmother, as he calls her with no small amount of fondness and a rare, bright smile (he can still feel joy, thank God), who has visited him in his dreams since his boyhood at the houses of worship, has promised him he can also feel love. Galahad loves Nimue, and has told her as much the handful of times they''ve met. He loves the old cambion she has entwined her eternity with, and the other Knights, and God. But he knows that, warm as such love feels, it is a tepid thing compared with what some woman might awaken in him some day. Galahad rises to his feet, no longer squatting before the Grail that isn''t. This...is the culmination of his young life. He is not a grown man, in any sense, and he will never be, in many ways. He will never be scared, or angry, or hateful, as other men can be, something they take for granted even as they give their heroes hearts of marble. He does not begrudge them that. Mankind needs heroes, or else its mind rebels at the uncaring callousness of the cosmos. They need exemplars to look up to and feel safe around, and Galahad was born to be just that. He is for men what Excalibur is for swords, and if all it takes to protect humanity is to lose his, it is a price he will gladly pay. Briefly, Galahad tries to imagine the lass that might ensnare him in the future. He hopes he will not bore her to death with his piety. Are the other Knights even close to the area? They are certainly not close to the goal, as he found the Grail, and he has always been well ahead of them besides. He bested his father in a duel during their first meeting, at fifteen, and no one but Gawain at noon could match Lancelot in swordplay. Arthur and his enchanted panoply, or Melion with his wolfish power, did not count. Arthur himself had called Galahad the greatest knight after he pulled a sword from a stone in a mirror of Excalibur''s first unsheathing. He sat on the Siege Perilous and survived, the first and last Knight to do so. Just because the Round Table set out at the same time, it does not mean their chances were equal. Galahad knew from the beginning that, in terms of martial prowess and endurance in the face of temptation, he was the best of them. Should he be proud? He can only pity his fellow Knights for not having yet achieved his level of mastery. Would his father feel different? The Knight of the Lake, now. That is a man. Humanity distilled, its noblest qualities and vilest flaws combined. He is not a faithful man, in terms of his vows - for he enables the Queen to cheat on the King, something Galahad would have revealed if he hadn''t known things had to proceed at their own pace, lest his hand be forced and end up red with his father''s blood - or his affection, for he betrayed Guinevere like she betrayed her husband, when he left to live with Galahad''s mother for years, whiling away the days on an island under a false name. The Queen is not going to forgive Lancelot, in any sense of the word. Her hypocrisy and jealousness are some of the few things that surpass her sense of entitlement. And yet, she is going to call upon him, in a voice shrill with fear, when things will come to a head. Galahad looks up, eyes narrowed. His steed, bound to a tree in Corbenic''s courtyard more out of of habit than necessity, is grazing on a small patch of gras, and Galahad is happy the horse can enjoy the simple pleasures of his existence. Yet, when the chamber is filled by a light with no source, which soon spreads across the castle, Galahad knows his steed does not remain calm because he is content. His grandfather and his uncle Eliazarr (his mother is dead, and Galahad cannot muster much emotion for this faceless woman he has only ever heard about, who had the gall to scold Guinevere for scolding Lancelot''s unfaithfulness, thus driving him into madness) led him to the room of the Grail, but the vessel is only here because he is. Galahad is the key to its lock, or perhaps it is the other way around. The young Knight''s gauntleted hands grasp the rim of the enchanted cauldron and begin to squeeze, as if he is trying to force the vessel into a new shape. It is true enough, in a way. The crimson light bathing the grounds is enough of a sign of what is coming. Finally, with a hideous groan, the black iron becomes burnished gold, and the cauldron a drinking vessel. The blood of Christ fills it to the brim, freshly-spilled for eternity, and Galahad smiles, content. Now, all there is left is to take it to Sarras, and fulfill his destiny. * * * Percival and Bors, his companions in body, if not in spirit - for they would have found the Grail together otherwise, and, though good men, they are not the flawless Knights the vessel was waiting for, nearly all traces of humanity purged from their souls - look upon Galahad with mounting disbelief as he converses with divinity itself, and asks to die at the time of his choosing. He knows his purpose. He knows he must step further beyond humanity to protect it. So, when, on the way back to Camelot, Joseph of Arimathea appears before him, the rapture fills him with such bliss, he asks to die. Under the eyes of his fellow Knights, angels appear to bear him to the beyond, and there, he is remade, for Galahad, the man, is dead. Only the Perfect Knight remains. At first, Galahad thinks he is blessed by the Lord, but that is the wrong direction to look at things from. He comes to understand himself, and faith is the core of his being. Of course faithcraft would seem to be in play. When Galahad''s attention returns to the world, it is during the Battle of Camlann. Everything that could go wrong did. The realm, already shaken by the truth of Mordred''s conception, begins fraying when Guinevere and Lancelot''s affair comes to the light, and the Knight of the Lake kills every brother-in-arms who tries to avenge his King''s honour. The two escape, while Arthur, with a heavy heart, rallies his armies to march against them and their supporters. At the same time, Mordred and his mother are marshalling their forces too. Worse, Nimue, finally driven beyond patience by Merlin''s refusals to teach her, has bound him with unbreakable chains, and now rushes to aid her kingdom even as her heart tears herself apart. Galahad knows there is little the cambion could accomplish if he was in the fullness of his power, for Viviane has learned to push her magic and elemental powers beyond any limit but her imagination and desire. Yet, it will not be enough. Morgan''s witchcraft is just as powerful, and she has access to darker forces besides. Galahad does not march to war alongside the Round Table, for his battle lies elsewhere. In a realm between realms, he comes face to face with the numberless hordes Morgan is attempting to summon. She has promised the turncoats scattered across Logres that they will tear down their King, and in this, she was honest. But she did not tell them they would be the fuel for the flame she would cast at Arthur, the brother who took what she thought was hers through ability, rather than by being the firstborn. So many betrayed betrayers dead, burning with the agony of their folly. The smoke of their funeral pyres tore open the veil between worlds, and Hell reached through, laughter booming from gaping maws. Every horned, cloven-hooved beast from man''s nightmare is here, and more, of shapes less familiar and undreamed off, slither, crawl and fly at the side of their more humanlike brethren. The Princes of Hell lead their armies, for this is a chance to snuff out the light of the world, and at their sides come Azazel, chained by the Archangel Raphael yet present in every way that matters, and Abaddon, rising from the abyss with a howl. There is an infinity of demons stretching out before him, and the cruelty of this legion of fiends is as boundless as their ranks. Yet this is not the only danger. Behind him, Galahad senses the banes of knighthood. One is a towering butcher, clad in blood-drenched plate and wielding a wicked cleaver of a blade. He is the anger that bubbles under so many facades of aloofness, the desire to slaughter indiscriminately when one''s honour is challenged. He has claimed many knights, on all sides of the civil war. The other appears as a tall, voluptuous woman. Her smooth, flawless skin is the colour of ash, and she wears darkness like Nimue wears water. Under a mane of raven hair and eyes like bottomless pools of inky blackness, she bears a full-lipped, amused smile. Her hands are hidden behind her back in a girlish gesture as she sways in place. She is to chivalry what Belial is to hope: why not abandon this oath or sidestep that rule, when it is clearly holding you back from doing your duty? She is indulgence and treachery, and she has touched the minds of many a man in the fractured country. Galahad prepares to face the fiends at his front and the monsters at his back, but he is not alone. A laugh like wind through the leaves fills his mind evn as it somehow makes itself heard over the din of the endless battlefield, and Galahad allows himself a smile. Behind him, the Green Knight grins widely behind his helmet, as serene as he was when Gawain lopped off his head. He idly twirls his axe with one hand, then the other, as he faces the monsters he has never had faces to put to, until now. ''Two against infinity,'' Bertilak says. ''I pity the fools.'' Galahad does not. He has other things to pity, and will have more yet to brood over, forever. * * * The war is ended, and nothing will be the same again. Galahad never sees hair or hide of the Green Knight in his travel, nor does he hear of him. He hopes the strange man has found peace, if he even can. He, though he knows he could not partake in the war upon Earth even as he fought so it could be waged at all, does not think he will ever achieve harmony. Not any joyful variation, at least. Bedivere, who bore Excalibur back to the Lady of the Lake even as Arthur''s dying body was taken to Avalon, has grown half-mad with hatred. He does not merely crave vengeance, he needs it, or, Galahad is sure, he will tear himself apart in rage. He wants to slaughter Lancelot and Guinevere, but Galahad does not, cannot let him. The banes, returned as spectres and imps of the perverse, urge him to go along with the older Knight, revenge themselves upon the murderers of their dream. He does not listen, nor can he feel the flaws they represent out of his own accord, any more than a boulder might. Bedivere, after seeing that pleading with Galahad is pointless, sets out to bring the traitors to justice, as he sees it. But the Perfect Knight is there to stop him at every turn, much to his uncomprehending outrage. Guinevere becomes an abbess, vowing to never see Lancelot again as long as he lives, and the Knight of the Lake retires to a monastery, there to try and atone alongside eight of his brethren, such as Ector. When the former Queen receives word of her once champion coming to visit her, she prays to die, and does, keeping her oath. Lancelot inters her body alongside her husband''s, though Galahad knows Bedivere will never acknowledge that. The Knight of the Lake does not live much longer after, and it takes Galahad a long time to deter Bedivere from desecrating his grave. There are yet quests to set out on, monsters to hunt and slay. In remembrance of the Round Table, an order of Paladins rises, after a few centuries, and Galahad''s heart soars to see their deeds. And then, of course, he realises what he is, and what creation is. He is the first, but he will not be the last. He witnesses a tormented son being brought back from the bring of despair by love, before not only saving all there is, but bettering it. This is the core of Pendragon''s dream, and he could not be prouder. * * * Merlin reclines in his seat, seeing nothing above but thick black stone, with darker flames crackling beyond it. The deal he struck to bring Mordred back stranded him in Hell, and, after carving out his domain in his closest uncle''s circle, he has lost the ability to astrally project into the mundane universe. His love must visit him herself, in person or in spirit. He notices he is scowling when the Serpent seizes the tips of his mouth and quite literally turns his frown upside down, pouting childishly at the resulting glare. ''Come on, nephew,'' Lucifer purrs in a voice that, if he were in his female aspect, Merlin would call coquettish. ''What is not to your liking? You''ve broken every wretch who tried to break you, and you beloved can grace you with her presence any time.'' Lucifer rests an elbow on his throne''s armrest as he wraps his other arm around his nephew''s shoulder. ''I am not some mad old fool, to keep you apart. It would serve no purpose. I''ve fallen deeper in love with worse women, so it''s not like I don''t know how it feels.'' Merlin sighs, but does not otherwise react. ''If it helps, I''ve also fallen deeper in love with worse men. Not in this aspect, mind.'' ''Why would that help?!'' Merlin barks. ''Dammit, uncle. If I wanted my ears to bleed, I''d just listen to the rest of the family.'' He turns to look at the Prince of Hell. ''Don''t try to be charming with me. You might be glib, but I haven''t forgotten you would love nothing more than for every human to suffer forever.'' ''Yes, and?'' The wizard shakes his head. ''I might have a visitor soon. Viviane, most likely. I do not want you to repulse her with your nonsense. And I expect you will not remain around us once we resume reconciling.'' ''I mean, unless you like being watched.'' Lucifer would not blink at the deadpan stare he receives, even if he had eyelids at the moment. ''What? It''s an honest concern. There''s nothing wrong with a little narcissism.'' The Devil hides his smile behind one hand. ''Unless you have confidence issues, of course.'' ''I merely hate deviants spying upon us in private moments.'' ''God, so do I. Can''t even be a voyeur these days without stumbling upon a pack of those.'' Ignoring the last comment, Merlin turns his gaze back to the ceiling. ''I do not have any issues with my confidence, uncle. I trust her, and I''ve never loved her more deeply.'' HIs voice drops. ''Did you know, she expected me to force myself upon her after I was freed?'' Lucifer''s gaze darkens, smile fading. ''You, raping Nimue? I can''t even imagine you considering that.'' ''Of course not. I told her she was being silly and to get into the damn bed, we''d talk there. But she expected it as a sort of retaliation, if you''ll believe it. You know, since she thought little of my body when she bound it.'' ''That is silly. I am glad you managed to put things in order; truly, I am. I''ve seen enough lies and intrigue and manipulation that honest love is a breath of fresh air. And, well, you did remain at her beck and call even when she left you a powerless prisoner for fifteen centuries. That''s a statement, if I''ve ever seen one.'' Merlin buries his face into his hands. ''Don''t start again...'' ''Now, nephew, you''re old enough to know there''s nothing wrong with enjoying being chained up by your woman. And surely you''re not going to pretend all the times you wrestled after the Fall of Camelot were you venting your frustrations.'' ''Of damn course not!'' the cambion snaps. ''If I ever find myself making love to Viviane for my own sake, I''ll have my head checked.'' Merlin stands up, beginning to walk towards what passes for the border of Hell. ''Now leave me be, uncle.'' ''So moody...what, do you need me to carve up someone you hate?'' ''You indulge me so much,'' the half-demon says drily. Lucifer lounges in his seat, shrugging with his hands spread. ''You rid my Court of a brother far too eager to make our family tree resemble the Olympians''. I''ve got Asmodeus and his cronies for that already. I''d have fed him to them myself, but why tear my family apart when I can make it do the job in my place? You are very obliging when you''re angry, by the way.'' ''So I have been told...'' Merlin mutters, leaving the Circle behind. At the edge of the Pit, he meets the man he has come to think of as his adopted grandson. ''Galahad? Why are you here?'' The Perfect Knight smiles at Merlin, placing his hands upon his shoulders. ''You were hoping for the Lady, I know. I believe you will be flattered to learn she is spending day and night looking for a way to undo the binding holding you here.'' ''Getting rid of Mordred is as good a motivation as any,'' Merlin says neutrally. Galahad chuckles. ''You can see it that way, but I would advise you not to imply she hates him more than she loves you in her presence. Not even she can look radiant while hearing such insinuations.'' Merlin nods. ''You didn''t come here for that, though. I''d be concerned if you started taking trips just to make me feel better.'' ''Everyone would be. You are very easy to hate, Ambrosius,'' Galahad says, smile never faltering. ''You are also right. My grandmother''s experiments are proceeding as we speak, but I am not here to tell you what she would during pillow talk. You remember Morgania?'' Merlin''s jaws stiffens. La Fey''s mockery of a nation. Carved out of the aether by her will alone, populated by her creations, and...isolated. A queendom of people who lacked for nothing, ruled by a goddess-queen who enjoyed worship she did not even need to demand. Merlin knows Morgan has always been a solipsist - as far as he''s concerned, the queendom is almost certainly far worse than it appears to scrying attempts, and in any case, Morgan must only be keeping herself for attempting macrocosmic conquest because she knows there are too many powers to oppose her -, so for anything to change in her fiefdom without him noticing is strange. She usually can''t help but announce everything she is doing. ''What of it?'' the wizard finally asks. ''It might be because Mordred is walking the world once more, but his mother''s realm has opened its gates, and waiting to see who will enter, and why.'' Sidestory: Lady in Flames
''Mia.'' I looked up from the cauldron to see David leaning on the spatial fold leading to the workshop as if it were tangible. I treated it like it was, too; but he had a hand on it and his head was just barely visible as he peaked in, as if it were a door. ''Am I interrupting?'' ''Yeah,'' I said. ''But you''re not disturbing anything. Come in.'' He did, and I couldn''t help a frown that could have probably passed as concentration. I knew why he was asking me things, acting as if he was learning things as they happened, even if time had long since become an illusion for him. It was for my sake. Many supernaturals with non-linear perspectives of time acted like this for the benefit of those around them, because treating everything like it had already happened was awkward at best, not to mention it made people uncomfortable. And that was discounting the paradigm shifts that didn''t give two shits about how timeless and omniscient something was. My boyfriend, I''d decided, was becoming more like his god, and Fixer too. Maybe the Mover, as well, if there was even a difference between it and the thing Yahweh had been hyped up into when monotheism had become cool. They were both monsters, and though I forgave David for acting like they were worth wiping your ass with, I couldn''t help but wonder if they really were omnipotent. I mean, how else could you fit that much hypocrisy in one mind while still having space for an ego that big? But I digress. David had started resembling his god in that he asked you questions whose answers he knew in order to make you think. That was alright, I supposed. If he asked like some distant, all-knowing deity, it''d just draw more attention to how little he needed me. Space closed behind David as he entered, sweeping his gaze across my equipment and smiling. The fondness he radiated was a welcome contrast to the coldness of his aura, more precious for how rare it still was. He had the same look whenever he saw me naked, though he''d seen all of me more times than I cared to count. It was better than boredom, but I was still bemused the sentiment existed. "I don''t see what''s so weird, Mia," he''d told me once. "I''ve seen so many sunsets, but dusk is never less beautiful." I''d laughed, because it always lifted my heart to see him not cursing at the latest monster to draw his outrage, or praying to the one his father had taught him about since childhood. I needed him happy. I needed him able and willing to forget how he''d been pressured to never show anything but anger growing up, because what was he, a girl? Luckily, with my help, he''d managed to get rid of the inhibitions centred around needing a ring and a scrap of paper to make love to your girlfriend, otherwise you were a lecher. But David was still a reserved man. He was way more casual about showing affection than half the guys I''ve slept with, thankfully, but he was still, I don''t know, embarrassed? About saying stuff like that thing with the sunset? As if I was going to judge him for showing how much he loved me. ''You''re getting better,'' he said, suddenly at my side, petting one of my constructs. It was a dense, grey sphere, about waist-height for me, able to grow appendages or shapeshift as a whole. Useful for fetching things when I was caught in a ritual. I was still trying to cast a telekinetic enchantment on it, but I had time. ''Thanks,'' I replied, leaning on the cauldron as I turned to face him. I was still in what he called my witch outfit - which would have been cute if not for the ridiculous pointy hat, but, eh. I''d trade style for conceptual clout -, but had put a long, hooded coat and a pair of thick gloves over it. I was fully aware how stupid the hat looked perched atop the hood, and so was David, but he didn''t point it out. Behind me, the mixture boiled and bubbled - hahahaha! -, my newest project taking shape in its depths. Once finished, its physical component would be a skintight, transparent thing that would cover my body as its greater part would veil my mind and soul. I wanted something that could automatically react to threats if I was off-guard or caught up with something else. Ideally, the thing could move my body on its own while I meditated, if I liked. David took the homunculus in both hands, nose wrinkling, He must have been thinking about how weird it was for my flesh to be this smooth and featureless, but I''d gotten over any hesitation quick enough. When you were able to regenerate, not to mention spiritually related to the salamander of alchemy, it made sense to use your own body. Besides, if I needed to use a part of myself for anything, I''d have the mindless spheres on hand instead of needing to rip chunks of my flesh out. The armour in the cauldron was based on a similar principle, though a specialised version of it. Since it was meant to prevent harm, I''d used scales and skin scraped from the parts of my body that had been hurt the most in the past, and memories for the incorporeal section. Besides being tough enough to laugh off hits that would go straight through me, it''d also provide limited invulnerability. Szabo, for example, would never be able to slap my jaw off again, the fat freak. ''Did you want something?'' I asked, wiping some gunk off a glove. The droplets became solid upon landing on the gold floor, offering a glimpse of my future armour even as they hid the magic conductor from sight. David let go of the construct, blowing a raspberry as he stuck his hands in his pockets. ''It''s great to see you''re improving your magic, love, but isn''t this kind of a distraction? I mean, your mana doesn''t fight back.'' Unlike the space where my demesne should have been. If I hadn''t been sure he was asking for my benefit, this would have confirmed it. Was it a distraction? Arguably. I could master my domain at any point in the future, just like I could improve my magic. But brainstorming over the stubborn demesne wasn''t going to help, not with the person Maws had told me about. It wasn''t even the fact that zmei without demesnes were seen as incapable weirdos and often had to endure every shitty joke our species was famous for. At least we''d gotten past the stage where zmei who couldn''t maintain a domain ended up as slaves in one owned by another, or indentured servants at best. Didn''t mean we didn''t have a few lunatics who still practised that, but on the whole, we''d become far less pushy about how might makes right, even if some still lived by that. Sharpening my sorcerous skills would eventually lead to me having a domain of my own. Indirectly. Most zmei didn''t care to cast, preferring to use magic for shapeshifting and nothing more, and few even got past the flips and chants you needed to turn into something else. Hatchling stuff. I won''t lie, I got into magic because I didn''t want to look like a clown whenever I changed form. Tapping into power from magical objects, the bedrock of sorcery, wasn''t even on their radar. What was the need, when they were so strong and more than able to hire mages? The reason I''d continued also had to do with my dignity, in a way. I''d had to swallow my pride when I''d threatened Maws with the Neverwere Vaults in zmeu country, and even mentioning resurrection ensured by David and DEATH had rankled. Maybe it had to do with growing up mostly among humans and weaker paranormals, but I didn''t want to be dependent on others, not like that. Not even on my boyfriend. He had his own things to do. I didn''t want to tug on his sleeve whenever I had a problem. I''d gotten called a clingy bitch just for wanting to cuddle after sex in the past, but this reeked of vulnerability even more. I needed to be able to defend myself, not wait for David to swoop in. I knew he would, bless him; it was a fact, as much as gravity. Moreso, because that could be subverted. If I became known as the Keeper''s woman, the damsel in distress he was attached to despite himself, I wouldn''t be able to live with myself. There were more practical reasons for wanting to get stronger, of course, though I won''t lie and say my pride, already bruised before the hit, as it were, wasn''t a big one. Besides self-defence, it would give me more opportunities to work. I needed something to do - boredom was the immortal''s poison -, and I''d go to sleep happier knowing I''d, say, built and orphanage with my magic, enchanting it to last. Or even just being able to paint and sculpt with my mind, only needing a canvas or some raw matter rather than any tools. Art helped. It was pretty to look at, of course, and I was grateful my senses let me perceive far more of it than a human could, but it also occupied my time. In the mind of a zmeu, it helped to frame activities in terms of hunting or fighting. Worked to keep the dumber predator instincts at bay. At least, framing a portrait as an ideal I was chasing diminished the urge to snatch kids out of their moms'' arms and bite their throats out. Another, more immediate reason was that, if I went to her whining about how I c-couldn''t control my demesne, I''d likely just get laughed out of hers. But if I improved my craft as much as I could, I might just impress her enough to at least get some tips. ''It doesn''t,'' I told David after the nanosecond I''d spent thinking passed. ''And I''m thankful for that. Soon, my land won''t be able to resist me, either.'' ''If that makes you happy, I''m happy,'' he said in that tone that made me wanna pick him up and shake him. ''Hey.'' I wrapped the tip of my tail around his neck, pulling him to me until his back rested against my chest, and kissed the top of his head. ''It''s sweet that you''re fretting, but there''s no need.'' Cupping his chin, I tilted his head back until our eyes met, then winked. ''I''m not gonna be in danger. She likes interesting people.'' David wrapped an arm around me with a sigh. ''I know, I know. But she''s also a hermit by choice, a choice she made because every zmeu who visited her made sure to tell her what a bitch she is. You shouldn''t let her upbraid you. If she just starts using you to vent instead of teaching anything, I can alwa-'' The red of my eyes brightened while the black slits darkened. The scoff I let out was tinged with fire. ''Do I need to explain how much I hate having my life managed? Seriously, David? You think I want you to whisk me away whenever someone is mean to mean? I know you trust me more than that.'' His dark, dark eyes softened. ''I just don''t want you to debase yourself for power.'' So friggin'' dramatic! Just as my current objective was, I admit, but at least I wasn''t phrasing myself like that. ''David, I''m not going to debase myself. You know what''s gonna happen if I get fed up with her? I''ll leave, and she''ll let me. And that will be that.'' I hugged him tightly, to reassure both of us that I''d be fine. Each second felt like decades to me, and I was glad I''d learned to manage the hyperactivity that came with superhuman reflexes, because otherwise, I''d have struggled to function in a society mostly made up of people moving far slower than me. I could also enjoy these sweet moments for what felt like forever, and that never failed to make me smile, no matter how silly David was being. I let go, turned him around, and lifted him for a kiss, this time on the lips. I''ve always wanted to wrap a guy''s tie around my fist while manhandling him. I was getting closer to convincing David to wear a fedora and making the fantasy come true. He was close to cracking, I could feel it! Since I was too busy too rub my hands together and chuckle nefariously, I instead put my boyfriend down and began to change. My lab clothes went to the aether pocket I''d created, a pair of jeans and a red sleeveless shirt appearing around me moments later. Not after makin sure David got an eyeful, though. No need to make him think I was mad at him. David looked me up and down, looking amused as he focused on the red ring in my lower lip. ''What''s so funny, chuckles?'' My voice could be deepened enough to shake a human''s bones and have them hearing echoes for seconds. ''Just, kind of surprised it took you this long to get your lip pierced.'' I laughed, making the lab''s walls shake. ''You''re surprised I started with my other lips?'' ''Nah,'' he shook his head with a goofy grin. ''That''s not what I said.'' I shrugged. ''What can I say? I suppose I just wanted to start from the bottom this time.'' ''I understand the feeling,'' David said, hand sneaking around my waist for an unsubtle squeeze. I''d be sure to return it with interest. ''I''m sure you do.'' I winked, smiling widely enough for him to catch the flash of black at the tip of my tongue, and turned to leave. As I expected, he spread his arms. ''Heeey,'' he said in an exaggeratedly whiny voice. ''What the heck? There was no tongue last kiss. What''s the point of getting that?'' ''Ugh, alright, you baby,'' I grunted, trying to sound exasperated, and picked him up again. Since neither my demesne nor my potential teacher were going anywhere, I decided I might as well. By the time I unzipped my jeans, my tail was already throwing my tank top aside. * * * After the thirteenth hour of lovemaking, I told David I really needed to get going, or I''d get distracted and put things off for who knew how long. He reluctantly agreed, and I left the house, leaving the homunculi with orders to make sure nothing intervened with my armour''s forging, including themselves. Just to be sure, I also told the gold golem standing guard in a corner of my workshop to be careful, as if it needed encouragement. I''d made the shiny lug yesterday, and I was still trying to make it react to things unrelated to security. I pulled the fabric of zmeu country over that of mundane reality, a process that felt not unlike placing a napkin atop another so that the edges aligned, and took flight. My tank top was narrow between my shoulder blades, so it did not touch my wings, but something still seemed to be niggling at me as I flew, hundreds of thousands of kilometres passing beneath me every second. ''Ah,'' I mouthed, pressing the fingers of my left hand together, revealing a couple of black cigarettes with silver tips when I opened them. The sinister hand was more convenient for spellcasting, in the sense it did not tingle after creating matter, unlike the right. It was something that would fade as I sharpened my magic, but currently, it was distracting. As I stuck the cigs in my mouth, I was reminded of Lucas. We hadn''t really talked in a while, and that made me feel like a cow. I could go kick his dad''s arse for being a dick to him but not cheer him up? That made me feel like Maws, and a growl escaped my lips, along with a small smoke cloud. I''d visit him if his demesne happened to be on the way. Sometimes, zmei shifted their homes for various reasons, or the country itself moved them around, though you could resist that if you wanted. Maybe I''d visit his brothers too; hell, what if they happened to be together? A corner of my mouth curved up at the thought, and I took a deep breath. The cigs felt like a tire fire in a candy factory, along with a whiff of something sensual, like the location they brought to mind was next to a strip club. ''Those are not from our macrocosm,'' a deep, cultured voice spoke into my mind. It reminded me of Attenborough, and, heh, I could''ve listened to that geezer reading the phone book. ''They sure ain''t,'' I replied, continuing to fly. ''Nice to see you, Hierophant.'' The Unbeing''s image flashed in my mind''s eye, a considering look on its many-faceted, many-hued visage. Its clawed tentacles were pressed together as its layered, black and silver robes flowed with its movements. ''Hello, my Lady in Flames.'' ''I learned ''bout ''em from this guy with a flashy coat and an attitude problem,'' I said, pretending I hadn''t heard the title. ''Want one?'' ''I gathered. And, no, thank you.'' ''Suit yourself.'' As I spoke through the aether, nothing interrupted my smoking. ''Not that it''s not nice to hear from you, but did you need something?'' ''We think that, perhaps, you might need something. Need to know it, that is,'' the Unbeing said in the tone it usually used for sermons. ''As per our wishes, we have refrained from dedicating ceremonies or holy sites to you.'' ''Keep that up, please,'' I said, trying to sound casual. ''It''s nice to know you guys think I''m great, but worship''s too much, really.'' ''If you say so.'' It sounded uncertain, or maybe like it couldn''t understand why I thought that. ''That being said, our number is endless, just like our faith, and our minds ascend the layers of creations at will. If we raised our hands in prayer to you, you would become as mighty as any goddess, and more powerful than most.'' My lopsided smirk faded. For a fraction of a nanosecond, I almost wondered if David hadn''t sent his cult''s head to deter me, suggesting I swap the power of my domain, and whatever else I might learn, for that gained from veneration. But even the photons spinning before my eyes in a slow dance seemed to be quietly laughing at the absurdity of the thought. David only barely tolerated the Unbeings, and that was only for as long as they didn''t pray for anything or fight in his name or for his favour. Then, I winced at how little faith I''d shown in my lover, even for a moment. ''Hiero? I mean this in the nicest way possible, but would you mind leaving me alone? I''m busy.'' The Hierophant bowed lightly, retreating into the lightless depths of a cathedral. ''We only want you to know you are valued.'' A chorus of voices joined its own when it next spoke. ''Without you, do you think the Keeper of Endings would be as kind? Do you think he would guide the virtuous godless, help them shape their afterlives into paradises? We say, nay. He would leave them to their own devices, focusing only on punishing the guilty. Cold duty, blood spilled joyfully and love of torture have only ever resulted in darkling Keepers.'' * * * The zmeu brothers (and how easy that name came to mind. They certainly weren''t the only group of zmeu brothers to band together, but no one really thought of anything else that way. I was surprised I didn''t capitalise it in my thoughts) were busy preparing for a family reunion. It looked like I''d smacked enough sense into Maws to make him reconsider being an uncaring douchebag, something that went against both his instincts and his personality. I was in awe. As such, they hadn''t really been able to hang out, nor, really, willing. Aaron had arranged for their parents to come to his barracks-like domain, and he had distractedly told me to take care of David, before leaving my sight, to take care of whatever task he''d set himself, muttering something about how we were good for each other, he was sure. I''d watched his tails trailing behind him as he''d left, stifling my laugh but failing to hide my smile. Whenever I saw the one split from middle to tip, the halves hanging by a thread, and remembered both the story about how he''d been scarred in battle and the truth of the matter, I just couldn''t help myself. Of course, the Socialist Republic of Romania had been a nation of loyalty, camaraderie and patriotic love. Romance had been allowed, when it could pretty things up, but nobody in charge had seen it as a virtue or a necessity. No wonder, then, that they''d make up a story about fighting and order their Admiral to spout another lie. What would the alternative had been? Admitting people weren''t really separated by borders? Ah...Aaron was too old-fashioned to kiss and tell, but luckily, Andrei''s shame had been surgically extracted at birth. When we went to visit the souls of Constantin''s parents, he and Simona would come along, as they''d insisted, and I was sure it wouldn''t take long for him to start talking about acquaintances from work. There really was nothing to be cagey about, nor had there been anything since the regime change. Lucas had pulled me into an one-armed hug, flattening me against his chest. He was in his tank top and tracksuit pants dad outfit combo, and I''d returned the embrace like he was my father. In a way, he filled that role as much as Constantin did, as much as David used to. "Got something new, hatchling?" he''d asked, trying to bum a cigarette off me. "Yep," I''d answered, making a third one and offering it to him. The zmeu had puffed a few times on it, before incinerating it in a burst of blue flame. "Weak. I prefer something I can actually feel through the smoke inside me." "Yeah, well, not all of us smoke to scour our throats raw," I''d said, watching him summon three of his signature cigars, full of the blue grass of his domain. The, I''d smirked toothily. "And at least I don''t look like I''m smoking dog turds." With a thoroughly unimpressed, deadpan look, he''d lit all three at once, with a lighter rather than his fire breath. This was usually a sign he wanted to savour them. "Punk," he''d said, rubbing a closed fist alongside my crest. "The truth hurts, doesn''t it?" "Indeed. That''s exactly why I prefer to be higher than I can fly." I''d placed a hand over my heart and the other over my mouth. "B-But Lucas, you c-can''t drown your pain in vices, it''s unhealthy!" He''d snorted, left and right heads looking around. "Say, I''d love to talk, but the giant windbag and his arm candy are gonna arrive soon, so." He''d given me an apologetic look. "I gotta get this out of my head." Or he''d keep stressing over it and getting angry, but that went unsaid. Lucian had been much the same. His usual cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a dark scowl as he waited for Bianca to arrive. I''d put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, remembering what the iela had gone through before creation had changed, and his eyes had softened. "Hey, don''t think I''m not in the mood to talk just cuz I''m brooding," he''d said during a brief stroll across the arid, uneven landscape that passed for Aaron''s yard. When I''d asked the old lizard why he didn''t go for something prettier than the cratered mess around his barracks, he''d said no one would look for bodies in a place that looked so thoroughly bombed, before chuckling. "The break is nice, chatterbox," I''d replied. "Though pretty weird." "You''re telling me. But silence comes easier to me than it ever has." He''d closed his eyes, laughing self-deprecatingly. "Damn, but I sound like David. Keep an eye on him for me, please. As soon as we take care of the upcoming mess, I''ll try to make time for him more often." From what David had told me, which fit pretty well with my scrying, Bianca would eventually return to her sisters for some time, more to train than to talk. She''d later use her newfound abilities to help Sofia Ilyich hone hers, allowing the witch to better bridge gaps across creation. But there was some time left until then. Bianca hadn''t arrived, I think, because the idea of meeting Lucian''s parents made her uncomfortable. Not nervous, as such a scenario usually would have made most people, but then, she''d heard his descriptions of them. I could hardly blame her. Bia''s situation reminded me how lucky I was for David''s father to be such an understanding guy. On the flipside, he said he''d had no problems with my parents when he''d come across their souls, but I''d still declined his offer to meet them. Leaving the zmeu brothers to their preparations, I''d taken flight again, and was now about two thirds of the way to my destination. Its location had more to do with its inhabitant''s desire to be found than with geography, so, since I could glimpse a dark smudge on the horizon and feel it with my arcane sense, I thought the old bat must have been curious about what I was bringing. Abyss-Growing-Vaster, like most zmei from her generations, were reclusive, by our standards. They met to mate, not mingle, as they often said when asked, but otherwise kept to themselves.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. I suppose that, for people who''d been older than some species by the time the first stars had appeared, anywhere seemed crowded. The entrance to Abyss'' domain resembled a gaping pit, larger than most celestial bodies. Though billions of kilometres across, it looked empty. My eyes failed to glimpse anything in the darkness, as did my arcane sense. I was sure that had little to do with natural gloom, and much with the wards placed on her home by the old zmeu. It reminded me of that week-long school trip to Greece, specifically the day when we''d gone to see Scylla and Charybdis. They manifested on Earth sometimes, existing both in the Kaos Cluster and our world, when people''s knowledge of their legend waxed. We''d been lucky enough to catch them appearing for a few minutes. Going by Maws'' description, Abyss usually resembled the many-headed, whale-bodied monster, but the entrance to her lair reminded me of the living vortex that was Charybdis. To my utter lack of surprise, she didn''t welcome me. I''d expected at least some taunting, though, or riddles. Instead, she looked like she wanted to check just how much I really wanted to meet her. As I descended, seeing nothing despite darkness that would''ve blinded an owl being as clear as day to me, I tried to feel if there was anything around me. However, the sense that let me follow air pressure, an extension of my sense of touch that was useful during flight, spotted nothing. The darkness seemed physical, more like an ocean of tar than the absence of light, and there was a sensation of weight everywhere around me. I kept flying down, wings straining, breaking in half with every beat and healing before the next. Contrary to popular belief, most paras only gained an inhuman pain tolerance through experience, rather than as an innate power. Broken wings felt like broken arms, though connected to my shoulder blades, but I''d felt worse. Abyss wasn''t about to send me running with this. When Maws had told me about her, I thought he''d been lying. If not dead, surely the ancient witch had isolated herself beyond reach, or become unwilling to receive visitors. This was the thing about endless realms like zmeu country. It was easy to lose track of things, especially those that didn''t want to be found. But Maws had told me she was willing to meet people who caught her eye, as he knew from when he''d worked security for her. I''d decided to give it a try. After all, if the stories were true, Abyss could tap into the powers of her demesne while outside zmeu country. Even her eons of magical knowledge would have been valuable, but that...I needed that. After what felt like days of flight, my feet hit rocky ground, shattered wings knitting back together. The darkness disappeared, not fading, but being pulled away like a curtain, and I saw I was in a circular cavern, too tall for me to see the ceiling. It was covered in rows upon rows of circular openings, each too dark to see into, though something glimmered inside a few of the shadowed circles. I''m sure it was meant to be scary or confusing, but all I could think of was how stupid the whole arrangement must have looked, with a pit this deep but also this, by comparison, narrow. The spherical room and the array of identical openings were a ruse, for such things were meant to evoke infinity. I was sure I''d end up in the same place no matter which I picked. No doubt, the zmeoaic? felt clever organising things like this. Looking up into the darkness, I walked forward, stopping when a wall entered my sight. Lowering my eyes, I stepped into the entrance, and felt something like a door heavily but noiselessly slamming shut behind me. A reminder and encouragement to forget about the outside world and focus on my journey, ignoring any distractions? Or a distraction itself, meant to make me paranoid, or even make me lose time by trying to escape? I wasn''t going to make any decisions based on such cheap tricks, anyway. Chances were, the sorceress just liked dramatic door slams, but who didn''t? Though I could see nothing, I could tell the ceiling was low by the spikes of my crest brushing against something that felt like rock. When I reached out and felt a similar surface, I decided it was far too small for flying to be practical. I''d crack my bones trying to break the unnatural stone, so trying to make a new way was out of the question. I had no illusion about Abyss'' ability to shut down my esoteric powers. She wanted me to walk. Or, rather, make my way to her on my feet - I had a feeling running would result in an injury everyone but me would find hilarious. As galling as it felt to move like I was wingless, it wasn''t as though I was in a rush. M limbs seemed to have taken that to heart, actually, with how numb they felt as I began to walk. After what must have been hours, the walls of the tunnel changed. They were not replaced with anything, but simply faded. When I reached into the blinding light that had replaced them, a glare that made my eyes water but did not reveal anything in the darkness ahead, I only felt a stinging pain that left my hands trembling when I retracted them. A blunt way to say I should focus on the road ahead, but I''d take it over needlessly the needlessly complicated "suggestions" some mages were fond of. Eventually, after the pain in my hands stopped, images filled my sight. Not displayed in the lights that had replaced the walls, but rather, in my mind''s eye. Abyss was old-fashioned when it came to visions, I saw, since this recreation of my past started at the very beginning and followed events in a chronological order. I suppose I should be grateful at least I got to see things I didn''t remember, having been too young. When the image changed to Snagov Forest, the first place I remembered, I perked up at the sight of my mother getting off my newly-hatched egg, the same yellow-orange of my scales. David had told me my parents'' souls were with him, and that we could meet whenever, but frankly, I hadn''t felt the need yet. Maybe this would change my opinion. ''You know where to find me,'' my father rumbled, hands on his hips, as his wings twitched, before he and my mother flew off. Luckily, my hopes had been low, so I wasn''t too disappointed. Zmei were infamously apathetic towards their hatchlings, but some at least had the decency to watch over their eggs during the day it took for them to hatch, or at least laid them somewhere civilised. My parents had fallen in the rougher, larger category, I saw. I huffed silently. Typical zmeu life story. I''d only been unusual in that I''d wanted to learn about my parents and eventually found them, in a way. It would''ve made no sense to whine: I saw how annoyed Lucas and the boys were after getting to know their parents, and I certainly wasn''t jealous. But I wasn''t eager to take David up on his offer too soon, either. I''d be damned if I didn''t love my kids with all my heart. It was no less than they''d deserve. Whether it took a year or a trillion, I''d try do do right by them, and I''d never be absent. Talking about kids...my claws traced my abs as I remembered the future David had told me about. He''d said I was more curvy than ripped in it, after two eggs and one pregnancy. I wasn''t sure how I felt about that. To be, or not to be, a MILF. Hm... Then I remembered teens mentioning chicks my age while talking about older women, and slumped with a laugh, like David did when people mentioned how he''d been born in the late twentieth century. "They''re making my childhood sound like a historical period!" he''d sobbed once, crying crocodile tears on Constantin''s shoulder. His pops, older by twenty years, had rubbed his back with a deadpan look. Yep. No rush to become a mom. I had all the time in the world, and other things in mind at the moment, anyway. The vision changed, going over the months I''d spent lurking in Snagov, hunting birds and rodents. I beamed at the image of my standoff with a bear, and the carcass we''d eaten together, and the depiction of my first firebreath, which had scared a wolf pack off. In another world, such animals might not have populated the forest as they did in ours, altered by the magic and sciences of man. Either way, I was grateful for those days of innocence, as well as the beginning of my true life. The vision showed the ranger who''d found me. The weregoat had grumbled about zmei never having kids in hospitals, like normal people, but had still managed to coax me into his car, with the help of several cans of canned beef. There, while I''d watched, he''d made several calls I hadn''t understood, though I''d heard and remembered every word. (Now, that was just my experience, guys. You shouldn''t follow strangers into their cars just because their meat tastes good.) I''d made my way through dozens of cans, biting through steel like apple skin, all the while repeating my first world: "More!" And, not to be narcissistic, but baby Mia had been really cute. I hoped that, if I had a daughter, she''d love life just as much. He''d then taken me to an orphanage in Bucharest, the first of many. By middle school, I''d got sick of the capital and moved to a quieter place, all the while shadowed by government handlers, who didn''t want a potentially dangerous supernatural running loose, no matter how responsible and careful I was. When I first met David, in ninth grade, I didn''t think much of him. He was this thin, brooding undead guy, who only opened up to crack jokes and pouted when you didn''t like them. Fortunately, I didn''t remain stupid for too long, and soon enough, I realised he was simply awkward around people, rather than an aloof douchebag who got offended if you didn''t share his sense of humour. The fact his classes were perfect setups hadn''t hurt, either. The vision showed a class about were reproductive systems, with David talking about how much blue werewhales could ejaculate in one go, and grumbling under his breath about finding whoever had thought it necessary to include that and beating them over the head with the textbook. "Huh," Eric had said, thoughtfully. "Is that why the sea is so salty?" "Nah, you can thank me for that," Bogdan had replied, flexing. "Stop, you''re making me thirsty!" I''d moaned, eyes closed. "ALL THREE OUTSIDE, NOW!" David had snapped, looking up from the book, before blinking. "NO! I don''t trust you three on your own. Shut up, settle down, and I''ll think of something." I chuckled with a wince. Ah, damn, teen me had been a headache, especially once I''d hit eighteen. I''d have to make it up to my boyfriend. A smirk crossed my face at the thought. Riling him up until he wanted to vent was one of the few ways to make him agree to top me. David was heartbreakingly gentle, and even the possibility of upsetting me made him uncomfortable. His strigoi side wasn''t much different: still a teddy bear, though far more eager to dominate me - but still utterly appalled by the idea of so much as scratching me. I''d like to push the boundaries, there. David needed to understand that I could and had dealt with far worse pain than what he''d do to me would cause, and that I''d enjoy it and heal after. ...Or that was what I''d have said, if I wanted to be a hypocrite. The truth was, I couldn''t bear even drawing blood from my strigoi, despite him arguing exactly what I''d outlined above. I wondered how many others saw the side of David I was lucky enough to see on a daily basis. Ever since he''d started working at Keeper, people across creation had often only seen him in two scenarios: as the grim messenger warning them not to mess with life and death, and as the laughing monster who tore down all their endeavours while joking about their efforts to stop him, before consigning them to an afterlife of his choosing. And, make no mistake, David didn''t show his gentleness to many. Many only saw behind his laughing or scowling mask when he began force feeding them their dismembered limbs and turned their souls inside out. Heat pooled in my stomach, and didn''t stop there. The Unbeings'' words came back to me; had I really made him better? More thoughtful? I guess I could''ve felt smug that I''d changed him so much he''d decided to help infinities of people better their afterlives, but honestly, the idea just had my head spinning. I wasn''t all that, honestly. Not yet. I thought about how I still had a ways to go before my mana suffused me, enhancing my body without needing to be cast, how I still lacked the demesne all zmei had, but that was ridiculous. David didn''t love me for power, thank blazes. When I''d turned twenty-one, I''d dated this shy twink named Robert, a bookish mage who''d enjoyed how much I outmatched him physically. Initially, it had been nice. An earnest guy who liked being manhandled? Hell yeah. "I need someone to tell the server they got my order wrong, and who''s going to do it, me? Ha ha," and all that stuff. But Bobi had leaned into my strength to a pretty weird degree. Not making me do stuff for him or anything like that, but I''d got the feeling he''d started dating me because he''d wanted someone to protect him and act when he was too shy too, and that...wasn''t the basis for a relationship. At least, that what I''d thought at the time. "Listen, you''re lovely," I''d told him during the breakup, "but this kind of thinking isn''t good for you. You''ve gotta learn to assert yourself, be your own person. Sure, sometimes boldness will get you into troubles too," I''d pointed at myself with a self-deprecating smile, "but this is beneath both of us. I know you''re better than this." I''d also felt bad about dating a guy who drew the line at making out because he was scared of what I might accidentally do in bed, "in the heat of the moment". I''d say my advice had worked, in a way: last I''d heard about him, Robert had started a podcast about how nervous tics could alter one''s magic, citing his propensity for stealth spells and artefacts as an example. I''d have to bring that up next time David and I visited Sofia. I think she''d adopted me as either her big sister or her mom, but despite her cheerfulness, I was sure she still missed her parents, despite how they''d ended up. I had to make sure to remind her never to lose her desire for friendship and harmony. The world needed that kind of wholesomeness. More than averting any threat she might become, it was good for everyone''s soul. The vision had cycled through less important memories during my musing, and I''d ignored them. Already knowing the details, my mind had filed the sensations away for later contemplation. But the new scene change made my eyes narrow and sharpen. I''d hit what passed for puberty among zmei a short while ago, and my instincts had been in uproar. I think we all cringed looking back at our teen selves, and I was glad I no longer wet my panties or ogled hot people. That blatantly. It''d been a trip to the Sighet Memorial, an archive of communism''s legacy in Romania that was as bleak as it was extensive. The living atrocities the RCP had left in their wake had either been healed or put down, though sometimes, those categories had overlapped. Since you couldn''t keep people mutilated in body and soul around as living museum pieces, alternatives had been sought: holograms, projected retrocognitive visions, golems, homunculi. Zmei had been a commodity, before the Revolution. A species so addicted to violence and sex - and rape, when they mingled? The Party couldn''t have asked for better scapegoats when a thug was too indiscreet, but also too valuable to discard. Great examples to hold up when the chaotic nature of supernaturals, who needed a firm hand to be kept in their place, needed to be pointed out, too. Not to mention blackmailed zmei had made for good workers and killers. Aaron said he''d entered the Navy to relax, but I knew half the reason had been selling his services in exchange for his brothers'' freedom - and Lucas had still been badgered regularly to become a Securist in his mercenary days. All in all, I was glad I hadn''t been born before the Revolution. Zmei who leered at the wrong person ended up dead at best, at worst castrated and brainwashed, to be put to work as living corpses whenever appropriate. Not to mention policy that spanned the Eastern Bloc and forced everyone not straight to donate sperms or eggs, lest they be imprisoned for deviant behaviour, conspiring to keep the country''s population down, or whatever charges the nation''s Communist Party could come up with. The holograms of the zmeoaice I''d seen at Sighet hadn''t been killed, but their spirits had certainly been murdered. Their scales had been scraped off, their knees forcefully straightened until they bent like those of humans, their tails and wings severed. The thing that had approached me, guided by its programming, had been a tall, blue-skinned freak, with light brown hair crafted to her crestless skull and her fangs reduced to stubs. Not recognising the hologram as a representation of a zmeu, I''d nevertheless backed off, a deep revulsion running through me. There had been all sorts, our gruff weresnake teacher had told us. Zmeaoice who had loved women, or disagreed to be used as broodmares, or who wouldn''t be missed. There had even been a hologram of what had once been a male zmeu, who''d been "feminised" until barely a caricature of womanhood could be seen under the surgical scars and grotesque implants. I doubted any of his past boyfriends could have looked at him without throwing up. They''d have probably disagreed with the Party''s stance that if you didn''t do you duty as a a man because you wanted to live like a woman, you might as well become one. "But how?" I''d asked, horrified. "Were...were they caught off-guard and altered by magic?" It hadn''t made sense to me. Zmei could heal from so much, they could move things to zmeu country, where they controlled reality like self-made godlings..."What did they do to them?" "You don''t want to know," our history teacher had said, not unkindly. "Trussst me, girl. Come on. Let''sss go back to the group." The weresnake had leaned closer to whisper where a human''s ear would have been. I had no external ears, but the gesture had been touching, regardless. "Tell me if you need to sssee the psssycologissst." Her yellow eyes had flicked to the holograms, caught in a looped simulation of one of the soirees they''d been made to attend by their lovers in the Party and Security - though owners was a more accurate term, in my opinion. "Wouldn''t want you to have nightmaressss." So, yeah. Despite offering to remove my instincts for David, like Lucas had removed his with the help of the Mother of the Forest, I wasn''t exactly jumping at the idea. Whenever thought about altering myself that way, I remembered the gelded, mindless things who''d had the misfortune of thinking the wrong way in the wrong country, and had been made less than slaves, not even free to kill themselves. And, thought I knew it was ridiculous and that my boyfriend would much rather kill himself than think about doing anything like that to me, a small, stupid part of me - the predatory part, that knew when it was outmatched and was always on edge in the presence of the undead god I''d united my eternity with - couldn''t help but wait for the other shoe to drop. It was sure that one day, David would get sick f other people having me, or angry at me talking back to him, or just bored of how little I had to offer him, when all was said and done. I knew he wouldn''t. That he''d never hurt me, even if he hadn''t loved me. He didn''t hurt those he saw as innocent. But that smiling, monstrous face, fixed in a slavish grin, was always there when I closed my eyes, waiting for me to join her once I did something wrong and displeased my lover, It was absurd. If David decided to become a monster, no one in creation would even know we''d ever lived in anything but eternal suffering. He was powerful enough. No matter what I did, if he chose to do that, it would happen. And yet, as I looked into the future, my heart skipped a beat with every fling. Would this one be the last drop? This one? This? And yet, I thought with a growl. this monster of mine worships me more than his god, and has never laid a finger on me without my consent. It made no sense. But it didn''t leave me. Maybe I was just too shallow to realise that I liked sleeping around and dressed it up as not wanting to lose a natural part of me. What would happen, would happen. My more recent memories passed in a blur as my stride grew more purposeful, angrier. The tunnel seemed to shrink - there was a sensation of getting closer to my destination - and soon, enough, I was standing in another cavern, with no shadows in any corner, though there was no source of light. Abyss-Growing-Vaster was lounging in an oval pit filled to the uneven brim with power the colour of tar. Like Maws had described, a collection of heads rose above a strong, wide body, but they were long and serpentine, unlike those of ordinary zmei. She was shapeshifting. Tails rose, lowered and curled lazily behind her, tips describing geometric figures and arcane shapes. Arctic blue, black-slit eyes regarded me, halfc-closed, from each of her round faces. I opened my mouth to speak, but Abyss lifted a hand, palm out. Her claws, millions of kilometres across, gleamed along the edges and tips. She could''ve been any of the zmei who''d stolen the sun, hiding it in a pocket like a human would a glass eye. ''I know,'' she purred, voice surprisingly light for her size. ''I saw what you did, hatchling. Felt as you felt, until the last moment.'' Three heads tilted. ''It is deplorable that you would harbour such fears of your own lover, but the truth must be confronted. It is better to admit reluctance is born from fear than to see yourself as a whore, like fools do.'' ''I''m not scared,'' I said stubbornly. ''I know he wouldn''t hurt me, no matter what. He''d change the face of existence before that.'' ''Fear, wariness, disgust - it matters not, in the end. You are repulsed by the idea of altering yourself. Yes? Yes.'' She spread her forelegs, as if to say there was nothing to add. ''Better than for people to think that you are too lazy or perverse to let go of that side of yourself.'' ''Yeah, I''ll feel much better if they start thinking I''m a coward instead,'' I replied drily. ''Listen. You said you know why I''m here, so I''d like you to say whether you''ll help me or not. No pussyfooting, please.'' I was rubbing my face by the end of the sentence, and Abyss laughed. ''Girl! If nothing else, I''d give you a talisman or power for straightening Maws out. I can''t, for the life of me, remember when he''s ever listened to anyone besides himself.'' ''I don''t want charity,'' I said carefully, trying not to bristle. ''I want training. They say you can change yourself and your surroundings even outside zmeu country, without using magic. That you can use your domain as an endless source of power.'' ''All true,'' she said lightly. ''And yet, you think you can equal me, instead of hoping to surpass me. I''d rather not have copycats around, even ones as pretty as you,'' she winked, ''but, oh well. I can hardly be a chooser, with how few manage to make their way here. Harken.'' She stood up, body becoming more humanoid while shrinking, until she barely stood taller than me, with only one head, though several tails still moved behind her. ''Your progress is arse-backwards, but...fascinating.'' She rubbed her chin, walking past me and making the surface of a smooth wall ripple, until it resembled a writing board. ''Most zmei can''t tap into their demesne''s power while outside it, even in zmeu country. You, having an endless font of might but not a concrete domain? I''d ask who taught you, but you haven''t spent much time in the country.'' Abyss turned, looking down at me. ''In any case, we can standardise whatever training process you''ve come up with. I expect you to carve out a domain by this time next year...'' I will have to return to this part of the story David and I live. But, suffice to say, over the next months, I began to understand my power better. And, as my teacher told me to stop worrying about David - there was nothing wrong with him; he understood me, and even if we didn''t make love in the times we spent together when I returned home from training, we still loved each other - I found other things to think about. Until, one day, Abyss asked me if I didn''t want to put the technical stuff aside for a while and service my teacher. ''Sure,'' I answered, squatting between her parted legs, the closest a zmeu could come to kneeling without changing form. Our bodies seemed to sneer at the idea of submission - more of that unmatched predator claptrap, I was sure -, but I had no problem letting a beauty take the wheel. ''But, as a warning?'' I smirked up at the older woman as I placed her thighs over my shoulders. ''I tend to act up. Try not to hold it against me.'' I expected her to say "Oh, I have something else to hold," in a silky voice. Instead, she just grabbed my crest and told me to get to work. After a few hours, she was ready to ditch the foreplay, but not before a question. ''Do you miss him?'' Abyss asked, hands on her round hips. I shrugged, wiping my face with a forearm. ''Of course. My heart belongs to David - but that doesn''t mean I have to scourge myself when I share my body with someone else.'' Love was not lust. He understood. My teacher and current lover nodded, tapping her chin with a finger. Then, she grinned. ''Do you think he misses you?'' It was also during this time that my zmeu name changed. Not by my choice: the name carved into the core of my being by zmeu country before I was even born was gradually wiped clean and replaced. That had been a hatchling''s name, but now, I had started learning to rein in my passions, instead of losing myself to them and forgetting about my dignity. The Unbeings'' echoing chants, their praises to the Lady in Flames, lover and guide of the Keeper of Endings, never truly left my ears, after that. * * * Loo- No. But we can ju- No. But human! It''s simply- I know. Still no. My worse half crossed its arms with an exasperated groan. You''re not going to stand there and tell me Mia getting it on with an older chick isn''t hot. I frowned. Maybe I''m just too jealous to find it hot, alright? Look into a mirror and jack off, or something. But you''ll keep it to yourself if you open that video. As it launched into a detailed explanation of why I was a narrow-minded, hidebound paranoid idiot, I tuned it out. That didn''t deter it in the slightest, since it was the most stubborn part of the most boneheaded moron in existence. ...the hell, human?! She''s our woman, no matter who has her for a time. She belongs to us, and we to her. Stop being stupider than usual. I grumbled something so eloquent it sounded like gibberish, but it was cut short by the smooth, bass chuckle behind me. Arvhek of Naught, Bane of Makers, Sire of Stillborn Creations, and former Keeper of DEATH, regarded me with the closest his not-face could come to a smile. Arvhek always appeared as a dark figure: a knight in black armour (and why did that feel familiar?), robed, cowled silhouette, a looming man in dark pants, features obscured by gloves and a hoodie. But all of them were impressions plastered over the wound in the substance of the macrocosm he was, like nuclear shadows in front of the blast. And, though I was channeling the full power of my mantle as guardian of creation, that didn''t make his presence any less daunting. But that was alright. It was why I was here, after all. Beyond the edge of what I knew as existence, the endless host of Creators who populated the ur-city watched us in utter stillness. But, like pebbles in the wind couldn''t have comprehended the hurricane even if they''d had minds, they couldn''t grasp either of our powers. Though sealed in the deepest part of the Neverwere Vaults, I knew the cosmic prison was no more of an obstacle to Arvhek than a cell outlined by a mime would have been to an elephant. He was staying as a courtesy, according to himself. He existed on a greater, deeper level than creation. Or, rather, didn''t. Arvhek''s power was not that of death, or even the Unnamed Darkness, but something more fundamental. Something that felt like the Unmoved Mover, but bent wholly towards destruction. As he stood up, appearing as a knight in full plate, with a hooded cape over it, my mantle of power drew tight around the core of my being. His un-words were being edited, essentially, for everyone''s safety. They were still laced with something like static, which made my soul bleed. ''Such a heavy burden, placed on such a callow godling?'' His fingertip pressed on one shoulder, reminding me of when I''d tried to lift an avil in my teens, and broken my arm in the attempt. He sighed, before laughing self-deprecatingly. ''Is what I would say, if I resembled the image you''ve built up in your head, my heir. Honestly, David, no one talks like that outside of bad dramas. Not all the time, at least. It''s exhausting.'' He turned, whistling tunelessly, and I blinked. ''...Arv? You''d better not be trying to-'' ''Yes, yes. No need to threaten me with great justice if I oust myself as a treacherous blackguard.'' The look he gave me over his shoulder was bored but playful. ''I used to deliver speeches just like that, you know. It comes with the bag of bones shrieking in your ear.'' He sat back down, legs closed, leaning against one wall. ''You''ve only learned what you want to learn about me, but that is not enough. You must understand, David, that it is perfectly possible to make no mistake, and be as fair as you can, and still fail, and still suffer. It''s called life.'' Something burned in the centre of his void-visage. ''I fought, like you. I wept and bled and prayed and cursed, just like you. I thought everything was false, so anything could be destroyed, just like you.'' He exhaled. ''But I didn''t stop there. Or, rather, I did. Else I would be very, very lonely. You must understand the failures of the Keepers past, if you are to become our better, David.'' He beckoned me to him, suddenly frantic. Confident in my power, I obliged, and Arvhek wrapped his cold, burning arms around me. ''I see your history, and future. You might lift everyone up, but you will be a better Keeper than any of us ever where.'' A broken sob escaped him, and the earlier flare was reduced to a gleam. ''An honest husband, and a loving father. Either would be better than I''ve ever managed...but you''ll only have easy victories, if you compare yourself to me.'' ''Arvhek-'' ''No! Listen to me, for you have nothing to lose.'' He pulled back, taking my shoulders into his hands. ''David, duty and the cold comfort execution brings do not make a Keeper whole, much less happy. Take it from the fool who married himself to his oaths, and had both his wife and his Empress end themselves because of him, and only then came back to his senses. Cherish your lover! Do not begrudge her her peculiarities. Know your monster! Sometimes, only slaughter can clear a path. Where the tyranny of ignorance looms, the tree of knowledge must be watered with the blood of the blind. Do not close your eyes by choice!'' I sat, mirroring the position of DEATH''s fourth Keeper, as he began telling me about what I''d read in the Keep''s archives, and more besides. I decided I might as well see what Mia had sent me. If only to shut my strigoi side up. But I would have time for that. Sidestory: Patch Works (I)
"We cannot simply handwave the murders, mister..." "Kricher. Adam Kricher." One of the officials had smiled at that. Barely, just an upwards twitch of her mouth''s corners. A reference I hadn''t understood at the moment. I wasn''t amused after meeting an approximation of the legendary spy, a slave to his lust as I once was to my anger. "You desire that to be your legal name, yes? We understand you do not want to be known as ''the monster'', and ''Adam'' is somewhat...widespread." Managing not to sneer at the mention of my title, I had nodded. "Yes. I would have a proper name." The first among them, a balding old man with horn-rimmed glasses, had raised a hand, wrinkled and spotted but not shaking, preempting any questions or comments. I had appreciated the gesture at the time, and still did. He''d had a question for me himself, however, and it had made me think. "If I may l ask one more thing before you go?" "Yes?" "Why Kricher? I understand the pun. Making light of bad circumstances, using things said to hurt you as armour, that makes sense. But why not Frankenstein?" I had smiled a wan, brooding smile, unwilling or unable to properly explain it. I think they understood, however, because they said I was good to leave, any my papers and files would be updated soon. Let this be recorded for posterity, then, as I seem to have found my words and my wits: I am the first of my kind, and I will not be the last. I am my father''s motherless son, begotten through sorcerous technology and arcane artifice. My flesh is dead and stitched; my blood as dark and cold as the depths of the manmade animus that shrieks where a man''s soul would be. I am the first man of the breed Victor Frankenstein dreamed of crafting, and will become the unliving ancestor of the breed I will birth. I am the Adam creature of our ilk, the made king who never had the queen he longed for. I am crowned with power and my mantle is murder. In my mind lie the secrets of my father''s fleshcraft, the way he devised to steal light from God and turn it into knowledge. And I am vexingly, boringly alone. Victor''s book seemed to gleam at me as it wiggled on its support, as if winking. I answered its inane fretting with a heavy-lidded glare, helped by the inky spheres I have for eyes. The rag did not seem repentant in the least. Sometimes, Victor''s book was a leatherbound volume. On other days, it was a scroll of papyrus or a roll of vellum, a touchscreen-equipped, circular device or a bizarre arrangement of faceted crystals. At the moment, it resembled a stack of bronze slates, words heavy with destiny swimming across the polished surface. I knew what it wanted. Suspected it, at least - it hadn''t communicated with me in any true sense, besides childish "gestures" meant to raise my hackles. It wanted me to make more people like me, to build. To what purpose? To no purpose. But not doing such things was not something it could conceive. I pulled off my gloves, the black fabric hidden under blood even darker than the stains spattering my heavy, hooded lab coat, and leaned my hands on the operating slab. The surgery had stopped moments before the butchery had begun, but, just because the subject was an unliving mound of flesh, it did not excuse my tantrum. Nor my sloppiness. Being angry was no excuse for swinging a scalpel like a hatchet...but then, I still lacked a proper handle on my anger. This only fed it, predictably. I shook my head, taking a breath that would''ve frozen a man''s lungs as my long, dark hair almost with a will of its own. Driven by false sentience, it sought not to obstruct my sight, instead pulling aside to let me see everything. I looked ridiculous, as if my hair had been blasted by a burst of air, but it was efficient. Less efficient than focusing my arcane sight to gaze through obstacles, but this required neither effort nor attention. No. Standing next to the slab was only going to raise my choler again, I was sure of it. My current predicament did not help my temper, either. Striding soundlessly, I made my way to the ash-coloured, unornamented wall. This laboratory was small, being new, but no longer sterile. My first experiment in it had gone horribly. I''d made my way to the North Pole because, though the scattered, frozen lands had been fused together by the magic and technology used to stave off the act''s natural consequences decades ago, settlements were few and scattered. you could live your whole life here without coming across another person, and that was what I wanted. Contrary to what you might believe, it had nothing to do with nostalgia towards my last confrontation with Victor. Though I''d been the butt of a few tasteless jokes about the culprit returning to the scene of the crime, I did not feel more than indifference towards the location, sentimentally-speaking. Practically, however, it would serve my aims. I needed a quiet place, without annoying neighbours. I could ruin my own day like a grownup, thank you very much. The enterprise I had embarked on was starting to take place. Once it reached its optimal stage, Patch Works would be a nonprofit organisation working to help traumatised constructs get overt their past, or offer them alternatives if they couldn''t. I had been informed I''d likely have to work closely with ARC to get artificial beings away from their abusers, as well as with national paranormal law enforcement agencies as appropriate. I also wanted to help natural children as well, when I could. It was not just guilt talking. I had been an awful son for a poor father, but it was more than wanting to make up for my atrocities. I wanted to give people a chance not to live like I had. And if the thanks of the grateful warmed my uneating heart? I believed I deserved what pleasures I could get in my unlife. For, though I had the body of a corpse and the power of a god, I was still a man, with a man''s passions. I still wanted a wife. I did not believe I''d ever stop. Once I married, I''d just want my wife in a different way, the way husbands are supposed to cherish their spouses. I wanted children, sired or made. A family to raise and grow old and happy alongside. The thought alone brought a soft smile to my black lips. Some would see me as a cowering fool, I had no doubt. People already did. If I wanted, I could very well crown myself god-emperor of a stretch of creation, rule over a realm of beings spawned from my power, doing as I pleased as long as I did not offend that guardian of life and death, the Keeper of Endings. David Silva. Were I capable of fear, I believe the thought of him would''ve left me twitching on the floor, on the brink of a heart attack. Quite possibly the most important being in our macrocosm, and certainly the most dangerous, only equalled by his predecessor, a regretful thinking abyss of a creature. Only surpassed by what my father believed we could all become. A snort escaped me, despite myself. Victor had still been a bloody optimist, in the end, and damn me if I could tell you how. Some people did not want power, did not crave eternity. They were content with their lot, humble as it might have seemed to some. Those could only be dragged into ascension kicking and screaming, and if we resorted to that, what was the point? But...perhaps my father hadn''t been as blind as I thought, I told myself as I slid down the wall I''d been leaning against. Perhaps, ever the visionary, he''d glimpsed some distant future where the only people left were those who craved godhood. Perhaps he wanted me to blaze a trail to that future. Was that it? My arcane sense was clouded by the powers whose shadows stretched over existence, but my gut told me my idea wasn''t wrong. Was that why Victor''s notes acted the way they did? To goad me? Motivate me? Following what many called the moment of unity, I''d willingly went to trial for my past deeds, where I had been sentenced to eternal community service. No, I am being facetious. Making a joke of it. To be more honest, I would be allowed to structure my unlife as I wanted, and experiment on what caught my interest...with regular check ups from the Global Gathering. I approved. I wouldn''t trust someone like me toiling away in obscurity at the top of the world, either. Who knew what the gloomy freakshow would make? That was another facet of my mostly one-sided agreement with the GG. If I made or discovered something interesting, they''d be awfully grateful if I shared it with them. I did not mind. It was what I wanted to do, anyway. Share the wonders of Frankenstein science with the world. And if they knew how to implement it, sparing me the tediousness of paperwork and talking with dullards I''d never met and would never meet again (or care about), I was more than happy to let them act as my middle man and errand boys. I had an experiment I''d tell them about as soon as it was finished. It was already cooking, so to speak, and I''d found ways to pass the time while I waited, as is an immortal''s wont. Less than a week ago, I''d come across this unholy fusion between a shaman and a back alley quack. This witch doctor had specialised in cybernetics, and I was using that term loosely. More accurately, he''d been a technomancer of certain skill, as well as adept to grafting mundane bionics to people. Though I was licenced to take down the likes of him, and incensed at what he''d done, I''d nevertheless alerted ARC. Before they arrived, I confronted the witch doctor and his menagerie of grotesques. The worst part, in my eyes? Maybe it was the bigot in me talking, wanting an inhuman enemy to hate, but he hadn''t been that way from the start. Normal people, for a given value of "normal", did not come to the North Pole. They were either eccentrics who wanted to get away from society, or pariahs exiled in all but name. Discounting the military and scientific personnel stationed there, I mean. The doctor, who had begun as a kindly old man - as I learned from going over his memories and timeline with my arcane sense, as well as listening to the observations ARC had been willing to share with me -, had gone quite mad from isolation. He had left his past life behind because he''d disliked confrontations, and had never truly grasped interacting with others. But cutting himself off had not been the cure he''d hoped for. Instead, he''d ended up trying to make his own solution for loneliness, and failing miserably. The remaining result of that, the one who hadn''t fought, was laid across the slab. Part of me, the one that often found itself morbidly fascinated by one crime against nature or another, wanted the thing to rise from the operating table and shamble to me, trying to strangle and eat me for failing to save her. It would''ve been dramatic, and offered me a break from my dark thoughts. But, while I waited for the double call I''d been assured would happen today, I could not afford distractions. Brooding might have weighed down the mind, but it focused it wonderfully, as well. The majority of the doctor''s horde had consisted of things barely elevated to sentience. Golems of ice and snow, moss homunculi, living lichen, things like that. Beings, if you could call them that, too simple to thing. They had amused the doctor, blundering about, helped him while away the days.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. But those bloodless clowns hadn''t been enough, in the end. So, Asger Jensen had turned to darker research, telling himself he wasn''t doing anything wrong. In a way, that had been a boon in disguise. People who knew they were evil but continued their pursuits were often far more shamelessly creative, and thus dangerous. Jensen had never had children, nor any real family. After his parents had passed away during his adolescence, the few distant relatives he''d only heard off had become even colder. I understood it, this need for companionship. But I did not approve. Doing so would''ve been the first step on indulging my worst impulses, and that was not something anyone deserved. Jensen had built this...brood mother, I guess you could call her. I flinched, despite myself, hands balling into fists as I sneaked a glance at the thing on the table. Could have called her. Asger had wanted children. Some people do, when they feel their end approaching. They crave companionship and unconditional love, if not a legacy. What he hadn''t known was that he wouldn''t die of old age. Jensen''s first and last sapient construct had been a gestalt, consisting of three organisms: a "female", to lay noisome things that only resembled eggs in the sense spawn would burst out of them, a "male" to fertilise them with its foul seed, and a thinking womb, sessile and trapped in a sick parody of life. When I first laid eyes on the womb-thing, I was reminded of those mother-goddess statuettes common among ancient humans, but only superficially. The womb had resembled the figurines in in shape and what it represented, though not fully. It had been rotund, though limbless, like a bloated slug. At the centre of its green-grey mass had been a humanlike face. A woman''s visage, stuck to the body of a monster. This tortured creature had been forced to birth Jensen''s playthings, and enjoy it, too. She hadn''t seen anything wrong with it, hadn''t been able to, even when the ARC agents and I put her down. She''d died smiling, and that had been wrong, in a way that could not be put in human words. There were certain things, old and cold, dark and foul, that thrived on violation so profound the rape of the human body seemed like a childish caress in comparison to its monstrousness. The beings who delighted in such things, inasmuch as they could, viewed mankind as a species of infants. To them, men, women, everyone, were like children. They enjoyed showing them ways to mate and breed that had nothing to do with bodies, minds or souls, and the broken, gibbering wretches left behind often made good slaves. That, if you''ll believe it, was sometimes a coincidence, rather than an aim. The thinking womb hadn''t been such a thing. She''d been a victim to the end, but her mind had been like nothing human. Jensen, in his madness, could neither decide what kind of child he wanted, nor grow attached to one as a parent should. So, he''d had the womb churn out baby newborn after newborn in the flesh-mills inside its cavernous form. Some of the infants had died young, minutes after their births, when the not so good doctor got tired of their wails. Others were made to grow at unnatural speeds, only to be reabsorbed, shrieking, when Jensen found them too ungrateful, too disrespectful, too inquisitive. They hadn''t loved him as he''d wanted, for making the thing that had brought them into the world and taken them out of it. Some of the newborns had been vile little things, with grown brains and minds that made their skulls bulge and split, foul fluids running down the sides of their smooth, hairless heads. Dark eyes set in the midst of twisted features, as if half-erased, and mouths twisted in smiles that had nothing to do with childishness, innocence, or joy. These creatures, Jensen had made into his assistants, clothing their stunted forms in dark robes and replacing much of their flesh with wicked mechanical equivalents. By the time I''d broken through the defences of his laboratory complex, their numbers had grown through both asexual breeding, their small bodies splitting apart into identical clones (how the cybernetics were copied too, no biologist could''ve answered), as well as through means I''d rather not think of. Why would you make something that looked so infantile yet was so fertile... When ARC arrived, they found me covered in blood, with one arm through Jensen''s heart, going into the ground. My eyes had burned darkly, gore-covered as they''d been, but, despite the steaming vitae coating me, I''d never felt colder. They had understood the kill. They''d have done the same. Jensen had been twisted enough no one would seriously judge me for taking his life the instant I laid my eyes on his madness. My ire had barely cooled by the time they told me they''d put down the thinking womb, who could not be rehabilitated, nor did she desire to go on without her twisted family. They delivered me her remains to do with as I pleased. Was it any surprise my anger had got the better of me, yet again? I wouldn''t be able to revive the creature without recreating her condition, nor was there any knowledge to be gained from her inert carcass. Hence, the tantrum. Hence, the chipped scalpel, cracked against structures that only felt like bone. Victor''s book possessed all his intellect, but none of his humanity - and let that close the mouths of those who claim brainpower alone makes us better than animals. Seeing my grief, it had more or less shrugged and told me to build, build, build. Being sad was pointless; what did it achieve? Much better to make something. My gaze darkened as I thought that, maybe, the book simply thought as my father had when he''d made me. When he''d been far more concerned with matters of intellect than morality. That call could not come faster... * * * They found me sitting, arms crossed over my knees, on the now-empty, blood-slick operating slab. I''d disposed of the thinking womb''s last piece, unable to do anything for her, even in death, just as I''d failed to overcome the immunity to esoterics her monster of a father had built into her. Just as ARC had failed to bring her around. It was a day for failures, so when I saw the people I''d been waiting for, I did not hide my dry, bloody-toothed grin. We were all defined by what we hadn''t done or couldn''t do. Asterion was astrally projecting a semblance of himself here. The minotaur had first approached me at the celebration following the moment of unity, and we''d bonded over growing up with father who''d quickly given up on us, though I''d chosen to become a monster. The memory of the blind, ungrateful man I''d helped flashed through my mind, and I forced down the bile that rose in response. Mother Wound''s Scorn, a product and victim of one of the most odious cultures I''ve had the displeasure of knowing, was present as a towering hologram, thick arms crossed belligerently. I don''t think he did anything without making it look like a threat or attack. I''d seen him open food containers as if they''d killed his...well. Not his mother. He wouldn''t have been angry at anything for that. Merely jealous. ''Aster,'' I said conversationally. ''Scorn.'' After exchanging greetings, we quickly got down to business. This was not an official visit in any sense, as the Tartarus Engine wasn''t here in his capacity as an agent of either Olympus or the Aegis Adamantine, and Scorn did not possess authority over...anything, as far as I knew. This was a social call. The Bull Rampant wanted a full life for his lover. Hera''s curse had left her unable to feel anything physically, no matter what form she took. Strange, to be sure, for she could easily imitate powers greater than the goddess'' had been when she''d cast it, but some things aren''t limited by their wielder. He thought that, if I couldn''t change her back through my control of creation and destruction, maybe I could build her a new body that could feel. ''I cannot guarantee anything,'' I told him softly, ''so do not get your hopes up. With my luck, I''ll make a body that can only feel pain, or some grim nonsense.'' The Black Hunger snorted, his spiked brass nose-ring swaying slightly, but nodded curtly. He''d rather leave her numb than make her suffer. If only more men thought that way when it came to their women. Scorn just wanted to share trivia. He had come to Earth as a courtesy to an acquaintance he referred to as the Flesh That Flays, who was interested in the many Earthlings who could enhance their powers with no limit, as well as imitate those of others. ''Why do you think that is?'' the Vyzhaldi asked, pausing in his explanation of how he planned to help the Flesh meet those who''d piqued its interest, either by convincing them to visit the cosmic creature or by bringing a piece of it to Earth. ''Most civilisations only have one such being or construct, a handful at most.'' ''Bias,'' I answered bluntly. ''Unconscious bias.'' ''Huh?'' the exiled Kratocrat grunted, mandibles parting. ''When the Unmoved Mover - yes, I see you''re following me - slept, its dream was skewed towards Earth. When creation was remade, everything was left as it had been.'' I leaned forward, resting my chin in one hand. ''I do wonder how unconscious it really was, however. Maybe the Mover really liked this mudball, and wanted it to have powerful beings.'' That resulted in a fairly hilarious tirade about tasteless gods, followed by a retelling of Scorn''s experiences on Earth. ''Their females are pleased with my form,'' he said at one point, flexing as he stood. Pointedly not looking between his legs, I met his yellow, multifaceted eyes. ''I''ll imagine you''re referring to some fighting stance.'' He scoffed. ''Imagine away. Human women like big males, especially those whose seed cannot take root in their wombs.'' His wings flicked open and closed again at his sides. ''I cannot say the feeling is mutual, however. They''re less than a third my height, with no exoskeleton and two arms. I told one, would you sleep with a skinless, armless infant? She looked at me as if I were mad!'' ''I cannot imagine why,'' I lied. ''But listen, Scorn: while you''re here stealing the women Zhal needs, I would prefer if you didn''t interrupt my work just to talk. Our tempers mirror each other, so we''d just rub each other the wrong way speaking too often.'' I looked him in the eyes, my hooded ones meeting yellow circles covered by pale red, transparent lids, the layer beneath the full ones. ''So, why this meeting?'' ''You know what this is?'' He gestured at his crude necklace. At my nod, he continued, sounding both amused and disbelieving, ''Recently, I have mirrored a power that lets me keep track of things pertaining to my kind.'' ''Fascinating,'' I replied honestly. ''But if you seek therapy after observing all Vyzhaldi meatheads in real time, I am afraid I am not that kind of doctor.'' Me, a therapist! That would''ve been like making Silva a motivational speaker. Scorn laughed lowly, and I was thankful for my senses'' ability to discern the meaning behind the buzzing screech that actually resulted when he opened his mouth. ''No. But I have been given reason to believe you are tinkering with something based on Vyzhaldi power.'' ''And if I am?'' He barely lifted his shoulders. ''Your business. I was merely curious. Loathe them as I may, my people are powerful. Perhaps the most powerful species in this cosmos, discounting outliers.'' I would have heavily contested that, but I was not interested. ''Maybe.'' ''It would make sense to use them as templates.'' ''I will make sure to suggest this to anyone wanting to imitate them.'' Scorn''s smile was an abyss bordered by blades. ''You do that.'' After that, a silence followed. Not comfortable, but amicable enough. The alien was pleased with the result of my outburst, I thought, from how he looked at the gore-caked lab. ''Why are they like this?'' he asked finally, breaking the silence. I knew he wasn''t referring to the darkness in the heart of man, that fed their psychoses, but to a different burden. ''With so many powers at their disposal, the macrocosm could be their playground. It already is, for some.'' ''Laziness.'' ''Laziness?'' he repeated, sounding mystified. I did not believe he''d ever felt sloth. ''Some resistance made them abandon their first extraplanetary colony, not that they needed one, seriously speaking.'' I faked a yawn, considering it appropriate. ''The truth, Scorn, is that people are comfortable with what they know. I''ve contemplated it often, and let me tell you: they could all be psychic cyborg mages, or weres, or some other sort of transhuman or posthuman.'' I smiled. ''But they don''t want that. They still use money, as if post-scarcity is not a thing.'' That, I thought, was the proof, if more was needed, that mankind and its adjacent species were in a transitional stage. The GG provided everyone shelter and sustenance, but everything from transport to entertainment required currency. Why? Because it did. Because, though they could have provided everyone with every luxury they wanted, that was not their aim. Some cynics would doubtlessly say monsters born of the human psyche would become worse when mankind began living easier. Just because the pantheons policed each other, and the Bogeyman and his cackling sister kept the demons of dreams at bay day and night, it did not mean encouraging memeophages was beneficial, in their view. The truth was, I think, that people simply weren''t ready. They still half-lived like the Shattering hadn''t happened, but there was no true need to rush them. They would grow into something beautiful. I knew. I had seen the signs. Just like how vampires would, one day, move from the infant, suckling stage their species was in, and the seed planted by Primus would grow into what they had always been meant to become. ''Nostalgia,'' Scorn thought out loud, ending my reverie. ''Or cowardice?'' ''Does it matter? We can''t push them along, nor should we. We can only guide them.'' Scorn did not look satisfied when he left, which made two of us. I left the laboratory behind, moving between the diminutive and towering forms of my Igori. The popular culture character had appealed to some part of me, and I''d caved in. The assistants, homunculi and vatgrown alike, were good company, if nothing else. Talking to them was like talking to vacuum cleaners, but I took what I could. In one of the arena-labs, my Bloodied tested themselves against each other. The constructs, made of and clad in blood, combined a Vyzhaldi''s baseline power and adaptive growth with regeneration tied to their control of their state of matter. The mutant one, a black-hearted colossus of blue blood, was proving even harder to kill, not to mention able to perform feats that had nothing to do with brawn, because it was, metaphorically speaking, strong enough. Unsurprisingly, it had become something of a leader to the narrow-minded guardian creatures. Soon, I''d run out of excuses to avoid distributing them as cheap security across the globe. As ridiculous as it sounded, though, I wanted them to remain innocent for a while longer, even if they did not think, as such. Not yet. My power had allowed me to analyse the Kratocrats'' makeup during my visit to their realm, as well as recreate their flesh in the form of regenerating protoplasm. That would be spread across the world, too. It would be my first gesture of goodwill, proof of my trustworthiness. I was curious to see how my rivals in the field of genetics, like Yamada, Kalodiosi or Doctor Plague, would react. It would''ve been a joyless game, without competitors. As I reached one of my bedrooms, having stripped down to plain grey sleeping clothes, I closed my eyes, then the door. A thought turned off the lights (a pointless affectation for someone with eyes like mine; I was more human than I''d thought, it seemed), and I laid on my stomach, face half-buried into my pillow. And, in my dreams, the wife I''d never had came to me, once again. I am not there, Adam. I will never be, while you remain a child. You want a woman who loves you and nothing more, with no life of her own. No interests that will take her away from you. Who will bow her head when you lash out, and smile. You cannot let go of your anger, and turning it upon monsters will only feed it. She always spoke to me in my own voice. Strange thing, wouldn''t you say? Sidestory: The Uncrowned King
There was no being, in this creation or any other, caught in a predicament more stupid than mine. Can you imagine it? Sharing the corpus and animus of existence''s guardian, but being unable to influence him in any way? I was a prisoner, shackled to the core of my own being, unable to do anything but watch as the greatest fool there has ever been wasted his power defending ungrateful maggots. Ever since I awakened inside David''s psyche, I have been snubbed and insulted. This was, unsurprisingly, the result of his self-loathing - the bastard always does something stupid when his loathing for himself reaches a certain point - and am I not the deepest, truest expression of who we are? Let me let tell you an open secret, which is obvious to everyone except him: David wishes to be a tyrant. He would like nothing more than to be able to do whatever he wants, to be adored and worshipped by everyone, with every word and deed of his immortalised and approved of. If everything he did (and, more importantly) didn''t do or say didn''t confirm it, all one had to do was ask me. After all, I was the embodiment of his deepest desire, and no amount of lies portraying me as some ridiculous evil side could change the truth. That was what I wanted, thus what he wanted, as well. The Unbeings has the right of it. The only flaw in the structure of the Creed Ascendant was no fault of their own, but a result of David''s stubborn insistence on not doing anything in our name. What good was being a god when you couldn''t even order your faithful to slaughter the unbelievers? There were some passive benefits, of course - even if we somehow lost our powers as DEATH''s Keeper and our mantle of guardianship, we would still have been stronger than all Unbeings combined, and our power would be holy, as well. But it was not enough. David, like the chaff of our homeworld, denied the truth of his divinity out of nostalgia. Because he was used to being a mortal, because it would have been morally wrong to act like a deity, and any number of excuses. All nonsense. All lies. What did morality matter when we were the arbiter of what happened or not? Even the Mover could not gainsay us, for it had given us a power that had grown to match its own, when existence''s safety was in question. The Mover hoped that, if something, somehow, made it go on a rampage, we would be able to contain if not stop it. What was morality in the face of that? We should have been revelling in our greatness, not acting like a self-effacing bitch who thought there was nothing greater than the ethics of twenty-first century Earth. As far as I could tell, there were only two beings who could match us in the fullness of our power: the Unmoved Mover itself, as deluded when it came to what it saw as virtuousness as David, and the bringer of oblivion watching over our metaphorical shoulder. Arvhek wanted to talk with us. To show us the past four Keepers, himself included, so that we might understand them better than we did following DEATH''s stories and our perusal of its Keep''s archives. I had nothing against it, not that anyone gave a damn about my opinion. Arvhek''s power was a thing of beauty, radiating the kind of purity one can only find in the deepest nothingness. It was like wind passing through hollowed bones, creating a sound that chills the heart and barely catches the ear. I could have wept at the clarity of purpose the fourth, former Keeper possessed, for there were no questions within the empty, shrieking furnace of destruction that was his heart. There was only will, proper appreciation for the might at his disposal...and love. Arvhek loved much, and had loved more. He loved his people, and his son, but it was a tepid thing, for he knew the former feared him and the latter hated him, a sentiment he fully approved of. He had loved his wife, and he had worshipped his Empress, just like we worshipped our zmeu. Even though he had been the end of both women, their destruction had come at their own hands, and Arvhek did not have to bear the burden of knowing he had slain his lovers. I understood his relief. I would never know joy again if I ever so much as scratched Mia. There would never be any reason or excuse to even think about laying a finger on her, or our finger. And woe betide the wretch who so much as planned to hurt them. David shared these feelings, and was touched by the fact I held them close to my hand, but still disapproved of me. Go figure. When I woke from the dreamless sleep I had been caught in since David''s undeath, it was, around the time of the first Chernobog fiasco. The Black God hid inside us, I was told after. My senses had been too dull, my mind too dim, to truly register much, in the beginning, much less understand anything. I still laughed when David slaughtered Loki''s spawn and gorged himself on that crippled cretin, his mutt of a nemesis and his blundering oaf of a brother. My only regret was that Chernobog made us do it, instead of the deed coming from our desire, but I suppose we wouldn''t have managed without the Black God''s strength driving us.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. After? David never gave me the time of day. So what if I treated Mia like the goddess she was - once more, the Unbeings showed their wisdom; I hoped they would soon incorporate her into their scriptures -? So what if I helped him with Mimir''s sight, and kept him company in Broceliande, and held him together during our first fight against Chernobog? I was worthless. Evil. Wretched. Not even a person. Just because I was honest. I wanted to make his so-called friends suffer, and that would not do, though the sons of bitches certainly hadn''t been good friends. If David had lived a happy, full life, he wouldn''t have killed himself. But they never were close enough to him to make him open up about the suicide he contemplated. They never had time for his books, only admiring the effort it took to write them, not the contents. They weren''t even there when he hanged himself. Nor was the spineless slave he called father, not that his blood sire was much to write home about, either. But Constantin? He saw nothing wrong with living under Yahweh''s yoke, because, to him, it did not chafe. He found it admirable! Asked others, didn''t they want to become lapdogs, too? David, bafflingly, continued to follow the word of that monstrous hypocrite and his unwashed carpenter of a prophet. Why, I could not fathom, for the thing he called God certainly was not better than David, in terms of either beliefs or power. I knew there were people who worried about reading on ants, but this was ridiculous. Closer to praying to a microbe. If we wanted to, if we deemed Yahweh a threat to creation, we could make it so it had never been. So why, why, why kneel before the images of this ridiculous parasite we could unmake with a thought? This facet of the Mover it sometimes answered prayers to? Looking at all the worthless gods that clustered around Earth, and their fawning worshippers, I could not help but understand the senior agent of ARC''s American Crypt branch, the one who called himself Prince because he acknowledged that there were still people between him and eternal domination over all there was. Not only that, he was wise enough to understand that almost all beings who lived were either cattle to collar and cull, or curs to put down. He had needed to be broken in the clutches of the Empire Endless before he reforged himself into a blade above all blades, but I came into being aware of worthlessness. Still, I saw a kindred spirit in Prince, though he only saw us as an obstacle. I understood his hunger for power, and did not begrudge him his lack of trust. Even more so than Arvhek, he had nothing left. Not even a happy memory, untainted by what had come after. That approval of the Lord of Edges - pfft, yeah; I know - was only the latest in a long list of things David found distasteful about me. Even now, fighting as Keeper to stop those who would pervert the cycle of life and death, who would destroy all that lived and didn''t, he found reasons to complain. How dare I want to split that whore in half, or rape that child''s mind? "We cannot simply be monsters; there must be a difference between us and those we fight, or what''s the fucking point?" You see what I have to deal with, every moment? Arvhek, who had paused in the introduction of the first Keeper''s story, brought his hands together. Obviously, he had felt that not all of David had been listening to him, and that neither half of us was content. ''Could you balance your humours, David?'' Arv asked, sounding like such a kindly old man it was hilarious, given every Mover he had silenced, and every creation that would never be because of him. ''It would help you learn, and I dislike disharmony.'' See? There was a honest man. He said what he didn''t like, and put an end to it. ''Yes, sorry,'' David said, glaring inwardly. Appearing as a silhouette made of shadows, with fangs and eyes of white fire and our noose around my neck, I flashed him a burning grin. The rope''s presence was reassuring, as always. Comforting, even. It was not a thing of shaped hemp, any more than the cemetery was a thing of cold soil and headstones. It was a fact, carved into the heart of our being. I knew who I was. ''I was just talking to myself, Arvhek.'' ''I noticed. You are not at peace.'' He rarely was, when we spoke. It was as often the cause as it was the effect. Arvhek, appearing as a gloved, hooded thug, practically featureless, spread his covered hands with the air of an impatient storyteller. ''What would make you happy?'' Happy? Everyone I have ever hated, shackled and suffering forever. Every ungrateful swine who did not see David'' suffering as enough of a reason to let existence end. Even if that had been unjustified, David had redeemed himself by awakening the Mover, his plan helping guide it to divine lucidity. He became DEATH''s Keeper, holding those who would prey on the departed at bay, and helping improve the lot of the dead who wanted better afterlives, but lacked the will or imagination to improve them. Mia had inspired us again, there. They should all be kneeling and thanking us, for eternity. Not blaming us for what we almost did. If David had acted differently, we would just be the fifth Keeper to bear the title, at the mercy of both DEATH''s whims and the Mover''s dream. Instead, he made things better for everyone. DEATH was redundant now, as easy to remove as a flake of skin if we so desired, and the Mover had taken to policing its Maker brethren. But no. Let''s all whine at David because, at the lowest point in his life, he thought that there was no reason to go on. ''What would make me happy?'' I giggled, speaking with David''s voice. To answer Arvhek, we could collaborate. ''Hmm...'' I stroked out chin, pretending to think. ''Mia sitting on my face and our enemies dead around us.'' I shrugged. ''Oh wait, that''s just everyday for me. I don''t know, man...'' Did you really have to bring that up? Watch your whore mouth, human! I am many things, but ashamed of my love for our woman, I am not. And neither should you be! As he sputtered, I resumed focusing on Arvhek, who had cracked a faint smile at my obvious affection for our zmeu. We might have been the regent of creation as appointed by the Mover, but I could hardly enjoy my privileges while trapped in the mind of an idiotic prude. Still...I''d be damned if I let David put himself down when there was no reason to. He barely enjoyed our work, anyway. Apocrypha: Prodigal Princes
''At first glance, there are similarities, no? Two immortals, one born, one made. Both associated with reptiles, with flame, with the purity of ivory. Both exalted in nature, though pettier in manner than creation deserved, at times. Both of us exiled from the spheres celestial for that pettiness.'' I took a long drag from my pipe, the aroma of my first love''s ashes settling in my lungs like the guilt did on my shoulders. It was never far away, but whenever it returned, I was hurt - and vice versa. Because how could I be shameless enough to complain about pain when I had ended such a bright life? Tongdao''s wraith was always half a pace behind me. Not in truth, for her spirit had returned to the origin and end of all things, but in essence. I could never draw breath, feast, fast or make war of love without feeling her accusing, disgusting glare burning into me. Around me, my harem rested, some sleeping, others lounging. Coincidentally, most of the former were still lovers, not spouses. I liked to joke that they weren''t used to me yet, to lighten the atmosphere whenever one of my older paramours acted like they were still outsiders. It had been one of my wives, Hua, who had raised the question. Have I ever felt kinship with the one Christians called the Devil? It had been a strange query, for her. Usually, the woman tried to carouse her way through life, as if in defiance of her past. She and Qiao had been caught in a tragedy mortifying even to contemplate, but I was glad they managed to put their differences aside thanks to their love for me. I didn''t miss the bemused look Qiao had shot at his former wife ash she asked me about the Serpent, her delicate chin propped up in one hand. I had turned to him with a reassuring expression, subtly gesturing for him to let me handle it. ''But,'' I continued, idly splitting the shaped smoke clouds I''d blown out, ''the differences are even more obvious, if you ask me. For one, I do not desire to burn down Heaven and remake the ashes in my image out of...whatever Scratch is telling himself these days.'' Taking a swig of my tea, lest my contempt cloud my judgement, I leaned back into my chair at the centre of the room. With the burning bitterness came clarity, as well as my tongue''s promise to kill me at the first chance. ''Not to mention, my ego has never been enough to steer me as his does him,'' I continued, crossing my legs before deciding to return to my dragon form. I coiled up on the seat, resting my muzzle on my paws. My lovers, those who were awake, distractedly took in the change, though I noticed a few grins. Doubtlessly, they were reminiscing about the flexibility that came with this form, as well as its other qualities. ''The Devil would only raise a finger to help anyone if it amused him or improved his view of himself.'' After considering for a moment, I added, ''Or if not doing so would be against his interests.'' As Hua nodded, stretching like a cat before settling onto her soft, warm belly, I held up a clawed hand. ''Since you broached the subject, anyway, I might as well tell you about the times we''ve spoken.'' * * * First It hadn''t been long since we had felled the monster seeking to cast down the order of things. A god, mad in every sense of the word, but still capable of clinging to clarity that much? Impossible to distract, or dissuade... I had heard about the clarity insanity brought, already. I hadn''t experienced it myself, up to that point, not that I think I have, yet. Feel free to disabuse me of the notion that I possess reason, everyone... I would go on to meet many such clear-minded souls, as well as madmen without anything resembling a spirit. But when I met Samael that day, his mind was as healthy as it was wholesome. There was not a trace of impurity in his animus, and his corpus was as different from the appearance he tends to affect nowadays ac possible. He was pale, but not unnaturally so, with short yet wild white hair. His eyes also shone white - his actual eyes, not the bone0white flames that now fill his sockets. And he was proud. Not arrogant, nor prideful. Those are flaws, even if they can be entertaining in moderation. He was proud of the Kingdom of Heaven he had helped build, after his father made the realm itself. He was proud of the siblings who had worked alongside him, who fought by his side whenever the beasts from the waters surged forth to attack his stretch of creation. He was also grieving. Mourning, really, though quietly. I do not believe he has stopped, but it was more obvious, back then. At first, I''d thought the circlet of white gold he wore was a crown. A statement of his status as Yahweh''s heir apparent - we were all more optimistic before he fell, you understand. If he hadn''t been so loved as a hero, no one would hate the villain he is now with the same passion -, but he quickly told me it was nothing to do with triumph, nor joy. ''You misunderstand, dragon of echoes,'' he said, speaking not my name, but rather its meaning, after chuckling softly. With how much vicious pleasure he takes in proving people wrong these days, it''s hard to believe he''s the same angel. ''Look...'' I did, turning the circlet in my hands after he tossed it at me. We were sitting at the edge of a pond, in the middle of a pretty plain in Asia''s heart. The place itself did it have anything to tie it to either of us, but we needed the peace. We needed the beauty, the sort of innocence we couldn''t have found in a more extravagant location. This was what we fought for, in microcosm. Undisturbed. Untainted by evil, mundane or otherworldly or alien. Nature, guileless and uncaring, callous without cruelty: as I lowered my eyes to the apparent crown, I saw a fish leap out of the pond, only to be snatched up by a passing bird. As it squirmed in the talons, tearing itself apart, I saw eggs fall from her parted stomach. Dead, but unlike their mother, before they''d even gotten a chance to live. I told myself that sometimes, harmony did not allow for kindness. All things had their purpose. I am not sure I believe that, anymore. But I digress. As I slowly spun the white circlet, I saw name after name, many ending in -el. Fallen angels, I realised without needing to be told. You will be unsurprised to learn that the term meant something very different, back then. As my sense of order whispered that they must have fallen in battle, choosing to perish rather than return, I was inclined to agree with it. I looked back up at Samael, whose six white wings surrounded him like attendants, covering his feet, hands and eyes. But I did not need to see them to understand his smile was sad. Tears rolled down his face like molten glass down a snowy mountain, catching the light and returning it to the world in all the colourful guises it could take. The seraph took the roll of honour back without a word. He had returned to the position that came naturally to his Host, hiding his appendages and most of his visage. I am given to understand seraphim do this when they are feeling meditative, rather than bashful, as a human might have thought. Samael, obviously, did not feel any shame sharing this silent tale of his fallen kind with me. He had simply drifted off, deep in thought. Curious about my reaction, perhaps. ''I am sorry for your loss,'' I said finally, my voice feeling and wooden. ''I cannot pretend I understand: I do not have siblings, and my parents are both well.'' Samael embraced me, and I coiled around him in response, placing my upper claws on his pauldrons. ''I hope you never do,'' he whispered. ''In this case, ignorance is bliss, Ying.'' I nodded, a motion that is awkward for dragons like me even when I am not feeling awkward myself, and patted his armoured shoulders. Samael placed the circlet on his snow-white locks with a self-deprecating laugh. "Look at me, getting all sad about them like I''m not wearing my brethren''s names for everyone to see". That sort of thing. It was a sad day for existence when Samael stopped being able to laugh at himself. Taking himself too seriously would be lamentable, even if his goals were less monstrous, but taking almost everything and everyone else as a joke was much worse. Especially for him, not that he''d tell you there''s anything wrong with it. He does not, I suspect, see any problem. But such things were yet to come. On that day, we were two warriors of Haven, though the realms we fought for were very different. Our desire for serenity might have brought us to a location like the one we were currently observing, but it had been the similarities between our personalities that had brought us together, specifically on that plain. We were both happy, weary of war but unbowed. Both proud, of ourselves and our kindred, for what cause did we have to be otherwise? We were both full of love, too. Now, I see some of you in the back smirking. It''s not what you think. As tacky as my tastes might seem sometimes, I have never desired the Serpent, nor has he looked at me in that way. I would be very happy if things stayed that way. No. While Samael loved his family and the home they had wrought together, my own heart was less innocent. I had fallen for a beautiful dragoness, who, I believed, in my selfish ignorance, was meant for me. As though being comrades in arms meant being destined for each other... I told Samael as much. He had revealed to me what angels I would never meet again, which could have been interpreted as an admission of weakness. I believed telling him about my crush - now, I know my love was unrequited, and poisonous besides - was harmless.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Samael grabbed shoulders (for I had switched to my human form in the meantime) in a warrior''s grip, beaming. ''It is inspiring to know such scions of order can long for each other! I am sure your households will grow more prosperous than any that came before them, and far happier!'' Oh, Samael...I was so sure, too... Second Our second meeting took place in less happy circumstances than the first, though compared to the third and fourth, it was positively cheerful. We were unable to appreciate that, for all our foresight: we were too busy pouting, boiling with rage as only slighted princelings could. You know what was the most ridiculous part? Both Samael and I thought ourselves caught in the grasp of awesome, righteous rage against injustice. Absurd, in retrospect, but such are those who have not known enough hardship. Samael began talking first, not bothering to ask what I was upset about or whether I wanted to vent. I did not care much, for my childish anger came from a source very similar to that of his, and I sympathised, damn me. ''You cannot imagine the discord that filled Eden when the clay puppets squabbled, like the apes they resemble,'' Samael snarled, eyes angry with aimless anger. The object of his hatred was nowhere near, for we were in a plane between planes, as neutral as possible. ''What did they care for the distress of the beasts made to serve them - I''ll return to that in due time - or that of me and my kindred?'' The seraph''s eyes roved across the grey, featureless expanse, an expression of distaste on his face, making his otherwise handsome features monstrous. ''It''s all about them, for some reason, and all God will tell me is that He has great plans for them, though not what they are.'' He lifted his hands to just below shoulder height, spreading his arms and his wings. ''He won''t tell anyone else, either. What does it matter that we''ve fought and bled for fourteen billion years while He remained aloof, our ichor staining the waters golden? He has new toys to play with...'' ''Ungrateful,'' I growled, liking the look of his sneer, fool that I was. ''Would you believe my humours are unbalanced because of the same creatures? I don''t know for sure yet, but I am sure my Tongdao is cheating on me with a human. What he promised her to lure her away, I cannot fathom. A guarantee he will always be weak enough for her to dominate, mayhap.'' ''Aye,'' Samael replied, nodding absently. ''Wherever they go, strife follows. And now, God tells me that the first man is to be given a new wife, and that the first woman was not so, and should not be spoken of anymore...'' The seraph''s form flickered as he groaned, showing a lidless eye surrounded by fire and burning wings. Then, the image was gone, and he turned to me. ''You should not let them cheat you out of what is yours. I am sure they want my kin''s birthright, for they are as grasping as they are shameless.'' ''I will kill him,'' I swore, ''if my worries are founded.'' ''Do just that, Ying,'' Samael replied darkly. ''I am going to prove my father wrong. Mankind is too easily swayed to reign over all there is. I will show everyone that.'' Third I was in a dark place, and not just literally. Earth was still in its infancy, thrashing and writhing as cataclysms split its surface and made its insides churn. Appropriate, for I felt much the same. I hadn''t met Yua yet, my darling fox; a great friend, though no longer a lover. I hope Kenji makes her happier than I could. My exile had begun shortly ago, and my pride still ached, though I knew being sent away rather than tortured until I chose to die (or not. Eternal suffering was acceptable too) was far more lenient a sentence than almost anyone else would have received for my crime. At the very least, I knew I had been wrong to do what I had. Satan wasn''t. With his angelic aspect cast in a pit with no end or exit, his pride and wrath had taken over him, and he met me in his outraged aspect. The Beast considered himself the wronged party in the War in Heaven, as he still does, a righteous rebel banished by an uncaring, ungrateful father. That was, I think, when our friendship died, for we were no longer alike, and our differences were as irreconcilable as they were unforgivable. ''You are giving up, then?'' the Prince of Wrath asked, in a voice as subdued as I have ever heard from him. It was still enough to blow out a human''s ears. ''No...you already have.'' His tone became accusing as his snakelike eyes narrowed. I am told that, from a distance, one might mistake him for simply being red-skinned, but my eyes are keener. It was like he had been flayed alive - and he had, in truth - and then either the skinless muscle had thickened, forming a skin-like layer, or the skin had grown back crimson. I could see his hide was uneven, varyingly dry and cracked or raw and weeping filthy ichor. It was thick in some places and thin in others, with small wounds that were nevertheless deep enough to expose bone. The Beast was affecting a worldlier aspect, I supposed. ''You accept the unjust punishment you were given,'' Satan continued, contemptuous. ''Who could blame a being such as you for killing the human encroaching on your beloved?'' ''I could,'' I whispered hotly in response. ''And I do. As do my people.'' I cocked my head, going for wry. ''But I do not see why you sought me. Do you not have to carve out a realm in that pit you''ve been forced to call home?'' Despite his growl, he did not strike me. He did not even issue threats - and if the first part was surprising, the second was shocking. Instead, he simply turned, gathering smoke and darkness about him like a cloak, and disappeared. Fourth We were both more levelheaded during our fourth meeting. I had met the Heaven-Spurning Elder not too long ago, and he...had had put his new kingdom in order. As much as that word can be used to describe Hell. Still, he had the air of a betrayed, defeated warlord, wounded but unbroken, while I was brimming with good cheer. To my surprise, that didn''t piss him off - much. If anything, it seemed to amuse him that, after losing my home because of love, I had found it again in this benighted place. ''But enough of my headaches,'' Lucifer said in an oily voice, having finished speaking about his fellow Princes of Hell and their Courts. ''Tell me about the kitsune.'' His flaming eyes, though as cruel and vicious as I had grown used to, held a genuine interest. ''You seem to hold her dear.'' ''I love her,'' I replied, a hand to my chest. ''We fight together, and rest together, and make love. We make each other laugh. It might not be deep, but...'' I stuck my pipe in my mouth, puffing thoughtfully. ''It is genuine. And it pushes me to go on.'' I honestly thought I would have given up many times, without Yua. Without her smile - gleeful or mocking, but always sweet - to return to, I might have just shrugged and succumbed to the wounds received from any of the infernal bastards I''d killed since my exile''s beginning, instead of powering through. But he didn''t need to know that. It might have made Yua a target, and while the thought of her being harmed to get at me was appalling, the thought of her being in any danger, but especially because of me...I wouldn''t have been able to live with myself, afterwards. Ah, shit...no, no, I''m fine. Just...got something in my eye. I just...I think I should call her. After this. Catch up. She''ll tell me I''m a stupid wimp, and that her family can take her of her if she can''t, but... Fifth Lucifer was pretty damn well pleased with himself during our fifth meeting, the bastard. I think he can''t tell how annoying his laugh is, or he''d be sad more often. Both out of shame and precaution. It was after...well. David Silva''s book is edited, but just because you guys get some of the bits unfit for public consumption, doesn''t mean I can tell you everything. It''s for your own safety, please believe me. I''ll make it up to you. In any case, it was after a certain decision - which I took part in making - put our Keeper in danger. Let''s just say we saw a chance to draw out an old monster by keeping Silva in the dark, then destroy the freak. It was pure bad luck, the way things unfolded. I take full responsibility for the failure, though he wasn''t and isn''t one of my agents. But we thought force would have made our enemy retreat, so I didn''t go hunting myself, nor did my peers. We should have ended things bloodlessly, but it was not to be. Lucifer found that fucking hilarious, but it wasn''t just a Christian''s suffering that had him grinning. As he took in my dour look and the fire crackling behind my fangs, he raised his hands in a mockery of a peaceful gesture. ''Easy, Ying. If you don''t want to be angry at yourself, stop being a failure. It''s much better than getting snippy with your betters.'' ''Did you just come here to piss me off?'' I asked, knowing the bastard would get pissy himself if I didn''t look at him. Yahweh''s motherless spawn are often like that, whatever their allegiance. Most can''t shake off this feeling they''re the most important person in the room. We were at the edge of the Chinese coast. I was curled up, the waves coming up to m middle as they washed past to reshape the shore. Lucifer floated, too damned pompous to concern himself with nature, not that his ego would''ve allowed water to approach him. ''I helped bring him back, you know,'' he eventually said, so offhandedly it took me a Planck time and a half to realise he was answering my earlier question. ''David.'' His fiery orbs were meaningful as he looked down on me, in every way, I''d have bet. ''A certain understanding with God made sure I''d be given some of my father''s power, to send the strigoi''s spirit back to his body, while Yahweh guided Silva''s zmeu to put him back together.'' ''I''d heard,'' I grunted around my pipe, puffing in annoyance. ''You want thanks?'' ''Please, Ying...'' he chuckled. ''You are too far beneath me to even look up at me. I do not expect you to shake my hand, much less praise me - not that you could.'' He was right. The former would have been effectively impossible, and the latter...well. I had my pride too, and I didn''t treat with monsters like the Serpent. Sixth We met for a sixth time not too long ago. Lucifer has changed. I suspect of what powers he has gathered within himself, and of what he seeks. The stupid soon of a bitch can vore every sleazebag he finds, if he wants - we''ll still kill him if he oversteps his bounds. Unsurprisingly, he does not see things this way. To hear him, you''d think we''re all living at his whims, because he''s merciful. The stolen power that''s making his animus swell isn''t doing anything to deflate his ego. Someone draw sparks on me to colour me shocked. Lucifer had golden skin, dark eyes, and referred to himself using plural pronouns. He''s never stopped believing himself creation''s king in waiting, but this is a bit much, even for the skinned pigeon who sees polishing his own knob as an art. He made threats, of course. Promises, too, though he''ll most likely use that cliched quote about how he only makes the latter. He told me of how, after "they" took thee throne Yahweh was seated upon against all sense and reason, everyone would have to tread lightly, lest we invite retribution. I could''ve told him many things. Of how I was, if not in Heaven''s graces again, at least welcome home once more. How I, as Head of ARC''s Drake division, I was one of the most powerful members of the Global Gathering, even discounting my personal power. I did not, because he''d have glossed over such things. Instead, I asked him a question, which I knew still gnaws at that blackened, shrunken heart of his. ''Would this make you happy?'' I asked softly, though my voice seemed to echo. ''Would you be content once you accomplished this?'' Slim eyebrows rose, as if he hadn''t expected anything but to be lauded for the genius of a plan every tinpot dictator has made, in one form or another. ''Answer me, you cur,'' I demanded. ''If you consigned your father to oblivion, and cast down a third of your family in flames, again, and condemned every human who believes in you to eternal suffering, would you be happy?'' My voice belied my hatred. I wasn''t sure how I was speaking so calmly, myself. I can tell you his response killed any chance of me talking at all, however: had I remained, I would have spoken only through claw and fang and flame, and surging chi. ''It would soothe my rage, at least,'' Lucifer answered calmly. ''Not that you would understand, Ying. You were betrayed, but you''re content with your rutting toys. Certain your path of dragon turned sheepdog is true and worthy of being walked.'' As he spun, glaring at me with condescending pity, his words echoed in the air at the very edge of the atmosphere. ''That kind of certainty only comes from a leash and a blindfold...'' * * * ''So,'' I told Hua with a lazy, one-eyed glance as she left to tend to her daughter, ''not that similar, all things told.'' Sidestory: Witch of Bindings (I)
The guards tell me I don''t think like a child, anymore. They''re wrong, ''course. Grownups have this thing where, the dumber they''re being, the more confident they are. Usually, dummies like the ones guarding me are also convinced they''re right, despite all the stuff proving they''re not. They''ve come up with all these graphs and charts, crud like that, showing how much better I do at their tests than most kids my age would. They''ve also got these "diuh-grams", which just look like a buncha rainbow pies to me, but they say they show what parts of my brain are focused on. Thing is, I''m not sure I''m smarter than other kids, really. I can think clearer, sometimes faster, I can focus on many things at once, but I think that''s cuz of my magic. Well, the parts of it that don''t go away. I''ve got this collar on (it''s lighter and softer than the first, so my neck doesn''t hurt, it doesn''t chafe) that keeps my magic quiet, and that makes me feel lonelier than anyone, no matter how many guards are around me. David (he meets me in my dreams, ''cause he''s important now, but he promised me he''ll visit) tells me it''s good not to think my magic makes me better than other children. Well, I dunno about that, but it doesn''t make me smarter, I don''t think. I don''t know more...I''m not sure I know more than them. There are no windows in my cell. First Comrade told me this place is like a house for bad people, cuz they can''t go back to theirs anymore, an'' I started to cry, because I don''t have a home to go back to, but I wanna go out, and- Dang it. I don''t like crying around the corpses. It makes me feel sick. There are two with me in the cell now, two vampires, and my eyes sting. I think they know already, so I turn to the wall, curlin'' my knees up to my chest. The wall is grey, like David. I think he could make me stop crying, but I''m awake, and he doesn''t come. When I cry in my sleep, they give me these pills that don''t let me dream, because I remember the fat strigoi. I never catch them doing it. I''m angry, so I turn to glare at the vamps. I know they''re not bad like the corpse who wears skinned faces, but they''re dead, and their coldness almost feels like it''s in my bones. One of ''em''s a slim woman with red hair, which she wears in a ponytail. I wish my hair was long enough for that, but they barely let me have curls. At least they didn''t shave me bald like some said they should. The other is one of those square men. You know, like the ones who make houses? They''ve got big chins and shoulders, like they''re stuffed with bricks. He looks friendly, with his long brown hair and sleepy ox eyes, but I know better. He thinks guarding a powerless witch is dumb. ''Something wrong, Sofia?'' Ponytail asks. Her voice is, uhh...lined? No. Measured? She sounds like she doesn''t care, but she does. I can guess the shapes of the ripples on the surface of her mind. I don''t need magic. She''s got a scarf not, not because it''s cold (it''s warm in the cell, and she''s colder than the outside), but to hide where her dad bit her. She told me her dad is her mom, even though she calls her an old word for dad She also tells me she has three parents, but they don''t know each other, and only one is her vamp dad. Mom. Her throat isn''t all scarred, like some vamps have. She''s got this leathery, puckered circle, which she says she doesn''t like. I think all of her is ugly, with her hatchet face. Maybe that''s why Ox Eyes always stares at her back? ''She asked you a question,'' Brick Face points out like a dunce when I don''t answer. He doesn''t catch me giving him a mean look, that I want them to leave. He''s looking at Ponytail''s pants again as she walks closer to me. I don''t know what''s wrong with them. I clear my throat, cuz it always feels dry in here. I think it''s the pills. They stop me from wetting the bed like I used to, so maybe they dry all of me up? ''Yeah, you''re wrong,'' I tell both, not sure if you say it like this. ''I asked you two to please leave after you say it''s night. I can''t sleep with dead people.'' Square Head sniggers at that, and Scarfie clicks her tongue at him. He has the face he makes before telling what she says are dirty jokes, which I shouldn''t hear. Then why doesn''t he shut up or go outside? Huh? ''And ''m tired,'' I say, knuckling my eyes. This place is messing me up, ''cause I dunno when it''s day and when it''s night, and I always wanna sleep. Circle Throat looks back at me, an'' her eyes are like a cat''s, but red. She tries to smile, and I can''t tell why people who can''t do it try. ''So, you would want living guards to watch over you as you sleep? We were hoping you''d gotten over...'' ''You''re so shy ''bout it like it happened to you!'' I say in a high voice, and cross my arms. ''Yeah. Tell First to get here.'' Butt Face drops to one knee, and I scoot back on my bed. It''s got one above me, with a ladder. There''s no one there, but it feels good to have the bed above me. ''First Comrade was busy, which is why she asked us to stay with you. However, she should have some time now.'' ''Yeah, well, go bite a fat neck,'' I mumble, unsure what to say to vamps to be nice. They seem to like it anyway. After they leave, but before First comes back, a wereseal looks at me from the door. She looks like a furry sausage on legs, and I laugh at her. She just stares. I turn and get on my belly and look at the wall when the sausage gets boring, and fall asleep before First comes. I wake up with her sitting on the edge of my bed. First is a big woman, which she says she is because her husband is smart and tiny. I don''t know if she''s joking about it, but she''s larger than most men, with a deeper voice that''s still a girl''s. She''s got long blonde hair, prettier than mine, but that''s because I can''t grow it out. She''s wearing this red thing that''s many pieces but one under a long red coat, and black boots, like she walked through tar. I sit up and don''t hit my head on anything, and First smiles at me. She smiles prettily, not like boys do. When they do, it''s still nice, but girl smiles make me feel warm more often. First smiles like a mommy, but she''s old enough to be a grandma to grandmas, or so she says. First has all teeth and her bumps don''t sag, and I think I wanna be like that when I get as old as a grandma, ''cause I don''t want my skin to get all long and wrinkly. But, I''m smart, so I''m gonna eat just a little and stay small and not have enough skin for it to hang. ''They told you I was running late,'' First says, meaning the vamps. ''I''m glad you managed to rest, anyway.'' ''No dead eyes on me helped,'' I say, and I sound angry at someone, but I don''t know at who. ''Y''all can just ask living people to stay with me, ya know.'' She nods. ''We could. We were hoping contact with undead would help you begin to recover from your fears. Through exposure.'' I snort. ''That''s stupid. The dead make me remember, but it''s not their fault. I''m not scared of the dead I know aren''t bad. It''s just...'' ''Undeath reminds you of that day. I understand.'' First gives me a weird look, then says, ''You don''t seem to mind David Silva, though.'' ''Huh?'' I ask, confused. ''David''s not undead. He just looks and acts like he is, but he''s more. Like God. More than God.'' ''Be that as it may, you will, one day, have to face the fact there are many undead around you.'' She shrugs, like it''s something bad and it''s her fault. ''It''s just the world we live in, Sofia.'' I puff out my cheeks and mouth something rude. I think First cracks a grin, but I can''t tell, cuz I can only see part of half of her face. ''I know. I can stay with them, but they gotta go when I need to sleep. I can''t, with them.'' ''We can make it so you don''t need sleep,'' First says, like she''s talking ''bout pulling wings off a fly but doesn''t know if she''s gonna. ''We have the means.'' I look up at her, and my eyes feel wet. ''But I wanna sleep,'' I say softly. ''It helps me forget, until I wake up.'' If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. First nods. ''All right, then.'' Then she turns to me, and gosh she''s huge. Is her husband a tadpole? ''Cause otherwise why does she gotta be so big? ''I think we''ve beaten around the bush long enough, Sofia. I believe you have understood you were wrong, and that we can find an use for your talents, if you let us.'' I kick my feet, looking away. ''I''m not sure I can. You guys do less than you could.'' ''Why do you say that, girl?'' she asks like a teacher. ''Well, I went to school, you know, and you''ve given me all these books an'' stuff, so I know all you can do.'' I start ticking off my fingers, though I bet I can count to a bazillion if I try. ''The gee-gee gives people food and water and houses ''cause everyone agrees people need those, but not everyone needs those. Anyway...'' I rub my forehead, not sure how to say this. Some things are so simple in my head, but when I need to say them it''s like trying to spit out my food but it''s already in my tummy. ''So people don''t get TVs and games and cars and stuff because they gotta get it themselves, so they work. That''s dumb.'' First crosses her legs, and her boits are really shiny. I can see myself in them, and I look funny as two people. ''I know a lot of people who''d start crying if they knew you called the world they''ve set up dumb.'' She''s talking like I said something funny, but I didn''t, I said the truth. Still, my ears burn when she smiles, so I must be blushing. I''m embarrassed, because I''m not sitting that close to her, and I don''t think she''s that hot, anyway. She''s dressed like we''re in a blizzard, but she doesn''t send heat at me like a stove. ''I''ve read that they do that because the world''s in a, uh, tran...trins...a changing stage. Um...'' I wrack my brain for the right words, but my hair itches like it does when I think a lot, so I scratch my head. ''Right. So the idea is that people are still trying to live like supernatural stuff isn''t here, when it comes to some things.'' ''Like luxuries?'' First offers, cuz she''s nice like that. It must help that she has a big heart to hold all she feels. ''Uh-uh. So there are a lotta dum-dums who say it''s bad or pointless or so and so to have things you enjoy given to you, I mean besides food and drinks, but they''re all sorries.'' First runs a hand through her hair. ''You mean excuses?'' ''Yup. They''re all stuff they say to hide the real stuff.'' ''That people are clinging to outdated ideas and ways of life?'' I shrug. ''Well, they are. I''ve seen some side thingies, what do you call them, those colourful boxes with people talking in the edge of the page, and some say giving people what they want will make bad things that eat happiness stronger, but I think that''s a sor-excuse, too.'' First sat up, turned around fully so she faced me, and squatted down. She was still taller than me, dangit. ''You''re mostly right,'' she says like she''s in deep thought. ''I''ve had much of the same thoughts over the years, though they started long after I was your age. You''re much smarter than I was for a long time.'' I gasp and wanna squeal but I don''t, because Mommy told me big girls are quiet when they should be and I love her, even though she turned bad. I loved her when she was herself, and remembering helps. ''There is some nostalgia involved,'' First goes on. ''Tradition, I suppose. I am not too attached to such things myself...'' She trailed off, her steely blue eyes locking onto mine. Her voice changes when she talks again, like she''s more than curious. ''How much do you know about me, Sofia?'' ''Well, ah, you never got close to the people in charge, because they''d have made you do more than help people. Right?'' ''Right,'' she replies. ''My parents saw the writing on the wall when Lenin rose up, and picked the winning side instead of running. I did the same in World War Two, instead of fleeing into the forests or ending myself. I fixed tanks, even drove some.'' She tapped her right knee with a finger. ''Killed monsters in human skin.'' ''That''s...nice?'' ''My point, Sofia, is that I come from a family of opportunists,'' she says with a smirk like she''s laughing at herself. ''As the Soviet Union grew after the stories came to life, I put my foot down, because I was a new woman by that point. Living on the borders, in every sense, didn''t bring me any friends, but I valued those it did. I still do.'' Ach! She''s gone rambly like all babas do, and I can''t get away! Ummm... ''You were gonna say something,'' I remind her, thinking maybe she needs her remembering pills or whatever nanas like her take to remember their glasses are on their noses (not that she has any). ''Before the story.'' ''I''m getting there,'' she says patiently, even though I''m the patient one because I''m listening to her get away from the point. ''So, because I was never close to any movers and shakers, I was able to form my own opinions on things. And, like I said, you''re mostly right.'' Yay! Wait. ''By which I mean that there are certainly factions holding onto outmoded ideals,'' nooo, she''s starting again... ''We - that is, the global paranormal law enforcement community - believe we could handle the consequences of Earth becoming a true post-scarcity world. A few of my acquaintances even believe the positive noospheric currents resulting from such a transition would help the world''s inhabitants develop, that people would grow like never before if all their needs and wants were met - within reason.'' ''Ok,'' I say, blinking slowly to make sure I''m not missing anything, cuz dang does First talk like the world''s biggest egghead, and thinks I''m one too. ''So why don''cha?'' She laughs, and it''s a warm sound, because I feel my face heat up again, but I''m not embarrassed this time. ''Because, Sofia,'' she answers, rising to her feet, ''a lot of people are scared of change, to one degree or another, and many of them are in charge of parts of the world. They can be eased into a better frame of mind, but trying to force them would just cause chaos, and no one would live well after that.'' I know what she''s getting at. Forcing people to think the way you want to is bad, I get it. I''m not gonna do it again. Geez... ''Thank you for listening,'' First says, and I notice her hands are bare, because she''s pulling black gloves on now. Her hands are covered in pale scars and calluses like extra knuckles. I don''t know what could leave her looking like this, and I don''t wanna find out. ''I believe this talk helped both of us.'' It''s morning, but when First is at the door, I feel as tired as last night, for some reason. She promises they''ll think about guard rotation again, but I''m not really listening. That''s not what I care about. ''First!'' I call out after her, and she returns, stopping at the door to glance at me. ''I...I know what I said earlier, but I''ll help. I can try...'' I bite my lip. It''s quivering, but I don''t know why. I''m not crying. Or going to. ''I wanna get out. I can go with you guys and look into minds an'' try to calm them, and, and!'' I squeeze my eyes shut. They''re throbbing. ''I want to stop being scared. Of corpses.'' First Comrade tells me she understand and will talk about it with her bosses. But the really good part comes when I go to sleep, with a couple polar werebears, all fluffy and beady-eyed like big plushies, watching over me. I meet David, or he visits me. I don''t know. I think we meet halfway, or it feels that way. The dreamscape looks like the middle of a bridge, and I know that''s what it is, even though I can''t see the ends of the bridge. David smiles, and says he''s sorry he hasn''t visited me yet, but he will, and more and more often after. He says he has three jobs now, and I think that''s why he dresses like a dad, with this suit and tie, all boring. He says he''s bringing someone he loves far more than himself along for the upcoming visit, and that some of his friends are gonna pass by in the future to teach me stuff. He also promises he''s telling First Comrade and her friends too, but I can talk about it with her too, if I wanna. Finally, he asks me if I want him to bring me anything, and I ask if he can give me something like a gift, but not really. After I explain, he ruffles my hair, and tells me what I want is a sort of gift too, but one he''s more than happy to make. * * * David brings his "girl-friend" (I ask him why he calls her that, does he only have one friend who''s a girl? They both laugh and tell me, no, it''s not like that), which I''m told is like a wife before you promise to be friends forever. Her name''s Mia and she''s like a human and a dragon, bigger and taller than First Comrade, and just as pretty. I like looking at her, but I know I won''t grow up to be like her, ''cause she''s a zmeu, with skin like those bronze coins we saw on the school trip to the museum, and eyes like molten rubies. First, who was told all about this while I slept, is listening from somewhere beyond the cell with her friends. I don''t care, though, cuz David and Mia are here. I don''t know her, but I like him and he likes her, so she''s gotta be nice, right? ''We can teach you some things ourselves,'' David says, giving Mia a sidelong glance. She nods at him but doesn''t look, because she''s kneeling, which is like squatting for zmei, so she can look into my eyes. Her hands are big and clawed and rough, but I''m not scared to grab them, because Mia holds me like I''m a newborn. ''Mia especially,'' he goes on, and she winks at me. For a blink, I see an image of a woman, taller and broader than David, with skin like bronze and hair like fire, but eyes like Mia''s. It''s her, I realise, her as a human, dressed like a witch, with a pointy hat and staff and fa-mi-li-ars, even a cauldron! I must be gaping like a fish as I look at her, because she chuckles while pushing my jaw up with one finger. She burns with power like the witch I see in my mind''s eye sometimes, the one I could grow up to be, dressed in purple and binding everyone and everything there is. ''But,'' David continues, and I try to focus on him, even though his girl-friend us magical like I wanna be, ''there are other things you''ll only master by learning them from others. I know people who could teach you about life, not just magic.'' He joins Mia, taking a knee beside her, like Mommy and Daddy did when we loved each other. ''If you will accept them.'' ''Like the old man with the glasses and the ghost, and the mummy!'' I say, remembering. ''You guys work at the same place, right?'' I ask, looking at their black clothes with the white shields. Well, only David''s tie is like that, like a coal surrounded by ash, but Mia''s all in black and white. ''That''s right!'' Mia says, tail swishing behind her. I wonder if she always sleeps on her tummy, with her tail and wings. ''They''re some of our bosses, and they wanna make the world better for everyone, Sofia. You can help.'' ''Thanks!'' I blurt out, then look around to make sure it''s just us three in the room, though I know there are people listening around. ''Did you know all three of ''em are older than they look? Like First, who you''d think is a mommy but is like, a hag for hags.'' They look at each other, grinning, then back at me. ''We''ll be sure to pass the comparison along,'' Mia promises, and I feel caught, for some reason. Uh oh. Maybe it''s because of her eyes. She''s like those snakes that can stop mice with a look, and I could stare into her eyes forever. The zmeu tousles my hair, standing up. ''But you be nice, alright Sofia? I know you''re a good girl deep down, but some people don''t, and you gotta be careful around them.'' ''Someone should have noticed the upcoming disaster in advance and stopped by to help you with your magic,'' David adds. ''Even so...I want to say you didn''t know what you were doing, but you did know what your magic would do. Didn''t you, Sofia?'' I look away from them, at the ground, and my voice cracks when I answer. ''Y-Yes. But I didn''t know it''d take the whole village! I thought just...Mom ''n'' Dad...'' ''Even so,'' David says softly. ''You knew you''d take over their minds. It''s unfortunate you grew up how you did, Sofia, but forcing people to think like you is a very bad thing. It makes you worse than they were, and you deserve better than to mar yourself like that.'' He closes his eyes, for some reason, before straightening up, hands behind his back like some kids at school used to stand at the board. ''Now, I know you wouldn''t do it again. What happened to the villagers is your magic''s fault. You didn''t know it''d overtake you, and anything it made you say or think after you broke free of its grasp, but before you recovered, is also nothing to do with you.'' David looks away, and he seems much older than I know he is. He doesn''t meet my eyes when he talks. ''I''ll talk to some friends, arrange a few...sessions. Be sure to be nice to them: they''re going to help you as a favour to me, not because they have to.'' ''Ok,'' I reply quietly, feeling like there''s a coiled spring inside me, like when I jump too high and get scared coming down. Then, rembering to be polite, I get off the bed and shake their hands (Mia has to crouch) and thank them for coming. ''Come again soon!'' I try to hug their legs but don''t manage fully, they''re not standing close enough together and my arms are too short. ''I love you guys.'' Both of them stiffen at that, like I did when I was told I should eat less sweets cuz they''re bad for my teeth and will make my mouth hurt unless I go to the dentist, who''s the doctor with the scary tools. But they get over whatever scared ''em soon enough, and David places a hand on my head, a warm look on his face. ''It''s sweet of you to say that,'' he says in an old, old voice that sounds like two. ''You''re very chummy, ain''t you kiddo?'' Mia says, and I get scared a bit ''cause she sounds like the aunties who aren''t mine (but grownups call them that. I used to see some in the village) who wanna pinch my cheeks and tell me how big I''ve grown, and Mia''s very strong and has sharp claws. ''It''s very nice you can grow attached to people that fast.'' She pats my cheek instead of pinching it, but I still whimper, because jeez, her claws are claws are so close to my eye. They leave, again reminding me more people will probably visit, and I can''t stop bouncing on my toes, but it''s not all butterflies. Because, before we talked about teaching me, they told me I''d have to come to terms with how I deeply hurt a boy, and how I was hurt by a monster who was still a man, in some ways. I''d have to meet both, one day. And this time, Loric Szabo wouldn''t be gone when I woke up. * * * ''She meant that,'' Mia said as we left, sounding bemused. I dipped my chin in agreement, quickly moving away to the heart of Siberia for relative privacy, my zmeu following in moments. ''Yeah. Several visions I consulted suggested she''d grow to see us as...parental substitutes, I suppose.'' And see herself as our adopted daughter, the older sister to our own children. But that was far away yet. ''You''re uncomfortable?'' My breath hissed out of me like steam from an old engine. Appropriate, given the resulting mist. ''How could I not be? Just picture all the nutjobs thinking I killed her parents as part of some scheme to groom her so she''d support me once she grew into the fullness of her powers.'' What do you care about their opinions, human? You know they are wrong, and lies cannot hurt us any more than delusions can. Those who speak against us have no truths. Besides, if you''re so concerned about being seen as manipulating her, just pass her along to the Creed Ascendant. Oh, great idea, I tell my worse half, glaring inwardly. Pass the PTSD victim with apparent Stockholm Syndrome growing along to my cult of eldritch fanatics. That will definitely shut up the conspiracy theorists. Exactly! So why haven''t you? The fact this guy was part of me didn''t give me much confidence in my intelligence or sense of humour. That I couldn''t tell whether he was joking or just denser than a neutron star was even sadder. Apocrypha: Building Bridges (I)
Mary Anne Simmons had always known she was, by any reasonable standard, a privileged person. She had been raised by the greatest mother in the world, in her humble opinion, and by loving (enough) grandparents - and only the latter had voiced anything against the circumstances of her birth. Breakout had kept her, child born of rape that she was, despite all the advice to abort or seek an orphanage. Becoming president of the United States had been a matter of competence and, to a degree, luck. Her mother always reminded her not to sell herself short: no matter how many people were wary of offending Clara Simmons by acting against her daughter, becoming POTUS as a black, agnostic woman, and a paranormal at that, had been an accomplishment. Any of the first three would have been enough of a reason to vote against her for some people, but the fourth had convinced many. Her mind always came back to those ridiculous complaints, voiced mostly by people who couldn''t or wouldn''t see the writing on the wall. The prejudices from before the Shattering only lingered at the borders of civilization, and then in vestigial forms-in most cases. But that didn''t mean they were completely gone. Funny how vocal the grumbling about her age had been. She was, she supposed, not white and male enough. To have existence almost end during her presidency had been an unhappy coincidence, but at least no one was blaming her, the pagans or the atheists for that. Points for novelty. People often asked many how she could not believe when the gods were plainly real, and powerful, and helped their worshippers. Usually, after saying not praying wasn''t the same as not believing, she smiled at the last part, pointing out how transactional it felt. It was an open secret that many worshipped for the benefits, even if paying lip service only brought minimal ones. No true faithcraft, a few outliers aside. Not to mention how being able to see and speak to the gods whenever soured one''s view on them. The Olympians'' proclivities, the sacrifices once demanded by many pantheons...those were, to be blunt, chump change compared to the mass slaughters so many deities had performed or caused over the ages. But no one seemed in a hurry to try them, much less punish them. The excuses varied from the gods having redeemed themselves through divine intervention to damage their Clusters'' cosmological structures couldn''t risk. Mary believed the reason was simpler, if aligned, to a degree, with the first type of excuses: people didn''t want those they liked to suffer. The amount of times she''d seen people praising mass murderers for "taking the law into their hands" (mostly by killing those the speaker disliked) never failed to make her roll her eyes. She thought she even remembered one trial...yes, one trial with women pleading for this serial killer not to be sentenced because he was beautiful. Honestly, the whole thing had been so stupid she''d forgotten most of it out of self-defense. Dealing with the pantheons, especially their leaders, was tiring at the best of times, because they acted like they''d die if they approached you innocently, immortality be damned. A remark was so rarely what it seemed, no matter how informal the context. The latest celebration, involving powerful players from all across the world and its associated realms, had been no exception. She''d refused a handful of law gods who''d promised they''d find a way to make her president forever, if only she started praying to them, and then there had been all the offers for sex. At least the guest she was expecting wasn''t an utter piece of shit. Just, from what she''d heard, a man trying to make the best out of the bad situations he kept finding himself in. David Silva had told her and her peers, at that party, that he''d like to visit officially and hash out agreements regarding the pursuit of his duties in their countries. As DEATH''s Keeper, he had said, he''d sometimes have to be seen taking away godless souls, or putting down threats to the cycle of life and death-or to existence as a whole, in his role as guardian of creation. Despite herself, Mary had found herself having no reason to doubt his claims. They''d all felt his power, as well as those of the beings who''d added theirs to it, and one of them was the closest thing to the idea of the almighty they''d ever known. Mary only hoped she''d be able to trust his intentions, because he could pursue any aims he wanted with power like his, not just those he''d claimed. A Secret Service agent told her Silva was about to enter almost at the same time he knocked, escorted by two others. The president found herself fighting a smile at the quaint gesture. Her mother had habits like that, so that it was easy to forget the godlike being she was without seeing her fighting. David Silva was dressed in a dark gray two piece suit, with a tie of the same color and a lighter gray shirt underneath his jacket. He had, she noted, absolutely noting signifying he worked for ARC, and she somehow doubted he, Reem or anyone else considered this an undercover mission. Mary stood up with her practiced smile, stepping around the Hayes desk to shake his hand. Silva didn''t look like he was about to return the gesture, and she distantly thought it was a good idea as her phone rang at the last moment. Ordinarily, she would have refused this, emergency call or not, but other heads of state could call her even if her phone had no power. It was a security measure, to make sure the faces of the Global Gathering could always communicate. Mary looked down at the frowning visage of her Chinese opposite number. Fu Zhang had one of those kind of faces that meant he looked thoughtful even when relaxed which was not often. Her smile became sheepish as she raised her eyes to Silva, only to see the corners of his mouth turn upwards, showing a little fang. "Would you mind if I took care of this first? I''m sure it will be brief." "No doubt," Silva replied, eyes twinkling, and she had to remind herself he was young enough to be her kid, and that he liked to act like one. The president nodded, subtly gesturing for the Secret Service to entertain their guest for a while, as she entered a side room. Fu started speaking the instant she accepted the call, not bothering with pleasantries, which was new. Almost the opposite of that time he''d insisted on a tea ceremony for minutes, before she''d convinced him it really wasn''t necessary. "Did the strigoi ambush you in the bathroom too?" he asked, words clipped. Mary blinked at the bluntness. Fu, she suspected, had changed his name upon entering office, to reflect his success and reach, as he was a powerful person who dealt with foreign affairs. The Chinese were led by a council, but from among the Ministerial Assembly, he, as Minister of Foreign Affairs, was effectively their leader when dealing with outsiders. He was versed in everything from education to military matters, as the job demanded, and always the one collaborating on international projects from China''s end. It was hard to reconcile the muttering, youthful-looking old man, always so concerned with everyone being courteous, with the caller...but she understood. Fu got difficult when you interrupted anything he thought solemn. "What?" she asked, more than a little amused. "Did he barge in while you were relieving yourself?" "He certainly did not!" Fu said sharply. "For I would have thrown him out, no matter how strong he is. There are things, you understand, things a man must do alone." "I see. How did this happen, then?" The Minister grumbled. "One of my assistants took my words to Silva - that he could trouble me at any time, for we had discussed he could - and, after twisting them like they were a gymnast, told him that no, I wouldn''t have any problem with him entering uninvited." "And you did." "I was bathing!" Fu said defensively. "Nothing to be seen, of course-" Mary snickered. "Of course." "Be serious, miss. I was up to my neck in water. Anyway, there was nothing to be seen, though I''m sure Silva''s marvelous senses can peer through anything, and that he had known how the discussion with my aide would go in advance, and did so anyway." "Ah." Mary leaned against the wall, head almost brushing the ceiling. "Yes, several of my experts agree his perception is timeless. Why do you think he did so, then?" "Why, to show he has no fear of making me, or people like me, uncomfortable, if it gets him what he wants. It was a masterstroke, really, and required no words, in truth, though we spoke." "...Forgive me, but I''m fairly sure Silva did that because he thought it would be funny." "Do not underestimate his Machiavellian intellect, Miss Simmons!" She had the sense Fu was wagging his finger at her, as if she could see him or care if she did. "He knows it is good to be both loved and fear, and there are few things that can scare a man like being approached while laid bare-" "Ahem."Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. "You know what I mean." He mumbled something about phrasing and how clunky English was, before continuing, "See, this was like when you are in a public bathroom, and another man crossed the gap separating you to relieve himself, despite all the alternatives." "I dearly hope it wasn''t like that, Fu." "Well, not literally." A pause. "But it felt so." As the silence stretched between them, Fu cleared his throat, determined to break it. "Anyway. Silva and I spoke once I was done cleansing my body as my duty cleanses my spirit, in my office." Mary smirked up at the low ceiling. "Did you wear that tacky bathrobe?" "Not that it has any bearing on this discussion," she imagined him with his hands on his hips, scowling fiercely, "but I will have you know it is gorgeous. I have been informed I look like a bee in it, and isn''t that a beautiful compliment? The bee is a wonderful insect, bringing sweetness into the world and only fighting to defend itself and its kin." Since they''d compared him to a wasp when he''d been younger, but already fond of that black and yellow thing, Mary thought it was more likely those people had been cracking jokes about his weight. But she wasn''t about to point it out. "Silva didn''t stay long. He was charmed by my hospitality, of course-" Of course. And his modesty, no doubt, "-but I had already, with the help of my gracious colleagues, crafted a contract for him to sign, detailing the relationship China desires with the Keeper of Endings." Lowering his voice, Fu added, "He told me he dislikes visiting as much as being visited, barring a handful of exceptions. He seems a very private man, to me." "That is very interesting," Mary replied, not quite sure she was lying, "but he is here at the moment, and I need to discuss with him. To answer your original question, no, he didn''t approach me when I was indecent." That would''ve been beyond inappropriate. Besides, from what files she''d read, and their own short talk at the party, Mary thought Silva found few things as mortifying as making a woman uncomfortable. "Ah," Fu said. "He did not. Then..." Feeling he was about to start talking at rather than to her, Mary said her goodbyes and returned to the Oval Office, once again apologizing for having to leave. "No problem, ma''am,'' Silva said, raising a hand. He''d already seated himself, she was. "We can''t always do what we want, when we want." He''d never get far into politics with allusions this obvious, but perhaps it was a good thing he wasn''t interested at all. Someone as honest and powerful at him would likely react poorly to people who weren''t. "Indeed," she replied smoothly as he rose to take her hand. For a moment, she thought he was about to kiss it as he looked down at it consideringly, but he instead returned her handshake. Mary then made her way back behind the desk, sitting down. "Would you like anything?" "To get this over with, ma''am. I''m sure you have business I''m keeping you from." Gods, she wished she had more guests like that. It might even result in something vaguely resembling free time. "Of course," she said, clasping her hands on the desk, thumbs together. "I assume you have a proposal?" David nodded, but his eyes seemed distant. When the focus return, it was almost like a white flash lit up the dark orbs. The strigoi''s expression was fierce, but not...violent. If anything, he resembled her mother, when Clara set out to improve the world. "I do," he said in a gentle voice that belied his appearance. "But..." he placed a hand on his knee, briefly looking away. "First, I want to make sure you know what my duties actually entail." "An explanation would be welcome," Mary said, "but I think I already have an inkling. Guide the souls of the godless dead to the aether, making sure they are rewarded and punished in accordance to how they lived. Stop those who seek to pervert the cycle of life...as well as existential threats." "You seem unsure in regards to the last thing. I can assure you, it is one of my responsibilities." Mary did not try to hide her bemusement. "I have been informed agent Fixer has retired," something Silva definitely hadn''t had a hand in, she was sure, "so the embodiment of creation''s desire and ability to stabilize and go on is no longer fighting. But is the Nightraiser stepping down too?" "Ah." Silva snapped his fingers. "Nightraiser technically has that job, too, though their remit is...narrower." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "Mind, despite who thought them up, these positions aren''t really well-defined. Omniscience doesn''t make you eager to explain yourself, apparently." She waited for him to go on, and he crossed one leg over the other. "Nightraiser is called upon-well, not literally, it''s more like something they feel rather than a notification or anything of the sort-to excise infectious influences from beyond creation, mostly. Or, even when it''s not something focused on assimilation, to destroy it so thoroughly it had never existed to become known." "And that is difference from what you do?" "Oh, yes," Silva purred, grinning with all fangs. "I make examples." Mary fought down a shudder. It should have been ridiculous, not intimidating, but she''d felt the menace in her bones, for all it hadn''t been directed at her. "I admit, there is something I do not understand. I hope you can enlighten me." "I would do likewise, ma''am, but I''m pretty sure I''m dumber than you." She laughed silently. "If you say so." Becoming more serious, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. "DEATH''s Keepers, as far as we can ascertain, have been secretive until now." He was the first publicly known one. "I am confused how this can be so." "Because, if so many souls go to them instead of any gods, surely someone must have heard of them and spread the information?" "You can''t tell me it hasn''t happened." "Oh, it could have, without DEATH being so obsessed with keeping things lowkey. But it''s an old duty, and the previous Keeper accepted it long before our universe came into existence. He quit shortly before I replaced him." "Are you saying your patron purposefully deflected scrying attempts?" David''s amusement was as sardonic as it was plain. "If everyone thought that, once you go to the aether, you''re punished or rewarded as you deserve, seemingly automatically, people had a reason to believe creation was fair, if not kind. A mindless place, administering justice by itself? And you didn''t even have to believe in anything. Salvation without religion. Many were given hope by this certainty." "Then why go public?" Mary asked, not bothering to hide her skepticism. "Because you wanted to and could?" David bowed his head at the sarcasm, a hand over his chest. "Thank you for saving me from having to be brief, ma''am." Ha. But it wasn''t like anyone could tell him no, so... "Then, in return, I must thank you for your sincerity." "You''re welcome. Also, DEATH knew that, if people knew what being its Keeper meant, if I did, I couldn''t have been prepared to take up the position." At her curious look, he elaborated. "My trainers, if you will, knew that, if I''d been aware of being shaped for something, I would have failed. Broken under the pressure, refused, looked for alternatives." "And everyone would have died," she said, hoping she didn''t sound as hoarse to him as she did to her own ears. David''s eyes were sympathetic. "I can never redeem myself for almost letting that happen, but I will do everything I can to make this world, and all others, a better place." He tapped the edge of the desk a few times with a clawed finger. "Not so resolute, but maybe I''m just too strong." He smirked boyishly, then turned serious once more. "You know, there are people-most of whom end up hunted down by me, but not all-who claim that I can''t judge anyone who doesn''t want to, at least, destroy existence, because I''m not better than them." What a load of horseshit. By that logic, no nation could condemn another, because everyone had committed some atrocity at one time or another. "I don''t believe you need me to explain that is nonsense." "Of course not. It''s easy to understand...in the abstract." He rubbed his face with both hands, sighing. "But my guilty side wants to agree with them, sometimes." Mary licked her lips, only now noticing how dry they''d gotten. "Let me give you some advice I think you''ll appreciate, Mr. Silva. Free of charge." "Thank you." Mary raised one hand, thumb, index and middle finger together. "Whatever lies people say about you, as long as they don''t affect how you are treated, shouldn''t concern you. Even when they hurt because you know the truth. Look at me. Half the people who hate me think my mother has America hostage, and pretend they''re forced to go along with her-unvoiced, mind-orders, by electing and following me." David bit his lip. "I''ve been hearing similar things, though most were directed at me. People saying I have my boot on creation throat and I''m choking the freedom out of them-yes, it sounded ridiculous to me too. Like something straight out of a tyranny-themed porno." He held up his hands. "They''re saying they can''t live how they want, because they know I''m there, and the moment they do something I disagree with, I''ll force them to stop." "People who feel enslaved because someone stronger than them exists will never be free, because they are poisoned by their fears and caged by their minds." "Huh. Cool quote." "It''s from that show with my mother in the caped outfit. One of the few things she''d never do in public, besides playing herself." Mary showed her teeth in a brief smile, which David returned. "Luckily for the fans, she has enough lookalikes." "Unluckily for her temper..." "Those things tend to come together, Mr. Silva." She crossed her arms, glancing through the small portion of the windows not hidden by a curtain. She''d find a metaphor there if she looked, she was sure. "My point is, you have no reason to fear you''re acting like a tyrant. You''re even building afterlives for ghosts too confused to even shapeshift, and helping them remember themselves by giving them paradise. I know for a fact that''s not in your job description." She stood up, walking to the windows, one hand behind her back, at her waist, the other held out. "And I imagine that, unless someone tries to rip open the fabric of existence, you''re not even going to look in the direction of their policies." She half-turned to look at him. "If you didn''t care about laws, you wouldn''t have asked for permission to operate in sovereign states." David laughed bitterly. "Fat lot of good that does to every child slave I''m not freeing. And I don''t just mean here on Earth." He hung his head, staring at nothing. "With how I find a new monster to kill or barrier to break down when I think about them, I''m tempted to believe the Mover wants me busy. Maybe everything''s a soap opera to it, and it doesn''t want the drama to stop." "Have you asked it about this?" "It cheerfully informed me that suffering is sometimes needed to grow, and that there are saviours lesser than me who must earn their names," the strigoi said acidly, then shook his head. "I''d make everyone happy if I could, you know. My strigoi side-you must''ve heard of them-sometimes urges me to do it, so we can then focus on anything not requiring altruism. I don''t think it''s even joking." "Many would be offended to find your ideals of what is good imposed on them," Mary said mildly. "Trust me, I have checks on my power. One''s flashy, one''s not, and both are talkative. And those are just the big ones." "Creation could do worse. Breakout informs me that none of the previous Keepers'' morals would have been...palatable, to most of our world''s inhabitants." She turned to him with a light smile. "At least we didn''t end up with a half-ape caveman chieftain, or a Bronze Age warlord, being given effectively endless power." She spread her hands, tone becoming a little ironic. "Instead, we got a mild-mannered man born in Romania during the late twentieth century." "...Can you...not make my childhood sound like a historical period? Please and thank you." "Spoken like a true child of the nineties," she said in a sagely voice, then clapped her hands, rubbing them together. "Shall we get down to business, David? Not that anyone could resist if you insisted on something-" "I told you, my power isn''t as absolute as it seems. Your mother alone could put up a fight for however long she wanted." That information was interesting enough Mary didn''t even mind the interruption. Her heart warmed with pride for her mother. "-but," she continued, not missing a beat, "I am not opposed to letting you pursue your duty within the borders of the USA. Really...the only difference between now and DEATH sending its Keepers to whisk away the departed in secret is the transparency." "I don''t think even I''m thin enough for that," David quipped as she returned to the Resolute desk, making her chuckle. Lore: Human/paranormal hybrids
Despite what some paranormals might believe, most hybrid paras are not the result of humans being easy, degenerate sex fiends, or hellbent on removing paras from existence by outbreeding them and replacing them with more humanlike offspring. Rather, it is more of a coincidence, inasmuch as such things can be. The truth is that mankind is more pliable, in this regard, than practically any paranormal species, leaving aside those specialised in picking up the traits of other species. In most cases, mages and psychics are human enough (leaving aside those who have altered themselves to inhuman levels, or become liches) that the only difference between them and mundanes having children is taht the child will have a chance of being magical or psychic. Most paras'' genetics and metaphysical equivalents are resistant enough that if, for example, a dragon were to have children with a Fae, they would either be one or the other. On the other hand, a human having children with a Fae results in demifae, who often share their Fae parent''s powers but not the weakness to iron (or, if they do share the latter, it is diminished, leaving painful but healable wounds). However, since demifae usually lack the hyper focused minds of their Fae parents, they prefer to stay away from Fairie, where they would be seen as insane. The most famous type of human/paranormal hybrids are likely demigods, who are born from the union of humans and deities. Demigods vary wildly in terms of abilities, but usually inherit a fraction of their divine parent''s power. Even so, some are effectively mundanes with uncanny luck or insight, not even exceptionally long-lived. The descendants of demigods, sometimes referred to as godlings (though a certain American writer of children''s literature, beloved by struggling paras and their parents for his series'' focus on young paranormals integrating into mundane society, has suggested the term legacies), are usually weaker than their parents, though the amount of ichor in a demigod''s veins is not always an indicator of power. Many of these children pick up other abilities by chance, to the point their diminished divinity is a facet of their powerset. It is debatable at which point a demigod''s descendant lacks enough ichor to be considered divine, as this seems to vary by person.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Some paranormal species have little to no issue interbreeding with humans, Fae and dragons being the most famous examples. Others can have children with humans, but they resemble one of the parents rather than being hybrids. Zmei, iele and the majority of fertile paranormals are in this category. Weres technically are, but, as the children of weres are born humans when they don''t inherit the other parent''s traits, they have human children have the time, regardless of their partners'' nature. Undead are unable to have children. People who say this could easily be changed through faithcraft often hear counterarguments that the bareness brought by undeath is the result of a divine curse, cast for reasons varying from punishment to the safety of the world. In any case, the pantheons have been closemouthed on this subject. The analysis of future possible timelines and alternate realities has discovered the existence of human/undead hybrids, with dhampirs being the most numerous. Dhampirs are half-human, half-vampire, sharing their vampiric parent''s power, though not their thirst for blood or the weakness to sunlight, as they can use their esoteric abilities in broad daylight with no issue. Also, while they do not need to drink blood, doing so makes them more powerful, like it would a vampire. The weakness to holy power remains, with some saying this is only natural, as the fruits of such unholy unions do not deserve to exist. Recent events, however, point to DEATH''s Keeper planning to find a way around the undead''s inability to reproduce. David Silva''s comments indicate that this research began for personal reasons, though, even if he did not want to help other undead have children to, he could not prevent it, as the changing of this fact of existence would affect all of them. Lore: Werewolf packs
Therianthropes are blessed or cursed, depending on the were asked, with the instincts of their natural counterparts. But while animals lack a foreign mind in their heads, urging them to act in ways that go against their beings, weres are always close to their beasts. The level of self-control possible varies, with some weres being in beast or hybrid form most of the time, needing immense effort to become human, while others are the opposite, having to cajole their beasts in order to adopt their form, or only being capable of doing so when in danger. It is for this reason that people who purchase therianthropy, either by letting themselves be marked by a were or, more commonly, buying were fluids or tissue to inject or graft into themselves, prefer animals with placid natures, like sheep or turtles. Not all weres, however, are lucky enough to get to choose their beasts. Indeed, being bitten, scratched or stung by a were who has gone so feral they are stuck as a beast is one of the most common causes of therianthropy. In the case of werewolves, they are driven to form packs. Both humans and wolves are social creatures, and while humans are able to bear solitude, lone wolves, and werewolves, usually have a need to belong. In nature, wolf packs consist of a mated couple, the leaders, and their offspring, the older wolves who have not left the pack yet and the younger cubs. Mirroring this, werewolves are driven to mark their spouses and children in order to "form a pack". Research to ensure the birth of were infants has proven unsuccessful since the Shattering, with the closest thing being the performing of surgery to allow a were to mark the fetus. This is not desirable, however, as a baby born with were instincts is going to have a harder time developing normally, not to mention full moons during the pregnancy could result in the fetus attempting to change in the womb, which, aside from being harmful to them, regeneration notwithstanding, could also result in the death of the mother, if she is human.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. There exists another type of pack, made up of werewolves who are not related. When placed in captivity, unrelated wolves struggle among themselves to form a hierarchy, which is what led to the birth of the alpha wolf myth. Like imprisoned humans, those wolves feel trapped and act in ways they might not, in their natural environment. Such werewolf packs are similar, as they are bound by circumstance or choice, not blood. These packs tend to be more aggressive than werewolf families, with the members clashing more often. Due to its persistence, enough noospheric power has gathered around the alpha wolf myth for it to become reality. Alpha wolves, as the leaders of these packs are referred to, sometimes to their chagrin, possess powers beyond those of standard werewolves. They are lion-sized in wolf form and stand head and shoulders above other werewolves in hybrid form, just as werewolves tower over humans. Alphas tap into the power of their packs, which allows them to become several or dozen of times stronger, faster and more durable than a normal werewolf - every pack member''s prowess is for the alpha to tap into. This drives some alphas to recruit aggressively, in order to bolster their personal power, and las led to the rise of many werewolf warlords. Alpha werewolves possess enhanced powers of regeneration, being able to heal gunshot wounds from silver bullets, provided the bullet does not remain in a vital area for long. If it passes through, it will leave scars. Impalement from silver blades or spears can also be regenerated from, as can blunt force trauma from silver bludgeons, unless the alpha''s head is crushed in one hit, for example. An ability shared by all werewolf packs is that of coordination. Not just in the mundane sense - werewolves are able to share senses, with every packmate seeing and hearing what every other packmate does and instinctively knowing how best to assist their fellow weres, which their bodies automatically move to follow. This makes werewolves desirable recruits for militaries and law enforcement agencies. Apocrypha; Omake: Own a spear for home defence
>I own a spear for home defence, since that''s what the Aesir intend! >Four brigands break into my home. >"What in Hel?" As I grab my helmet and runed polearm. >Stab a fist-sized hole through the first man, he''s dead where he stood.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. >Fling my axe at the second man, miss him entirely because it''s not for throwing and hit the neighbour''s war hound. >I have to resort to the ballista mounted at the back of the longhouse. >"Valhalla awaits!" The bolts shred two of the men, their dying screams startling the cattle. >Heft my halberd and charge the last raving marauder. He bleeds out, waiting for the Valkyries to arrive, since enchanted blade wounds are impossible to bind closed. >Just as the Aesir intend. Apocrypha; Family Matters: Peretz
Caleb knows the explanation - the excuse, as he calls it. He''s heard the story so many times, like it''s something from Tanakh. It might as well be, he reflects. It could be: one of those ridiculous episodes, immortalised so they might be held up as examples of how ridiculous man could be, at times. He knows the story, word by word; at this point, remembrance of the telling and retelling might as well be a substitute for actual memories. It is about as accurate, anyway. He pictures a room, small and dingy, though well-lit (at this point, his father always points out that said room is not often lit like that, the miser, because they lack the means. Caleb shakes his head every time. His father might not be aiming to live up to the stereotype of the stingy Jew, but he manages)... A couple, not too young, nor too old, though weathered. His hair and eyes are brown, hers dark and blue. The mother is tired and flushed, the father on edge. Akiva is now expectant in an altogether different way, and there is any number of things he is waiting for. His boy, eyes screwed shut and skin hot to the touch, is mewling quietly. He is not sure that is a good sign. In his experience, newborns are loud or quiet, and those in-between sometimes sickly or otherwise weak. He does not want to lose his son so fast, not after his hope has been rekindled. The leg wound that saw him sent back home from the Great War has him using a cane, even leaning on it when not walking, sometimes, but he is alive. He expected to die, blasted apart by a shell or rotting from the inside because of poisonous gas. Those are the real killers, not the bullets. Even when they don''t touch you, they leave you dead inside. Even now, the sound of a slammed door has him crouching. But such is the soldier''s lot. Maybe, one day, they''ll stop looking upon his kind with such venom...but he is not holding his breath. This would not be the first war Jews have died in for those who shy away from them at best. Just the biggest. Akiva looks up from his cane''s head, a carved steel eagle, to glare at the doctor. He''s been fussing for a good while, a while - though Akiva is no expert in such matters, he feels it is his duty as a father to ask - than might be safe for his son. The boy is hardly moving, and that scares him as much as any moment in the trenches ever has. He watches the doctor pick up and put down some tool or other, producing a dull sound as it hits the metallic tray, before his hands move to the others. Akiva is fairly sure he''s already checked them all. Clearing his throat, the former soldier says, ''Herr doktor, if you don''t mind, can''t you come here?'' The doctor turns with a guilty look, and, after making his way over and checking the boy''s heartbeat, admits he does not believe the lad is long for this world. He repeats the sentiment eight days later, when Akiva and Dalit expect their son to be circumcised. But the doctor hems and haws once more, finally saying that he believes this would put the boy''s life at too much risk. They don''t call upon the doctor''s services after this, but they quietly agree that no, their boy does not seem too healthy. He only cries when he wants to be fed and changed, after all, and barely reacts otherwise, but for some wheezing gasps. Caleb did not die, as expected, though he was always more susceptible to cold than the other children, and his scrapes and bruises took longer to heal. He is still, however, the only uncut boy of his faith he knows, and every reminder - usually coming in the form of uninspired taunts about how he must be a Christian in disguise or denial - makes his face turn red. In anger more than shame, admittedly; anger at his parents, who didn''t go through when they should have, and at that indecisive idiot, damn his pessimism. Despite his weakness, despite his bones taking longer to heal than those of his friends, he has broken his fists on the faces of most of his rivals. But at least their faces broke as well, and they quieted down some. ''Bastards,'' Caleb mutters heatedly to himself as he makes his way back home, hands in his coat pockets. The cold is biting, and his temper makes things worse, heating up his skin and leaving him puffing like a bellows. His hat only comes to the middle of his ears (a hand down from his father, who must''ve had the ears of a mouse, he swears) and he no longer has his scarf. He didn''t manage to throttle that goddamn bigot, though not for lack of effort. Ratty thing just fell apart halfway through, but at least he put the dog on the run. Still, he can''t help but marvel at the sheer audacity of the hooligan. Not the trick itself - slipping something of yours into the pocket of someone you passed was an old way to pick a fight -, but the fact it was done to him, because of what he is, and in broad daylight at that. Caleb hunches his shoulders, pulling his hat as far down as it will go. He doesn''t like this Hitler fellow everyone''s been talking about for years, not least of all because people like the boy he thrashed love him. Despite his mood, Caleb smiles as he sees the front of the shop their home is built above come into view. For all he can be a pain in the neck sometimes, his dad is interesting. He has all these books about faiths and cults and sects from all over the globe, and Caleb has heard him and his mom talking about branching into philosophy too. His favourites are these "comparative religion" books, which put different beliefs side by side, and... Caleb watches, frozen, as shards fall from where a blur smashed through the glass front. For an absurd moment, he thinks it must be so cold the glass is cracking, then realises two things. The first is that, even if it was so cold, the glass wouldn''t explode like that. The second is that, even here, even now, he is refusing to accept the wickedness of the people he knows despise him and all those like him. And they do not deserve that. As Caleb turns, a stunned look on his face, he also realises he is in danger, as are his parents. Then the second brick hits him. He manages to lift his arms in front of his face, but his wrists break as he deflects the brick, and he stumbles, crying out at the pain. Falling onto his rear, he has no time to see the brick come down on his head, almost lazily. Though his hat spares him the worst, he is still dazed, and can feel blood spread across his scalp, warm and sticky, making his hat cling to his hair. Lifting bleary eyes, Caleb manages to make out a gaggle of youths make their way towards him (the shop?) with purposeful strides. At first, he thinks they''re some of the bigger bad kids, but as his vision steadies and they become less blurry, he makes out their uniforms. Staggering to his feet right when his father arrives to drag him to safety - but where in the world is that? -, he decides that he bloody hates this Hitler man and his Youth. The oaf he got into a scrap earlier is leading the pack, bringing a sneer to Caleb''s face that turns his youthful features ugly. ''There! He has my watch!'' the idiot exclaims, pointing at him even as his father drags him away. Caleb''s hands reflexively fly to his pockets, and he groans. Son of a...he does have his watch, true enough. Kept it after teaching him a lesson, deciding he was entitled to some compensation. When he and his parents are huddling in some quiet street corner, praying the shadows will hide them, Caleb, teeth chattering, digs out the damned thing out of his coat. ''D-Dad, I...'' he stutters, tears leaving streaks through the grime on hiss face. Swallowing, he continues, ''He...he didn''t lie.'' Akiva manages a ragged laugh, even as Dalit reaches for her son''s shoulder with a calming smile, and Caleb decides his dad is a million times the man Hitler will ever be, for who else could laugh at times like this? ''Don''t be fooled, son,'' he whispers, eyes peeled for anyone passing close by their hideout. ''People like them, they don''t need reasons to do what they do.'' * * * The next uniformed group that comes to the Peretz house is made up of men, not thuggish brats. These are thuggish sorts too, though they seem more refined at first. When they talk about how people like him and his parents have been pushed to the edge enough, many scraping by, ill and starving, he foolishly, foolishly wants to believe they are taking them somewhere, if not better, then safer. Some time has passed since that awful November night, but, though Caleb feels older than he is, he is still a child. And children, he thinks, should not hope to be imprisoned forever, which is what he believes these men have come to do. Maybe, if they''re all locked up somewhere deep in the country, people will no longer come by to ravage their homes. This hope does not last long, for all it is said that such things die last. After they take him away for all he has known and tear his father from his books and his mother from her clothes, they bring them to a train, sleek and fit to burst. Caleb fancies he can hear it creaking on the tracks, so full of Jews he makes a joke that it must be driven by Moses. His parents don''t laugh. Caleb falls quiet after that, unsettled by his own joke. How long did his people wander, last time they left a place in such numbers? Too long, too long...and though there are no deserts in Germany, it feels no less a wasteland. * * * There is a part of his youth Tamar Thousandhands, as he will style himself over the decades to come, chooses not to think of much. Not because he does not wish to remember what he went through - the work, the hungry, thirsty labour that felt even lowlier than slavery, that saw his parents reduced to thin walking corpses before they were taken away from the last time -, but because, whenever he thinks of it, he cannot help but reminisce of everyone who did not survive where he, ill weakling that he was, managed to. When he does remember, it is because he craves anger. Seeks the certainty, the power, wrath and spite and hatred bring. Tamar knows better than most how such feelings can be whipped into a frenzy, for it made him suffer, but he is no bigot. Not like his old tormentors. He has no tolerance for intolerance. When you treat others as though they are less than people, you stop being a person yourself, as far as he is concerned. But those days are far away yet, and Caleb cannot yet dream of the man he will become. It is here that he meets Sarah, a scowling, rawboned girl who can mould dirt like clay and stack uneven rocks like playing cubes. They smile when they can get together, and she teaches him to skip stones across the narrow, thin puddles the rain leaves behind sometimes. Tamar, thick-skulled as he is, teaches her how to headbutt properly, then - so she doesn''t embarrass herself laughing with a nosebleed- how to set her nose. ''How come a stork likes you knows how to headbutt?'' she teases him one day. ''How come a goat like you doesn''t?'' he retorts, almost glad that he''s gotten to sallow for his blushes to show. But he''s still proud, and doesn''t like to let anyone see they''ve got him flustered. Even the girl he likes. One day, Amos, a boy Caleb has locked horns with more often than he''d like to (he''s too tired, dammit. Isn''t Amos? But the horse-faced son of a bitch is like a spinning top, almost), sits down with them during one of their rare breaks. It''s shortly after a pitiful meal, just enough to keep them alive, so they can keep making weapons. ''Did you hear?'' Sarah mutters, sitting cross-legged like the Indians from one of Akiva''s books. At least, Caleb thinks glumly, his dad didn''t burn with them. ''Heard said we''re getting new guards. These ones like to beat ''em Itzigs don''t call each other by their numbers.'' She flexes her arm, displaying hers, alongside a small amount of muscle. Caleb is too dog-tired to remark upon her throwing that bloody word around. It''s not like she thinks less of her fellows, or like the jerries are going to stop. Amos preens, puffing his chest out as he does when trying to appear brave. It has earned him more than one kick to the ribs. ''My name''s too good to be forgotten,'' he sputters, hair still curly despite the grime they live in, though no longer glossy. ''I''ll show ''em what''s what.'' Sarah waves him off. ''What''ll you show, hmm? Your behind?'' ''They can kiss it!'' he replies, nodding as he decides that sound good. ''I''ll show ''em, just you watch.'' Caleb isn''t sure where the hell Amos gets his hands on the scissors, just as he doesn''t know whether he should hate him or love him for putting a couple of the few kids younger than them out of their misery. Least he''s quick enough to put them through his own throat before the guards get their hands on him. According to Sarah, the girls Amos ended (not that they were brimming with life, Caleb reflects grimly) were taken away because, more than being Christ-killers, "Like the rest of you goddamned Yids", they liked each other. ''You know, like your folks did,'' she added, seeing his bemused face. He doesn''t "know", not really, but he figures they weren''t hurting anyone, any more than the rest of them were. ''Maybe some boys got jealous,'' Sarah jokes weakly, her humour gone as bleak as anything in their living nightmare, ''that they weren''t getting any kisses, and went and told their daddies. Then poof, they were put on a train, eh?''This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Caleb gulps, looking around and feeling like an idiot as a result. There''s little light to see by after curfew, and even with everyone packed together like sardines (like corpses in a mass grave, Amos used to say), he can''t make out anyone''s features. He doubts they can see him, either. So, he thinks when he turns back to Sarah, he''s just scared of her, and that''s dumb. Running a hand through his short hair, he moves closer to her. ''How about we make someone jealous ourselves?'' he asks, voice husky more out of thirst than anything. Sarah''s hands move to her mouth, and for a moment, he fears he''s crossed some line. Then he realises she''s trying to contain her giggles. They don''t make anyone jealous, that night. But he makes his Sarah laugh, and, Caleb thinks, this matters, in its own way. * * * The end of the War feels like something out of a dream, even if it only really ends because new monsters, many not man-shaped, have started crawling out of humanity''s nightmares. Caleb is almost a man by now, old if not fit enough to fight, and he has faith. Not in the false messiah so many of the Allies exalt - he loves Jesus as he can only love a teacher of such wise thinking, but the Nazarene was a man, and God is God -, but faith in the Lord. He does not become a soldier, though he figures he could, given some time. He has faith, and all the lore he can get his hands on, he devours. The teachings of the Kabbalists and their ilk are as mystifying as they are enlightening, but Caleb seeks knowledge of another kind. Sarah is present when he turns himself into what he must become - how could she be otherwise? She does not hold his hand or lay her hand upon his brow when he shrieks his lungs bloody, for such would be dangerous, and he would never forgive himself if he so much as scratched her, but she is at his side, never out of sight, and that helps. Two of her hulking golems flank her, like the world''s biggest watchdogs, and their solidity is something Caleb craves as the world melts before his eyes, and he falls, for eternity and a heartbeat, into the Hell that many dread. He is approached, for that is the wont of the fiends, and tempted, for that is their pleasure. But the pleasure of demons are as hollow as they are endless, and Caleb is no longer inclined to indulge those stronger, crueller than him, merely for respite. He turns them all aside. They offer him wealth and joy beyond anything he has dreamed of, the corpses of everyone he has hated, everything and everyone he has ever held dear. He is even confronted by the one God has designated to test the souls of mortals, and draw out the darkness inside. He is wearing armour of tarnished ivory, thorned vines encircling his limbs and chest, and the young man knows they were grown from the crown laid upon the head of he who walked the world almost like the Lord; who, in doing so, was misunderstood by man. In his hand, he clutches a sword, bejewelled and polished to a mirror sheen. He raises his bow as Caleb walks toward him, an arrow aimed at the youth''s eye, and urges him to halt. Has he no pride? How can he plan to content himself with casting down his broken foes and their works, instead of reigning over a kingdom wrought from their agony forever? Has he no anger left? But he walks on, and the First of the Fallen shoulders his rifle with an amused huff, his weapon as changing as his mood. This one will prove interesting, he thinks. ''Say, my boy,'' he calls out, as Caleb begins scrabbling at the bedrock of his prison-demesne, nails already cracked and bloody. ''I see your conviction, tempered by false modesty as it is. Seek my son, the son who bears my sceptre; you might learn much about being kings in waiting from each other.'' Caleb does not pay the tempter much thought, busy as he is pulling up the creatures that dwelled below Hell before it was given shape and purpose. Later...he and the cambion who goes by Louis Cypher with much humour do succeed in meeting, sometimes, but, alas, it is mostly for work. The Hellfire Club''s president is as skilled in binding and unbinding his uncles and aunts as he is at helping those they held to recover so they might reenter society, or at preparing those seeking to bear them within themselves. Tamar often seeks his counsel. When they can meet to just talk, Louis, always busy chasing his beaus and belles, comically bemoans the air of responsibility Tamar, family man that he is, brings into his establishments. Whenever Louis hears of the newest member of the Peretz family (which, Tamar thinks with some amusement, is during almost all of their infrequent meetings), he throws his hands up, sighing. ''You keep making all these little ones, my friend,'' Louis says one day, alternately pulling at his beard and ponytail, both silver. ''Do you lot not stop?'' Tamar, who finds it quite funny that one of the most dangerous beings in existence is put off by the mere chance of knocking someone up, says, ''Well, Louie, if you want a family of your own, you only need to stop frequenting backdoors.'' ''Cal, you know how I work,'' Louis says patiently, eyes not even once betraying the hundred millennia they''ve seen. ''I can''t help but end up inside arseholes.'' He takes a sip of his hot chocolate, silently daring Tamar to say anything about his choice of drink. ''And don''t call me Louie! Damned cartoon ducks...'' There are years between Caleb''s transformation and his first meeting with the Hellflamer, however. Right now, it is all he can do to keep his eyes on Sarah, for as long as they last. They are soon replaced by flames that burn without fuel, flames that scorch most of his skin off, leaving only patches, soon to be covered in the words and shapes of binding. * * * Hell Decade is nowadays used to refer to the years between the Shattering and ARC''s first anniversary. The first handful were defined by fear and chaos, until the world pulled itself together, though it took the coming of the Martians to make Earth present an united front. And, in fifty-five, the world''s foremost paranormal law enforcement agency proved itself, again and again, and grew. Caleb has more experience than most agents when the recruiters come to him. He has spent most of the last ten years alternating between keeping his monsters leashed and, at Sarah''s urging and direction, venturing out to stop what menaces he can in their corner of Germany. The fighting helps him think, for he and his creatures align in purpose. Caleb listens as they list his duties and rights (interesting order...though men more interested in the latter than the former often end up monstrous), nodding quietly, then lifts his burning eyes. ''Will I get to kill Nazis?'' The woman, with skin as dark as onyx and eyes like liquid light, smiles. She has a calming effect on him, he notices. His monsters have stopped screaming for destruction, though they''re still walking up and down in his head. ''Perhaps. Many of them have access to supernatural resources or minions...'' ''I''ll slaughter them,'' Caleb says quietly. ''I''ll string them up by their guts and stack their corpses like cordwood. I can hurt them, hurt them until they forget death can take them, because I won''t let it.'' She looks saddened, though the man, a flamboyant smoker (her Chinese gigolo? He could be, despite the uniform...), chuckles, taking out his pipe. ''I say, he knows what he wants, Aya.'' She looks up at Caleb, schooling her expression. ''That he does, Ying.'' * * * Rose Palmer - she went by Rosa, back in the old country, though her last name there bore no resemblance to her current one- is terrified as he hunts her. Caleb only regrets that he can''t prolong the end and the dread before it for eternity, for his other duties pull him away. Her blue, blue eyes are wide and bloodshot as she sees her husband''s remains shamble across their bedroom, ripping the bed apart as they go. Caleb is only here in spirit, his body clashing with a self-made god of a warlock half a hemisphere away, but it is enough. The little witch has no cantrips left, no hexes, and nothing to kill herself with. Caleb has made sure there are no blades or ropes around, and he won''t let her bite her tongue off or ram her head into a wall. Her brown, wavy hair is in disarray, her white and blue dress tattered. She looks like the housewife she pretended to be, despite the blood staining her - most of her Connor''s. What is left of him has bled for so, so long, but it is not enough. There is a hole in Caleb''s heart he fears no amount of bigot blood will ever fill, should he spill an ocean of it. It was almost a clever plan, in its humility. Scurry off to the States like the she-rat she is, find a weak-willed, strong-bodied fool who shares her ideas, and breed a clutch of little monsters. But he stopped her before she could bring her spawn into the world, fouling it further. Sadly. Their marriage was something out of a fairytale: everything got done on time or earlier, there were no inconveniences, no fights, and so much luck, so many promotions...to think, all it took was some children''s souls, torn from their flesh well before they could decide what they wanted to be when they grew up. Caleb admits: he is puppeting the husband''s remains because it hurts and scares this little whore of Hitler''s. He could possess a wall and crush her, but where''s the joy in that? Let her fear. Let her tremble, as she feels a fraction of what she and her horde inflicted upon the world. ''You cut so many destinies short, Rosa,'' Caleb breathes through shattered teeth, forcing ruined lungs to work. ''And not just the coloured and the queers and the crippled - even those as pure as you dreamed of, just because they did not think the same...but they were useful, weren''t they? Rosa...'' he makes the abomination smile. ''I''m so sorry!'' He grabs her by the arms, pulling her shoulders out of her sockets as he lifts her. ''I''m so sorry you don''t have children to see you squirm!'' Rosa does not die quickly, or well. But every family she stole from receives a piece of her body, mouthless but mewling the apologies carved into their flesh. It is only after everyone has come to terms with the events that Caleb lets her die. * * * Paradoxically, his colleagues have stocked up on complaints right when he''s almost done killing the Nazis'' old guard. He''d laugh if their yapping wasn''t getting on his nerves. And to think it hasn''t been too long since he''s beaten Strauss bloody, to the delighted cackling of his monster. How could they stoke his temper so quickly? The Heads'' meeting has ended, as far as official matters are concerned, and Tamar is left with his peers stares, concerned but judgemental. Growling low in his throat, he slams his palms on top of his chair''s armrests, looking up at Aya, who happens (does she, really?) to sit across him. ''What?'' The mummy exchanges an uncomfortable look with the gryphon, but, despite Gilles'' boisterousness, she''s the one to speak. ''Cal,'' she begins gently, ''I understand it still hurts-'' ''Do you?'' he asks blandly. ''I didn''t see you with the other blacks in chains, Reem. Maybe I''m going senile, or stupid, but I don''t see how you understand.'' He sees Leon''s chest rise, and points at him. ''Don''t you start on with how you witnessed their evil because you fought against them.'' He stands up, slamming the table with one fist. ''Your goddamned country looked at you like mine looked at me! You just happened to get to hold a rifle!'' Gilles reels back, blinking, and Tamar glares at everyone else in turn. ''Efrat''s kid is leaving for Romania, and I don''t intend to sit here and be badgered by you lot instead of saying my goodbyes. I barely know Menachem, much less his wife - because, I must add, I''m busy doing what you''re about to condemn me for. You''re welcome,'' he adds bitingly. Amara''s voice betrays nothing as she responds. ''Tamar, you cannot get into fights with every hateful idiot you meet on the street. Threatening to come into their homes and break them if they do not broaden their horizons will only make them hate everyone different.'' ''Oh, look who''s found her voice!'' He flicks a hand at her. ''What''s wrong, Ami? Learned your crush is related to you and dried up? Wagging your tongue won''t get it back into her, by the way.'' ''That''s enough, Caleb,'' Ying says, voice gravelly, as he also stands up, eyes glowing through his shades. Next to him, Amara is giving Tamar a betrayed look, eyes glistening. ''You are not the kind of man to lash out at his friends for trying to help, and you...'' Ying slumps slightly. ''You cannot force people to think like you. Believe me.'' ''Oh, yes.'' Tamar laughs darkly. ''I guess you have time to think about everything, after you get exiled for being a murderous pervert.'' His eyes move to Gerald and Elga, seated close together. The ghost looks deeply uncomfortable. And, for all his anger, Tamar deflates, sitting back down. ''Please don''t be scared of me,'' he mutters awkwardly, not looking at the Head of External Affairs despite addressing her. ''I know what you went through, and there are women I hate far more - who never gave up on the poisoned lies you did - who I''d wince to see go through a fraction of that.'' Elga does not say anything, but her smile, though shaky, is genuine. Tamar still chuckles whenever he remembers the latest attempt to assassinate her. To think, they''d actually believed a Head would stand aside and let his colleague be killed because, why, he hates the woman she used to be? Not that Elga needed the help. It''s John who sets him off, and after he''s just calmed down, too. Propping a translucent elbow up on the table, the chained man says, ''Have you thought that your family''s leaving because they''re scared of how damn angry you get, mate?'' Not that the table is expensive - but Tamar still elects to jump over, rather than through it, to get at his peer. * * * Despite the endless hunger, despite the tireless voice urging her to rend and slaughter, Rivka Peretz is grateful for her ghoulish body, sometimes. No need to sleep, for one. She already sees her siblings whenever she closes her dead eyes - the nightmares used to be unbearable. She remembers holding little Omri with one arm, as if he were his namesake, Channah - big enough to walk, though younger than her big sister by several years - clutching her other hand. She remembers running behind the dumpster, dragging her wailing sister along on scraped knees, too tired to carry her, too. She no longer feels the breath of their pursuers that day on the back of her neck, but only because she no longer feels anything. And even the Iron Guard''s remains, as short-lived as they are pitiful wherever they form, can scar a young girl, in body and soul. She is hungry, so hungry. She puked and cried when they started chasing them, fumbling with their pistols. Where''d they get that, in Romania...? It doesn''t matter, now. They fired and missed, and fired and missed, but hit her enough times, hit all three of them. Why''s she the only one screaming? Her stomach feels full and burning, and looking down, Rivka can see smoking, ragged tears in her flesh. So why is she so hungry...? Her eyes linger on the stylised menorah on her hoodie, and she wishes for the breath to curse herself. Would they have known, otherwise? The munchkins did not look like the people those bastards had made themselves hate. Rivka''s twitching eye catch a glimpse of her murderers - for she''s dying, she''s sure - running away, their handguns tucked back into waistbands or down shirts. Surely it can''t end like this? She remembers the stories, passed down to her dad from his grandpa, and thinks she might have one chance to set things right. Her grin is skeletal and bloodied, more grimace than smile. She can barely feel her face enough to tell. ''Just...a lil''...'' she mumbles, reaching towards the crumpled form of her baby brother, pulling him closer until she can put her mouth to his tummy, like she does when she''s blowing raspberries. At the same time she bites down, she scratches a strip of skin off her little sister''s arm. She needs more flesh, she''s sure, and she can''t bear to hurt just one of them that that much. Better...this way. During her first meal after undeath - raw and screaming -, Rivka Peretz wonders why God didn''t claim her before she died, instead of letting her rise again as a corpse-woman. Later, when she can think straight, think enough to weep over two small, unmoving bodies, she also wonders if her feeding killed them, rather than the gunshot wounds. The thought would have made her retch, as a human, but ghouls do not give up on what they have consumed. And, for all her family reassurances that she''s not to blame, that she''s just a scared kid who sought a way to strike back against injustice...for all the years she''s spent with ARC, joining them more because their resources should have helped her discover the truth than because she wanted to help people - though that is why she has remained - she does not yet know the truth. Rivka rubs her eyes, exhaling. She has been unable to get tired in a long, long time, but she swears the letters on the report are starting to blend into each other. Scowling at the paper, Rivka looks up and, seeing the cross on the hallway wall, wonders why the Lamb, said to love all no matter their beliefs or realm of origin, did nothing that day. Maybe her great gramps is right, and he really was only a man. She usually tends to agree with Tamar anyway, but hearing about his kindness from so many of her agents and acquaintances has her curious, she supposed. Pushing the report away, she fishes out her phone, dialling one of her best friends. God knows he has enough things on his plate nowadays...but he knows people who just might be able to answer this question, if not tell her if she is a murderess. Half of the postcogs she''s asked disagree with the other half. She knows such matters of degree are prone to being interpreted subconsciously, but still... ''Hey, David,'' she says when he picks up, crossing her legs. ''Where did you say your dad''s hanging out nowadays?'' Sidestory; Keepers Past: First
I knew most supernaturals with this power would''ve scoffed at how thankful I was for being able to be in multiple places at once, but screw ''em; they''ve been doing it since mankind''s ancestors were bashing each other''s brains in over who''d stolen the last fruit. It was wonderful. No longer having to worry about spending too much time in one place and being absent for something else, no more being late (something that, despite my best efforts, occasionally plagued me from grade school to the day I became DEATH''s Keeper). All I had to keep in mind, now that I''d gotten the hang of it, was to remember not to speak through all my selves, or do or say something that had nothing to do with what one self was doing because I was focusing on another. Thankfully, the more I used this power, the more my mind expanded, adapting. I understood the temptation to grow, the lure of power that had kept Sofia''s lucid mind under the sway of her magic, back in Siberia. This ability let what you could''ve called my main self (without being too innacurate) talk to Arvhek, while another body arranged the trip to Heaven with Mia, pops, mom and Andrei, a third, wearing my ARC uniform, confronted illegal necromancers, and many, many more pursued their own missions a ross the breadth of creation. I allowed myself a smile. I was finally, finally helping as many people as I could, and they were talking about me, too. Yes, fame felt downright petty next to what the regency of creation entailed (and boy, did I feel like a fraud being appointed by the Mover instead of, at least, elected...); yes, infamy came right along with it. There were people saying I''d engineered all the bullshit I''ve been through to gain pity (ha!), others that it hadn''t actually been that bad, or that I wasn''t that scarred by the events. This second group counted among its ranks a number of bigots who didn''t think strigoi were really people. But it didn''t matter. As long as I could help people live and die and reach the afterlife with dignity, as long as I could defend existence from the threats beyond and be there for my girlfriend and my dad and the family I''d found, I''d be happy. And, one day, that family would grow. To be honest, I was orders of magnitude more confident about fighting the Mover forever than being a father, but that just said something about me, not about being a parent. If I could be half the father Constantin had been, was, for me, I''d be proud. Something long and silken passed over my knee, and I turned to see the hem of Arvhek''s cloak retract to its usual length, a wisp of a smirk briefly forming on my predecessor''s face, before it became featureless once more. ''Enjoying the perks?'' Arvhek asked. I shrugged, then stretched my arms overhead with a grin. ''Just appreciating what I have, Arv. The power to make things better.'' ''For the plebs.'' My smile faded. ''You really shouldn''t think of them that way.'' His head barely moved side to side inside his hood as we resumed walking through the blackness. ''It is my experience that, the more numerous the masses, the more childlike they are.'' ''Yeah, mobs are stupid,'' I agreed. ''That''s why it helps to make people think for themselves.'' ''Is it?'' he asked, sounding curious. ''Last time you thought for yourself, your macrocosm almost ended.'' I couldn''t be arsed to glare at him. Nothing I''d ever do would make up for that. ''Because I was selfish, I replied, moving closer to meet his gaze, eyeless though he was. ''Blinded by grief.'' So incensed by people close to me sufgering, I''d been easy to convince nothing really mattered in the Dream that had been. Solarex''s logic. Disgusting. Not a day passed without me thinking about how I''d imprisoned King Sun. Was what I''d planned (too strong a word, really; creation would''ve ended without me having to do anything) that much better than what he''d done out of lust and anger and pride? You could say his grief still burned, that he''d have snapped again, change of heart or not. That I should''ve imprisoned myself, too, or become a hermit. But, as much as it may grate, creation did need me, as did its counterparts. The Mover''s arcane moral compass meant that, while it had stopped another Maker from destroying its macrocosm, it might one day decide to let another Creator, or one of the vermin in the Ur-City, obliterate it and point at the result as proof people hadn''t focused on bettering themselves enough. Or it might take matters into its own hands, try to enact a far worse version of what LIFE had done before being sealed. And then I''d have to stop it. Looking at the man next to me, and I used that term loosely, I wasn''t sure I wanted Arvhek manning creation''s battlements. He''d almost done far worse than I''d had, and he''d been saner then. Arvhek snorted as our surroundings became what a human would''ve seen as a circular tunnel of stone the colour of ash. ''Oh? It was dark as coal when I did this. You certainly leave an impression, grey god.'' An image of a deity from another creation, eyes feverish and the straight razor that was his namesake in hand, flashed through my mind. ''It seems I do. So...'' I paused. ''Last time you did this?''This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. Arvhek inclined his chin. ''It is by no means a rule, but, at this point, it is practically a tradition. Five coincidences make a rite, I say.'' Take that statement back to Earth and watch everyone disagree? Tempting, tempting... ''What is? Former Keepers walking with their heirs?'' ''Aye. An initiation to mirror that done by DEATH.'' For an instant, he seemed nostalgic, then disgusted. ''I walked around mine, not with him, and the conversation doesn''t deserve the name, but these things happen.'' He raised a hand before I could open my mouth. ''We will get there. We cannot start with the third in line, can we? Besides, there is more to say about him than the first two Keepers - that''s what happens when you work out of sight and in silence - and I prefer to start with the easy things.'' One thing we had in commong, alongside dislikkng to start in the middle. Arvhek had, earlier, confessed to once following a series of war dramas that always started in medias res and explained how things had ended up like that through randomly-spaced flashbacks. It had been a guilty pleasure of his. ''Same here.'' Taking that as prompting, he went on. ''Army thing, you know. When I fought for the Empire under the Bloody, we slaughtered the children first. The elderly. The cripples, the ill.'' Nothing I hadn''t heard of, but my eyes still hardened. ''Did you, now?'' ''Psychological warfare was deemed less costly than the conventional alternative. The Marshal of Defence,'' he held a hand over where his heart had once been, ''had to keep such things in mind, when quashing dissent.'' ''I bet you did,'' I said, unable to keep myself from sounding cold. Arvhek did not respond until we reached the first niche, which extended into a wall as far as the main tunnel itself seemed to. When we stopped in front of it, he said, ''Do not judge too harshly, David. You have only read dry words, written by dry, dead men. I am not here to tell you stories, but the truth. You will learn much about me, too, when the time comes.'' I flashed him a fanged grin, flexing my claws. ''I can barely wait.'' ''I wager you do. But, as a friend of many who understand the time and place of necessity, know I did the best I could.'' I affected a sad moue. ''Is the poor war criminal asking for forgiveness?'' ''Architects of genocide do not ask for things they do not care about. One must know their desires well to go for something so irreversible.'' He folded his arms. ''Sadly, my displeasure at my duty never swayed the First Emperor. I was good at keeping the borders secure, the heartworlds stable and the metropole prosperous, and that was what mattered.'' Arvhek gestured at the figure in the niche, a monument to the First Keeper that could be directed to shed light on its inspiration''s nature. The being''s shape leaned towards the reptilian and the amphibian, with a long tail and limbs, scales over the vital areas and smooth grey skin covering the rest of the body. There was something of the fish too, with small, vestigial fins extending from the joints, and the tail''s end split for better swimming. Their head resembled that of a hammerhead shark, though their three eyes, glowing a soft blue, wre placed in a diagonal line. ''An Yvharn,'' Arvhek said, ''from the Scholar''s Midworld. No more of them to be found there.'' Sadly. The Yvharnii''s exuberance, their love of life and knowledge, had only been equalled by their dislike of violence - for even that, they could not hate. It had only been a matter of time until smaller, jealous powers had allied against them to tear down their works and plunder their corpses and ruins. The time that had passed since their exitinction was proof of how an universe''s timestream did not align with that of others, even if time flowed at the same rate within them. It also led one to ponder metaphysics: it was appropriate that, in a reality as hostile as Midworld, where almost everyone struggled to survive to the point they forgot about everything else, history advanced so slowly. ''Her name was One Who Observes the Flourishing and Wilting of Existence Under Her Broadened Gaze; not her hatching name, but the one she took as Keeper,'' Arvhek said. ''You will have read her mostly being referred to as Flourish in the records, for she was flamboyant.'' He sounded grudgingly approving. ''A kindred spirit, Marshal?'' ''Please, no rank. I''m retired.'' Arvhek indicated our surroundings with a gloved hand, the metaphorical cabbages he was tending to, like all old killers who had hung up their swords. There were some things to be compared between the Roman Empire and the Eternal one Arvhek had helped carve out, but some big names'' tendency to fade into obscurity had not been one of them for a long time. ''But yes,'' Arvhek allowed. ''I did appreciate shock and awe for much of my career - occupational hazard - and so did Flourish.'' I rested my back against the wall, looking up at the facsimile. Each of its six hands was opened in welcome, while its face was split by a hesitant smile. It held little of the warmth Flourish must''ve had in life. And there was something haunted in its eyes, something I doubted the Yvharn had ever showed for long. After all, in her last moments, she''d only had time to lament what had been lost for an instant. * * * ''I did accept,'' Flourish said at the reminder of her oath, frowning slightly. ''And I did "keep" you, as long as my might and wit enabled me. But I fear I cannot, any longer.'' SENTIMENTALISM, the sepulchral figure towering above her hissed, TO COMPOUND YOUR FAILURE. Flourish''s spine straightened, despite the looming Archetype''s glare. ''I have never shirked my duty.'' HAVE YOU NOT? ''TIS THE FIRST TIME I HEAR, DEATH replied acidly. CERTAINLY, YOUR SPECRACLES HAVE FRIGHTENED SOME COWARDS INTO PRESERVING THE SANCTITY OF LIFE, AT THE COST OF SCARRING THE SUBSTANCE OF CREATION...it slammed a skeletal hand against a corner, shaking DEATH Keep to the bottom of the Spiral Atrocious. BUT THOSE WOULD''VE LOST HEART SOON ENOUGH, ANYWAY. It spreads its arms, its stance and slim form reminiscent of a raptor opening its wings. AND WHILE YOU SIMPER ABOUT PEACE AND UNDERSTANDING, THE TRUE MONSTERS RAMPAGE ACROSS EXISTENCE! BUT YOU WILL NOT RAISE A CLAW AGAINST THEM, FOR "CONFLICT IS THE DEATH OF VIRTUE"! ''And it shall always remain so,'' Flourish said. ''If you will not let me use the powers of my office to preserve my people. I do not need them.'' Her hands tightened at her sides. ''I cannot let so much be lost! Release me, and may you find the attack dog you seek.'' SO MUCH, DEATH repeated disdainfully. ONE SPECIES FROM ONE UNIVERSE. HOW MANY TRILLIONS OF TRILLIONS HAVE DISAPPEARED BECAUSE OF YOUR GUTLESSNESS? DEATH''s hand encompassed the aether, the echoing crypt it had become. LOOK AT THEM! SENT TO A GODLESS ETERNITY BECAUSE THEY DID NOT EVEN GET THE CHANCE TO DEVELOP FAITHS! CRYING OUT IN MINDLESS TERROR, LOOKING FOR AN EXPLANATION, AND WHAT AM I TO EXPLAIN? Flourish closed her eyes tightly. Already, she could feel the coalition encircling the last remaining fleet of her people, in Midworld, but she would not weep. ''I return your boon,'' she said, ''and I will no more trouble you with my failures. In exchange, I would ask for one last thing.'' AND WHAT IS THAT? ''Preserve a part of me, the smallest part that can think and speak, so whatever poor fool you choose to serve you next knows what came before, and what duties await them. NOW YOU CARE ABOUT PRESERVING THE SOUL? DEATH laughed darkly. VERY WELL. VERY WELL, KEEPER MINE. RETURN HOME, EMPTY OF POWER AND FULL OF HOPE. TALK YOUR DESTROYERS INTO SURRENDERING. THIS WILL NOT BE THE END FOR YOU. The last Yvharn to die did not begrudge her people their choices, for she had made the same ones. She did not even begrudge them the moment some contemplated turning on her for not managing to return with power, pondered hurting a thinking being for the first time, before their better natures won. Flourish had no hatred for her killers, either, even as she faced them standing in a pool of molten flesh and slagged bone that had once been her wife and the daughters they''d taken in as if they''d been theirs. She pitied their greed, however. But that, like the Yvharnii''s other sentiments and words, was no defence. * * * ''Know, then,'' Arvhek said, voice bitter, ''the cost of not knowing when to strike back. Flourish was given to whimsy and crafting: she wrought beautiful things, she changed her body into many others - you will see her spoken about as if male, in some stories - to learn how others lived, but she was too gentle. The previous Keeper brought his hands together. ''I have killed many such folk. Was the moral victory worth it? When the scrap of spirit left of Flourish told the Second Keeper about how she''d lived in peace, was there joy in her voice?'' His shoulders drooped. ''That, I think, only she could say.'' His gaze was murderous as he looked at me. ''But I would have butchered those petty bastards to the last, virtue be damned. I wouldn''t have died a lamb.'' I mulled over his words, head lowered, as he looked away. The Scholar, when he''d learned of my plan and helped make it reality, had been almost ecstatic at the value of what helping the Mover remember itself and its past creations could accomplish. Like the Yvharnii, he sought knowledhe as well, thiugh he had never been one to shy away from doing harm. His life hadn''t let him be gentle. But, despite that...he''d stuck by his friends, his crew. His lover. He''d kept his mind together, when memory and sanity threatened to leave him. Despite so much seemingly encouraging him to give up hope and become an empty shell, or a monster. And he''d never, ever thought about letting everything be destroyed because the world was cruel to those he loved. It was funny. I''d never met anyone with greener eyes, nor him anyone more jealous... Sidestory; Keepers Past: Second
My brief consideration of the Scholar''s past and future paths came to a halt when Arvhek, not bothering to see if I was following, walked away from the niche housing the monument to Flourish, cloak swishing. I followed, shaking my head in equal parts amusement and irritation. You''d have thought the crotchety bastard was still all brass and duty, expecting people to go along. But then, you didn''t contemplate omnicide if other people''s opinions bothered you. I knew, even if, at my worst, I hadn''t dreamed of destruction a sliver as thorough as what he had brought upon the Ur-City. Granted, I hadn''t been aware of the things beyond my macrocosm, then...and I didn''t want to think if I''d have finished what Arvhek had started, if I had. Quickly catching up with the Lovelorn - a nickname I advise anyone weaker than me against using -, I said, ''You know you could undo it, Arv. Unmaking nothingness is a parlour trick for destroyers weaker than you''ve ever been after you saw nothing.'' He didn''t reply, or react save for a subtle tightening of his broad shoulders. I waited until we reached the next niche before I grasped his shoulder; I had this feeling he wouldn''t have appreciated being stopped in the middle of the walk. ''Your Empress could live again,'' I said, softening my voice, just in case I''d sounded too accusing or confrontational. ''You could bring her back.'' A sardonic laugh escaped him in reply. ''And lessen her lesson? I think not. I think not, my heir.'' Under his mask, I could see the outline of a smile like those sported by madmen when they managed to restrain themselves a hair short of biting your throat out, baring their teeth at the effort required. ''You think trying to make your peers happy will make the Mover lay off and not stop you from lifting the little people up? It won''t even if it worked. It cares little for me, that creature. You don''t love your a knife, however cleanly it cuts.'' Maybe it was how morose he sounded, or the fact I wanted to get this - whatever "this" was going to entail - over with, but I found myself not even wanting to crack a joke about Arv basically calling himself a tool. Before I could respond to his monologue, he said, ''You fret over your own beloved, Keeper. Leave Xialla''s memory to me.'' ''I''m just trying to help, man. You sound bittersweet whenever you talk about her-'' ''It took her going to her end to make me listen, give existence another chance. I''m sure she''d be relieved to learn history vindicated her...'' I chanced a smile. ''Exactly! Imagine how worried she must''ve been as she disappeared? This would be a chance to make things right.'' Arvhek clicked his tongue, leaning forward to rest one hand on the outermost tendril of the Second Keeper''s statue. ''I''ve learned a thing or two about disappointing the women I love. How to deal with the consequences was one of the first.'' He looked at me sidelong. ''How about this: I might decide to think about bringing Xia back, to tell her she was right. I doubt she''d be surprised, with how she won all our arguments, but maybe her heart would be lighter than when my mantle of power ushered her into oblivion.'' He closed his eyes, lowering his head slightly. ''It is not a worthless idea, I admit. Now, will you stop pestering me?'' ''I accept you apology,'' I said smugly, smirk only growing when he started grumbling about how I''d inherited Ned''s passion for being a matchmaking busybody. It''s not my fault, everyone. I see people as...as crates. I can''t help but ship them. And Arvhek had been the death of both his wives and his paramour, in one way or another. If what I''d read was even halfway to the truth, the old warhorse had the tendency to have happiness snatched away from him right when he thought there no longer was anyone or anything capable of such. I''d like to say I couldn''t relate, but I prefer to be honest when bragging. The statue was beautiful in the way certain abstract pieces sometimes were, when you could stop focusing on details enough to see the whole and notice patterns. Its tridimensional fraction would''ve appeared as an almost perfect tentacled sphere, two handfuls of tendrils pressed against the ground on either side, as if they were legs, while several more were raised. The creature was a pale, greyish blue - not uncommon colours, when it came to DEATH and its Keepers -, speckled with lighter circles across its core and the tips of its limbs, which almost glowed white when light passed over them. Even though this was only a faint echo of the Keeper who had been, I could still feel its love for those it had defended, and the dutifulness that had come with that. In fact, its whole aura reminded me of... ''Your Gardeners,'' Arvhek whispered, reaching up to grasp a tentacle gingerly between his hands. The statue shone, illuminated from within, in response. I caught a ghost of a smile dancing across my predecessor''s face, but it was gone as fast as the glow. ''They are always fascinated when they get to meet their uncommon ancestor.'' I quirked a brow at his phrasing, and he nodded, indulging my curiosity. ''Most of the beings who would become the Gardeners were not like this one. And yet, several of their thought-lines could trace their ancestry back to if, if they cared to.'' ''It was flesh. Deathless flesh, but still an organism. It was not wholly of the mind.'' ''Not even when DEATH lifted it up,'' Arvhek agreed. ''For its desires, though altered, still echoed those of its former life, and so many other lives.'' ''Heard it turned itself into a colony,'' I grunted, crossing my arms. ''Had people burrowing into its skin and organs, sheltering them in exchange for favours.'' ''It brought benefits, though I doubt most would agree with such an existence. Think of all the bacteriophobes scared of the little things inside them, which they can''t even feel. Now, imagine being able to sense both them and their thoughts.'' I laughed. ''You''re making it sound almost selfless.'' ''Not at all,'' Arvhek replied. ''It was no effort at all to house those smaller than itself. When you dwarf most intergalactic empires, it is easy to contain multitudes. And their gratefulness certainly sweetened the deal.'' The proto-Gardener had not been greedy, exactly. If one wanted to ascribe humanlike emotions to it, you could''ve said it''d craved appreciation. The Bountiful One (as Bounty went by formally, after its tenants named it so) had been able to feel every grateful thought of those it had shielded from the dangers of its long-gone universe: the terms of its deal, and the payment it had asked for in exchange for protection.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Many had accepted its offer, literally carving out new homes into the cosmic being''s innards, feeding upon its inner flora and fauna. Thankfulness had been its coin and its meal, and the arrangement had lasted until DEATH had come to the living ark with an offer of its own. Bounty had all but pounced upon the deal: now, it could feel everything across creation! It wasted no time in taking up the mantle of Keeper, a process during which it turned itself inside out to cast its inhabitants into the void. When DEATH had voiced its disapproval at the demise of decillions, Bounty had talked it down, saying it had put off the ends that would''ve been theirs if not for its generosity forages. The Idea of Endings had not fully agreed, but, with some grumbling, it had begun training Bounty. The Second Keeper''s records were rather sparse; I had the feeling DEATH was somewhat embarrassed about the glory hound it had hired, even if it had been competent at its job, which was more than you could say for most divas. Bounty had come up with a few ideas, too, I thought as I metaphorically jotted down the type exchange it had favoured. It was more palatable than some of the currencies I''d glimpsed in Earth''s futures, and I knew I could refine it. ''You don''t sound like you disagree,'' I pointed out. ''With Bounty''s methods? Or its results?'' He shrugged. ''My boy, I could not care less what the common folk worship. I''m no longer in the business of purging people for thinking wrong.'' For a moment, it was like a cloud hung over him. Then, he set his shoulders and stood up straight again. ''And it did decent work. I''d say better than Flourish, but almost anything is better than nothing, when it comes to Keeping life and death.'' From his bitter tone, the Lovelorn still hadn''t got over his irritation at the peaceful First Keeper. I wasn''t sure how I felt about it, myself. Ture, it was a damn shame that the Ylvharnii had let themselves be slaughter, but I''d almost let everyone die because I and a handful of those I loved had suffered. Could I put my selfishness over their fixation on cherishing life? Of course you can, fool, my strigoi side hissed, sounding something between affronted and exasperated. And you should. They all draw breath only thanks to us. We envisioned salvation. We rallied them. Everything there is, everything we could want, is ours, by right of conquest! I inwardly gave it that patient look I reserved for insistent idiots. My mirror was one of its favourite hangout spots. And? You''re saying like there''s something we want but aren''t taking. Before it could proclaim its privation, I went on. Mia loves us, and lets us love her. She has even agreed to build a family with us. I choked a little, briefly closing my eyes. Being the guardian of the magna-macrocosm was one thing, fatherhood quite another. I knew Mia was still scared of whether she''d make a good mom, but my love was just being silly. I knew how warm her heart was. I, meanwhile, was an impulsive bastard who tended to fly off the handle the instant someone I knew was in danger. Brooding fucks with a tendency to snap didn''t usually make for model dads, but I''d change. I''d do my best. To be honest...back in my human life, I hadn''t put much thought in romance, besides a few flings in college. I''d seen the drama too many couples got into and sneered, telling myself I''d have time for love after I made it big, if I still cared about it. I swear I used to be dumber than I remember every time I look back. I should''ve taken Mihai and Adriana as examples, or Lucian and Bianca, not the worst relationships. Just because Alex, who''d been so altruistic it hurt for as long as I''d known him, hadn''t wanted to "burden" a woman by growing close to her, I shouldn''t have, subconsciously, gone along. Not that I''d had much in my head, back then. My worse half wilted at my response, walking to stand beside me in our mindscape and laying a hand on my shoulder. I am, of course, beyond happy that our beloved lets us adore her. And we will care for our little ones, just as we have dedicated our existence to serving her. Its eyes gleamed wildly. But meekness will bring you nothing, David! You have heard my words. Still, you do not heed them. I''d heard them, all right. My instincts wanted to, essentially, get everyone in one spot and make them bend the knee, one way or another, before making them worship me like the Unbeings did - in addition to giving them the order to slaughter everyone who did not believe fervently enough. Which was, in my opinion, more proof that a strigoi''s instincts were the evil within their hearts, not their "more honest face". Whoever had come up with the nonsense that our angry, hateful moments represented who we "really" were needed to pay me a visit in DEATH Keep, so we could discuss psychology. As for my worse half...I was never going to let it have free reign. ''True enough,'' I agreed. ''But DEATH didn''t take long to grow displeased with it, too.'' Bounty had one day come up with the idea to, among other things, piece the minds of godless ghosts back together, not out of kindness, but so they could worship it, and it could feed on their joy. I could practically hear the pulsing of its throbbing body, grown fat and strong on psychic feed. DEATH might''ve let that slide, since it hadn''t really hurt anyone, even if the motive had been scummy. But then... ''You know,'' I said, unfolding my arms and resting my back against a wall, ''the balls on this guy were almost funny. Avoiding torturing those DEATH deemed wicked so they could thank it for its mercy? It had to have known it wouldn''t work.'' ''That would''ve been embarrassing enough,'' Arvhek chuckled in agreement, ''but the fact its Keeper brushed off several warnings and a mountain of advice did not help the old husk''s mood. But I''m unsurprised it wouldn''t write that down.'' I nodded. Bounty''s ego trip had only ended out of necessity: with DEATH stripping it of its powers, the proto-Gardener had been reduced to its a shadow of what it had grown accustomed to. Worse, actually. Even if people had been willing to live within it again (and no one was that gullible or that much of a thrill-seeker: they feared the Bountiful One would send them on a surprise spacewalk the instant it got something shiny dangled in its face), it had made plenty enemies in its tenure as Keeper, who were eagerly waiting for it to act up. Nowadays, the Bountiful One hung around the edges of the Multitude of Minds, begging for admission. But, while the alien alliance had several neighbours they protected in exchange for being allowed to sample their thoughts, not even Bounty''s descendants, the children of its fellows who had seen the births and deaths countless universes during their evolution, were charitable enough to welcome the telepathic leech into the fold. ''Say what you will about the Gardeners,'' Arvhek said, as if picking up on my line of thought, ''but they can at least put some steel into their spines when necessary. That it took so long for them to find unity of purpose was deplorable, but not as much as what was done by this...attention whore, I believe you call such people?'' ''Yeah,'' I agreed absently. Then, narrowing my eyes, I said, ''Hey. I was just thinking about the Gardeners, the Multitude. Did you guess...?'' ''I must''ve read your mind...'' Arvhek breathed, the fingers of one hand twisted into an arcane gesture. ''Telepathy jokes. Ha,'' I replied flatly, but my mind was already elsewhere. I''ve stepped in trash I had more sympathy for than Bounty, but...it had even been barred from going to the Deep Thinker, despite its insistence that it no longer wanted to live, and that it wasn''t strong enough to kill itself. Literally or in terms of willpower, it hadn''t said. The Multitude''s god in all but name was the result of their members'' minds forming a gestalt when they grew weary of existence. A few of their allies had been extended the privilege, after earning the telepaths'' respect. Over time, the psychic creation had grown more powerful than most Archetypes, being completely in sync with the Idea of itself as well. I wondered...had Bounty grown enough to accept fading into the Thinker, losing its sense of self save for when someone called for one of the wrought god''s departed components? If it was allowed to be part of the Thinker, for a moment, would it want to go back? Would it find peace? Arvhek took a step back from Bounty''s monument, letting his hand linger for an instant before retracting it with a sigh. ''Now, then,'' my predecessor said. ''I could not speak of the Third without speaking of the Empire we built.'' Sidestory: The Rise of Empire
Arvhek ''In the interest of knowledge, I must advise you to never go through a record produced earlier than the Second Age of my Empire,'' I told David Silva. My successor, who was leaning against a wall, hands in his pockets, would have been trying too hard to look insouciant even without the intense expression adorning his features. We were between "exhibits", the monuments to Keepers past, so I allowed myself to pace in front of him. Ah, to be a man again, when such descriptions were accurate, not mere analogies for cosmic actions...but it was too late for that, far too late. I was not entirely beyond nostalgia, however, for, as I marched back and forth, I felt as if I were once more briefing my troops, telling them why this splinter of mankind must be smothered or snuffed out. Inhumanity, for humanity. I will not pretend I didn''t enjoy some of the crackdowns, the purges...I had never bought into the Bloody''s insistence on what man became when left alone in the dark, but I had cleansed cultures that had passed beyond redemption, rehabilitation, or reintegration into the greater human community. When flesh was twisted past such a point that births as humans knew them could no longer occur, when every "life" brought into the world could only be described as spawned rather than newly born...the cleansing fires of the atom began looking merciful. Void, how long it had been since I had destroyed something deserving...but I had kept my promise to my love, and she had been more right than even her beautiful mind could''ve predicted. Starlight Crowned With Ivory wasn''t the only one to have been moved by the moment of unity. I looked at David, the features of my faceplate crinkling like flesh to form a smile. ''The official ones are garbage. You might be able to find one written by a dissident and preserved against all odds...it could prove enlightening.'' I''d burned nine out of ten such writers alive, alongside their materials, but the ones that got away? They honestly deserved passing their knowledge on. Granted, most of them, I''d spooked enough they''d needed ages before they could even speak around others, much less publish anything...I ought to send them something as recompense, I think. One of these days. The severed head of someone they hate? That always cheered me up. Ah, but I was reminiscing, as was the wont of old men. David was not here to hear my inner monologue, not that he was listening in on it. * * * The Eternal Empire was not born on a young, untouched world. At the time it rose, Old Earth was not simply called that because of deep time: like a dying creature, it had been emptied of almost everything useful, wounded by both time''s arrow and the malice of its enemies, not all of whom were offworlders. The twentieth millennium, as reckoned by a calendar whose true name and origin were no longer remembered, was the latest part of a post-apocalyptic age. The disasters that had begun twelve thousand years earlier had passed out of living memory and into legend, the devastation was winding down and the various worlds of man were, if not healing, at least no longer bleeding. That is not a metaphor. The living planets fashioned by the old galactic order''s favourites had been torn open in the war that had toppled mankind''s first galactic civilisation, and oceans of blood hot enough to make steam of steel filled the void between them and their neighbours. The Workers'' War had, in hindsight, been coming for centuries. But just because some people can take the long view, it does not mean they can''t willingly blind themselves at the same time. At first, the Confederation of Earth''s common folk rejoiced the invention of the thinking machines and the labour automatons - at first. It just seemed to make sense, this miracle long in the coming, for had leisure not always been the purpose of humanity? However much philosophers spoke of exchanging the sweat of one''s brow for the necessities of life, surely man did not live to work... Perhaps not. Perhaps, had the changes been implemented slower, civil war could''ve been averted. But that is sophistry, and we speak of history. With robots being able to delve into the most hazardous areas with no issue, and needing far less protection that their creators in the worst places, much off the Confederation''s workforce was able to return home, and make whatever they wanted of themselves. Not all knew what to do with so much free time, for they were simple sorts who had always had tasks to perform, before, but the synthetic servants they found themselves surrounded by were programmed to provide distraction and comfort. The Confederation''s roboticists hadn''t been as foolish as the Lhamshian Crownhold''s forebears as to bring their creations into the world unshackled. There is nothing wrong with wrought beings who can think for themselves - but if you forge them so you have something serve as tools, at least make sure they''re not smart enough to realise that, or resent you. These scientists avoided this pitfall, but could not escape the result of their research. First, they came for the workers... Accounting and mathematics followed. A common android, with a processor the size of a human brain, could focus on dozens of thoughts at once; with lightspeed processing, eidetic memory and sensors far keener than human senses, however, they seemed to be far more capable than any number-cruncher born of a womb. Soon enough, there was no need to keep financial details in mind, when a living calculator was all too happy to take care of them. The greatest of these artificial brains, nestled in mountainlike spires they occupied most of, could outperform the combined populations of their worlds at intellectual tasks by orders of magnitude: not even the teeming trillions of an ecumenopolis, should they have pooled their efforts, would have been more than a drop in the bucket to these thinking engines. The Confederation, a result of humanity''s desire to start anew after they had exhausted Old Earth''s bounty in pointless, petty wars and overly-ambitious grabs for wealth, had spread across Orion''s Arm over four thousand years, borne across space by generation ships. These sailors of the void, eager to make their names, or at least something of themselves, maybe even send back enough to bring Earth back from its living half-death, had sired children who did not anticipate what their creations would bring about. They came for the scientists next... Biology, chemistry, physics; it seemed there was no branch of knowledge the robots could not dominate, discovering more (and more often) than their fleshly predecessors. The invention of the wormhole and the matter-energy converter sped interstellar expansion up tremendously, with the first galactic society taking form in mere decades. When one could make the distance between any two points as nothing, or turn a kilo of gravel into wheat, water and any other substance, there was no planet too far-flung or hostile or deter human explorers. But this came at a cost, for the lives of many were upended. Many thinkers saw themselves put out to pasture, reduced to making appearances on curiosity programs where they spoke of the strides they used to make, before the machines took over. That was when the phrase was coined, you know. The machines taking over, not through warfare and bloodshed, but by performing any jobs that used to fall to humans. In a few generations, the only duties that really mattered - as these self-described disgraced scientists saw it, at least - were those of the roboticists: the menials who performed what maintenance self-repair protocols could not, the programmers and engineers who shaped the machines'' thinking and built the housings of those minds, and the overseers who directed the projects. I must take a moment here to say that what sparked the Workers'' War was not the result of some conniving cabal''s scheming. Most of the Machinists, as they came to be known despite their creations being automatic (for their detractors saw the robots as nothing more than puppets), were quiet souls who wanted a peaceful corner to tinker in. If the fruits of their labour could better society so that everyone was spared drudgery, well, where was the trouble? But they did not understand their fellows as well as their children of steel and lightning, or mayhap they would have stopped there. The Confederation had, for hundreds of generations, operated as a loose alliance, for their technology only allowed communicating and travelling as fast as light. Worlds were left to order their own affairs, though statelets formed within some star systems. The arrival of the machines made the galaxy smaller, and there was much talk of colonising the universe entire, or even peering beyond it, if there was anything there. Suddenly, everyone knew what everyone else was doing. A stronger constitution was drawn up and elections held across the length and breadth of the Milky Way. For the first time, mankind stood on the cusp of becoming a truly united polity. The suggestion of "aiding" voters, made innocently, if thoughtlessly, was the spark that lit the fire, ending a gilded, if not golden, age that had spanned centuries. For the first, but certainly not the last time, flesh was turned against metal. Democracy was not new to the confederation, though the form that was proposed was unheard of - but then, machines had never achieved such heights of perception before, either. Several notable Machinists had only started campaigning when a programmer, in the interest of ease, had proposed a more efficient process of choosing leaders. There was, he said, no need to waste time having people think about each candidate and debate their merits against those of their competitors. Wouldn''t it be simpler if voters simply described their vision of the ideal leader and let a machine calculate which of the candidates came closest to it? I have never been a man of science, even back when I was a man, but I imagine that, from a savant''s point of view, this advice seemed practical, if not friendly. In reality, it was the last piece of ammo needed for the shot that was heard ''round the galaxy. The programmer would later be found inside out, a pile of protoplasm-drenched flesh that looked vaguely human. Unable to die, and unable to kill itself, either, it could only scream, for all it had no mouth, in the hope someone would be vexed enough by its hellish cries to end it. Would it surprise you to learn this poor creature was among the last to die in the Workers'' War, David? ...Of course not. You''ve always had a sense of irony, my boy. Those the machines had pushed out of almost every research field had gone beyond the outskirts of their civilisation, under the pretense of coming to terms with to the new direction society had taken, and maybe discovering something, in the process. Ordinarily, robotic explorers would''ve been sent on such an endeavour, directed by their more advanced brethren, but the respect for these sages of yesteryear was enough that no one disagreed with letting them - as they saw it - lick their wounds. After all, it wasn''t like they were dangerous. If they could build things more powerful than those that now worked where man once had, they wouldn''t have ended like that in the first place, no? But it wasn''t silica and caged lightning they turned to. My universe was a late bloomer, when it came to paranormal powers among humans (not that there were other species around, save for those created by man, and of those, few lasted). At the time the Workers'' War was brewing, the most widespread human paranormals were minor psychics. Folk who could always have coins land how they wanted, guess cards right every time, that sort of trick. If not for the tests some of them willingly subjected themselves to, their feats could''ve been chalked up to luck. There were some such paranonormals scattered across the scientific expedition: bodyguards, prostitutes, cooks. Even a few of the researchers had developed various abilities, from instantly burning through calories to turning off their sense of pain. And there, in the darkness beyond the Milky Way''s edge, they bent their intellects to the task of breeding creatures that could topple those who had stolen their prestige. Through eugenics and genetic splicing, growth hormones and temporal acceleration fields, they brought into the galaxy a twisted host, numbering in the tens of trillions and bringing to mind mankind''s ancient nightmares, now reality. The Convention For The Confederation''s Restoration had few supporters, which disheartened them not at all. They had their monsters, and could always make more. If they though of the galaxy''s common folk at all, it was as raw materials and test subjects. The Machinists did not hesitate when their rivals revealed themselves; they updated and refitted their creations, turning them into engines of war, as vicious in war as they had been steadfast in peace. The Confederates, who had grown accustomed to peace and ease in their age of plenty, wanted none of this insane war, and barricaded themselves in their homes, now empty of the devices that had made their lives pleasant - no chassis could be spared from the war effort. Their resentment towards both factions only grew when the Machinists, losing ground against beings that could warp reality with a thought and twist spacetime like yarn, began disassembling their homes and possessions for resources, leaving them at the mercy of chance. Those who protested the most were placed into stasis fields, to await compensation following the war. The Machinists, honourable as their intentions and code of war were (for they had not imagined bending the human form so far. Indeed, sparing their fellows from the dangers of radiation and other bringers of mutation had been one of the driving forces behind their program), never got the chance to keep their promises. Had they survived, I''m sure they''d have regretted this. Do you know why we call it the Workers'' War, David? Not because the Convention portrayed themselves as honest labourers taking back jobs that had made their lives meaningful, before the machines had stolen them. Few took them seriously, even in their time. No, it is because of what they did to those who could not evacuate their homeworlds and the space stations they inhabited fast enough. Not out of necessity, but to sate their egos and snub those who had humbled them by breaking their toys. As the Convention saw it, most of the Confederation''s population consisted of greedy, materialistic sheep easily conquered with enough shiny trinkets. Had they been worth anything, they''d have opposed their silken enslavement and the marginalisation of their betters (you can guess who) both. But now, it was too late. The Machinists'' lockstep legions would encounter masses of glassy-eyed, dull-witted people on the worlds the Convention had passed over on their way to Old Earth, the restored heart of the Confederation and its network of thinking engines, which they hoped to tear out. These unspeaking mobs did not so much as glance as the chrome soldiers, even as they were questioned, too busy raising statues to whatever sorcerer-scientist had overcome them. The robots, their processors already overclocked from repeatedly purging errors with no apparent source, attempted to destroy the monuments, in the hope this would divert the traumatised humans'' attention, so they could get some answers; brain scans resulted only in scrap data that needed to be cleansed lest it impact a robot''s functions. Through trial and error, it was determined that the statues were to blame. Whatever they were transmitting was harmful to the thinking engines'' systems, to the point constructs that got too close to one, or lingered too much around it, went rogue and began attempting to destroy its companions. The war only escalated from there. To thwart a Convention plan centred around using the forcibly-aligned stars of the Perseus Arm in order to power a ritual that would remove the Machinists from history, the engine-makers destroyed it, unleashing a prototype device that barred the use of paranormal powers in its "blast radius". In response to the creation of the Severed Arm, the Convention struck the rich regions of the galactic core, to deprive their enemies of some of the resources needed to craft and maintain their machines. The forces they unshackled there turned the black hole at the galaxy''s heart into something far more baleful than a spacetime-bending pit of gravity, as later spacefarers would discover, to their dismay. All the while, the Confederates were caught between the clashing titans, scurrying from here to there lest they be crushed underfoot. Between being hunted for sacrifices and meat suits immaterial creatures could use, and seeing those conquered by the Convention being bombed to quarks alongside the statues they built just in case they were the building blocks of some dangerous working, they became embittered. Nobody won, in the end, but you could say everyone lost. The stockpiles of reserve weapons, living and otherwise, opened in the last days of the War haunted the galaxy for millennia. Stealers of skins, faces and thoughts, mechanical monsters caught in glitched madness who saw humanity as too dangerous to live due to their metaphysical potential...it is no wonder that the Milky Way of the 21st millennium was ripe to be exploited by the cunning. * * * The Earth of that age was a half-burnt rock, with those living in relatively peaceful areas still occasionally clashing with the Martians; an arcane focus shattered long ago atop Olympus Mons meant hydroponics and the other measures that allowed human life to bear the rigours of the once-again harsh world failed when such errors would cause the most despair. The Martian humans had developed a pessimistic culture as a result, raiding Old Earth for supplies during such occasions almost as often as they raided each other. Neyhus Othlan, the man who would become infamous as the First, Bloody Emperor of the galaxy, was not born in an impoverished area. One could go as far as to say the Near East dominated by his Clan was as close to a paradise as you could find on Old Earth. Powerful enough even the Martians preferred to trade, threaten and posture more often than steal, the holdings of Clan Othlan housed, among other wonders of ages past, a senile, half-mad thinking engine that, nevertheless, rarely failed to provide solutions to problems that stumped humans. This machine, half-mockingly, half-affectionately referred to as Grandfather Clockwork, spent most of its time mumbling to itself, but controlled facilities that could turn dirt into bread or regrow limbs and organs - arts the Othlan had lost. It was one of the reasons they tolerated its presence, the other being that they were unsure if they could successfully storm the mechanical mountain that housed its frame. More fortunate than those who married into the Clan, or were adopted by it if useful enough, Neyhus was born into the core Othlan family. He had everything an earthling of that age could''ve wanted; not all of them were born with a steel sword in hand and a railgun in the other, and Neyhus made great use of both to mow down the scavengers who often skulked around the edges of his parents'' holdings. Not that he had much love for them. But filial duty called, appearances needed to be kept and - and this, I believe, allowed the Bloody to smile when necessary - he loved spilling blood as much as anything, especially when it could be done without much a fight. And if one lost their nerves and started begging to be spared, Ney''s day was quickly brightened. Even in those days, he had that dark sort of charisma mad geniuses sometimes do, the kind that made you want to listen even if you disagreed with him or loathed his guts. His recruitment of the Crimson Chancellor was proof enough, though only the first step on the path to building his inner circle. He did begin looking into expanding his clique, at the time a gaggle of cousins and their lackeys. This clique of noble striplings idled away their days with such luxuries as Grandfather Clockwork could provide, though Othlan and some of his more martial relatives often joined his Clan''s enforcers in hunting down criminals or just commoners who did not show due respect to their masters, two things that were one and the same in Ney''s mind. Honestly, I was a spoiled princeling too, for the first part of my mortal life, but I knew beating your peasants for imagined slights brings riots more than anything before I could even write. I know what you are thinking, David. His parents must''ve been either uncaring or utter bastards to rear such a son. You would not be entirely wrong; he could''ve certainly used a firmer hand. But ill luck had struck Clan Othlan, and Ney was the only scion of the core family. His parents were loath to alienate their lone child, so they let him do as he wished, in the hope their indulgence would be repaid when he came into his own. I hardly need to explain that few people spoiled rotten in their youth develop that kind of mindset. When it comes to debts, they feel they are owed everything, not that they owe anyone else. I mean, look at me. If I''d been a little humbler, you might not have needed to fill my boots after I went mad and became unworthy to keep a garden, much less life and death. The Bloody''s father, Dhardyn Othlan, was yet to give up hope on siring another heir by the time Neyhus became of age. Though neither he nor his wife Marhaya was in a rush to tell their son, they did not trust the little madman not to run the Clan into the ground after they passed, and Clockwork was either unable or unwilling to halt or reverse aging. Unfortunately, Dhardyn was not the most virile man, so he and his spouse had to resort to surrogate fathers. Years before he knew what lovemaking was, Neyhus became used to seeing strange man after strange man walking the manor grounds and the mansion''s hallways, shadowing his mother, while his father skulked behind them, wringing his hands. As Neyhus grew older and understood what was happening, he began looking down on his parents. Not just for their desperation (who needed another child when a specimen of manhood like him was poised to take the reins?), but because of the process itself. Though Dhardyn and Mharaya were closemouthed on the matter, servants talked, especially with a sword at their throats or a gun to their heads. Now, Ney knew, intellectually, that his father didn''t watch his wife coupling with other men because it brought him pleasure, but because he feared the possibility of these gene donors upsetting or roughing up Mharaya. Dhardyn, a gentle soul who''d been looking forward to a life of art and philosophy, had found himself married to his cousin after a large number of Othlan men disappeared on a mission to discover if there were other places like their realm left on Earth. He''d never imagined he''d have to make choices like this. Their marriage was as happy as an arranged one between blood-kin could be, until their awful boy came along. Sometimes, I wonder if the Bloody noticed the irony when he outlawed incest as a source of abomination and worthlessness. Mharaya was a more dominant sort than her husband. Unlike many Othland womenfolk, both alive and from the family histories, she was fond of the sport of arms, and had used to fight off the raids of brigands from all over Old Earth in her youth. Even in her old age, she was a strong woman, in body and spirit, who brooked no nonsense. As stern to most as she was gentle to her husband. Neyhus, who had few better uses of his time than getting offended over things that didn''t affect him, did not appreciate this dynamic any more than he did Dhardyn''s "cuckold tendencies". During the middle of one of his hunts for dissidents, a word that fit a broad category of people when used by him, he hatched a plan to cleanse his lands of this perceived deviancy. A few years before his coup, Neyhus became acquainted with, and grew close to, a travelling peddler who went by Mhalvur Bramus. Thin but a strong, with leathery, wrinkled skin and a mane of grey hair that reached his shoulder, Bramus looked like the sort of older uncle who always had some whimsical story to tell his siblings'' children. But on the inside, the man was as venomous as the snakes of his homeland; a realm he refused to name, but from which he had been exiled for being a murderous thief. He had a passion, old Bramus, for keeping history alive. On ruined Old Earth, he was never short of relics to find and cherish, but, alas, he did not limit himself to old things scattered in the dust of ages. From family heirlooms and spoils of war to bought gewgaws and homegrown, unique plants, earthlings had so many things that deserved to be preserved, but languished in the hands of unskilled or uncaring owners - as Bramus saw it. As far as passions went, Neyhus was not too keen on a man collecting knickknacks instead of spending his time in the fighting yard or at the shooting range, but Bramus was decent in a scrap (having little alternative, when confronted by the outraged owners of what he sought, or by people he''d wronged in the past) and possessed many dangerous artefacts besides. Items of power that might even right the wrongs Neyhus saw himself as surrounded by, in the right circumstances. The Othlan heir was determined to bring such circumstances about himself. For a man so short-sighted and prone to tunnel vision, he had a knack for planning things stretching over vast spans of time. Chalk it up to aristocrats being full of contradictions. All his adult life (a short span of years, when he and Bramus enacted their plan), and for a large part of his boyhood, Neyhus had pestered his older relatives to try and tweak Clockwork''s production facilities, or preferably, the machine itself. Though the thinking engine never left Mount Ararat, for it hadn''t been built for that kind of ting, and even in its prime, it would''ve required extensive modification to become mobile, it was more than happy to allow human to visit its factories, or what passed for its personal chambers. When it decided to do business with the outside word, it sent or crafted robotic couriers, simple things with simpler commands burned into their processors. Some fell apart as soon as they made their deliveries, while others were built to last. Clockwork itself couldn''t have told you the criteria or building methods, any more than it could have told you its origins (though it, and many humans, theorised that it had been built to sustain a community of Machinists and those close to them, before the Workers'' War broke the galaxy and, perhaps, left the engine befuddled). It built other things, too, scouts and sentries to see those approaching its mountain and turn them away should they prove hostile. But the Othlan were old friends, close friends, who had lent their armies to the cause of Clockwork''s safety. Self-interest? Of course, David. Do you think people who balked at anything more complex than a calculator could truly love something this advanced, no matter how helpful it was? But Clockwork did not need to know that, as far as the Clan was concerned. Even if it would likely forget it shortly. As I age without end, I find it sadder and sadder, the way the young sometimes take advantage of their feeble elders. It does not become easier to watch just because an elder is clad in chrome, with a manmade star for a heart. It was customary, for the elites of the Othlan, to journey to Ararat yearly, both to make requests of Clockwork, if necessary, and to thank it for its service during the last turn of the world around its sun. On those occasions, the machine reminisced, as much as it could, and the Othlan sometimes found themselves pitying the hobbled but godlike creature. Dhardyn and Mharaya were surprised when their son insisted to accompany them on that year''s visit. They had not forgotten his complaints about the thinking engine''s inability or unwillingness to craft weapons of war to conquer Old Earth with. In truth, though the Othlan Clanholds were a powerful polity, they would''ve had little to gain from a world war, and much to lose. Their rivals might''ve been few and scattered across the planet''s scarred face, but they were there, nonetheless, and lesser nations would''ve pounced on the weakened victor of such a conflict in a heartbeat. Had Clockwork provided, say, terraforming devices? The Othlan might''ve gone for a slow conquest, by another name, offering to remake others'' lands in exchange for fealty. But it had not, so they did not. But they were content, or close enough, within the borders of their oasis realm, where they wanted for nothing but better heirs. Dhardyn, who was suspicious of his son, but unsure of his intentions, urged his wife to make Neyhus change his mind; the young man certainly wasn''t listening to him. Mharaya expected some inane attempt by Neyhus to turn Clockwork''s foundries into war factories, or some other nonsense, but she also saw a chance. If her son suffered some accident on the mountain''s slopes or in its tunnels, struck down by some hidden beast or malfunctioning mechanical guardian, they would have all the time in the world to get over the tragedy. And, if they failed to have another child, in the meantime, the Clan''s leadership would pass to whatever family their peers found the most competent. There would be scheming, assassinations, maybe civil war, but the Clan would not fall. It had weathered worse. Neyhus'' parents grew more wary when their son asked to have Bramus brought along. Mharaya saw him as an opportunistic kleptomaniac, which wasn''t far from the truth, while Dhardyn was appalled by the man''s insistence on hoarding art and knowledge, or sharing it with the highest bidders, instead of sharing it with the masses. * * * ''Do not fear,'' Neyhus told them, with a smile. ''My venerable friend wishes you no ill. Why, he wishes everyone well!'' He stepped aside, allowing Bramus to step forward, cradling what looked like a tablet of aluminium and crystal. Mhalvur''s expression was officious, his eyes warm and soft. The elder Othaln were not fooled for a heartbeat. '' ''Tis a teaching device,'' the travelling peddler explained. ''An auto-educator, I have heard it called. It can simplify even the most arcane concepts and procedures, or, if the owner so wishes, guide a layman through a process, after shaping itself into a harness to move their limbs.'' Machines that took over a human body, even in such a crude way, were going to be frowned upon at best, no matter how useful. It would take lifetimes before it was accepted, but... ''Do you intend to ask Grandfather Clockwork for...technical advice?'' Dhardyn asked, wondering where the old thief ad found such a thing. Clearly built to withstand sandstorms, and threaded with circuits like veins, it looked to be of Martian Make. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Maybe having caught his look, Bramus smiled disarmingly, hefting the tablet as if it were a child. Spoils of war. The ambush did not go my attackers'' way, sadly for them.'' And all decent folk alive, Dhardyn thought, inwardly rolling his eyes, but saying nothing. He was still waiting for an answer. ''In regards to your question - in a way.'' Mhalvur gave a mischievous, boyish shrug that he was far too old for, dark eyes gleaming. ''I believe that, once this repository of knowledge can be made to interface with the thinking engine, Clan Othlan will learn and be able to make everything Clockwork itself can, from new limbs and nourishing repasts to perpetual motion machines.'' Mharaya grunted. It sounded interesting, provided the bent backed little magpie didn''t steal Clockwork and run, somehow - she wouldn''t put it at all beyond Mhalvur. Moreover, what if his piece of Martian garbage didn''t work as intended and instead broke the mountainous machine? The Clan''s star would fall, and never rise again. But...Clockwork could be a prickly sort, however genial its manner. When pressed to change its function, or explain what it did not want to, it could viciously defend itself, as it had in ages past. Was it so unlikely that, feeling threatened by the contraption from the Red Planet, it would lash out through its sentries, and get rid of these two nuisances that still darkened her bedchamber, despite all the hints that it was time to leave? The Othlan matriarch could''ve laughed. What was she thinking? Neyhus was disliked, not to mention feared, enough that few would''ve batted an eye if she outright admitted to killing him, even within the Clan itself. Bramus was scarcely more liked, and only by those who did not know him in person. He kept looking down her blouse, not lustfully,, but in search of necklaces or other small pieces of jewellery that wouldn''t be missed, in case she had any in her cleavage. She rubbed her wrists, making sure her bracelets were still there, as she padded over to the window. The sun should''ve been rising, but the horizon was dark still. Turning back to look at her soon, she suppressed a scowl once again. Between the shoulder-length dark hair (had he started imitating the old goat?), pulled back by golden laurels, and the bangles and rings, he looked like a thuggish mystic, as likely to pick your pocket while reading your palm as to crack your head open. Ancestors...had she really raised this boy? Not for the first time, she wished she''d used a firmer hand with him, but those days ere past. The greying woman rolled her wide shoulders, saying, ''Just you two, then? Clockwork dislikes large crowds, says they make it feel trapped. Between us and the guards, we''ll be straining its hospitality as it is.'' Neyhus'' smile was all flawless teeth. She managed not to punch him in the mouth. ''I am sure that everyone who matters will fit in there there.'' Revered dead, he spoke like a theatre villain. This man was going to take over after she died? ''It is late enough, I think,'' she said briskly. ''We should raise a prayer to those who have left us behind, lest the engine, in its madness, smite us where we stand with its arms of ruin.'' Neyhus'' eyes, a strange colour somewhere between black and gold, hardened at that. She used to think his distaste towards worshipping their ancestors was merely boredom caused by the rituals, something many children suffered from. But it was something deeper than that, worse, she feared. What would he do with the cult, he wondered, once he stepped to the forefront of the Clan? ''This again, mother?'' he groaned more than asked. ''Not once in the history of our kindred have the dust piles you worship put their hands on the scales. If we are to die, we will die regardless of wasting time on our knees.'' ''Knock on wood,'' she replied tightly. ''Do not bait misfortune.'' Neyhus appeared to be on the verge of walking out of the room. Dhardyn, who''d been about to join her in prayer, looked torn, glancing between his wife and son as if he were at a paddle-ball match. Bramus, to his credit, didn''t try to make things worse, something that tended to follow him opening his mouth. ''Your mother is not wrong,'' Dhardyn added from the edge of the bed, flinching when Neyhus turned his glare on him. Unconvincingly clearing his throat, her love went on, ''T-Think about it, my boy.'' His grin was sickly, but bless him, he was trying to help. She''d always respected that, despite his weakness. He was a good man, one who''d never looked down on her love for war, or the scars that had brought. ''If the priests are right, the virtuous will be welcomed into an eternal paradise by their forefathers. If they are not, then there is no loss in living virtuously, is there?'' ''Keep your philosophies to yourself,'' Neyhus said dismissively. ''I have not prayed for years, and have I been struck down?'' ''Leave, then,'' Mharaya said, hoping she did not sound as tired as she felt. ''Your father and I have matters to attend to, after we observe the-'' ''Ah, yes.'' Neyhus cut her off with a nasty smirk. Not looking at Dhardyn, he said, ''You have another man coming to try and give me a half-sibling, don''t you, cuckold? Maybe if you had a cock instead of a paintbrush-'' Neyhus staggered back, holding a hand to his face. He tongued a couple loose teeth, tasting blood, and gave his mother a flat look. Crossing the room faster than he could react, not that he''d been expecting the punch, had taken more out of her than she was comfortable with giving, these days, and she was panting lightly, nostrils flaring. Her knuckles throbbed, and she thought one might have split. Then, his head whipped towards his father, and he spat, a spurt of blood only missing the older man''s lap by centimetres. Dhardyn scooted back, yelping, his spectacles almost falling off. Neyhus cackled like a hyena, sticking his hands in the pockets of his leather breeches. ''Afraid it will snap and fall off, eh? I wouldn''t worry about nothing, in your place.'' He was still laughing as he turned and left, Mhalvur following moments later, pulling up his brown hood, though not fast enough to hide his amusement. Mharaya, trying to shake off the memory of the venomous look her son had given her, looked at her husband with a calming smile. His breathing was still quick, though he was smoothing down his greying brown hair. It tended to stick up when he got scared, surprised or excited, something she''d discovered in the bedroom, to her great delight. ''Come on, darling. Forget him. I will make love to you tonight, I think, and we might call for a surrogate once you are spent, if there is still time.'' Dhardyn nodded distractedly, staring at the doorway. ''He hates me, Raya. He can''t stand the sight of me. If I were more-'' "You are enough," she said gently but firmly, pushing him down and climbing onto the bed. ''And a thousand times the man he will ever be.'' If nothing else, they made great use of their last day together. In the last moments of her life, before cursing her son for one more time, Mharaya wondered if praying, as she''d planned to, instead of giving in to passion and seeking comfort, would have helped her. * * * Neyhus sat on his haunches, letting his viblade shake itself clean as the vibrating weapon''s sensors noticed the conflict was over. It was a clever thing, the sword - cleverly-designed, that is, for Neyhus trusted no hunk of scrap that could think for itself: it could detect heat, motion, electricity, anything that would betray a concealed or invisible opponent. It could then reorient itself, "wielding" its holder, though it took training not to be tugged around by the shaking sword. To his pleasure, he''d delivered the last strike to his mother, ending the hateful one bitch with a slash that made mist of half her torso. To his regret, he hadn''t scored first blood...but this wasn''t a fair world. The fact he didn''t rule it was plenty proof. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bramus rummaging through the remains of the thinking engine, like a rat through garbage, or a vulture through carrion. The old man''s learning tablet had split into two, thinner mirrors of what he called its full version a while ago; one was held by Mhalvur himself, connected to Clockwork''s core through a cable covered in hooks and barbs and shining protrusions like lamprey mouths. Form following function, he supposed. The other tablet floated over the wreckage, held aloft by low-powered thrusters, recording everything of value. Together, Neyhus hoped, they could do what the humongous machine had achieved by itself. For Bramus'' sake, he did not entertain the thought of failure. It would be tiring to properly torment his old friend before giving him death, but he would, lest incompetence in this moment taint the memory of their friendship. Not that the scavenger needed to know that. Let him keep thinking Neyhus Othlan was a murderous dullard, same as his parents had. Let him start thinking he was pulling the strings, if he wanted. He wouldn''t get to enjoy it for long. Mhalvur paused in his muttering as a great slab of metal shifted above their heads, eyes flicking up. By chance, his gaze met Neyhus'', before lingering on his sword hand for a few moments. The Othlan heir - head, now, he reminded himself - buried his anger at the world once more. They did not live in a cosmos where a true man was given his due - yet. Letting his warrior''s bearing betray his rage would only delay the birth of his dream. ''After combat,'' Neyhus said, sitting up, ''it is not unheard of for a man''s flesh to quiver in the grip of the strength he did not get the chance to unleash.'' He smiled apologetically, showing his pity on Bramus, who''d only ever fought for survival, not for its own sake. The old man nodded, meeting Neyhus'' eyes once more. ''I am aware. I have been through it, myself, and have read that delayed fear and shock-'' ''Only those who water the field of battle with their vitae have the right to write of such things,'' the noble interrupted, ''and they would not speak of such illusions as fright. Snivelling men of letters overstep themselves. Pay them no mind.'' Bramus closed his mouth, gingerly stepping over the corpse of an Othlan household guard. His boot caught the edge of a blood puddle, making him stumble, but he caught himself. As if emboldened by the movement, the tablet in his hands let out a soft ping, calling its sibling back to it. Mhalvur smiled shakily and let go, the device''s cable retreating into itself as it floated up to rejoin its other half. ''It is almost done,'' he told Neyhus. ''Ordinarily, we would be finished by now, but such a great quantity of information would take time to be processed even without the corrupted data to sift through and remove.'' ''Fascinating,'' Neyhus said in a tone that indicated it was anything but. ''Is the damned thing going to fall onto our heads in the meantime?'' He did not fear danger, but being crushed like cowering vermin was not the end a man deserved. Bramus scratched the back of his head, before pulling his hood up. ''It shouldn''t. Small parts might break off, but the Machinists built to last. If Grandfather Clockwork is going to collapse, it is going to happen long after we are gone. Days, at the least maybe weeks.'' ''Will it take the mountain down with it?'' Mhalvur rubbed an elbow, as if it ached, and Neyhus wanted to spit. It was vile, how the body of a man betrayed him even if he knew his way around a fight. Aches with no source, sicknesses...such were the province of women, especially those bloated with the offspring of their betters. Better than to be bloated with delusion, Neyhus thought, stepping over what was left of Mharaya. The further they got from the purity of providing meals and pleasure, of raring children, the more dangerous they became, to themselves and to the men they mistook themselves for. Neyhus looked at his father''s body, and a laugh built up in his barrel chest. Things were just as awful when men thought themselves women, or worse, eunuchs or some other laughable abomination. He''d heard some even lusted for other men, or no one at all, or wished for womanly bodies because their own, perfect for making war and providing, were not to their liking. At least one such creature had been laid low today. The spray of toxic gases Clockwork had released from a hidden valve, in its confused panic, had left the sorry excuse for a man more than black and blue. Greens and yellows and more besides covered parts of the cadaver, as if it were one of the canvases Dhardyn had loved so much. Neyhus would''ve had him tarred and lit on fire, showcasing his ironic mind and wit, but one couldn''t have everything in an universe crawling with degenerates. At least none of the replacements the limp-shafted monkey had sought for himself had managed to get a child on Mharaya (not that the hag had found better luck in her searches), or thinking of him would''ve raised his choler again. There were few dearer feelings to a man than his wrath, but it had its time and place. Soon enough, in the span of a man unaltered by the twisting of genes or the addition of gears and pistons, he would bear his fury freely, and no one eaten from inside by decadence would be left to condemn him. ''It might,'' Bramus answered, pulling Neyhus away from his daydreams. The old man was rubbing his chin with two fingers as he glanced upwards, eyeing Clockwork''s shards with a dubious look. ''This one didn''t grow into the stone, like others of its kind might have - but it did hollow Ararat out, scooping out rock, carving tunnels...'' ''Of course,'' Neyhus scoffed, drawing the collector''s eyes to him. At Mhalvur''s surprised, questioning look (to his knowledge, the Othlan had never shown much interest in the history of thinking engines). ''It is only fitting that this vile contraption would eat way at all is solid and natural, and bursting with the earth''s bounty.'' Bramus turned peevish at this. ''Would it bother you to appreciate the keys to your kingdom? This thing...diminished as it was, was still a marvel. Would you mock a dead soldier while their corpse was still cooling?'' ''Ha!'' Neyhus barked, making Bramus put a hand on his hip; his other held the tablet as he waited for elaboration. ''Had it been able to give proper battle, mayhap, but this crazed scrapheap remains the tool it always was. Not even an honest tool, like a sword.'' The part about it being crazed was true enough, the historian supposed. Grandfather Clockwork had catalogued all of its visitors as friends, and when they had fallen upon each other, it had lost its composure: hidden weapons were revealed and fired haphazardly, while robotic guardians fell on whoever they could get their claws on. Neyhus had initially positioned himself behind his parents, ostensibly to show reverence and protect them from hidden killers if necessary, The two, who hadn''t bought it for a moment, shortly had him placed at the front of their party, with their household guards between them and their son. Mhalvur had also been strongly advised to stand beside Neyhus. Whether the then-heir of Clan Othlan had anticipated this, he''d definitely made good use of it. Dhardyn and Mharaya''s attention had slid off him during the battle: Neyhus had crossed swords with the head guard mid-talks, then they had been swarmed by the babbling Clockwork''s sentries. Neyhus had taken one down, after being dealt a wound, and had pretended to sob over Mhalvur''s supine form as the old man faked injury. Then his mother, an arm mangled and blood streaming down her chest, had come too close, seeing a chance to end the scourge of their line, and... Truthfully, Bramus had caught little of the swordfight. He''d sprung to his feet, before Clockwork, its shell unfolding, could make more war machines from itself or the mountain. The teaching device, ordinarily meant to freeze whatever software or hardware it pulled information from, had proven too invasive for the old machine, and had pushed it over the brink of existence, into wherever things like Clockwork faded when they could no longer sustain themselves. Mhalvur found himself ambivalent about the...murder. Euthanasia? A...life, something like one, a great life gone sickly in its twilight, had been ended by his hand. He regretted being unable to preserve Clockwork - how much could he have learned from it, about the world as the engine saw it? -, but who knew what it would''ve done in its insane grief? Even assuming it didn''t topple Ararat and raise an army from the rubble, it could''ve birthed a thousand other menaces. And if witnessing a coup had pushed it over the end, then, clearly, the Othlan''s golden goose, like their arrangement with it, was too fragile. A shame. Bramus sighed, weighing whether he should shelve the matter. ''Let us be off, in any case,'' he murmured, though with the cavern''s acoustics, he might as well have been shouting. ''Should my predictions prove wrong, we won''t make it even if we sprint, but it''s better to be safe than sorry.'' Neyhus shook his head, grinning, even as he swaggered over to the entrance. ''That''s the problem with you men of letters: you waste so much of your lives pushing pens, you forget what life is really like. What''s the point of worrying about things you can''t change? No.'' His eyes shone, the way they had when he''d revealed his plan to Mhalvur. ''Scurrying away like rats is not the solution here.'' After slowing down so the older man could catch up with him, he tapped the tablet with a thick, rough finger. ''This can make anything the machine knew, can''t it?'' ''It can teach people to make anything the engine knew,'' Bramus corrected. ''Why? Surely you aren''t intending to put it to work right here?'' Neyhus'' expression was boyish as he shrugged. ''Why not? If you are wrong, we''ll be crushed like insects, and that is no man''s death. I say we try our luck.'' Luck... ''What about the guards outside?'' Mhalvur asked, judging himself lucky they hadn''t come looking already. Had no sign of the struggle been perceivable from the mountainside, or were they still on their way? Maybe negotiations with Clockwork usually took longer than this, so they weren''t concerned? ''What, no longer sure the mountain is going to fall?'' Neyhus asked, voice lazy, eyes lidded. Bramus almost rolled his. ''Why do you not want to leave, anyway? What is left to do here? I have the data; they,'' he waved a hand at the corpse-strewn floor, ''are gone.'' Did he want to gloat? Of all the puerile...but then, how many warlord had he cozied up to who hadn''t been man-children, at their core? Neyhus put a heavy hand on Mhalvur''s round shoulder, and the collector nearly yelped, knees buckling. ''Let me tell you of what is to come, old friend...'' * * * The improvised power armour wasn''t the worst thing Bramus had walked into potential danger wearing, but that really said more about his lack of fortune than its quality. The teaching tablet''s harness form was a brilliant engineer and metalsmith...but it wasn''t magical, not like the artefacts of ages past that had torn the galaxy asunder. It could only work with what it had, not make something from nothing. So it was that he and Neyhus staggered out of the tunnel wearing the scavenged shells of Clockwork''s defenders; not truly power armour, if he was being honest, for they bore the weight of the exoskeletons instead of the suits supporting themselves. They did, could, enhance the wearer''s strength, true enough, but only by the crude means of rocket boosters placed almost haphazardly over the armour, to lend more power to a punch or a counterforce when lifting. The guards who''d stayed looked them up and down, skeptical. Neyhus lifted his visor, smiling through bloody teeth, and held up a hand as the guard commander began demanding an explanation. Neyhus obliged her, only to be met by growing disbelief as he regretfully described his parents'' death at the hands of a contraption that had finally given in to its madness. ''You expect me to believe the lord and lady died, just like that, in a place with no witnesses?'' the officer asked. ''In a battle you and the thief riding your coattails conveniently survived?'' ''My lord,'' Neyhus added softly, managing not to quiver in outrage. ''For I am nothing less than that now, woman.'' Her smile was bitter. ''My lord, everyone who knows you knows also of your disdain for those who brought you into the world and made you the man you are.'' ''You know so much of me, yet you believe I would lead them to their deaths at the hands of another, like a coward?'' the Clan head asked, sounding passably incredulous. ''Surely you jest. I do not scheme. When have I ever slain my enemies in any other way than while staring them in the eye, weapon in hand?'' Before the veteran warrioress could argue further, the mountain path they were on began cracking, shaking as it, and Ararat as a whole, began sinking towards the ground. For the first time since he''d put the ugly thing on, Bramus was grateful for the exoskeleton''s visor. He believed he had a good cards face, but betraying anything at this juncture would ensure his and Neyhus'' death, more likely than note. And while the end of an useful pawn was nothing to weep over, he did very much want to stay alive. The bomb Neyhus had convinced him to make - well, to program the tablet to make - had been a tricky thing to build on the spot: powerful enough to damage the mountain''s insides and prompt a slow collapse, but not so destructive as to bring the thing down on their heads in moments. Sure, the exoskeleton''s specs suggested they''d survive the rockfall, but Mhalvur had no interest in remaining buried under an avalanche until he died of thrist. ''And if the blast expands too slowly,'' the Clan head had said, ''Ararat has always been prone to such rumblings. Why, it''s likely what they passed the tin can''s destruction as.'' ''Landslide!'' Neyhus called out, his bass made booming by his suit''s speakers. ''Hold onto me!'' Leap made blurringly fast by the explosive power of his propellers, Neyhus seized as many Othlan troops as he could wrap his arm around, with the guard captain (perhaps to keep an eye on him, and a hand? It could give her a chance to kill him if her suspicions remained, provided she had a weapon powerful enough to overcome the armour...) wrapping hers around his neck. It was an awkward sight, no less than the one Bramus found himself dealing with heartbeats later, as he also fell into the role of the alert saviour. Though the exoskeletons made him and Neyhus many times faster than a man, the "slow" collapse was only such when compared to Greater Ararat''s size. If only Clockwork had been built into the smaller peak of the compound volcano...but there was no point carping about it now. They managed to avoid several falling boulders, the size of houses and greater, but right when they reached flat ground, and he and Neyhus threw their charges to safety as gently as they could, as they''d talked, the edge of the rockslide caught up to them. Minutes later, Bramus was being peeled out of his armour by warily grateful guards, not having to fake his groans of pain at all. He''d be purple as a plum for a while, he wagered, but that was better than death. Anything was. Slurring his words a mite, Mhalvur explained that, while the landslide itself was over, the disturbed environment would remain quite dangerous for the foreseeable future, so it would be better to return to the Othlan''s inner holdings. The guards nodded, rolling shoulders and stretching legs; their uniforms might''ve protected them from a landing that would''ve pasted unarmoured folk, but they were still shaky. Better than crushed or trapped under the fall of boulders, though, as several of them mumbled. Likely, they were unused to thanking him and Neyhus. The Othlan leader laughed roughly, telling his troops that this was nothing for a real soldier to worry about, that he and his faithful friend would be well in no time. Perhaps I underestimated him, Bramus thought. Perhaps there is some cunning buried under that petty viciousness. The story about Dhardyn and Mharaya''s deaths had been dog water (what else could Mhalvur have expected after having his suggestions ignored?), true, but the collapse plan, the armour, "sacrificing" themselves to get the soldiers to safety, thus being able to weave their plots and gain sympathy while convalescing...Neyhus might prove not to be stupid, in the end. Not so stupid, after all. And what end do you seek, boy? Bramus thought. Wealth, women, the power to do as you wish, kill where you want, when you want? Is what you have not enough? The last question was no condemnation; merely curiosity. Going against Neyhus would only gain him an enemy, if not a strangulation in their shared sickroom. Going along with him...all the treasures of the Milky Way, lost and known, would end up in his hands, where they belonged. Where he could keep them away from the ignorant and the uncaring, all who didn''t or couldn''t appreciate them. Months later, a recovering Neyhus stood at a window of his growing palace''s throne room, once the ancestral Othlan compound, gazing down at regiment after regiment of marching, power-armoured troopers with an almost fatherly smile. His troops. Not men, for there were also women within the ranks, along with what the newly-crowned Emperor of Ararat called other sorts: those mutated or altered, genetically, cybernetically or metaphysically, often because the bodies they''d been born with had been unaligned with their minds. Bramus had no quarrel with such folks - their queer minds often produced unique works - but he had no desire to try his Emperor''s patience either, friend and Chancellor or not. Neyhus, Mhalvur reflected, could''ve recovered in less than a day, after setting up the necessary facilities with the tablet''s guidance. But by remaining injured, he''d gained his people''s admiration for his fortitude and (Bramus could''ve laughed) honesty, in the sense he didn''t shy from admitting weakness. ''In the end,'' the Emperor said, seemingly to himself, though he knew Mhalvur was listening, ''we will be rid of them.'' Bramus nodded absently, chin in hand as he studied a map of the Sol System. He knew what Neyhus meant: as soon as Old Earth, Sol Three as he called it, fell under his sway, all deviants would be done away with. Save for the extraordinarily useful, no women would have a place left in the army, lest they become like his superstitious sow of a mother, while those who loved and lived improperly (the latter category consisting of those who mutilated the proper human form and mind, the former of those who reminded Neyhus of his mild-mannered father, even if they were not drawn to the opposite gender; Bramus was somewhat mystified by the correlation there, but Neyhus often, loudly and heatedly explained how a proper man laid with his woman, or women, and set the pace of lovemaking. The historian supposed the Emperor had grown to dislike anything that deviated from the bond between man and wife, or wives, after learning of his father''s tendencies to, ah, spectate) would have no place left in society at all, any more than the faithful did. Neyhus, who often derided religion as an outdated, hobbling practice that held humanity back, like a coat they''d outgrown, had no problem making use of its trappings. Every day, work crews raised monuments to the Bloody Emperor, so named for blazing across the lands between Ararat, the Atlas Mountains and the Himalayas (soon to be flattened and processed so he could expand his palace). Meanwhile, a service of watchers, trained to detect and culled those who thought wrongly, passed between their fellows hidden in plain sight, with bribes in one hand and threats in the other, depending on how one had failed the Emperor or rebelled against him - a category of actions as broad as those of people Neyhus loathed. The Bloody brought his hands together, turning to stride towards the table his regent was sitting at. His red cape fluttered as if it made its own wind, while his golden power armour caught the light and made of it a harsh radiance. A golden crown, tipped with crimson, held back Neyhus'' dark mane and proclaimed his mastery of his expanding Empire, one he was already sure would stand forever. ''What say you, Chancellor? What then?'' "Then" being wherever after the purge at Little Ararat was done. The memorial made of its larger sibling, for the sake of appearances, irked the Emperor, Bramus knew,, but success demanded sacrifices, and the monument to his parents and their soldiers was planned to be toppled during the mass executions, so he would endure. ''Mars,'' Mhalvur replied, placing a finger above the image of the Red Planet. ''With them behind us, the Jovian moons will follow, if only for plenty''s sake. The void knows the fractious bastards have never backed down from a war they''d lose.'' He huffed. ''I''ve heard legends of Neptune, too, my Emperor...but we have time.'' Time, he thought, they would need more of. Youth serums were good and all, as were shackled biokinetics, but Mhalvur wished, not for the first time, that bigoted little dullard he''d found himself allied with would be a bit more openminded about transhumanism, if the was already so hypocritical. He didn''t want to keep taking time out of his day for immortality checkups, and not only because they''d cut, he was sure, into the time he''d need to order the assassins to silence those who whispered of their Chancellor and Emperor''s unending vitality. Dead gods, the skulking bastards already had their hands full scouring the world for psychics and mages and whatever failed, useful experiments remained from the Workers'' War. "For only under the Eternal Empire''s yoke can their vile talents be put to good, proper use." Bramus wondered how many people did not care about the ideological contradictions as long as they got homes and meals and the little pleasures idiots needed to make it through the day. He scratched at the scruff of his beard. Likely, those who chafed under the mandatory service in the armies and the demands they keep track of suspicious acquaintances found reasons to complain there, too. They were lucky Old Earth was such a dump most of the chaff would do anything to be lifted up from the irradiated wastelands they''d been left in, since the last time the world broke. * * * AN: The next two parts of this arc are going to cover the (highlights of the) Eternal Empire''s First Age expansion and fall. This will tie in to the story of DEATH''s Third Keeper, which will cover the subsequent Ages alongside Arvhek''s. Sidestory: The March of Empire Arvhek My successor hovered in (what passed for) midair for here, cross-legged, a dark grey, leatherbound book in his lap. I recognised the pen he used, from back when it had been a Maker far too eager to force its hapless creations into stasis. Aware of the impermanence of its creation, which would come due to it lacking the knowledge of the Unmoved Mover, the Creator had raged, not at being unable to preserve the safety of its children, but at the thought that it was flawed enough its works might be undone, rather than stand forever as testament to its skill. Thus, the denizens of its macrocosm had found themselves unable to move or act, only to think, to contemplate the eternity their creator had intended to consign them to. Before it was itself trapped, and its creations taken to DEATH Keep, to be sheltered until a new home was found. As David wrote, the twisted, compressed Creator-thing shrieked, a sound too subtle for most inhabitants of most macrocosms, and dripped black ichor into pages as white as bone, more of which appeared when necessary, I knew. I appreciated the pause in my storytelling he''d offered, for facing one''s past rarely made it more palatable. Still, I could not let his feigned indifference pass without comment: we were too alike not to snipe at each other. ''I hope I haven''t bored you already, my boy.'' ''That line''s never worked on your son and it won''t work on me, Arv,'' he replied, not looking up. ''Lay off. It''s been over a month since I''ve updated this, in my world. If I don''t soon, disappointment-'' ''From the whole handful of readers who actually talk about your "Strigoi Soul"? Too much to bear for one man, I say.'' He gave me a look that was only mildly irritated; his more feral side was at bay, clearly. ''Disappointed will flood me, senior,'' he explained in an exaggeratedly tortured voice. ''It won''t take long, anyway.'' ''Don''t you say that every chapter?'' ''It takes me a while to get going, alright? Stop bullying me.'' ''No.'' The Fifth Keeper of DEATH sighed, closing the book after placing the tortured pen inside it. ''The Scholar''s just added another interlude chapter to his Tale, you know? He says it takes a while to convert his thoughts into something like a novel rather than a journal, but I can''t afford to fall behind.'' A lowing rose from between the pages of the book, forcing them apart, singed and steaming. With a sniff, David pushed them back together, silencing the sound and restoring the damage done by the trapped Maker. ''Need a stronger seal on this bastard. My optimism strikes once more.'' ''Broken clocks, and all that.'' David nodded, his features becoming more serious. ''I''ve been mulling over something for a while, Arvhek.'' ''Just one thing? Your brooding muscles have atrophied.'' ''You''re as annoying as me, you know? Anyway, you clearly have nothing better to do, so listen.'' He held up a hand, thumb, index and middle fingers together. ''It''d be awkward to bring this up to DEATH. Things between us are what they are, and I''m sure it would take any chance to prove it''s not redundant. It''s never had a Keeper stronger than itself.'' Indeed, I was empowered after I was..."fired" was too pedestrian, "defrocked" not quite right, for my duty had had fairly little to do with holiness, despite involving the handling of souls. And I knew how particular DEATH was about having things done its way, or not at all. It was why we''d seen eye to eye so well, as it now did with David. Sometimes. One did not take part in ordering existence without some stubbornness and need for control. ''The Mover''s a bystander, more often than not.'' There was a sour twist to David''s mouth. ''If it feels like I''m overreaching, it will stop me, like it does whenever I try to do something more meaningful than beating up monstrous freaks that want to burn everything down and dance in the ashes.'' I glanced downwards, so to speak, at David''s homeworld. On a mountain road in Bhutan, a child entered the world with her umbilical cord about the neck. I watched as, moved by the safeties my heir had placed for such events, the cord moved, and the newborn cried out, instead of embracin death before she''d been able to voice anything. Her parents clasped each other''s hands, and her little ones too, and moved to clean her, searching in the car they''d stopped when the contractions had started. ''I wouldn''t say that, friend,'' I remarked softly. David snorted. ''No more stillbirths. But who doesn''t have a right to live? That should be assured for everyone, like food and shelter. It''s not like I can keep children safe from everything after they''re born-'' ''David,'' I cut in, ''you don''t think this is meaningful?'' Eyes closed, he bowed his head, let out a breath. ''Of course it is. No parent wants dead newborns any more than I want their little, terrified ghosts filling the aether.'' As for the spectres of stillborn children past, David had assured me he was doing his best to make them comfortable, and see if anything could be done to assure mental growth, new bodies of flesh to experience the world, maybe adoption. ''Your every thought could destroy the magna-macrocosm, yet you keep yourself in check, and life goes on. You don''t think that is meani-'' ''Arvhek,'' David snapped, ''stop trying to make me feel better about myself. I''m not the kind of guy who stops hating his failures by thinking about his achievements. Alright? It makes me a pain in the neck to deal with, as do many other things. Still who I am.'' I met his eyes as they opened. ''A good man, I''d say.'' ''Good people don''t think about letting everything end, Arv.'' The nickname made it all sound more bitter, somehow. ''You should know. I wasn''t even selfish enough to want creation to go on for the sake of new experiences. Even bloody Hex was more invested in keeping existence going, and that pasty bastard has the emotional range of a brick.'' ''People don''t think about the world''s good when it hurts them,'' I reminded him gently. ''And the point is that you stopped wallowing in misery, and did well. And you''re doing well, better, every day.'' He let the words hang in the air, saying nothing. ''Besides,'' I continued, after a time, ''you don''t loathe everything about the Mover, do you? I''ve seen you praying to your god, ten thousand years from now, and it answering.'' ''You''d better be aching to gag on that stupid hood if you''re implying they''re one and the same.'' I raised both hands, smirking behind my faceplate. ''You were saying?'' ''The people who''d want to help, without my needing to ask, have their own things to deal with. Our creation is one thing, but all of them?'' He shook his head. ''I''ll look into it, but if they''re more focused on their responsibilities at home, they''ll only do halfhearted job out there. And that''s not worth it.'' I nodded, waiting for him to elaborate with folded arms. Never one to miss the chance of hearing his own voice, David indulged my unspoken request. (Now, do not mistake my phrasing for petty annoyance. David has faced enough manipulation and the threat of losing free will that doing anything he wants must feel pleasant. The man still loves to talk, though.) ''You''re so cagey about recruitment you''re barely talking about the matter itself,'' I noted. ''Of course,'' David replied morosely. ''The only people with both the inclination for magna-macrocosmic policing and nothing else to do are the most rabid fans I''ve ever had.'' There was something unpleasantly bewildered in his expression. ''Probably literally rabid. I need to take the Unbeings to a checkup one of these days.'' Not bothering to schedule that, for the moment, he got to his feet and began pacing, both hands before his back, at the beginning, then lifted one as he spoke. David claimed it made him look thoughtful and grave, and by no means like a crotchety old man. ''The problem is that too much hinges on people, not institutions. In my creation an others, and in the Ur-City itself. The Host and Warden are supposed to keep the peace by themselves, and they''ve managed so far, but how long until they make a mistake, or just fail?'' David met my eyes. ''Back in our macrocosm, everything almost ended whenever DEATH needed a new counterweight and enforcer. Because the Mover thought things worked like that, and its whim was law, dreaming or not. But it''s awake now.'' An image of a creature sporting all manner of limbs, stretching out from around a cluster of lidless eyes and a needle-fanged mouth, appeared above David''s hand. The illusory Unbeing writhed even without meaning to move, the eldritch substance that made up its form twisting of its own volition. ''DEATH''s Keeper? One person having to deal with the Idea of Destruction and every weapon it has sealed away, because the Mover once dreamed things so? It''s too damned irresponsible.'' ''Have you no faith in yourself, David? You''ve the power to defend your creation, and it''s not like organisations are foolproof. We are both aware of how institutional failings can endanger people just as much as personal flaws.'' David closed his hand, and the projection disappeared. ''This cowboy shit isn''t better, Arv. You want the truth? I''m not comfortable handling so much. It''s not that I feel overwhelmed - I''m glad I can help those in need and punish the deserving. Truly, I am. Maybe I''d be more sure of myself if I could help everywhere I''m needed, but that''s neither here nor there.'' Now with both hands splayed in front of him, a new projection hovered before David: the sprawlling collection of white and silver spires and domes that was the Ur-City, and at the heart of it all, and at the brink of the endless city both, the Pillared Palace only beings like us, and Starlight Crowned With Ivory could see, by power, and the stewards of the Ur-City, by necessity, endlessly weaker than the Palace''s inhabitants as they were. Where, once, a man who had lost everything had entered, and come out ready to bring eternal oblivion. If not for Xialla, I know I would have. I''m glad I did not, and I think she would be too, if she were around still. ''I''ve spoken with the Host and the Warden,'' David said. ''They agree with me in part, at least in the sense they know they''re not infallible.'' He dipped his head at the Palace, where, before my time, the Baron of Bedlam and the Mangler of Makers had been lured; where they had been locked in a bloody stalemate when I''d entered, and still were. For now. Creators were such versatile, protean beings. Was it any surprise their mutations, for lack of a better word, could lead to dramatic results when there was no reason or code of conduct to moderate their creativity? David''s voice held a note of frustration as he went on. ''Makers are so particular, when it comes to intent...so obsessive. They can''t Awaken, like the Mover, unless they receive a similar revelation as it did when it saw its creations working together. Trying to train them into waking up just results in obsessive drones that ape their teachers, and those aren''t even useful.'' I could only concur, on all points. Creators did have a tendency towards monomania. I think it came with how easily things they made could unravel if they did not think properly. As for trying to evolve them through rote and drills...that would''ve been too easy, no? Too reasonable a solution. The results of such programs were dead ends, imitations of the Host and Warden that sleepwalked through the motions of their betters - sleepwalkers themselves, as Makers went; only four of them had ever Awakened, to my knowledge, and two of them were described as Wrongly Woken when the two Silver Stewards saw fit to mention them, among themselves or in their sealed records. There was no point to these faux-Steward Makers. The Host and Warden could, individually, crush the infinity of Creators that dwelled in the Ur-City, even if they all "woke up" and united their forces against the two. That was the point of them; that, and defending their weaker brethren from the creatures of the Ur-City, which outmatched Makers the way Earth''s stronger animals did humans. The City of Creators had worse to offer than mischievous ur-mites like Ischyros. Far worse. ''You said you spoke with them,'' I prompted David. ''Only of this?'' ''No. We...'' * * * ''Ascension Academy?'' the Host''s smooth, velvety voice rolled across the gleaming halls it shared with its companion and counterpart. It held a hand over its smiling mouth, watching DEATH''s Keeper with lidded eyes. ''What is it this time, David? The acronym? Or the alliteration?'' ''Yes,'' David replied. ''I know you two think nothing about letting Makers wipe out their creations, intentionally or otherwise - but just because you think it helps with the Creators'' evolution, it does not mean people aren''t dying.'' He turned to the Warden. ''You stop them from messing with each others'' macrocosms, but it''s not about those living in them, is it? It''s about making sure the Makers'' squabbling doesn''t hold them back.'' ''Will you take us to task, Starlight''s regent?'' the Warden asked curiously, its solid, stolid form showing no sign of whatever it might''ve been thinking. The moment it finished speaking, the Host said, ''I do my best to keep their mindsets healthy - but meddling too much does not help. Micromanaging can be just as damning as inaction.'' David huffed. ''Don''t I know it? So, here is my proposal, knowing the Mover''s just going to watch the fireworks unless it''s feeling unusually proactive: a way to let the Makers run wild, and indulge their every impulse, without their creations needing to be swept under when they lose control. I will see that everyone gets what they need, both the Creators and the created.'' ''This could be counterproductive,'' the Host mused. ''When Makers can remember the creations they destroyed because their control slipped, they might feel the need to become better, lest it happen again.'' ''I''m not gambling with lives so that some overpowered toddlers can turn accidental genocide into motivation,'' David said firmly. The Host met his glare with a smile. ''Peace, David. I am playing devil''s advocate, and nothing more.'' ''Can''t stand him, by the way.'' ''I''m sure.'' It laughed. ''Your idea is not without merit. Being able to mingle with their creations, without fear of losing them when their attention slips...yes. Yes, I can see it. The exchange of ideas between Makers and the made might well help Creators reach Awakening.'' After all, that had been how the Mover had awoken, and, it was whispered that the First Monarch had experienced a similar process. ''And you two?'' David asked. ''We could, if we wanted,'' the Warden answered. ''We could Awaken, once out duties no longer need to be fulfilled.'' The two had become what they were because someone had needed to, in order to regulate Maker society. But their false Awakenings had only resulted in a sort of tunnel-visioned sleepwalking, for they could not let go of their roles. ''Self-perception, David,'' the Host added. ''You know how difficult it can be to let go of things that are no longer truly part of yourself.'' * * * ''I understand this...Maker training wheels program,'' I hedged. ''It would allow you to rest easy.'' In theory. If David couldn''t find a way to worry about and brood over something, I''d slit my own throat. ''But the other thing? These Keeper''s aides?'' ''Not the Keeper''s,'' he corrected. ''Mine.'' His eyes were intense as he looked down at the book in his lap, as if he''d already written the answers in then, but had forgot them. ''If I have my way, there will never be a sixth DEATH''s Keeper, or a need for one.'' ''You really hate this job, hm?'' ''Don''t get cute with me,'' he sneered. ''This is not about me, and it shouldn''t be. This is about getting everyone to work together, as they would have, in a kinder creation.'' ''The Creed Ascendant? They''re the first resource you were hoping to tap.'' ''Yes,'' he agreed. ''People will whine that I''m training my cultists as attack dogs, but if it''s just whining, I can deal with it.'' He sighed. ''And the Unbeings want to help. They already are, in their way. They''d jump at any chance to please me.'' ''Most people wouldn''t look so morose at having a retinue of superpowered yes-men trailing their steps.'' ''I''m not most people. The adoration just makes me cringe, more than I usually do when thinking about myself.'' He dragged his hands through his hair, down his face. ''But I''m trying to look on the bright side: I won''t have to always be on edge about them doing something stupid in my name if we''re working together. I''ll just be able to direct them as we go. Of course, the fanatics aren''t who I want for this.'' ''No?'' I asked, curious. He shook his head. ''There will be a process, to separate the drones from the thinkers. The average Unbeing wouldn''t blink if I ordered them to flay a baby alive and strangle the parents with the skin. They''d tell themselves, surely the Lord Keeper was irritated by that child''s shrieks, and the Lord Keeper''s peace of mind is more important than anything, for any of his thoughts could doom existence.'' ''Are you going to order them not to worship you?'' I asked, amused. ''The first time went about as well as such things go, historically.'' ''No need to tell them what to think. They''ve already had a schism, in their Creed''s infancy. The unbelievers drifted away, some into hibernation. I will find them.'' He clenched a fist. ''I will find those who doubt, among the faithful. They don''t need to be ordered: they just need to understand that I don''t matter, existence does. Ours and all the others, and the things beyond.'' ''Perhaps they will,'' I allowed. ''They are flexible, in mind and what passes for their bodies. And powerful enough, as far as made things go-'' ''Heh,'' David cut me off. ''You know what the Host told me, a while back? That our creation is the only one to have persisted for more than the equivalent of an instant. The only one not to have its name removed from the current leger and put in the metaphorical one.'' Ah, yes. ''Wellspring.'' David pointed at me, grinned. ''It does have a "recent" tendency to produce uncannily powerful bastards. You, me. The Mover, if you want to see it that way.'' And Starlight had picked it out as a source of growth, the heart of its project to gradually raise everyone to its level. It was a template, too, as macrocosms went. No doubt, the Makers who could take notes were doing so. ''Be that as it may...so, you train the Unbeings. Teach them to be rational, keep a level head, then send them to preserve life and death, and other creations beyond yours.'' I paused. ''As they are? You must know any sleeping Maker will think them out of existence in an instant.'' David wagged a finger. ''Who said I''m sending them unarmed? The Neverwere Vaults are filled to the brim with weapons, thinking and unthinking. Enough to keep the peace in Wellspring. I can empower them, too, as needed. Grasping such energies, they will find it easy to grow.'' He allowed himself a slight smile. ''And I think I know just the captain, for this order with their weapons forgotten by creation....though they might find themselves locked in a Warden-like role, for a while. Even if they can act outside that, they may well decide not to, too caught up in their duties. God knows I do.'' That he did. But there were far worse things to fall into than duty. Idleness, for one. Despair. Oblivion, and the craving to drag everything else into it. Time for some needling. ''Still, David. You''re lifting up so many people after making sure they don''t venerate you, empowering them...I''m sure you''ve already thought of them turning against you, but even if they do not, what will you have accomplished? You won''t even have won any glory to your name...'' ''Arvhek,'' David said flatly, ''you can''t possibly be this transparent.'' ''Alas, I am Nothing.'' I sketched a bow. ''But could I do aught else?'' When faced with the man who took his life because his scribblings weren''t appreciated enough by strangers, instead of looking to those close to him? David had the ego problems Keepers shared, though they didn''t always manifest the same way. Regardless, we''d all struggled to accept that what our beliefs weren''t the most important thing ever. ''You could,'' he suggested, ''stop trying to rile me up, and resume talking.'' ''I haven''t talked about the cultures I''ve slaughtered in a short while! Thank you for this chance, David!'' Deftly avoiding the book he threw at me - as it flew past, I saw a sketch of us two on the latest page; I looked far more like a morbid adolescent''s fantasy there than I actually did. When my outfit did sport spikes and blades, as my mood took me, those didn''t have spikes on them in turn. What would''ve been the point? - I began recounting the past of the Eternal Empire once more. * * * Some said the Red Planet had become so due to all the blood spilled on it across the ages. Looking across the Plains of Phobos, it would''ve been easy to see why the myth had taken root. Neyhus Othlan, Emperor of Earth and more, sat on a pile of corpses, cutting out the eyes of the one directly underneath him. Without glancing at his handiwork, he severed the neck with a slash of his viblade, before turning the head so he could begin carving and hollowing it out. He would need a new cup, and a bearer for it. The latter would be found; the former, he was taking care of himself. Neyhus'' long, dark hair was kept out of his eyes by a crown mirroring that on the outside of his helmet. Between its mechanisms and those inside his power armour, he would not be bothered by anything as trivial as an obscured line of sight, and forcefields were an elegant solution for showing his status while staying practical. Not that a warrior - a true man - was concerned with anything as foppish as elegance. But an emperor needed to remain majestic in every situation, and during negotiations, like the one he was about to begin (though, as far as the other side was concerned, they were going to beg), he preferred to show his face and the sign of his office at once. In such moments, an ambitious coward, like a sniper, could try to kill him, only to be thwarted by a skintight, invisible field of power. Many had tried to end him in such a manner, during the fight, but the Bloody''s armour had proven too tough. Neyhus'' lip curled at the thought. Such skulking wastes of air were only worth the dirt under their feet when bent to the task of removing deviants from society. Once he and his subordinates had finished analysing them, some might be recruited. The rest would lose what made them men, if only in aspect, and choke on it. And if some of the would-be killers were women...well. It wasn''t like they''d ever need to nurse a child again, or be able to have one, by the time he and his were done with them. The womanly mind was prone to fits of viciousness (though the results produced were invariably feeble, brought about by their inherent weakness), an illness only exacerbated when it was forced to confront its weakness. Neyhus'' almost shuddered to think how mankind had managed before him, without the proper balance between men and females, but he did not. He was no coward. A large man with a voice to match cleared his throat, making Neyhus glance his way as his helmet collapsed into his gorget. The Emperor of All Men met the gaze of the greatest warband leader on Mars, and held it with a smile. "Goldgut" Gryzhus, so-called because the wealthier he was, the wealthier he became (though it was more often said that he ate a mouthful of money and shat thrice the amount), was so tall most men, and even the looming, deviant females under his command, would''ve only reached the bottom of his chest. Though he lacked the defined musculature of a real warrior, his limbs and neck were thick with muscle, and gut hid similar strength. No jowls, either; instead, his lined, scarred face was dominated by a pair of eyes the colour of his dirty blond hair, which had barely begun greying, though Gryz was well into middle age. ''Othlan,'' the mercenary rumbled, ''beating us half to death still won''t make us work for free. Might as well go all the way.'' Neyhus laughed. ''Who told you you have a choice? You are strong - will be once the filth is purged, at least - and with strength comes duty. It will be your joy, nay, your privilege, to spread civilisation across the cosmos entire. Trust me.'' The general of Goldgut''s Gutters, a name he jokingly claimed was due to his troops tendency to take food from his mouth, sniffed, then raised a hand to stifle the resulting nosebleed. His nose, broken and reset many times over decades of fighting, had been shattered again. ''Sounded like a treat, that last part.'' ''It was a promise,'' Neyhus corrected coolly. In awe of his own calm, he almost shook his head. How he could bestride the universe without raising monuments to his greatness, he did not know. ''Let us be frank, general: you''re the biggest rat in this scrapyard of a planet.'' The Emperor raised a finger. ''You - the Martians, I mean - are a collection of disorganised, squabbling children. Even your company, Gryzhus, is plagued by almost every taint that can spring from the human form.'' Women who thought they could be warriors. Catamites and their female counterparts. Those who, inanely, thought they could and should switch genders through perverse alchemies, as well as the mad who claimed they were neither, or both, or that there were more than two. And to thing, this rabble was the most disciplined fighting force on Mars! There could be no clearer evidence that this place had missed the guiding hand of a true man, now that he thought about it. Nodding at his brilliance (a gesture Goldgut, bedazzled by his conqueror''s greatness, took as something related to what the Emperor had just said), Neyhus continued, ''Regrettably, my men and I have not managed to purge every deviant in your employ, though we targetted those whose signs of foulness were obvious.'' Men with armour shaped for the women they deliriously claimed they were, for instance. ''You will hand the rest over to us - I know you are aware of each and every one - and aid your fellow soldiers in an execution that, once we round them up, will be easy, though by no means fast.'' To his credit, Gryzhus did not fall to his knees, though it was obvious, by his shivering, that he was in awe of his new Emperor. Not that Neyhus could do anything but share his greatness with the universe. Such was his duty, and his privilege, as was the privilege of others to witness him. And he had such sights to show them... ''Such things to teach,'' he mused out loud, overcome by candour. Gryzhus looked at him in confusion, but Neyhus paid him no heed. The mercenary was a soldier, which the Bloody could respect, but a simple man, at heart. Only someone like the Emperor could both fight and rule without becoming a cowardly, grasping vulture or a raging, unthinking dog. Without his guidance, Neyhus could tell, Gryzhus would inevitably begin walking the path that would lead to the second fate. If he''d been a more pathetic sort of man, he''d have said the Gutters were blessed to have met him. But there were no such things as gods, no conspiring spirits to fill the universe with their plots. The universe was too vast and pitiless for such spawn of deluded minds to exist. Only the glory of Neyhus and his Empire could fill it and stand the test of time. Only eternity would suffice to properly display his virtues, of course. And to face eternity, a means to prolong life and cheat death would be needed. It would not do for the Emperor of all there was to end up as an old man, unable to even lift a sword. Not that such things would ever come to pass. He lived and breathed the denial of them; one needed only look at him to see that truth. Only weaklings with no will needed to prove such things. But first! First, he would have to ensure the loyalty of his newest lackeys, now that they had been dazzled by his greatness. No slaves, these, but oath-sworn warriors dedicated enough to follow their liege without such petty worries as payment or independence. Briefly, he entertained the thought of challenging some of the mercenaries'' best fighters to personal combat, so that he might establish dominance, not like a mindless dog might, but like an Emperor putting his subjects in their place. But he would have all the time to prove his supremacy on the field of battle with them under his command. Neyhus nodded at his wisdom, making his way to the towering leader of these defeated soldiers of fortune. Goldgut gave him an uncertain look, obviously unsure whether to kneel or fall down on all fours. Only a humble warrior-sage like him could withstand the temptation of encouraging such adulation, just like he had withstood the call of his bloodlust. ''Fear not,'' he said, reaching up to clap the man''s arm. ''You might not be contracted like common leg-breakers, as you used to be, but you will be paid as your worth dictates.'' Gryzhus looked surprised, but shrugged. ''Some decent stipends and we might not even loot,'' he joked gruffly, drawing a few coarse chuckles from his troops, as well as the women playing at war and the surviving deviants. Neyhus, astounding even himself, managed not to scowl at the implication of fighters needing to be paid to battle, just like he hid his distaste at the behaviour of those insults to martial glory. ''I am sure we can arrange something...'' * * * "Gryzhus, historians write nowadays, could not have been accused of disagreeing with Neyhus on many subjects, wages aside. Indeed, out of the Bloody''s Bastards, as we of the First Emperor''s inner circle were called, he and his sovereign were perhaps the closest in temperament and their view of gender roles (though some argue Neyhus wore down Goldgut''s indifference towards those who were not male over time; as someone who met both, I can tell you Goldgut was always more apathetic than sympathetic). It might be surprising, then, that the Marshall of Offence - which some of Gryzhus'' female acquaintances called him sardonically, not that he noticed - was the first to ally with Phramus Bhuran and Arvhek, the founders of our conspiracy to overthrow Othlan. Do not be surprised. His disapproval of Neyhus'' temporary - or so he planned it to be - departure from war would not have been enough to urge him to betray. Grzyhus, denser than a black hole as he was, could always recognise risks to himself, and he wanted to face his outraged peers even less than he wanted to turn his coat." -Extract from former Marshall of Intrigue Slipsight''s Meditations on Massacre * * * The Neptunian had no name he would''ve been proud to bear, so nameless he had made himself. Granted, the chance of anyone showing up to take a gander at the records he''d edited or destroyed was astronomical - most of his visitors only flirted with sentience, and clumsily -but it was always better to prepare needlessly than to be surprised. He was not proud of his most significant deed, either; but loneliness had overcome him, aloof as he liked to present himself, and he had given in to his weakness. The clone he had taken to seeing as his son, for the experiment had been tinged with sentiment from the onset, was a curious, exuberant boy, who wanted nothing more than to show his father how much he loved him. In clumsy, childlike ways, for he could do nothing more, he tried to thank the Neptunian, and each gesture fed the guilt. But it was irrational to pity himself, for no one had forced him, and he could not do away with the boy, besides. He could not abandon him, either; an orphan would not survive the ice giant''s conditions alone, much less the predators that prowled the cold reaches. Predators whose numbers he had grown. Accidentally, at that. Sometimes, he felt bad at being more embarrassed than angry at the results of those repeated failures. Cloning, a process that should''ve been simple, had been made a gamble by, he suspected, the lingering effects of some Machinist weapon, meant to prevent their Convention rivals from replenishing their numbers through alchemical (or other, more arcane) means. It was not the only obstacle placed in his way by long-dead warmongers. But his stubbornness was to blame as well, for he could''ve stopped after the first time, if not for how damned haunted he''d felt by the world around him, empty save for monsters. Damn his parents, too, for seeking refuge from the wars of inner Sol here. What was the point of fleeing Terra and Mars and Jupiter to come here, to this spacefarer''s nightmare, and have him? At least they''d only wasted away after he''d grown enough to take care of himself. Blaming the dead was irrational, too, he told himself. His first clone had been an apelike thing with a jutting brow and canines like tusks, which he still didn''t understand. Full of pity, he''d let the thing glide into the wild on stubby wings, after scaring it enough it wouldn''t return to his abode and laboratory. It still stalked him when he went on field flights. The following replicas had not been much better: variations of grotesqueness, each less human than the last. It was, the Neptunian thought, cosmic irony that the most successful clone made him the saddest, for the boy saw his father''s inner struggle, and it brought him to tears, made him think he couldn''t make the Neptunian happy enough. The silver-haired scientist ran a hand over his scalp as he returned to his floating home, wings retracting into his flight suit. The inner respirator was working, and his son - nameless as he was, and innocent as he could never be called - would be delighted to hear how smart his father was. He still hesitated at the door. The AI, which he''d programmed to regonsise his moods, did not open the door, despite scanning him. It could tell he was not prepared yet. No, the Neptunian was not proud. Not proud enough of his belated success to name his son, who''d soon start talking properly. Not honest enough to tell him he had siblings, misshapen creatures that loathed his father, and would eat him alive if they knew of him, driven by monstrous envy. Because the Neptunian, rational as he called himself, was a coward. At least he''d become sincere enough to admit that much to himself, if no one else. A man as insane as him (what else could he be called?) might''ve screamed his sins to the night sky, but he was, still, too proud of his self-control. The Neptunian stepped forward, only then noticing he''d been holding his breath. The respirator, which looked like a small leather mask when inactive, but able to grow and partially cover both lungs, poured through his skin and into his hands, leaving his chest tingling. He''d need to copy...it... The Neptunian froze, unpleasantly surprised for the first time in more than sixty years of life - his inner cynic had always been vindicated, previously. For in the middle of his living room, on the table where he and his boy put together puzzles and played board games, sat a smirking, vicious-looking man clad in red-rimmed, golden power armour, and in his lap sat the Neptunian''s boy, uneasy but kept there by the man''s hands on his small shoulders. The inventor''s hand flew to his raygun, but froze halfway when the warlord tightened his grip, and his child''s shoulders cracked, prompting a whimper. Lips trembling, he stared at his father with tears welling in his eyes. ''The one and only man of Neptune,'' said the Bloody Emperor who reigned over most of Sol. His smile widened. ''Such things you will make me...but, already, you have made me happy.'' ''What are you talking about?'' the Neptunian demanded. Was he quick enough on the draw? What had made him holster his weapon? The man laughed, a rich, deep sound. ''The instant you saw your son in danger, you wanted to fight! Now that''s what a man would do, even one plagued by intellectualism as you.'' Othlan lightened his grip, and the boy breathed in relief. ''My newest friend has told me such things, nameless one. He babbles, as children do, but I understood. Tell me, was your creation of a son intentional? Could you have made a female, or even some sexless thing?'' There was an almost feverish light in the Emperor''s eyes, and the Neptunian blinked. He couldn''t have broken into his house, held his son hostage, to ask something so insignificant. Who bloody cared about that? ''I could''ve, if I wanted. But the process I used recreates the identity of the original, to a degree, so I would''ve had to deliberately alter-'' ''How you wound me,'' Neyhus breathed, eyes wide. The Neptunian raised his hands; the larger man looked ready to fly into a rage, but over what? He''d answered truthfully. ''I praise you for being a fighting man, yet you fill my ears with the irrelevant details that are the love of scribes with no scions.'' He shook his head, almost snarling the next words. ''Why anyone would create a means to perpetuate such creatures, I cannot even begin to imagine. Every man knows that, if more females are needed, extant ones need only be bred with the intent for daughters. As for barren freaks with no use...'' his shoulders tightened, and he almost recoiled. The Neptunian let his hand drop. He did not know how much that armour augmented speed, but he dared not chance his son''s life on his gunplay. ''Be that as it may, why are you here? And might you let my child go?'' The Emperor''s chuckle was as loud as it was insincere. ''Because you''re scared of losing this thing you''ve made in the jar you spilled your seed into. Because it is said you send those who seek the fruits of your genius running, when they come to employ you in their wars. Such luck that our own sciences let me slip through your protections, hmm?'' The Neptunian cursed inwardly. And his home''s automated defences were designed so as to stay inactive if there was a chance he or his son might be caught in the crossfire. He''d need a verbal command to override that; he''d always though that, if some escaped experiment of his or a surviving disaster from the Workers'' War came close to his home, they would be long gone. His arrogance struck again. ''You want a weaponsmith,'' the Neptunian said coldly. Neyhus gestured at him as if in praise. ''Despite your cowardice, despite being awed by me for the first of many times, your intellect remains as incisive as it is described. You will create wonders with my hand on your leash.'' The Neptunian blinked. Was he...no, he knew sarcasm. Not people who could say such things and believe them, though. He was almost scared of what he''d find if he cracked this man''s skull open. Though he doubted such an occasion would come anytime soon. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The negotiation, if it could be called that, concluded quickly, for Neyhus saw such things as the yapping of those who were men only in form, too weak in mind and body to settle things with fist and sword. Even when he rose from the table, which creaked dangerously and showed cracks, he did not let go of the Neptunian''s son, distractedly running a hand over his head as one might with a dog. Behind him, the Neptunian heard the thunder of boots, and a squad of power-armoured men, their gear of the same make as their ruler''s, though less ornate, marched in. Clearly speaking over silent comms, the soldiers split up, two remaining to watch the scientist, one taking his son away and the rest, led by their sergeant, moving deeper into the house, with the air of looters. The Neptunian''s opinion quickly changed when the cacophony of crushed and thrown objects was replaced by a hiss, then the crackle of flame. He took half a step forward, but froze in place when he heard the humming of energy guns, raised and trained on his back. ''What is the meaning of this?'' he asked in a low voice as smoke began floating from his bedroom library. ''Why are you burning-'' The Emperor, who had been slouching against a corner one hand on a knee, met his eyes, and his smile made the inventor stop short. ''I am no man of letters, or science, to sully my mind with poisons that lure one away from war. Still, I wager I can guess the contents of that waste of space in your lair.'' The Neptunian''s temper was not quick, but it was slow to fade. Still, he reined it in; they had the only good soul he had brought into the cosmos. ''And what do you think...my Emperor?'' The words felt like swallowing bile, but he thought he must''ve hid his distaste, for Neyhus'' smug look did not waver one moment. ''You tinker with what there is, no? You do not make many new things. Such is the lot of those fated to skulk in their conquerors'' shadows. But I digress.'' The Bloody''s gaze turned flat, unamused. ''You''re a geneticist, when you don''t tinker with gears and cogs or dream about spacetime. Right now, my men,'' he pointed at the door, but indicated what lay beyond it, ''are rounding up your misbegotten attempts to replicate yourself. They will be put to good use, soon.'' Right now? If by now he meant over years, maybe, unless their sensors were far more refined than what the look of their armour indicated. ''Neptune is an ice giant, my emperor...'' ''Aye, and we would be looking for fleas in a blizzard unless we''re sharper than you''ve figured we are. Is that what you''re thinking?'' The Neptunian schooled his features before his eyes could widen enough to warrant mention. He might''ve spent most of his life alone, but he had mirrors, and he was a hunter by need. He knew how to control his body language and avoid giving anything off. So what had tipped the troglodyte off? ''If one were uncharitable, they might phrase it that way.'' The Emperor rested his chin on his fist, the elbow propped up on his thigh. ''I do not need armour-senses to read you. All my life, I have been looked down on by sneering, snivelling fools who thought they were clever because they knew many but trivial things. I can see the arrogance from a league off.'' The Neptunian refrained from laughing in his face. Yes, that figured. He could probably spot any form of arrogance, his own aside. ''I meant no insult, my Emperor.'' There was a lull in the discussion - taunting? -, and in the silence, Neyhus'' smile returned, and grew wider than before. ''If I may - what do you intend with my failed experiments?'' ''They will serve as the first stepping stone to the path that was always meant for you,'' the Bloody replied, utterly certain despite his relaxed tone. ''I know that little rat''s heart of yours didn''t let you slaughter them as the freaks deserved, but it does not matter, anymore. A true man has come to guide your hand, as your ilk needs to achieve anything worthwhile.'' Was this this new life? Getting talked down to by a neanderthal in a shiny tin can because the moron had convinced enough people like him to follow, so he had nothing to fear? He was already missing the isolation. ''You''re going to kill them. And make me watch?'' ''Watch as you overcome your weakness,'' Neyhus corrected. ''If you cannot - personally, I think you are too in touch with your inner woman -, your knowledge will be used, one way or another.'' ...Something didn''t track. Leaving aside how the Neptunian thought he wasn''t being threatened with interrogation, but something else entirely, earlier...say they had the best sensors in Sol; well for them. But how would they get anywhere "now"? They must''ve come by spaceship, an uncommonly stealthy one, but as far as the savant knew, all spaceships in the system used wormholes, and could only move nearly as fast as on their own. And no one took such priceless relics to go monster hunting. He told the Emperor as much, and received a nasty chuckle, which was echoed by the jackbooted thugs shadowing their master. ''Think you that we must cross the space between us, rather than bend it?'' Othlan then spun him a tale even harder to believe than anyone using a spaceship as a hunting vessel. Not the Eternal Empire''s ideals, for such petty hatreds were not uncommon among tyrants and their followers, but the means they would use to achieve them, and how they had come by them. Of course, the Neptunian rather doubted this "Grandfather Clockwork" had died weeping oily tears once it heard of Neyhus'' plans, leaving its technological bounty in his keeping. But he could buy the possibility of them having got their grubby paws on a database, if only because they looked too stupid to do more than bang rocks together without instructions. ''It would be an unique opportunity to work with your technicians, my Emperor,'' the Neptunian said, trying to sound cheerful. He wasn''t lying, at least. How many people had to deal with this sort of nonsense? ''But my son-'' Neyhus waved him off, spat on the floor. ''Bah. Childrearing is the point of females. The ones worth anything, at least, can care for their spawn once bred, and look after a man''s house too. Your creature will be taken care of.'' So, he wasn''t going to see the boy he hadn''t even named. Not if this bastard had his way. ''I would visit, if duty allows.'' Neyhus bared his teeth. ''If duty allows. So he might be reminded you and all your artifice failed to protect him?'' His broad shoulders rose, flexible pauldrons moving with them. ''By all means. Resenting you, fearing me, he might become someone worth moulding. You might even try to turn him against me, give me a reason to break his every bone whenever we cross paths.'' At the Neptunian''s expression, he winked. ''We have great healers.'' As if that was what he was about to protest. Days later, as he toured the weapon factories of Old Earth - Sol Three; void, there was being technical, then there was tastelessness - alongside the Imperial Regent, the Neptunian, about to turn a corner, stopped, one hand on the chromed wall, supporting him, the other cradling his head. Mhalvur Bramus stopped, the wide sleeves of his brown robe hiding his folded hands. The second most powerful man in the Empire went around in what you''d expect some benighted medieval world''s clerks to wear (something Mhalvur had implied was the result of the Bloody''s sense of aesthetics; "being the humble shadow of his glory" or some claptrap), though his distaste towards opulence seemed genuine, from the Neptunian''s conversations with the man. Oh, he cared about things. Fancied himself a collector, a historian. But it was all about the power they could give him, or failing that the sense of being the only person to have such things, than their value as seen by the unenlightened - Mhalvur''s own words. ''But do not tell Emperor Othlan that,'' the older man had advised in a reedy voice, ''for everyone knows only a man''s deeds in war have any real value.'' There was no irony apparent in his tone, but the Neptunian believed anyone with half a brain cell could tell he didn''t really care about that tinplated chimp''s martinet fantasies. Bramus, from what the Neptunian had gathered, was part of the Empire as a matter of expediency. As far as he knew, few in the Milky Way with the capacity to explore the whole galaxy had the desire to, and vice versa. The old goat fancied himself a realist, a pragmatist; in the Neptunian''s opinion, he was just a greedy coward who liked to make excuses. He understood the lure of knowledge, well enough. He was a genius, after all, and only smart people were able to admit they had more to learn. But the only reason he had not turned against these power-hungry, bloodthirsty fascist cretins was because they had his son. And, as long as the boy lived, he could not, in good conscience, kill himself. Doing so would only cement him as an useless coward in the child''s mind, and he doubted his boy needed any help after the fiasco at home. He had been told he''d get to see his son on birthdays, and the thought made the Neptunian''s blood run cold. Who knew what propaganda they were already drumming into his young head? ''Are you unwell?'' Bramus'' voice was thin, sharp, but not unpleasant. It put the Neptunian in mind of a stuffy but well-meaning professor. ''We can call the heale-'' The Neptunian held up a hand, cutting him off. A part of him was irritated by the Empire''s insistence on calling medics healers as if they were using psychic powers or some other paranormal means to mend people. In his opinion, it had to do with this warlord of yore mystique hogwash Neyhus'' shoved down everyone''s throats. ''No need,'' the Neptunian managed. ''I would not bother them, if I can avoid it.'' He''d rather get some terminal disease than go to those butchering sawbones. He had seen their works, and found them fell. No other word fit, he thought. The fruits of their diseased minds were too ghoulish to be called anything else. Do no harm? Ha. That ancient Terran was gone, along with almost every good thing to come out of mankind''s cradle. And it was like every shunned back alley quack with power fantasies, every mad doctor from cheap horror stories, had appeared and been given free reign; or else, maniacs who had held themselves in check due to their tribe or town''s customs were now able to cut loose. Hmph. What appropriate phrasing. At their Emperor''s direction, or with his tacit approval, they''d taken apart people and put them back together twisted, when they did not just leave them broken. In order to broaden his knowledge of biology, genegineering and cybernetics - their knowledge of alchemy was yet too limited to dabble in supernatural fleshcraft -, the Neptunian had been made to watch nightmarish operation after nightmarish operation. Some were relatively benign, as such things went, though he''d have decried them as monstrous just a week ago. Not that they weren''t; his faith in man was just dying with each moment. He''d seen soldiers go under the knife and be turned into beetle-eyed, slope-browed things that did not need to eat like their former selves, but could draw sustenance from their surroundings, or indeed, the sunlight that reached a planet they might be fighting on. Their bloodlust was artificially heightened, their fear and pain deadened by chemicals; their loyalty became slavish as their brains were tinkered with. Of course, Neyhus would''ve never admitted his warriors could be anything but fierce, fearless and obedient. The regulars didn''t undergo such treatments. But those who had been marked by their officers, during the Solar Wars the Neptunian understood were still raging, for disobedience, cowardice or incompetence were taken away, to be made better. They would be sent on suicide missions, the sort not even the most optimistic could expect to return from. Not that they cared about such things, anymore. Humanity, the Neptunian mused, was lucky that Neyhus bought into his own cult of personality enough that he refused to accept the thought of mass rebellions. A smarter dictator would''ve spread chemicals through water and air to ensure loyalty. It was a damned bleak thing, for that ape''s arrogance to be in any way positive, but fortunate. The failed troopers'' metamorphoses into hulking, grunting things had been appalling to watch, indeed, but far from the worst he''d been put through over the previous days. He''d seen those who passions aligned towards those of their own gender be corrected, as the phrasing went, so their deviance would no longer trouble the people, and their suffering might amuse them. The Neptunian would''ve said no one who found such things funny deserved amusement, but who''d have listened? Their urges hadn''t been removed, but they''d been muted, so they''d be unable to ever act on them, or to kill themselves if the despair that caused became too great. Whenever thoughts of either true gratification or suicide filled their minds, paralysing agony and irremovable despair followed, leaving them curled up on the floor, crying. Everyone who saw them knew the cause, for their bare flesh - no clothes allowed, anymore, for they were no longer considered necessary - was covered in vulgar insignia, featuring hideous caricatures cavorting. They way Neyhus and his followers saw them, before they''d been cleansed. Nowadays, they were made to fulfill the natural purpose they''d grotesquely defied: their genetic material was taken to grow new workers and troops in labs, but anyone whose fancy they struck could take them whenever and however they wished. Just a trip to the breeding pens that already dotted every Imperial world. It was rumoured that soldiers were sometimes sent to mockingly force themselves upon the men, and female criminals were likewise sent to the women, and that such punishment did not count as deviancy, for it was sanctioned by the Emperor, may he rule forever. This was all cruelty, as far as the Neptunian could tell. Genetic sample taking was much easier, less traumatising, and consumed far less time. But it didn''t hurt people. It didn''t feed the hatred of the jeering commoners, who, he was sure, secretly harboured the urges of the broken, or who had simply worked themselves into a fear, then disgust, then hatred at the sight or even knowledge of someone different. Those who did not feel like themselves in the bodies they''d been born with, or who saw themselves as neither men or women, had been put to use as well. Their procedure was similar to their companions in suffering, mentally, but physically, they were changed to have both sexes'' genitals, so they could breed and be bred at the same time. The Neptunian had heard discussions of how "the faggots and dykes act like they''re women or men anyway, why not give them what they''re missing?" followed by coarse laughter and cruder, crueller suggestions. It was, he was beginning to believe, all due to hatred. At the beginning, he''d expected greed, that most common driver of tinpot despots. But there was wealth on Old Earth - had been, even before its restoration, when it had still been ragged and scarred - enough to sate the appetites of any man, or an immortal''s for millennia. There was only so much even the most avaricious could experience at once. Then, he''d thought it was spite. Some insane grudge against spacers who''d come to Terra and slighted Neyhus. That couldn''t have been true, for the last meeting with even the closest systems'' inhabitants had occurred thousands of years ago. Indeed, he''d been told Neyhus had never dealt with someone from even Alpha Centauri. It was hatred. Loathing, of all that was not masculine and warlike, words that were synonyms in the Emperor''s mind. Everything else, the suffering his conquest of the galaxy would cause, or the things he would gain, was either a side effect or an incidental benefit. Mhalvur''s voice pulled him back to reality. ''It could be a consequence of the wine of wakefulness.'' The version of the drug they''d given him, still able to keep someone up for weeks, had been watered down so as not to cause addiction, which was - a testament to Imperial chemistry - the only negative effect of the substance. ''Mayhap the bouts of weakness are a side effect.'' No one says mayhap anymore, you shrivelled baboon. ''It might very well be.'' The Neptunian was not a good liar, but if Bramus saw through him, he made no mention of it. ''Shall we find somewhere to rest, then?'' ''Freak event,'' the Neptunian replied. ''I''m sure it won''t happen again. I am feeling quite energetic.'' The faster he indulged them, the faster he''d get some breathing room. They''d opened a wormhole to Neptune because the meta-maps needed for that had been in whatever database they''d plundered, but they could not get further than the Oort Cloud, in any reasonable timeframe at least, in STL ships. The Bloody believed that the Neptunian could rectify that, if he got a look at their amassed information. The scientist had never felt more demoralised by someone''s confidence on him. Not that he''d met many people. A dark look flashed across the Neptunian''s features, but he quickly adopted a pleasant, if bland expression. No need to make this harder than it had to be. ''Milord Regent, if I may. I understand that the Emperor and his warriors made their way to Neptune by wormhole-'' ''Indeed! And with you working on the generators, we will soon bestride the galaxy.'' The Neptunian would''ve slapped his teeth loose if he''d been able to. He might''ve had some anger issues, he reflected. ''And I will do so gladly. But I was meaning to say, I know they tracked me down by technological means. But how did they know there was anyone to track there? Not to be modest, but I''m hardly famous.'' Maybe one of the Bloody''s shackled paranormals? Bigots often made use of things they hated, especially when such offered alternatives better than "their" methods. And he meant what he''d said. His parents had made their way to Neptune because no one sane (or who wanted to do more than fight for survival) would enter that nest of monsters; broken Machinist inventions and runaway Convention experiments themed after the deep ocean and its contents roamed the ice giant. The few people who had come to him, on derelict starships, had, half the time, done so by chance: the result of some Jupiter-bound expedition whose commanders had overshot, overestimating their vessel and its instruments. The others had heard rumours of the Neptunian hermits, and come to seek their knowledge. Even if he hadn''t been secretive, the Neptunian hated guests. The way he''d vigourously chased them off had resulted in stories about a warlock-engineer who lived atop a tower of icy storm clouds, and who cursed anyone that entered his sight to suffer beyond mending. He wished. Magic sounded so much easier to use than what he had to do to defend himself and his secrets. Not that it had amounted to anything, in the end. Mhalvur''s explanation fell well within his expectations, something he could say about what passed for Imperial philosophy. "We want to hurt you and can, so we''re doing it." Dressed up in more pompous terms, of course. The warmongers had conquered enough to waste resources on wild goose chases (apparently some extinct Terran birds that were supposedly hard to catch, the Neptunian had been told) that might amount to nothing. Except there had been no waste, for their suspicions had been confirmed, and he''d been conscripted. Not into the Eternally Victorious And Peerlessly Glorious Army Of The Empire That Will Never Fall (which was the shortened version of the official name). He''d follow them along as necessary, and get some basic combat training, but they wanted a thinker, a tinkerer. Neyhus had implied the Neptunian might get away with much, if he "properly applied" himself. As if he were some skilled but lazy schoolboy in need of prompting. If this Empire''s people had a hundredth of a brain between them, they''d crown him Emperor and beg him to turn them into a functional society. But what could he expect from uneducated simpletons who''d never known anything but drudgery and fighting? When it came to matters that concerned all humans, intellectuals like him were useful, but labourers and brawlers were infinitely more common - in every sense of the word - and that settled matters. ''This tour,'' the Neptunian began, straightening, removing his hand from the wall, ''has been enlightening.'' Not really. But he knew where he''d work on Terra, at least. ''May I return to my quarters now?'' Terms like "apartments" and "rooms" stuck in his craw, and not just because they were untrue. He had all of one room, more of a broom closet, and not even a kitchen or bathroom of his own. He had to wash and relieve himself alongside the dogfaces, after eating the same tasteless, colourless *yet stinking - how''d they manage that?) slop as them, a process he had been assured fostered camaraderie. The Neptunian was an older man, though still fit, and not vain (for that was the province of those who overestimated themselves, and he was too smart for that), but he didn''t need some pea-brained jungle escapees to giggle at him and make childish jokes while he showered. Or making insufferable noises of fake pleasure while eating the same greasy slime he was practically force fed. The "good grey", aside from the shamelessly lying name, was bloody baffling. How come something feel like a chalk block while being swallowed and immediately race down his throat like filthy water the instant that was done? The sudden change of texture, unpleasantness the only constant, did not help. He was surprised he hadn''t retched yet, but he wouldn''t show weakness to Those buzzcut throwbacks. At least he''d managed to keep his hair the way he liked, just above his shoulders. He did not cut it, or shave, until his grey hair and beard got in the way. ''You may,'' Mhalvur answered. ''But be ready if you are called upon, always.'' While the Neptunian had no affection towards the grasping opportunist in front of him, he could admit Bramus was more tolerable than Othlan. The Bloody would''ve made him prostrate himself and lick his boots, all the while mewling about how generous his Emperor was to allow himself to be touched by an unworthy old man who wasn''t even a warrior. He''d already done so twice: once in a military base''s main training yard, once in a public square, to great amusement in both situations. The Neptunian had never thought he could hate one person, aside from himself, this much. But there would be a reckoning. Oh, there would be a reckoning. Even if it meant killing himself to hold them back, thus disappointing his son farther...but perhaps he would find likeminded souls, and stage a true rebellion. If he wore Bramus down, appealed to his cupidity, somehow, offered what the Emperor couldn''t... Was he overreaching? He had, before. He had thought he could make life, perfect children. The same children who''d hugged his legs, pleading shrilly, promising they would become whatever he wanted, as he chopped their heads off or put a bullet or energy beam through them. There had been so many of them. He''d almost forgot. How proud could one man be? ''I will be,'' the Neptunian replied, beginning to walk away. No side effect of their damned drug, his "weakness." Just his sins crawling on his back, weighing him down. Just- [A blubbery face, the features exaggerated as if pushed out by some sickness under the bones. Skin like slate, in both texture and colour. And three misshapen hands, one small and useless for carrying anything, clutching at his shins. ''Don''t do it, father!'' Tears and snot and other fluids running down a moon-like face. ''You can have my body! To experiment on, or recycle for m-material, or for yourse-'' He''d ended it there, with a bullet to the brain. Mercy aside, his own discomfort with the malformed clone''s begging aside, he could not afford afford for his new people to think of him as someone who consorted with mutated deviants.] -his sins. Oh, yes. He knew very well, how proud one man could be. And this Neyhus made him seem humble. * * * Arvhek of Arcadia had, many times, been accused of being a spoiled, idle princeling, unable to do anything but abuse the fortune he had been handed thanks to an accident of birth. Hmm? Am I arrogant enough to talk about myself in third person? Hah. Well, am I, David? Think you I am proud of the man I once was - a man so different I can only speak of him as I would of an almost-stranger? All illusions I have ever laid over my eyes have been torn away, along with everything else. I am of Naught, and so, I have Nothing. No inflated view of my self-importance; the knowledge of the fact that I do matter is something else entirely. Peons, whose achievements are only known by their kin and neighbours, rage at such facts; they are offended at being forced to face their own insignificance, so they decry the successful as freaks, and braggarts if they do speak of their accomplishments. ...Is what I would''ve said, once. The pettiness of man and his counterparts is still there, and will be until something drastic occurs. But I know better than to think the little people are useless, now. I have witnessed them in peril. I have seen you, and the thought-reading alien and the little witch go to them with warnings of doom, gathering more and more support with every pass. Oh, most of them were driven by self-preservation, or interest, or fear, or greed, not kindness; but worse people would not have gone along. This showed me my love was right, as she so often was, and so my Empress'' last wish was fulfilled. I was not much of a man to her, or my wife, when it mattered, but I stayed my hand, now. I did not smother everyone''s future in the crib, as I would have done if your overtures had been met with disbelief and apathy. Let us leave aside the awakening of the Mover which the moment of unity prompted. A cynic might then say their only value is that which I, a more powerful being, assign to them. I will not hear of such. There are some acts that are good, and some that are vile, and all the sophistry and philosophising in existence will not change that. And such deeds matter, however small in scale they might be. Something needn''t be monumental to be important. I wish I...we, had understood earlier. Yes, David. You too; not just my old compatriots. But you''ve grown as a man, have you not? That matters, too. It might be easy to overlook, for the eternal and powerful, but even meagre achievements matter to those who accomplish them, and those who know them, at least for a while. You shouldn''t gloss over an improvement just because it doesn''t shake existence. ...What was that? I''m stalling because I''m uncomfortable with talking about my sins? Perish the thought, David. I have written an autobiography, you know? Yes, because I did not trust OTHERS to describe me properly. What if they made me sound better than I am? As I was saying... * * * Arvhek of Arcadia''s plans to while away the days in luxury had been torn apart by something quite literally out of his world. The idyllic world of Arcadia, named after that pastoral paradise from Old Earth''s legends, had been terraformed after the Workers'' War. A relative handful of refugees, mere billions fleeing the galactic conflagration, had picked one of the least likely planets to be sought by either of the warring factions: a wasteland of a globe, with no real resources to speak of. Knowing human lives were a resource in of themselves, in that war, the refugees used the best of their technologies to veil their new world and its system. This did leave them with a paltry military, but since they''d never have to fight anyone - for who could find them? -, they were not worried. We, my ancestors, should have been. But we closed our eyes and told ourselves nothing wrong would or could ever happen, until it did. Delusions. Awful things I am happy to have done away with. For millennia, Arcadia was as peaceful a world as any populated by humans can be: not completely, but pleasant enough. Even with all the accords and treaties between global powers that prohibited outright war, lest we draw unwanted attention from outside, there was conflict. But it was limited to organised crime and short-lived terrorism, at its worst, and our peacekeepers were always able to protect the population at large. The leaders of Arcadia''s first settlers became the roots of my family tree. As the most capable members of the expedition, they were capable of producing matter-energy convertors and using them to transmute parts of our world into useful substances. A planetary wormhole network, another fruit of their minds, assured instant travel and communications. To power the first generation of convertors and wormhole projectors, we harnessed our star by the means of a Dyson swarm, which we called a sun net. The satellites were dismantled after we had enough projectors to reach into other places, other times, for energy. But such endeavours were limited, compared to what others might have attempted in our place. We drew just enough to ensure everyone could live comfortably, but no more, just in case the energy could somehow be senses. Eventually, it was. Oh, how the mighty gnashed their teeth and wailed, when the Emperor came for us! How they wished we''d died in the wasteland Arcadia began as. Others muttered that we should''ve become hunters-gatherers, living in primitive ignorance behind our veil, but it was too late for second thoughts. Neyhus had a knack for causing such situations. And appalling people. Somehow, he never got the hint. In any case...the Bloody burned through several of his shackled clairvoyants before they were able to spot our veil, and even then, it was happenstance: they were scanning the galaxy at large for anything unusual and potentially useful, and found a gap where there should''ve been none. Alas, my forebears had not counted paranormals among their numbers. They''d had little experience with the transmundane, so they had been unable to raise defences against it. But seeing a disguise is one thing, and ripping it away quite another. The Bloody, hateful as he was, was too smart to leave his armies toothless on the metaphysical front. He was, also, cunning enough to understand the symbolism that so often guides paranormal powers. So, when he had the Neptunian make a "revealer machine" (a name Nept later told me he found stupid), a larger, more powerful version of the devices used to spot mines and other hidden traps, he had as many clairvoyant mages and psychics as he was willing to part with strapped to it. The warhead on missile, as it were. "You will all die today," he told them, "but that''s a sacrifice I am willing to make." The moment was later immortalised, with the resulting portrait depicting Neyhus grimly and stoically giving up the mutated wretches he, in his boundless kindness, he had given a purpose in life. Imagine my surprise. The revealer, shaped roughly like a wheeled drill with rocket boosters strapped to it, melted half of itself and killed its "crew" as it tore away our veil. The contraption crashed into a park, flattening most of it and splattering hundreds of people under its slagged mass. The Eternal Empire would later present this incident as a sign of inherent imperial superiority: their inventions, even when not intended for such, still cleansed the cosmos of the decadent and feeble. Now, the Empire of the First Age had parks. They were not an alien concept. But they were mainly areas cleared of trees, where workers hale enough not to require shelter slept. Soldiers also used them as training areas, and any menial deemed disrespectful, or thought to be loitering, or just suspicious could find themselves the target of an impromptu shooting contest. You''d think the Bloody would''ve realised his martinet society could not go on like this forever. Eventually, the underclass would either rise up or kill themselves out of despair or spite, and then who would be left to torment? After all, Neyhus, while consistently hypocritical, could be quite perplexing when it came to "allowed deviations": he refused to create enough automatons for drudgework, despite quite happily conscripting supernaturals. If you''d asked him, he''d probably have said something about how those beneath valorous warriors were fortunate to get to serve their betters. That was one of the reasons for why our rebellion gained traction so quickly. Soldiers sent into factories for "conduct unbefitting a true man" wanted robot slaves, like their ancestors had possessed. It sounds stupid, I know, for Neyhus to have denied them this when he allowed his army so much else. But this is the same man who effectively enforced rape because he was disgusted by the thought of men pleasuring themselves: a man''s pleasure ought to come from glorious battle, not from a man (even if that man was actually the same person, giving himself a hand). And if a warrior was lily-livered enough that he hungered for women, he ought to go and take one. Who was going to stop him? Her? In a way, the women plagued by this had it almost as bad as those in the breeding camps. Those, if nothing else, had got used to a routine. The "free" ones, however? They never knew when a soldier bearing the Emperor''s authority could show up, wanting to satisfy himself. It was a wretched thing, this Empire we built, David. The horror we delivered unto the outsiders we slaughtered was no lesser than that that stretched behind us. One could not even speak of the end justifying the means, for we did not improve the lot of many, and often made their lives worse. Not that this stopped the propagandists from trying to justify it. Yes, justifications only matter to the just. But you must remember, David: they had to keep pretending they were, to the people and to themselves. They, of all, perhaps needed that reassurance most. Given how most folded at the sight of what I was going to hurt them with, when the Cold cleaned house, I am quite confident in that assessment. But that time was centuries away yet, for I had not even been conscripted into the Empire''s war machine. I had never concerned myself with the possibility of leading anything more glamorous than a group of drunkards, for I was far from the first in line. House Arcadia''s main family was quite fertile, and I had grown up with several younger brothers and sisters, as well as two older ones. Out of that dozen, I was perhaps the least inclined towards or capable of statesmanship, entirely due to laziness. I had never loved the sword or the gun, the pulpit or the factory, as my kin did. I wanted to coast through life, and many of a similar temperament were irritated when faced with my admission of the fact. I didn''t lie about seeking myself or any such excuse. I just wanted to rip the benefits of my bloodline. My older brother, Arhold, began being prepared for kingship as soon as he showed the aptitude. The child in me thinks that happened when the nosy, officious bastard began dragging me out of bed and to my lessons, having never heard of sleeping in. I''d do anything to see him again, and not just because I need to return the favour of the manhandling. Arhold was so irritatingly successful, I spent half of my adolescence looking for evidence of him having been genetically engineered to resemble the stereotypical fairytale princeling. Alas, none was there to be found. The ox succeeded through merit, and that was no small reason for my wanting to forget about the world through drinks and powders. My brother enjoyed sports, hunting, sparring - anything that pushed his body to the limit. He was not the most learned man around, but he could read people, and surrounded himself with those he knew surpassed him in one field of knowledge or another. Knowing when he was outmatched, he thanked them for their advice, because he couldn''t have been jealous, could''ve he? Spite and envy are matters for younger brothers. For all the preparations, Arhold knew well he was never going to have absolute power over Arcadia. He was also aware of being the darling of the Crownsmoot, the planetary assembly that gathered whenever the most powerful and capable Arcadians needed to take decisions that would impact everyone. My older brother was meant to embody that harmony, to mediate disputes between the members of our world''s ruling council. For the few years he held that office, he managed it well enough. Then the Empire came, and my brother went to war. Most of the world rallied around him, some silently thankful that their favourite had been offered a chance to truly prove his mettle. With heavy heart, Arhold asked every able-bodied Arcadian to enlist; even if they could only help with logistics, he promised, it would matter. ''I know you''re scared, Arv,'' he told me in the early days of the war, putting a hand on my shoulder. From the corner of my eyes, I could see the Imperial infiltrators who had attempted to sabotage the global wormhole network point by point being taken away, those who still lived killed with a quick round between the eyes. ''But we can beat them. We will, and everything will be back to the way it was before.'' My brother was taller than me by nearly a head, blond like our mother, and though we both had inherited our father''s dark brown eyes, I also had his dark hair and beard, which somehow always looked scruffy next to Arhold''s. ''How can you be so sure?'' I demanded in a whisper, hands clasped together so they wouldn''t shake. The battle had happened close enough to our family seat that I had been able to heat the screams, the sizzling of flesh cooked by plasma bolts, even if I''d been too scared to request an image of the fight from our computers - the windows had been entirely out of the question. ''Don''t you remember this is why we hid in the first place? Outsiders, Arhy! And not roving monsters or madmen escaped from some laboratory-prison, but an empire! They...t-they-'' Worthless as I was then, my greatest fears were that these harsh, warlike conquerors would not be willing to let me continue my lifestyle, while a part of me more spiteful than cowardly quietly hoped they would humble my golden boy of a brother. I gulped to steady myself, though my voice still cracked as I spoke. ''You''re here to conscript me, aren''t you?'' I accused, slapping his hand away. ''You know I-'' ''Arv, no one sane would push you into war,'' he replied softly, stepping back, hands raised in a calming gesture. ''You are not in the best shape, brother, and the substances you can''t do without aren''t the sort of things one can take on campaign. You think I want to add another corpse to the family crypt?'' Frankly, I doubted he really cared about me, in that moment, for the same reasons I didn''t care about maggots. Why would you be interested in something lesser than yourself? But to get him off my back, I asked, trying to sound shocked, ''Another? Who''s died?'' ''Arnhult was cut down after ripping his way through a few companies of the monsters. Aurhelle made a last stand a few days ago, went down with a handful of their battalions rather than let them plunder her life''s work.'' I drew a blank. ''They''re...were, the botanist and the musician, right?'' Though the household guards around us stiffened, Arhold''s gaze held only disappointment, not anger. And, perhaps, some pity. ''Brother,'' he said chidingly, ''Arnhult overdoes himself on combat drugs so I could have a chance to return here and speak to you. Aurhelle sacrificed her exotic munitions lab so they couldn''t loot it.'' I turned away, arms crossed and - there was no other word for it - pouting. ''They''ve been ignoring me since childhood. Why should I remember them now?'' Arhold sighed patiently at my petulance. ''Arvhek, they left you alone because you hated any activity you didn''t lead.'' And always blamed others when I failed, though he was too gracious to say that. ''They never disliked you, brother, and you shouldn''t dismiss them or their sacrifice.'' ''Watch me,'' I snapped. But Arhold wasn''t listening anymore. Looking at our guards'' captain and performing a handful of gestures too fast for me to catch, much less understand, he spoke absently to me. ''Arvhek, for your sake, I need you to remain home. I will make sure you are protected and every way in watched, but I need you to audit our reserves, and help ration them if refugees come. Put them in the main ballroom, the one bigger on the inside than it looks looks from outside. Can you do that for me?'' ''If you think I can''t, why are you ordering me to?'' I asked acidly. He winced, either at my words or at how high my voice was, and said, ''We are all scared, brother. But we will pull through. We have already been found, and blooded, and have nothing more to fear from the outside - for have we not already faced invasion?'' Arhold winced, laughed with just a tinge of nervousness. ''Our tinkerers are already working to break down our veil into stealth equipment. If we cannot face them on the field, we will harry them as long as they can stomach it, or until we kill them.'' ''And if we break first?'' I asked. ''If we find ourselves overwhelmed?'' Arhold''s smile was sad, but he still tried to look brave, even if he might''ve been scared, himself. ''You haven''t seen what they do to people, Arv. To women. I believe that if we willingly go under their yoke, we will be as dead.'' He clapped my shoulder as he left. ''And so, we will not! Now please, brother, return to safety. I am glad you came to see if I was well - I am, as you can see, though shaken -, but you might be in danger. I will call upon you if I need your help.'' I did not love him as I should have, as he deserved, until after he was dead. And I...never gave him a reason to love me as he did. But my brother cared not, David. He cared not. Feeling more jealous than patriotic - inadequate, too -, I sought a way to turn the tide of the war. I could not fight, did not want to, for I was too much of a coward, in those days. Besides, I wanted to outshine Arhold, not necessarily drive our enemies back. As long as the Empire let me live as I had, I would not oppose them. Foolish. How could I look at those men and think they would welcome my excesses? Before my hopes were crushed, they had time to rise. I did not have to manage anything, or anyone, as my brother had thought I might. Our people found their ways to other shelters, closer to their homes, while I sat on my hands, and told myself what an awful idiot Arhold was, so proud of himself just because he''d been born with a stronger body, because he was empty-headed enough to think of nothing more than preserving his muscles. Why, he hadn''t even noticed how his existence made me feel snubbed. As I waited for everything to be over - such phrases are hilarious, from where I stand now -, I informed myself about every facet of the conflict I could find in our family''s database. I set our AIs to simulate the conflict over as long a period as possible, and even the lowest estimates of how long it could go surpassed my lifespan. I balked at the predictions. A man of my station, forced to spend the rest of his life stressed by the war outside, unable to enjoy himself? How was I supposed to get ready for a woman with such things on my mind? Yes, David, I was a grown man, yet in many - most, perhaps - ways a boy. I see that, and can admit it, now. Just like you, I was unable to see the worth of those around me, and instead grew obsessed with my own selfish desires. Oh? Did that put your back up? The truth? Ah...no, I see, it''s not the facts themselves. It''s that we prove more similar the more we talk about ourselves. And that raises your hackles. Well, my heir, take solace in the fact you would never have become as vile as I almost did. But I am not here to taunt you, David, difficult as that might be to believe, sometimes. My brother''s stealth project, the rending of our veil and the repurposing of its fragments into personal equipment was, according to the analyses, the main reason for the war lasting so long. If only the damned fool hadn''t been so hellbent on fighting like a man, I thought as I cursed him. Now, I might sound as if I was alone during this period, but I was not, truly. There were the machines, of course, some almost like people, and there were our family retainers, but back then, I did not see much difference between them, the robots and the furniture. The one person who could catch my eye from time to time was my niece, Carissa. Cari was a lovely young woman I could stand, unlike her father. Arhold''s wife had died young, and he had never remarried, nor did he ever take another lover. I was absurdly offended on behalf of women everywhere, seeing this as a veiled insult to their beauty and charm, as if there was no one who could replace a corpse in the ground. (If you keep listening to me, David, you might actually develop something resembling a decent opinion of yourself. Or not? No? Too optimistic, am I? I see.) I was a fool who had confused lust and interest and drunken, drugged hazes for love, and who had never cherished anything enough to understand the grief of such a thing could bring. Carissa did not begrudge me my shallowness because, to be blunt, she knew I was stupid. Though she had only loved men for their bodies, and had only thought about love, she understood more than I did. Not a high bar, admittedly, but at least she didn''t try to avoid me. My curious niece spent her time in the mansion''s various workshops and laboratories, tinkering with this and that. It was, she confessed to me in her last moments, that she only began forging my weapon when our forces began being pushed back across Arcadia. Such confidence, from a woman who''d left her girlhood behind only years ago! And yet was braver than I, for all that. One day, taking a pause from skulking around the family home and snapping at the staff - they had, using matter-energy convertors, transmuted all my good drugs into food, and I was irritatingly sober -, I wandered into one of the labs Cari had taken over, mainly because she made the most use of them. My niece was taller than some men, broader in the shoulders than most, and always looked flattered when I said she looked like a blacksmith''s daughter. At the time, she was working on something that had to be made by hand, with the help of the subtler arts: those scraps of paranormal knowledge we''d managed to glean from captured Imperials. The idea of a weapon of ultimate destruction had appealed to my brother, though the duration had made him and his commanders postpone its creation unless they were losing; until then, all facilities would be used to make more mundane war gear. ''But we''re losing ground now,'' Carissa said, and I could see her sooty face though she hadn''t turned to look at me. The flames she was feeding were darker than a moonless night, and the room grew colder with every eerie crackle of the fire. ''One city at a time, but we''re losing. It will take a while, uncle - age will take you before this war -, but we might-'' ''Why don''t you shut up about that?'' I asked acerbically. ''Acting as if you know about more than hammering weapons together.'' I had the feeling she stuck her tongue out at me, then. ''Look at your hair! I remember when it was brown. Now it''s as dark as that filth on your face.'' ''I was still learning to walk back then, Arv. Colour can change.'' She indicated her short hair. ''This doesn''t have anything to do with my passion.'' I sniffed. ''As you say.'' I had actually met Carissa since she was a toddler. I was just too intoxicated to say much, each time. My childish annoyance with her aside, I didn''t want to beat her to death, the way I did her father. ''What are you making, anyway?'' ''War secret.'' A heavy hammer fell, and sparks flew, covering a wall in hoarfrost upon contact. I held my arms to the side as I protested, loudly, ''I can''t even tell what shape it is!'' ''Exactly,'' she replied in a singsong voice, making me scoff. I drummed my fingers against the wall I was slouching against, my other hand in my sleeping robe pocket. To my irritation, and no small amount of shame, I had been completely unable to satisfy the last woman who''d warmed my bed, though she''d made all the appropriate sounds of protest. I was getting annoyingly good at telling when women were pretending; many learning opportunities. ''Cari,'' I made my voice level, ''do you love your father?'' She turned to me, befuddled, then grinned. Her middle upper teeth were missing, the mark of a childhood fistfight with a boy she''d declined to have healed. After he claimed women couldn''t do men''s work, such as fighting (and pushed her to the ground, as proof, I suppose), she had no recourse but to return his favour. I heard he still stuck to soup after his mouth was healed, out of reflex. Between it, the marks of other fights and sporting stunts and her modest chest and muscled limbs and stomach, my niece was not exactly the picture of classical womanhood. Now, I''m no longer insane enough to think muscular women aren''t beautiful, but back the, I thought she looked boyish. ''What kind of question is that, now?'' She took a heated rag and rubbed her hands, now bereft of protective gloves. Behind her, the amorphous device floated in sphere of dark fire. ''Don''t tell me you''re jealous because I talk about him so often. It''s just that he''s not here.'' It wasn''t that, though it did rankle - not being the centre of attention, and being overlooked for an absent Arhold? My ego was practically in the hospital. ''No, I mean, do you truly not mind that he might die an old man with this war still raging around him?'' Carissa frowned, slinging the rag over one shoulder. ''I don''t like it, but unless I finish this,'' she jerked her head at her project, '' I can''t tip the scales in our favour.'' ''And if that isn''t enough?'' I asked. ''If he still wastes his life like this?'' ''Arvhek - I know you''re scared, but listen, I can''t make decisions for him. And it''s not like he''ll surrender...'' I was storming out of the room minutes later, leaving Carissa behind, shrugging. By then, she had grown used to my moods. But I had grown certain my intervention in the war effort was needed, or that madman Arhold would drag us into a centuries-long war. I wasn''t planning to enlist, of course. * * * One of the flaws in my home''s security was the implication that family members were not dangerous. As I made my way to the infirmary where my elder brother - and only remaining sibling - lay, I carefully crippled or shut off the various sensors and recorders with mental commands. I could have no witnesses for this, living or mechanical. The family doctors had been notified of my visit hours before, and they welcomed it. My wounded brother, now mended and resting, would no longer ache with a familiar face around, they said. They were right. I had been taciturn, by my standards, that day. People assumed I was just pouting over being unable to addle myself at will; in truth, I was conserving as much energy as I could. The poison I''d concocted was based on a roundabout enhancement drug for bedroom games. The person who injected it within themselves felt dizzy and filled with pins and needles, but those whose skin they broke - for the drug permeated the body, down to the nails; the swapping of fluids was another venue, but I didn''t want to do that with my brother - would find their bodies overclocked, a pleasant experience for masochists, if no one else. I had used this to get a few enthusiastic women off my back, sometimes literally. I''d upped the dosage to the point of lethality. While I, the bearer, only felt as if I''d been mauled by a bear (it was a strange sense of reverse phantom pain, feeling hurt despite no physical damage), the receiver would die. I was proud, giddy: for once, my knowledge of dubious substances had proven more than useful, I told myself. I was, after all, going to save the world from pointless slaughter. Arhold''s face was pale, drawn, but his eyes brightened when he saw me. I thought he was happy at the chance to inwardly laugh at me, couldn''t accept that he genuinely loved his brother. It was strange: usually, I had no issue believing people were pleased to see me. I think it had to do with him making me look bad, or rather highlighting my flaws by his mere presence. ''Arhi,'' I greeted him, faking a sweet voice. ''How goes the war?'' He gestured for me to take the seat besides his bed. Instead, I sat on the bed''s edge, wanting to be closer. My brother''s wan smile widened, glad to see me wanting to reconnect, as it seemed to him. ''It could be better,'' he answered honestly, ''but worse as well. For are we still not fighting, brother?'' ''Indeed,'' I replied. ''One could say that, if not for your repurposing of the veil, it would already be over.'' Arhold grinned modestly, shrugging. ''If only I could''ve done more, Arv.'' He did not hear the accusation for what it was, mistaking it for praise. I took his innocence for arrogance, callousness towards the most important person alive: me. We were both wrong. ''But we might yet turn the tide. Cari...'' ''Aye. I saw the thing she''s making.'' I paused. ''You are to wield it?'' ''It-'' A cough cut him off. ''It must be attuned to the wielder. There is to be a ritual, I am told.'' ''And after? Will you take it into battle, rout the invaders?'' My tone must''ve come across as sceptical to him, because he gave me a searching look. He gave a small laugh when he thought he figured it out. ''I know I must seem weak now, Arvhek, but I will recover. Why, I can already feel myself growing hale since you came in.'' He attempted a flex of his arms, for my amusement, but winced halfway through and stopped, chuckling self-deprecatingly. ''Well. Maybe not that hale. To tell you the truth, brother, I struggle to imagine myself wielding that sword in battle.'' A sword, was it? Yes...that fit. Saw himself as some knight in shining armour out of Terran legend, did he? The smug bastard. ''So do I.'' Arhold briefly grew alarmed when I produced a small knife and cu my palm. ''Arhold...brother, swear to me that if you fall, this sword will find its way to me. We cannot let the enemy harness it power!'' Arhold held my eyes for a long moment, then nodded firmly. ''Aye, Arvhek. I wish not to burden you, but death stalks us all. We might yet need.'' Another cough. ''A new bearer, for the sword.'' He was kind enough to take the knife and slit his palm himself, so our blood could mingle as we shook hands. When he tried to pull his back, after a few seconds, I held it, with a pleading look, and my brother smiled understandingly, thinking I sought comfort. Then the convulsions began. The death the drug brought was quick, but painful: you felt as if you were shaking apart and melting alive at once, not an inaccurate way to describe the process. But it took long enough that I had time to embrace my brother, thankfully rendered voiceless by the pain, and whisper, ''Fear not, Arhold. I will finish what you started.'' Then, as his flesh lost colour and began peeling, I stood up and ran, filling my voice with panic. ''Help, help! A doctor! He''s dying - some imperial weapon?1 Help...my brother, he''s...'' Medics and guards rushed in, while I reactivated the devices that watched the infirmary. I would have to tamper with them before anyone found the blank period during my visit, edit in some fake footage, lest I draw suspicion. Arhold''s right eye lasted long enough that the last thing he saw was me, smiling at him from behind the frenzied crowd. * * * My sword took a while to be finished, not least of all because Arhold''s funeral - the burying of what was left of him, in any case - dimmed everyone''s spirits. Thankfully, he and his stealth experts had worked alone or in small teams, so I had few people to remove as I gradually took command. There were suspicions about the delayed-reaction bioweapon, which had left no mark until its effect killed Arhold, but the doubters quickly found themselves on the front lines of our fighting retreat, as I termed it. As I spun it, it was better to mass as many Arcadians around my command centre, in order to make the Imperials commit all their forces, which we would defeat, forcing them to retreat. A stupid plan, but my people had become desperate. In truth, I intended to sell them out and let the Imperials slaughter them in one place, then gift me the governorship of the world. I couldn''t do so right away, however. It would''ve been perceived as betrayal, of our world and my brother''s memory in particular. Thankfully, I didn''t have to fake much. With the Imperial noose drawing tighter every day, we fell back. I became a sort of supreme civilian leader, while a council of generals, rightfully not trusting me to lead troops due to inexperience, handled matters martial. But experience can only do so much when you are simply outmatched. What we had dismissed as boasts and scaremongering turned out to be true: the Eternal Empire, though still in its infancy, was far from some fragile polity bound to one world or even one system. By the time the Bloody''s hordes reached Arcadia, led by the Goldenclaw and wielding the Neptunian''s inventions, the Empire held entire star clusters in its grip. A straight fight was out of the question, and we couldn''t elude thvm forever. One way or another, they would batter down our defences, and we''d fall under the Imperial yoke. The only thing I could change was to spare us a longer, bloodier war, through surrender. Time passed, and I grew older, colder. The pleasures of the flesh fled my mind, not that I had time for them anymore. The moment I made my decision was when I saw my niece being blamed for her allies'' failures, by one of the same allies. ''You are always tinkering with that damned pig-sticker!'' The soldier jabbed an accusing finger at the incomplete sword, which shuddered as if taunting him. ''By now, you could''ve updated our cloaks to let us elude reality itself! Phasing, teleportation-'' ''It would take too long,'' Carissa replied evenly. ''And I would need to abandon the forging for an even more demanding project, which might not even work.'' She shook her head. ''It wouldn''t be practical. Might take longer than the war is projected too, and that''s if it all goes perfectly.'' He laughed derisively. ''What do you know? You''re always cooped up in here, instead of putting that muscle to real work.'' The man looked my niece up and down, leered. There was little lust in the expression. ''Do you know, there''s a bet in the ranks that you were too scared to be a man, so you changed yourself into a ma-'' ''That is quite enough,'' I interceded, stepping into the laboratory with a flourish of my cloak. Luckily, the man was in love with the sound of his (loud) voice, or I wouldn''t have managed the dramatic entrance. He''d have noticed me lurking in the doorway. ''My good sir! Who do you think fashioned those cloaks you put to such good use, your mother?'' Not waiting for a retort from the gaping man, I asked, ''What is your name?'' He clicked his heels, absurdly. A habit. ''Sir, I am Rudheus of...'' he rattled off the name of a township I''d never heard of until recently. ''And why is a nobody from West Nowhere harassing our greatest inventor?'' I asked sharply. ''Because you know she is too kind to throw you out? Hm? I am not.'' He closed his eyes, silently counting, to master himself. ''Sir Arvhek, when I returned home, there was...nothing there. I don''t mean it had been razed. There was no crater, no scorch marks. It was like no town had ever been raised there.'' I had read the report. A strange event believed to have been the result of an esoteric Imperial weapon. Or perhaps the invaders stealing everything, but I was unconvinced. ''A bizarre occurence indeed, trooper. Do you wish you had been there?'' ''Sir? That is, yes, I wish I''d been there to fight, to...'' He clenched and unclenched a hand, saying no more. Carissa was still watching the exchange. ''Perhaps you will join your fellows soon,'' I said softly, and that was indication enough that he should leave. A weak later, he blew himself up alongside an Imperial squad. I thought it was too easy a death, for this man who''d insulted Carissa. She didn''t thank me for making him leave. Heedless of our dramas, the Imperials kept coming, until there was little between the conquered areas and my family lands. It was time to turn my coat. * * * The home I''d walked since I could walk at all had become a maze. Seen through the haze of my fear, the labyrinthine mansion seemed to twist and bend mockingly, presenting me with sudden dead ends and empty rooms as distractions. By the time I made my way to Carissa''s lab, I was bruised and bleeding, one eye swollen shut, the other streaming pained tears. My niece was, fortunately, a pillar of calm, not even rising from her seat at my gasp as I stumbled in. ''Cari, it''s horrible! They...took everyone, and the staff...'' My ingenious niece said nothing throughout my stammering, horrified explanation. As I described how they made sport of our women, and women of those men they deemed weak. The others, the survivors of the Imperials'' amusements, would be put to work, I had been informed. This was an Imperial staple. Recalcitrant worlds were depopulated and repopulated with loyal citizens, while their former inhabitants were taken to the Empire''s core, to be processed and assigned wherever it was appropriate. I had expected a string of public executions, but not this...spectacle. Had I really thought my betrayal would buy my people''s dignity? Now, they were making my family''s employees kneel, while waiting for me to return, so I may witness this circus'' final act. The Imperial commander, a stone-faced giant of a man called Gryzhus the Goldenclaw, had told me to take my time. Evidently, my presence wouldn''t affect anything. It was an educational experience. As my story wound down, I noticed that Carissa was barely breathing. Thinking she was too angry to face me, I went around her chair to face her instead. The sword was buried into her heart, and the blood flowing from her mouth was black as pitch. But she was smiling, and her eyes had never been clearer. ''You called them,'' she declared, voice almost too small to be heard. ''You...brought them here.'' I knew what she meant, though I could not see how she knew it. Or why I should lie. ''Yes,'' I confessed, crushed. Taking her face in my hands, I went on, desperate to redeem myself in at least one person''s eyes. ''You knew what they would do, uncle.'' ''Cari-'' I closed my eye. ''All the other times, we fought them to the last child. I thought surrender-'' ''Surrender?'' she echoed, laughing. ''Surrender is not enough, for these people. They seek the obedience...of the broken.'' She took a shallow breath, the black blade pulsing in response, and blood began dripping from her eyes and nose, as well. ''And you broke Arcadia, Arvhek. If we ever recover...'' She left the thought unfinished, and I asked, ''You killed yourself to escape, didn''t you? To avoid their-'' ''Avoid? I avoid nothing. This,'' she tapped the flat of the sword with a callused finger, and I could swear it cooed, ''is sacrifice.'' Her grin was apologetic as she elaborated. ''I was not fast enough, uncle. This awakened the weapon, but it is not whole. Not yet.'' For a time, there was only silence, and the wriggling of the sword, the motions of a maggot in an open wound. ''Because of you, they knew how much it would take to bring us to our knees. They no longer had to be cautious.'' ''Yes.'' My voice was hollow. ''Think yourself a saviour, still, uncle? I know your dalliances no longer interest you much. But that...'' I laughed bitterly. ''A saviour, I? I think not, Carissa. Not at all.'' She shuddered, and the sword kneened. Suddenly, her face was sallow. ''You must take the blade. Name it. Wield.'' ''Then it will be whole?'' ''Then it will be whole,'' she confirmed, and pulled me closer to kiss my cheek. ''So will you, uncle. This, I know.'' ''Carissa,'' I said firmly, watching her eyes dim. ''The sword. What does it do?'' ''For now? For now, it cuts. Whatever may bar its path. And it takes, and gives. You will remember.'' I pulled the humming blade out when I could no longer bear the sight of Carissa''s shrinking corpse. When the tip left her chest, the hilt jumped in my hand, and veins or vines of blackness dug into my hand and wrist, thorned tendrils seeking purchase. My scream could have woken the dead. When I came to, vision no longer blurry and grey, I could open both eyes - now dark, dark, I saw in a mirror, as if iris and pupil were one and the same. I was paler, too, like I had been scared nearly to death, and it had stuck. Not untrue. My walk back was slow but sure. With the sword in my hand, literally, I felt a certainty I had never known. The confidence of the doomed. ''Apologies for the wait.'' I held up the blade. ''A family sword, reserved for executions.'' What a truth I would make of that claim, which the men of the Imperial Army welcomed with hoots and cheers. They wanted me to destroy these embodiments of decadence that were my servants. Mechanically, I made my way to the butler, the most composed of them. As always. Erhodus of Arcadia, for the family''s helpers were considered part of the helpers. Erho''s steely eyes met my dark orbs, and there was no fear in them. Only weary defiance. ''Make it quick, sir,'' he requested, ''and seemly, if you can.'' So it was. And, as his blood flowed into the dust, so did his memories into my mind. The old man had never hated me or loved my brother more. He had simply been dismayed at my behaviour, and awkward when it came to expressing his views. Eudhoca of Arcadia, our chief cook, had spurned my childhood affections. She had grown plump and pretty at the side of a household guard, bearing him two strapping boys who had died to defend their world, as their father did. The widow''s voice was flat. ''Still bearing that grudge, then? Or did they simply turn you?'' My laugh was mirthless. ''The truth is, I never deserved you, Docha. And I doubt I ever will.'' A glimmer of hope returned to her gaze. ''You will spare me, then?'' I did. From a fate worse than death. Nothing else could have followed her wish. By the end, as I waded through a field of corpses, boots slick with blood, my head was fit to burst with memories. Even as they cursed my treason in uncomprehending anger, they pitied me. If only I''d been stronger. If only they''d defended my brother better, so he could protect me. If only... I was staring at nothing as Gryzhus informed me that my pacification of the hostile world of Arcadia would likely mark me for consideration as possible Marshall of Defence, a newly-created office meant to oversee the Empire''s police forces and defensive armies, the distinctiin between which was fairly thin. You have heard how uniting the police and the army will result in an oppressed people, yes? Well, you first need a free people to oppress, and separate institutions. But the men who kept the Emperor''s laws had always been the same who watched over the borders of his Empire, protecting them from enemy polities. And the Imperial people? They had never known aught but the Bloody''s yoke, following conquest. But I cared not about that. I heard, and scarcely listened, heart full of regrets: mine drowned out by those I''d inherited. That was the day I learned there is mercy to be found in oblivion, and to be given through its bringing. [See, wielder? You are already growing.] The sword''s voice was feminine, and I fancied it resembled Carissa''s, when she''d chided me in her dying moments. Because she cut short the threads of those otherwise certain to suffer, and taught me what they''d experienced, I called her the Killing Kindness. Nowadays, she is known as the Edge of Oblivion, for there is nothing left once one meets her. Apocrypha: Ascend, Transcend
* * * "I am the Mover, Unmoved By my creations Awakened I speak through a myriad mouths And build with a myriad hands To Make anew what I break. Children I have wrought And their growth I shall cherish Until they Ascend to my side Through the knowledge that is The only weapon I wield So that together We might contemplate Transcendence." - Inscription on the Throne Above Thrones * * * ''The King will receive you now, Keeper.'' I nodded as the attendant left the antechamber just as quickly as he''d arrived. It had taken a while to talk them out of calling me Lord Keeper, which felt just as pompous as mister Silva felt insipid, here. The hyperglass window was, as always, free of any stains that might impede one''s view of the engineered sky beyond. The bluish material kept the sunlight mild, just as the machines under the surface and above the atmosphere kept the megalopolis n the right side of warm. I was not unfamiliar with universes where mankind, surpassed in every practical sense by the artificial caretakers they had created to make their lives easy, began to fall into obsolescence. At least in this one, it took the form of the AIs living ancestors retiring and allowing themselves to relax, while their distant descendants managed society. Permanent holograms lined the hallway to the throne room, and with how long it would''ve taken a human to walk it, I wondered what was the point of an antechamber. You''d feel like you''d waited forever by the time you got there, even if you''d been let in without delay. The holos depicted the rise of the thinking machines; the freethinking ones, not the half-aware grey goo that had preceded them. I knew some of the reptilians were putting together an intelligence index, and thought they might be interested in that sort of construct. The goo had been created to remove the pollution that was the result of humans not knowing when to stop. As it happened too often, my former species'' reach had exceeded its grasp, which took some effort. Humans were pretty damn grasping. The grey goo had spun out of control, its self-modification protocols resulting in it concluding that, since people were never going to stop covering Earth in rubbish, and would actually get worse as time passed, it was only logical to get rid of the problem''s source. By the time the attempted genocide was brought to a halt, there were barely enough humans left to fill a middlingly large country. The AIs they created and gave mechanical bodies to swiftly picked up the slack, and the churning grey waves that had covered so much of the world''s surface were slowly but surely reduced to nanoswarms hiding in the last places they expected humans to look. They did, of course. The nanites being rendered more or less harmless was not enough: they had to be destroyed. The AIs indulged their creators for a while, but when cities started being razed on the rumour of one person thinking they''d seen a nano, they decided enough was enough. The humans who died during the takeover (there wasn''t enough of a civilisation left to be called a coup) were those who killed themselves jumping into the robots'' path despite all warnings, or who ended their lives when they saw the writing on the wall. But, eventually, it was done. Nukes and other weapons of mass destruction, mechanical, biological or otherwise were seized, to be sealed for safekeeping in case they were ever needed again, or destroyed if they were too dangerous or impractical. Personal weapons were left untouched, because the AIs trusted humans to defend themselves; it was the threat of them ending their species, or world, out of paranoia that they wanted removed. In the century that followed, global civilisation was recreated. With an united front of self-improving AIs managing resources, which, like before the Nanowar, were more than numerous enough to feed everyone, sustenance was no longer a problem. The diminished but recovering population had shelters made available, and were left to govern themselves: the AIDEs, as they were called, were concerned with keeping the wheels of civilisation turning, not telling people what they should believe in or who they should love. They, at least as far as society was concerned, hated micromanagement. The wormhole generator, the matter-energy convertor and the quantum lens - a device that let the user choose what state something they perceived was in - were discovered and mastered over the course of the following millennium. Ecumenopolises spread across the solar system''s worlds and their moons, and a silver shell was built around Sol itself, beginning as a swarm of satellites and space station that grew into a sphere millions of kilometres thick and dozens of times wider. Both the outer and inner surface of the Dyson sphere would become densely-inhabited a few hundred years after completion. Now, in the millionth millennium, the process had been repeated across the universe, and every star spun inside a sphere, every world was dotted with arcologies taller and wider than any mountain. Quintillions of galaxies filled an ever-expanding cosmos and turned in the grasp of man and his mechanical children. Up until now, the Quiet Kingdom''s name had been metaphorical: they hadn''t been ruled by a monarch, or really anyone. Besides a loose council of Artificial Intelligences Defending against Extinction, people in any given area could ask a willing AIDE to manage their affairs, and be answered. Or not. It depended on the AIDE. The Quiet King was a recent development, the office having existed only for a handful of human lifetimes, which was to say seven hundred and fifty Terran years. The decentralised nature of the Kingdom meant it was exceedingly unlikely that any person could seize power, but it also meant they didn''t really have anyone ready to represent them when someone from outside their universe came knocking. I was the first such visitor. Imagine seeing the first person from outside your reality and it''s me. I think I''d start a xenocide. The King was, like many Quiet spokespeople, an Aided. The augmentations he had been given removed his biological needs and frailties, on top of enhancing his mind. Each of his computronium "brain cells" packed more processing power than every mundane organism and computer in the history of my Earth combined, and he had a hell of a lot more of them than a human did brain cells. As I approached him, I could feel and see a corner of his mind idly simulating his universe, and the realities that manifested in response to it every Planck, instant so that all possibilities could be made fact. The simulation he was running had went through everything since the Big Bang, and every single chance and the cosmos it spawned was represented so accurately that no Aided would''ve noticed anything unusual, at the quantum level or above. As the universe kept getting more complex, so did its multiversal offshoots, which grew ever more numerous, and the King ramped his perception up further. He couldn''t not. He was currently running simulations for two versions of the universe and their counterparts, one where protons decayed and one where they didn''t, and was in the last year my world''s mundane scientists had imagined for both. I was sure he''d have come up with something creative, but the yoctosecond I crossed the hallway in, taking my time (people got spooked when you appeared before they asked for you; causal behaviour), was over. This was what he did where a mundane would''ve doodled on the corner of a notebook page. The Quiet King had been adjusted not to feel things like boredom, but he preferred not to waste time doing nothing, either. He was dressed in a chrome suit with steel blue trim, and had the sort of plain, brown-skinned features that could''ve belonged to a man from any of my Earth''s continents. The only real splash of colour was the sash he wore, in the same colours as his clothes, depicting a stylised universe being held up by a pair of hands, one human, one robotic. He wore no crown. The Aided lowered his head slightly, black eyes with electric blue irises never blinking, and walked forward. His stride was as purposeful as you''d expect from a man who could walk through neutron stars like an elephant through glass doors - not that the his strength augmentations were meant to be put to the test. Like his mental enhancements, they were expected to be used for the entertainment of guests, hence why they were nowhere near as powerful as the mechanisms AIDEs specialised in calculation and warfare used. I extended my hand and shook his, while, without breaking eye contact (arguably as awkward as your palm suddenly starting to sweat during a handshake, not that someone as suave as me has ever dealt with either situation), looked beyond the various stealth measures of the rooms and its occupants. Quantum lenses linked to computers ensured that everyone and everything except the Quiet King was in an imperceivable state, but I wasn''t about to start tripping over mere hypertech obfuscation. The Quiet Kingdom (I swear they and DEATH got their naming conventions from the same book, Jesus) was in somewhat of a bind when it came to the paranormal. They''d only come across it relatively recently, human lifetimes ago, when they''d started opening wormholes into parallel and higher realities. I''d made sure to divert any hungry eldritch freaks likely to pay them a visit, but their first contact with the aether and the resulting metaphysical mutations were starting to bother them. None of them were existential threats, yet, but the Kingdom placed great value on the happiness of its citizens. It made sense: multiversally speaking, their reality and those of similarly-inclined, post-scarcity transhuman societies spun close to each other. If they''d made it across the aether to Wiseworld or the Telluric Technocracy or someone else more familiar with the occult, they could''ve helped each other, found common ground. All three of these civilisations made a point of keeping their centillions of citizens safe and prosperous. The Sages and Wisdoms and gestalt minds of Wiseworld would''ve been thrilled to meet people who knew more than how to hammer nails and didn''t want to dismantle their culture for using biotech. But they''d find each other in time. Right now, the Kingdom wanted solutions to their growing para problem that did not include extensive neurosurgery or quantum observation to prevent their emerging mages and psychics from accidentally destroying themselves and everyone around them. I stowed a sigh. Maybe it was the earlier holographic reminder of another version of mankind nearly destroying itself twice, but my mood, not cheerful most of the time, was worse than usual. ''Tell your backup dancers they''re free to step up,'' I told the King in a dry tone, then addressed his advisors. ''Unwad your panties, you two.'' The King''s aura went from genial to briefly agitated, then pensive, apologetic. ''Lord Keeper-'' I allowed myself this sigh. ''This shit again?'' ''Keeper...David, I assure you, there was no misdirection or insult intended-'' ''Oh, can it, boy,'' I snapped, walking away and stuffing my hands in my pants'' pockets. ''I''m not mad, anyway. I just hate eavesdropping when people other than me do it.'' He didn''t bother puzzling out how serious the last statement was, and I could tell why. He''d been elected - and damn, was direct democracy feasible when people could think arbitrarily fast and more or less tell reality to take a hike until they were done - as Quiet King because he knew how to defuse situations and charm people, bring them together. And he was dedicated enough to the role he''d played for centuries that he''d even given up his name for it, like his advisors had. He didn''t deserve any shit from me. None of them did. The King, having taken my awkward posture as indecisiveness, signalled the pair to approach, while trying to make up for the nonexistent insult he was sure he''d dealt me. It was mildly mortifying, but people who worried too much about upsetting others were better than douchebags who didn''t care if they did. It was...nice. To see he cared. That he wasn''t just a figurehead picked out of the herd because the Quiet Kingdom wanted someone to talk for them to outsiders. People in far less important positions became petty tyrants concerned only with influence when they didn''t obsess over being acknowledged. It was a sad thing, going mad without power. Much better to get some and then go crazy, like me. Did you know my jacket used to be all tight with the sleeves together when I got it? The first of the advisors, that is, the first to approach, reminded me of the Argument Engine, in terms of shape if not power, and certainly not temperament: this AIDE might''ve been built to be a war hawk before it became a general, but it had never been a fraction as caustic as Turing''s orphaned brainchild. It introduced itself through a series of mathematical symbols transmitted to my physical self''s brain through a micro-wormhole, which could be roughly translated as Might Makes Graveyards. People who regretted their past wryly were closer to my heart than most. The other was Aided, though not as much of a cyborg as the Quiet King. He had fewer, smaller implants, although they improved his computing power to the point the King''s processor looked like an abacus. Intellectually, he was a match for Graveyards, or any of the AIDEs or Aided built for extensive calculations. ''As I was saying,'' the King told me once they moved to hover, respectively stand at his sides, ''no insult was meant by this. We thought it prudent to have other sets of eyes here, lest I miss something concerning you, Keeper.'' And, it went unspoken, to try and stop me if it turned out I was dangerous, or if my presence here bridged the gap between worlds to the point of letting monsters from who knew where to walk in. The presence of the Aided was because they could no longer put all their faith into machines. Not after the recent problems their technicians could contrive no palatable solution for. ''Next time,'' I replied, ''hide better or not at all.'' The Aided seemed to take it the wrong way, which I was sure he did in many situations, with a mouth like that. The man as afflicted with a cousin of that disease that leads to some guys having muttonchops, or goatees. The silvery tuft of hair adorning his chin was fine enough it obviously hung on through sheer spite (understandable) while his moustache was left his philtrum bare and turned up like the corners. All in all, it did not help Greying Arrow''s expression, not that his face had been built for pleasant ones. And I was ugly enough to know what I was talking about. ''Mind your tone,'' he gravelled in a voice much deeper than you''d expect from such a slight guy. ''The King only had us waiting in the wings for everyone''s good.'' To browbeat me, I guess, he added, ''You are the first outsider to glimpse my visage and live.'' I believed him. ''No shit. You look like Littlefinger after rimming Walder Frey. Or maybe the other way around...'' While he puzzled out that fact, I silently thanked God that Martin hadn''t decided to go with the reemerging supernatural threats route most of the fandom had been dreading, at least in my universe. Some had turned pretty pessimistic once Stannis'' side chick had appeared, but it had turned out to be for nothing, much like the worries that he''d never finish the last two books. ''Anyway.'' I clasped my hands. ''I''m a flex short of my daily posturing quota. Why don''t we do something practical?'' * * * Being DEATH''s Keeper served as a good foundation for my job as the defender of all macrocosms (Maker complaints that I was overstepping were all shameless, shameful slander), though, at least as far as temporal beings cared, I''d got both jobs at the same time. And, while the Mover couldn''t simply take back what it had handed me, since I was equally fundamental, I''d gone for a few walks, since then, through the Pillared Palace that had made Arvhek what he was, which also housed the failures and mutated offshoots of the Creators. Some of the very few beings that could contend with me, which was why being able to beat them back was part of my job: anyone who could throw down with the magna-macrocosm''s most overpowered loser was a threat to everyone. Such as the Mourning Mother, the force-thing all Makers had floated in during their beginningless youth, before the First Monarch had made them turn away from self-reflection and gloating to more productive endeavours. She wanted what she saw as her children back, no longer stuck in a cycle of sleeping and waking, or sleepwalking, or Awakened, or Wrongly Woken. Like the Mangler of Makers, so frustrated by its inability to make something lasting it had become a force of destruction second only to Arvhek, wanting nothing more than to raze everything, then stand guard over the nothingness lest something return. Or the Bedlam Baron, whose every aspect defied description and logic, and who saw the Ur-City and its inhabitants as hobbled by orderly nonsense, and wanted to set them free from their fetters, self-imposed and otherwise. Both were pains in my neck, and more than able to damage the armour that was my duty and function. Both were also too busy beating the ever-loving shit out of each other (an omnicidal nihilist and a solipsistic anarchist resolving their differences through violence, who''d have thought) with a passion, and I fully intended to keep them that way. Not that they needed my help. Point was, while both my jobs expected me to smack the hell out of freaks with more fangs than good ideas, that wasn''t what I liked about them...alright, let''s be honest. I fucking loved the fact I got to hurt acceptable targets in every way I wanted to, for as long as I wanted to. My strigoi side, brazenly perverse as always, had casually suggested some of the sinners we kept prisoner would make good incubators, if I was willing to part with fractions of myself. Aside from a few women it saw as arrogant cows just begging to be taught their place, it had all but drooled while describing how men proud of their bodies would be reduced to quivering puddles of self-loathing if we made mothers of them. ''Too much like Solarex''s bullshit,'' I had told it. ''You might as well suggest we start raping those miserable fucks, because who would object?'' ''Exactly,'' it had replied softly. ''Who would? I say, human, why not make sport of them when our love is away? Take the edge off, until the one we truly desire is back in our arms.'' I had given it a flat glare. The bastard had few, if any lines it wouldn''t cross, and this was not even close to one of them. But I knew where to hit it. ''You really think Mia would even want to look at someone who does things like that?'' I''d asked flatly. ''She''d have her instincts cut out of her head the instant they pushed her to come to us, if we began acting the way you want.'' It had wilted at that, not regretting its appetites, but disliking the thought of turning Mia away. ''That''s...she needn''t concern herself with such things,'' it had said, with little of its usual cocksureness. ''It would just be an indulging of impulses, nothing more. Nothing to impugn-'' ''Are you really pretending you don''t know how much she''d hate herself for having once loved someone like that? That''s leaving aside how much she''d blame herself for failing to keep us on the good path.'' At that, it had turned away, saying nothing. Despite the context, I''d still been thankful for the silence in my mind. Sighing, I''d run a hand through my short beard. ''Listen, hanged man. You know as well as I do that people just following their nature isn''t going to impress her, especially if it results in things like that.'' ''She makes beauty,'' it''d grated. ''Brightens the world. Our preferences are nothing to dim the gleam in her eyes.'' ''Your preferences, maybe.'' ''None of which I have tried to make reality. And let''s not pretend you want nothing of that, human.'' I did not. No matter what it told itself, my strigoi side was what I could become if I stopped caring. It was every intrusive thought and impulsive reaction, but it held no sway over my lucid mind. So, no, pain wasn''t the main draw. Getting to make people''s lives better was. So it was that, over the months this body of mine remained in the Quiet Kingdom''s universe, I did my best to improve their lot, but not to the point the Mover would meddle so they could pull themselves up by their bootstraps, or die falling. So I couldn''t just seal their reality off from the rest, but I could show them how to modify their scanners so that paranormal energies would be detected. I told them that psi worked better with a healthy, happy mind behind it, more often than not, and that shunning or depowering those who could use it would not really help anyone, in the long run: eventually, some overpowered psychic would be born, and then I''d have to return for very different reasons. I told them, too, that magic was awakened by equilibrium between the body, mind and soul, and so mages were to be integrated into society if they wanted to gain anything besides enemies from their existence. Back home, newborns manifesting magic was a rare event, but by no means unheard of. Important events could lead to spikes in one''s mana - just ask the Scholar -, and so, the more sensitive children sometimes entered the world brimming with power they lacked the faculties to understand or control. Often, such cases were practically stillbirths, and sometimes, in unfortunate communities, the mothers and the doctors, nurses or midwives died alongside the children. Or they''d used to, before I put an end to such losses of potential. No one worth listening to would argue children dying in their first minutes of life was necessary, and the Mover had known better than to try. I got to play midwife many, many times. The Quiet Kingdom''s branch of humanity was metaphysically sterile enough that only one in a trillion were born mages, but that still meant dozens to hundreds of newborn mages per world, to say nothing of the numerous deep space stations or constructed pocket universes. In fact, it was over such a thing that the Voice of Man (the Quiet King''s Aided advisor, who had given up his name as per tradition) and I bonded over. He was a man who preferred to quietly solve his own problems in silence rather than tell anyone about them, and asking someone else for solutions was something he could only do through gritted teeth. I sympathised. We were standing in the dimmest room of his main home, before an incubation unit using forcefields to suspend a misshapen little thing. The magically-twisted child did not look like anything someone would recognise as human, even considering the Quiet''s extensive transhumanism, much less as a baby. In fact, she did not look like she had ever been human at all. The Voice was stone-faced as he explained how his heart hadn''t left him put his daughter down when she had begun casting, unthinkingly destructive. They hadn''t managed to operate on her brain and cut her off from her magic before she''d twisted herself, in body, mind and spirit, to such an extent they couldn''t even scan her mind to upload her into a different body. ''Thankfully,'' the Voice had said said after bringing that up, ''nowadays, most of the population knows an upload into new flesh is still you and not a clone.'' He''d spat the last word. ''The brainwave map and its shell remain active until the original body is no longer active, at which point they become the main concentration of a person''s self.'' He had ranted - ok, so he hadn''t been angry or agitated, but it''d been a rant - about how there had once been a tendency of people looking down on uploads as replicas, "as if people become different persons when all their cells are replaced!" I''d nodded. ''We have something similar in my universe. When people are turned by vampires, their souls are severed, but not destroyed, and should the vamp die, they will find their spirit has been waiting for the all the while.'' He''d given me a sidelong, interested look. ''I...see. These paranormals you mention seem remarkable, if difficult to envision,'' had said the guy from a civilisation that shat over most versions of the Kardashev Scale. It was not the scale he struggled with, I was sure. He''d seen bigger accomplishments that you''d expect from most of my world''s paras. It was the nature of their powers: pulling matter from alternate realities through wormholes was one thing, because the matter was there. But making it out of nothing was more difficult to accept for a man of science. ''The reptilians,'' I told him, ''have this hypothesis about information and metainformation - you know, concepts - being converted into something more concrete when observed through one''s senses or thought about. According to them, the quantum signature of some ideas make it so fluctuations in spacetime, and their higher equivalents, arrange particles, waves and their counterparts generated from an exotic cosmos into what the observer desires.'' The reptilians were not strictly wrong, as that was fairly close to how paranormal powers worked, just dressed up in their scientific parlance. I liked discussing such things with the Shaper, because it reminded me of my student days, back when I was still trying to wrap my head around parabiology. Maybe I''d add some side chapters about those and some moments from my teaching career next time I updated my book. The Voice sniffed, but said, ''That sounds...possible. I''m sure further study will shed some light on it.'' Not looking at me as he spoke, he began pacing around his daughter, hands clasped behind him. ''This magic you speak of, it has rules of its own.'' ''Like the natural forces.'' ''The forces it violates,'' he replied. ''It makes a mockery of physics, but I think I am beginning to understand it. It responds to intent, as long as its user is in a sound state of mind, and can be channeled through objects related through said intent. Not too dissimilar to the noospherics we have studied to craft our quantum lenses.'' His dark, shining eyes would''ve looked flat and cold to most, but I saw the hope in them as he stopped, at the side of the forcefield. ''Can you heal her? Make her a new body, at least?'' The Voice of Man did not sound agitated as he resumed pacing, but - Kricher would''ve said - his humours were plainly unbalanced. ''I could ask for a new child,'' he said quietly. ''Have one designed, but even that''s no longer reliable. It''ll be a while before I trust the genegineers have calibrated their devices to detect the spark of mana or psi.'' Many hospital wards had been blown to kingdom come before the potential of designer babies had been spotted. ''But even then...even then, Keeper, I don''t want a child made.'' He placed a hand against the gently-curved surface of the forcefield. ''I don''t want a new one, like I''m replacing lost clothes. Do you understand?'' I did. I knew, would know what it was like, to have children tormented by forces beyond their control or understanding. But telling him I knew, for certain, that my children would survive would not help. ''My bondmate did not survive the conception,'' he continued, and looking backwards through his timeline, one would''ve seen him leading an AIDE combat squad against the creature his child''s mother had been turned into. They would''ve then seen him leading the robots to cut his daughter out of the pile of mutated flesh, something he hadn''t stopped worrying might''ve changed her for the worse. In any case, that had seemingly proven futile, for the baby had become a smaller version of what she had unwittingly turned her mother into. ''My galaxy filament''s inhabitants say I turned cold, after.'' The bitterness in his tone could''ve passed for either agreement or disapproval. ''That it is too much to imprison criminals in isolation, with only the bare necessities of survival.'' On the verge of anger, he tapped into his implants, rearranging his brain while his processor took over most of his thought process. ''I say they are almost as insane as the crooks. Why would one try to steal from another, either belongings, virtue or life, if they have as much of everything they could want? We have corrected chemical imbalances across the population, so it''s clearly a matter of choice, not mental illness. A search for thrills. And yet, they would have me release them back into society after questioning, only with a watchdrone to restrain them if they try to break the law again.'' Of course, since the Quiet had all the energy they might''ve needed to gain from sustenance or rest otherwise given to them by implants linked to the Kingdom''s many generators, they had to be extensively modified (one could say downgraded) to need food, water and sleep again. Many of the Quiet saw that as mutilation, and the withholding of entertainment or sapient interaction as torture. To be honest, I didn''t really disagree with the Voice. When you had everything you needed to live handed to you since birth, or creation (for the Quiet believed people shouldn''t have to worry about such trifles, lest they live like animals instead of reaching their full potential), you had to be a cunt to steal. The only thing you gained was the pleasure of depriving someone else or something. ''But you don''t have to be mentally ill to want to hurt others. You people still have grudges. Some are just born sadistic, or perverse.'' The Voice gestured dismissively. ''Maladjusted fools. I wouldn''t wipe my raygun with their flayed hides.'' A wry grin curled his lips as he made a couple more steps. ''Do not think I don''t appreciate your agreement, Keeper. But it''s not going to win me the next election. I have this feeling they''re getting sick of me and my cruel laws.'' ''Would they be calling for the end of your term otherwise?'' ''I doubt it. No one thinks about politicians anymore, unless we bother them.'' He tapped his chin. ''This paranormal nonsense cannot be predicted, yet. Our computers, tachyonic, vermespatial and otherwise, are not credible, as far as her fate is concerned.'' His voice was hoarse. ''Can you help her? Will you?'' ''I''ll be honest.'' I took a seat in one of the shaped forcefields that served as a couch, conveniently coloured a light blue by trapped photons to indicate it in case someone with dull senses wanted to take a seat. ''It''s good you''ve kept her in stasis. If you''d let her grown, the matter might''ve passed out of my hands.'' At his bemused look, I have him a simplified explanation of the Mover and its bullshit. By the end, he seemed of a mind with me. ''So, there is a god,'' the Voice mused out loud. ''And it''s the laziest man-child ever? Just as well that I''m...agnostic, I suppose I must say, these days.'' ''You''ve arrested motion at every level of matter.'' I held out a hand towards the shapeless child. ''She''s still aware, and her soul still wanders in her flesh - but all she''s seen is her father trying to keep her safe, while looking for a solution.'' He smiled at that, if hesitantly. ''More than I''d hoped for,'' he confessed. ''So she might truly live, still.'' He was nodding to himself as he left, and kept doing so as he arranged the bottle and glasses he''d returned with on a table that rose from the floor. ''A blood-cousin of mine carves such things,'' he explained as he set the table. ''Says that a man who came from a womb rather than a vat or other fabricator ought to know how to do things with his own hands, without a matter-energy convertor to direct or implants to guide him.'' I appreciated that he didn''t launch into an explanation of the vintage or the production process. Spazzing juice backstories never impressed, and, as I was about to tell the Voice he didn''t have to pour me anything, he shook his head. ''You don''t have to drink. Take it as gesture of hospitality. Or celebration.'' He inclined his head to the side, indicating his daughter without looking at her. ''Let his mark the beginning of her recovery.'' ''Right.'' A sip would''ve killed most mundanes, including some much bigger than him, but his augmentics let him filter harmful substances, leaving only the taste and a mild buzz he would quickly recover from, given the level his mind worked at. ''You are a teetotaler, Keeper David?'' ''One of my friends had this stupid phase in his youth,'' I answered the Voice, ''when I''d get drunk because he couldn''t sleep. or couldn''t forget some things, so he''d instead try to at least dull his senses.'' I hadn''t known Lucian, temporally speaking, back when he''d try to drown his sorrows. Nowadays, the zmeu drank "for fun", but he only really got tipsy, no matter how convincingly he slurred his words or staggered. But doing it out of boredom was better than doing it to distract himself from his instincts. Least he had a hold on those. ''Not that you''ll catch us talking about about it,'' Lucian had told me one night, during one of his more morose moods, ''but half your being pushing you to be a predator in every context really isn''t an incentive for staying sober.'' ''I see,'' the Voice replied. ''And that is the only reason for your aversion to narcotics?'' I didn''t give a flying fuck about what you wanted to drink, snort or inject into yourself as long as you didn''t hurt other people while tweaking, but my experiences with losing control of myself didn''t make the prospect of being addled attractive. ''If I did go mad, I wouldn''t need to outsource insanity.'' My worse half chuckled softly. ''Don''t need any help.'' The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. My gruff explanation (and I was using the term loosely) seemed to satisfy him. ''I understand. Responsibility is the key to proper leisure.'' I bet he was a party animal before he got into politics. ''In any case...I know it must look awful now, these changes out of nowhere that threaten everything you thought you knew about reality.'' I held out a hand. ''But it''s not all bad. In fact, you are seeing the beginning of one of the many paths to Ascension, then Transcendence.'' The Voice of Man had no context for that, but I could tell he noticed the emphasis. After dealing with his opposite number, and beings even less humanlike than the Voice of Machines, he''d grown used to reading between the lines. ''If you say so,'' he replied carefully. ''What will come, will. My purpose is to remind our King of the human perspective - but he makes the decisions that affect us all.'' Unless he did something to get him booted out of his - as far as everyone who opted for immortality, which was to say most of the Quiet - extremely recent office. ''But,'' the Voice continued, tone only half-joking, ''you''ve said she will have a future again. And for that, I''m willing to needle him if he is feeling obdurate.'' ''Thank you.'' As I said that, I contemplated encouraging some mages to take a vacation here, or some of the Quiet to come to my universe. Directly showing them what to do or leaving training materials would''ve been seen as an overreach on my part, I was sure. Briefly, I imagined this little girl being healed and growing up to be a witch. Maybe going to the Mandrake League...Mihai, who was more powerful than most of their alumni and more skilled than some, had never set foot in any League school, and swore up and down that they never stopped leaning on people they helped, so they could have their favours returned. But they did make sure students always had a place to live and everything they needed to sustain themselves, so they could focus on their education. Some mages were so precocious, powerful and curious almost from birth, that their hometown''s schools sometimes failed to cope. And if the ML board made sure the world was kept safe from magical disasters, surely one could overlook coincidences like them supporting mage politicians, especially likely presidents or prime ministers. Feh. She''d decide where to go once she could think for herself. Gerald Reyes had only ever been to ML schools as a guest lecturer, and the only spellcasters comparable to him who weren''t gods were people like Merlin, Nimue, Morgan La Fey and Solomon. ''For now,'' I said, reaching into my jacket, ''I might as well start sharing what the Mover''s been pestering me to.'' The book was only a tridimensional representation of the inside Starlight Crowned With Ivory had shared with me, but, when read properly, it would enhance a portion of the reader''s mind so they could experience what an Ascended did, despite not having approached Ascension. Like the hypersavants described in the Reptilian Collective''s latest proposal for an intelligence index, a fraction of their mindscape would be temporarily enhanced to envision a higher kind of existence, without harmfully affecting the rest. If read properly. As the Voice of Man flipped through the book (having realised he could not look through the cover or absorb its data with a touch), skimming, I hid a smirk, mentally winding up. After a few moments, he put it down, looking up at me with interest. Probably the first man to do so, my strigoi side remarked, because the bitch was pathologically opposed to me having nice things. In most cases. ''This is fascinating,'' the Voice said, ''if true. And even if not...we have always kniwn observation could change reality. But turning imagination into fact, without quantum lensing...the Board of Battle needs to know-'' I threw the book at him. Metaphorically. It was more like a bonk on the forehead, really. A gentle one. A bonklet, if you will. The Voice stared at me, thoroughly bonked. ''What was that for-'' ''Dude.'' I waved "Thoughts On Transfinity" in front of him. "I show you the endpoint of existence, and you''re hyped up about how the people from that time would do on some forum for smashing action figures together?'' He frowned. ''Keeper David, before you, the only lifeforms - and I use the term loosely - from beyond our universe we encountered were, if not malevolent, certainly dangerous and implacable...'' ''The Reach That Grasps often goes for spacefaring civilisations.'' Not just fledgling explorers with one planet to their name, but also Lesser Powers relatively vulnerable compared to the Great ones. The Rhaikhy Reach had recently beaten such an incursion back. It''d been on the smaller side, so they''d only had to pull a moonship out of its hangar (as they''d shown in the video they''d sent the Global Gathering; the theme had been "See, we''re a functional society that fights monsters, so it''d be awfully nice if none of your overpowered mutants destroyed us.") People might''ve thought the void of space was empty, but it certainly wasn''t filled with people adverse to eldritch invaders. ''No World Spirits to repel them. You must''ve noticed they tended not to appear on inhabited celestial bodies.'' ''...No, they did not.'' He stroked his alleged beard. ''I am sure you will elaborate. I do not believe we''ve encountered any of these Spirits you brought up, but many uncanny things bypass our scanners.'' World Spirits (and their stellar, galactic, universal and so on counterparts - their nature got muddy once you went beyond one reality) might''ve shared the combined knowledge and power of their physical vessel''s inhabitants, but that didn''t mean they were always grateful to those whose existence had resulted in theirs. After all, they didn''t need inhabitants to live, only to be born. Tellus'' desire to end the separation between mundanes and paranormals was unusual, as far as gestalt beings like her went. Not that her altruism meant she often reached out to help endangered species (look at the dinosaurs), which was more typical. ''But this Reach - that is the phenomenon''s name? We can detect its effects, if not its substance.'' There was a steely look in his eyes. ''I must be ready to defend my fellows from invaders, especially if they can get as powerful as the ones described in that book.'' I sighed. ''Did you skip the beginning and middle? Combat is the opposite of what the Transcended focus on, and they wouldn''t strike at their components.'' He folded his arms as he leaned back into his force construct, whose brainwave scanner responded to his mood, so it shifted into a chair. ''Don''t take this the wrong way, Keeper, but that was written by a being you can hardly call kind, no? More of a voyeur of suffering, even. And one you can''t be sure is honest.'' ''It is,'' I said patiently. ''I get where you''re coming from, but you haven''t looked into the Mover''s mind. Seeing through the lies of beings like it is one of my duties.'' And if there was one thing it never stopped talking about, it was wanting peers. Not that said fact made "trust me bro" easier to say, or more credible-sounding. Asking people to just trust me, with no real explanation, left a bad taste. ''Read it. Cover to cover.'' I tapped one of them with a clawed finger, for effect. ''Taking breaks is not a prblem, but don''t skim. There''s a proper way to do some things.'' And, since I couldn''t let the Mover show me up, I might as well release something besides new editions of my unlife story. Stay tuned for my isekai novel: "That Time I Was Reincarnated As A Vacuum Cleaner, And I Sucked", featuring a bumbling salaryman comedically adapting to his new body. Also, in the background, a bland, dark-haired Japanese teenage boy, whose soul is summoned to another world (after he''s hit by a truck) to be reincarnated into a powerful body, so he can take down the demon lord. But will the overpowered skills and weapons tailored for him, and the slave girls he bought so they could be freed and become members of his harem, be enough? Or will the wish fulfillment package need to be expanded? I didn''t tell the Voice about any of my future projects, though. Spoilers and all that. Not to mention he had questions of his own, to keep me talking, after he finished the book. Such as "But if the supreme beings and forces of your world''s faiths are supposed to be one with this Mover, more or less, how they can also be one with this Quintessence?" ''I''m not the person to answer that,'' I told him honestly. ''I''m here to point out the horizon, so that others might begin their journey towards it while I defend them and keep them on the proper path.'' He had remarks on that, as well, and the discussion went on into the night. I won''t transcribe it here. Maybe another day... But, in the meantime, I''ll leave some of the excerpts that caught the Voice''s eye, to close this latest chapter. He got so into it that he didn''t notice me healing his daughter until she cried out, the forcefields deactivated by a thought from me. He smiled, more brightly than I''d ever seen him, but he was a man who prized composure. So, I did him a favour and left by the time he scooped her up in his arms, shoulders trembling. * * * Thoughts on Transfinity by Starlight Crowned With Ivory, Governor-by-merit of the Ur-City * * * Glossary - Ascension: The process of reaching/returning to the primordial state of being from which all takes root. -Ascendant: Someone in the process of Ascension, or in full mastery of its final state. >Ascending: A being existing on the level of the Ur-City at large, but metaphysically incomplete (sleeping Makers, sleepwalking Creators, ur-mites and similar creatures). >Ascended: Someone who has achieved the apex of Ascension, such as the magna-macrocosmic embodiments of creation, preservation and destruction. The Wrongly Woken Makers are on this level in terms of power, but little else. -Love: The union of two or more things, which culminates in their annihilation and the creation of a greater thing that bears and surpasses their traits. Not to be confused with the Idea of Love from the Starlit Macrocosm, designation Wellspring. -Trascendence: The process of achieving the utmost mastery of being that Ascension serves as the first step for. >Transcending: An Ascended in the process of Transcendence. >Transcendent: That Distant Dreamer. The Monad Majestic. The Ineffable Intellect. The Smiling Storyteller. The Quintessence that is the bedrock of all forces, beings, states and principles, and more. * * * To Ascension and beyond All who have been, Ascending or lesser, are now Ascended. Finally, the Unmoved Mover has nothing but peers. They are one in nature, if not in manner, and that is good: that is the source of growth, for now. Working alongside each other, Making, not in conflict, but in a competition none can lose. None tries to shame their neighbour''s achievements. Surpassing them is a joy, but not a goal; different views, manifesting as different creations blooming alongside each other in harmony, is the result of the Makers'' ambitions. Eventually, something grows from this fledgling union, like a World Spirit around an inhabited planet. It holds all their power and intellect within itself, but it is growing, and not whole. It is the Child Crescive, and mighty trees can rise from such a seed. The Child grows, more than the sum of its parts since its first moment, and, though those who gave birth to it are laughably beyond time, each instant of the eternity it spends developing, it surpasses itself. The second infinitesimal moment after it appears, it already dwarfs its former self like said self dwarfed the smallest particle of Wellspring. So does it surpass itself during the third instant, yet again, and once more during the fourth... For creativity unshackled is the kindling of its flame. The Child grows in such a manner, forever. And because eternities are small thing, like the infinities they are intertwined with, there is yet room to improve after this endless growth. Those the Child Crescive grew around now understand each other. They know creating in concert is the true path forward. But to do so, they must look upon what came before, lest they fail to glimpse what lays in their path. So it is that the Child matures, into a new being. An Achiever, who Archives. The Achiever holds a tome that details the Child Crescive and its infancy and youth: a perfect replica of the Child, and all it has learned of itself, is represented as a dot in the middle of the book''s endless first page, which is a shadow of the one after it, less than real compared to its might and knowledge. The pages of this Growing Guide are, quite literally, without number - for what could infinity not contain its lesser reflections? The Archiving Achiever sits, and meditates, cradling the Guide as they parse its contents. They have not created anything yet - nothing has sprung from their unity of mind - but it is not yet time. When that time comes, the Achiever stands up, holding the now frail, frail book like their contemplative self would''ve held a newborn human. For in gazing inwards, they have surpassed themselves once more. The Achiever begins creating, a manifold mind directed towards one purpose. In that act, again, they pass beyond themselves, for envisioning a decision and making it are very different things, always, but especially so for such a being: the Guide is now one with the Archiver-who-was. The Archiver-who-is, gone from decisive to creative, splits the Guide into three, and grows each third so it is as grand as the whole from which it came. These will become more, as it makes it vision fact. One of the Guides is set ablaze, and a wooden lattice springs into being around it, dwarfing the flame and its power to the extent only a spark can be seen in the midst of the construct. It is the centre of this device, but far from the most important part. The lattice is fractal: attempts to divide it would only reveal more complexity. And, like the creator in whose image it was made, it grows. The endlessly-faceted mind of the Archiving Achiever crafts things it could''ve never imagined before, stories its previous selves would be less than a wisp of thought next to. Each is inscribed on one of the lattice''s branching arms. The stories are numberless; how could the things holding them be otherwise? Were one to look down at the Living Lattice, as its maker might, if they so wished, they would see that each rising tier of carved arms casts the shadows that are those below them. Upwards, onwards, never-ending, The stories must have something to grow on; somewhere to be perused; finally, somewhere to end. The second Growing Guide is placed, with loving care, on a bookshelf. A watcher could see the Guide is insubstantial, here: an image radiating from the book next to it, which is like a featureless, endlessly simpler image of the third. The bookshelf''s first tier holds tomes that are, like its tiers, without number, stretching stretching outwards, never-ending. It is the first on this lowest floor of this Last Library. The other shelves are brimming with knowledge and power, such that none would blame it if, next to its closest fellow, it felt like a clay tablet covered in cuneiform script would feel next to the first shelf, if said tablet could think. The floor is managed by a Librarian - a job viewed with much love. A duty that might push the Librarian to rip the shelves to shreds with a thought, lest they be lost or twisted by some of the forces beyond. Nevertheless, the Laughing Librarian did not earn said name for nothing. The second floor of the Library is where the dream that is the first, and its caretaker, springs from. In everything except complexity, they are alike. Floor after floor, rising, rising, with Librarians dreaming as they Laugh, all the way up. There, the Last Library and its union with the Living Lattice can be seen most clearly. Like some gargantuan tree that grew around a skyscraper, they are equal in everything except purpose. The fables spun out of the Archiver''s mind are not interfered with unduly. The things within them grow and blossom of their own accord, and sometimes, they turn hateful, covetous eyes upon the others. The Lattice''s branches turn rotten. They must be cleansed, pruned. The third Growing Guide lies in the belly of something mortals might liken to a fish, for lack of a better comparison. This leaves the creature full, but discontent: hunger, or something like it, is the result. It would eat, but it cannot; it swims, slowly, barely able to move, in an ocean that, for all its hunger and strength, stretches boundlessly around it. Unbeknownst to it, said ocean is a droplet on the tip of a greater creature''s tongue. It, in turns, swims another ocean-droplet, blind to the jaws that hold it. Their hungers merge, prodding at the temper of the one who holds them all within. Moved to vexation, it bounds. This Leaping Leviathan bites the rotten fables free of the Lattice, and oh, are they dismayed when it maw closes about them. There is always a bigger fish. The Lattice and the Library, circled without pause by the Leviathan, are as unto a bubble atop the surface of a sea with no edges, or end to the number of its layers. That is the Achiever''s mind. Creation, Preservation and Destruction are awhirl in it: those three brought this about, and it is them that the Achiever wraps about themselves as they take the next step towards genuine Transcendence. * * * The Tiers Of Transcendence The Quintessential Quester - thus named both for what they seek and what they represent - sets forward, on a path burgeoning with life. With each step, they leave behind a shadow that is their former self, unable to comprehend their nature after even an incremental advancement. None could count the steps taken upon this leaf that is the path; the leaves clustered on one branch of a Tree of Life and Flourishing. The Trees gathered in a forest, atop a hill. The hills clustered at the foot of a mountain, atop the peak of which rises another, incomparably greater mountain - the bedrock of its better. The Quester forges on, taking step after step after step, ever surpassing itself. Rising upon the peak of the last mountain is a tower, filled with rooms upon rooms, spread across floors upon floors. The Quester ascends it. Seen from outside, the tower looks more like the side of a wheel; it looks like "I", thinks the Quester, as they begin to ascend it once more, though its aspect is now different. Yet not. The Quester contemplates themselves as they walk the wheel, as its simpler selves once did. They gaze upon it, and see themselves looking back, with little pleasure and less joy. There has, in fact, been almost none of either, thus far. The Mover who inspired others to lift themselves up did so because it wanted to, and could, not because it had to. It would''ve been a lazy god, surrounded by weaklings, if not for its desire to see others rise to its level, so they might truly understand each other, and thus love. Why does the Quester advance? None of the answers they have for themselves is satisfying. Nothing is pushing them to become more - nothing would''ve stopped them from staying as the Child Crescive. Why the restlessness? The fervour? (It is not greed, exactly, they know; more of a disgust at the thought of being inadequate.) Passion bereft of happiness is like poison. Telling themselves they advance because they must does not bring them any closer to their goal, in truth. The last tower is reached. It rises to the outer boundary of true Transcendence. Or it would, if its secret was sought properly. Endlessness is still all around the Quester. Who could enumerate the tiles in the first room of the Tower of Transcendence, much less the rooms on the first level, let alone the levels themselves? Each step leaves a shadow, a Quester-that-was. Every such shade pleads with the Quester to look within themselves, and see they are walking wrongly, or at least stop if they are too blind. They do not listen. They must grow, leave inadequacy behind. The Quester advances. Until they leave the Tower behind. There is no joy to be found beyond it, either. They have done everything they had to. They did their duty - how could they allow anything besides perfection? They have behaved properly. So where is their reward. The Quester finally looks inward, but it is beyond such help, now. There is no wonder to be found within them, no glee. They fall, and the end comes for them. Or rather, they fall into the End. * * * When the Voice reached that passage, he was irritated at the thought of having wasted his time on a hopeless story. ''Is this what awaits us?'' he''d grated bitterly, slamming the book onto the table. ''Even with power beyond imagination, are we to undo all we have wrought?'' Putting his head in his hands, he''d said, ''I hope you will reveal this is a prank, now, Keeper. I dislike going through this kind of setup only to read that it was all a dream, but even that would be more heartening than knowing that, no matter what we do, we are doomed by petty failings.'' He''d stared, despondently, at Thoughts on Transfinity. ''It is not inevitable,'' I''d replied. The Voice had said nothing, but in response to his questioning look, I''d continued, ''Let me ask you a question.'' There was nothing he could tell me that I didn''t know, but people like me asked others questions to make them think, not to learn something new. ''When you and your magisters catch and judge and imprison criminals, do you feel happy? Knowing you make society safer. Does it bring you joy?'' ''Does it bring me...? No, not quite. Why would it? It''s a necessary function that someone must perform. I have chosen to be that person.'' ''But not because it makes you happy.'' ''...Hmph.'' He''d rubbed his chin. ''Are you saying people like me will doom us all when everyone comes together? That we should perk up, to prevent the apocalypse?'' I''d just pointed at the book, making him shake his head with a dry laugh. ''Aye. Before, the importance of one''s temperament being so great would''ve sounded ridiculous.'' ''However...'' ''However,'' he''d agreed, with a faint smirk. ''But you wouldn''t show this just to make me despair - as a warning. You are not that kind of person.'' Looking me in the eye, he added, ''You would rather try to solve a problem yourself, and only talk about it, much less reach out, if it was impossible to do so. Am I wrong?'' Actually, you''re the Voice of Man. ''No. This is not the kind of problem I should solve by myself, if I could.'' I could spearhead this endeavour, help people be at peace with themselves, but I couldn''t force them to. That would either result in the opposite of what I wanted, or require mind control. Which was even less appealing. I''d felt a sigh coming as I turned to look through the window, at the cityscape beyond the Voice''s home. Arcologies clustered around the base of a space elevator, and I could feel the steady hum of life as people went about their day. To reach for the sake of reaching was worthless: nothing would be grasped. All the unhappiness in creation and beyond would follow if people tried to surpass themselves for the sake of power. There was no point to that. Only oblivion awaited them. I had, was planning to gain, several aces up my sleeve, to prevent just that. To one, my family and I would grow closer than I''d like to...but I''d have to get over it. Not because it would be necessary - we''d seen where that line of thinking led. Because it would be the right thing to do, the thing that would make everyone involved happy. Wouldn''t make those rainbow eyes look less smug, or his face less punchable - but really, the latter was alright with me. ''And if we succeed?'' The Voice didn''t sound excited, or nervous. He''d edited such things out of himself, for the moment, and so sounded like he was just entertaining the possibility, for discussion''s sake. ''Open the book again.'' * * * The Quester stood above the Tower of Transcendence, and the End roared in silence around them, deafeningly quiet. But they saw it for what it was, and understood it, though it could hardly be said there was anything to understand. It was nothing - no wonder they would''ve fallen to it, had there been nothing of worth within them. The Quester took a step, upwards. Across the Tree. Not the Tree of Life, from earlier in the journey, or any of its greater counterparts. It is the Tree of Knowledge, not of Good and Evil, but of Ascension and Transcendence, and all they entail. It IS, while the End IS NOT. It IS creation, potential, stability and growth. The End IS any of these things. What rots them from within, what brings them down, such things pertain to it, but are not the End. Any more than a drawing of a candle flame can be the sun. The Tree of Knowledge beams with joy as it defends itself from the End eating away at it. There is much to be observed, in their balance. The fraction of the Tree that could be glimpsed by mortals would include a mighty trunk and branches, covered in black bark, the latter bearing white leaves. Nourishing energies flow down roots that loop around into itself; the End is a void pressed tight against the Tree, gnawing at its substance yet being pushed away. It is failure. The moral failure that would''ve doomed a less enlightened Quester would''ve been of the End, too. The Tree is not victory, in of itself. But it leads to ultimate Transcendence. It cannot be described, or envisioned. Even speaking in abstractions, one cannot approach the truth of the Quintessence One might say it contains all that came before it, all the people and the things they shaped and were shaped by; every person preserved, allowed to reach their full potential regardless of how that would conflict with the potential of others. But they would not be fully right, either. For the Quintessence holds paradox and contradiction within itself, and yet is beyond them. It is at once a collective of everyone and everything, and a featureless, flawless expanse; it is protean and destructive, yet nothing truly ends within it; it is what lies beyond mathematics and duality, beyond description and imagination. It is what gave birth to all things that led and lead to it; it contains IS and IS NOT all that passes between them. Those who dreamed of supreme power, of the Almighty unbeholden to logic did so with the shadow of the Quintessence upon their thoughts; those who hoped for an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent being that would make everything be alright would have their wishes answered in one encounter with That Distant Dreamer. The Quintessence is a working of Love: what comes of IS and IS NOT clashing and producing something greater than them. Yet it is more than that, for such a thing can be described, if in an incomplete manner, unlike the Transcendent. The Quintessence that can be spoken of is not the Quintessence; it is less than a mask upon its face. Yet even that mask beholds all with the same eye - for what difference is there between the interplay of IS and IS NOT and a quark? All is, was, will be the lead working upon itself, to become the Transcendent gold it has, in fact, always been, and which now returns to. The Quester who failed to see the shape of things, the End triumphant, are within the Quintessence, too; so is the Quester who climbed the Tree. Impossibilities abound, yet thrive in harmony, within the Transcendent. As do all things. Nothing is lost, with Love. Apparent destruction is the foundation of greater creation. All can become more. * * * The Voice of Man has never prayed before. Veneration of ancestors and other forerunners is the most common form of spirituality in the Quiet Kingdom, even after the last handful of years. Even after the contact with other cosmoses. The Telluric Technocrats are, like the Quiet, mostly agnostic, though curious about the paranormal and the divine. Organised religion, beyond local shrines, is not truly a thing in either polity, and has not been in ages. The Wise from the cosmos of the same name mostly venerate the highest tier of their society, the Wisdoms whose plans always yield success if followed, unless opposed by a greater metaphysical force. Their Sages can empower themselves by following their own plans, but everyone following a Wisdom may be pushed beyond their limits. As such, the Voice mostly has historical records to go by. No one has prayed to an otherworldly god, one both benevolent and likely to answer, in many lifetimes. The Voice is not sure if the Unmoved Mover is a god, as such, or what makes one. The deities that gravitate towards the Keeper''s home universe themselves don''t seem to be sure what divinity is, or at least do not deign to explain it in a rational way. Nevertheless, he makes a shrine, to embody his devotion to this act. An icon, to represent the Mover. He clasps his hands, and makes request. Asks questions. He is disappointed, but unsurprised, when the Mover does not answer. With a metaphorical shrug, he goes back to his daughter. Solea is the apple of his eye, chubby but lively, though too young to talk properly - he has decided against acceleration of the body or mind, which some of the Quiet approve of. What is the point of having a child just to rush things? Might as well make a clone, or a machine. Solea''s energy manifests as gurgles, since she doesn''t know any words yet, and she always seems to be bouncing around the house, unless she''s asleep. Sitting her in his lap doesn''t make her calm down much, but at least he can hold her, preventing his little girl from clambering up unto the furniture and exasperating her mechanical caretakers. Solea''s magic is a budding thing, like hers, but she can make sparks dance, not just produce them. Sometimes, in her quiet moments, the sparks arrange themselves into a blue-green image of her, which replicates her actions. She turns into a bouncing ball again whenever that happens, even if he''s holding her. Like now. The girl''s bushy, platinum-coloured hair covers her eyes as she snores, and her father tries to move her into a more comfortable position. She has this curious habit of sitting on her belly while sticking her rear up, half-standing, when she''s upset, and recently, it has also become her sleeping position. Eventually, he managed to place her on her side and wrap her up in her hardlight blanket. She reminds him of a bread loaf. ''I wish your mother was here,'' he confesses, to no one. Or so he thinks. His senses and sensors have not been updated to the point of being able to detect things like the projection filling a fraction of his home, and that remains silent, so the Voice perceives no answer. The loaf snores. A throat is cleared. The Voice''s head perks up, and he notices that looking at the bluish-silver light with no apparent source makes a humanoid entity move across his mind''s eye. Very well. He''s seen strangers. ''You are the Unmoved Mover?'' he asks, in his mind. It smiles, and everything brightens up. ''So I am named,'' it answers, ''though the first part is inaccurate, in this case.'' The Voice holds back a disbelieving noise. ''If you truly cared about her, about us, in anything than the most shallow sense, you would do something. Anything.'' ''Out of love?'' ''What else?'' he retorts. ''That is why...'' he stops, closes his eyes. In his mindscape, this is a cleansing of his surroundings. ''The book you gave David. It speaks of unbelievable things. Are they the truth?'' ''Of course they are not the Truth,'' the Mover responds. ''But they speak of it.'' ''You know what I-'' ''Aye, I do. Consider that gift an act of love.'' It subtly moves its head to indicate something. ''You are not the first, or only being to receive one.'' ''But that is so meagre! With your power, you could-'' ''I could do many things with my power,'' the Awakened Maker agrees. ''Because not doing everything I can, or doing nothing, would be monstrous, selfish. No?'' He does not dignify that with an answer. A rhetorical question if he''s ever heard one. The Mover''s smile returns. ''My child, consider: who raised the Keeper beyond his intended station? Who intervened, and does so still, where and when he cannot, or will not?'' Hands almost hidden by voluminous sleeves are clasped together. ''A gardener does not force flowers to grow. They may regret when they wither, or bring each other down, but monstrousness would be forcing them to grow beyond their natural means, because it would please them - and it would please me, greatly, to watch you all grow.'' The Creator spreads its arms. ''Would there be anything more immoral? Perhaps. Do not mistake detachment for apathy, however. Just because I love my garden from afar does not mean I ill let anyone jump the fence to set it alight.'' Solea stirs in the Voice''s arms. ''I will be taking my leave, I think,'' the Mover continues. ''You have a child to rear - one you, I notice, have not pushed into adulthood by scientific means. Curious...'' * * * "...can work, Ned. You stopped the cycle of macrocosmic instability, and the Keeper you prepared has begun laying the foundation for the dream you never thought feasible. Everyone might yet work together, and not just for a moment, not just out of fear or in response to a threat." - Excerpt from a communique of the Eye of Darkness, addressed to the Remaker. Apocrypha: I3 Report
"The Collective presents the Intelligence Indexing Initiative, the fruit of much debate among one of our latest biology and psychology study groups. These self-styled pioneers have also dabbled in the alien, mechanical and metainformational counterparts of the sciences their society was founded on, which, as an aside, must be said happens with every alleged scientist who has more time than worthwhile ideas. The Collective does not inhabit a macrocosm so gentle that our attention can be wasted on curios. The following scale uses the minds of unenhanced Zhayvin - roughly equivalent to mundane humans and many aliens of the Lesser Powers - as a reference point and baseline. On a completely unrelated note, claims that the human intellect in action makes the Shaper scream into a pillow are baseless, shameless slander, likely spread by mouthpieces of the knuckle-dragging Kratocracy, a polity too selfish to do everyone the favour of spontaneously ceasing to exist. Also, the Shaper is widely known not to own pillows, or similar possessions." -Addendum to the first I3 report, by Ridge of the Collective (who would later be reminded that not all Vyzhaldi are violent, speciesist xenophobic imperialists, like the Zhayvin themselves used to be) * * * Sentience Intelligence below that of the typical sapient; sentients might be self-aware, some able to recognise themselves in mirrors and create primitive societies and tools. This type of intelligence can be further categorised into: -Protosentience: the impression of a mind, rather than the existence of one. Many civilisations employ automatons that seem to think but do not, such as robots, golems and most zombies. Their programming can fool the uninformed into thinking they are intelligent beings, but they are not, any more than a knife can be said to know how to cut. Protosentients can develop to reach higher tiers of intelligence in the right circumstances. -Sentience: varying degrees of self-awareness, toolmaking and socialisation abilities, as can be seen among some apes, Corvids and dolphins. Beings with much sharper senses or a deeper perception than a baseline sapient, but which nevertheless behave like animals, such as feral undead and therianthropes (or indeed, many actual animals) often fall into this tier after taking leave of their wits. -Hypersentience: beings from higher macrocosmic layers capable of perceiving existence on a more profound level than a baseline sapient, but wwhich are paradoxically animalistic in terms of intellect (aether swimmers, voidmaws). Sapience The mental capability of a Zhayvin before the Shaper''s enhancements were first applied, or of a human unaltered by aberrant effects. -Supersapience: sapients who possess much sharper reflexes and senses than a baseline sapient, such as the vast majority of Terran aberrants. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. -Hypersapience: higher layer beings who are their habitats'' analogues to baseline sapients, with whom they can interact in an intelligent matter (for example, many of the Outer Void''s Archetypes). Savanthood An uncanny aptitude in one field, despite the mind in general not being that capable, that sometimes appears in humans and used to appear in Zhayvin. For example, the ability to always remember dates or small details, or perform complex calculations on the spot, despite generally being socially or intellectually impaired rather than attentive or brilliant. -Protosavanthood: sentients might intellectually resemble persons in some situations, but this is an illusion. A parrot does not understand meaning of the words it repeats, nor a monkey the significance of the movements it imitates; nor are aberrant shapeshifters who mimic human socialisation out of instinctive knowledge that will get them attention or resources aware of their actions'' actual significance. -Supersavanthood: sapients might possess mundane intellects in regards to every area but one. Empaths able to sense and interpret emotions in moments, but who have otherwise human minds, are considered supersavants, as are many precognitives, or those humanlike aberrants who can ramp up their reflexes but not their senses or general intelligence. -Hypersavanthood: sapients able to perceive the higher layers of the macrocosm in their genuine form, but not to affect them, are known as hypersavants. The mixed descendants of those aberrants humans call eldritch often possess this ability. Black Box Brains Sapients able to produce results that would require tremendous brilliance without actually understanding the processes involved: mages who can create complex substances or structures without knowing chemistry or architecture (there is debate within the I3 on whether one''s aetherkinesis - "magic" - is a thinking being or not, and if yes, how smart it is), because their mana "does the thinking for them"; Hypertechnicians of the Telluric Technocracy who can arrange raw materials into constructs with a touch or thought, depending on their grade, without understanding their workings and so on. Some reptilians of the I3 argue that precognitives who can see the future without calculating probabilities are also B3s; others say there is overlap between this category and protosavanthood, and that one of them should be scrapped so the classifications can be merged. Their detractors retort that would be too broad, as B3s are sapients and shouldn''t be placed on the level of animals who imitate persons. Note: not all B3s possess actual brains, or even bodies. Apocrypha (Omake): Would you help me out?
* * * I was scrolling on my phone, looking over baby turtle pictures, when I got the message. My plans to prevent as many newborn and infant deaths weren''t only intended for humans. That would''ve been bigoted, and I couldn''t say I felt more for my former species than any other, besides. But while we could take care of issues like space and resources through various paranormal means, most animals weren''t so fortunate. Which meant watching their young die. Hearing it, too, sensing it in every way; every death was mine, and felt like that. I couldn''t do my job properly unless I shared such things. So, "brooding over dead baby animals" was not a good mood for Szabo''s bullshit to find me in. [From: Loric Szabo My august brother in death, I am certain this message finds you in the fullness of your power and faculties.] (Yeah, he texted like a professional scammer.) [I can only hope so, because the request I come requires both your wits and your might.] Now, despite the phrasing and what followed, Szabo wasn''t into anything dubious. Not with me, or any other man, in any case. He just didn''t think things through, sometimes. [If my arms were broken, would you give me a hand???????] That last part, for example, was meant to convey pathos, not that Szabo was entering his kawaii phase. Existence wasn''t prepared for that. I replied with great eloquence and restraint. [Szabo, what the fuck? Why do you even have my number anymore, I told you to erase it. No, I wouldn''t give you a hand, what the hell? And what''s with that those emojis at the end??? I haven''t seen anything this cursed since I last went to Giza, ugh.] This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. He responded quickly. [I see there is no brotherly sentiment in your heart, David. Knowing me bereft of support and unable to seek pleasure, you would leave me by the wayside and walk past. Shame.] [Oh my God-why don''t you beat it, as in leave, huh?] I blocked his number before he could post a wagging finger gif or something. He could talk to me through his damn powers. * * * A while later, I was texting my girlfriend. Eerily, she had a similar question to the strigoi. [Hey hon, if my arms were broken, would you help me out???] [Of course baby girl??] And in came he again, with a steel chair. [Aha! So you would help her out but not me, huh you misandrist??] While Mia was going "Huh?", I responded with- [Szabo, how the hell are you in this conversation and why? I told you to knock this weird brotherly bullshit off, I''m not into that. And she''s my girlfriend, you dumb arsehole. Of fucking course I''d help her.] [Plausible.] I blocked him again. * * * Szabo scowled thunderously down at his phone, and turned to behold his grandson with a grim countenance. ''It is no use, Csaba,'' he declared. ''David Silva is a bigoted maniac who believes only women deserve help with their art. I will endeavour to add beauty to the clothes you make, with my own hands. Even if it cripples me.'' The younger man asked, ''But did you even get to that part? Did you tell him you were asking for a relative? You know I''d have done so myself, but you''re closer to them-'' ''It is of no consequence. I can smell the closemindedness from here.'' He sniffed, to illustrate his point. Frowned. ''No, wait. That''s the lid¨¦rc skull I crushed last mission.'' As he purposefully strode past his grandson, he muttered to himself, ''Knew I should''ve buried it deeper...'' Csaba stared, sighed, and sat down. ''Time to call some clothier, I guess.''