《VISCERAE》


 SKIN-DEEP

    ??§ñ??? ?''o?W


    __________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    It¡¯s here. At long, long last, it¡¯s here.


    Slowly, I unwrap the box. My knife glides through tape, carves open carboard, pulls apart paper and styrofoam packing. It¡¯s a lot of packaging for such a small, well, package, but considering how much I paid for it, I¡¯m not overly bothered by just how well-insulated it is. Most of it¡¯s recyclable anyways, so not the end of the world- better tape, cardboard and paper than packing peanuts and plastic wrappers at the end of the day.


    Slowly, with something approaching reverence, I take the cartridge out of the box.


    Three inches wide, half an inch across, equipped with a port to lock it in directly and fuse its code to any compatible system, of which, at the moment, only one exists. Its casing is pitch black, perfectly simplistic, bereft of any stickers, paint or marker- but on the back side of it, carved in so small that I have to run my fingers over them to feel them, are letters. They spell out a single word in sharp, jagged, knife-born shapes-


    MEAT.


    Three months of searching for it, proving that it was real, another three weeks of finding someone who could get it for me, and then another two whole months waiting for the fucking thing in the mail. Apparently it got shipped to New Zealand, Madagascar, and then Hawaii before it even landed on the continental US, only to get half-lost wandering across different cities before it ever reached the sleepy town of Hollow Springs. I tracked it across no less than five different mailing websites before it got to UPS, and it was agony the whole time.


    Holding the cartridge delicately, I get up from my knees and walk over to my desk and the headset planted upon it.


    There are three different openings for a cartridge- currently, the memory of the machine is self-contained, meaning there¡¯s only so much room for new programs and games. The tech is new, cutting edge, but some of the interfaces aren¡¯t quite as well-polished because of it. There¡¯s something a bit refreshing about technology this advanced having something as analog as ports for cartridges, but honestly? Better than digital-only. The system, top of the line and with integrated haptic feedback, control gloves and high-tier graphics, isn¡¯t even on-market yet, and frankly, it¡¯s my pride and joy to have snatched it up before ¡°official¡± release. Modern VR improvements mean that there¡¯s plenty of stuff that can match its performance, and more than a few games compatible with the experimental model I¡¯ve gotten my grabby little hands on, but the haptics especially are one of a kind, and hard as hell to program for.


    Which makes this all the more special.


    I¡¯ve unplugged my other cartridges, blocked off the internet connection, disabled anything that might send me a system update and crash the whole thing. The other cartridges are arrayed on desk beside the headset, ranging from beloved to reviled; Metroid Primus 6, Cyberpunk 2088 (the port, of course), and Skyrims. That last one is particularly far to the ¡°reviled¡± side; you can only re-release the same game so many times before people get pissed at you.


    Gaming is¡­ well it¡¯s not new, but it¡¯s only recently I got the money to actually commit to it. Took me years of scrimping and saving to try to make my first gaming computer, but it¡¯s only now that I¡¯ve finished college that I¡¯ve managed to get enough hours at work to afford major stuff. Like, say, a semi-pirated VR headset just a half-step ahead of the already prohibitively expensive curve. I¡¯ve been getting as much as I can out of it, a lifelong pastime turned into something more like¡­ hmm. Well, I wouldn¡¯t say healthy dedication, but a dedication for sure, something I¡¯m genuinely passionate about.


    Better than bartending, at any rate. It¡¯s a good way to unwind after the particular horrors of social interaction that the job entails.


    Point being, I¡¯ve been gaming a lot longer than three years. My uncle got me a pirated copy of New Vegas when I was a kid, way back in the 2010s, and I used to play arcade games on his rebuilt PCs before even that. I just never really stopped.


    From Doomed to Warframing, from Apex Legendary to Biotaze, and a hundred more over the last almost¡­ fuck, almost twenty years of my life, it¡¯s been one long journey in escapism, and I¡¯d have it no other way. Only a few have ever really stood out, though- chief among them, the Prototypes series, one of the sources for my love of messy, delicious biohorror. That¡¯s the danger about having particularly delightful tastes, though- nothing since then has scratched that itch quite the same.


    At least, not until now.


    Then they came out with VR mechanics that actually work in the mid 2020s, and it¡¯s all been a beautiful adventure since then.


    But¡­ well, it¡¯s new technology. New machines, new coding, overworked game developers and programmers being driven by a bunch of money-grubbing producers- the games industry is a hot mess at the best of times. For every Inner Wilds there¡¯s a thousand new Call Of Guns that come out and flood the market to help a bottom line, and that goes about quintuple for something as complex and difficult as a VR game. Most of them are little better than vertigo-inducing physics simulators with mediocre graphics, making the few exceptions genuinely stand out- and also making those exceptions even rarer. It¡¯s been years since something really juicy came along, and out of a mix of boredom, frustration, and curiosity, I found myself on the lookout for some of that real shit. Escapism with a laptop screen only gets you so far, but VR is the future, and where better to look into the future than in the annals of prophecy- or, more specifically, the vaunted halls of discussion forums.


    Boy howdy, were there forums.


    I had to weed out some of the messier ones, but I built my little corner eventually. Places to discuss indie titles, well, well-developed experiences worth the grind or the money, and discussions of what mechanics and changes are needed to really make these kinds of games work. Theoretical improvements, game-theory, and wishlists all fill the space with discussion, usually positively, even with all the moaning and groaning (because there truly is no online forum in the world without at least a little pissing and whining). Even found some good recommendations, like, say, some of the cartridges lined up on my desk. Standing aside for the new delight in my hands.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Because after I got a bit more established? Then¡­ then there came the rumors. Some game that blew the others out of the water. The most immersive, reactive experience ever coded, entirely indie, developed over years and years. Someone claimed it was a bootleg of an upcoming major-league title, others that it was just a rumor, some even saying it was born from the depths of some unhinged scandinavian programmer. Knowing programmers, the latter seems most likely, even now. Everyone who talked about it would not shut up, earning more than a few closed discussion threads or canceled forum accounts, but even still, no mod group seemed able to actually shut down conversation of the topic.


    The next Full Life: Alexi. Something to remake the industry and prove the real limits and capabilities of existing software, compatible only with the very latest version of VR technology.


    Three months it took, to find someone whose account I could verify and whose story felt believable. Three weeks, following links to old comments, finding the discussion boards and stories of others who managed to play the game. It became a background obsession for a while- work, sleep, game, and research, almost every day.


    And then¡­ two hundred dollars. The most expensive game I¡¯ve ever bought and paid for. There have been other temptations, but I¡¯m a firm believer in sales- any game over 60 dollars, generally speaking, needs to really earn a buck of mine. Had to agonize for days before the financial anxiety faded and I managed to get my bank account open to that price tag. It took the most strenuous recommendations from the most trusted sources and how much they¡¯d heard about it. This wasn¡¯t X or yamblr; for something to go this viral on this many discussion boards and forums, sans bots? That takes real passion, genuine enjoyment.


    So, I dipped into savings for the last fifty. Dipped into some of that piggy-bank cash at long last, bought myself a little indulgence.


    And now it¡¯s here. Almost six months after I first heard about it, it¡¯s here.


    MEAT.


    There¡¯s something almost prayer-like about holding the cartridge in my hands. About reaching out to the headset and plugging it in.


    It¡¯s 3pm on a saturday. I got no plans and no one to chat to for the next two days (ignoring how depressing that is). I got some spicy-ass chips, some bright green soda, and hot-pocket pizza poppers all prepped. I¡¯m in my comfiest outfit- the loosest, baggiest t-shirt in the world, loose boxers, and fuzzy socks. Bills are paid, bank account is starving but no longer bleeding, and I¡¯ve got all day tomorrow to recover from whatever hazy binge I fall into.


    I¡¯m ready.


    Slowly, I slip the glove and joystick control onto my right hand, then my left. I place the haptic feedback sensors on my shoulders, stomach, and thighs. I take a long, delicious sip of delicious, monstrous caffeine, burp loud enough that I hear it echo out of my room and down the hall, and reach for the headset.


    It¡¯s already warm as I pick it up. The battery is fully charged, but it¡¯s plugged in to ensure the longest gaming session possible, and I can feel the complex circuity powering up, the whirring fans coming to life- and then I hear nothing at all as the sound-canceling buffer slips over my ears.


    I click the power button on the side of the device, and watch it begin to power up.


    At first, it¡¯s just a black screen. It raises brightness slowly, ensuring that the user¡¯s eyes can adjust, and begins to color in. The tech ain¡¯t perfect- if you look closely enough you can still see places where the pixels get a little blurry. That being said, it¡¯s still HD, and they stand a cut above any laptop or desktop I¡¯ve owned yet.


    Gradually, the game begins to run.


    Dripping black ooze shifts and falls across the screen in front of me, slowly succumbing to gravity and running off the walls. I look down, seeing a puddle of it forming around my feet, the viscous matter moving gummily as I push it with my avatar¡¯s feet and wave a controller over it.


    Then, there¡¯s a tearing sound. Ripping, bright and nasty, like an ugly cut that is as messy as can be. I turn like a whip, startled by the noise, and see-


    A line. Carved into the white wall from which the ooze fell from.


    Behind me, a void. At my feet, the strange tar. Before me, a blank white wall, white as snow, with a single line of burning crimson carved into it.


    Then another one. Diagonal-down, same length as the first. Another, diagonal-up. A third, straight vertical.


    It keeps going. Inch by inch, scarred line of bloody flesh after scarred line of bloody flesh, a word is carved into the wall.


    MEAT.


    Metamorphous font, I¡¯m pretty sure. Bright red and dripping. For a while, that¡¯s all that¡¯s on screen, long enough that I start to worry- and then another two cuts, diagonally crossing each other. They make an X shape, gaping open and drooling blood.


    Beneath it, another, smaller word is carved, with an arrow pointing from it up towards the red X.


    BEGIN.


    Slowly, I extend my hand out to the wall in front of me. There¡¯s a sense of warmth and vibration from the haptic feedback sensors as I touch the wall, and it only gets more intense as I touch the still-dripping blood from the cuts, an arterial crimson. The wall shudders, ever so slightly, like gelatin reacting to stimuli- or like flesh, responding to touch.


    Oh yeah. This is that good shit.


    Without further hesitation, I plunge my hand into the carved-open sigil, eliciting a fresh gout of haptic feedback from the controller-


    And then I¡¯m yanked. The feedback does its best to emulate the sharp tugging sensation, but it mostly comes across through the visuals, the morbidly pallid arm of an avatar sucked violently forward. The wall comes closer, and even as I step back in the real world, it only approaches more, until it starts taking up the whole screen. It bends and warps around me as it pulls me in deeper, deforming and opening and tearing wider as it swallows me whole, until the whole screen is red and glistening and full of muscle fibers and blood.


    And then it gives one last yank, something responded to by the haptic sensors giving me a full-body jolt of motion, and the screen goes black again.


    And stays that way.


    For a while.


    Which yeah, sure, if that¡¯s the experience, that¡¯s the experience, and it¡¯s pretty good- but not, like, two hundred dollars kind of good. That was like, what, five full minutes of gameplay? All of it in cutscenes and a menu? More like a tech demo than anything.


    I¡¯m about to hit the button on my headset that brings up the settings and options menu when, abruptly, I hear something.


    A heartbeat.


    Bum-bum. Bum-bum.


    I look around, trying to find the source- there.


    A small, glowing little nodule. Bright red, same as that arterial spray, but almost bursting with light. It¡¯s so bright that I can see through it, a translucent membrane illuminating a vague and hazy shape beneath it.


    Above the glowing polyp, words appear, made out of artful, curling veins and bright red trails in the air as opposed to the violent tearing of the previous example. They say a simple, straightforward sentence that sends a little thrill through my body and fills me with the joy only a true gamer can know.


    Begin Character Creation.


    Oh yeah.


    This is that good shit.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.1

    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    ?oll?H


    _______________________________________________________________


    Two pathways appear, glowing in the air, written in that same metamorphous calligraphy of glowing veins.


    MODEL and STATS.


    Appearance can be¡­ tough. Comfort in your own skin is hard enough, and frankly, if it means finding out that all this was leading to some default protagonist that just feels wrong, I¡¯d rather wait. In no time flat, my hand is over the STATS option.


    The arm of an avatar draws attention as I do. The game seems to try its hardest to completely negate the shape of the controller, putting it into something more realistic. My hand is there, but remade in a pale, worm-like exterior, slimy and slick. I love it. Points for immersion for sure, but there¡¯s something just funny at the idea that I¡¯m more comfortable with the pallid, slightly off limb more than the thought of making ¡°myself¡± in the game¡¯s character creator. Nothing to explore there, no sirree.


    Slowly, the glowing polyp rises into the air, glowing above almost like a bulb or a far-off satellite, letting down a bit of red color to the void all around. In its place, directly in front of me, a series of words begins to form, four of them, shaped into categories, each one with a small circle right beneath it, empty and dark.


    <ul>


    <li>


    ADAPTATION


    </li>


    <li>


    CANALISATION


    </li>


    <li>


    EVOLUTION


    </li>


    <li>


    SYNCHRONICITY


    </li>


    </ul>


    ¡­huh. I know¡­ at least two of those words. Maybe three, out of context. That points to interesting possibilities (and, frankly, pushes me further towards the theory this is some lone programmer¡¯s opus more than an official product). Synchronicity especially points to a lot of potential mechanics, and I wonder wonders what it might mean, but ¡°CANALISATION¡± isn¡¯t a word I''m familiar with. I go to hover over the word, and then smile wide as the veins of the word react, pulling back and unfolding like a flower, forming into more words.


    ADAPTATION unfolds into a bright, deep red, the veins branching out jagged from the original word and dripping thick, heavy fluids, as if oozing a dozen different oils and unidentifiable liquids.


    The Entity¡¯s ability to change in relation to outside factors, such as materials consumed or environmental factors. Generates new responses, abilities, and resistances.


    The Entity? Oh ho ho. How positively flattering. My smile gets just a little wider as I pull over to the next stat, letting the forking vein-tree of ADAPTATION retract back into itself.


    CANALISATION is made up of paler lines, and as my hand hovers over it, it grows slowly, steadily. It expands into a flat pane of off-white material, one cohesive whole- smaller in scale than ADAPTATION was, but far more structurally stable.


    The likelihood of a mutation or change in spite of changes to the Entity or its environment. Reduces rate of random transformations and helps changes not immediately useful stay with the Entity longer.


    Now that¡¯s fucking something. Sort of a balance to the adaptation mechanic? I wonder, if I pump all my points into adaptation, do I turn into a hyper-reactive clump of mess? Sounds fun to play as, but I can definitely see how it might be annoying long-term, especially if I can lose my mutations. CANALISATION seems like a sort of stabilizer, a way to control what happens to me. A weird but ultimately promising stat, but I¡¯m a bit annoyed at the presence of something so obviously designed to manage another system, rather than something entirely new.


    Too early to judge. I let the stable blocks of flesh drift away, turning to the next stat in line.


    EVOLUTION has a fascinating little animation, where it hatches open and makes another version of the word appear as I hover over it, slightly different than the last one. The process repeats, three more times in about two seconds, until the newest version of the fleshy word is a descriptor like the other stats.


    The likelihood that traits gained by one avatar will carry over into the next as the Entity communes.


    Short and sweet, but again, indicative of a lot. Is this a roguelike? If I¡¯m the Entity, then the avatars¡­ would be the characters? Hmm. Again, mixed feelings about this one. Without points in a stat, I lose all my progress if I die? Seems a bit clunky, and I didn¡¯t even know this thing was a roguelike in the first place. Or maybe it¡¯s like keeping my xp between save points? Well that would also suck. Hmm.


    No judging. Too early. Focus up.


    One more stat, and this one I¡¯m particularly curious about.


    SYNCHRONICITY doesn¡¯t act like the others. There¡¯s nothing as distinctly organic about it, even. The words are still red and meaty, but rather than react like a living thing, as my hand comes closer to it, it sort of¡­ fizzes. Like static, feeding into my haptic feedback like the sensation of a limb gone numb. It flickers and pulses, greying out parts of the black void until words appear, an almost searing red color and edges of static making up the text.


    The Entity''s communion with higher ideals, improving its understanding and ability to use organic technology and the mechanics of reformation.


    ¡­well fuck, consider me re-hyped.


    Organic technology? Mechanics of reformation? If the other stats feel like weird technical terms and balancing issues in the making, this one is just tempting. I can practically feel saliva start to gather at the thought of a crafting system, or hell, just a big minigun made out of arms or something. Oh the possibilities¡­


    I can only imagine that this one is going to be a joy to play with, especially if there are crafting options. The potential the description promises is nearly enough to offset the concern over the other stats right then and there.


    Alright. Especially if this is a roguelike, an idea is forming. It¡¯s hard to make a true glass cannon with these mechanics, but an equivalent comes up pretty obviously, staring me right in the face: full adaptation dump. The more I have, the more I can experience, the more I can do, and I can always load a save or just die and respawn to build a new character, probably. This way, I can get as much as I can out of a single run before coming back to a more balanced build, rapid-fire experiencing things until I get a feel for what I actually want out of the game.


    Hovering above the options, I try to select the circles under the words rather than the categories themselves.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    No numbers, no arrows to click up and down, but as my avatar gets close to ADAPTATION¡¯s empty bubble, it begins to glow. Looking closely, I see a bit of liquid begin to fill the circle, bright red slowly filling the circle up higher, higher, close to the top-


    I blink.


    My avatar¡¯s hand is getting paler. The sliminess is drying up, rapidly making the limb look outright unhealthy. I tilt my hand back, and some of the red drains back out of the ADAPTATION circle, and almost instantly, the arm plumps back up.


    Fuck, this shit is abstract.


    Color me fascinated, though.


    Tilting forward, I fill the ADAPTATION circle up to about halfway before switching to SYNCHRONICITY, filling it up to half as well. At this point, my avatar¡¯s hand is damn near mummified, drained to the point of being a dull, lifeless grey. Still, I push it towards the EVOLUTION bubble, and a trickle of red fills that too.


    And then¡­ the arm falls limp.


    I quirk an eyebrow, waiting for something to change, but¡­ it¡¯s just there. Limp. I wave my controller over the options, and they respond just like they did with my avatar arm, so I¡¯m not locked out of anything. Is it just a really artistic way to show I¡¯m out of stat points?


    Damn creative, if a little confusing. Honestly? I think that makes me like it more.


    This is great. I¡¯m getting invested.


    Now to see if the rest of character creation is going to break that interest.


    With the stats selected, I look around, trying to find a way to get to the ¡°Model¡± part of character creation again. There¡¯s no button for it, but¡­ hmm.


    I point up at the bulb above.


    Immediately the world begins to shift. There¡¯s a distinct difference in the lighting, especially as the polyp grows closer; it¡¯s gotten larger, heavier, juicier, like its straining against the thin skin around it. Most of all, it has a lot more movement in it. It¡¯s like the inside of it has turned from a translucent liquid into a thick goop, full of fibrous materials and dense with a much richer glow. Does it respond to the character creator? Did someone code distinct animations for every possible combination on the stats sheet? Damn does that bode well, but it sure seems like a lot of effort spent on the character creator.


    A click of the controller and the screen shifts further, like I¡¯m moving in a great distance. The polyp, in all its fleshy glory, grows until it¡¯s almost the size of a person, bright and filling the screen. The veins that made the earlier words spread out and begin to flow around the space, the stat-names swimming like tendrils in the dark until they cradle the orb and the shadows inside it. Distinctly creepy and deeply fun to watch.


    A dripping sound echoes in the void all around, and a few drops of that bright crimson liquid falls to the ground in front of me, mingling with the tar. Slowly, up out of the ooze, a figure comes to its feet, the crimson still turning into a pale, off-white skin that cloaks it as it stands, humanoid and distinctly inhuman for it. Its looks match the limbs that the game gave my avatar, still hanging limp to one side- thin, almost skeletal, and so white it looks like slimy porcelain. It¡¯s hunched, malshapen, uneven, with lumpy bits like tumors all over it. There¡¯s a face, a thin, lipless mouth framed over two round and lidless eyes.


    I raise a hand, reaching out- and it mirrors me exactly.


    Above and to its right, another menu forms, a series of options popping up. Height, Curvature, Muscle Definition, Weight- more than a dozen sections for different descriptors, with additional sliders and details for facial features. It goes deeper, though, and I have to blink and make a little noise, a bit dizzy at the possibilities presented. Markings, piercings, talons, coloration, even sliders for the amount of fur and feathers. Interestingly, there are only limited options for scales, but they¡¯re there too, and the number of varying features offered for teeth, eyes, and hair patterning are¡­ well. Extensive.


    A sense of mixed joy and dread rises into my gut, like eating too much of a good thing, as I stare at the massive array of options. The memory of Cyberpunk 2088 and the hours I spent in the character customization screen elicits both fond nostalgia and worry at just how much fun this is going to be, and just how much time I¡¯m going to spend on it.


    I roll my neck. Crack my knuckles. Do a little shimmy in my furry socks to shake out the willies.


    Time to get to work.


    ____________________________________________________________________


    3pm is long gone.


    To look at a clock? In the midst of enjoying an all-new gaming experience? Sacrilege. Apostasy. But¡­ admittedly, I don¡¯t really need to look at a clock to know that I¡¯ve been here for hours.


    And as a consequence¡­ I have achieved perfection.


    Well. Not really. But it¡¯s pretty good!


    I sigh, grabbing and popping open a bright pink energy drink without even needing to pop the headset off.


    ¡°I need a life.¡±


    Then I gargle the carbonated mix of carbs, caffeine and raw sugar and look back upon my glorious creation.


    Time to live vicariously through something else¡¯s life.


    The white homunculus is long gone. While the options don¡¯t offer as much variety as I hoped (no making my first character 9 feet tall), they do have a pretty wide range, and I¡¯ve done my damndest to make use of it.


    The body remains humanoid, that much remains the default, but I don¡¯t begrudge my creation its minor flaws. Standing at a good 6ft, the creature in front of me has two long, slender arms, terminating in multi-jointed fingers with short and curled talons at each end. The creature is fairly fit, but the options were limited in the end- some muscle is visible, but it mostly just makes the creature look lean, ready to strike. It seems to default to a crouch, but its legs are long as well, giving it the advantage of reach, and there are small patches of feathers that grow in patterns of red and purple along its joints and parts of its body. Pure white skin has been swapped for something darker, though it¡¯s still mostly greyish, somewhere between ¡°corpse-like¡± and ¡°camouflaged to look like a rock¡±, and both eyes now glow with bright purple pupils in their center, the rest of the sclera kept all-black. In a sort of idle animation, the avatar makes a growling noise and clicks its teeth together, exposing a mouth full of predatory canines.


    Nothing crazy, really, but a very fun combo nonetheless, and there are so many options that whoever I make next will almost certainly look completely different.


    Or very similar. I am, if nothing else, a woman of taste.


    I scroll down to the end of the list of options, looking for a button to confirm the selections- and find something I hadn¡¯t seen yet.


    There¡¯s a grayed-out section of the settings menu, with an unmarked checkbox right above it. Hovering over the section, a series of wriggling veins swim from out of the void around me and form a new sentence.


    18+ material ahead. Check box to confirm legal age and increase to full immersion.


    A brand new flashback hits me dead in the memory cluster, going right back to Cyberpunk 2088.


    These motherfuckers got themselves some gibblies. Some goolies. Some gaba-gaggling grinders.


    They got a dick slider. I can feel it.


    And all that¡¯s keeping me from it is one unchecked box.


    Oh yeah.


    I click the option the instant I¡¯m done processing, watching it light up and fill with blood in a funky little animation. The box fades back in with the rest of the menu- and then, to my surprise, that same blood streams out of the box to color in the game¡¯s options, lighting up and letting me see the final pieces on selection.


    Sure enough, there it is. The Reproduction menu.


    I almost giggle as I open it, ready to look upon the abominable horrors that an indie-developed set of VR genitals will most certainly be. I¡¯m prepared to behold a mess of rearranged pixels and awkwardly formed 3D modeling software-


    And actually recoil a bit in surprise.


    If there are genitals in this menu, they¡¯re certainly not the kind that comes up in a health class. And, for once, not because of how entirely messed up American schools are.


    There is certainly a wide selection, and very little gender binary to speak of, in large part due to having to actively stop and puzzle out what in the fuck (literally) some of the options are meant to do. Either nature has way more forms of genitalia than I¡¯ve ever heard of, or whoever coded and modeled these should be working at Bad Wyvern. Or putting them out of business.


    Even if the game ends right here, frankly? Two hundos well spent, if only to glimpse such artistic fervor.


    Another twenty five minutes of browsing and confused imagining later and I¡¯ve made my selection, tempted as I am to spend another thirty just examining all the imagination on display.


    Almost immediately, the menu fades away, dissolving back into the amniotic void surrounding me. Slowly, the character creation menu and the model fade into nonexistence, and the camera angle comes in closer, closer, closer, the polyp getting larger and larger¡­


    Again, the haptic feedback goes wild to emulate the experience of falling into a glowing sack of goo.


    For a while, there is silence.


    I move my arms, and this time, the haptics activate, responding differently. There¡¯s a slight delay in the game, a pushback from the haptics telling me there¡¯s some kind of resistance.


    Gradually, I find where the resistance is strongest, pushing against it-


    With a wet, incredibly viscous ¡®pop¡¯, I emerge out of a strange womb into someplace beautiful.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.2

    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    ??m §ñ??? ¦Ôo? n??


    _______________________________________________________________


    My first experience entering the game world is defined, first and foremost, by shock and awe. VR games are a wonder of the modern world, but the struggle to keep up with higher graphical demands is like sisyphus with his rock. Higher pixel counts and graphical fidelity are a never-ending climb for the heights, one that¡¯s gradually crippling people¡¯s ability to actually play games, demanding higher levels of computers to match. VR headsets, by virtue of the sheer amount of things that need to be animated, usually don¡¯t tend to bother too much with making things photorealistic, relying on immersion through movement and engagement instead.


    It would seem that whatever absolutely insane, hyper-fixated maniac designed MEAT did not hold to that particular philosophy.


    I emerge from a strange sort of bulb, or some sort of pulpy fruit, oversized to fit a humanoid body. A long and slender hand, multi-jointed as it was in character creation, breaks through the thin, translucent skin of its surface, and a flood of fluids makes things a bit dizzy as my POV spins and collapses out.


    I can see individual waves of goop rolling over the ¡®camera¡¯, like a camera pointed up into an egg yolk. As my ¡®eyes¡¯ focus and adjust, a massive skybox starts to come into focus, roiling above like a distant ceiling in a deep and horrifying cavern. There are long stalactites, reflecting against a surface that might be stone or might be some other form of dark, strange meat, distant and hard to glimpse. Some of the stalactites are so massive that, even from what seems to be an atmospheric height, I can see the shapes and spirals that make them up, like nautilus shells grown together on an unimaginable scale. Several of them drip long, thick streams of liquid, like waterfalls that dissipate to clouds- but the colors are off, just a bit left of anything like water. One of them even connects to the ground below, swaying in the wind like a string of spit.


    Speaking of the ground.


    I turn my avatar over, the camera controls a weird mix of intuitive and awkward. The avatar¡¯s body seems to follow my headset¡¯s movement more than my hands, but miming getting up off the ground allows me to properly synchronize with it.


    It¡¯s¡­ prairies.


    In what feels like a twist on old-fashioned RPGs, or callbacks to something like Zolda, I find myself and my avatar in the flesh-themed equivalent of a grassy field. Small fronds of¡­ what might be fur? Coat the terrain entirely, washing over soft hills and subtle bumps. Every few hills there¡¯s a tree of some sort, bare of any leaves and bone white- in fact, maybe literally made of bone.


    Looking up further, I see that I¡¯m in some kind of valley or caldera, with massive mountains all around the edges. Unlike the stalactites above, they don¡¯t seem as¡­ natural? Looking at them, I feel more in mind of giant scabs, maybe, or some sort of shrapnel stabbed into the ground and grown over. They look weirdly out of place, even as they deform the world and trap me in a massive landmark.


    A wet noise echoes over the plains, and I turn to look back where I ¡°spawned¡±. The remains of the fruit I emerged from are visible, a long vein or sapling retreating back into the hill I¡¯m standing on and dragging them with it. Even as I watch, the goop I spawned in from fades into the hill, until the place where I¡¯m standing is no different than every other hill in sight.


    And then¡­ silence.


    Huh. Well¡­ might as well start exploring?


    I take a step forward and-


    OBJECTIVE: LEAVE THE VALLEY


    SIDE-MISSION 1: FEED


    SIDE MISSION 2: GROW


    I actually flinch back at how loud the announcements are. They don¡¯t appear as sounds, but the sound of their pop-in is like thunder, and the words glow in the air above me like a fireworks show in the sky. Unlike the rest of the world, shaped purely into the meaty aesthetic, the words appear a lot like the SYNCHRONICITY tag, flickering with a weird static at their edges and glowing down onto the world, bluish-grey in material.


    I wave my controller / hand up at them, trying to see if there¡¯s any sort of prompt or something I can interact with¡­ but no, nothing. They¡¯re massive, and floating way above the rest of the world, but the biopunk style of their writing makes them feel mechanical compared to the weirder spaces down here on the floor.


    Alright, good start! An objective is as good a tool as any to get thing rolling.


    ¡°Alright, Ilia,¡± I mumble to myself, ¡°time to get funky with it.¡±


    I hit the ¡°menu¡± button on my controller, and blink as a few boxes of text appear in front of me. They¡¯re not like a traditional setup, though- they have the same blue-grey makeup as the letters at the top of the world, and when I wave my hand at them too much, they move out of the way, like they¡¯re real in-game objects. Hitting one of the options, the box shifts, words fusing and reforming into new ones..


    Lo and behold, the character sheet.


    {MANIFESTATION OF [00000000]}


    GENUS: ESURIATIO AUTONOMIA


    SPECIES: FLESHLING


    STATS:


    ADAPTATION


    ??????


    CANALISATION


    ??


    EVOLUTION


    SYNCHRONICITY


    ??????


    SKILLS: N/A


    MUTATIONS: N/A


    ORGANS:


    <ul>


    <li>


    CUTANEOUS


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING SKIN


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    SKELETAL


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING BONE


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    MUSCLE


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING MUSCLE


    </li>


    <li>


    FLESHLING TENDON


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    CIRCULATION


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING CIRCULATION


    </li>


    <li>


    FLESHLING PUMP


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    RESPIRIUMStolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING LUNGS


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    GLANDULAR


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING LIVER


    </li>


    <li>


    FLESHLING ADRENAL


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    NEUROLOGOS


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING BRAIN


    </li>


    <li>


    PARASITIC INFESTORICA


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    SENSORIA


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING SENSORIA


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    DEGUSTATION


    <ul>


    <li>


    CYCLIAL DIGESTER


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    </ul>


    I wave my controller at the words that appear on the box, trying to select them to see if there¡¯s anything else- but they dart away, shifting like they¡¯re using the same physics engine as everything else. Now that¡¯s immersive- fuck a videogame stat screen, they just put floating biocubes that write stuff to you. Weird? Absolutely. Fun? Damn right.


    This, like all good character sheets, raises questions right alongside potential answers. While the title at the top of the character sheet is interesting (calling me a ¡°manifestation¡± of something?), it¡¯s the organs that I¡¯m most curious about. Skills and mutations? Cool, they¡¯re included- I also don¡¯t have anything in them, so it doesn¡¯t matter. The organs though? Quite a few of those!


    I can¡¯t select them, but if I hover my hand over them, eventually, more text pops up, spiraling out from the original words.


    SPECIES: FLESHLING expands first;


    A Fleshling is a weak and hungering thing, bound to inadequate form. Humanoid, this species sits barely above the ranks of bottom-feeders, existing only to be hunted by greater hungers and to populate the least important parts of the food chain. Passingly clever and holders of complex graspers, they come in a variety of forms, all of them delicious, most of them weak.


    Well, always good to get official confirmation of my deliciousness.


    Scrolling down, I swap over to the individual organs next, hovering over them one by one. For the most part, the descriptions are all quite similar, tracking one-to-one with the descriptor of the overall species;


    FLESHLING SKIN: The outer covering of a Fleshling, possessing base flexibility and little else. It holds in the other systems, if only barely.


    FLESHLING BONE: The internal framework of a Fleshling, maintaining its overall shape and allowing it to move and survive impacts. Weak, porous, and overall flimsy.


    FLESHLING MUSCLE: The strands which allow a Fleshling to create force, motion and torque. Tire easily and have minimal density.


    The trend goes on like that for a while, basically just describing what the organ¡¯s function is and then insulting it. Whatever a Fleshling is, it¡¯s pretty clear that the system or gameplay designer has a rather low opinion on the starter class for the game, and every single description goes into detail about how lackluster, unimpressive, or bare-minimum level they are. It¡¯s kind of funny, actually? I enjoy it, at least. A little bit of wittiness can go a long way if you ask me. Still¡­


    There¡¯s something to be said for a starter class being the weakest point in the game, that¡¯s basically how you make the progression actually work for most people, but I¡¯ve had a bit too much experience with hating my body over the years to be fully comfortable with the descriptions. The fact that I can change them, in theory, is encouraging, but¡­


    Then again, just like in real life, it might well just make for good motivation to start some good old-fashioned biohacking, get to installing some ¡°aftermarket mods¡±. Heh. Fun way to talk about HRT.


    There are, however, two exceptions. Something called a CYCLIAL DIGESTER and the PARASITIC INFECTORIA both stand out as exceptions to the rule that all organs fall under the same type as the base species I¡¯m starting as.


    CYCLIAL DIGESTER: An unnatural addition to a pathetic Fleshling, this digestive organ allows its host to gain more than the base level of nutrition from what it consumes, and grants the Fleshling omnivorous eating habits.


    Sounds simple enough, though the note about a ¡°unnatural addition¡± stands out. Something meta, maybe? The game itself finding an immersive way to explain why I can (one would assume) eat crafted items or other things in the game? But then¡­ why not just make Fleshlings omnivores in the first place? Either a weird distinction or a nifty way to expand on the worldbuilding. Either way, fun!


    The other stand-out organ is even stranger, even as it reinforces the ¡°worldbuilding¡± explanation.


    PARASITIC INFECTORIA: A fragment of one of the great Flesh Beyond, remade into a tool for a replica of its purpose. The Parasitic Infectoria remolds a body that it might feel the influence of strange outer beings, though all but the strongest of wills are erased at the touch of that which it channels.


    Now that fucks.


    A lovecraftian horror sort of explanation, one seemingly intended to explain the player¡¯s own presence, transforming metanarrative into actual narrative. Apparently I, the ¡°Entity¡±, am perceived as some sort of outer being, entering the game¡¯s world through whatever this organ is. The fact that it¡¯s in the NEUROLOGOS category right next to a Fleshling brain (which is treated just as harshly as every other Fleshling organ by the game¡¯s descriptors) likely indicates where it¡¯s located, and the reference to something called a ¡°Flesh Divine¡± is tantalizing in and of itself. There¡¯s aesthetics, there¡¯s worldbuilding, and then there¡¯s lore, and this reeks of that good, delicious lore of it all. Every time I find something new, it makes the game-world seem larger, the amount of production time and effort required higher. It doesn¡¯t quite seem possible that this could be an indie game, which only furthers the mystery of it all.


    To put it simply, VR games advanced enough to even have these sorts of mechanics and graphics have only existed for what, five years? The sheer amount of effort required to do this on one¡¯s own, or with a small, unfunded team would need¡­ probably double that, and prophetic knowledge of exactly how to code ahead of time for things that didn¡¯t exist. Frankly, I¡¯d be stunned if I found a big-budget triple-A game with this level of detail and those have teams of dozens, sometimes hundreds of employees.


    Who the hell made this? And how is it not what everyone is talking about?


    Well, no point sitting around thinking about it. Closing out of the menu, I look back out at the prairie. The objectives given were clear- get out of the valley, with (theoretically) some bonus goodies if I do the sub-objectives of ¡°eat somethin good¡± and ¡°get bigger¡±. The latter options push for exploration, and I am more than happy to deliver.


    I start walking down the hill, trying to see if I can¡¯t grab onto some of the fur-grass as I do, the purplish tone bright against the white and crimson of my avatar¡¯s body. Delightfully, the answer is yes! My avatar plucks a handful of the material, though it still feels like there¡¯s a slight delay in responsiveness. Almost immediately, a prompt appears in the corner of my vision.


    MATERIAL ACQUIRED: Decorative Filament


    Let it never be said that they are inaccurate in their descriptions! That is, in fact, what hair is!


    I look around for a prompt or something to pull me into an inventory system, but nothing of the kind comes up. None of the buttons bring it up either- menu just brings up the same character sheet as before, without even an option to exit out. Seeing as my avatar is a naked, feathery homunculous, I also don¡¯t exactly have any pockets. Not besides a prison wallet, anyways, and I¡¯d rather not find out if they coded that into the game just yet.


    Which leads to an easy conclusion about what to do with this newly acquired resource.


    I eat it.


    There¡¯s a weird sort of humming, haptic feedback sensors going wild trying to translate something, and I experience delightful disorientation as my camera angle shifts with an animation of chewing. It¡¯s actually kind of cute, the idea that the developer took the time to program in a chewing animation. It takes a few seconds, longer than I expected, but I¡¯m rewarded with a fresh blue-grey, staticy flesh-box:


    MATERIAL CONSUMED


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED


    My avatar¡¯s flesh ripples, and along the lines where I chose to have feathers grow, small patches of fuzz appear, spreading from there to cover most of my skin. Before long, I¡¯m covered in purplish fur, blending in with the environment a lot better- and doing a good impression of a really fucked up mascot, probably.


    That was fast, though! And definitely fits into more than one of my objectives, giving me a nice bit of context for the whole ¡°Consume¡± and ¡°Grow¡± of it all. Would I get more than one adaptation if I¡¯d put more of my ¡°blood¡± into the stat? Would it take more eating if I¡¯d put less?


    Graaah! Nothing¡¯s getting answered by just sitting around and thinking! I have proof of a way to advance and meet my objectives, and an intrinsic motivator to start putting a bunch of whatever I find in my mouth; what more could any good gamer need? I pop open another can of Monstrous, feeling the artificially colored caffeine flood down my throat, and get to stepping.


    Interestingly, I notice that the camera wobbles again, out of tune with the walking. I take another step, and nothing. Hmm. A sip, and- ah! There! The eating animation plays again!


    Weird. Did someone code in for the animation to play when the player leans their head back? Getting even more ridiculous, but the idea that someone took the effort to do something so small is invigorating, and I can¡¯t help but laugh.


    ¡°Whoever made this needs a prize,¡± I mumble. ¡°And probably a lot of therapy.¡±


    I keep things moving, walking down the hill and occasionally grabbing a bite of hair-grass as I go. It doesn¡¯t happen every time, but as I eat more and more of the stuff, the fur seems to change, sometimes getting longer, something shortening and getting poofier, and going through cycles of growth as I chew. By the time she reaches the bottom of the hill, I¡¯ve cycled through a couple different versions, though it doesn¡¯t seem like it¡¯s making some kind of crazy, hyper-special adaptation yet. Or maybe I just need to do something more engaging, vary it up, eat a crapload at once. Possibilities, possibilities!


    But focusing on the grass, I start to notice that it¡¯s not all standing still. It¡¯s flowing, turning one way, then the other, and in some places¡­ in some places, in small patches, there are more abrupt shifts, usually at the lower points, between the hills. The presence of movement in the starter zone can only mean one thing...


    Enemies!


    With a smile and a mouth full of both spicy chips and fantasy hair-grass, I waddle my avatar towards the closest source of movement, eager to see some good old fashioned modern videogame violence!


    <div>

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.3

    ?l??§ñ ¦Ôo? ?§ñA


    _______________________________________________________________


    Whoever designed the character models and terrain settings clearly had just as much input into making the enemies.


    Standing in a small patch of hair-grass, squatting fat and round against the terrain, is what I can only describe as the grossest little abomination I¡¯ve ever seen. I love it.


    It looks almost like a ball of snot, wrapped around a wriggling knot of what seem like centipede legs. The whole thing is, quite frankly, an abomination of the highest order, a rolling ball of goop- and yet, deep in my weird little heart, I can¡¯t help but find it just a little bit cute as it rolls awkwardly across the ground, an occasional centipede-leg coated in slime poking out to roll it in a new direction. It drops the same bits of weird gravel that make up the ground behind it as it walks, though I notice a distinct lack of redness to the pieces left behind, like sucked-on scabs.


    Disgusting, terrible, no good, nasty.


    But like¡­ it¡¯s a small little rolly-baby. I can¡¯t hate it all the way!


    Ah well. The siren song of EXP calls.


    Even if the game is only in VR, it¡¯s still gross to hit the thing. My avatar¡¯s awkward arm swipe slaps into the ball of ooze, which bounces away with further awkwardness. It half-deflates, turning into a loose collection of ooze on the ground as it spreads out, but the legs remain, slowly pulling it back together.


    I go to hit it again, swiping just a bit more smoothly than before as I compensate for the awkwardness of the controls. I manage to hit near center mass on the whole thing, the haptic sensors on my arm providing me the thrum of vibration as a reward. The creature, on the other hand, gives off a sound like an angry teakettle, oozing itself towards me rather than away. Before I can pull the awkward movement controls back, the snot-thing has wrapped its way around my foot.


    The haptic feedback on my leg goes wild, buzzing angrily and constantly. There¡¯s no health-bar anywhere on-screen, but whatever it¡¯s doing, there¡¯s a visible effect ongoing, eating through the skin of the avatar¡¯s leg. The effect, once again, promises a good deal of immersion, showing my model deteriorating progressively more and more.


    It¡¯s kind of ticklish, actually, feeling the haptics constantly vibrating, even if it is way too intense to be comfortable, let alone enjoyable.


    I yank my foot out of the ooze, which lets go with barely any struggle and splatters pitifully on the floor. It¡¯s coloration has shifted, from snot-grey over to a pinkish red, and the reason feels fairly self-evident; the skin of my leg has turned from a furry, fuzzy purple and pale white skin to a mess of half-disgested slime. Apparently, the creature is more stomach than snot, and a quick check of my (my avatar¡¯s) knuckles confirms it- there¡¯s a layer of fur that¡¯s been eaten away, but the skin there remains intact.


    Adaptation in action.


    I start focusing on using my other hand to strike it, keeping the fur between skin and impact. Strike, strike, then again- it¡¯s got a core, so it ain¡¯t all acid, and it it ain¡¯t all acid, then it takes damage.It¡¯s not enough to keep from burning into my hands nearly as much as my leg, but I end the situation a lot more intact than the slime. The creature deflates, losing surface tension and cohesion. The centipede-eels in the middle of it wriggle for a few more hits after, but it only takes a few moments for them to stop too, some of them uncoiling from each other but ultimately failing to divide in time to escape. If that is, in fact, what they¡¯re trying to do, which I¡¯m not entirely clear on. It seems¡­ almost more like a bundle of symbiotes than a singular creature, honestly. It¡¯s some really nifty biology stuff that, frankly, has me hyped up as all hell to see whatever¡¯s next on the menu.


    And then- the dopamine. The juicy, delicious, phat as all hell dopamine.


    ENEMY DEFEATED


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: SWIPE


    A quick re-opening of the menu and there it is, written in the synthetic-looking flesh of the boxes.


    SWIPE: A swinging attack, usually open-handed and dependent on claws or strong digits. While there is little chance of lethal damage, it is a simple set of motor-functions that even beings as pathetic as Fleshlings and other prey-species can evolve.


    Two possibilities there- either they¡¯re going to give me a new ability for every possible attack pattern or ability in the game, or there¡¯ll be a way to upgrade and fuse later. The trend of complexity and immersion has me wondering about the possibility of the former, but really, who¡¯s to know until they know? I¡¯ll find out at some point, or I won¡¯t. Either way, I take a quick practice swing with the ability, and rather than a button-prompt, it seems like it falls more in line with some kind of upgrade. The movement has none of the awkward delay it had a minute ago, and my arm moves a lot faster and more fluidly this time.


    And then, joy of joys, the only thing that can tempt a gamer more than a new ability or levels: loot.


    It¡¯s not much, but each of the leftover eels, and some of the leftover slime, seem to glow ever so slightly, outlining them against the backdrop of the surroundings. Just bright enough to have attention called to them and not much else- but once noticed? Oh what a temptation..


    I lower the POV down to them, crouching down in the real world to get a better look. To my surprise, once I get close enough, the more writing begins to appear, glowing bright crimson and swimming through the air like little fish.


    MATERIAL ACQUIRED: Twitching Digits


    MATERIAL ACQUIRED: Digestive Sludge


    Hovering my hand over them, I pick one up, finding the selection process easier than last time, as if the SWIPE ability has added greater dexterity in general to the avatar¡¯s hand-movements. The centipede-leg twitches as I pick it up, but I suppose, in the right light, possibly while very drunk, it could be described as a very strange finger. And that is in fact sludge, and it did, in fact, partially digest me.


    ¡­so the last material I found, I put in my mouth. Then, the game rewarded me with cool fur.


    On the other hand¡­ synchronicity mentioned something about organic technology. And I put, like, half of my starting total into that. So maybe I should¡­ look into that? Before I start putting other people¡¯s digestive sludge in my mouth?


    I¡¯m all for a good time, but some build-up first, you know?


    SYNCHRONICITY: The Entity''s communion with higher ideals, improving its understanding and ability to use organic technology and the mechanics of reformation.


    ¡­Dare I hope?


    I pick up a couple of the still-twitching ¡°digits¡± (they¡¯re centipedes with joints, its terrible and awesome), and nothing new pops up. Instructions don¡¯t just appear out of nowhere. But¡­


    Huh. Gamer instincts, maybe, or just a hunch, but there¡¯s just¡­ a feeling.


    You can make rope out of filaments, right? And it¡¯s not like this thing, whatever it is, was eating through the grass. And my fur partially protected me.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    I grab a handful of the hair-grass, and almost as if by instinct, I watch my character¡¯s hands grab it differently, not the clumsy grasp it had earlier. I bring enough long clumps of it, pulled out of the pale dirt and gravel, to make something, and I don¡¯t need to do much more than prompt things before my hands are moving for me, some¡­ animation? Or something, anyways, ensuring a smooth weave. Almost as an afterthought, I pick up the digits, watching my hands move as if under someone else¡¯s control. In about thirty seconds, I¡¯m holding something that looks like a mix between a necklace and body-jewelry, fitting easily over my hand. I put my left one through it, the haptic feed back of it sort of tingly, but¡­


    Hmm. Still something missing. Going off only the materials I¡¯ve got in front of me¡­


    I pick up the Digestive Sludge, feeling a tingle in the control on my right hand as I dribble it over my left and the necklace of mismatched, twitching things. The left controller starts to vibrate more, then more, until my actual hand starts to feel a little numb, and then-


    SYMBIOTE CREATED


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: TWITCHING DIGITS


    There it is.


    The fur has mostly melted off from around my left hand, but in return, the five fingers I had previously are now met by seven more, all of them longer and emerging semi-randomly from points around the hand. These long, black fingers, with too many joints and weird little mini-fingers on one side of them, act according to their name, twitching and spasming lightly as I turn my hand one way, then the other.


    I can feel the haptic feedback responding to the changes, sending tiny little twitches against my (real) skin as the grass blows in the breeze all around. It¡¯s like I can feel it without touching, the increase to sensitivity jumping up pretty high, even as I marvel at the sharp-tipped points of my strange new anatomy.


    Still, the decrease to health is obvious. My avatar¡¯s skin, marked with the colorful patterns of character creation, has partially melted, turning to a goopy mess, and the aforementioned patterns, fur, and feathers have all melded together in a waxy mess. The wrist is stiff and locked, the original fingers looking like runny wax from the digestive goop, but still, I can¡¯t help but consider it an upgrade: the original fingers still move a bit, but the slew of new animations and sheer responsiveness of the new additions more than make up for it.


    And yeah I can see how this could synergize with SWIPE.


    Grinning like a lunatic, I charge off towards the nearest patch of moving hair-grass, on the hunt for another delightful little snot-ball.


    I¡¯m gonna call them sludgelings!


    The second fight goes much better than the first. Two swipes and I¡¯ve torn open the membrane holding all the ooze in, dissolving the creature much faster. Lefty does indeed do a lot more damage than righty, the wax skin seeming not to provide as much feedback to my haptics and the many points on my new fingers tearing as I swipe. It does still take a little damage, turning more pink and red as the acid eats away in droplets, but the new adaptation itself seems as immune to the acid now as it was when she first dug them out.


    Still, no reason to lose both hands. The new addition act almost (almost) as dexterously as the originals in weaving a long string out of the hair all around, and decorating it with additional Twitching Digits, Low-Grade is easy compared to doing the same with acid. I put the impromptu necklace on my right hand, making an improvised way to store at least some of the rewards from ongoing looting.


    It doesn¡¯t take long for the chain of digits to be really, really long, and for the next grand idea to come up.


    I keep heading in a straight line, for the most part, keeping on-course for the distant mountains, but the hills¡­ they call to me. Specifically, the trees on them. I could probably kill another ten-odd sludgelings before I run out of space to put new fingers on, but that¡¯s a pretty boring idea, even if it might end up being an upgrade. Grinding out the perfect set of bonuses and upgrades is fine and all, but it¡¯s also boring, and the sort of busywork I¡¯m happy to save for a later playthrough- ergo, time to experiment with new pieces.


    Up one hill and there, I find myself staring up at a tree that¡¯s¡­ well, not that hard to stare up at, to be honest. It has no foliage, and it¡¯s barely taller than my avatar, maybe six and a half feet, tops. Each tree has one, maybe two branches on them, not even enough to really call a canopy, but that¡¯s ok- I only need the one to start with. They¡¯re dry, brittle, but tough enough that it barely bends as my avatar grips onto it hard. I have to add the hand equipped with my new adaptation to finally manage to yank a piece free.


    Almost immediately, the highlight pops up again, forming letters the closer she looks.


    MATERIAL ACQUIRED: Brittle Bone Sprig


    I swing it a few times, feeling how the haptic feedback and such shows a change in movement. To my surprise, it¡¯s a fluid motion, sort of imitating the- ah. Imitating the pattern of SWIPE. It did mention it was partially muscle-based, the adaptation, meaning it might be that without it, the branch would be just as clunky as everything else- but with it? The game provides a satisfying whistle as I swings through the air.


    I giggle a bit, grinning. I¡¯ve got weapons, I¡¯ve got upgrades, I¡¯ve got a direction. Let¡¯s-


    And then, almost as if in response to my good mood, I hear something growling.


    Turning, I catch sight of something more or less the size of a dog, though significantly more stout, about three feet high and solid all the way through. It looks like a sludgeling¡¯s older cousin, the cluster of digits in the center replaced by multiple exposed and more spider-like limbs, all of them keeping the heavier body up off the ground and forming something like an internal skeletal structure. It¡¯s like watching a bunch of rigid eels bite and pull on each other to imitate tendons, moving a much thicker piece of sludge up off the ground.


    Again, a whistling sound, but this one sounds deeper, more haunting. Like wind through cliffsides rather than a cute little kettle screaming.


    I have just enough time to get my weapon up before it throws itself at me.


    I stumble back, the difficulty of movement made all the more difficult by having to make snap reactions. The delays and awkwardness of some of the controls, matched to needing to maintain at least some idea of the surroundings in my actual, real-life room, double-up to make the whole experience send a thrill of adrenaline running through me, just as the creature slams into her avatar.


    Immediately the haptic feedback goes nuts, sending an actual jolt through me from how suddenly all of them light up. A constant, full-body vibration starts to kick up, making my teeth grind and putting me the fuck on edge, even as spider-digits wrap around me, squeezing tightly and pinning me against the acidic ooze.


    But I still have my hands free.


    I swing, my SWIPE ability doubling down on tearing through part of the creature¡¯s body and sending it splattering away as my newfound club carves into it. It screeches, loud and angry, maintaining its hold, I swap the club to my right hand as the twitching mass of my left gets shoved straight into its center mass.


    The fight is going badly, and fast. As an ambush predator, this thing is doing wonders for itself, and the grey slime is rapidly turning pink as it eats into me. Sacrificing a limb is no minor thing, but sometimes to win, you need to do crazy stuff and accept the price. I push my arm in harder, all the way in, and shove.


    I manage to get it just a few inches off, my avatar¡¯s flesh running like drooping wax and runny colors. I¡¯m bleeding from several holes where it¡¯s eaten through into flesh, the blood strangely pale, but my own twitching extra fingers wrap tightly into the ooze, maintaining their form even as my original hand keeps melting. Another swipe, and two of the creature¡¯s limbs break, splattering black blood and something like tendons from inside their exoskeleton.


    From there, it gets easier. I slip free of its grasp, tossing it aside and slamming my club down onto it, once, twice, three times. With a final thick, disgusting splat, it bursts like an overripe fruit, falling apart into the scab-gravel and oozing its remains down the hill.


    In and out of game, I collapse onto the ground, my whole body numb from the constantly vibrating haptics. I might need to find a settings menu to tone that down, honestly. It¡¯s nothing if not accurate- the feedback pads on my stomach and shoulders are still vibrating, just a bit.


    Then again¡­ fuck, what an immersion. To almost literally feel the danger, the risk, the incredible graphics matched by sound design and physical feedback. This¡­ this wasn¡¯t worth 200 dollars. This was worth more. This could be a launch title for a whole new VR gaming setup.


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: SKIN-DENSITY


    Instantly, my haptic sensors send a subtle, calmer pulse over my body, leaving me a bit tingly, and I see my avatar¡¯s appearance shift slightly beneath the cocoon-screen. Where before the parts touched by acid looked like runny scars, now they look more like dense, hard packed beeswax, rough and uneven but thicker, more solid. It looks out of place on the rest of the skin, thin, light and pale as it is, but I can¡¯t help but feel a little thrill at just how customizable and responsive everything is.


    Next priority- finding more shit to craft with. Without the adaptation I made and the bone club (or sprig, technically), that would¡¯ve gone far, far worse, and this is just a low-level trash mob in the starter area. If I can get at the much larger spider-things of the sludgelur (like sludgeling, but bigger!), maybe see if my character can eat some of the stuff that fell out of it for the side-objectives-


    Everything lights up. The haptic feedback gets loud, screaming at me, every part of my body lit up with tingling sensations and borderline electrified. I spasm in shock, feeling like every funny bone in my body got smacked at once.


    An instant later, my vision gets blocked by the same snot-grey coloration as the other creatures. I try to call up a menu, pause the game, but it¡¯s like they¡¯re a real object affected in the physics engine, unable to be seen through the ooze.


    The game doesn¡¯t pause.


    I yank off my headset as the game makes a disgusting crunching noise and the screen goes black.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.4

    .?§ñ?? ?d bl¦Ôo?? ¦Ôo? ?ni?? ?''nob I .?§ñ§ño? m''I


    _______________________________________________________________


    Fuck. That was¡­ intense.


    The thought comes again that I might want to alter the feedback levels, but¡­ shit, I was the one that wanted something immersive, right? I¡¯m many things, but someone who goes back on what she decides, on what she really wants, I am not. There¡¯s a shitload of medical debt and a fancy little estrogen bottle on my desk to attest to that.


    No, the haptics stay on, but¡­ oof, maybe a break. A few minutes off. Sacrilege, to leave a game so soon, but then again, most games don¡¯t do the physical equivalent of electroshock play.


    But I can¡¯t help it; as I peel off the whole rigamarole of the haptics, VR and control gloves, there¡¯s one hell of a grin on my face. The added challenge and again, added immersion, both more than make up for the annoyance of a bit of discomfort. Since when does every game need handholding? Sure, it should be an option if it¡¯s needed, but the whole point of the game is that I shouldn¡¯t know I¡¯m in a game, right? Otherwise, what¡¯s the point of looking for the ¡°most immersive VR ever¡±?


    I finish off my can of Monstrous and pop the tab on another one, the heavy-metal font written in a neon red this time for ¡®strawberry-raspberry¡± flavor. They all mostly taste like battery acid, but a refined connoisseur should appreciate properly flavored battery acid. Sighing, shaking off some of the sweat (gross, now I¡¯ll need to actually shower), I yank my laptop from the desk, plopping onto bed and laying it on my stomach.


    Is this writing pose good for my incipient carpal tunnel? No. Is it more relaxing? Fuck yes.


    I boot up the forum, expertly tilting my head at the right angle to be able to drink in bed without spilling a drop. It takes a few minutes of clicking to find what I¡¯m looking for- the forum pages refresh automatically and constantly, and I have to dig a bit to find the particular page of aficionados I¡¯m looking for.


    There it is, under the full immersion forum tag- fuck-me-in-the-matrix.


    Truth be told, the ¡°matrix¡± part at the end was what caught my eye. Sure, most estrogen pills are blue nowadays- but they sure didn¡¯t use to be, and the directors are phenomenal. Personally, Matrix: Ressurective was my favorite; the fourth installment that no one wanted, least of all the directors. It is distinctly not good, and I¡¯m just so goddamn proud of everyone involved for making it so perfectly terrible.


    I click the link, go to dive in, and-


    This forum has been deleted.


    ¡­


    What?


    I open the terms of service in another tab, staring at each rule in turn. There¡¯s¡­ there¡¯s nothing there about deleting a whole forum. Part of the point of a lot of forum-based chat in this day and age is that it¡¯s preserved, not modifiable or easily deleted like every other kind of social media. This site in particular, I chose for that exact reason- there¡¯s a shitload of things that¡¯ll get you archived or the members banned, but there is no rule that you should be able to delete a forum thread entirely.


    I go back to the prior tab, checking everywhere, but¡­ nothing. And the beauty about screen names, they¡¯re even harder to remember than regular names, something I¡¯m terrible at. Not like I was going to friend request everyone there, but¡­ well, I did PM with a few names. Hell, that¡¯s how I bought the game.


    I click over to that section of the site, searching through recent messages. There has to be someone who knows why they broke the rules for this, but-


    Huh. Fuck. In place of three profile pictures, notably the three I know were in that forum, there¡¯s an ¡°anonymous¡± image, a blank with a person-shaped outline of a head. Easy visual proof that their accounts are gone. I go to to enter our messages, following the username down into-


    What the hell? The chatlog is gone. The username is the only thing left, the rest of the page completely empty- just the words ¡°WEAREALLMEAT¡± typed out across the top of the page under myr own.


    I squint, the brightness of the screen getting to me a bit as I stare at the missing chat. There¡¯s no email signup or payment for the site, their terms of service are pretty basic, just a list of rules. Unlike the thing about forum threads never getting outright deleted, just archived and emptied out, there¡¯s no explicit rule saying that they can¡¯t or won¡¯t delete message threads. But¡­ I haven¡¯t seen anything like this. Someone can choose to quit a message thread, or go in and delete their own messages, but not mine. Again, the whole point of the website is that it¡¯s totally anonymous, accessible mostly to those who use a tor or vpn to keep their ip address hidden, and that it maintains its chatlogs, always open, always there to reference, never consigned to the internet ghost-town of most websites. What¡¯s the point if the admins are just deleting message chains and forums both?Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    I stare at the screen, trying to puzzle through what in the absolute fuck is going on, and see something.


    My eyes dart back up to the username. I keep my eyes wide, focused, looking at the top of the screen.


    For a second, I could swear that WEAREALLMEAT¡­ twitched.


    ¡­Nothing. Perfectly still and static, just like every other username on-screen.


    I groan, drawing it waaaaay out, and shut the laptop with a bit more force than I probably should and rolling out of bed.


    Nope. It is early evening on a saturday, I am in my room and comfy-cozy as hell, and I refuse to psyche myself out this badly over a videogame and a chatlog.


    ¡­fuck. Now I need to pee.


    Three cans of artificially flavored, highly caffeinated sugar isn¡¯t great on the bladder, and neither is constantly moving around or getting lightly tazed. A quick break for pee won¡¯t hurt.


    I hold firmly to that thought as someone else steps into the hall at almost the exact same time I do, heading towards the exact same aforementioned restroom.


    Ah, the joy of roommates.


    I raise a hand in an awkward little wave, dramatically self-aware of the fact that I¡¯m wearing just a shirt and panties, but also annoyingly aware that it is well past the usual time for Sarah to leave for an evening shift.


    Night shift nursing is no easy job, and for that alone my opinion of Sarah isn¡¯t too bad. Seeing as this is just about all I know about Sarah, besides the fact that a shitload of her moving boxes are still out in the living room months after she finished moving in, it¡¯s not necessarily a glowing endorsement. Sarah barely makes eye contact, sending out a quick smile that feels somewhere between performative and a knee-jerk response.


    ¡°Sorry, did you-¡±


    ¡°No no, all good,¡± I interrupt, holding my hands up in surrender. ¡°Gonna be a late night, just needed a quick break. You go first.¡±


    Sarah raises an eyebrow, but again, that very polite smile, sweet and saying nothing. ¡°Sure! Sounds good!¡±


    And then the door clicks closed.


    ¡­Ok, so maybe I¡¯m not being particularly fair to her. Actually, it¡¯s not fair at all, but the fact that Sarah feels kind in a way that never quite reaches the eyes does grate a bit. I¡¯ve tried to reach out to her once or twice, offered to share some food I made, do a movie night, but¡­ well, it¡¯s not like she¡¯s under any demand to be more than polite. I got a lot of polite and awkward notes of ¡°sorry, thanks, that¡¯s okay!¡±.


    That part is all fine and good. Disappointing, but fine and good. The consistent lateness of rent and utilities, plus the moving boxes, plus the fact that she never does anything more than pass by- these things together make up a slightly more biased image. But still- no reason to be sour, deep down. Sarah is nice, but in a way that covers for minor behavioral frustrations and keeps her very distinctly disconnected from anything like a relationship.


    And now she was just polite enough not to be rude when taking the toilet.


    I sigh, long and slow.


    It¡¯s not like Sarah¡¯s unique. Modern-age type of problems. I¡¯ve gone through dozens of roommates over the years, almost never any that I knew beforehand. Since moving out for college, it¡¯s basically been every six-months to a year that someone, me or a roommate, moves in or out of a place. I¡¯ve met and had to live with way worse folks than Sarah with her polite nothingness, and the other roommates are equally fine. Mary-Anne, for example, has a habit of cooking food that is absolutely delicious-smelling, but otherwise hasn¡¯t spoken more than ten sentences to me.


    It¡¯s fine. It¡¯s fine! I don¡¯t want to push or make anyone uncomfortable, and if they don¡¯t want to be friends in the first place, then trying to press the issue isn¡¯t going to do anything.


    Still¡­ it¡¯s lonely.


    Not that things are bad! They¡¯re good! It¡¯s like¡­ I don¡¯t love my job, but it¡¯s bartending. No one likes food service work, right? And it pays well enough, at least with three roommates to back me up on the rent. And then¡­ well, then there¡¯s escapism. Like expensive videogames.


    This is the point where my inner therapist gives me a ¡°mhmm¡± sort of look, which I magnanimously decides to disregard.


    It¡¯s fine. It¡¯s not good, but then, things rarely are, big-picture. It¡¯s fine.


    But the interaction does very well to remind me that there is something distinctly lonely about being around people, living with people, who do not know you, and don¡¯t want to. No matter how good or neutral or unknown those people might be in turn.


    The toilet flushes, the sink rinses, and Sarah steps out, giving an awkward wave and a nod and turning down the hall to her room.


    Five minutes later, the toilet¡¯s flushed again, sink¡¯s run one more time. Meds, previously neglected, are gulped down real quick- and then I¡¯m off.


    Brushing is for when you¡¯re about to sleep or just waking up, and I intend to continue enjoying the time before that as long as possible.


    But first, the whole reason I started checking the forums in the first place.I hops back into bed, laptop primed and running in moments.


    I start a new thread, titling it as (what else) MEAT.


    Best case scenario, the original intent of finding a way to talk to people about the game and send thanks about the recommendation goes out. Worst case scenario, I get to properly confirm that the mods are up to something shitty. Useful either way, which is the best kind of useful.


    I keep the first post short and sweet, some praise for the game and how it¡¯s so damn good, but warning up front about the haptic feedback concerns and the intensity of it. The whole game is a joy and a half, and I have every intention of gushing about it ASAP, even if it¡¯s to the void.


    And then¡­ back to it. No work tomorrow- good for mental health, not as good for paychecks, , but a weekend off from the mad rush of customers is¡­ well, kind of necessary sometimes.


    A moment¡¯s hesitation, and then I put the feedback pads back on, limber up the control-gloves, and put the helmet back on.


    Almost like it was waiting for me, the titular words of the game flicker into being in the dark.


    MEAT


    BEGIN.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.5

    .?o ?d ll''?I .?ool ?''no? .???l oo? ?d ll''?i ??m ?? ?ool ¦Ôo? ?I .????l? .?ool ?''no? .?m ?? ?ool ?''nob ??¦Ô? .?o ?d ll''?I


    _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and caldron bubble. There¡¯s just something so fun about figuring out how a thing works and then making it your bitch.


    One thing stood out to me, above the rest. Actions and being exposed to things, in game, activates my ADAPTATION trait no matter what. Getting drenched in acid got me SKIN-DENSITY, swiping at things to attack got me SWIPE, etc. Chances are, especially with my ADAPTATION trait higher than my CANALISATION trait, I¡¯ll continue to get adaptations just by interacting with things in-game and taking damage.


    But that¡¯s not the only notification I got.


    When I bound all those twitching digits together, made a net out of the hair and acidic ooze to bind them all together, the game gave me a new alert.


    SYMBIONT CREATED.


    Calls straight back to the reference to organic technology and ¡°reformation¡± that the SYNCHRONICITY stat talked about. And when confronted by one system that I understand, and another that could be anything at all, I¡¯m always going for the latter.


    Ergo, in my case, my latest bitch I¡¯m figuring out is the crafting system.


    Character creation went fast- same setup as last time, same general appearance, off we go. There were a few tweaks: eyes further apart, working as a field-of-view slider for the game¡¯s mechanics, as much fur and feathers as I can pick to avoid the acid a bit longer. I didn¡¯t get the adaptations I earned last round, but supposedly, that¡¯s what the EVOLUTION stat is supposed to be for, and considering how I refuse to put points in it yet, that¡¯s fine.


    I speedran the opening, better equipped to handle the weird movement-controls and bludgeon a sludgeling to death. From there, I recreated the same process of ¡°crafting¡±, and found, to my delight, that the results are replicable.


    SYMBIOTE CREATED


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: TWITCHING DIGITS


    This time, I went all-out with it.


    Both of my arms now end in hands that look distinctly unnatural, molten-wax skin and a variety of darker, sharpened fingers moving constantly from the half-digested flesh. With both, I¡¯ve lost some of the plumage on my forearms, but the increased resistance to acid and higher dexterity of the new digits more than make up for that.


    Which has led me to my newest creation.


    It didn¡¯t take much to grab another branch, or to get some more twitching digits and slime, which led to a very interesting question. If the trees here are alive, made of bone or not, then do they work with Symbionts?


    Turns out, the answer is yes. Which is how I now have a club that can hold my hand!


    The twitching digits fused to the club¡¯s hilts wrap around my own, fortifying the grip, increasing the damage, and overall just making the weapon a hell of a lot more effective.


    The sludgelings, at this point, basically can¡¯t fight back at all. The added reach and sharp points that the club gives me make the whole thing easy, and they¡¯re clearly the very basic starter enemies. The Sludgelur, elder cousin to the sludgeling, still puts up more of a fight, but they¡¯re not fast enough to avoid harm, and not tough enough to keep the spikes of my club from tearing them open.


    I establish proof-positive of this fact as I eviscerate another one of the same. The three-foot ball of slime with spider-limb eels makes a gurgling noise, half growl, half tea kettle full of gelatin, and I can¡¯t help but grin at the way it simply falls into pieces, the acidic sludge melting into the scab-gravel and grass all around.


    It¡¯s all very dramatic, but I suppose I can forgive them, considering the goodies they leave behind.


    While a sludgelur has the same slime as their lesser cousins, their twitching digits are of much higher quality, longer and stronger, with a darker luster to them. I add them to my woven hair-net, storing them for use later- feels like a waste to use them for the same upgrade I already have, when there are almost certainly other kinds of materials I can play with out there.


    And I am, in fact, certain. I¡¯ve been playing another two or three hours at this point, and frankly, it feels like I¡¯ve barely scratched the surface.


    The objectives continue to glow in the sky above me.


    LEAVE THE VALLEY


    GROW


    SURVIVE


    My loot secured, I get back to walking.


    Since I spawned in, I¡¯ve been moving in more-or-less a straight line, but the mountains don¡¯t seem much closer. If anything, it¡¯s sort of driving in a sense of scale- the hills vary, failing to repeat even after minutes of walking. In the real world, that¡¯d be normal, but in a game, especially one made without hardcore support, re-using assets and geography isn¡¯t just normal, it¡¯s damn near a requirement. Yet here, there¡¯s peaks and valleys, areas that look like they were carved by rivers a long time ago, spaces where older, larger trees of bone fell over, the grass growing over them.


    On the one hand, while VR tech has been around since the late 2010s, the model I¡¯m using didn¡¯t come out until the mid 2020s, just a few years back, and to make a regular videogame on a more traditional console can take four to six years. To build this game after the console for it was made, without having the specs beforehand, and in only, what, three years? When it has better graphical fidelity, better haptics, and a wider sandbox than anything else I¡¯ve played from the most expensive-ass corporate brands in the world?


    On the other hand, I am playing it. Right now. In some ways, it¡¯s like with the moon-landing; it would technically be more effort, and less technologically possible, to fake the landing than to just do the real one. Which is absolutely fucking nuts, but true nonetheless.


    It¡¯s like finding out that a brand new company with fifty employees and a single factory somehow outperformed Boeing in the commercial airplane market. Sure, they never fund their R&D departments properly, and they¡¯ll kill anyone who says so, but they still have plain more resources and information than anyone; to outperform that, so late in the game, starting from nothing, isn¡¯t a thing.


    So. That means¡­


    Well, I¡¯m not sure what it means, honestly.


    Something moves.


    By the time it launches itself at me, I¡¯m already moving, my bone club swinging in the direction it¡¯s arriving at.


    I¡¯m not much of a fighter, but if you play enough rhythm games, anyone can get a decent sense of, well, rhythm. From the point of rustling grass to the point of impact, a tightly-wound bundle of red crashes into the club, ricocheting back into the ground.


    That doesn¡¯t stop it. Rather than being stunned, the entity rolls itself like a ball and spins at me, a bundle of bright red flying at my shins. This time, I¡¯m not fast enough to intercept, and it hits my leg hard enough to jerk the camera-angle and leave my avatar flat on the ground.


    It throws itself directly at my face, ready to keep attacking until I stop moving- and I just barely get a hand up in time.


    The deadened skin absorbs some more of the impact, refusing to break against whatever this thing is, even though I can feel the feedback on my arm going wild. Before the creature can wind up for an escape or another attack, a half-dozen sharp-pointed digits spear into it, reinforcing the grip and refusing to let it move. The creature lets out a sound like a burp, an exhale of gurgling gas, but it doesn¡¯t stop struggling, not until I slam the club back down on it.


    I heave a sigh. It was about time for some enemy variety, but of course it had to be an ambush-type.


    Removing the club and my stabbier fingers from the new enemy, I slowly peel away from it to get a better look.


    If a diagram of the muscles of one¡¯s arm could be wrapped into a ball, it might look a bit like this thing. On the outside, it is made exclusively of protein fibers, muscle-strands clustered into sections like that of a basketball and woven tightly around each other. Even as it lies dead, it still twitches a bit, each spasm from one muscle group creating a chain reaction to make it jerk one way or another. Only at the very center of it is there a ball of bone, looking a bit like a coral growth, the color of organs and blood leaking out of it.


    I¡¯m gonna call it a meatball!


    It¡¯s the perfect name, and requires no notes.


    It also has exactly what I need- new materials.


    It takes barely more than a minute for my avatar and its new and sharpened fingers to start prying the creature apart, taking it to pieces of muscle and clumps of tendon.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    MATERIAL ACQUIRED: Muscle Fibers


    MATERIAL ACQUIRED: Tendon-string.


    Perfect.


    I bring back out some of the longer and thicker digits, the ones that look more like spider-legs than fingers, and get to work. Better to invent something random now than to waste time waiting to figure out some perfect combination- here¡¯s a new resource, here¡¯s a resource I¡¯m not using. Time to go to work.


    The spider-digits work as a sort of scaffolding as I wrap the tendon string around them, filling the interior with the clumps of muscle fibers. Just like with the sludgelings, the materials still react with each other even after death, acting more like parts of a machine than living tissue, and by the time I start tightening the whole shape together and binding with sludge, it¡¯s already started twitching more actively, the muscle fibers beginning to flex.


    In my avatar¡¯s many-fingered hands is a long, almost tendril-like limb, the individual spider-parts and the weird flexibility they hold making for a many-jointed frame with the bright red of muscle glistening beneath it.


    Even looking at it, I can¡¯t help but feel almost as disappointed as I am excited. The tendons are wrapped too tightly in certain spots, the sludge undiluted enough to damage some of the useful tissues¡­ I can see parts where it could be better, even as I wonder at just how much this can do for me.


    SYMBIONT CREATED: TWITCHING LIMB


    It could be better. It¡¯s a thing of beauty. Both are true.


    And I already have an idea of what to do with it.


    The haptics on my arms buzz angrily as I take the scab-gravel of the ground and mix it with some of the last of my sludge. The idea clicked a second ago- dilution, mixed with the weird dirt here, just might make for a smoother integration than just dousing myself in acid and sticking things on. Not by much, but some. I slather the gritty, red-grey mixture against my avatar¡¯s (my?) shoulder blade, and the buzzing of the feedback from my shoulder feels different in pitch. Softer than the rest, maybe. I take it as a sign of my genius and move along, reaching the twitching limb back over my shoulder and¡­


    My screen flickers.


    Just once. Briefly. Not so much that it felt intentional, but just enough that I wonder if some hidden loading screen or processing issue cropped up.


    But then- alerts.


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: TWITCHING LIMB


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: MULTILIMBED


    I laugh, delighted by the double-alert. The first one is obvious- any Symbiont I equip counts as a mutation, apparently, which begs the question of if I can spawn in with them later- but the latter is particularly promising. I hover over it and watch as the words metastasize into a description.


    MULTI-LIMBED: While most entities possess multiple limbs, through modification or accidental mutation you have acquired an addition which exceeds your conventional limit. Fleshlings, usually possessing the bare minimum amount of humanoid limbs, are usually incapable of acquiring this mutation, and your brain has been modified to integrate this movement directly into your skillset.


    A substantial upgrade. On top of that, a big boost to the next time I wake up, if only I can find how to increase my stats outside of character creation. I really want to see if EVOLUTION can let me carry over equipped Symbionts- that would add a whole new level of replayability to the rogue-like nature of the game.


    I stand my avatar back up, watching as the black, spiked tendril I¡¯ve created reaches over my shoulder, its movements jerky and awkward. It looks intimidating, kind of like a shittier version of a xenomorph¡¯s tail, but without any sort of spike at the end, just sort of waving a few digits around. It¡¯s weird, and probably just because I¡¯ve been getting constant feedback, but it¡¯s almost like I can feel through it, too. Haptics on my ribs and shoulders tremble ever so slightly as it moves, but they do so constantly, non-stop. And then-


    Huh. How do I¡­ control it?


    I try to use the controls, but they just connect to my two ¡°normal¡± arms, which bump awkwardly into the new limb whenever it wobbles too low. There¡¯s no button or option to select it- it seems to just kind of hover, moving out of the way occasionally and occasionally towards anything I point to.


    Hmm.


    I focus in on the haptics.


    The sensation jitters against my skin, the left-hand side of my torso feeling downright weird as my body adjusts to the constant vibration. I can¡¯t help but give my ribs a little scratch, but it doesn¡¯t really do anything, just makes me reflect a bit more on where the tingling sensation is coming from. It¡¯s kind of around my back muscles? Kind of around the side?


    Almost as if in response, the new limb twitches.


    I clench up and stretch to one side, trying to ease the discomfort, and-


    ¡­almost as if in response, the new limb moves.


    It stretches forward, its range a good foot further than either of my other limbs, the end of it awkward and pointed.


    I shift back a bit, letting the movement to step backwards run up my body and adjusting my center of gravity-


    And it moves again, drawing back in close.


    That¡­


    That¡¯s not how things should work.


    I can feel something in my gut, like a bit of cold.


    Modifying my avatar like this, gaining a badass new limb¡­ it feels awesome, honestly. It feels right. There is a slight but unmistakable connection to the moment I first tried on a woman¡¯s top- like it¡¯s not quite right, but it feels better than normal anyways.


    But VR controls don¡¯t work like that. You can¡¯t flex your muscles and make something move, or- well, technically that¡¯s exactly what you do, but in a specific context! With controllers and buttons and shit.


    It¡¯s hard to tell if it¡®s on the edge or well past the point of not being something the game should be able to do.


    In theory. In theory. It¡¯s theoretically possible that someone crazy enough, or more likely a group of people truly insane and being paid six figures (or chained to their desks) could code this. If it¡¯s a one-in-a-million product of a one-in-a-million supergenius game designing team, it could have the crafting system, the haptic coding, the graphics, and the smoothness of the game¡¯s movement. It could.


    But then there¡¯s the non-repeating landscape. The mountains off in the distance. There¡¯s only so much space in any one program or, in this case, game cartridge, and eventually there has to be a hard-coded wall where the game ends. Or at least a message, telling me that I can go no further, or a glitch to fall through the map, or something.


    Which is, in some ways, convenient. Because that means that my objective and the game¡¯s objective line up perfectly.


    LEAVE THE VALLEY.


    So I get back to walking, now alert for sludgelings and meatballs.


    But then-


    Bzzz.


    Feedback from a torso-pad, the one on my left shoulder. Tied to the new limb, at least, in theory. I turn to look at it and-


    It¡¯s pointing at something. Something behind me.


    I turn, and-


    Nothing. Just the trial in the grass where I¡¯ve crushed it down, a clear line showing my path from the start of this run to now.


    The feedback comes again, and this time I swear it¡¯s like it¡¯s only on part of the haptic pad, as if just the front of my shoulder is tingling. I ready up my club, looking around, trying to track where the vibration and my new limb are pointing me-


    Getting closer. Louder. It¡¯s actually starting to hurt a bit, going from ¡°uncomfortable massage¡± to ¡°actual honest-to-fuck kneading¡± of my shoulder, and-


    BZZZZZZZ- CRACK.


    The ground in front of me breaks open, the haptics spiking and then diminishing to nothing, as if the warning has already been delivered. Maybe a feature of the meatball, an ability to sense things getting closer? Doesn¡¯t matter- think about it later. The hillside in front of me bulges forward, stretching almost like skin and beginning to tear at the seams. Blood comes with it- thick and arterial, a brighter red than anything else I¡¯ve seen in the landscape. If anything, it reminds me of the glowing carmine of my menu¡¯s colors, the character creator¡¯s brightness appearing in a darker and more subdued palette. The scab-gravel muddies the crimson as it flows, the grass bends away from the point of eruption- and then the ground pops open.


    And there¡¯s¡­ a bean. Kind of.


    It¡¯s shaped almost like a kidney, but also not, the roundness of it growing fast, fed by a tendril that goes much deeper into the dark red of the damage it emerges from. It grows out further, like watching a plant grow in fast-forward, and it lifts the organ into the air, hoisting it off the ground.


    And for a moment, things are quiet. The tearing and crumbling of the hillside morph into an oppressive silence, broken only by the creaking of the polyp. It groans a bit as it continues to grow, the sound low and echoing over the hills, and as it gets larger it hangs over me. An alien vine (vein?), bowed under the weight of its fruit, hanging like a crimson droplet ready to fall.


    In the brightness of the crimson, I see something shift. Inside the organ. Darker shadows twist and squirm inside it, reaching forward, pushing and straining at the skin of it. It begins to bulge, like-


    Like a pregnant belly. Like a womb, holding something inside that is trying to tear its way out.


    There is a sound like the tearing of leather, wet and thick and harsh, a gushing of fluids from out of the wound ripped into the world. The organ dims, the crimson losing potency and color in real-time, with a final heave, something tears its way into the world and lands on the ground before me.


    It looks just human enough to look wrong.


    It shares the strangely waxen skin of my avatar, of a Fleshling, but it has massive, bulging musculature, malformed and misshapen but rippling with power. It looks like there are cancerous shards or miniscule shark teeth growing out of every inch of it, like malformed scales, and its head is massive, almost half the size of its body.


    As it slowly lifts itself off the ground, twisted frame seeming to move in precisely the required ways to raise its massive skull off the ground, that same head slits open down the front, revealing eyes clustered like pomegranates. The pupils are-


    The pupils are all wrong. Like camera-lenses, zooming in and out with a whirring noise, even as their form speaks of nothing but meat.


    A hand comes up as that horrific head stares at me. If there is a mouth, I can¡¯t find it. Just a pillar of meat atop a body that looks like a bodybuilder was grown wrong and entirely out of shark-skin. It pushes against the ground, raising itself higher, and the way that the muscles move beneath the skin is wrong, like they¡¯re connecting and disconnecting in sequence, as needed.


    A moment later, it has one of its feet under it, and it stands up tall.


    At least eight feet. Maybe more. It towers over me, three times as broad, screaming with physicality alive with the threat of violence. From between its legs, growing from its tailbone, I see a long, serpentine shape, a tail that looks borderline obscene- until it really commits, splitting open at the tip and unzipping itself. Three different lines of teeth spiral down its length, serrated fangs in a mouth almost wide enough to swallow a person whole and dripping a strange black liquid, like petroleum and leaking rubber.


    What the fuck is that.


    Did I hit some sort of fucking checkpoint? Is¡­ is this a boss? A random mob? Something designed to show up before you reach the edge of the map, a more immersive way of blocking progress?


    And then it appears. Floating above the creature¡¯s head, a smaller form of the words that float in the sky above me, a larger form of the words I get when I pick something up.


    {MANIFESTATION OF [00000000]}


    GREATER FLESHLING


    The line above draws most of my attention.


    It¡¯s not just a fleshling, it¡¯s a manifestation of something. Something blurred out, replaced with black bars and hazy lines, kept secret.


    ¡­Another player?


    Slowly, I raise a hand¡­ and wave.


    Seems safer than trying to fight, anyways.


    The pillar of flesh replacing a head tilts to one side, like its looking at something curious. It gives off an impression of¡­ amusement?


    And then it raises a distended, hypermuscular arm¡­ and waves back.


    And then there¡¯s a pixelated blur on my screen, and then there¡¯s a twitching like the headset just moved, and then there¡¯s something like a camera-eye blinking-


    My entire body screams with a sudden burst of feedback that sprints past uncomfortable and right into outright pain, and then everything goes dead.


    Very slowly, feeling the carpet on my back from when I must have fallen over without realizing, I reach up and pull the headset off.


    It sticks for a second, the grunge of sweat against plastic straps fighting me, and then I¡¯m free, staring at a dark room that feels unfamiliar to me. It¡¯s lit by a lava lamp in the corner, a regular lamp on the far side, and the hint of streetlights coming in through the blinds, and I have lived here a full year, and yet it feels like I¡¯m a stranger in my own room, my own body, my own world.


    I stare at the headset in my hands.


    It¡¯s almost dark enough to disguise the way the screen blinks at me.


    I very gently put it down on the floor. Slowly.


    I sit myself up, edging away from it, inch by agonizingly slow inch, until I feel the cool of the far wall hit my back.


    And then I stare at it for a while.


    Waiting to see if it moves.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.6

    ¡°Chandana said the ship was dead. We trusted him. He was right. But even a dead god can dream. A god ¡ª a real god ¡ª is a verb. Not some old man with magic powers. It''s a force. It warps reality just by being there. It doesn''t have to want to. It doesn''t have to think about it. It just does. That''s what Chandana didn''t get. Not until it was too late. The god''s mind is gone but it still dreams. He knows now. He''s tuned in on our dream. If I close my eyes I can feel him. I can feel every one of us."


    ¡ªIndoctrinated Cerberus Member, Mass Effect 2


    _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    Enough is enough.


    For all that I have enjoyed the game, for all that it clicks beautifully into a niche in my mind of exactly what I crave in an experience, something is wrong.


    I blocked off the internet connection. I know for a fact I blocked off the internet connection..


    Wifi being always active means constant updates. It means downloads that I didn¡¯t ask for from companies I don¡¯t trust, a slowdown on my performance from the needs of the wider interwebs and the processing power required to keep that connection running.


    And frankly, VR multiplayer games suck. If I wanted to play with others, I can play Fortsnite or Warframing, mediums that have perfected the mechanics of the system and requirements.


    I made sure that the wifi was turned off.


    But that¡­ creature.


    It waved back.


    Which either means that a random area boss, potentially tied to some sort of advancement-trigger,  was coded with an almost perfect reactivity¡­ or that was a player.


    In a game with no wifi requirements, and with internet access turned off.


    There¡¯s theoretically some normal way to explain this. Maybe they have a Dark Spirits-esque system of previous players and emote reactions coded into stuff. Maybe the boss always waves, a sort of cheeky challenge before it kills you dead.


    ¡­


    No.


    It doesn¡¯t fit. It¡¯s too much. Not even New Vegas, one of the greatest games in the world, built by some of the most talented, passionate studios in the world, had this level of detail on this intimidating of a medium. It shouldn¡¯t exist.


    And then there¡¯s the other things. Small stuff, stuff I would normally disregard as a failing of the senses or a sleep-deprived mind, but that¡¯s been building since I started. The forum thread that got deleted, the weird username I¡¯d never seen before and which I saw twitch, and now that¡­ eye-blink of the headset. Like a camera lens made out of meat. The way the haptic feedback is more precise and more intense than any other game, to the point where it¡¯s genuinely painful and exhausting.


    Something is off. Something should not be.


    I put the headset and all its associated pieces back in its box before I go to bed.


    I wake up sweating, wrapped in sheets. There is a sense of animal fear and discomfort, like I dreamt of something that is out of sight but which some part of me begged me to run from.


    They say that you dream all night, but only remember short bursts at the beginning and end of true sleep. Whatever I¡¯ve forgotten feels like it was crawling over me until the moment I woke up.


    I shake my head. Dramatic ass bitch, thy name is Ilia.


    As I go through the morning rituals (showering, dressing, packing my laptop) I make up my mind.


    Research day.


    Thirty minutes later, a car with its check-engine light on and a severely whiny suspension rolls into a coffee shop and deposits me onto its porch.


    The door hinge squeaks as I shut the door (harder than is usually needed, which is already pretty much a slam), stepping away from my car and into a place of comfort. An oasis in a field of grim, poorly maintained city infrastructure.


    The Golden Roast.


    And there at the counter is its paladin, its joy, its greatest champion: Jay.


    ¡°Hot chocolate, two pumps caramel, and a peach tea?¡± he asks, the moment I walk in the door.


    ¡°You know me too well.¡±


    ¡°I like to think just well enough, thank you much!¡±


    Infectious doesn¡¯t quite describe Jay¡¯s personality. A cough is infectious. Jay is a pandemic. I have yet to meet someone able to keep from smiling in his presence; he has an easy confidence, a casual comfort with people that never feels excessive, always ready with a joke, a wink, or a little tune he¡¯s humming. I¡¯d call him a golden retriever in human form, but he¡¯s much too clever for that- he¡¯s headed for a PHD candidacy, and damn passionate about his chosen field of Egyptology.


    Which is why he has a job at a coffeehouse.


    A very nice coffeehouse! One of the big three in the whole town!


    But admittedly, the career paths for Egyptology are rather limited outside of academia, even in places with more than 6,000 people total.


    I¡¯ve known Jay since we met in (my) junior year. A whirlwind, and only a year into my transition, give-or-take. He¡¯d been an unexpected source of support and brightness, a note of shocking stability in a time of chaos near-absolute, and I still haven¡¯t paid him back for that, no matter what he might say (or how many drinks I¡¯ve ordered here the last few years). If not for a stunning lack of ambition and the era in which we live, I¡¯m pretty sure he¡¯d be some genius majordomo, the power-behind-the-throne type of person. Except nice, and really passionate about old bones.


    Instead, he makes some of the best hot drinks in the local area and, to my eyes, singlehandedly keeps The Golden Roast over its competitors.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    I find an open seat, one of the ones with comfortable cushions, and collapse into it, slinging my laptop out with the ease of a well-practiced motion. The place is a little pricey, at least on a bartender¡¯s salary, but it¡¯s worth it for the high-speed wifi and the drinks (and Jay).


    All in all, it¡¯s one of the places I feel centered. There¡¯s plenty of good in creating a home environment that¡¯s comfortable, a reflection of yourself, but in my experience, reflections are rarely your friend, even if they¡¯re familiar, and something being comfortable doesn¡¯t make it good. When I need to get out of my own head and get shit done, and going from my room to the living room couch isn¡¯t enough, there¡¯s few places in town that suit me better.


    The laptop finishes booting up, and in seconds, I¡¯ve got a VPN up to disguise my presence online and a search bar open for my query.


    First, though, I open up a second tab, pulling up my email.


    I tracked the game through every stop. Different mail services, different countries, it didn¡¯t matter: two hundred dollars is not money I can afford to lose or get cheated out of, and my excitement for the game melded with that fact to make for near-obsessive tracking of the package. I start with my flagged and priority messages, checking backwards on every step on its journey.


    Before Hollow Springs, it was with USPS, who are alright at tracking their packages. I check in on every address, finding three different warehouses- one in Montana, one in Oregon, one in Nevada, all small towns not much larger than mine. From there, overseas shipping from Hawaii, the first place I got confirmation from USPS that the package was on the way.


    Before that, it gets weirder.


    There¡¯s about three weeks where I got no notifications whatsoever, but before that, I got news that it was in Madagascar, off the coast of south Africa. There, my messages came from an account I don¡¯t recognize, but the address for the warehouse brings up images on google-maps of a building with the words ¡°Paositra Malagasy¡± on the front. An even quicker use of a fresh tab lets me know it¡¯s the official government post of Madagascar.


    Tracking back from that, New Zealand.


    That¡¯s where the trail starts, but it¡¯s not perfect. My email says that the package arrived at a processing facility there, and a quick search brings up news stories about a brand new facility, the largest in the country, processing hundreds of thousands of packages. I got a second email when it was shipped out from there, but the formatting doesn¡¯t tell me if someone submitted the package originally from New Zealand or if it came from someplace before that.


    There¡¯s a number I can call, though.


    Normally, the thought of a phone call is exhausting, but somehow, to a complete stranger for a completely strange reason, it feels easier.


    Another search brings up substantially less results than before- there are no major VR gaming companies with a New Zealand office. The likelihood of someone having a secret game-development team there, or that team having someone leak a completed product early, or that product being a decade ahead of its time and weird to boot¡­ well, it¡¯s not high. What will I say on the call, then? ¡°Hey, I ordered a package from a stranger on a forum that my friends vouched for, just wondering if you have records of a package you got two months ago headed for Madagascar and could tell me the return address on it?¡±


    ¡­It¡¯s not as fantastical as weird meat-games growing out of my headset, but it¡¯s not exactly the sort of thing likely to get someone to think I¡¯m sane either. Unlikely to earn me any points on the intelligence scale either- most of a customer-service role in retail is dealing with idiots carrying the most weapons-grade stupid questions you¡¯ve ever heard.


    Still, I¡¯m about ready to check the local time ¡°across the pond¡± and call when someone interrupts me.


    Jay puts down two takeout-cups of steaming hot drinks on the table, smiling at me. He¡¯s got beads in his dreadlocks that clatter against each other very quietly, and I feel a bit of a flutter for noticing and for not noticing that he was coming over.


    ¡°Figured I¡¯d bring them to you this time,¡± he says, leaning with his hip against one of the empty chairs at the table. ¡°You seem busy.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Jay. Sorry, it¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s been a weird time the last two days. Doing some research on something funky.¡±


    ¡°Anything you need help with? You know I love funk.¡±


    ¡°Brazilian funk is not funk, it¡¯s like trap-beats with rap.¡±


    ¡°What is any music, if not an exploration of style and genres? What is any new category of hot beats to funk to if not a blending and evolution of what¡¯s come before?¡±


    I snort, taking a sip from the hot chocolate. Scalding hot, but I don¡¯t mind- the heat wakes me up more than the caffeine, and I¡¯ve gotten over way higher pain thresholds than ¡°hot cocoa¡±. I don¡¯t flinch, even as it burns against my tongue.. ¡°Far be it from me to yuck your yum, nerd.¡±


    ¡°¡®Yuck your yum¡¯. And I¡¯m the nerd. Scoot over, what¡¯s got you frazzled?¡±


    I sigh, making room for him on the fancy chair. He takes one look at my open browser and flinches.


    ¡°Dang, girl! You still ain¡¯t learned to put your tabs down when you¡¯re done with them?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m cross referencing! Shut up. I bought this game online, off a forum. The guy I bought it from got vouched for, but I hadn¡¯t met them before we started chatting for it, and when they sent it, it went through, like, half the globe before it arrived, and since I plugged it in, it¡¯s been weird. It¡¯s a weird game. I¡¯m trying to see if I can figure out where it came from.¡±


    Jay snorts, stealing a sip of my hot chocolate and flinching hard when he realizes how hot it still is. He shakes his head, putting it back with a sour look, before turning back to me as I (successfully, mind you) hold back a laugh.


    ¡°You bought a game off an internet weirdo and now the game¡¯s weird. Who would have thought.¡±


    ¡°Not like that. It hasn¡¯t glitched, or set up a connection somewhere, hasn¡¯t slapped me with any viruses I found. If anything, it works too good- it runs butter-smooth, best graphics I¡¯ve seen, and it¡¯s got so many little details and gimmicks that it doesn¡¯t seem possible. I¡¯m trying to find out if I can see where the package got sent from so I can check for some big-name gaming companies there.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a plan. What¡¯s the problem?¡±


    ¡°The problem is that the trail ends in New Zealand, and I don¡¯t know if it starts there. And if it does, then some crazy savant coded this thing in a basement, cause there¡¯s no VR-centric gaming companies doing anything like this over there.¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡± Jay leans back into the seat, perching his head on his hand as he turns to stare at me fully. ¡°Any reason this is freaking you out so bad?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not ¡®freaked out¡¯, I¡¯m just-¡±


    ¡°Freaked out.¡±


    I sigh, turning a glare on him¡­ but there¡¯s no heat to it, and I end up rolling her head back with a groan.


    ¡°Fine. Freaked out. Just¡­ it¡¯s too good to be true, and it¡¯s really weird. Like finding Freddie Mercury¡¯s long lost cousin¡¯s albums, except he¡¯s just as good as freddie but also clearly high on bath salts. And last night, I swear I had my wifi settings turned off for the headset, but it felt like one of the boss characters that popped out waved back at me.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it was built in? Make for a fun little note?¡±


    ¡°If it was just that, maybe, but on top of everything else? It¡¯s too much.¡±


    Jay sighs, leaning into a fake pout. ¡°Hate to see you so wiped. I can tell you were really looking forward to it.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s a really good game. It¡¯s just¡­¡±


    ¡°I getcha. Well, not really, I¡¯m more of a moviegoer myself, but I can tell this frazzled you. I¡¯ll be off work in a few hours, if you wanna stick around, maybe work on a few job applications¡­?¡±


    I scowl at him, turning to take another gulp of burning hot chocolate (with two caramel pumps). ¡°I like the bar job, Jay. It pays well and it¡¯s simple work.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re way too smart for that and I think you will have an even better time somewhere else and I¡¯ve said this before so byeeee~,¡± he says, shooting up from the seat with an almost comically athletic ease. ¡°If you do want to hang out later, just text and let me know, ok? Hot chocolate¡¯s on me today. My gift to my weird, smart, delightful, in-need-of-comfort friend.¡±


    I roll my eyes, but it comes with another sigh and a nod. ¡°Thanks, Jay. You¡¯re¡­ thanks.¡±


    He smiles, wide and like a sunbeam. ¡°Ain¡¯t no thang, gorgeous. I¡¯ll get you for the tea when you head out, ok? And again, if you want to hang out, get some socializing time outside of work, wait here or just let me know, alright?¡±


    Again, all I can do is nod. ¡°I can do that. Thanks, Jay.¡±


    He winks at me. ¡°Hey, what are friends for?¡±


    And with that note, he turns on his heel, practically jogging back over behind the counter, somehow magically just in time for a fresh set of customers to walk in.


    I watch him go, his dreads bobbing, his skin almost glowing in the early afternoon sunlight. I take a deep breath, closing her eyes, refocusing.


    Research. And hot drinks.


    But I can¡¯t help it. I look back at him one last time.


    I almost choke on the hot chocolate as his dreads sway just right. As the shape of his head seems wrong, hitting a note of shadow out of the sunlight that reshapes the whole thing. As a wound in the back of his head opens a bloody, bruised, broken eye- and blinks.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.7

    "We know what happened to those who chanced to meet the Great God Pan, and those who are wise know that all symbols are symbols of something, not of nothing. It was, indeed, an exquisite symbol beneath which men long ago veiled their knowledge of the most awful, most secret forces which lie at the heart of all things; forces before which the souls of men must wither and die and blacken, as their bodies blacken under the electric current. Such forces cannot be named, cannot be spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a symbol to the most of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a foolish tale. But you and I, at all events, have known something of the terror that may dwell in the secret place of life, manifested under human flesh; that which is without form taking to itself a form."


    ¡ªThe Great God Pan</a>


    _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    It¡¯s not real.


    It¡¯s not real.


    I sat there after I saw what I saw. Drank my hot chocolate, and finished my peach tea after, and pretended to keep digging up possibilities for the package.


    It¡¯s not real.


    There is nothing under his dreads. Any indication of movement or damage came from the swaying of his hair, the jogging. It wasn¡¯t real. There was no gaping wound in the back of my best friend¡¯s head. There was nothing inside that wound which blinked at me. There is nothing wrong with Jay. There is nothing wrong with me. I¡¯m just tired.


    I had a late night. I got freaked out.


    I¡­


    Maybe I shouldn¡¯t play the game again.


    There¡¯s a voice in my head calling me a wuss, mocking me for getting freaked out so easily¡­ but frankly, that voice can kiss my fucking ass. There¡¯s a difference between watching a scary movie and having nightmares, and playing a game hours ago, yesterday, and suddenly hallucinating in broad daylight.


    ¡­but fuck. Fuck. It¡¯s just starting, and it already has so much going on.


    ¡­Fuck.


    I haven¡¯t been to therapy in a while, but that doesn¡¯t mean that I¡¯ve forgotten the tricks. One of the big ones, at least for me, is that when I want something that I know is going to hurt me, it¡¯s usually not good for me, even if I do end up enjoying it. Sometimes especially then.


    I should take a break. Bare minimum. The game, and the mystery behind it, aren¡¯t going anywhere. There¡¯s time. It¡¯s a boring idea, a bland one, one that feels almost wrong compared to how badly I want to find out what¡¯s going on with it, how badly I want to keep playing, but¡­ mmh. I can practically feel the obsession crawling over my synapses, ready for me to fixate on my questions. That, in turn, seems like fairly decent proof-positive that the safer choice is to not do that.


    It¡¯s the right call. Play something else for awhile, maybe something outside of VR, go to work, hang out with Jay. Live my life.


    A straightforward, regular life. Where normal things happen. And I¡¯m¡­ me.


    Fuck.


    I sigh, finishing packing up. In the end, I don¡¯t stay much longer than what it took to finish my drinks- panicking over what I saw (didn¡¯t see) in Jay¡¯s hair doesn¡¯t make for a particularly comfortable experience. The drinks, as always, are delicious, and the aura of the place is impeccable, and that¡¯s enough to refresh me, even with the panic. Next step is to head home and enjoy what¡¯s left of my weekend, find something to wash away the messy feelings of the last few hours.


    I let the door jingle as it shuts behind me, heading back to my car. It¡¯s a piece of shit, but the sight of it alone is enough to calm me down a bit further, a little moment of reality. A piece of the world that¡¯s mine, that I can rely on, no matter what all those blinking lights on the dashboard keep complaining about.


    I make it three steps forward off the curb, heading to the door- and it opens on its own.


    I spend a good five seconds standing perfectly still.


    The driver side door is a sturdy and strong-willed bitch of a set of steel and hinges, which is another way of saying she¡¯s heavy, hard to move, and damn near locks in place if the weight hits it even slightly wrong. I have to slam it shut every time, and yank about as hard to rip it back open. It does not, has not, and should not ever simply click open.


    You¡¯re being paranoid, I tell myself. You¡¯re spooked and seeing patterns where there are none. It¡¯s fine. It¡¯s ok. It¡¯s just a door.


    But I¡¯m starting to feel a bit like how I did when I woke up this morning. Like there was something crawling, just out of sight, and I forgot about it. That creeping sensation that all the little weird things are starting to pile up, that something doesn¡¯t make sense.


    The door is heavy, and it sticks, and I know I locked it before I got out.


    But it could have opened on its own. It could.


    I get in, slowly, and set my laptop bag on the front seat next to me as I take a seat. The idea of a car bomb is ridiculous and strange and dumb as hell- and it still pops up anyways.


    But nothing happens. Not when I sit down, and not when I close the door. And then close it again, harder, when it refuses to stick, feeling the heavy mechanism clunk closed just like it does every time I¡¯ve shut it properly. And when I turn the key in the ignition and start to drive out of the lot, slower and more carefully than I normally would, nothing happens. Except the traitorous flashing of the ¡®check engine¡¯ light, but that¡¯s expected.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    I takes  slow, deep breath as I pull out of the lot. It¡¯s fine. Things are normal. I¡¯m just freaked out, which is reasonable considering I just hallucinated a hole in the head of my friend.


    I really shouldn¡¯t play MEAT again anytime soon.


    I make it all the way to the end of the road, easing to a stop before a glaring red light, before my windshield cracks.


    I jump up out of my seat so hard that when I land, I can feel my tailbone bruise to shit on the lumpy cushion. Fuck. Now that¡¯s all I needed, a gods-damned broken windshield that-


    ¡­


    That¡¯s an arrow.


    As clear as the clicker on my own turn-signal. A sideways V, jagged and sharp, with a single long line coming from between them, pointing over to the left.


    My route home from the Golden Roast is nearly a straight line. One right at the light past this one, a left at the light after that, and then right on to a complex of condos as banal as they are cheaply made. A hundred thousand just like them, all across the continental US, bought and paid for, designed to farm rent and nothing else.


    The door that shouldn¡¯t have opened.


    The crack in the windshield, pointing  left.


    The glimpse of movement beneath Jay¡¯s hair.


    That feeling of something writhing in my sleep. The moment my headset blinked at me.


    Something is wrong.


    And despite everything, it¡¯s not fear I feel, pushing me to turn. Or at least, not a fear of what might be to my left.


    The thought comes back, returning as it always does.


    A straightforward, regular life. Where normal things happen. And I¡¯m me.


    And a second idea behind it. One a little less fearful, in its way.


    Between two systems, one which I know and another which holds only the promise of something interesting, I prefer the latter.


    I could just go back to my little condo. I could turn back anytime. My therapist would probably recommend exactly that.


    But I have a bad habit of wanting things that I know might hurt me. And an even worse habit of enjoying them.


    And the thought of my psychological health, of avoiding risk, of reasonable and helpful advice, somehow feels far more threatening than the idea of everything I know about the world being off.


    The light changes, bright carmine turning to a dull, sickly green.


    I turn left.


    ______________________________________________________________________


    I drive for almost half an hour in a straight line.


    The beauty of small towns that aren¡¯t more than a hundred years old is that most of them are built on a grid, and once you leave that grid, everything is set up at right angles so long as its paved. I drive until the buildings get smaller, less modern, and keep driving past that. I see what was once the road leading to some old mill, long-ago shut down. I see the beginning of farmland, the edges of suburbia placed smack-dab in the opposite direction I¡¯m heading, such that the city turns to forest and then to fields faster than one might expect.


    The crack (and it¡¯s insane that I¡¯m attributing motivations to it) can¡¯t have meant for me to just go in a big left circle. That would be stupid. That would mean that my mysterious ¡°arrow¡± is just me seeing patterns where there¡¯s nothing. Considering no other cracks have appeared, then the instruction (if it was ever real) must have been to just turn left one time and go straight. Surely.


    Five more minutes. I¡¯ve got the day off, technically. It¡¯s fine. I can just do a u-turn when I get bored of this. When I¡¯m certain I¡¯ve only gone temporarily insane. When I know for sure that it¡¯s just my mind betraying me in an all new way.


    Five more minutes.


    The alternative is to keep driving until I¡¯m sure that life is exactly as simple and banal and overwhelming and empty as it has always been and can only be. I¡¯ve failed at acquiring that surety for almost twenty five years, and I don¡¯t have the gas money to drive that long.


    I turn on the radio. It warbles between stations of its own accord, the age and quality of the radio making preset channels (or even staying on the channel I was last on) more a suggestion than a rule. It briefly settles on a gospel channel, just south of Christian rock, before I turn the dial back to something that won¡¯t just worsen my mental state.


    Through the static, there¡¯s a brief flicker of a pop song, something jazzy half-drowned in white noise, a thumping bass of-


    Thump-thump.


    Thump-thump.


    I slow a bit as I look down at the radio.


    Thump-thump.


    The display marks the radio signal as 108.1FM. I¡¯ve never seen it go above 107.9. Point of fact, I assumed that was the maximum range for FM radio, at least in the US.


    Thump-thump.


    Thump-Thump.


    Louder. Just a little bit, but louder.


    I decide not to touch the dial. Experimentally, I press the gas pedal down a bit further, speeding up just a bit.


    THump-THump.


    And then-


    THUMp-THUMp.


    And then-


    Thump-thump.


    I check the rearview, my own heart pounding. My throat feels tight, and there is a feeling of cold that runs through me, spinning out from my sternum, flavored by adrenalin.


    The road behind me is empty as far back as I can see. The same goes for the road ahead.


    Before I can change her mind, I slam the gearshift into reverse and hit the gas.


    THUmp-THUmp.


    Louder again.


    THUMp-THUMp.


    Back to its height. I look out the window, turning my attention from the rearview mirror and from the heartbeat singing in my ears.


    To my left, woods. Trees and underbrush and deer country, tightly packed between acres of farmland on either side.


    To my right, the exact same¡­ and a fencepost.


    Not a fencepost. A regular post, with a little perch connected at the top. A mailbox, sans mailbox.


    And there, half-hidden by the underbrush, overgrown and crowded in by trees, is what might once have been an unpaved side-road.


    I look down at my phone, dead and quiet on the car seat next to me.


    I look at the road, vast and empty in either direction as far as the eyes can see.


    THUMp-THUMp.


    I pull onto the side of the road, put on my hazard lights, and put the car in park.


    THUMP-THUMP.


    And then¡­ nothing.


    I look back at the radio.


    107.9. The next closest functional channel is 107.5.


    I listen to the hissing of static for a while.


    Then I turn off the car. Turn off the hazard lights.


    I¡¯m not crazy.


    I¡¯m not crazy.


    I¡¯m not about to wander off into the woods pursuing a series of nonsensical hallucinations and coincidences.


    I breathe, slow and deep.


    Count to five. Breathe out. Count to four. Breathe in.


    Deep breaths, Ilia. Name five things your senses feel right now.


    I feel the pleather of the carseat under my hands.


    I can taste the lingering traces of sweetness and peach in my saliva, at the back of my throat.


    I can feel the afternoon sun on the back of my neck, streaming in through the rear window.


    I can smell a long-expired air freshener trying to fight back the funk of human existence.


    I open my eyes, and see a wooded trail, not quite large enough for a car, leading into the unknown.


    I¡¯m not crazy.


    And if I am¡­ then maybe this is the moment I get to decide. Maybe there¡¯ll be other hallucinations, and I¡¯ll be able to point to this moment as the one where I realized I couldn¡¯t listen to them. Maybe I¡¯ll splurge on some more therapy, and some medicine, and every time I see something strange or that feels impossibly connected, I¡¯ll be able to look back to this moment and my decision to look away.


    Or maybe I make the other decision.


    Because if I decide to follow this, then there¡¯s no value in thinking it¡¯s not real. An indulgence of my own madness is the one thing this can¡¯t be. It is either real, or it¡¯s not. If it¡¯s not real and I¡¯m just indulging it, letting myself fall into it, then that means I¡¯m crazy, and the madness won, after all the depression and the darkness and the anxiety and the doubt it won. And if it is real, then¡­ then letting myself doubt, resisting what I¡¯m seeing and feeling, is only going to keep me blind.


    Either none of this is real, or all of it is. Either it¡¯s too weird to be possible, or it¡¯s too weird to be anything else.


    I open the door, slamming it hard enough to hear the mechanism clunk and locking it behind me. Armed with a phone camera, keys, and a wallet, I wander into the woods, past an empty mailbox and down a quiet road.


    The wind blows through the trees, and for a moment, it makes a sound like percussion.


    THUMP THUMP.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.8

    _______________________________________________________________


    ¡°Look carefully upon the subject. See how it moves in a pre-ordained manner, how it acts in accordance to pattern. The function of a system is to function as a system- all else is circumstantial, context-dependent. The function of an artist, then, is to enact transformation upon that system. Our lot is to reach into a thing and make it anew, in whichever way we please- we establish new functions, replacing the default and the emptiness of function for function¡¯s sake. Where before, it only existed to exist, we grant it purpose. Through form, function. Through function, artistry. Through artistry, meaning.


    ¡°Now, pick up your scalpels. The first cut is often the most difficult, and it will set the pace. Ensure that your protections are in place, lest the subject turn to wriggling.¡±


    -Seventh Scripture, twelfth verse of the books of Lo-ahnn Daughtler, First Architect of Artistry


    _______________________________________________________________


    Mid-afternoon. In autumn, that means there is much less time than ever feels reasonable before the sun sets. It may be a disgustingly warm autumn season, but autumn it remains, and it gets dark fast this time of year.


    I decide to powerwalk into the unknown rather than stroll.


    Phone, wallet, keys. Phone, wallet, keys. I go over the tools I have on me, the only tools I had on hand and could realistically bring. Phone- obvious utility, even if coverage is going to be shit at best, nonexistent at the most likely, and there¡¯s always a use for a portable light.


    Keys, already in my hand. Home, car, mailbox- not a lot going on, but enough to slip between each of the fingers on my right hand into a very poorly designed and improvised set of brass knuckles.


    Wallet- so someone can identify me if I¡¯m found dead in this fucking forest. Grim, but practical. And if I¡¯m doing this, I¡¯m doing it seriously. You walk into weird woods for weird reasons, there¡¯s an expectation of at least a chance that you¡¯ll get absolutely fucked. And that¡¯s without factoring in bears.


    There definitely aren¡¯t any bears here. None have been this close to town in at least months, nevermind their oncoming hibernation, and considering the size of the town, everybody would hear from every hunter in a fifty mile radius about it if that changed. Definitely no bears here. Probably.


    And I¡¯m definitely not worrying about bears more than I¡¯ve worried about any animal in years to avoid thinking of the other possibility. Nope. No sirree.


    I¡¯m doing just fine, yessir.


    It¡¯s fine. I made the choice, and now all I have to do is follow through. That¡¯s the easy part, in my experience. That¡¯s the part that I¡¯m not worried about.


    Which is good. Because there¡¯s a house coming up through the woods.


    The trees are¡­ normal. Glowing with the colors of fall; red, orange and yellow, with hints of green still peeking through in places. Their bark is vibrant, crisped and sharp in the cooling air, and the wind blowing through them makes for beautiful music. The trail beneath my feet is a mix of bare dirt and gravel, struggling for supremacy over the path as slowly and inexorably as time allows and making a lovely crackling sound as I walk. The light of the sun weaves in between the branches, making the afternoon shine golden.


    If I wasn¡¯t so afraid, the day would be beautiful.


    Which is good. Because there¡¯s a house coming up through the woods.


    I take a deep, deep breath, and focus on what¡¯s in front of me.


    At the end of the trail, slightly to one side, sits a two-story one-family home. Two floors, an attic, and a short little garage, its entrance closed and seemingly rusted shut that way. Half of the windows are shattered, one of them gaping open into shadow while the rest are boarded in old, half-rotted wood. The walls are tired, molded and worn by the elements, but still hold traces of a bright yellow paint that once decorated them.


    It¡¯s a dead place. It¡¯s a place that¡¯s been dead for a long time. The stairs up to the door are rotted through, the front door as boarded up as the windows and chained tight afterwards. It might once have been a lived-in place, an actual home, but that was likely decades ago, and what the house has become does not care to invite the living back through its walls.


    And yet¡­ I¡¯ve come this far.


    And my gaze, no matter how intensely the house emits its seething ambivalence to the living, is drawn back to that one window.


    The one window that yawns open like a black mouth against the boarded-up face.


    I¡¯ve come this far.


    Now, to see it through.


    That¡¯s the easy part, right?


    I take off my jacket and lay it over the edge of the window. It¡¯ll get filthy, but better it than me, and better to avoid any leftover glass that might dig into me if I¡¯m not careful. I crawl over it into that yawning square, that window of pitch, and tumble out the other side.


    Immediately, the floor buckles beneath me, and the smell of mold and rot crawl out of the broken floorboards and into my sinuses.


    I sneeze, and then I retch, and then I start coughing, waving a hand desperately in front of my face. I haven¡¯t played sports in a good decade or so, and the dismount is already pretty damn awkward, but I actually stumble as I try to take a step out of the dent I¡¯ve made- only to immediately make another.


    I back up onto the windowsill, the sharp edges of it beneath my jacket more stable and somehow ironically less threatening than the collapsing mess all around me. It takes a few seconds for me to clear my airways and wipe the tears from my eyes, leaning out of the window until I¡¯ve recovered. .


    The room is dark, even with clear sight. The light from the window, facing away from the setting sun, is the only illumination available, everything else filtered through wooden boards, moth-eaten curtains and a thick fog of spores. It¡¯s barely enough to see by, but I almost wish it wasn¡¯t. If it was entirely dark, maybe I could convince myself to leave.


    The living room I¡¯ve crashed into looks almost like an art piece. Whoever last lived here¡­ they never packed up. Frankly, the space looks like they never left. There¡¯s a couch that might once have been grey and is now a greenish black taking up center stage, its pillows ripped open by scavengers but still facing against a tv that¡¯s been long broken. It¡¯s an old-timey set, squat and thick with two antennas sticking out of it, both of them corroded. Behind the couch, I see a dining table, one of its legs eaten away until it¡¯s collapsed and partially broken through the compromised floor, the chairs surrounding it more useful as kindling than seating.


    I¡¯m faced with hallways, now. Whatever I¡¯m looking for, it¡¯s not immediately apparent in the living room, but I¡¯m already inside- now to follow through.


    To the right, what looks like a foyer and kitchen, likely connecting to the garage.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    To the left, a hallway of true dark, likely headed towards a den and a bathroom. Or maybe a guest room?


    Right ahead, to the left of the collapsed table, a stairway leading up, and a door next to it that¡¯s closed.


    And has a chain on the handle.


    I can¡¯t help but give a little laugh. Honestly, the premise seems like some kind of point-and-click games. One of those ¡°choose your own adventure¡± stories. That¡¯s¡­ heh. At home, on my laptop, snuggled up cozy, I¡¯d have ducked straight into the dark hallway, first thing. That, or dashed to the kitchen, trying to find some leftover equipment I could use as a weapon.


    Here, I¡¯m quaking in my fucking boots.


    One wrong step, and I break an ankle. Or wake up a patch of black mold. Or there¡¯s a fucking serial killer living here who I¡¯ve already alerted to my presence by exploding the floor and my sinuses.


    I can feel my heart beating in my chest like a drum. The adrenaline it¡¯s pumping feels cold, like my body is trying to push thick lumps of ice through my veins.


    I haven¡¯t seen any signs of the supernatural yet. No weird veins, no meat-cameras, no blinking eyes in someone¡¯s hair, no weird coincidences. Just a fucked up empty house that, even without any ¡°threat¡±, is a danger simply from the sheer likelihood of getting an infection, or falling through the floor and getting trapped, or¡­


    Or nothing.


    I reach deep, as far down as I can.


    A straightforward, regular life, where normal things happen and I¡¯m me.


    Or walking into the dark.


    Fuck it, we ball.


    I have to walk slowly, feeling out the strength of the floorboards with each step. The ones that creak, ironically, are usually the safest- it¡¯s the ones that groan or outright exhale on contact that are ready to collapse into mush. Gradually, step by step, I make my way to the right, over to the kitchen.


    The foyer and the kitchen behind it, connected by another door over to the dining room area, are just as liminal as the living room. Everything looks like someone just up and left it, but it¡¯s a bit more disconcerting here. At the front door (which, I notice, is chained shut on the inside also- what the fuck?) there are a dozen pairs of shoes, sized for at least three different sets of feet, and a coat hanger with a fedora that¡¯s halfway eaten through next to a thick leather duster. On closer inspection, there¡¯s a winter jacket beneath that in turn, all polyester and artificial sheen- sized for a child.


    I shudder, turning and walking over the mushy carpet of the foyer into the kitchen.


    Here, too, is evidence of habitation. A cutting board, plates still sitting in the sink and reeking, a fridge hanging partially ajar. Slowly, I go from cabinet to cabinet, checking everything, and once again, finds myself confused by just how much stuff is there. Several cleaning chemicals have lost their packaging to time and collapsed into an acidic-smelling clump under the sink, and there are plates, cutlery, and cookware spread throughout the cozy home space. I wonder if I should open the freezer and fridge, just to check- but one errant sniff too close to the sink convinces me thoroughly of what a shit idea that would be.


    Just a normal house. A normal, old-timey house in the middle of woods that can¡¯t have had a field planted in them in over thirty years or more, which looks like the owners just up and left with the clothes on their back one day.


    I make my way through the kitchen doorway back into the living room, close to the dining table. The floor here is even more treacherous, partially caved-in as it is by the weight of the collapsed dining table, but it also has something I need.


    I reach down to one of the chairs, trying to find a way to spread my balance across an area and wincing at the sound the floor makes. I take a breath, coughing at the smell, and get ready to yank-


    And the leg of the chair comes right off. Like wet clay.


    I stare down at it. Give it an experimental swing.


    It¡¯s got moss growing on it, and it doesn¡¯t feel great to hold, but it has weight. And, unlike the few kitchen tools I found, doesn¡¯t offer a guarantee of tetanus.


    Weapon acquired.


    I can practically taste the rpg game in the back of my mind, telling me what I¡¯ve equipped. Wooden Club: +2 Melee Damage, -1 Agility. Heh.


    Focus.


    I turn to the dark hallway. Then I face the stairs, heading up, and then the door to what I assume must be the basement, still chained shut.


    Left, center, right.


    Choose your path, adventurer.


    I did technically receive instructions recently, back at the last literal intersection I stopped at.


    I turn left, towards the dark hallway.


    Better to explore the whole ground floor first, even if I don¡¯t actually find a doorway into the garage. Maybe it¡¯s not connected to the house properly. Either way, the stairs are a danger, and I¡¯m not even sure how I¡¯d get the basement open. Better to finish checking down here, even if I have to partially sacrifice my hold on my new club to get the phone light out.


    I shine the light, and have to blink at the harshness of how bright it turns out, now that my eyes have adjusted. I look toward the open window in alarm.


    It¡¯s getting dark out. I don¡¯t have as much time as I thought, especially if I¡¯m going to make it back to the car before it falls to night.


    All the more reason to focus on the ground floor. I can come back for the stairs some other time if I really need to, but it¡¯ll take longer. Time to hurry.


    I¡¯m getting a feel for the flooring now, and out of the sun, in the dark of the hallway, it¡¯s actually a bit more stable. No furniture pressing it down or light for things to grow in. I walk down the hall, shining my flashlight, and see another fresh set of three- a door along the hallway, a door at the end of it, and the hallway turning to the right at its end.


    Moving quicker than I¡¯d like, I open up the first door- bathroom. Empty, linoleum-white turned yellow-green, smelling of acidic chemicals gone to rot and stagnant water. Nothing much I can see in there. I close the door again, taking another step forward-


    I stop, turning to stare at something just to the side of the doorway..


    I hadn¡¯t really processed them earlier, but¡­ there are picture frames. Hanging in the hallway, along its length. The fear had me focusing on the doors, but the way I¡¯m standing, checking the bathroom, the light from my phone reflecting off the glass¡­


    There are four people in the photo. Two kids, one possibly a teenager, and two adults, a man and a woman. They¡¯re holding close to each other, hugged tightly together in the picture, and through the staining, I think I can see a park or sunny background behind them.


    None of them have faces.


    The staining of mold is there again, but it doesn¡¯t take up the whole picture. It dances in at the edges, plays at discoloration in the middle- and blurs each of the four faces in a perfect little oval, as if a finger pressed against each of them and smudged them away.


    I shudder.


    Yep. Time to get moving.


    I keep walking forward, head down, avoiding looking at any other pictures. If they¡¯re anything like the first one, I¡¯d rather not see.


    I stop at the end of the hall, eyes focused on the way it continues to the right. There¡¯s another door there- a back door, perhaps, but kept in an incredibly strange part of the house. It, just like the front door, the garage, and the basement door, has a chain wrapped tightly around its handle, corroded but still intact.


    For later, then. If there ever is a later. This place is fucked.


    The last door starts to squeak, the wood groaning as I approach, and I reach my hand out to the knob-


    Click.


    The hinges squeal, low and quiet, as the door clicks open, my hand still an inch away from contact.


    Ok. So that¡¯s¡­ that¡¯s probably a sign.


    Good or bad, I still don¡¯t know. But I¡¯ve come this far.


    I give the door the lightest push with the club, waiting for it to swing all the way open before I step in.


    My light illuminates a small bedspace. There¡¯s a dresser, off to one side, but its drawers have been ripped open, several of them laying on the floor with clothes askew. The bed is unmade, messy, with sheets half-molded and thrown over each other, some of them torn. There¡¯s a little closet, the door askew and open, and there are a few towels and small jackets fallen on the floor with the rest of the mess.


    It¡¯s the only room I¡¯ve seen with signs of more than just normal degradation. This place looks like someone turned it inside out looking for something, and didn¡¯t bother cleaning up the mess afterwards.


    It makes the single patch of clear flooring all the more visible.


    There¡¯s no tv in the room. No outlets plugged in that I can see. But right there, staring me in the face, is the oldest piece of technology I¡¯ve ever seen.


    The tv in the other room might have been older, but it was broken, unidentifiable. This is different. This is a single piece of hardware, perfectly intact, somehow nearly pristine when contrasted against the moldy ruin of the rest of the house.


    I¡¯ve always been a nerd. Wikipedia dives are a very fun little pastime, and gaming is my current passion. It¡¯s only the sheer weirdness of the setting that makes it take so long for me to recognize an Atare 2600.


    One of the first ever home gaming consoles, made in the year of¡­ 1977? A little over fifty years ago, maybe.


    Around the time the house was abandoned?


    I¡¯ve never seen one in person, never touched one before, but I¡¯ve researched them. 128 bytes of ram, compatible with the cathode-ray television sets produced in the late 1970s and early 1980s. It generates a radio frequency signal using a special switch box to act as the television''s antenna, and possesses a controller, battery, and a place to connect memory-address pins.


    In other words, a place to read a game cartridge.


    Like the one currently plugged into it.


    I move so, so slowly. My light tracks over everything I can see, refusing to leave even a single angle untouched.


    I enter the room, slowly setting down my club¡­ and reach for the cartridge.


    It pops out easily with a click, landing in my hand like it was barely even in the slot. Like it was waiting for me.


    I let out a breath I didn¡¯t realize I was holding, turning it over and putting my light on it.


    There¡¯s no sticker, no stylized depiction of an Atare game on it. Just a single word, carved in with scratches like a knife.


    BLEED.

 INTERLUDE 1.a

    "It has been said, by some individuals in the agency, that what we do is beyond the bounds of our established mission. That whatever darkness we have stumbled into, it is best suited to a higher purpose, to greater authorities, to more specialized institutions. These individuals will no longer be part of our mission going forward. The Agency does not have room for useless assets, much less in these trying times. There are rogue elements barking around every corner and threats on the horizon fast approaching, and I will not have us caught unprepared.


    "Make no mistake, we are at war. We have been at war a long time, and your ignorance of that fact is no excuse for incompetence. Get back to your desks, and get to work."


    -Executive Official Of The Board Sarah Matthews, on inauguration to her new role, 1952.


    ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    The entire building is screaming.


    This is unfortunate, as Sam has no earthly fucking clue how to get it to shut up, and, furthering the unfortunateness of the circumstances, Sam had been asleep about three minutes ago.


    The first two of those minutes were a blinding and agonizing mess of sensory input as the building, as was aforementioned, started screaming.


    Emergency lights Sam was damn-near certain were defunct are blaring carmine-crimson in strobing waves across the hallways as he runs, ears covered as best he can to keep the ear-shattering wail of the alarm from deafening him. It sounds like an emergency alert broadcast, the kind that comes on the TV before they tell you about an incoming hurricane or the president¡¯s about to say something, but warped, distorted as if through a filter until it¡¯s barely recognizable and twice as loud. All Sam can do is run, sprint, dash fucking blindly down the hallway to the only place that might offer any answers.


    They shoulder-barge their way through a door, stumbling into the room, slamming against the console, and-


    There. A glass case, covered in dust, unopened for fuck knows how long- and a keyhole right beneath it.


    Where the fuck is his key?


    Sam scrambles, his hands flailing over his pockets, his lanyard, his bracelet- there. Wrapped tight around his wrist, like it always is, like it¡¯s legally required to be, always literally at hand. He grabs at it like a drowning man and jams it into the keyhole, missing once, twice, forcing himself to slow so he doesn¡¯t break the damn thing- and then at last, managing to correctly connect it. He slams hard to his right, and at last, the shrieking and the blaring and the strobing and flashing and world-shattering everything go quiet.


    It takes a lot of effort not to simply collapse bonelessly onto the console and then the floor.


    His head feels hot. Like, hot. He brings a hand up to his ear, finding a trickle of blood leaking from it. He finds a similar stream of red from his nose, and tastes more in his mouth from where he bit his own tongue.


    Who in the fuck makes an alarm that loud? For what possible purpose?


    His ears are still ringing, his whole body aching from the adrenaline and tension- but he has no time to collapse. No time to stagger over to a seat and remember what it¡¯s like to breathe deeply.


    His hearing is not so far gone that he does not hear the phone ringing.


    Brrrring.


    Just like everything else in the base, it¡¯s incredibly old-fashioned, like a phone you¡¯d hear ringing in a show about the 50s. The sound is sharp and biting, completely free of any sort of digital component.


    Brrrring.


    Sam turns his head to the right, looking past the console and the monitors, and sees it there. Bright red, even after years of disuse, and as thick and heavy as any emergency landline out to be.


    Brrrring.


    Not a phone. The Phone.


    The phone that has never rung once in Sam¡¯s three years of rotting away in this particular shithole.


    Walking feels like swimming, moving feels like falling- but he does not let it go to a fourth ring.


    ¡°Hello, this is- a- are¡±


    ¡°Challenge: Alpha-Niner-Six-Six-Cappa-Salt-Thirteen-Goodbye.¡±


    Sam blinks. Turns to look around at himself. Looks back at the phone.


    ¡°...This is Agent Sam Wittiker. Who is this?¡±


    The Phone stays silent for a while. Quiet, way-back from past the distortion of the connection, Sam¡¯s pretty sure he hears someone sigh.


    ¡°Agent Sam Wittiker, is there a binder in a metal cabinet near you?¡±


    Blinking, Sam turns to look, almost dropping the phone as vertigo hits him like a truck from the simple motion. It clatters in his hands, and he almost falls over- but there it is. A little space under the console, one that he¡¯s never actually stopped to take a look at, popped open along an invisible seam.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    And there, inside it, is a red binder, colored to match the phone almost exactly.


    ¡°Ah- that is, one moment, sir, I-¡±


    He actually does fall over on the way back to the console, dropping the phone to hang from its wire- but he makes it to the cabinet. He has to scramble back to his feet, trying to balance opening the binder in one hand and picking the phone back up in the other, but there, on the second page past a title that he skims past-


    ¡°Ah- here it is. Um. Alpha-Niner-Six-Six-Cappa-Salt-Thirteen-Goodbye. Response: the goldfish swims in the cold, under the tracks.¡±


    For a moment, as he stands in the silence and the crackling of the phone, Sam feels deep panic that he lost the connection. And worse- may have just lost his job.


    ¡°Response accepted. ¡­Did you memorize the challenge?¡±


    ¡°I- well, I have fairly good memory, sir. Tested high on recall.¡±


    ¡°...mmh. Location and status, Agent Wittiker.¡±


    ¡°Well, sir, this is Colorado Test-Site 3. I- approximately a minute and a half prior, we experienced an emergency alert, which I have acknowledged and disarmed, sir.¡±


    ¡°Colorado Test-Site 3? Can you confirm?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ yes, sir. Colorado Test-Site 3. I¡¯ve been babysitting an empty town for the last two years, sir, I think I¡¯d know-¡±


    Sam shuts up before he says something he¡¯ll actually regret. Worse than he already does. His head really hurts.


    ¡°Colorado Test Site 3 was decommissioned six months ago, Agent. Who is your superior officer?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ believe that would be Special Agent Janet Wilson, sir, but I have not had direct contact with her for some time. I mostly just see her name on my transfer requests when they come back. I¡¯m¡­ you¡¯re the first commanding officer I¡¯ve spoken to in a while. If¡­ um. If you are a commanding officer?¡±


    For a few seconds, as Sam cringes in every imaginable way, there is nothing but silence on the other end of the line. The crackling distortion down the line hurts his ears, but he doesn¡¯t dare pull the phone away, lest he miss anything at all.


    ¡°How old are you, Agent Wittiker?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ not sure that I should, uh, disclose-¡±


    ¡°Does the name Jackson Clark mean anything to you?¡±


    ¡°...I don¡¯t think that I¡­ hm. I¡­ sorry, sir. I believe that Special Agent Jackson Clark was the last officer in charge of this posting. He was placed on medical leave approximately one month before I was assigned to my posting. Sir.¡±


    Sam can¡¯t help but reflect on just how many painful silences one phone call can hold, under just the right circumstances.


    ¡°Agent Wittiker. I understand that you may be a bit confused at the moment-¡±


    ¡°Very much so, sir.¡±


    ¡°...and likely disoriented from the alarm and events of the last few minutes. Am I correct in assuming that you have not received a debrief about the installation in which you currently reside?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I was informed of my duties, sir. Testing-Site 3 is a model town, one of a few, and my main function is to limit access to the town, make sure that there are no civilians on the premises, and keep things clean. And, uh, to always keep my credentials and keys on me at all times. Sir.¡±


    ¡°...that is part of it, yes. Normally, what I am about to say would put the both of us into quite a bit of trouble, and I¡¯m afraid it likely still will, but I¡¯m afraid we¡¯re experiencing a bit of a time-sensitive situation. The installation you currently reside in has some features of which you have not been informed of. I am granting you the rank of Provisional Supervisory Agent, so we can walk past the clearance issue. Now-¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but can you¡­ can you do that? Sir? I¡­ was not aware that that was a rank, either.¡±


    ¡°Agent Wittiker. You¡¯ve undergoing a very difficult moment, which is not going to get easier anytime soon. It would aid us both if you do not interrupt me again.¡±


    Sam feels his throat clench in what was supposed to be a ¡°gulp¡±. Instead, he ends up coughing, trying his best to choke it down.


    ¡°Y-yes sir.¡±


    ¡°Good. Provisional Supervisory Agent Wittiker, the next few minutes are very important. On the console where you disabled the alarm, you will find a panel just below the key you used, which should have broken off in the console. Yes?¡±


    Sam blinks, looking at his wrist and seeing that yes, the key did break off in the console. How-


    ¡°Go over to that panel, and type in the code on the fourth page of your binder.¡±


    The cord stretches pretty far, so Sam brings the phone with him as he follows the instructions given to him, finding a keypad that he¡¯d never actually needed to use suddenly lit up. Turning the pages of the binder (and, he notices, skipping a lot of stuff), he finds a diagram of the same keypad, with what looks like a table of contents or cipher next to it.


    ¡°I, uh, it says that I need-¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. Type in ¡®6652899¡¯.¡±


    As soon as he does, the screens in front of the console flicker alight with a harsh buzz of old-timey televisions, making Sam flinch back again.


    And then all he can do is stare.


    Every one of those screens is tied to a camera, one controlled by the joysticks and buttons on the console before him. Sam spends most of his shifts staring at those exact same cameras, in-between patrols, and he knows what every one of them should show.


    Instead, he is faced by a harsh red glow of words, glaring out from pitch-black mirrors.


    ¡°I¡­ that¡¯s a lot of red, sir.¡±


    ¡°...There should be a command prompt. Type in ¡®/summary¡¯.¡±


    He does, and immediately a dozen of the screens make a sound like a dying modem, loud enough that Sam almost falls over again as his ears scream in pain- but then they resolve, the numbers and words beginning to move. He glimpses words like ¡°diagnosis¡±, ¡°breach¡±, ¡°inventory¡±, and, more than the rest, in all caps, ¡°WARNING¡±.


    And then, the bottom-middle screen, the one closest to the console and thus to Sam, lights up in crimson colors as all the others turn dull.


    ¡°Summary: Perimeter Breach at Site-Aleph-17. Site compromised. Contamination Detected. Contamination type: Tiamat-Void. Rating: Epsilon.¡±


    Sam repeats what he¡¯s saying, and once again, silence comes over the line.


    ¡°It says the rating is Epsilon?¡±


    ¡°Yes sir.¡±


    ¡°But the type is Tiamat-Void?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s- yes sir. Whatever that means.¡±


    ¡°...There is a chance that the sensors are faulty. You¡¯ll need to go on-site and confirm. Expect backup to arrive shortly.¡±


    ¡°Backup? Sir, I-¡±


    ¡°Listen to me very carefully. Listen. That alarm only goes off if something very bad has happened. And that very bad thing is a potential security risk to everyone and anyone in, near, or around that area, one that needs to be addressed. If that reading had come out differently, I wouldn¡¯t be sending you, I¡¯d be sending F-53s, but because the sensors are old, the person who maintained them apparently left the job almost three fucking years ago, and I am to my great and total frustration still more willing to make sure I need to before I pull a trigger, I am sending you. To hopefully tell me that the sensors are fucked, that the weird readings are just a random scrabble, or at worst, something much less scary than what they¡¯re currently saying, and I will send someone to help you. But this needs to be done quick, it needs to be done now, it needs to be done thirty minutes ago, and you¡¯re the person on site. So it¡¯s your job. And if that isn¡¯t encouragement enough, know that I will court martial you, jail you, and personally pay the seven biggest people I can find in that jail to beat you to death for me if you don¡¯t do exactly as I say. Are we clear, Provisional Supervisory Agent Sam Wittiker?¡±


    ¡°...As crystal, sir.¡±


    ¡°Good. Get a pen. There¡¯s a lot you need to do, and not a lot of time, and I don¡¯t like to repeat myself.¡±

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.9

    .ni??? o? ?w ?§ñ?? ...???¦Ô? I .??¦Ô? .¦Ôo? n§ñ?w ?''nbib I ??? ?''no? .¦Ôo? b?n§ñ?w I .¦Ôo? ?''nbib ?b??ool ¦ÔoY


    __________________________________________________________________________


    The Atare 2600 was made in September 1977. I remember knowing that. That is, in fact, very close to exactly fifty years ago.


    The VR setup that is sitting in its box was made in 2026.


    In the time between those two dates, high-end computing went from something that needed whole rooms to something that can fit in the palm of your hand. Advanced cogitation has been met by quantum computers. The fucking internet didn¡¯t exist in 1977, wasn¡¯t available to the public until the mid-80s.


    But the cartridge in my hands, carved with one word, looks to me like it would fit just right into that very same headset.


    It¡¯s like saying you can plug a USB into an arcade machine and send emails.


    But¡­ the shape seems right. And it looks right. And¡­


    Yeah. Ok. Fuck it.


    I lock the door to my room, throw my jacket off, and walk over to the headset.


    It doesn¡¯t fit the same as MEAT does: where the newer cartridge fills the slot in completely, BLEED is much smaller, and clearly not designed with the entire framework in mind. Even still, the actual port to connect game-to-machine is remarkably similar, and as I reach in, the older cartridge hilariously small next to the size of the slot¡­ it fits.


    At first it seems to just sit there, as if it¡¯s too small to work, but I give it a wiggle and- it clicks into place.


    I stare at it. Wiggle it some more.


    It fits.


    ¡­


    Well, in for a penny, in for a pounding.


    Not much left to do but dive right the fuck on in.


    It takes a few minutes to set things up, swap over to indoorsy-shorts to fit the haptics on properly, get the gloves on right, but once its done, and the headset is powered on, there¡¯s really only one thing to do.


    I put it on over my head, and press the start button.


    MEAT


    Begin?


    I look around, but¡­ nothing. No other options appear. I frown, taking the headset back off to try maybe disconnecting MEAT and-


    Oh. Well. That¡¯s stuck in there nice and tight, ain¡¯t it? I try to give it a tug, a wiggle, a yank, but it doesn¡¯t even move. It feels superglued together, as dense as if the whole headset is just one solid piece now. BLEED pops right back out into my hand, so it shouldn¡¯t be a problem with the ports themselves¡­


    Fuck.


    I dive back in, connecting BLEED back to its port and slapping the headset back on.


    I hit begin, speed through character creation again (the minimal EVOLUTION stat continues to mean that nothing has carried over from my last run), and run my way through the animation into the game¡¯s spawn-in area.


    Once again, I find myself in a prairie-field of open grass and white trees, staring out at a horizon of dark-red mountains and a sky of dripping stalactites. The landmarks, to my surprise, are familiar- it¡¯s hard to tell, but I¡¯ve got a pretty good memory for locations, and I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve walked by this specific set of hills before.


    Looking to confirm the deduction, I stumble out of the mucus of my spawn-point and traipse down the hill, looking for¡­ there! A small pile of ooze in the middle of the ¡°valley¡± between two hills. I killed a couple sludgelings on my last run, even without actively hunting for them, and there wasn¡¯t a need to bring everything with me, not when the game¡¯s inventory space is so literal. But there, on the ground, is a dead sludgeling, with two shattered ¡°digits¡± and a spray of slime from where I popped it.


    It¡¯s the same sludge, so this is the same world. It¡¯s not resetting, like I sort of assumed, it¡¯s a true open-world, and I¡¯m coming in with new characters each time.


    Fuck it. Why not, right? Might as well at this point. Just another thing no headset has the processing power to handle in this day and age, not like that¡¯s anything special.


    But that also means¡­


    Shit. My old body!


    If the world is constantly running, then that means that there¡¯s a chance that my old avatars are still out there somewhere, and still dead. There¡¯s a non-zero chance that I can get back some of my equipment that way, following a trail of dead slime back to where I was last time.


    Except¡­ that thing. The ¡°other player¡± or whatever it was.


    Well, it¡¯s probably a good idea to find out if it¡¯s still hanging around anyways. Or if they spawn-in when I reach a certain point.


    Either way, there¡¯s only one direction I can really go now: forward.


    I collect a few more pieces as I walk, taking the scraps from prior victories, but there¡¯s not enough to really make anything, so for now, I just hold it in my hands as I walk. If that creature does respawn it¡¯s not like I can do much to fight it, but it¡¯s still frustrating to be carrying around¡­ well, kind of nothing, really. Especially since the respawn rate seems surprisingly slow- that, or sludgelings avoid areas where other sludgelings have their innards splattered everywhere. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Which, honestly, good for them, but I did not think they were smart enough for something like that. Goes to show. No idea what it¡¯s showing, but-


    Well. That¡¯s new.


    As I turn the corner of a hill, I catch sight of a weird little lump on the ground, like a scab. Unlike the rest of the world all around, which looks as real as reality, the scab-lump looks practically 8-bit, like one of those original arcade games from¡­ well, from the 70s.


    I approach it cautiously, but it doesn¡¯t seem to react to anything. It¡¯s only when I¡¯m in arm¡¯s reach that I can really see much more about it- the gravel-dirt beneath the grasses has been pushed aside, like a mole has dug its way up to the surface. The low-texture hill that has emerged is dark red, but doesn¡¯t seem active.


    Bracing myself, I reach over and¡­ poke it.


    Around the impact-site, an over-exaggerated crack appears, three-pronged and dramatic, making the most of the weirdly two-dimensionality of the shape. I poke it again, and the cracks grow, and then a third time, and-


    It breaks open, and begins to bleed.


    A lot.


    I stumble back, but it¡¯s already flooded into the low-land area I¡¯m standing in, flooding out fast enough that the haptic feedback on my legs starts to vibrate in response to the pressure. Pretty soon it starts flowing out into other valleys, spreading between the hills, turning the prairie into a crimson swamp.


    And then¡­ it slows.


    The movement controls feel even worse than before now, my ¡°Fleshling¡± avatar struggling to move its already awkward limbs through a wading-pool of blood, but even as I watch, it¡¯s beginning to drain away, being absorbed by the soil. While a trickle still remains, the original flood has abated, leaving just a broken crust around the original spout of the blood.


    And there, in the exact center of what was once a pool of blood¡­ is a red blood cell.


    A bright red circle, plump around the edges and delightfully round. It floats there, atop a constant flow of blood that leaks out from the 8-bit scab and into the ground, unmoving.


    Hmm. No tools to really interact with it, just¡­ my hands.


    I reach out a second time, going to poke it, and-


    SYMBIOTE ACQUIRED: Divine Bloodling


    Before I can react, the blood cell rolls, its edges like kevlar and ooze at once as they scrape against the sides of its scab-nest. Blood continues to leak from it, constantly, making for a perpetual pool of red liquid around it that it floats atop as it moves- and as it reaches back to my hand.


    And then everything goes white.


    It¡¯s a weird expression. ¡°Everything goes white¡±. It doesn¡¯t, really, it¡¯s just that ¡°everything goes black¡± means you¡¯ve passed out, while the alternative means that something has happened to knock out your senses. A hard blow to the head, a flashbang, a sudden feeling or effect that shuts off your brain¡¯s awareness of its other senses as it tries to prioritize the signals it¡¯s receiving.


    In this case, the half-second of stunned paralysis ends as my right arm spasms, cramping violently.


    I thought that the vibrations from getting digested alive were bad, but they were nothing. I can actually feel the skin burning from friction as the feedback tries to rip itself off of me, the sensors making a noise like a high-pitched whine from the vibration. I can feel it in my bones. The vibrations travel up my arm, into my shoulder, intense enough that a breath I take hums like a bass-beat in my lungs and makes my ribs ache.


    I¡¯m on the floor, and I don¡¯t remember falling. I¡¯m trying to rip the haptics off, but my other hand isn¡¯t responding right, spasming as the effects spread, and I can¡¯t help but wonder if this is what a stroke feels like.


    And then it spreads further, and I try to scream, and I can¡¯t.


    The haptics are on my lower back, on my shoulders, and somehow they synchronize in a way that tells me there¡¯s something moving in my body. My bones ache, my muscles scream, and for a few seconds I can¡¯t breathe, like I¡¯ve had the wind punched out of me, like my solar plexus is spasming-


    Huuuuuuuuuuuuuh-


    Finally, a hint of air enters my lungs again, and-


    The pain is gone. That moment of inhale somehow shut down the pain, like it was waiting for it, flipped off like a switch. I look around, blindly, and-


    The air.


    It doesn¡¯t taste right. It has a smell to it. Like¡­ like a steak, just as it hits a grill. Not a bad smell, but out of place, weirdly meaty.


    I reach up to the headset, ready to tear the fucking thing off, and-


    Oh.


    I can feel that.


    That¡¯s a face.


    That¡¯s my face. Where the headset should be. Felt by a palm that feels stiff and weird and kind of numb.


    I blink, and I feel eyelids wetter and heavier than mine have ever been close over my eyes, opening slowly and in the wrong direction. Diagonal instead of vertical.


    My gaze finally sharpens, my senses coming back as the vertigo and disorientation begin to fade- and I see a roof up above me, like that of some vast cavern, with its heights so far they¡¯re almost invisible. Clouds of condensation, not-quite-white in coloration, float through the air, often splitting against the side of stalactites so vast that they rival skyscrapers in height.


    Fuck.


    Fuck.


    I go to get up, and- oh. Oh no. Oh that¡¯s all wrong. My body moves like I¡¯m wearing a wet sack of my own flesh, like I¡¯m wrapped in layers of loose skin that I can feel shifting in ways they shouldn¡¯t. Moving feels like wearing armor made out of raw steaks, and it takes everything I have not to vomit from the sheer dysphoria of the sensation. I manage to roll over, barely, and sure enough, there it is.


    Grass, made of incredibly fine red hairs, rolling in a vast carpet along a strange prairie.


    Some of it waves with a slight breeze and brushes against my face, and I feel it.


    My body (this isn¡¯t my body this can¡¯t be my body even my normal body doesn¡¯t feel this wrong) heaves, reacting to pain that even now still lingers on the edge of my senses, and to my disgust, I feel muscles I have no name for clench as bile crawls up my throat.


    I can taste it. Like rotten juice, sickly-sweet and alien, coming deep from a gut that aches with its own brand of pain, separate from what¡¯s still radiating from my chest and arm.


    I choke back the puke, clacking together teeth that are too numerous and too random to fit in any reasonable jaw to stop myself, and force my eyes back towards my hand.


    My right arm looks distended. Abominable. It¡¯s a bright and gleaming red, thicker and heavier than my left arm by far, its reach extended and skin inflated. Off-white skin has turned near-maroon, like an overstuffed sausage, and as I watch, despite the lack of any visible cuts or gouges, it begins to sweat blood.


    Part of me can¡¯t take its eyes off the limb. How thick crimson beads up to the surface, leaking through like syrup from beneath the skin. How the whole limb pulses with my heartbeat, the bloody sweat oozing out all the way up to my bicep, my heart straining at a feeling of strange thickness to its usual liquid burden.


    Another part of me finally lets go, turning and vomiting onto the ground.


    Detached, somewhere behind the body I¡¯m in, I watch as the bile eats its way into the soil, sizzling and smoking as it digests everything, including some of the teeth in my mouth.


    It hurts so bad.


    My tongue is smoking from the acidic vomit, my lips and jaw aren¡¯t shaped right, but I try to speak anyways. I try to beg, I try to plead, I try to demand that the pain stop, and-


    There is a sensation like a thousand needles piercing my arm at once, a feeling like being drained, a lightheadedness, and-


    And then the pain is gone.


    My throat and mouth still hurt like a motherfucker, but it fades past, either beginning to heal or simply going numb from the acid¡¯s effects. For a moment, I¡¯m just meat, organized wrong, shaped wrong, laying on the ground. It almost feels familiar.


    And then I feel something wet bump into my stomach.


    I flinch back, my body slow to respond but still responding, ready to flail at whatever the danger is-


    The blood cell is there again.


    There¡¯s a weird puddle of blood on my arm, floating there against the laws of physics and biology, but my arm is normal again, pale-white and no longer stretched to bursting. Leaking out of that portal is a blood trail, draining away into the soil but leading to an ever-renewing puddle of more of itself- atop of which floats the bloodcell.


    Gently, like a worried puppy, it bumps into my stomach. Makes a weird sort of squelching noise, bobbing in place, bleeding eternally, staring at me.


    This time, everything goes black.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.10

    __________________________________________________________________________


    God is dead, and we killed him. According to some dickhead by the name of Nietzhe, anyways. Frankly, I think that anyone who calls God ¡°he¡± can¡¯t really be all that smart- as if something as small as that could contain anything really divine. As if the divine is something capable of fitting in the weak little thing we weak little people call a mind.


    But he was right. Annoyingly, he was right.


    God is dead.


    Long live God.


    -Unknown, carved into bones found by Dr. Liona Silverstein, in an archeological dig dated ~230 BCE


    __________________________________________________________________________


    Everything hurts. Everything feels wrong.


    The dysphoria is so, so much worse. Worse than anything I¡¯ve ever felt before, worse than when I had a beard. Everything is twisted and turned round wrong, the joints too long, the skin all bunched up in weird places, everything is itchy, everything feels covered in slime and sweat and gunk and-


    Fuck. Fuck!


    My eyes open and it¡¯s like being blind, even with all the lights and colors. Everything is shaped wrong, like a field-of-view slider turned all the way out, like staring out into the world through a fishbowl covered in oil.


    And in that fishbowl view- a bubble of crimson.


    My hands shoot up as I try to get the headset off- and instead let out a honking noise, something like pain but through an alien throat as my hands hit my eyes.


    My eyes.


    Those are my eyes.


    This is not my body. This is not what I am. What is-


    I feel something in my forehead, back behind what feels like my skull, vibrate. It sends a ripple through me, like someone pressed a button behind my eyes, and I make a sound that would be a whimper if this were my mouth, if this were my lungs or my body-


    And then I can see.


    It¡¯s like being at the eye doctor, seeing the change in the lens they¡¯re using as it shifts the world into perfect clarity. Something just clicks, and suddenly the impossibly strange viewpoint resolves into something that I can recognize.


    I stare at what looks like a blood cell the size of a small dog as it bumps against my ¡°nose¡±.


    It feels wet and warm. Almost hot to the touch, actually.


    My first instinct is to scramble backwards, but¡­ it looks practically piteous. Like a scared pup, wondering why its parent is lying down on the ground, unmoving.


    So, instead¡­ I reach out a hand, and pat the blood cell lightly on the¡­ membrane.


    It¡¯s not really a surprise when my hand comes into view, long and pale and with far too much skin. Not a human hand. Not my hand. A Fleshling¡¯s hand.


    The bloodcell thrums, rotating in a perfect circle. It¡­ doesn¡¯t seem to have eyes, or really any features at all outside of vague shadows squirming around inside it.


    I sit up, looking around, and¡­


    Yeah. I¡¯m here.


    I¡¯m in the MEAT.


    Rolling prairie-fields of red grass and bone trees extend out nearly as far as the eye can see. At the actual horizon, mountains of deep maroon-red are like upturned teeth, holding the world around me in a bowl.


    And there, in the sky above¡­


    Words. Glowing bright, woven out of white threads that float in the air weightlessly, hovering like clouds.


    OBJECTIVE: LEAVE THE VALLEY


    SIDE-MISSION 1: FEED


    SIDE MISSION 2: GROW


    I reach up to my face one more time, waving a hand in front of my face. I can feel the way I force the arm to move, the way that the neurons translate will into action- and how that action feels so deeply wrong, alien in a way that feels like wearing a suit of strange mush and woven patterns. I feel how the skin moves, how it has far too much looseness to it- and how it feels absolutely nothing when I wave it over where the headset should be. Feels nothing as I track the back of my head, where the strap should be, feels nothing when I shake my head around and try to feel its weight.


    I¡¯m here.


    This isn¡¯t me. This isn¡¯t my body.


    But I¡¯m in it. I am inside of it and its in my control and it feels disgusting and wrong but it is all I have here, and-


    Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!


    The amount of work I put into that body, into liking my body, I-


    No.


    That¡¯s not a useful thought. Bury it. Address it later.


    I am in the wrong body, and I am in danger. I have had this experience before, if not in the exact same style. I know how to deal with it. You bury it, you keep walking, and eventually, you find a place where you can stop and process. Or you make one.


    Until then, you prioritize.


    It takes me a while to get to my feet. It¡¯s distinctly uncomfortable doing so- it reminds me of all the difficulty I had with first starting the game, how the movement controls always felt a bit off, except now it¡¯s so much worse.


    But I make it to my feet, and I know where to go.


    There¡¯s a corpse out there with my name on it, and a shitload of useful kit. If I can make it to the body before whatever that thing was respawns, or find a way to avoid whatever triggered it, it¡¯s my best bet to get as strong as I can be as fast as I can.


    On a whim, I try to see-


    There.


    {MANIFESTATION OF [00000000]}


    GENUS: ESURIATIO AUTONOMIA


    SPECIES: FLESHLINGTaken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    STATS:


    ADAPTATION


    CANALISATION


    EVOLUTION


    SYNCHRONICITY


    ??????


    ??


    ?????????? (-????)


    SKILLS: N/A


    MUTATIONS: N/A


    ORGANS:


    <ul>


    <li>


    CUTANEOUS


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING SKIN


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    SKELETAL


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING BONE


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    MUSCLE


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING MUSCLE


    </li>


    <li>


    FLESHLING TENDON


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    CIRCULATION


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING CIRCULATION


    </li>


    <li>


    FLESHLING PUMP


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    RESPIRIUM


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING LUNGS


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    GLANDULAR


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING LIVER


    </li>


    <li>


    FLESHLING ADRENAL


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    NEUROLOGOS


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING BRAIN


    </li>


    <li>


    PARASITIC INFESTORICA


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    SENSORIA


    <ul>


    <li>


    FLESHLING SENSORIA


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    DEGUSTATION


    <ul>


    <li>


    CYCLIAL DIGESTER


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    </ul>


    The same sheet as before, appearing in the same manner, like a wall of twitching text that appears out of nothing but swims forth like out from behind a hidden surface. It shows all the same numbers, with one notable exception- the SYNCHRONICITY.


    The¡­ the red pyramids? Or whatever they are? Whatever I have in place of numbers for stats, they¡¯ve stayed the same with the few runs that I¡¯ve done. Better to understand what I¡¯m messing with before I need something novel and want to explore, and the balance has been fine so far. I haven¡¯t changed where I allocated the starting ¡°allowance¡± since I began.


    And yet, here, now, the SYNCHRONICITY stat is at¡­ five instead of three pyramids. And, in parenthesis, minus two.


    ¡­Why even bother showing it at all, then? It still evens out to three pips, even with¡­


    Is it because I¡¯m here? Is it influencing me somehow, or¡­ maybe I¡¯m influencing it? Whatever it is, Fleshling, ¡°parasitic infectorica¡±... Entity?


    Fuck.


    Bury it until it¡¯s useful. Bury it until it¡¯s useful. Think about it in the fucking background.


    I start walking, listening to (and, admittedly, smiling a bit) at the little blood cell that could, chasing after me with sounds like a little burbling creek.


    The temperature is oddly warm, and definitely more human than I find comfortable. It¡¯s like the moment you walk out of a sauna, except everywhere, all the time- not the worst thing in the world, but definitely unpleasant. Still, it gets easier and easier to move, the adjustments coming a lot quicker through actual sensation than through the (admittedly weirdly realistic) haptics. Pretty soon I¡¯m jogging, and then I start to run.


    My ankles don¡¯t hurt when I run. The flesh which is not mine and does not feel right is strong, fast, faster than I¡¯m used to. The strides lengthen, and it feels like I¡¯m walking in some kind of insect-limbs, but they move in longer steps and with far more force than I¡¯m used to.


    It feels¡­


    I can handle this. Take the other parts and bury them- for now, for here, I can handle this, as I bury the rest of it down deep.


    I crest the hill, and there it is.


    A patch of grass, flattened in a straight line- and ending in a wet, messy splatter of blood and limbs.


    It¡¯s not a body, but¡­ I recognize the shape of the hills, and the distance between where I¡¯d been standing and where the other thing had stood. It¡¯s not hard to figure out after that who it is that those scattered pieces of meat once belonged to.


    In particular- me! Lovely, that, isn¡¯t it.


    But still, even from here, I can see the piece I came here looking for.


    I move as slowly as I dare. Step by step, holding my breath whenever I possibly can, I walk one step at a time through the grass.


    I don¡¯t know what¡¯ll happen to me if I die like this. I would much rather not find out, frankly. I wait until the grass around me goes dead still before I take another step.


    It takes me more than an hour to go down the hill, and another again to crawl through the valley over towards the pile of torn-open meat that used to be¡­ me, I guess.


    Still nothing. No movement at all, except for a wiggly little blood cell crawling along beside me, occasionally making little bubble noises as it swims atop its ever-flowing bloodstream.


    I reach the site of the corpse.


    The smell of it is¡­ fuck. If the rest of the world smells like steak about to hit the grill, this is the smell of a butchered animal, shit and a smell of iron so loud it¡¯s practically screaming. I can practically see the shape of it through the air, how it gets pulled at by the wind as it goes, how it radiates from the body.


    It¡¯s actually kind of helpful that in so many ways it isn¡¯t a body. It is, at best, a chunked pile of ground meat, the head and torso annihilated so completely I can¡¯t even tell which part was molded into what. Each of the five limbs I had is torn off, like someone hole-punched a section of the world right around where the limbs connected- or, judging by just how far the impact crater of viscera is spread out from them, like the body was annihilated so completely that the limbs simply didn¡¯t have anything to receive energy from, falling flat instead of going flying.


    Which is, to put it mildly, fucking terrifying. I couldn¡¯t even see the fucker move, and I was just gone.


    Still no sign of him.


    Moving very, very slowly, I grab hold of what I came here for.


    SYMBIONT ACQUIRED: TWITCHING LIMB


    It¡¯s damaged, but intact. The base of the arm, where it connected to my shoulder, is torn to shreds, the compilation of sludgelur guts barely held together by runny tissues and what¡¯s left of the materials I used to tie it all together. In spite of all that, it¡¯s still technically in one piece- and as I touch it, it does as it is named to do, twitching.


    Still alive, then.


    I remember the trait that I got, the last time I equipped it, the way that the system reached out and pushed the words into existence- an ADAPTATION was formed, called MULTILIMBED. The description is one I can only vaguely remember at this point, but one thing stood out- it mentioned having more limbs than the usual number. More than what a body is originally designed for.


    I look at the neatly severed pile of my own limbs on the ground, drenched in the mulched insides of what was once me. Sort of.


    ¡­


    I mean¡­ when in rome, right?


    The little blood cell at my side burbles I reach over and grab my arms, dragging them slowly over to me.


    Why not, right? When I¡¯m in this much danger, better to do all that I can. And when the body feels this wrong anyways, what¡¯s a little more wrongness?


    And if it works¡­ well, who the fuck knows. Might as well try it and find out.


    I¡¯m in this deep already, right? Like I always say- now all that¡¯s left is to follow through.


    Slowly, I crawl back out of the valley, back around the hill I came from. The process takes¡­ fuck, it takes hours, in grand total, and the whole time I can feel a strangely-shaped heart beating in my chest, flush with adrenaline and the hyper-awareness of how little it might take for that other being to come back and kill me dead.


    And then¡­ nothing. I¡¯m around the corner, and safe enough, at least in my mind, to start running.


    So I do.


    I still don¡¯t know if it was equipping the right gear or getting too close to the edge of the prairie that caused it to spawn, but I can eliminate at least one of those possibilities. I make my way back the way I came, towards the center (or what I think is the center) of the map. I pass the still weirdly-pixelated scab that I got my little blood-buddy from, pass the bodies of a few more creatures I killed, and then¡­


    Well. If this isn¡¯t far enough away, then I¡¯m fucked as is. There¡¯s nowhere to hide on the prairies, nowhere to run to except towards the distant line of mountains that surrounds everything. I have yet to find any sort of cave, or even any hill tall enough to cover my entire height standing upright. Outside of wasting a few more hours, or who the fuck knows how long I¡¯ve actually been trapped here for, there¡¯s only one way forward.


    ¡­No haptics this time. Nothing to separate me from the act.


    And no other way to go that doesn¡¯t involve standing still, in one way or another.


    I take some slime, mix it in with the scab-gravel on the ground, and before I can hesitate, before I can realize how it¡¯s already starting to cut into my hand and sting like alcohol in a fresh wound, I slap it hard against my shoulder.


    I don¡¯t want to scream. Screaming would be bad. Screaming would make everything worse, would put me in danger, would attract anything outside the range of the already-dead creatures all around.


    I don¡¯t want to scream.


    My back hurts so fucking much.


    It¡¯s tingling and crackling and buzzing, like it¡¯s going numb and being lit on fire at the same time. Each little bubble of sharp gravel and acid feels like ants crawling through me, little creatures stabbing down with sharp little legs and biting down into me more and more and-


    I slam the connection home, the damaged joint touching on the damaged body and starting to-


    Oh fuck.


    Oh it gets so much worse.


    My skull starts vibrating like a goddamn phone, buzzing and screaming and hissing behind my eyes so hard that it makes any migrain I¡¯ve ever felt be like a passing fucking little ache. The pain is enough that I can¡¯t scream now, couldn¡¯t even if I wanted to, like my lungs aren¡¯t listening and my head is full of screaming bees that are stinging and-


    And then relief. My head goes quiet- and the limb at my back twitches.


    It feels¡­


    Ironically, it feels more mine than the rest of the body. The ¡°conventional¡± body I¡¯m in, it¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s not mine, not me, but somehow, this combination of twisted organs and spasming, improvised limb, feels almost natural.


    I let out a breath that I didn¡¯t know I had, from lungs that feel like sacks of tofu in my chest- and look at the two other limbs strewn on the ground.


    Nothing¡¯s killed me yet.


    And I already took them.


    The choice, in that sense, feels made already.


    Now to follow through.


    But fuck if this isn¡¯t going to hurt.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.11

    Why did you bring her here? What for? You have me. You have all of us. All these little ants, bowing down to whatever piece of you we struggle to know. You didn¡¯t need a new one. Why do you want a new one? She doesn¡¯t-


    I know. I know you can¡¯t hear me, that you don¡¯t understand. But please. Please.


    ¡­Too late anyways, isn¡¯t it?


    Just like the rest of us. A little sugar water and we climb out from the dirt, desperate for more.


    God, grant me strength of your flesh, given freely unto me. Grant me the will to protect those who do not deserve you, and to slay those who take from you more than they have earned. Bless me with your madness, that I might find my faith within you.


    Where There Is Life, There Is Flesh.


    Amen.


    -Whispers on the wind, heard by no one at all.


    Except you.


    ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    The pain fades surprisingly quickly. It doesn¡¯t feel like it¡¯s healed, not by a long shot, but it sort of fades to the background, becoming a general soreness rather than something sharp.


    The discomfort, on the other hand, lasts a lot longer.


    Unlike the Symbiont, the two ¡°original¡± limbs I¡¯ve borrowed feel terrible, all wrong-edged and weird to be in. Something with the Fleshling, maybe, something inherent to the body itself, or perhaps to my inhabitation of it. It still feels itchy, as unpleasant as wearing a bag of warmed-over tofu, but there¡¯s not a lot I can do about that for now.


    Three new limbs added, equaling a grand five total. The three additions tend to sort of flex and coil intermittently, refusing to stay still- all the better, as they¡¯re not exactly well-aligned with my posture or the musculature beneath. Still unpleasant, though.


    The more interesting part is how easily I can interact with them in the first place.


    The buzzing in my skull refuses to fade now, intermittently getting louder every time I try to use my new limbs for something. It¡¯s giving me a hell of a headache, but at the same time, I¡¯m pretty sure that without it, I would either be comatose or carrying around three useless new sacks of meat rather than functional limbs. When it buzzes, it¡¯s almost like¡­ like something smooths over between what I can do and what I am doing, streamlining the thought process until I can almost use more hands at once.


    It¡¯s not exactly clean- for one thing, I¡¯ve never been ambidextrous. At best, the new limbs feel like a bunch of left arms that got tacked onto me- they can grab things, throw a punch, do all the basics, but even if I stopped moving any other part, I still don¡¯t think I¡¯d be able to write or do any tricks.


    And yet, as the buzzing behind my eyes sings, I remember the trait.


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: MULTILIMBED


    MULTI-LIMBED: While most entities possess multiple limbs, through modification or accidental mutation you have acquired an addition which exceeds your conventional limit. Fleshlings, usually possessing the bare minimum amount of humanoid limbs, are usually incapable of acquiring this mutation, and your brain has been modified to integrate this movement directly into your skillset.


    There it is. Plain as day. ¡°Your brain has been modified¡±.


    Buzz buzz, goes the thing behind my eyes.


    Bury it for now. Don¡¯t think about it. I can¡¯t fix it, I can¡¯t change it, and it¡¯s what I¡¯m working with; any other thoughts about it are, at this point holding me back.


    I am in this place. I am being modified. Until such a time as I wake up on a fresh doze of Risperidone, high off of drinking bleach and full of hair I¡¯ve swallowed, I am here, and it is now, and considering how badly things hurt in this place, there¡¯s no reason not to treat it as real for now, if only to avoid further harm.


    Time to go.


    A little bundle of blood and weirdly realistic cellular walls bumps into me, seeming to give some encouragement, and I pat it gently on its top, thoroughly not enjoying the goopyness of the feeling- but appreciating the warmth. It really does act like something almost cat-like, hovering constantly by my legs and bumping into me whenever I slow down, even as it seems to have no eyes, no senses, no¡­ well, nothing. There¡¯s some sort of organelles floating around inside of it, but otherwise it really is just a photo-realistic blood cell, floating on a liquid mass of crimson it constantly exudes.


    It¡¯s¡­ so weird.


    But so is the rest of this place, so whatever.


    Either way, I figured out something new; apparently, it wasn¡¯t my acquisition of a cool new symbiont that triggered that creature. And, while it is possible that it just didn¡¯t count if I didn¡¯t have things equipped past a certain point, I did end up pretty much exactly where I was previously, so maybe distance doesn¡¯t cover it either.


    This is¡­ less helpful than I¡¯d like. For one, it means my theory about why it spawned in was wrong, or at least inaccurate, which means I¡¯m back to square one in terms of figuring out where the fuck it came from and why it chose that particular moment to show up. Either way, I¡¯m apparently safe from it for now, but if it¡¯s not about going out too far or about equipping higher-level abilities, then I don¡¯t really have any way to predict if or when it¡¯ll show up again.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    So¡­ that sort of leaves only one option.


    I have to try again.


    As I walk, I imagine this must be what a prey animal feels like. The constant, twitching awareness of my own body, hypervigilant and flooded with adrenaline in the constant and screaming hope that I¡¯ll catch sight of what I need to see before it kills me. And it will kill me, that much is guaranteed. I¡¯m under no illusions that having extra arms will help me against that thing, considering how it moved so fast I literally couldn¡¯t even see the moment between being alive and being pasted mulch.


    Because hey, here¡¯s the issue: I don¡¯t know what¡¯ll happen when I die here.


    Yes, when. I¡¯m not so arrogant to think I¡¯m not going to get merked here, and hey, worst case nightmare scenario that is currently ringing in the back of my head like an oncoming train, I¡¯ll live long enough to die of old age here. Which, considering the system¡¯s descriptions of a Fleshling, might be next week for all I know. I¡¯m going to die here unless I find a way out, and I don¡¯t know what will happen.


    Maybe I¡¯ll wake up in an asylum. Maybe I¡¯ll wake up on the floor of my room, bleeding out of every hole. Maybe I¡¯ll wake back up at the character creator, or, hell, maybe I just won¡¯t ever wake back up at all ever, and it¡¯ll just be whatever¡¯s left of me without a living body and the void all around.


    I leave here, or I die. I get poisoned, or beaten to death by pikimon¡¯s weirder, grosser cousins, or that thing pops back up out of the ground and turns me to so much slurry spread all over the ground.


    So I keep walking, because the alternative is to give up and die.


    I have to try again.


    Not, like, now, obviously. No reason to leap straight back into the location that killed me last time, that would be stupid. Crazy, even.


    No, I¡¯ll have to go back there eventually, or to some equivalent point from the center of the valley somewhere else around the circumference of it, but for now, my best chance to get out is to get stronger.


    Which is why I have so much hair in my mouth.


    I walk in more or less the opposite direction of where I last died, at an angle from where I originally woke up. The bodies of the creatures I fought remain where they lay, and I collect what I can from them before my path diverges, but I need more than just leftovers, I need fresh prey. More materials to build symbionts with, and fresh limbs to practise them on- but more than that, I need them for experience. I¡¯ve fought as part of the game before, but this isn¡¯t a game, this is as close to real life as it gets, and I could absolutely get killed if I go into a fight thinking I already know how to handle myself.


    And in the meantime, I am doing my absolute damndest to make use of my ADAPTATION stat.


    It¡¯s the only mechanic I put to the same tier as synchronicity, which I think is¡­ mostly just the ability to create Symbionts and use them, but also probably has something to do with how realistic everything felt (and, maybe, a factor in my getting sucked into the game). Adaptation granted me a few modifications before, namely the increase in fur to protect against acids, and if I can get those sorts of advantages in any other arena as well, it¡¯s going to be a boon.


    Ergo, the hair.


    Except, of course, that I¡¯m not playing through a VR headset this time. I have to taste it.


    Surprising no one, it tastes a lot like hair, if said hair were wind-dried, twice as thick as usual, and had a vague aftertaste of fatty oils.


    It is, by far, the worst thing I have tasted in my life.


    I crunch down on some fresh filaments, wincing with every squeak-crunch from my molars, when a little burbling sound down by my feet pipes up, drawing my attention to my travel-companion.


    ¡°What¡¯s up, little guy?¡± I ask, through a mouthful of fur.


    The blood-cell puppy shoots a spurt of blood out in what seems like a random direction- until I see the grass moving, and notice what it saw first.


    A sludgeling trundles its way through the underbrush, oblivious to my presence.


    Ok then. As planned.


    Fucking hell, this is going to suck so badly.


    My latest Symbiont, the Twitching Limb, makes quick work of the weak little digestive enzyme, the abominable legs and core beneath the acidic ooze coming apart. One limb, then, is more or less immune to the acid.


    But¡­ well. I kinda need it to be more than one.


    I take a very, very deep breath, in and out, and then in and out again. I can do this. I can do this.


    My hands blister and scream at me like the worst sunburn in the world as I pick up the slime in a bundle and dump it over my chest and shoulders.


    I try very, very hard not to scream. I bite my lip, feel blood from the pressure of it, feel every muscle and piece of loose skin and fat and tendon go taut under the tension I¡¯m forcing onto myself, feel myself flinch so hard I fall back onto the ground.


    But, you know what they say- sometimes you try your very best, and still don¡¯t succeed.


    By the time I come back to myself, my voice is hoarse, my throat raw with the taste of my own blood and the trembling soreness of crying out so loud it damaged my vocal cords a bit. I haven¡¯t spoken much in this form, but even exhaling comes with a raspiness that wasn¡¯t there a moment ago now.


    And yet, for all the torment, I do see what I wanted to see.


    Floating in front of me, a series of archaically carved words floating in the air.


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: SKIN DENSITY.


    The burns have already started to fade, scarring supernaturally fast and turning my previously pale, droopy surface into something more like a waxy honeycomb. It¡¯s most notable on my torso and the burned areas, but there¡¯s still effects on the rest of my body, the skin pulling a bit tighter to the musculature beneath and bringing with it a sense of weight.


    But¡­ I need to confirm what it does.


    So I stick my hand back into the acid anyways.


    I am¡­ pleasantly surprised by how little it hurts. Once again, there¡¯s a feeling like a too-hot sunburn, the kind just about ready to peel- but now it¡¯s just that, rather than the more overwhelming sort of agony it was a moment ago.


    I do my best to leave one of my ¡°spare¡± hands in for a while, but eventually it really does get to be too much. Maybe I can make it last longer next time, try to find some kind of acid immunity down the line, but for now, it¡¯s¡­ mostly enough.


    I chew on a fresh clump of grass hair, and as soon as I force myself to finally swallow, I get the notification a second time.


    MATERIAL CONSUMED: Decorative Filament


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: FUR


    Again, it¡¯s both the same and much worse than the last time she got the adaptation. As thick, short hairs bloom all over my body, matching themselves to the color of the prairie-grass, I feel each strand bursting through dense, waxy skin, and it itches. Like my entire body has suddenly been swarmed by a colony of insects, all of them skittering and nibbling on my skin until my whole body is a mess of feeling that makes me want to scratch hard enough to tear at my skin.


    And then it¡¯s over.


    I gasp, letting in air at last, forcing my hands to still from where all five of them were randomly jittering and trying to claw at myself. Looking down at them, I see that even the Twitching Limb, all black and made of those juddering spider-eel parts, has tufts of purplish fur coming out from between some of the joints in its armor.


    Ok. Two adaptations acquired. Both of them defensive, both of them crucial- and both brought about because I did something with a material I acquired, adding it to my body or consuming it.


    I take a long, deep breath. Center myself. Get ready.


    I¡¯ve already made my choices. Now to follow through.


    I lean over the dead body of the sludgeling, where the twitching digits shrivel and do as their namesake with their main body dead¡­ and bite down on alien flesh.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.12

    4 FR13ND! 4 FR13ND! 0H G00DN3$$, 47 L4$7! H0W 3XCI7ING! I H0P3 1 M4K3 4 G00D 1MPR3$$|0N!


    - Unknown origin, detected across multiple broadband radio wavelengths. Recommend immediate allocation of resources- indication of previously recorded BAHAMUT-type pattern manifestation.


    MATERIAL CONSUMED


    MATERIAL CONSUMED


    MATERIAL CONSUMED


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: BONE DENSITY


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: TWITCH-NERVES


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: MUSCLE DENSITY


    Eating sludgelings? Truly nausea inducing. The bone trees? Each bite had to be chewed down to the consistency of pasty sand, and then swallowed painfully.


    Somehow, eating the meatballs is actually worse. They taste raw, for one thing- none of the other options feel like they should be edible, and there¡¯s something of a defence against just how horrific the process of consumption is. But the meatballs are made of meat, and that somehow makes it worse. They¡¯re fatty, greasy, and taste like the worst parts of a chicken and the toughest parts of a cow mixed into one weird abomination of flavor and texture.


    It¡¯s fucking horrific, and I am so glad I only needed to eat a few bites of one before I managed to grab an adaptation from it.


    If I had to guess, consuming more will probably have further results, which is great, but I cannot eat another bite of these things. The act of chewing feels disgusting, like my jaw is all misaligned and full of too much saliva, but that¡¯s nothing compared to the feeling of swallowing, of having the materials pass through a strange tube into a churning, weird mass in my stomach. The name does bring up a memory of my ¡°character sheet¡±, though- while most of my organs are just called ¡°Fleshling Organ(x)¡±, under my ¡°DEGUSTATION¡± tab, there¡¯s a different name: the CYCLIAL DIGESTER, whatever that means. It feels¡­ uncomfortably like there¡¯s a washing machine spin cycle going on in my lower torso, which is not fun to feel.


    Either way, the Adaptations were the cherry on top. Forcing myself to eat the¡­ thoroughly disgusting matter and gain what advantages I could from it helped- I feel heavier, but the added muscle density counteracts the bone growth added, making me feel overall faster and more fluid. The ¡°twitch-nerves¡± take it a step further- every movement feels like it¡¯s happening at my maximum reflex, shooting out to respond so fast that I actually have to hold back the reaction more often than not.


    None of them felt pleasant to acquire, but it¡¯s fine. I¡¯m not me right now. Or¡­ I am, but¡­ not? Either way, I¡¯m¡­ feeling it, but it¡¯s not relevant, because it¡¯s only unpleasant and I¡¯m going to get out of here. I am going to get out of here. So the fact that I can feel my nerves squirming and itching beneath my skin, the fact that my limbs feel alien and heavy and move like something else is following my instructions, the fact that I can feel my guts moving and squirming like snakes and crawling things and-


    It doesn¡¯t matter. It¡¯s fine. Thinking about it right now won¡¯t help, so we put that in a box for later. Later.


    Especially because I¡¯ve got other priorities in front of me.


    There¡¯s a cave.


    Or maybe a tunnel, hard to say. It¡¯s dark.


    The sludgelings, as far as I can tell, mostly just wander around blindly, grazing on the scab-gravel and the bits of blood and mess left behind in it. Like rabbits, if rabbits were acidic instead of agile, and ate exclusively carrion and blood rather than plants. So really not a lot like rabbits at all- the point being, they move randomly, and don¡¯t ever seem to stop moving, at least not in the¡­ fuck, almost half a day I¡¯ve been here.


    The meatballs, on the other hand, are a bit more mobile. They roll across the terrain, occasionally grabbing the ground with assorted flesh-fibers and throwing themselves over a hill, and while they don¡¯t move in groups, they do tend to cluster vaguely in each other¡¯s direction, crossing paths on occasion. It took a while, but I took my time, and considering they are literal balls of muscle and tendon with no easily discernible features like, say, eyes, it wasn¡¯t actually that hard to sneak up on them.


    Or to head towards the areas where they become more and more common, until I eventually ran into¡­ this.


    The cave.


    The grass around it is packed down to the earth, mixed together into a gross mud with meat-juice and dried blood and hair, and there are clear and distinct trails through the grass where other meatballs have rolled out in the past. It¡¯s quiet for now- one or two will wander out on occasion, but never more than once an hour or so, or once in a half-hour at most. As far as I can approximate, anyways- there¡¯s no sun that I can find, and I certainly don¡¯t have a watch, but going by feel, it seems right enough.


    Notably, the meatball that rolled out most recently is currently in my hands, being pulled apart into tendons and fibers, meaning that I¡¯ve got some time to try and sneak in before the next one comes along.


    It¡¯s something new, and new is inherently scary, and in this case, inherently a danger to me¡­ but it¡¯s less of a danger than trying to go for the mountains and running into the being again. I can kill a meatball even without my newest improvements, and being in a more claustrophobic space doesn¡¯t really change my taxes thereof- that other creature, whatever or whoever it was, killed me like I was nothing at all.


    Even with my latest new tricks, I don¡¯t really fancy my chances just yet- but I still need to go into someplace new, especially if it means that I can find some new information or a new way out.


    And, hopefully, it¡¯ll be a chance to push my latest changes and see just how much they affect things.


    Eating weird things on the ground for ADAPTATIONS sucks.


    Using weird meat-bits to build an exosuit with my SYNCHRONICITY kicks ass.


    Standing back up to my full height, I stretch my limbs and run through a systems check on my current loadout.


    While I¡¯ve kept my right hand free (or my first right hand, I guess), the three other hands I¡¯m currently wielding each have a new weapon in them, of varying style. For some reason, I can¡¯t quite seem to build anything inanimate- no matter how simplistic the tool I generate, it still reads as a ¡°Symbiont¡±. Case in point:If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    In my left hand I have my best approximation of a dagger, wrapped around my fingers with its own twitching insect-limbs, wrapped in muscle-¡°leather¡± and ending in a sharpened edge of bone, is identified by the system as a ¡°Jittering Claw¡±. The two club-swords I put in the hands over my shoulders (I tried my best, but turns out that making swords out of bone bits is actually really fucking hard unless you have a lot of time) are each classified as ¡°Jointed Claw-Clubs¡±, each a little under a foot and a half long and poorly balanced, but sharp-edged along where I sharpened and broke the pieces and wrapped them in muscle and acids.


    It¡¯s the fourth invention, the one I¡¯m just now putting the finishing touches on, that really stands out.


    SYMBIONT ACQUIRED: EXOMUSCULAR FRAME


    Wrapped around my body tightly enough to feel uncomfortable, awkwardly winding around my joints and muscle groups, is a bunch of exposed, raw muscle fibers, pulled apart and then rewoven and fused by sludgeling acid and blood-gravel into a facsimile of an exoskeleton. Adding to my twitch-nerve adaptation, it pulls right alongside me, acting like a living being and reacting to certain pressures by flexing in just the right ways to help me run faster, hit harder, and lift more.


    Now, technically speaking, I am not so much an expert on biology that I can just design new muscle groups to wear, but the nature of the Symbiont seems to do a lot on its own. That, or my SYNCHRONICITY does more than I thought, which is saying something, because I am quietly terrified of the fucking thing. As I formed it around my body, it sort of¡­ adapted? Shifted into place to do what I wanted it to do.


    And now¡­ all that¡¯s left is to go forward.


    My little blood cell nudges my foot as I stand, perfectly still, staring down into the tunnel.


    It¡¯s ok. It¡¯ll be ok. I need to do more, to find my next steps, to explore the things I don¡¯t understand in the hopes that I¡¯ll finally find some kind of direction to move in besides the massive glowing letters in the sky¡¯s demands.


    But it¡¯s a black tunnel, going down into a hill of dried blood and meat, the roots of bone-trees poking out of the dirt around its edges. And I am in a strange place that has already hurt me quite badly.


    But I need to go forward.


    So I pet my pet blood cell, and I put the fear in a little box to deal with later, and I walk into the tunnel.


    It is¡­ distressingly warm inside. And it gets dark very, very fast.


    I crouch-walk forward, quiet as I can be with five arms and muscles that jump at the slightest command, feeling the warm wetness of my newfound ¡°pet¡± bumbling along and poking me in the heel every now and again. The tunnel gets tighter as it goes along, but never quite so tight that it actually touches me, even as I crawl along it. I feel like an ant, diving into a hive, walking through tunnels of other ants down into the dirt, except this dirt smells only of blood and muck, of old exertions and dried copper, and it shifts and drips in turn as I balance my many limbs along it.


    And it is so, so quiet.


    I had expected to eventually hear the sound of meatballs again, congregating and doing¡­ whatever it is they do when they¡¯re not rolling semi-aimlessly across the fields. But there¡¯s just¡­ nothing.


    Look at me go, huh? Wander into a cave in the fleshfields and get surprised when it¡¯s not what you expected.


    The humor helps a little. Counteracts how quiet it is. It doesn¡¯t do shit for the darkness, but I¡¯m¡­ limited on that front. Not much that I can do except keep moving forward, and potentially find a nest that I can harvest to-


    ADAPTATION ACQUIRED: SCOTOPIC VISION


    I am suddenly and viscerally reminded of every time I¡¯ve been to an eye appointment as I feel something in my pupils move.


    You never realize how weird certain things are until you actually feel them for the first time, and as my eyes dilate way, way wider than I¡¯ve ever felt (than I knew I could feel at all, frankly), I am reminded that the human brain does a very good job of helping people ignore their internal mechanisms.


    I am not currently wearing a human brain.


    I inhale sharply as I feel something touch my leg, twitch-limb and additional arms turning my weapons down towards-


    A blood cell, bumping up against my heel and rubbing itself there like a cat.


    I let out a breath, low and slow. Keep it quiet, keep it still¡­ but I reach down and pet my little companion anyways.


    I don¡¯t know what it is, or how an ancient game cartridge generated it in this place, and I certainly didn¡¯t enjoy the process of feeling it infect me¡­ but it¡¯s nice to have someone that cares. Even if that someone is a weirdly large blood cell.


    ¡°I¡¯m ok, buddy,¡± I whisper, and find, to my surprise, that I am. A bit, anyways.


    My eyes still feel weird, but the inside of the tunnel is just bright enough to see by. If I put all of my ¡°points¡± into ADAPTATION, I wonder what I¡¯d become- three of those red little pyramids that show up on my sheet is apparently enough to spontaneously mutate my eyes just by being in the dark, so pushing it further must be¡­


    Terrifying.


    And a little intriguing.


    I stare down the tunnel, and-


    Oh.


    Scotopic vision. That¡¯s low-light vision, I think, not like, echolocation or anything. I left the light behind me a good half an hour ago, easy. Pupil dilation only works if there¡¯s at least some light still available.


    The walls are glowing.


    Even now it is very faint, but it¡¯s there, a bright carmine mixed with a sort of¡­ oily color, like spilled gasoline, glows from the walls. What I mistook for roots of the bone-trees above when I first crawled in, I now recognize as growing up from below, not down from the surface, and they put out just the tiniest bit of their own light.


    And there, in the dimly lit red of the tunnel, I see what I¡¯ve been missing.


    Meatballs.


    It feels¡­ weird, to call them something ¡°funny¡±, considering where I am now. They¡¯re not sequestered in a side-cave or frolicking- they¡¯re right here.


    Embedded in the walls, in little divots that blend them almost perfectly with the fleshy, gooey walls of the tunnel, are at least a dozen of the abominations. Turning to look behind me, very slowly, I see more of them, and more, going back all the way until the tunnel bends out of sight- dozens, maybe hundreds of them, all perfectly still.


    I breathe very quietly, and go to take a step backwards.


    Pop.


    One of the little divots flexes, and out of it pops a tightly-wrapped bundle of muscle fibers and tendon. It lands on the floor, rolling side to side- and then goes very still, right in the middle of the hallway.


    That¡¯s it. It doesn¡¯t move, doesn¡¯t unfurl like the rest of them, doesn¡¯t move closer- but the threat is explicit.


    They know I¡¯m here. And they could¡¯ve emerged and torn me apart anytime.


    When I was a little kid, I watched some ants fight in the playground. Apparently, their anthills were too close to one another or something, and they entered a territorial dispute. One thing that stuck with me, and which brings to mind that same memory now, was how they fought.


    Ants do bite. If they¡¯re one-on-one, those big mandibles of theirs will absolutely chew through the joints of their opponents until one, or both, are bleeding out on the ground.


    But if there¡¯s a lot of them? If an enemy is outnumbered, or outmaneuvered by a pack of one anthill or another? They don¡¯t really bother with biting. They just use those big mandibles of theirs to hold the invading entity in place, and then pull.


    These little bundles of flesh¡­ they don¡¯t really have teeth, or sharp edges. There¡¯s not much room to throw themselves at me down here.


    But they are literally made of muscle fibers, and there are very, very many of them.


    I am not surrounded by four or five enemies on an open bit of dirt. I am a half hour away from sunlight down a dark cave that bleeds if I step too heavily, and there are a lot more than five members of an anthill here.


    I do not want to know what it would feel like to be literally torn apart, down here in the dark.


    The tunnel ahead remains clear, even as the single ball of muscle sits perfectly still behind me, surrounded on all sides by hundreds of others just like it.


    I take the threat, and invitation, in the spirit they were intended. I turn, and keep walking deeper into the tunnel.

 SUBCUTANEOUS 1.13

    Yes.


    Yes sir. Yes. I understand, sir.


    No sir, I do not.


    I understand. I¡¯ll keep things quiet. I still believe I would be better suited to pursue this on my own, sir. There¡¯s a lot of factors to be bringing something new into this, and if the reading-


    Yes. Yes. Yes sir. I under- yes.


    Thank you sir. I¡¯ll inform you as soon as I get an update.


    Fucking prick.


    <ul>


    <li style="text-align: center">Intercepted call from a secure line, originating from northeastern Virginia and connecting with a mobile phone somewhere in Kansas, heading west.</li>


    </ul>


    It¡¯s ever so dark, down in the deep. The only light is the carmine glow of the veins that warp their way into the walls on every side.


    I don¡¯t know how long I¡¯ve been walking. An ADAPTATION procced earlier, something to do with my joints, and it¡¯s taken the process of crawling through the dark from exhausting and agonizing to just uncomfortable- but it just keeps going. The incline is gentle, and the tunnel winds constantly, pulsing with something like a muscle spasm every few minutes- but at no point does it stop going down.


    And at no point does the threat of death stop following me.


    It would be comical if it wasn¡¯t so fucking scary. It¡¯s like watching a horror movie with a doll- one-on-one, anybody over the age of ten can pretty reliably beat the shit out a doll, but it¡¯s the implied threat, the danger of it, the unknown, makes its presence a weight on one¡¯s mind. It¡¯s not about the one visible danger, it¡¯s about all that it implies, everything it promises just out of sight- except the danger here is very much in sight.


    A single orb of tightly coiled muscle rolls comfortably behind me, behind my pet blood cell, and makes sure to constantly remind me of just how many more there are imbedded in the walls all around- and just how easy it would be for them to wake up.


    So I walk.


    And eventually, things begin to change.


    The transition is subtle, quiet enough that I actually don¡¯t notice the change until it¡¯s already come over the journey- but when I see it, it¡¯s impossible not to notice it everywhere.


    The ground has gotten harder.


    Weird thing to notice, one might think- except for the fact that the tunnel is made out of dried blood and wet juices, always bordering on the hint of soft or slippery. When I step on what feels like a lego piece, something solid and unyielding, it¡¯s noticeable.


    I look down at it, straining my eyes and their new adaptation to see what it is I¡¯ve stepped on. Part of me expects an old bone, some sort of proof of earlier victims of the tunnel- but no. No, it doesn¡¯t look like bone at all.


    It looks like a lego.


    A dark green lego-piece, utterly alien in a world of white and red, sitting at an awkward angle as if overtaken by the growth of the tunnel in some bygone age and covered in grease and juices. It¡¯s broken on one side, the plastic even more jagged than its points usually feel, and it looks¡­ old.


    The presence of the first one helps me to notice all the rest. Here and there, there are what look like pieces of plastic and metal, little bits and bobs that might, conceivably, once have been toys or bits of tech. The deeper in I go, the more mechanical they become- I notice the batteries of an rc car, a partially disassembled remote control with veins growing in and out of it, what looks like a speaker from an action figure hanging from the ceiling by a string of tendon. Pretty soon, the walls and floor of the tunnel have become almost as much inorganic material as they are meat, the number of muscle-balls diminishing bit by bit until I¡¯m walking through a space that¡¯s more wiring than sinew.


    And then- light.


    Not the bloody glow of veins and material, but something brighter, and somehow less organic. There¡¯s something artificial about it, the harshness of LEDs lighting up the alien space- and not long after, I hear a hum, like an old television burning itself to produce an image.


    Or a monitor.


    I turn one last corner, blinking as my hyper-dilated eyes struggle to return to something approaching ¡°normalcy¡±, and find the source of all the strange technological growth that has spread so far into the world.


    It¡¯s a computer.


    Like, a regular one.


    On the surface it just looks¡­ normal. Old, definitely, but normal. It¡¯s one of those home PCs, the ones from the early 90s, that you might see in an old sitcom maybe. The kind that needed AOL to boot up, and which could sometimes play flash games and LAN parties, linked up in a network of wires rather than free-running internet.


    It¡¯s sitting on a desk in¡­ the room isn¡¯t normal, per se, but it¡¯s normal enough to be weird? There¡¯s something familiar about the all-meat aesthetic, the ways in which everything around me has become almost normalized by the¡­ fuck, nearly a day that I¡¯ve been in here. Here, while the walls are still partially meat, they¡¯re mostly wire and plastic, making a nest of black tubes leading to a central table. It¡¯s no bigger than an office cubicle from the curve of the tunnel to the back wall, and the only sound is the noise that the fan of the modem makes beneath the desk, and the buzzing of the computer screen as it glows.


    On the screen, there¡¯s a black command prompt, glowing in a dramatically cheerful red rather than the traditional green.


    I turn around, looking behind me at the meatball that¡¯s followed me this whole way. It still just sits, casually threatening, in the middle of the tunnel, illuminated strangely by the glow of the monitor. My little blood cell circles around my feet, washing them in the heat of blood, but otherwise doesn¡¯t offer any insight.


    I take a deep breath, feeling the hot, ozone-charged air sting my nostrils as I drink it in.


    Well. Not exactly like anything important¡¯s changed. No way back, so just the way forward.


    I turn to look at the computer, approaching the keyboard, and with large, awkward fingers, I click two letters.


    ¡®Hi¡¯.


    The sound of the computer spins up louder, loud, enough that I worry about the fan over heating, and then-


    The line breaks, centering itself in the center of the screen with a flicker and typing in a much larger font all of a sudden.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    H01!


    I blink, staring at the screen. That¡­


    Well shit, I was not expecting Yamblr¡¯s leet-speak.


    The sight of it sends me back to a very dark part of my life- namely, adolescence. In an attempt to be quirky, a bunch of teens on the internet decided to make up a bunch of different styles of writing, memes and terms and most of all whole alphabets of weirdness just to feel unique. In their defense, they kind of succeeded- words like ¡°glomp¡± and ¡°uwu¡± remain at least a little bit in the popular culture, and for some of us who have seen the writing of the old laws, it still sends us straight into a PTSD flashback of trying to figure out what in the hell someone is trying to say, as every other letter is replaced by a number or emoticon.


    And here it is in the dark of a tunnel of flesh in an alien world, staring at me from a computer screen like an overeager adolescent.


    H1 H1!!! U 7H3R3? I7¡¯$ M3 UR FR13ND!!!! :0 <3


    Translated- ¡°Hi hi!!! U there? It¡¯s me your friend!¡±, followed by a ¡°surprised¡± emoji and a heart emoji.


    This¡­ this is going to be interesting.


    I type back, slow and steady with my weird hands and the awkward velocity of the twitch-nerves trying to push me to go faster and faster.


    Who are you?


    17¡¯S M3 Y0U KN0W M3 :(


    I don¡¯t think so. What¡¯s your name?


    1''M 7H3 [0MPU73R! 733 H33! U KN0 M3! 7H4NK Y0U F0R 4[[3P71NG MY 1NV174710N! 17¡¯$ V3RY N1[3 70 $33 $0M30N3 N3W! 17¡¯$ 833N 4 L0NG 71M3 :(! 1 W4$ L0N3LY!


    Invitation?


    MY 70Y$! 7H3Y R0LL R34L G00D, 8U7 1 M|$$ G1V1NG 7H1NG$ L3G$. $00N 1 [4N 4G41N! 7H47 W1LL 83 $0 FUN!


    Why can you do it now but not before?


    17 W4$N''7 71M3 Y37! 1 N33D3D MY FR13ND$ [L0$3R! 4ND N0W Y0U''R3 H3R3! 1 [4N''7 W417!


    I take a deep breath. The conversation is going pretty slow- while the words on the monitor appear incredibly quickly, between my difficulty typing and the art of translating ¡°leetspeak¡±, it¡¯s not easy to keep up the dialogue. Whatever this thing is, it¡¯s¡­ friendly? Or under the impression that it should be friendly, maybe, like it¡¯s operating under the assumption that we¡¯re already friends.


    But¡­


    Are you trapped here?


    1''M ]U$7 H1D1NG! $HHH! 17¡¯$ H1D3 4ND $33K 4ND N0W 7H47 Y0U F0UND M3 4ND 1 F0UND Y0U 17¡¯$ G01NG 70 83 $0 MU[H FUN!


    D0 Y0U W4N7 70 PL4Y?


    I choose my words carefully. It feels¡­ it feels childish. It clearly knows¡­ something about what¡¯s going on, maybe, but it¡¯s hard to tell exactly what, and it all seems to be filtered through the idea of being playful. The pieces of toys and technology wrapped into the walls all seem to indicate more of the same- either this thing chose those pieces, or it is those pieces, and either way, it¡¯s important. Whatever this thing is, it¡¯s buried here, playing ¡°hide and seek¡±, seemingly in control of the ¡°meatballs¡± that were wandering the outer prairie.


    Is there something in charge of the sludgelings as well? Or are they ¡°natural¡±, while the meatballs aren¡¯t?


    Either way, the computer, my ¡°friend¡±, thinks that we¡¯re playing a game. That could be my ticket¡­ somewhere. If not out of here, than at least out to somewhere. Maybe it can give me something new, or something to do, or¡­


    Something.


    Either way, threatening it is only going to put me in further danger, and indulging it at least has a chance of going in a better direction.


    I would love to play a game. But I¡¯m very tired. I think I would like to go home and take a nap, and then we can play more later.


    4WWW, 7H47''$ $4D! WHY $0 71R3D? W3 ]U$7 $74R73D! D0N''7 Y0U W4N7 70 F1ND 3V3RY0N3 3L$3?


    1F Y0U D0N''7-


    THEY¡¯LL FIND YOU FIRST.


    I blink, staring at the text.


    It didn¡¯t show up like the other ones did. The rest looks like it¡¯s being typed almost as fast as possible, but the last line- it¡¯s not just the leetspeak disappearing, it feels different. The words are typed out one letter at a time, as if by a force of tremendous will or focus.


    They glow there, red and blocky, lit in pixelated format.


    I look down at the little blood-cell at my feet, remembering the blocky 8-bit mound it crawled out of.


    I look down at my hands, which are not my hands, and which number too many, and whose fingers are strange and worn over the real me, deep below.


    I need to rest, I type. I¡¯m tired and I¡¯m scared.


    Honesty.


    4WWW, 0K! 17''$ 1MP0R74N7 70 G37 L07$ 0F R3$7 $0 W3 [4N H4V3 FUN L473R. ]U$7 M4K3 $UR3 Y0U D0N''7 $L33P 700 L0NG, 0R 7H3Y"LL G37 Y4!


    I move to type- I need to know what they¡¯re talking about, who they¡¯re talking about- but before I can reach the keys, the screen has shut down, the sharpness of the hiss of electronics heralding a total darkness.


    And then I hear the crunching.


    It comes from behind me, from the direction of the meatball and the tunnel. The darkness has come to be near pitch-black, the glow of red fading- but then it begins to rise, louder, brighter, until everything is tinted crimson and vicious, until it¡¯s like my eyes are bleeding.


    And the bundle of meat behind me is breaking.


    It has no bones to break, but the tearing and snapping sounds of the tendons are sharp enough that it sounds like crackling ceramics, like old bones breaking and crushing and changing. And it¡¯s not the only one- from the tunnel behind it, illuminated in perfect scarlet, the sound of rolling comes, uneven surfaces falling down wet, slick surfaces as more and more of them come towards me, down to their point of origin.


    And it¡¯s not the only thing breaking.


    The wires snap, copper somehow feeling wrong in this place, strange, alien and alien in a way I can¡¯t describe- but they¡¯re joined moments later by the cracking of plastic, the crunching of sharp glass and circuit boards in a drain disposal.


    And through all of it, the glowing of the red of blood, the red of flesh, the red of warning lights and stop lights and screaming, torn-open machinery.


    I step back, and my blood cell crawls up my leg, somehow swimming up the bloodflow it constantly emits to come up like a scared pup. It can¡¯t make noise, but still it squishes and squelches against me, and despite my initial revulsion there¡¯s no way I¡¯m not going to hold the poor baby and keep it close.


    In the hallway, the only exit, the meat continues to become something new.


    Wires reach down and the humming bark of electricity joins the creaking of tendon, fragments of broken toys and old electronics clacking and cracking to form together into something. It grows and connects with the rest of the walls, the wires becoming clustered and turning to thicker pipelines of blood and electricity- leading back to the computer at the far end of the room.


    And then¡­ silence.


    Slowly, something dangles down from the ceiling above, like a spider descending on a string of web.


    The monitor comes back on, the command prompt in bright red illuminating the sight, and I see what has been born for what it is.


    A headset.


    I type a key- nothing. The prompt doesn¡¯t respond.


    No words appear.


    The headset dangles there, limp on the wire.


    ¡­it said ok. ¡°It¡¯s important to get lots of rest¡±, it said. It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s trying to help. Right?


    Considering the mess of wires, of black rubber and plastic and dripping red meat that currently blocks the only exit, it¡¯s not like I have very much choice.


    I reach for the headset.


    My little blood-cell moves up to my waist, then to my shoulders, washing me in bright crimson- and then crawling onto my head, so that the fur and hair and feathers are washed and dripping with red. I don¡¯t stop it. For all I know, it¡¯ll help with the connection or some shit, and while I shudder as it moves, it is not the worst thing I have felt in the last day, not by a wide margin.


    I feel the blood of my Divine Bloodling wash over me, and put on the headset.


    The last thing I see before the black of the visor overtakes me is the command prompt, typing out just quickly enough to be seen before my vision is blocked.


    Don¡¯t Sleep Too Long.


    And then there is a light, and I feel nothing.

 INTERLUDE 1.A

    The wheels of the jeep edge off of the side of the road onto gravel and dirt, kicking some of it up island making it plink off of some of the nearby trees and an old mail-post, missing its top half.


    Sam steps out of the truck with a sigh, turning off the ignition and letting it die. It¡¯s a thirty-five minute drive- not the worst thing in the world, but enough, considering the state of its seating, to make his ass sore to the nth degree. Frankly, he¡¯s pretty sure the truck is older than he is, and he can feel every bump of the suspension and touch of the metal under the ragged cushioning.


    He takes out the GPS one more time, double-checking the coordinates. It took a few hours to get the system to finally spit out the actual location of the site of the original alarm. ¡° Site-Aleph-17¡± isn¡¯t actually all that useful if you don¡¯t know what those words even mean, and the system, for all its screaming, was not actually that good at communicating. It¡¯s half-analog, half-digital, neither half particularly pleased with the other, neither of them very eager to perform a series of very old, very strangely coded functions. He had to memorize half the damn red binder to figure out how to navigate the menus and command prompts, and it took another hour after that just to get a directory and a breakdown thereof of what is where. By the time he found a map with coordinates, he was already late.


    Not officially, but ¡°this needs to be done thirty minutes ago¡± doesn¡¯t really imply that he had an extra hour or two to figure out where the fuck anything is. Thank fuck for lazy sheriff¡¯s and quiet roads- he had to break damn near every speed limit to get here, and frankly, four wheel drive is the only reason he didn¡¯t end up wrapped around a tree.


    And now, the coordinates say he is about five-to-ten minutes, walking distance, away from this supposed site. A site which he didn¡¯t know existed until a few hours ago.


    The sun¡¯s already set, so he clicks on a flashlight, shining it into the woods.


    There¡¯s a small town, close to a twenty-minute drive, close to here, one of those sort of nowhere places that isn¡¯t bad but used to be more, but other than that, there¡¯s nothing for miles around. Farmland, abandoned properties and small homes spread out across backstreets and hills. Right here, pointing in the direction he¡¯s been told to go, there¡¯s nothing but a shitty jeep, a federal employee coming to terms with being vastly underprepared for his job, and the woods, a patch of dirt and worn-down gravel leading deeper into it.


    Sam checks his sidearm, making sure it¡¯s still at his side. He checks the GPS. He checks his flashlight, just to waste a little more time.


    And then he takes a deep breath and goes out into the dark.


    The trail is straightforward, pushing straight into the trees in a line from the road, and for a while, there¡¯s nothing but the sound of crunching dirt underfoot and the movement of life between the foliage. The hooting of owls, chirping of late-night birds, the occasional chitter and skitter of mice underfoot. Nothing that could be a real threat, nothing to indicate danger, but¡­


    Well, Sam keeps his flashlight on a swivel, checking on every sound that startles him as he walks. In his defence, his nerves are fucking shot today- the nightmare of that alarm and the overwhelming adrenaline that¡¯s defined his day since then has not put him in a very well-controlled mindset.


    The wood is deep and dark, and he is lost in more ways than one.


    In his hand, the GPS glows, pointing him forward, and he obeys, one step after another.


    Eventually, inevitably, the path ends- and he catches sight of the house.


    Of the possible reasons for there to be a trail here, this was always the most likely, but still, to see it now is to see something that feels impossible. The style is familiar (Sam grew up in a pretty similar style of house, truth be told), but it feels almost alien, like a beached corpse, made amorphous by the shadows that cloak it. Its windows, boarded up thoroughly, remind him of vents on the shell of some kind of crustacean, vast and sharp if one touches it wrong, and even from here, he can smell mold and mildew, coming from the house in waves as if following some massive, breathy exhale.


    He gulps. Takes a long, deep breath.


    And turns to the side, walking away from the home-turned-grave.


    Thank fuck he doesn¡¯t have to go in there.


    The notes in the binder were very clear: site Aleph-17 is not to be breached by personnel without a quarantine suit, and not without proper authorization. It also outlined his real job here- the sensors.


    It takes a little while to finally find the fucking things- even with the GPS pointing him to within a five-foot radius of them, time has taken its toll. He¡¯s not sure when the last time that someone checked in on them was, but he feels pretty confident in saying that it wasn¡¯t anytime in the last few months- the one that he picks out first is covered in dirt, partially fallen over and obscured.


    Each sensor is something like a foot tall, camouflaged carefully to look something like a bush, the fake leaves feeling real to the touch but carrying a weird scent to them, like chemicals or plastic. Pushing aside the fake leaves (and the real ones that have grown in and intertwined), he finds what he¡¯s looking for- a small pillar at the center, completely covered in cameras as old as he is, facing in a 360-degree cone around itself.


    The light on its side is blinking, as if waiting for an input.


    He takes a deep breath- and reaches into his back pocket for the recorder.


    It¡¯s¡­ a very weird device. Not like something he¡¯s seen before, not even in films- it bears some resemblance to an old walkman, but with a space for a CD and an old tape-cartridge, and with a small screen on the back side of it. The machine has all the hallmarks of a military device- it looks simultaneously advanced (for its time) and cheaply made, as if it could survive getting shot by a gun but fidgeting with it might knock something loose enough to make it worthless. And, worst of all, it has what could best be described as the absolute worst series of wires he¡¯s ever had to deal with.


    With a sigh, he unclips the little box on the side, carefully unwinding all six (or seven, or eight; some of them are identical) plugs and connectors, enough to make any USB or AV port setup cry. And somehow, they¡¯re always tangled, even though he wound them back up very fucking carefully when he found it, all a mess. Made for a little diversion on the drive over, mostly. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    It takes him a few minutes (doesn¡¯t work from the angle it¡¯s supposed to work from, so he ended up convinced it was a different plug-in, only to double back a second time and try it upside-down, then right-side up again, and somehow this time it worked), but eventually, he manages to connect things properly. The CD in the device begins to whir quietly, matched by a strange ticking noise from the tape recorder portion, and the screen flickers to life, buzzing sadly and a bit like a fly as it spins up.


    The screen both brightens and darkens, that artificial blackness of lit LEDs, and words written in a loud, violent red flicker over the screen.


    WARNING: PERIMETER BREACH


    THREAT DETECTED


    PRESENCE OF PRIMARY THREATS DETERMINED.


    He frowns. There are a few buttons on the screen- none of them have any markings or words on them, but since most of them don¡¯t seem to do anything, it doesn¡¯t take too long to find the right ones. The screen goes black again, lighting back up with new text scrolling across it right after.


    THREAT STATE: MOBILE, ANIMALIA


    THREAT CLASSIFICATION: UNKNOWN. TIAMAT-CLASS POSSIBILITY: >0%.


    V00D- ERROR. RESPONSE METRIC NOT MET.


    SCALE: EPSILON+


    ¡­Ok. That¡­ mostly lines up with what he saw back at base, the data that woke up the call from the Phone. That data, however, was immediate, alarmed, certain- this seems to say moreso that there¡¯s a non-zero chance of something being an issue, and that, either way, something¡¯s certainly gone wrong here.


    He sighs. Not as much information as he wanted, but that¡¯s the life of a government employee, isn¡¯t it? You do what you can with the orders you¡¯re given, and if they don¡¯t make sense, you shut up and nod along anyway. Now he just has to get his phone, pull up the call-


    ¡°Damn if that ain¡¯t the weirdest ipod I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±


    Sam is many things. A bit lazy, sure. Confused, most certainly.


    But some traumas really stick with you, no matter what other characteristics you may possess, and trauma-responses can get ingrained real quick. Basic training kicks in, months of abuse and a desperate desire to please moving his hand before his conscious mind has registered anything more than surprise, and his holster pulls against his gun, the sound of leather and metal flashing to life as his hand rests against the trigger and points his weapon at the person behind him.


    Who is pointing a gun right back.


    ¡°Easy, slugger,¡± she says, her voice low. ¡°Let¡¯s all stay calm now. Nice and easy.¡±


    She¡¯s well-dressed, sensible flats serving as the foundation of a put together appearance of a professional. A charcoal-grey suit, white shirt and black tie make up the rest of the look, her jacket hanging open from the professional shooter¡¯s stance she¡¯s taken up and letting him see the side-holster she wears, its standard-issue Glock pistol now in her hands.


    ¡°Drop the weapon. Do it now.¡±


    ¡°Not gonna to do that, slugger. But if you let me, I¡¯m going to reach into my jacket, okay? I¡¯m reaching for my credentials. Ok?¡±


    Sam does his best to quiet his breathing, keeping it from going out of control. He holds his hand firm, fighting against the tremble that anxiety and adrenaline bring. ¡°I- that¡¯s-¡±


    ¡°Hey, we¡¯ve already got guns on each other. Right? Me taking my hand off my weapon isn¡¯t going to make this more lethal. I¡¯m just reaching for my badge, alright soldier boy?¡±


    Fuck. Still shaky. His breathing feels wrong, panicked. ¡°...ok. Ok. Tell me- tell me your name and rank. Now.¡±


    She smiles, a lopsided grin that has more teeth than lip in it. ¡°Alright, soldier boy. Special Agent Renee Fayez. Here on special assignment.¡±


    Her hand comes back up, a pocket in the inside of her jacket just a bit lighter now without the wallet in it. A bright metallic badge, winged at the top, stands upright within it, glinting in the light of flashlights. At the top, three letters- CIA.


    He lets out a sigh, a sense of massive pressure leaving his chest and letting him breathe.


    ¡°Fuck. Fuck. Ok.¡±


    His gun goes down, hers a second later, that same shit-eating grin still on it.


    ¡°I showed you mine, soldier boy. Your turn. What do I call you, then?¡±


    ¡°Provisional Special Agent Sam Wittiker, ma¡¯am. Sorry about that. I just-¡±


    ¡°Nah, don¡¯t worry about it. I snuck up on you, and you had the good sense to have good reflexes. Good instincts, frankly. Didn¡¯t mean to startle you there, though I am¡­ just a bit surprised that you didn¡¯t hear me coming. These shoes were not made for forest treks.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ yeah. Yeah, I guess not. I was just¡­ busy. I¡¯m sorry, why are you here?¡±


    She raises an eyebrow. ¡°Same reason as you, I assume. My boss told me something fucked was going on around here, sent me over to figure shit out, so here I am. Also mentioned there was an agent on-site who could probably use some help. New hire by the name of ¡®Wittiker¡±. Lucky me, hmm?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m definitely not unhappy to be getting backup, ma¡¯am. I just-¡±


    ¡°Oh no, no need for all that ¡®ma¡¯am¡¯ shit. Just Renee. I¡¯m not going to demote you just cause you didn¡¯t call me some stuffy bullshit, and I don¡¯t love the moniker. Besides, not like there¡¯s anywhere lower to demote you to. Shocked that there¡¯s still someone left in this shithole county.¡±


    ¡°It¡­ wasn¡¯t my ideal posting, no.¡±


    ¡°Mhmm, I can believe that. And now we have to deal with all this shit too, huh?¡±


    She waves a hand, vaguely indicating the space between them, the plants around them, the house behind her and, of course, the device in his hands.


    ¡°Haven¡¯t seen one of those in a hot fucking minute. Still as much of a hassle to deal with?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s like using the weird cousin of a VCR, a walkman and a calculator. Ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Renee. And yeah- they do that. What¡¯s it say?¡±


    He looks down at the device in his hands¡­ back up to her¡­


    The voice on the Phone mentioned that they might send someone, didn¡¯t they? And here¡¯s someone. Someone with a badge, and authority, and who seems very confident.


    (And very attractive, he thinks.)


    Yeah. This is way over his pay grade.


    He sighs, handing her the device- the wires reaching out quite a long way back to the bush and its hidden sensor.


    She looks over at it, frowning. She¡¯s¡­ surprisingly emotive, her every expression carrying a lot. Her eyebrows crease, her lip curls, her chin sort of wiggles and her nose scrunches, all as her eyes dart over the words, clicking through a bunch of different buttons much faster than he managed to.


    ¡°Ok. Alarmist, but definitely something worth checking out. Old sensors like these, they throw out a ¡°Tiamat¡± designation practically every other alarm; above-0% chance probably just means it¡¯s an Echidna class, that or a weirder B. The scale rating¡¯s the important part, though- see here? Epsilon+. Just above the weakest type.¡±


    She smiles again, wide and expressive and bright. ¡°Perfect for you, newbie! Looks like we¡¯ve got a hunt on. Shouldn¡¯t be too much trouble, and perfect for cutting your teeth on.¡±

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.01

    The phone is ringing.


    The phone is ringing.


    The phone is ringing.


    It does that, nowadays. Every few hours, sometimes, and other times, a few bursts, intermittent, across close-together minutes.


    I do not answer.


    I stay where I am. It is warm, wrapped in soft covers that smell slightly of sweat and familiarity, the only light entering the room that which has managed to sneak past the curtains or from my phone, when it wakes up to scream at me.


    I do not answer.


    I¡­ think it¡¯s been three days. It¡¯s hard to tell. I haven¡¯t gone out much. Haven¡¯t eaten much, either. I stay in bed. I drink water. When I need to, I walk to the bathroom and relieve myself.


    Then I come back to bed.


    I¡¯m starting to smell. ¡°Sweat and familiarity¡± has started to transition to stench. My hair is so greasy it feels weird to even touch it, and my breath is¡­ best left undescribed.


    It¡¯s not as bad as it could be, but I think that¡¯s because I haven¡¯t really eaten. I tried, once. Second day after I came back. Made a plate- stale breakfast pastry and a glass of milk.


    I vomited up the first bite. The second one, too. My diaphragm still vaguely hurts, a whole day after, from the way my body rebelled, heaving up bile and choking breaths for almost half an hour after.


    So I drink water. That much, I can still do. And I piss. And I stay in bed, in the dark.


    And I ignore the phone when it sings and carols and pleads and screams.


    Sometimes, I even sleep.


    I don¡¯t like sleeping.


    Used to be I could track my mental health almost exclusively through my dreams. However much or little I may have compartmentalized or minimized or buried things, if I had a dream of weird colors and dozens of characters and nonsensical, fantastical stories, I knew I was at least mostly ok. However well I thought I was doing, if I ended up in a dream that plays out like a funhouse-mirror of something realistic, set in the ¡°real world¡±, then I knew that there was something very, very wrong.


    My dreams aren¡¯t so easy to interpret anymore.


    It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s like when you wake up, and you can tell that you slept. Not just an eye-blink, eyes-closed and then opened; you can tell there was a period where you weren¡¯t, a point of something like darkness, or an absence, but not how long it lasted. An impression of having not-been, or having floated in nothingness.


    My dreams are like that, now. But they last longer than an instant.


    I float there. I sometimes can only tell if I¡¯m dreaming by realizing that my blanket is gone, that there¡¯s no more smell, no more screaming of the phone. I realize that I can¡¯t move, because I have no body, and because there¡¯s nowhere to move to. I try to look around, but I have no eyes, and there is nothing to look at, nowhere that can be looked at in any way because it¡¯s not real, even if I did have them.


    It still moves like dream-time. Every moment could be hours or minutes or days, and it¡¯s impossible to know until I wake up. It¡¯s not one-to-one with reality.


    But I remember all my dreams now. Every one of them. And they¡¯re always nothing.


    And sometimes, there¡¯s things swimming out in the nothing. And I can¡¯t do anything but pray that they don¡¯t see me.


    I¡¯m not religious. I never have been. My parents tried, when I was little- so many churches, a new one with every move, every sunday morning. It never caught. I read the bible cause I was always so bored there, and I asked questions that were annoying to most and aggravating to some. I got agnostic pretty quick when I went to college.


    But I pray.


    I don¡¯t know to what. It¡¯s not words. In a dream, in my dreams, there are no words, not really, and even moreso in these new ones. I do not have knees to kneel with or hands to clasp, and I do not have a mouth with which to scream and beg and supplicate.


    But I pray. I pray to anything that is listening that whatever is swimming in the nothing, in the time and space and mind that Is Not, does not see me.


    And then I wake up.


    I never remember waking up. At some point, I just am. I look out with real eyes at real things, at a blanket that covers me and is starting to stink and into the shadows cast by my curtains being pushed by my breath and the air-conditioning. I hear my phone start to ping and whistle and scream again, like a hungry bird begging for food, for attention, and know that I am awake again. But I never remember waking up. I just know, always, that the things I did not see in the place that is not didn¡¯t see me yet.


    I haven¡¯t played the game.


    MEAT and its smaller cousin remain where they lay, plugged into the wall, cartridges embedded into the headset like shrapnel through a skull. I haven¡¯t dared to touch it since my¡­ friend sent me back. Its headset, cobbled together out of kid¡¯s toys and fifty-year-old electronics and strings of tissue, fit like a glove- and when it went dark, and I moved to take it off, I found my hands touching hard, cool plastic. I took it off easily enough, and the gloves and haptics afterwards, letting them hit the ground as they fall from my hands.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I didn¡¯t even unplug it.


    I¡¯m scared that it won¡¯t need the outlet next time. That it¡¯ll light up as if nothing¡¯s wrong when I put it back on, severed from any electricity and removed from what it should need.


    I¡¯m just scared.


    It was easier in the game. I could bury my head into itself and shut down if I needed to. I chose, willingly, to bury the dissociation, the pain, the sheer fucking panic at the thought that I¡¯d be stuck there forever. It¡¯s not healthy, but I¡¯ve done it before. The brain can be trained to ignore some truly incredible warning signs if you learn how, and I learned how young.


    But then comes the crash. The moment after the defenses come down, where the brain realizes that they¡¯re not currently necessary, and then, if you¡¯re not careful, the dam breaks, the things hiding behind it, pressing into it, breaking past and flooding through you and over you until you¡¯re drowning.


    Brings back old memories. Old, aching memories, ones that know just how to hurt me, just what to say. It¡¯s like being a teenager all over again, the feeling of being trapped in flesh not-my-own bubbling up like bile in the back of my throat and demanding that I spit it out or swallow it back down and let it burn. Wrapping myself in the dark, in the colors behind my eyelids, in the comfort and pain of a blanket wrapped so tight that even softness feels sharp against raw sensation.


    The phone is ringing again.


    Sometimes, things just take time. The brain, taking time to process. Three days, give or take. I let the thought drift away and go quiet, not acknowledging it, not letting myself feel its weight.


    Truth be told, I don¡¯t think it would have taken me three days to recover from what happened. I think it would take a few weeks of wondering if I can still taste raw meat in my mouth, maybe a change to vegetarianism for a while; a bit of ongoing anxiety and twitchiness from almost dying; certainly more nightmares than I¡¯d know how to articulate, let alone count.


    But some things demand immediate, and constant, attention.


    I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m real.


    I¡¯m a little ashamed, if I¡¯m being honest. I thought I¡¯d more-or-less resolved the whole ¡°what is reality, does it matter¡± debate a long time ago, but¡­ this is fresher. It¡¯s one thing to view, in the abstract, the idea that perhaps human senses, limited as they are, can¡¯t tell you if you¡¯re actually real empirically, can¡¯t prove that other people exist as more than sensory responses. That¡¯s something I¡¯ve dealt with. The answer, quite simply, is that since you don¡¯t and can¡¯t know, it doesn¡¯t matter, isn¡¯t useful to think about, and/or you should be a good person just in case. Cause why not.


    But it¡¯s one thing to confront an abstract idea, and another to stare something like death in the face and wake up again after.


    I put on the headset.


    In the game. With that¡­ computer-thing, telling me it¡¯s my friend, giving me the option to go home- and to do so, I put on a headset.


    When I woke up, the headset was off my head. In my hands. As if I¡¯d reached up and taken it off- but I don¡¯t remember doing that. I don¡¯t remember it, so all I know is that I put on a new headset, and then¡­ woke up here. Back in the ¡°real¡± world, like nothing had happened.


    It would be easier if I could have woken up with the headset still on me. That would have been easier to rationalize, made simple to connect- the machine-thing in the game connected me back to the machine-thing in the real world.


    But I opened my eyes- and the headset was in my hands.


    Everywhere I look, I wonder if I¡¯m still in that cave, right now. If this isn¡¯t an illusion, somehow. Maybe I was just¡­ foggy, coming back. Performed some moves on instinct. Maybe there was a lag between my consciousness coming back and my subconscious mind, that I¡¯d be able to do something so basic and random without realizing it.


    Or maybe none of this is real.


    It doesn¡¯t feel likely. It doesn¡¯t feel, physically, like there are other forces touching and affecting me beyond my own awareness, like when I¡¯d feel carpet under my feet while in MEAT, or be able to eat and feel it. Logically speaking, I do actually think that I¡¯m back.


    But I woke up with the headset already off. So I don¡¯t really know. And after what happened in the ¡°game¡±... that¡¯s all it took. I couldn¡¯t hold it back.


    The phone is ringing.


    Fuck.


    I reach a hand out, almost startled at the cold beyond the blankets, and grab it.


    That¡¯s enough. Fuck it. My brain can break down on its own time. This¡­ it has to be enough.


    There are people who care about me, and a job that I need to do¡­ something about, and this game, this¡­ divine revelation or alien vision or weird alternate dimensional bullshit¡­ I need to do something about that too.


    I pick up the phone. There, on the screen, staring right at me, a name that hurts and soothes to see.


    Jaybird is calling.


    I sigh. Long, and slow, and deep.


    I pick up.


    ¡°Jesus fuck, finally! Where the hell have you been, I¡¯ve been worried sick! I¡¯ve been calling and texting for like two days now, I thought it was weird when you didn¡¯t show up but then you didn¡¯t respond to a get well text, and then your coworker called me from your job, and then-¡±


    ¡°Hey Jay.¡±


    ¡°Are you ok?¡±


    I listen to him breathe over the phone. He sounds panicked, and it hurts me to hear it. I caused that pain. My pain, in the face of the idea of hurting someone else, of hurting my friend, feels almost worthless.


    ¡°No.¡±


    He lets out an explosive breath, something past the point of a sigh. It hits me like a release of tension, an exhausted sound, like letting loose an emotion that was weighing on him.


    ¡°Ok. Want me to come over?¡±


    I want to say no. I¡¯ve hurt him enough. Forcing him to help, forcing him to care about me again, adding back the weight of what I am to his burdens¡­


    But I know better. I¡¯ve had my fair share of people calling me an idiot for thinking the same.


    Not all my coping mechanisms are my enemies. Some of them, after a lot of hard work, can help me guide me to what I need.


    ¡°Yes please.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be over there in twenty minutes.¡±


    I hang up right after. I¡¯m not sure I could handle more conversation, and I don¡¯t want to distract him from the driving.


    That¡¯s an excuse. I don¡¯t want to talk right now, no matter how badly I want to talk right now.


    I let out a breath.


    Close my eyes.


    Pray a little.


    When I open them, it¡¯s still there.


    The seam in my wall. The one that was there when I got back. The one I saw when I woke up, the headset in my hands.


    The one with the glistening red veins in it, beating to the pulse of an unseen heart.

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.02

    A warm mug of hot chocolate (not coffee, not now) sits in my hands, waiting to be drunk. There¡¯s wisps of steam coming from it, bright and sweet and bringing with it the scent of the marshmallows floating atop the mix. I can feel the heat of it coming in through my hands, moving through the veins and towards my core, holding tight to my circulation and helping it along through my body.


    Jay, sitting next to me on the couch, his own mug of tea half-drunk and cooling on the table, is staring at me. He¡¯s doing a very good job of doing it in a sweet way, but he¡¯s still staring, and even though I know it¡¯s because he cares, its still just¡­ tiring.


    I¡¯ve moped enough. Breathe. In and out. Smell the hot chocolate that your very nice friend made for you and relax, just a little. Enough to talk.


    ¡°So. The last week has been¡­ really weird.¡±


    ¡°Ilia, I was worried you were hurt.¡±


    I turn and give him a Look:?:, one that¡¯s a bit undercut by the fact that I was, in fact, hurt. ¡°I was- ok. Well, I wasn¡¯t fine. But I¡¯m ok.¡±


    Jay frowns, scooting just a bit closer and looking at her intently. ¡°Hun, I¡¯ve never known you to take longer than six hours to text. And then I got a call from your job? I didn¡¯t even know I was your emergency contact. They couldn¡¯t reach you either. If something did happen, the only way I would know about is by¡­ I don¡¯t know, breaking down your door and asking your roommates, but I know you don¡¯t talk to them like at all. I was scared, hun. What happened? Did someone hurt you?¡±


    I go to shake my head, and then let out a shaky breath, wrapping myself tighter around the mug in my  hands.


    ¡°If it was just a really bad depression moment or something¡­ you can tell me. You mentioned that-¡±


    I do manage to shake my head this time, grunting to interrupt. ¡°No. I¡¯ve¡­ it¡¯s been bad, yeah, but I¡¯d still text. I¡¯d just¡­ tell you that I need space. That I need a break. I¡¯ve been in that position, where someone just vanishes, I wouldn¡¯t do that to you.¡±


    ¡°...You did, though.¡±


    Part of me wants to snap at him. Explain that three days is nothing. I¡¯ve had stretches where things went on for months, where I had barely enough energy to drag myself to the bathroom and back when I needed it. I¡¯ve had people that I didn¡¯t talk to for weeks, longer, because the weight of silence, on the back of the weight of the exhaustion and the pain, was just too much.


    But in spite of all of that, there¡¯s the simple fact that he¡¯s right. I did ghost him. He was worried, and panicked, and he is my emergency contact, and I never told him about that either, and if I had gotten eaten in that forest? Or fallen through the mold in that old house? Or gotten into an accident, or run over, or hate-crimed- there wouldn¡¯t exactly have been much warning of that either. The fear, especially when so much of what I have in this town relates to him, is not only valid, it¡¯s real, real in a way that I can¡¯t just laugh off or bite at.


    So I just sigh, and take a drink of hot chocolate.


    ¡°Yeah. I did. Not¡­ not for that reason, though. I wasn¡¯t in a place to reach out. And for my standards, that¡¯s¡­ a lot.¡±


    He nods, quiet. Leans back a bit, as if realising that he¡¯s pressuring me, so close. ¡°Was it¡­ did someone hurt you?¡±


    I throw my head back, mumbling to myself a little murmur. ¡°Ugh. That¡¯s¡­ no. No, nobody hurt me. I got¡­ trapped somewhere. Went exploring and ended up screwed over, unable to get out, and while I was down there¡­ some stuff happened. Some pretty bad stuff.¡±


    For a little while, there¡¯s silence.


    Jay reaches out to the table, picking up his coffee. He takes a long, slow sip. He turns back to me.


    ¡°Ilia, that tells me jack fucking shit.¡±


    I laugh, a sharp, scuffed sound that comes off more as a bark than not. ¡°Fuck off, man, I¡¯m unveiling trauma here.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, and doing a bad job of it,¡± he says, though he says it with a smile. ¡°Seriously, if you don¡¯t want to say, that¡¯s fine, I¡¯m just¡­ worried. If you got assaulted, or-¡±


    ¡°No, nothing like that. Nothing that¡­ nothing that I can really talk about, I think? Or maybe just nothing that you can really help with. Not in a bad way, just in a ¡®this is a very big deal and super crazy and weird¡¯ way, and there¡¯s not a lot that would make sense if I said it out loud.¡±


    He scoffs. ¡°Try me. I¡¯ve heard some weird shit, babes.¡±


    I cock an eyebrow, raising it high as I stare at him. ¡°I¡¯m sure you have, but not like this.¡±


    He leans forward again, reaching out a hand and placing it on the edge of the blanket I have around me. There¡¯s a painful sort of sincerity to him now, his eyes sparking bright with it. There¡¯s almost a weight to his presence, one that wasn¡¯t there before, a feeling of intensity that wasn¡¯t there before. No jokes here, not now.


    ¡°Please,¡± he says. ¡°Try. If it could help you, then try.¡±


    There¡¯s a lump in my throat. Like I¡¯m going to cry, but not. There¡¯s no tears, no choking, but still it screams there, an emotion coming through to the real world with the flesh as a vector.


    I laugh. There¡¯s no humor in it. It is a dry and empty thing, made to fill the air and give voice to something, at least.


    ¡°Yeah. Alright. Fuck it. Why not right? Why not just say.


    ¡°Jay, my closest friend in this shithole town, radiant burst of light in the darkness that is moving to a new place away from a bunch of assholes. I found some bad fucking shit.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t say anything. He just lets the silence sit, waits for me as I wrestle with the lump in my throat, with the scream hiding behind my eyes at the feeling that comes from pulling back up all the things I¡¯ve only just recovered from. But he waits, patient, and doesn¡¯t push.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Now there are tears. Just a few. I take a sip of hot chocolate. The swallowing hurts, my throat too tight for it, but it still helps.


    And, with that one little push¡­ I start to talk.


    I tell him everything.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    ¡°...so that¡¯s¡­ a lot.¡±


    I laugh, low and soft. ¡°Yeah, Jay. It¡¯s a lot.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ you¡¯re sure that¡­¡±


    ¡°I am, to the best of my recollection, speaking to you the truth as I know it. Every event. I can¡¯t speak to what happened in the game, necessarily, that¡¯s¡­ well, best-case scenario, it¡¯s all in my head. But for the rest, I have proof. Gas mileage, receipts from the purchase, the extra game cartridge in the- no!¡±


    He¡¯d turned to look at it, gotten up as if to go into my room to check- but my hand is on his arm, clenching tight to it. He looks down at it, then at me, his hand coming up to hold mine, wrapping around it warmly.


    ¡°Hey. It¡¯s ok. Sorry, I just¡­ it¡¯s a lot, right? Part of me does want to check.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, no, I get it, just¡­ not on your own. I can show you, after. I¡­ would rather you not touch it. Or be alone with it. I¡¯m worried as is that I¡¯ve somehow infected you just by saying something- I¡¯d rather not have you get sucked into it too. I don¡¯t think that¡¯s how it works, but¡­ better safe than sorry.¡±


    He nods. ¡°Ok. I¡¯m with you. But you¡­ you know that-¡±


    ¡°That it sounds insane. Yes, I know. It sounds like I¡¯m tripping balls, or like I had a psychotic fucking break, I know. But¡­ I¡¯ve confirmed everything I can as much as I can. And I¡¯ve done just about everything I can to figure out what¡¯s going on. Still got barely any fucking clue, though.¡±


    He shrugs, the beads in his braids jingling with the movement.. ¡°Barely is better than nothing, babes. None of this makes any sense. A cursed videogame- that led you to another cursed videogame, and somehow also transported you into the game- and now you don¡¯t know what¡¯s real. Which, hey, very fair. I don¡¯t think I¡¯d be faring much better.¡±


    I scoff, despite myself. ¡°Yeah, probably not.¡±


    ¡°Hey! This is when you say ¡®No, Jay, you absolute studmuffin, you gorgeous bedazzled queen and prince of all things delicious, I¡¯m sure you¡¯d be as a paladin, unmaking any challengers with ease!¡±


    This time, I really can¡¯t help it. He gets one hell of a laugh out of me, hard enough that I spill a marshmallow onto my hand and have to lick it up. ¡°Sorry, Jay, but I¡¯m an honest sort.¡±


    He rolls his eyes. ¡°Fine. Well, what have you figured out about it?¡±


    I sigh. ¡°To the best of my knowledge, everything that¡¯s happened so far in the ¡®real world¡¯ has actually happened. I did drive out to the outskirts of town, find an abandoned house, found a weird ass place. The first game did arrive, the forums I posted about it in are in my history, even if they got deleted, and I have the headset. But to be honest, there¡¯s¡­ there¡¯s one last test I haven¡¯t tried. Wouldn¡¯t really work without someone else to¡­ witness, I guess.¡±


    He¡¯s tense now. All the concern that the humor we¡¯ve been slinging was holding at bay is back now, louder. ¡°Ilia. Honey. What do you mean witness? Don¡¯t do anything-¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°No. Nothing¡­ self-harm-y. Been through plenty and I know what that looks like, how to avoid it. I promise, it¡¯s not something that¡¯ll hurt me. I think.¡±


    ¡°You think?¡±


    I laugh softly. ¡°Yeah. I think. Cause frankly, if this does work¡­ well, it¡¯s certainly going to say a lot, at least. I just¡­ need something from you, ok?¡±


    He takes in a deep breath. It¡­ it actually means a lot more to me than if he¡¯d just said yes immediately. He takes the time to actually think it through, and I see him look at me, and then back at the dark of my room upstairs, and then at nothing at all for a while.


    ¡°Yeah. If I can help you, then I want to. Anything.¡±


    I have to swallow some more hot chocolate, the lump back, bringing with it a heat in my eyes that almost spills over.


    Then, I take a long, slow breath, in as deep as it can go, and back out just as slowly. I put the mug down, now matching Jay¡¯s on the table, and take the blanket off my shoulders, sitting upright, and then standing tall. I stretch, crack my neck, and look at the wall I¡¯ve been staring at, on and off, since I got to the living room.


    ¡°Just¡­ stand over there. On the side. Get a good angle, and just¡­ watch. Carefully. Tell me what you see.¡±


    He gulps, looking over to where I indicated¡­ but he nods, and he does follow along with instruction. He steps over to the side of the main room- it¡¯s not a large space, what with being a condo apartment with three people living in it, two in the same room, one to each of the others. It¡¯s enough space for him to come around, next to the little staircase up to the ¡°upper floor¡±, and stare at the wall I indicated, and at the space between me and it.


    ¡°Here good?¡±


    I nod. ¡°Yeah. Just¡­ make sure you watch, ok? And if you don¡¯t see anything, you don¡¯t see anything- but make sure.¡±


    I walk forward slowly, never letting my eyes leave the wall.


    The wall with the crack in it.


    It¡¯s a lot like the one in my room. Not identical, though- the shape is different, as is the material behind it, both in coloration and density. But just like up in my room, here in my living space, there¡¯s a crack in the wall, and behind it, the pulse of mucus and meat.


    I walk towards it. And when I get close¡­ I reach out.


    It feels warm. Not hot, like I expected, no feverish heat. Just¡­ warm. Like I¡¯m touching it through a layer of clothing, maybe, even as I feel how wet it is, how it reacts, ever so slightly, to my touch. It flinches from the contact, just like any other skin would- except there¡¯s a lot less skin than I¡¯d like.


    Fuck. Less skin than I¡¯d like. That¡¯s what life¡¯s come to, it seems.


    I push my fingers in against it. There are¡­ seams, in the muscle, in the weird veins and fatty tissue behind the wall. It feels like fingering a warm steak, feeling those juices that aren¡¯t quite blood and the fat and tissue that isn¡¯t quite what it would be when it was complete.


    I push in a little deeper. I don¡¯t break eye contact with it.


    ¡°Jay?¡± I ask; ¡°Where are my fingers right now?¡±


    He frowns. Leans closer, and then squints really hard, leaning forward further.


    ¡°I¡­ is your wall¡­ soft?¡±


    I laugh a bit. Quiet. Hushed.


    Slowly, I reach around one of the segments I can feel, wrapping my finger around it. And then¡­ I pull.


    The house creaks.


    It¡¯s slight, a sound not unlike the house settling- except it¡¯s not a sound I¡¯ve heard before, a new sound, one that pulls from and reacts to the pressure in my hand as I pull something out of the wall. It drags forward, slow, the house creaking with it as it does- until I¡¯m holding, in my hand, a piece of severed muscle, connected to the wall by strings of mucus and a few long, trailing ligaments.


    ¡°Jay? What am I holding right now?¡±


    For a little while, Jay says nothing. Dead silence. Just the fading sound of the house creaking, and the sound of my heartbeat in my ears, as loud as it¡¯s ever been.


    ¡°Ilia, do you have¡­ do you have meat in your walls?¡±


    I let out the loudest, most painful breath of air I¡¯ve ever felt in my lungs, and hear it turn into a sound of relief and misery both, a single loud sob. I turn to look at Jay, a soft little smile on my lips, an exhausted catharsis in my eyes.


    ¡°Yeah, Jay. I guess you could say that.¡±

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.03

    It¡¯s easy to assume that everything deserves to live. I want to believe that. I try so very hard to believe that. But it just¡­ it doesn¡¯t fit. The very idea of it feels¡­ offensive. I try, and I try, and I try to believe that every living being exists for a purpose, exists for a reason.


    But I don¡¯t think purpose exists. I think the only thing that matters is what we choose to believe. The purpose we create. And as much as I want to think that mine is to be kind, is to just live, is to just exist, I can¡¯t help but feel that there¡¯s something just so wrong with that.


    So if there¡¯s no reason for so much, no reason for so many¡­


    Maybe it¡¯s our job to make it.


    No matter the cost.


    -Third Scripture, twenty-third verse of the books of Lo-ahnn Daughtler, First Architect of Artistry


    Jay spends the next thirty minutes or so trying to figure out the trick.


    It¡¯s kind of reassuring, actually. He really goes at it pretty hard, checking my sleeves, the meat, and the wall as thoroughly as I could hope. It¡¯s one thing to see something weird happen, another to confirm, foundationally, that it is, in fact, weird. The fact that he¡¯s not just taking my word for it, actually taking the time to confirm it himself, is weirdly encouraging.


    In the end, though, he¡¯s back to the couch, staring at me, and then the wall, and back again intermittently, nursing a cup of tea that has gone quite cold by now.


    ¡°Ok. So¡­ tell me again what you see.¡±


    I shrug. ¡°It¡¯s not that much to look at. There¡¯s a crack in the wall, about an inch in diameter, and behind it, there¡¯s some kind of meat.¡±


    ¡°Ok. What kind of meat?¡±


    ¡°It varies. Up near the top and the bottom it¡¯s more muscle, but in the middle it¡¯s got lots of paler parts, like, I don¡¯t know, fat or tendons or something. It looks more like chicken meat than beef, I guess? It¡¯s all sort of pale, rather than like, bright red or darker or anything. It smells like raw meat, so I can¡¯t really tell much from that, and it feels¡­ like warm meat. Not hot, but more than lukewarm, you know?¡±


    He nods, taking it all in slowly. He sips his tea- and grimaces at the temperature, long gone stale.


    He opens his mouth as if to speak¡­ and then pauses. Closes it. Opens it again, closes it a second time, and then at last builds up the courage to ask what he wants to ask.


    ¡°Have you¡­ have you tried cooking some of it?¡±


    One look at his face, and I break out laughing.


    ¡°Really? That¡¯s your main takeaway? Have I tried cooking any? No, you fucking maniac, I have not cooked with the weird wall meat, fuck!¡±


    ¡°Wha- I don¡¯t know, you said you couldn¡¯t tell but if- I mean cooking, you can tell! Like, with taste and stuff! It makes a difference!¡±


    ¡°Well you¡¯re right about that, but no, I am not in the habit of cooking wall meat. That¡­ fucking hell, I¡¯m really glad that¡¯s where your mind went, I needed a laugh right now.¡±


    He snorts, rolling his eyes and getting up off the couch towards the kitchenette. ¡°Well I¡¯m glad I could provide at least a touch of entertainment, weirdo. You want me to top up the cocoa?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°No, I¡¯m ok. I¡­ haven¡¯t been eating much lately, it would probably mess up my stomach if I drank too much right now. Just water, if that¡¯s ok.¡±


    A shrug. ¡°It¡¯s your kitchen, love.¡±


    Tactfully, he makes sure not to comment on my diet. I think it¡¯s pretty clear, at this point, that I¡¯m not alright, and that talking about it more, so bluntly, isn¡¯t going to help- so he doesn¡¯t. He gets me a glass of water and lets me breathe.


    When he makes it back to the couch, hands me the water, watches until I take a drink, then, and only then, does he ask his next question.


    ¡°Ok. So you¡­ you mentioned that it had stats. Like a videogame, right?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Evolution, Adaptation, Canalization, and Synchronicity.¡±


    ¡°Ok. I¡­ actually don¡¯t even know what one of those words means.¡±


    ¡°Canalization, right? Yeah, I had to look it up. It¡¯s a scientific term, one used for analyzing the rate at which the same sorts of traits show up over and over in a species. It¡¯s¡­ kind of the opposite of adaptation, in a way? Adaptation is getting new things in response to your environment, canalisation is getting the same things no matter what environment you¡¯re in.¡±


    ¡°Ok. But still, one of those is not like the others, right? Synchronicity? It¡¯s more of a technical term than anything. Mechanical, not biological.¡±


    ¡°Yup. And it¡¯s the one that looks weirdest in the game. All the rest look like¡­ well, like they¡¯re made of meat. That one, whenever it comes up, was always sort of staticky, weirdly technological. It¡¯s also the one that got a huge boost when I was ¡®in¡¯ the game, and the only one that I don¡¯t know for sure what it does. Adaptation, I think, makes it so that I would gain new mutations whenever I ate something or took too much of a specific kind of damage. Evolution¡­ I¡¯m not sure what it did. Never quite got around to figuring that one out. Canalisation, I think, made it so that I could control the mutations a bit better.¡±


    ¡°Ok, and Synchronicity? Did you even figure that out?¡±


    ¡°Kind of. I think it¡¯s¡­ something like how in tune with things I am. When I was in there, making the Symbionts, I think it was easier the higher my synchronicity was, and I think I could do more. The other three¡­ they felt like they belonged in the game. Synchronicity kind of felt like it¡­ was the game. Or it was¡­ me? Something like that.¡±


    ¡°Ok. None of that makes much sense and that¡¯s a lot of unknowns.¡±


    ¡°You keep saying ok.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m responding with acknowledgement, which is pretty much all I¡¯ve got here!¡±


    I snort, rolling my eyes. ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    He shrugs, sipping at fresh hot tea and rolling his eyes. ¡°It¡¯s what I got. Especially because I feel like we¡¯re running into the issue of, you know¡­ what now?¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    I sigh, long and slow.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    It sucks extra hard because it¡¯s true. I don¡¯t know. I, quite frankly, have no idea.


    ¡°This whole time, I¡¯ve been running forward on impulse, more or less. I chose to believe that this was something real, and it is, and I kept digging into it, and now¡­ I feel like the floor dropped out from under me. Like I fell down a fucking rabbit hole - except that, unlike Alice, I made it back out before the story was done. Which, you know, good, it sucked there, but I think that just means that the story isn¡¯t done with me. It¡¯s going to drag me back there, or make something happen. If this is real, if I¡¯m not still in the game somehow, then that means that the computer thing? It can reach us here. In the real world, somehow. And then there¡¯s the fact that I found the second cartridge in a real place, so this sort of thing can affect the real world. Or it¡¯s¡­ part of the real world already. It¡¯s not invading, it¡¯s here, it¡¯s been here for fifty fucking years.


    ¡°So now¡­ now I have to deal with the fact that the world is different than I thought. Considering how fucking long it took me to get used to dealing with it the first time¡­ it might take me a while.¡±


    Jay looks at me, his eyes soft, his smile calm. ¡°But you will.¡±


    I laugh, but it¡¯s not a laugh. It just comes as a huff.


    ¡°Yeah. I will.¡±


    ¡°And in the meantime¡­?¡±


    ¡°In the meantime¡­¡± I can¡¯t help it. I sigh, long and loud as I can, exaggerating it for effect. ¡°Fuck it. In the meantime, I¡¯m not going to use the headset again. Not for a little while. Not until I¡¯m feeling¡­ more like myself. Whatever that means in this context.¡±


    ¡°Ok. And¡­ what are you going to do about your job?¡±


    This time, the sigh goes on for even longer, and comes across as a lot more like a groan than a sigh.


    ¡°I¡¯ll¡­ I¡¯ll call. Tell them I had a death in the family or something. It¡¯s my first time missing this many days in a row, and they don¡¯t exactly have a ton of employees. Still, it¡¯s literally a bar, they can always find new people. I¡¯ll¡­ ugh. I won¡¯t know either way until I call, right?¡±


    ¡°That much is quite true indeed,¡± he says, rolling his eyes. ¡°What a shock, that until you know, you don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, fuck you too.¡±


    ¡°Aw, not even if you asked nicely, sweetheart.¡±


    I give him a little shove, and he laughs, holding tight his tea so it doesn¡¯t spill. ¡°Seriously though! I think it¡¯s a good idea. I know you have your savings, but having to deal with horrors beyond comprehension doesn¡¯t stop you from still needing to pay rent, and getting out of the house, doing some regular work, serving boring beers and shots to a bunch of random normies and cleaning shit... that might help. Nothing quite as good for mental health as new stimulus and repeated action.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, little mr psych grad? Is that so?¡±


    ¡°Quite. Why else do you think I came here? From the big city to a little podunk nowhere, serving joy and caffeinated sunshine at the Golden Roast.¡±


    ¡°And here I thought that it¡¯s because Egyptology doesn¡¯t pay.¡±


    ¡°I mean, it does. Just not for black queer people in their twenties. Gotta be mid 60s, white, and already tenured, or literally already in Egypt. Everybody else needs to either wait for someone to die or suck some truly prodigious amounts of cock- and I¡¯m not quite that much of a whore, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    I can¡¯t help but raise an eyebrow- to which I receive a smack in the face from a pillow, sending me falling sideways onto the couch.


    ¡°You ass, I didn¡¯t even say anything!¡±


    ¡°You implied it! With your waggling loose eyebrows!¡±


    ¡°My eyebrows are fine!¡±


    ¡°Your eyebrows need a comprehensive spa treatment, stat. The rest of you, quite frankly, could do with the same- you look like ten pounds of microwaved shit in a five pound bag.¡±


    ¡°Hey! You know my weight¡¯s an issue for me!¡±


    ¡°Your weight is lovely, balanced, and fine as hell, hun, it¡¯s your aesthetic that needs work. You¡¯re lucky you¡¯re hot, cause god damn, you can¡¯t dress for shit.¡±


    I fake-gasp, my hand clutching at imaginary pearls. ¡°How dare you! I am traumatized! I am allowed to wear pajamas and blankets in my own home!¡±


    ¡°Oh you¡¯re allowed to walk the streets in fishnets for all I care, baby. You just can¡¯t expect me to acknowledge it as taste.¡±


    I can¡¯t help it- I break out laughing. It¡¯s the stupidest, silliest, dumbest conversation I¡¯ve had all week, and I didn¡¯t even realize how much I need it. It makes me feel awake like I haven¡¯t been in¡­ well, days, minimum, but maybe a lot longer.


    When was the last time I spent time with someone in my own home? When was the last time that I invited someone over? Trans woman in a small town, there aren¡¯t exactly a lot of booty calls available, and I¡¯ve managed to keep mostly to myself in the two years I¡¯ve been here. I¡¯ve never invited anyone from work to my place, and my roommates¡­ I tried. I did. Maybe not as well as I could have, but they come and go. It¡¯s the nature of a place like this; if you don¡¯t own it, then you have to deal with having people who come in and out every year.


    I¡¯ve felt it before, but somehow, in its absence, I feel it all the more strongly.


    I¡¯m lonely.


    It¡¯s almost funny. All the pain, the forced consumption, the panic, the dread- and here, now, this hurts worse than all of them combined.


    In this moment, I¡¯m not alone, I can feel it- and it just reinforced the fact of what I am. I¡¯m lonely. I wonder how much of it is my fault, how much of it comes from me. I could invite more people. I could try to¡­ I don¡¯t know, push the bar to host queer events, or check fucking facebook, see about biking groups or something. Anything.


    But the thought turns on me. Isn¡¯t that just mindless need? A desperation that could never properly pay out, that could never fix what I feel?


    I think back to the meds that I¡­ have not been taking since I ¡°got back¡±. There¡¯s probably lots of undiagnosed shit going on, but in terms of what I got pills for, it¡¯s just the tasty antidepressants in the bright blue-and-orange pills.


    The problem with depression? The difference between it and anxious panic? Anxiety, at least my anxiety, I can usually argue against. You can logic your way through it. You can track the worst-case scenario, or believe what people are telling you, and go from there. You can still sort-of do that with depression, but¡­ not to the same extent.


    My depression is a reasonable beast. It tells me only the things that it knows, for a fact, I cannot disprove.


    What if it¡¯s all me? What if I¡¯m the reason for the season, the reason why I suffer the things that I do? My own inaction, leading to what I am and what my life has become? This boring, empty sludge of an existence, lit by only a few notes now and again, like Jay. In its own way, it makes it worse by how much it stands out.


    And worse again- maybe it won¡¯t get better. Maybe everything that I could do won''t work.


    Not trying at all definitely won¡¯t work¡­ but it doesn¡¯t mean the depression is wrong. It doesn¡¯t mean that there¡¯s something I can point to and say ¡°no, for absolutely certain, I know for a fact that if I do this, I¡¯ll be happier¡±.


    I let the laugh die, the rush of ennui and dark grey emotional sludge that came with it suddenly hitting- and then I¡¯m crying.


    I¡¯m crying, like an idiot. Like a stupid little kid. I¡¯m crying as my friend, who only wants to help, who is offering me really good advice, who has come here when he didn¡¯t need to and made me hot chocolate and-


    I feel a shock of sensation. A pulse of feeling, loud and visceral and made entirely of nerves reacting to impact, to flesh, bringing me forcefully into my own body, to the heat and tension in my eyes, the pressure in my throat, the heat coming from my tears- and the tightness of the hug my friend is giving me.


    I shouldn¡¯t need this. I don¡¯t want to need this. I don¡¯t want to burden him, and I also can¡¯t help but be so happy and so exhausted and so weak- because I do. Burden and need, intertwined.


    I¡¯m lonely, and for just a moment, I¡¯m not alone. I called, and he answered.


    And he helped. As much as it hurts to have him here¡­ it would hurt more to have ignored him. And it would hurt more to be alone.


    He wants to help me. He called, and came here, because he cares. Because he can help, and because I asked for it, like I know that I should when I need it- and I need it.


    I cry for a while, doing everything I can to choke the sobs deep in my own throat. He hugs me, and pats my back, and whispers soothing words.


    I¡¯m lonely. I¡¯m hurt. I¡¯m afraid.


    My friend is here, and right now, I am not alone.

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.04

    Accumulation of wealth at one pole is at the same time accumulation of misery, agony of toil, slavery, ignorance, brutality, mental degradation, at the opposite pole.


    -Karl Marx


    ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    I do, in the end, end up going to work.


    Turns out, they actually had another bartender quit- Kristy, some 20-year old who I interacted with maybe twice during her whole tenure. Between that and my oh-so-convenient excuse of a death in the family, and I¡¯ve managed to get away with ¡°only¡± a thirty-minute breakdown of what, exactly, is wrong with the world, and, more specifically, my role in it.


    Jonah¡¯s an asshole. I say that with absolute sincerity. I truly believe that, if he were asked to choose between helping someone or running them over, he might choose the latter, if only because it gets him to work faster. Bald, mid-40s, and wielding a beer-belly and once-fit arms with all the experience of a former football prodigy turned bruiser, the fact that he hired me felt hard to believe at the time, and hasn¡¯t gotten easier. He¡¯s no skinhead, but he¡¯ll happily throw out the occasional slur at asian people, disabled folks, old people, ¡°the blacks¡±, and anyone who wasn¡¯t born within thirty miles of wherever he decides the ¡°real heart of america is¡±- the fact that he¡¯s never gotten a dogwhistle tattoo, on purpose or by accident, continues to amaze me.


    But, despite all of his many qualities, Jonah pays¡­ more than nothing, didn¡¯t actually bother to give a shit about what gender I was born as (just so long I don¡¯t bring any rainbow shit or do any of the faggy crap in the bar, ya hear?), and hasn¡¯t fired me. So, like¡­ for heartland-style broke, racist assholes, he¡¯s not the worst of them?


    It¡¯s what I got. I never claimed to like my fucking job.


    Most of the time, it¡¯s more janitorial than food service, especially during a morning shift. True Blue¡¯s Pub is one of those places that has this near-absolute superpower to magically accumulate every possible sort of grime a bar can accumulate except, usually, spunk. And even then, there¡¯s been notable exceptions to that exception, two that I can recall. Roaches need removing, fly-eggs need clearing, black sludge needs removing, grease needs extracting, and there¡¯s never quite enough bleach and Lysol to go around. Fabuloso would be cheaper- and also holds a name that isn¡¯t quite all-american enough for Jonah.


    I make it in at around 7am, three hours before the bar opens. The key, perpetually half-hidden behind an awkward little brick next to the back door, unlocks the mechanism and allows it to squeal open as I go inside. The interior¡¯s about as basic as they come- manager¡¯s ¡°office¡± to the left of the door, employee bathroom about ten paces down to the right, and then a bend into the final stretch, with a door for the kitchen and a door for the bar. Thank fuck I only have to clean the latter- I¡¯ve had my lunch breaks on-site once or twice, on the occasional that I have the time and no one¡¯s around to tell me not to, and Carlo, for all his big smiles and frantic pace in the kitchen, has a reputation for producing the most toilet-destroying cocktails of meat and vegetable I¡¯ve ever experienced.


    I make it through to the bar proper, sighing as I catch sight of the darkened room. Light leaks in from some of the windows, natural light coming through blurred, hazy glass and making the whole place seem almost underwater. Wavy lights cover tables with chairs stacked atop them, all black wood and sticky floors, with brick walls and dusty light fixtures.


    Not over my bar, at least. That part, I¡¯ve made sure to keep as clean as I possibly fucking can. No dust bunnies up above, no gunk in the sinks, and ice-bins as white and sanitary as I¡¯m capable of making them. Rows of bottles, brands mostly turned away from the customer-side, glasses stacked behind me and beneath the counter. Sections for chopped limes (more than a day old and uncovered, if I had to guess- more shit I gotta do before we open), syrups, and bitters.


    I hit a light switch, and with a flickering, the lights behind the bar come on, illuminating everything in a warm yellow light of old bulbs.


    It¡¯s not home. I don¡¯t have a lot of positive memories here, even beyond the whole ¡°smile for capitalism points so you can afford food¡± thing.


    But there¡¯s a comfort in the familiar. Even in familiar misery.


    I get out the mop bucket, rinse it a few times to get all the grey out, and fill it with light soap.


    An hour later, I¡¯ve cleaned out the floor as best I can, taking it from sticky to¡­ just before sticky, at least. The tables lose their dust, lose some of their ingrained goop, shine their age-old stains. The bartop, especially, takes some fucking work- but at the end, I¡¯ve managed to bring it as close to sparkling as I can bring it.


    The bottles get restocked. The cooler, mostly lukewarm, are refilled with beers, all four brands we carry, only two of which come in glass. Fresh lemons, which I don¡¯t think the night shift are going to replace; syrups from the fridge, some of them that I made a better part of a week ago, and which I spend another hour replacing; glasses cleaned in the machine, and bins I bring back more wiped down and sanitized.


    Before I know it, it¡¯s time.


    I finish putting down the last of the chairs, take in a long, slow breath, and head for the front door.


    I already know who I¡¯ll see before it opens, but I¡¯m still somehow disappointed by the sight.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you have work to do or something?¡±


    The man grunts, shoulder-checking me as he makes his way in through the door. It¡¯s not hard, not enough to start a fight over (he learned that lesson) but it¡¯s still infuriating in its own right, as are the two other assholes who walk in behind him.


    Construction workers in a town with no construction. Or maybe mill workers with no mill. It¡¯s always hard to keep straight the excuses, honestly.


    Hollow Springs is not a dying town, but is not, and likely has never been, a thriving one. The mill shit down over thirty years ago and somehow, still, people complain about it like it was yesterday. Everyone¡¯s got a story about how ¡°back in the old days¡± things were better, that gas was cheaper, that you used to be able to afford groceries, that people didn¡¯t complain like the young folk nowadays, weren¡¯t afraid of a ¡°hard day¡¯s work¡±.


    I¡¯ve given up trying to point out how much they piss and moan too. It¡¯s not their fault that alcohol makes people stupid, though I withhold no blame for their continued consumption of it. At this point, it¡¯s a lot easier to just nod my head and agree at the stuff I agree with and ignore the rest, at least until it gets too nasty. Then people get cut off.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Jonah doesn¡¯t like it, but Jonah can fuck off. He can get someone else to take the morning shifts in a business built on tips + minimum wage. Shit did used to be cheaper, even accounting for inflation- that¡¯s what you get when a bunch of gross rich people pay a bunch of other gross rich people to keep making each other richer.


    I almost giggle at the thought. It¡¯s kind of refreshing, going back to a more familiar existential dread. There¡¯s a comfort in familiarity, even if it¡¯s familiar misery.


    I go back behind the bar, grab six of the glass bottles from the fridge, and bring them to the table that Chuck and his friends have commandeered.


    If the other two have names, I haven¡¯t bothered to learn them. They¡¯re Chuck and his friends, and every day, at around 10am, these three assholes wander into the bar, drink the better part of a pack of beers, complain about whatever game is on, and then leave, to do fuck knows what. I¡¯ve seen them come back in on the rare occasion that I do a double-shift and stay till closing, and drink a good three times that much, but fuck knows why they can¡¯t just do this at home. Jonah marks up the beers by a dollar each, easy- they could buy this same shit at a gas station and get shitfaced at 10am somewhere else.


    But, when they yell at me to turn the tv on, I do. I set their beers on the table, collect their crumpled fivers, and keep the change (little as it is) as a tip.


    Usually, anyways. This time, I¡¯m confronted with something new.


    A fresh, clean, crisp twenty-dollar bill.


    I raise an eyebrow at Chuck, who¡¯s smiling like the cat that caught the canary, his two friends chortling.


    ¡°What¡¯sa matter? Ain¡¯t ever seen that much not in singles?¡±


    I blink, try to track the meaning of-


    Is he just calling me poor, or calling me a stripper?


    ¡°Just never seen one around you, Chuck,¡± I tell him honestly, setting the beers down and picking it up. ¡°I¡¯d tell you that making forgery¡¯s bad for business, and likely to get you a federal charge, but this looks too good to be your handiwork.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you too, bitch,¡± he grumbles. ¡°That there¡¯s real workin-man money. Got a new gig in town paying buku bucks at a proper job, for real men.¡±


    I can¡¯t help it- I snort. ¡°Congratulations, Chuck.¡±


    He seems ready to hear me say something else- but I don¡¯t.


    Chuck¡¯s not an asshole, he¡¯s a piece of shit. He¡¯s genuinely not a good person, and he¡¯s never done me a solid turn, and I don¡¯t like him- but if he¡¯s getting paid to do a real job, then¡­ good for him? Maybe it means he¡¯ll spend more at the bar, maybe not- it doesn¡¯t really matter all that much. It certainly isn¡¯t something I¡¯m going to insult him over.


    I would like to insult him. I think he¡¯s a bad person who makes bad choices and treats people badly. There¡¯s always an implied threat of physicality, when it comes to annoying him and his buddies, and I could do without that, but even with it present, I still would like to make him feel bad.


    Just¡­ not about having a job. Or being proud of that fact. Even if he¡¯s doing it in his usual piece-of-shit style.


    I shrug. ¡°That¡¯s it. Congrats.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ yeah. Just bring us some more beers, willya? We¡¯re celebration, and it¡¯s been dry mornings ever since you started slacking off.¡±


    I shrug again. ¡°Sure, coming up. You want a pitcher of something or just more bottles?¡±


    ¡°You know what, fuck it. We¡¯re getting a pitcher, boys!¡±


    They slap the table and whoop, making my head hurt (10am is way too early for this shit), but eventually they¡¯re more entrenched in watching the bar¡¯s shitty little tv rattle on about some football game to pay me any mind. The 20 covers their bottles, and has enough left over for the pitcher, though, annoyingly, less than usual for me¡­ but that¡¯s life sometimes.


    And¡­ that¡¯s it.


    They drink, and leave. Kitchen doesn¡¯t open for a few more hours, though I¡¯m pretty sure I hear Carlo wander in through the backdoor a few hours into my shift. A few more people come and go, stopping off for a midday drink and bar snacks. I mix three cocktails the whole day, each of them whiskey-based, and otherwise experience a morning where nothing of any note happens.


    It¡¯s the most relaxed I¡¯ve felt in days.


    Every time that I start to think about my trip to meat-world, there¡¯s something to do. Every time I want to crawl back in bed and die, I look at the tip jar or the clock and calculate my pay for the day. Jonah wanders down from his upstairs apartment once, gives me a look and a few sarcastic comments, but I¡¯ve done my job as well as I usually do (which is better than either of his other bartenders, in my opinion), and he just¡­ wanders over to his office after a while.


    I can still feel every inch of my body. I still notice my hands shaking, every now and then.


    But as far as I can tell, there¡¯s no weird meat-cracks in the bar, no videogames in sight, no strange computers talking to me like they¡¯re from a blog about a tv-show during the mid 2010s. I feel almost distressingly human, for the time it takes for the end of my shift to arrive and for my mind to focus on the tasks directly in front of me.


    Until I hear the door open, look up¡­ and see no one.


    The door swings shut the exact same way it always does when someone walks in, but no one has walked in.


    ¡­the last time I experienced that sorta fucked up phenomena, I ended up in the woods in a mold-infested ghost house.


    Jonah keeps a baseball bat under the counter. I¡¯ve only had to use it once, but I know right where it is. My hand drifts to it as I pan my eyes across the room, tracking the two tables and two people  one man at the bar, trying to see-


    What was that?


    I start doing a headcount, breathing slow and even.


    Two tables, both with two people each. It¡¯s around 3pm, and I can hear Carlo fixing up the kitchen in the back, hear the hum of the ceiling fans, see the sunlight dimming outside the window. At the bar, there are two people one guy-


    There. It happened again.


    I know, intimately, what it looks like when my mind fucks up. This isn¡¯t that.


    I grab the bat, putting it in my hand, and turn-


    ¡°Hmm. Still doesn¡¯t prove-¡±


    The bat comes up and points directly at the speaker, sitting at the curve at the far end of the bar.


    They blink in surprise, cocking their head to one side.


    ¡°Well. I suppose that cinches it, now don¡¯t it?¡±


    There is a person there, on the phone, staring at me.


    I cannot see a single other thing about them.


    I know that they are a person. I know they have a head, eyes, hands, ears, a phone, a voice, a mouth, a body. But I can¡¯t see those things. I know that they¡¯re there, but my eyes can¡¯t seem to find them, can¡¯t seem to settle on them to properly acknowledge them. Trying is like seeing one of those weird swimmers in your eye- look too closely and the jelly of it moves, sending the creature sliding away.


    ¡°Sorry for the surprise, dearie. Had to make sure you¡¯re the real deal.¡±


    They close the phone (it¡¯s a fucking flipphone?) and put it on the table, and only then do I notice the part of them that I can actually see.


    On the back of their hand is a single, wet, glistening eye, two wet, messy tracts of what looks like syrupy blood or paint crossing it out. It looks half-blind, milky, with redness from the x marking it leaking into the pupil, and it¡¯s looking about, frantically, almost desperately.


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you could spare me a beer while we chat? I figure we¡¯ve got a decent bit to get through, hmm?¡±

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.05

    ¡°Recorder¡¯s rolling? Yes? Alright, good. I have a feeling about this one.


    ¡°Oh fuck off, I do not have a feeling about all of them. Don¡¯t be rude, and don¡¯t interrupt the recording! Shoo! ¡­Alright then.


    ¡°First card, first question: whose presence have I felt?


    ¡°Result: The Fool, reversed. A lot more bleeding than usual, especially from the ground, and the pathway behind the figure is¡­ strange. Sort of like a spiral? Someone new, or at least new to what they¡¯re doing, but major, still in ignorance and reluctant to start the journey.


    ¡°Second card, second question. What does the figure I have felt desire at this moment?


    ¡°Result is¡­ a weird one. Two cards stuck together, one behind the other. The Hermit, reversed- and peeking out from behind it, stuck together with something like¡­ sap? Death, upright. A¡­ desire to hide? To seek solitude and not process something- but deeper down, a desire for change. A bit on the nose, though. They¡¯re usually¡­ more abstract than this. Never gotten a two-for-one before. This feels¡­ direct.


    ¡°Third card, third question: what can this new player do?


    ¡°Result is- oh fuck off. That can¡¯t be right.


    ¡°Result is The World. Inverted, but that¡¯s not an inverted meaning for this card. Enlightenment, divinity, immortality. That¡¯s fucked. I-


    ¡°Huh.


    ¡°Ok, clarification¡­ this is my World card, but it¡¯s modified, like the Fool. Smaller modification, comparatively. At the feet of the World, inverted, so upright, is a small¡­ well, it looks like a tower. It¡­ kind of looks like the Tower.


    ¡°...Final card. Final question. From what does this particular Fool draw its power?


    ¡°Result: The Magician. His eyes are missing, and his fingers are¡­ wrong. The robes are open, and inside, it¡¯s¡­ I don¡¯t really know how to describe that.


    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m¡­ I think we¡¯re gonna have to deal with this one.


    ¡°I did tell you I had a feeling about this.¡±


    -Audio recording on cassette, stored in a small box in a secret compartment behind a wall. Currently sits next to thirty-eight similar tapes.


    I can feel my knuckles straining against the bat.


    Not today. Not now. This¡­ I had this. This shitty little fucking- this fucked up pointless little service job was mine. Just for today! Just for right now!


    And here¡¯s¡­ something new. Something that I didn¡¯t even notice at first.


    Chuck and co already left me on edge. I¡¯m tall. I¡¯ve got pretty big shoulders. I used to do sports, back as a teen. But three grown men, construction workers, could find me in an alley and beat me to death like that. Some stranger who I can¡¯t even perceive? Who walked right in and sat not ten feet from me with barely a hint of their presence?


    I take in a slow breath through my nose. In, 1, 2, 3. Out, 1, 2, 3.


    I walk over to that side of the bar, the baseball bat still in my hand, kept at a grip that feels comfortable.


    ¡°Beer¡¯s for paying customers. I don¡¯t do friends and family discounts, and you¡¯re not either anyways.¡±


    A laugh. I¡­ think that the figure throws their head back? Expressive about it? But I¡¯m not sure. A laugh happens, just like speech happens, just like their presence, here, happens- but the details of it are just missing.


    ¡°Gonna let me talk myself thirsty, hmm?¡±


    ¡°Tap water¡¯s free.¡±


    ¡°Sure, I¡¯ll take a glass.¡±


    ¡°All out.¡±


    ¡°All out of-¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell me why you¡¯re here, and why I can¡¯t tell who you are, and then maybe, maybe, I¡¯ll poison you with whatever Jonah calls tap water after I¡¯m sure you¡¯re not gonna try something.¡±


    Another laugh occurs. I notice the eye on the back of a hand on the bar, how it blindly rolls back and forth. Focusing on it seems to make it sort of¡­ frantic? Like it¡¯s getting anxious, the blind, off-white pupil starting to twitch beneath the red paint that crosses it out.


    Another hand covers the back of the first one. Not aggressively, not even hurriedly- an action meant to appear innocuous, I think. The figure smiles, an action which involves lips and teeth- neither of which I can describe.


    ¡­I can¡¯t see what or who they are. I can¡¯t describe them with any details at all.


    Can I describe what they aren¡¯t?


    ¡°I have no intention of causing trouble, but you can¡¯t expect people like us not to be a little paranoid, meeting for the first time, hmm?¡±


    I focus, tracking lips that¡­ aren¡¯t pink. They aren¡¯t red. They aren¡¯t blue, they¡¯re-


    ¡°What do you mean by ¡®people like us¡¯, stranger?¡±


    The person shrugs. Their shoulders aren¡¯t broad. ¡°Oh, you know. Us weirdos. Strangers. People who¡­ notice things.¡±


    They move their hand away, and I can¡¯t help it- my eyes dash back to the pupil. It briefly looks like it¡¯s trying to look at me, but then it¡¯s covered again.


    ¡­ok.


    This¡­ could be a good thing. Someone to talk to. Someone who knows something about all this.


    It could also be dangerous. More dangerous than an empty house in the woods, maybe. That, at least in theory, can¡¯t actively intend to harm me- or sneak up on me in the quiet.


    They think I know something. Which, fair- I do know something. I know a few things, maybe. I might not know what those things mean, or how they connect, and I might not know what they think that I know, but¡­


    I know enough to fake it, probably. I¡¯m a pretty good actor. Lots of experience with interpersonal pretending.


    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯ve noticed some things.¡±


    Another smile, from lips that aren¡¯t any color I can think of except green. I don¡¯t think they are green, I can¡¯t describe them as green, I don¡¯t see green when I look at them- but I¡¯ve run through most of the other colors I know, and it isn¡¯t those. Green lipstick, maybe.


    ¡°I¡¯d be disappointed if not. I¡¯ve heard big things about you. Making waves. Quite a splash on arrival. Been an eventful week, has it?¡±


    ¡°Something like that.¡±


    ¡°Something like that. Mmh. Been a few years since someone like us came through town, and they didn¡¯t seem like the type to stick around. Our¡­ little community, here, we¡¯ve got a pretty good thing going. You¡¯ve brought up a lot of mess¡­ but I notice that you¡¯re not new here. You didn¡¯t just pop up. You¡¯ve been here, haven¡¯t you? Ilia Silva. Down river way, over in that bunch of condos. Three roommates, not a lot of friends, not a lot of money, moved to town two years ago as of¡­ what, a month ago? Happy anniversary.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think anyone calls a move-in date an anniversary, but thanks.¡±


    ¡°Words are made up. Point being, I don¡¯t know why you came here, but I know that it was more than a week ago. I know that you¡¯ve got someone all up in a tizzy. I¡¯m seeing strangers in town that I¡¯m not used to seeing. I figured it would be¡­ rude. To knock on your door, interrupt you at home. This is a bit of a safer environment, no?¡±


    I raise an eyebrow, looking around. Dim lighting, brick walls, rough customers, and Jonah¡¯s reputation don¡¯t make for what I would call a safe environment.


    But I do prefer meeting here to thinking that this person with shoulders that aren¡¯t broad and lips that aren¡¯t anything but green. It¡¯s¡­ a strange consideration, but a notable one. Diplomatic approach, maybe.


    Huh.


    They¡­ don¡¯t know what I know. They clearly have the ability to look me up, somehow or other, an ability to figure out who I am, how long I¡¯ve been in town, all that basic mess- but none of that ties directly into the events of the last week. They haven¡¯t mentioned anything explicit at all about that.


    Maybe they¡¯re as much in the dark about me as I am about them. Well, less than I am about them, considering they at least know my name, but still. It¡¯s possible that they don¡¯t know what I can do. They know enough to know that I know or can do something, but maybe that¡¯s it. If they could just figure out everything they needed, why approach me at all? Why bother with this whole mess?


    ¡°I¡­ appreciate the discretion,¡± I say. It¡¯s easy to say, because it¡¯s true, but also because it doesn¡¯t really say anything at all. ¡°I wasn¡¯t expecting to meet anyone here, either, but at least here, I can bash your brains in if you try something.¡±


    A laugh- but this one isn¡¯t jovial, isn¡¯t comfortable. Can¡¯t describe what it is, but it¡¯s not those two.


    It¡¯s a dangerous game. I¡¯m not the best at reading people, but I work harder because of it. It¡¯s a skill I¡¯m proud of. Trying to tell what someone¡¯s feeling, what they can do, how they¡¯re responding, purely by what they¡¯re not doing, is a fucking guessing game at best.


    They could be intimidated by my little ¡°threat display¡±. They could be preparing to shoot me in the back of the head the minute I turn my back. They could think, now, that I¡¯m no threat at all. I don¡¯t know. I just know that they didn¡¯t take it as a joke.


    ¡°I¡¯m so glad. See, I have a friend. Someone I respect quite a bit. They live pretty quiet. Me? I¡¯m kind of loud. A bit messy. They recommended discretion, and I agreed. I¡¯m so glad you appreciate that. Means a lot to me. Means that we can do this politely.¡±


    Hmm. Ok, so that was a threat.


    ¡°Sure. I can be polite. Takes practice, though. You get a lot of practice with that?¡±


    ¡°Not that much. I have other skills I prefer.¡±


    ¡°Hmm. Ok. Did you just come here to threaten me with discretion, or¡­?¡±


    A laugh. A different one this time. I run through the checklist and it¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s not angry, but that¡¯s as close as I get. Somehow, that¡¯s almost more threatening. My hands tighten on the bat.


    ¡°I think you should leave.¡±


    ¡°Ah, come on, don¡¯t be like that. You mentioned that you like to be polite, let¡¯s be polite, huh? Common courtesy. Someone new comes on the scene, you want to make proper introductions.¡±


    ¡°Hard to introduce yourself when I can¡¯t see anything about you. Cute trick, by the way. That your favorite color lipstick, or just today¡¯s pick?¡±


    They smile this time- and it isn¡¯t friendly. Not what I would classify as friendly, at least. Funny, how the brain fills in the gaps like that.


    ¡°Yeah. Alright. Cute.¡±


    They move their hands, and in doing so, I catch sight of more that I can describe. They stop bothering to cover up the crossed-out eye, and their other hand, on the palm-


    Not an eye this time. A stinger. A curved edge, like a scorpion stinger, maybe- and it goes further back. I see hints of further edges, crawling down the sleeve, across their wrist, moving gently.


    There¡¯s more movement underneath their¡­ clothing. It¡¯s not an overcoat. Jacket, maybe?


    ¡°Better to be prepared, meeting something like you. Right?¡±


    Something like me.


    ¡°Maybe. I don¡¯t mean to be rude, but my shift is up in about ten minutes, and I fully intend to get home on time. It¡¯s been an annoying few days, and it takes work to be this pretty, so I¡¯d appreciate it if you would hurry this up. What do you want?¡±


    They shrug. ¡°Nothing major. Nothing all that special, really. Just figured we could do with an introduction. We chat, say hello, and then I take you to meet some other interested parties. Somewhere a little less public, maybe. Get to know each other.¡±


    ¡°You know, if I had a nickel every time someone asked me to go to a secondary location with them¡­ well, the joke usually goes that I¡¯d have two, which isn¡¯t many, but it¡¯s funny that it¡¯s happened twice. But I¡¯ve been on the internet since I was a teen, so it¡¯s a lot more than two. I think I¡¯ll stay right here, call a friend, and head on home. How¡¯s that sound?¡±


    The figure snorts. ¡°You don¡¯t have friends. Not except the one, right? Jay. Works over at the Golden Roast. Makes a good brew. Currently in the middle of his shift, already partially involved, and I think we can both agree, a bit less special than you are. We wouldn¡¯t want to bother him in the middle of the day, would we?¡±


    See, that¡¯s where the mistake comes in.


    Firstly, Jay is a lot more special than I am. Secondly? You don¡¯t threaten my friend.


    I lift the bat up to my shoulder, letting it rest there, comfortably. I remind myself of how it felt to swing those bone-clubs, back in¡­ well. Not in the game.


    In MEAT.


    I remember what it felt like to beat to death those little creatures. To use unwieldy, messy flesh to swing something sharp and dangerous and just a little heavy.


    As I pull those thoughts out of the box¡­ I remember what it was like to eat them. The taste. The way that they squelched and glistened and pulled apart in my teeth, teeth that weren¡¯t mine.


    The figure shifts. Just a little bit. Just enough to make me come to some assumptions, not enough to make me think I know what they¡¯re feeling as they look at me.


    The movement under their coat begins to go faster. A little louder, maybe. Like a rustling noise.


    ¡°I¡¯ll give you a little information for free,¡± I whisper, feeling eyes on the both of us as the bar¡¯s few patrons turn to check what¡¯s going on. ¡°I don¡¯t have a lot going on. I don¡¯t like this job. I don¡¯t like my house. I quite like Jay. He¡¯s a good person. He deserves good things in life. Threaten him again, and I¡¯ll break all of your limbs.¡±


    A snort. ¡°Oh? You think that-¡±


    ¡°Joints are easy. Ankles. Metacarpals. Wrists are a little harder, but you hit them right, they break apart like lego sets. Elbows can take a few hits, but if you just bend them the other way, they pop right out. Shoulders are harder, but knees? Knees are so very fuckable. You hit a knee properly and it never heals right, ever. Too many moving parts. Then, when you can¡¯t move, when all four fucking limbs are useless sacks of pain that you can¡¯t move right, then, I am going to hit you. Joints are easy, complicated, mechanical. For the rest of the bones, my best bet is to exert a lot of force in a small space. So I will hit your forearms until they shatter. Then I will hit your biceps until the bones there shatter. Then I will hit your thighs until the bones shatter, and then, for last, your shins. Shins are harder. I think, but don¡¯t quote me on this, but I think that the shin-bones are the hardest ones in the body- but they break too. By the end of that, I don¡¯t think I¡¯m going to have the patience or the time to get to your hands and feet, but I can stomp on them a couple of times, call it a fucking day.¡±


    The figure is quiet.


    ¡°You guessed right about some things. Did your research, at least enough. You know where I live, who my friends are, but I don¡¯t think you know me. I have no fucking clue what you can do, but I know what I can do. People think that other people are hard to kill. That you need to cut the right spot, shoot them with a gun, hit them with a car. One person survives a beating, survives getting cut, and people start to think that they¡¯re hard to kill, that they¡¯re safe. But people are fucking fragile. For everyone who survives a fall without a parachute there¡¯s a fucking million that slip five feet and conk their head on the counter. I don¡¯t need fucked up magical powers to hurt you. I don¡¯t have to be special to make you regret your choices. You¡¯re person-shaped, I know that. You¡¯ve got eyes, which lead to a nerve, which lead to your brain. You¡¯ve got a throat, full of veins and airways. I might be new to this, but I don¡¯t need to know everything about everything to know how to hurt someone. I will hurt you with my bare fucking hands if you threaten Jay again.¡±


    The bar is quiet. Someone behind me tries to get my attention with a whistle, but I don¡¯t respond to whistles, and even if I did, I¡¯m busy.


    I haven¡¯t felt like this in a long time. Haven¡¯t talked like this to someone in a long time.


    But I¡¯ve had a difficult week. And  you do not. Threaten. My friends.


    Even if I only have one left. Especially if I only have one left.


    And I have thought many times, long and hard, about what it means to be in a body. And how easily it can be hurt. How poorly designed we are. How easy we are to break.


    The figure raises both hands in mock surrender.


    ¡°Alright. I can see we got off on the wrong foot here. No need to take things personal, yeah?¡±


    They¡¯re smiling. It¡¯s a big smile, I think. Not angry.


    ¡°How about this- I¡¯ll just be on my way. Let you take a breather, finish out your shift. Far be it from me to keep someone trapped in employment longer than we need to be. I¡¯ll talk to you some other time, huh?¡±


    ¡°You do that,¡± I say, my voice quiet and even. ¡°Don¡¯t let the door hit you on the way out.¡±


    They get it, quiet as you please¡­ and leave.


    The door opens and closes, and I can barely tell how they moved, or what they did to do so- I just know that they have gone.


    Probably.


    The stuff on their skin. Writhing. The eye seemed like it¡­ like it was responding to me somehow. Keeping an eye out for me, getting more agitated as I started noticing more things about the figure. Was it reactive? How do they walk around with an eye on the back of their hand? It didn¡¯t look natural or implanted, it was just¡­ sort of there.


    Someone whistles again, and I slam the bat into the countertop.


    ¡°Next person who whistles, snaps, or yells at me is banned. What the fuck do you want?¡±


    The guy at the bar is looking at me kind of wide-eyed. ¡°Just¡­ to close my tab. Ma¡¯am.¡±


    I sigh, long and slow- and put the bat back behind the bar.


    Ten more minutes. Or, in practice, however long it takes for whoever has the next shift to get here.


    I can do this.


    And then¡­ I can deal with whatever fresh bullshit all this is.

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.06

    The ways of the enemy are myriad. Complex, strange, and almost impossible to predict. Where one might be capable of creating illusion, tricking one¡¯s perception through sight and sound, another may be capable of igniting matter with their mind, and yet another might carry strength enough to heft a carriage above their heads. Only through careful investigation and consistent awareness might a hunter properly ascertain the capabilities of the enemy that they hunt, and even then, it is best never to consider oneself truly wise to their ways, lest you find yourself caught unawares.


    Always remember- they wear the faces of men and woman, but they are beasts of hell, blessed and beloved only by the devil. Be wary, lest you find one of their kind blossoming from the flesh of the god-fearing like a sickly tree, hungering teeth and claw ready to take one¡¯s throat.


    -A Guide ¡®Gainst The Enemy, 1745, by William Hunt


    --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    ¡°I¡¯m leaving, Jonah.¡±


    ¡°Ya been missing three fuckin days and you just up an leavin, that it? You want to fuckin keep this job, do ya?¡±


    I try to sigh, but it comes off a bit too growly for that. ¡°Already apologized, Jonah, and my shift¡¯s 7 to 3. It¡¯s 5. You don¡¯t need two bartenders on a Thursday night, and even if you did, that¡¯s not my shift. I don¡¯t care if Tommy¡¯s late, it¡¯s been two hours and not a word from me. I¡¯m heading of.¡±


    He grumbles, his voice deep enough that it comes off like something of a bear-growl. ¡°Fine. Don¡¯t wanna pay your ass any more anyways. Next time you lose a fake grandma, you call me before you fuck off, or I swear I¡¯m burning your resume.¡±


    ¡°It was an uncle, and I¡¯ll do my best. Bye.¡±


    He just grunts, and I close the door to the office on my way out.


    It¡¯s not quite far enough into the colder days that five-o¡¯clock is sundown, but it¡¯s getting closer all the time. The sun¡¯s getting low, and the sky¡¯s starting to turn from clear blue to hints of orange across the clouds. It¡¯s a beautiful evening, all the moreso from being away from the smells Carlo is exuding from the kitchen and the clientele are exuding from the bar.


    I wish I could feel it.


    I can see it, sense it, even, but it¡¯s away from me. I¡¯m behind a little wall, made half of glass, and half of a feeling of pressure.


    It¡¯s one thing to know, in broad terms, that something is out there. A vague, indeterminate thing, existing out and past what can be understood. It¡¯s another entirely to be faced by a person, a real, breathing, seemingly living person, capable of wielding strange magics and putting me in more direct dangers.


    That¡¯s the issue about that little speech of mine. I¡¯m primly and perfectly aware of just how thoroughly I can hurt someone- and just as thoroughly aware of how capable people are of hurting me. And the unknown is almost always worse than the known. Painful awareness of all the ways that Chuck and his boys can hurt me, or how those like him can hurt me, carries over. A stranger that I can¡¯t see coming, that I can¡¯t properly read or protect myself from, has all of those dangers and many more.


    I make it to the car before I hear it.


    Scraaaaape.


    I don¡¯t freeze, but it¡¯s a close thing. A close fucking thing. I¡¯m there, pretty much at the door, keys in hand, when it comes by- and it comes from above.


    The road here isn¡¯t gravel. Neither is any of the dirt to either side of anything. That sound was like someone scraping along gravel- and it didn¡¯t come from me. Didn¡¯t come from the floor.


    I turn to look around, making it slow and clear. I don¡¯t need them to think I didn¡¯t hear- I need to find things, see what made the noise.


    ¡­nothing. No one around. This section of town is as dead as every other, the lights of the bar behind me taking up most of the visible spectrum around me, the only cars in the parking lot matched easily to the people inside.


    I try my best to keep things quiet. Keep myself aware. I look all around, trying to see if I can find one of those weird eyes, or sign of a writhing stinger someplace- nothing. I do my very best to try and make sure that I¡¯m noticing things that I¡¯m not noticing, either, trying some version of the same trick that let me see the person¡¯s lipstick.


    Nothing.


    Except it¡¯s not nothing, is it? It wouldn¡¯t be nothing. Nothing would be too easy. You know what they say- it¡¯s not paranoia if someone¡¯s really out to get you. And I would bet anything in the world that whoever I spoke to, and whoever else they were referring to, abso-fucking-lutely is out to get me, for one reason or another.


    I get in the car, and start driving.


    5pm, and the roads are fucking dead. It¡¯s weird, living in this town. I was a suburbia gal myself, back when I still lived close to family, but I was also painfully close to the highway, and the difference it makes¡­


    All these buildings, and not one person I can think of in them. All these buildings, lovely little old buildings, half closed down and boarded up- and the entire time, not a single person on the road. The cars that I do see, heading out to the edges of town from the center, are exceptions to prove the rule.


    Scraaaaape.


    Loud enough that I heard it inside the car, over the sound of ailing brake-lines and an engine that likes to sputter rather than purr. Not as close as it was when I was listening for it back at the bar, but louder, more abrupt, like the sound was in a hurry this time.


    The roads aren¡¯t gravel, and the sound- it has weight. I look in the rearview, the side mirrors, the blind spots- nothing. No one in sight. The streets are almost depressingly quiet, the lights more for my benefit than anyone else.


    Where in the fuck-A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Ah.


    A flash. A moment of bright-eyed insight, brought about, in part, by the distance from things.


    Rooftops have gravel.


    Fucked if I know why, but just about every single rooftop I can think of has gravel on it.


    I don¡¯t look up. I can¡¯t look up at the roofs beside me while driving.


    I can look at the ones ahead and behind, though.


    I look into the mirror, checking, and-


    There. Behind me. Up on the rooftops, a glimpse of something.


    Big. It¡¯s three buildings behind, but it¡¯s big. Uncomfortably so. Like catching a glimpse of a wolf, and then the trees it¡¯s hiding behind, and getting a frame of reference for how much larger it is than a dog.


    There. Back at the beginning. The first scrape.


    Why?


    Running as it is, that part I can figure, that much weight going along rooftops all constant, leaping with that much of a frame- but the beginning. Right at the start.


    Did it want me to know? A warning? Something to unnerve me, or make me run scared?


    I have three people at home. Near-strangers, but decent people, and ones I don¡¯t wish any harm on. And I don¡¯t exactly have weapons there either.


    I could go to the sheriff¡¯s office. Trans woman, total stranger, moved into town barely two years ago, going to the sheriff¡¯s office of a town like Hollow Springs, talking about being followed. I¡¯m more likely to end up in a lockup than not, and that¡¯s a temporary solution at best, if not a way to trap myself into even more of a fucking corner- and that¡¯s just the best case scenario sort of situation. I¡¯d be trading uncertainty and danger for uncertainty and danger.


    ¡­fuck.


    I hit the last light between me and my house, and turn right instead of heading straight.


    It¡¯s not much- but there¡¯s a space well behind back of the condo. Someplace still in development, half empty lot, half partially constructed building, cheap would-be homes ready for further production and eventual habitation.


    I try not to think about the fact that they look so much the same. Like a spreading fungus, I¡¯ve seen buildings just like it in every state I¡¯ve driven through. I saw them in Ohio, when I visited for a graduation, I¡¯ve seen them in New York visiting family, I¡¯ve seen them in Virginia and near DC when I was a kid. They always look the same, grey and off-white spreading between touches of suburbia and the buildings of urbanity, near identical. Empty. Soulless. Quiet. Designed to be habitats, not homes, and seemingly always in construction, ever and ever, amen.


    As shit a place to die as any.


    There¡¯s construction materials there, probably. Some tools from the recent construction Chuck was talking about, or some two-by-four I can rip up for a weapon. Fuck, I¡¯d take a lost brick at this point. I don¡¯t have a gun. I don¡¯t have anything, really.


    A little part of me wants to call me a liar. Demands that my instincts shut up, that I just go the fuck home, that I¡¯m exposing myself to more risk by wandering into a darkening construction site than I am by just going the fuck home where my imaginary monster can¡¯t actually hurt me.


    It¡¯s a small part of me, and behind the glass the way that I am, it¡¯s easy to put it away. Seeing little signs, half-imagined things, led me to BLEED, to that empty house, full of pictures with the faces rubbed away. It led me out of the game, out of the bright red world full of ever-hungry things. To believe, for a fucking second, that the glimpse I saw along the rooftops, the sound I heard coming behind me, so soon after the un=person I saw, is just a coincidence? Silly. Human, yes, but silly. As stupid and poorly designed a behavior as so many others we, as a species, are designed with.


    Old friends, with old voices, wriggle in my mind. How easy it would be to give up. That if I die, I don¡¯t have to think these thoughts anymore. I don¡¯t have to feel these feelings. I don¡¯t have to worry about hurting anyone else.


    They¡¯re wrong. They always, always are. I won¡¯t have to worry because I¡¯m gone, not because they¡¯re not hurt. But in the face of the last few days, and the ongoing fear tickling the back of my spine, they¡¯re loud.


    I don¡¯t want to die. I just want to not be afraid, and not have to hurt. Some of the deepest, most human wants of all.


    I¡¯ll have to settle for wanting not to get my roommates killed. That, at least, there¡¯s a chance I can achieve.


    scraaaaaaaape


    Slower that time, and quieter. Further away. There aren¡¯t that many buildings this far out, and none that sound quite so high up as the condos I¡¯m currently driving past, three stories high to the two of most other structures around.


    I¡¯m driving slow, and the scrape was longer this time, more dragged out. It wants me to hear.


    Part of me is a fan of that. I like the thought of something with desires, something that can be tricked or manipulated, with wants that can be exploited.


    Another, bigger part of me wonders about wandering into a dark place with something that wants me to hear it coming. That doesn¡¯t speak to a lack of confidence, or to a gentle demeanor.


    But I¡¯m behind the glass. I make sure of that. It¡¯s easy to go back behind it on purpose, once you learn how, once you¡¯ve been there enough. I haven¡¯t needed to be back here in a long time. I¡¯ve wandered back, now and again, on some of my darker days, but I haven¡¯t needed to pull up the glass on purpose in a while.


    It¡¯s like back in the game. Not quite the same. That was more about not thinking of things, putting them away in little boxes, keeping those thoughts away from anything that mattered. I was still me, I was just a me that wasn¡¯t thinking of those things, that was focused and active and aware. I needed to be, because I had to be creative, explore, find places and people and things.


    I don¡¯t need that now. I need to make myself capable of violence, and I need to survive the upcoming encounter with whatever the fuck is chasing me. I don¡¯t need to be a person for that, not a full person.


    I need to be behind the glass. Looking down on everything, but safe behind it.


    It feels strange. I haven¡¯t been back here like this, on purpose, since I was a teenager.


    It feels familiar and new in ways that I don¡¯t like.


    I hit the gas and break through the padlocked gate of the fence surrounding the construction. My car doesn¡¯t mind the damage, considering the shit she¡¯s already got, and if I¡¯m wrong, getting fined for it is a hell of a lot less of a problem than getting killed.


    I park the car, get out, hold my keys in my hand so that my house, car, and mailbox key make a shitty, improvised set of brass knuckles, and step out.


    I look behind me.


    It¡¯s there.


    It sits on the road like a dog, but it¡¯s not shaped right for it. It¡¯s got person arms. Big boulder shoulders, rolling hills of meat and muscle, half-hidden in the growing shadows of sunset. I drove slow on the way home, and the sun is turning the sky more red and orange than blue- soon, the streetlights will come on.


    But not yet. For now, the thing sits in shadows made from dying sunlight.


    It¡¯s like a gorilla, kind of. Hard to tell the details of it, but it¡¯s proportioned similarly, front-heavy and leaning to compensate for that fact. It¡¯s sitting like a dog, but it¡¯s like a squat, gone so deep that its haunches are touching the ground, but not like it¡¯s relaxed. It¡­ it doesn¡¯t look like it can relax. It sees me staring, and its head cocks to the side, one long ear flopping lazily as it does- the movement is like a man wearing a fatsuit, or layered under a dozen sets of armor-pieces.


    I can¡¯t see the details of it in the fading light¡­ but it doesn¡¯t have any fur, and its skin is a grey-black blend that looks distressingly camouflaged in the setting light, and, I imagine, will continue to look that way when the streetlights come on.


    I¡¯m a big fan of wikipedia. A firm believer in community-driven sharing of information, through nothing but passion and a desire to educate. Sometimes I like to browse it.


    An average gorilla is capable of lifting, pushing, or pulling objects to the tune of approximately 1,800 pounds. 1,800 pounds of force, delivered on a human body, is enough to pulverize most bones and liquify some organs.


    This thing looks bigger than most gorillas I¡¯ve seen, and it doesn¡¯t¡­ it doesn¡¯t look nearly so well-balanced or gentle.


    It sits perfectly still, it¡¯s head cocked to one side, as I walk backwards, slowly and carefully, towards the half-constructed buildings behind me. Only when I feel my heel bump into something that isn¡¯t gravel or dirt do I look away, turning to sprint inside the closest building.


    I hear something like claws scraaaape along the road outside the construction site- and then I hear a thick, heavy padding of muscled limbs over dirt and gravel, coming towards me.

 INTRAMUSCLAR 2.07

    ¡°But you can¡¯t mean¡ª¡± gasped Rainsford.


    ¡°And why not?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you are serious, General Zaroff. This is a grisly joke.¡±


    ¡°Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting.¡±


    ¡°Hunting? Good God, General Zaroff, what you speak of is murder.¡±


    ¨D Richard Connell, The Most Dangerous Game


    ___________________________________________________________________________


    I can¡¯t feel anything. It¡¯s honestly almost fun. I¡¯m behind the glass by choice, but my body agrees with me, natural human evolution pushing every concern and feeling beyond adrenaline and what¡¯s necessary to move to the back. I know, logically, that if I could feel my breath, my throat and lungs would hurt. I know that if I focused, I could worry and be stressed about how loud my heartbeat is, how it¡¯s pressing against my ribcage and already aching.


    I should really do more cardio, if I make it through this.


    I might not make it through this.


    I hear it behind me, getting closer and closer as I dash through the opening of the building. Right at my back, close enough that I can hear it panting, inhaling like an engine feeding fuel to vast chambers within it. Something cracks behind me- wood, splintering from an impact, the sound granular and sharp. I am already turning the corner, my hands scraping and stinging as I forcefully grab a wooden beam to turn the corner faster.


    Up the stairs. That¡¯s my only chance, the only thing I can think of. The hallways down here aren¡¯t huge, but they¡¯re big enough for the thing to move through, especially if it still has the sort of agility it showed by running across rooftops. The stairs, on the other hand, are a bit smaller, especially with the way they turn halfway up, forcing verticality into the mix.


    It¡¯s kind of funny, actually. It feels sort of like dreaming, like when you¡¯re in a nightmare, and your body is full of adrenaline and fear-chemicals, but your mind is just sort of going through things, enjoying the scenery as you move along.


    In so many nightmares, your brain knows, deep, way back down, that you won¡¯t die if it gets you. It¡¯s like mine is trying to emulate that, here, now.


    I might not make it through this.


    The banister behind me cracks under catastrophic force, a hand as large as my torso putting the weight of a truly massive body onto the wood. My feet slam, pitter-patter heavy over the steps, my shoes sticky from work and nearly making me slip as I turn and sprint up the second set of stairs-


    I see it. In the pitch dark, as I scramble like an animal, desperate for escape, I see it below me, coming up the same steps.


    It has long, floppy ears and eyes deep-set into its face, but not like a dog, more like a man that¡¯s been somehow stretched, the face pushed in until it¡¯s half-concave and the back of the head pulled back until it droops in layers. The ears aren¡¯t long like a beagle¡¯s ears or an elephant, they are long, empty vats of skin, with earlobes at the far ends of them. Its eyes glint, black and empty like a doll¡¯s eyes, like the eyes of an animal, all-black, only hits of white at the edges, and what takes me six steps takes barely a single reach of its arms.


    I am six feet tall, and it is taller than me while squatting. I weigh¡­ more than I¡¯d like to casually admit in conversation, and it could fit three of me in its belly alone.


    It bears repeating that its hand is the size of my entire torso- and the fingers beyond it are thick as arms, each of them bearing the strength required to crush me to death.


    I make it to the second floor, listening to the stairwell splinter explosively behind me as it¡¯s briefly trapped. It tears its way free, the weight and force of it enough that the stairs fall apart- and then it just pulls itself up behind me, ripping the doorway open and shoving its bulk into the upstairs hallway.


    That¡¯s the last thing I see before I turn the corner into a half-finished room, thin wooden walls blocking line of sight. I can feel my throat breathing, the cold and the sawdust thrown up mixing to make it feel ragged and raw. I can feel my heart beating so hard that it¡¯s starting to hurt.


    I might not make it through this.


    If it gets me, it kills me. If it gets me, it kills me. If it gets me it kills me.


    It¡¯s kind of fun, in a sort of weird, abstract way. I can feel my mind splitting along lines that I didn¡¯t know were there. In one place, I am running so hard it hurts, grabbing an unfinished windowsill, pulling myself out onto scaffolding and unfinished roofing. In another, I¡¯m whispering the same words, non-stop, over and over; if it gets me, it kills me. If it gets me, it kills me. If it gets me if kills me.


    And in another, I¡¯m¡­ here. Watching them both. Wondering about the fact that I might not make it through this.


    Isn¡¯t that something?


    The wall behind me explodes, and it barely even slows the creature. It makes it through the room in a single loping motion, hitting the exterior wall and bursting through that just as easily, like a drunkard falling through paper doorways. I feel the house straining, pieces of its architecture swaying under its weight and with the force of its movement, and it very nearly throws me off my footing entirely.


    Ifitgetsmeitkillsmeifitgetsmeitkillsme pleasepleaseplease Idon¡¯twanttodie


    I run over the rooftop, each step fumbling and awkward, desperate for balance. Its weight and size are impossibly well-managed by it, but they still exist, and that, in turn, works to my advantage, at least so long as it doesn¡¯t get me. The momentum from its charge out the side of the house forces it to grab hold or fall off the roof entirely, and it has to pull itself up, the process tearing apart more of the structure before it succeeds, at which point I am already at the edge.


    There is another building. Half-finished, mostly wood, barely intact- and I force myself to jump.


    Each of the houses is built in a row, and that is one of the smallest possible advantages. I know what the interior of this condo is like, having lived for two years in the finished version next-door.


    I do not know if this roof will hold my weight.


    I know that ifitgetsmeitkillsme so it doesn¡¯t really matter.


    I jump.


    I land.


    My ankle twists beneath me as I collapse forward, my face and hands slamming into sawdust and half-finished roofing. I feel heat in my face- I might have just broken my nose. I¡¯ve never done that before. It¡¯s hot, mostly. It¡¯s wet, too, and I try to breathe through the pain and it hurts and it fucking chokes me, hot blood in my throat, in my face, hurting.


    The roof didn¡¯t break. I¡¯m still on it.


    If it gets me, it kills me.


    I get up. I have to get up. The alternative is to die, and I can¡¯t die here, I don¡¯t want to die here, and so I move.


    I limp, every step making my ankle scream, breathing through my mouth in heaving, ragged breaths, but I can walk, and I crawl-limp-walk as fast as I can to the nearest window, throwing myself through it.


    The roof behind me shatters as the creature gets its hands on it.


    It¡¯s smart, or at least smart enough. Leaping, here, would send it to the lower floors- if I was worried about the roofing holding my weight, then it has to know that its own would destroy it entirely, force it down onto the ground floor and away from me.


    So it pulls itself directly, carefully, and in being careful is still so much faster than me.


    I¡¯m in the room, my ribs and shoulder aching from launching myself through the window onto the wooden floor. I¡¯m moving to the doorway, getting my feet under me, ignoring the pain my ankle makes in protest. It¡¯s not broken, so it still works, so I force it to work because I¡¯m going to run because if not this thing is going to pull me apart like a badly-made dog toy.


    I just barely make it out through the door before the creature makes it into the room. It doesn¡¯t fit through the window, though it tries to, and it ends up distorting the frame before it gives up entirely, just pushing a hand through the wall and pulling itself in. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I¡¯m down the hallway, nearing another room, ready to repeat the trick- if I can get far enough ahead of this thing, if I can-


    No. From back behind the terrified little thing still running, I know for a fact that I need to do more than just run from one spot to another. Whether that means that I trap it, kill it, even just slow it down, doesn¡¯t matter, but just running isn¡¯t going to work. Moving from one house to the next was enough to fuck me up pretty badly already, I won¡¯t be able to maintain it for the next dozen, and even if I could, what then? This thing is either going to smarten up and start tearing houses down or it¡¯s just going to follow me.


    It doesn¡¯t need to be smart- it¡¯s shown animal intelligence at most, but that¡¯s already more than enough to kill me, considering all that it can do. I need to do more than just run, because I need to be more than an animal. Between predator and prey, once the chase is begun, the prey rarely wins, especially not when it¡¯s so outclassed as a creature as I am.


    I¡¯m human. It¡¯s beyond that.


    I need to do something it won¡¯t expect.


    Rather than dashing to the next window, I turn, and head down the stairs. I hear it breach the walls, shatter the pillars holding up the ceiling above, following me at an almost casual, loping pace. It¡¯s implacable, unstoppable, violence incarnate, and it intends to force itself unto me, with all that that violence entails. I can¡¯t fight it conventionally, I can¡¯t run faster than it, I-


    Focus.


    I dash back out the front door, but- no. No, I have to wait, I have to ignore the desperate animal instincts screaming in the back of my mind demanding that I run. If I leave now, it¡¯ll just come out the next side wall.


    I don¡¯t stop- but I do force myself to hesitate.


    Except once again, all my good wits are outplayed by the fact that this thing is fucking terrifying. Rather than go down the stairs, it hears me down below, somehow checks that I¡¯m not upstairs, and then just¡­ pushes the ground. Like a pushup- except that the hands go straight through the floor, straight into and through the wooden beams holding it up, spears of wood failing to go past the muscle of its palms.


    But not the skin. I see black fluid run down from the rafters above as it pulls the house apart around it, explosive movement and languid, predatory musculature opening a hole through the building rather than around it.


    I¡¯m running again. It¡¯s faster than I¡¯d hoped, faster than I¡¯d like, faster than me- so I have to be quick. The hesitation worked, if a bit too well, and now it¡¯s where I need it, right behind me once again, the construction site in mid-demolition from its presence.


    I sprint away from the road, away from the ruined house behind me, away from the other intact homes- back towards the first building, the one half-collapsed that I just escaped.


    I make it in through the cavernous arch it turned the front door into just as it makes it out of the building behind me, not even bothering to maintain that doorway. It is torn open, ripped apart as if a car broke into and then through it, as the beast lets out the first sound I¡¯ve heard from it besides that scraping noise- an annoyed little huff.


    Its so big, its lungs so vast, that it sounds an awful lot like an engine, some monstrosity of a truck roaring out as ignition runs through itself.


    And it¡¯s just a huff.


    I think it would shatter my eardrums if it roared. If it got up too close to me.


    Barely noteworthy though, is it?


    If it gets me, it kills me.


    I¡¯m in the hallway, looking around, half-limping, and- there. Amidst the debris, a piece of wood with the nails still sticking out of it, heavy and thick- not the sort of nails you use to hammer something in, but the sort that you use to secure a building with. Thick, heavy things that remind me of railroad spikes on a much smaller scale.


    If it gets me, it kills me.


    So I have to get it first.


    I take one big, deep breath, and then hold it.


    I have to be quiet. Being fast won¡¯t win me anything here, and while hiding won¡¯t save me, it might buy me an opportunity.


    One chance. Even if this works it might still get me.


    I track what I know of the thing- it¡¯s unbelievably strong, impressively fast, and its back legs have, so far, gone underutilized. It¡¯s still moving with them, but without being able to leap, and without a desire to sprint, it seems to prefer loping with its forearms, almost pulling itself forward rather than pushing with its hindquarters. It¡¯s got long, stretched-out face, with tiny, recessed eyes, but eyes that are active, eyes that are tracking me and flicking around actively, consciously, awarely.


    It wants to hurt me.


    Its breathing is quiet, restrained- this isn¡¯t even forcing it to pant, which I¡¯m assuming means that it isn¡¯t exerting itself much here- at its size, it wouldn¡¯t be able to move at all, or even inflate its chest, without a powerful set of lungs. Its skin is tough, but the muscles beneath, tougher, denser, are able to push through wood that would impale a normal person all the way through.


    It¡¯s so fucking dangerous, and I know so little about it, but in that list, there is one thing that I can use.


    Small, recessed eyes, but dilated. Wide, black, tracking my movement in the dark. It¡¯s not using sound, at least not exclusively, and despite the shape of the ¡°ears¡±, and the fact that it clearly can still hear me, that¡¯s a lot of skin and stretched tissue rather than an oversized organ. It probably has a decent sense of smell, it would be too convenient if it didn¡¯t, but that still leaves it, to my view, primarily focused on sight.


    I¡¯m still holding my breath. It hurts.


    The front wall of the building is unmade.


    It would appear that I¡¯ve annoyed it.


    What was once a busted-open frame, bent out of shape, is now nothing at all, an empty void of shrapnel and dark blood as the creature waves its arms and tears the front off of the construction site. It grunts, the sound like a slap of bass echoing through the first floor. It steps forward, its head sweeping from side to side, eyes wide and strange. From where I am, dead quiet, holding my breath, feeling the pain of it burning in my chest, I can see it.


    I¡¯m holding perfectly still, perfectly quiet, underneath the ruin of the stairs. The details, banisters, steps themselves are ruined, but the frame is still present, leaning over awkwardly but held in place by nearby beams. If it has true darkvision, then I can only hope that wearing all-black in an all-black alcove is giving me something.


    The eyes are so fast. It looks stupid, pug or ape-like, but I can see them now, and the white at the very edges of them almost stutters, appearing and disappearing so fast that it confuses me- until I figure it out. The eyes are looking everywhere, pinballing, rolling like it¡¯s in the midst of a seizure- and yet it stands, still, quiet, perfectly steady.


    I don¡¯t know that I¡¯m going to survive this.


    The creature takes one step into the space, two, covering most of what would be the living room in barely any time at all.


    My lungs are screaming. My throat hurts. I can feel my sternum aching, hurting, burning like it¡¯s full of needles, my head starting to feel full, my eyes starting to ache- but I hold my breath.


    One large, slow sniff as its head pans back and forth, every bit the image of a gargoyle come to life and writ large.


    It¡¯s so close.


    It takes one more step, one arm reaching into the framework of the staircase to secure it, to pull it up towards the second floor-


    I step out, swing and breathe, all at the same time.


    It¡¯s a thunderous exhale. It¡¯s a scream that makes my whole sternum shake and my throat burn. It¡¯s a strike with my full weight behind it, swung in a desperate, last-ditch attempt that pushes everything into it.


    The improvised weapon is almost beautiful, here. Almost poetic. The nails, like the stinger on a scorpion¡¯s tail, go for its face, arcing towards its forehead, almost inevitably reaching sharpened tips for its eyes-


    Eyes that are focused right on me.


    It doesn¡¯t bother grabbing the bat. It just grabs my arm, in a movement so fast that I feel wind on my face.


    I inhale, feeling the pain of that more than the agony of my arm breaking, for some reason. Maybe it¡¯s because I was expecting it, you know? It¡¯s almost like-


    Oh fuck my arm.


    It snapped like a twig, and I can feel things I¡¯ve never felt in my arm before. I can feel the shape of my bone, the space where it should be, and the many places where it now is. I can feel where my tendons should connect to my wrist, the space feeling weirdly loose without the tension of muscle. I can feel where my elbow should be connected to my arm bone, and where it¡¯s been indelicately plucked.


    Ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts


    I can see how blood flows from between its fingers, taken from what was once my forearm and is now pulp and shrapnel. I can taste my own blood in the air, stronger than even my nosebleed, taste some of the blood that spurted onto my face, into my mouth, and-


    ITHURTSITHURTSITHURTSITHURTS


    Huh. It¡¯s interesting, watching this from behind the glass.


    Not that there¡¯s much glass left. It mostly shattered alongside my arm, letting the world flood into me, forcing crimson into my mind in a way that should not be. But from behind what little is left in my rapidly flooding little control booth, I can see one thing.


    It was toying with me.


    It could have caught me before I ever ran. It could have caught me at any of the houses. The speed it moved at, the control it exhibited to move that fast, that precisely¡­ it¡¯s the difference between watching a cat lounge around and seeing it actually hunt.


    If I¡¯d run, it would have caught me. If I¡¯d hidden, it would have found me. If I fought back¡­ well.


    IT HURTS


    It got me.


    Now it¡¯s going to end me.


    It¡¯s almost funny enough to laugh at.


    All that fear, all that animal desperation, and I was always going to die anyways.


    It politely tugs at my arm, and I see my hand, at the end of a clump of severed meat, land wetly among the ruin of wood and architecture.


    I don¡¯t manage to laugh- but I get about halfway into a smile.


    It¡¯s almost funny.


    I can feel blood leaving my head, leaving my body, flooding out into the world, killing me.


    The beast just¡­ looks at me.


    Smiling.


    It¡¯s got human teeth.


    I fall onto my knees.


    I feel myself going cold as blood spurts from my newly-acquired stump.


    I¡¯m going to die here.


    OVERRIDE ACCEPTED


    Hmm? That¡¯s interesting. Like little swimmers in my eye, but they¡¯re forming words. Is this what going into shock is like? Maybe? It seems a bit strange.


    CONNECTION REINFORCED


    SYMBIONT ACQUIRED: Divine Bloodling.


    And then I¡¯m no longer here.


    I¡¯m¡­ nowhere.


    And it¡¯s quiet.


    And cold.


    And I¡¯m gone.

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.08

    Resurrection means that the worst thing is never the last thing.


    -Frederick Buechner


    Death is a funny thing, isn¡¯t it? The first person who read these words might have already died. I don¡¯t have much way to know, where I am, when I am. We¡¯re all dying, all the time. The sun will die. The universe will die. All the little things that depend on both paltry topics will die well beforehand, but even still, we die always. I wake up, and I have awoken from death. I take a step forward, and I have stepped away from the death which was me, but which no longer exists. The person who read these words, in many ways, is already dead- and in other ways, it¡¯s you.


    To your perspective, I¡¯m dead right now. To mine, you¡¯ve never even lived. Or maybe you¡¯ve already gone away. So hard to keep track.


    You¡¯ll die again. The trick, in truth, is to die better each time, and not to worry about what happens in the moments between.


    Because there are, you know. Moments between. Moments between moments, between death and life, between what was and what is. Sounds counter-intuitive, I know, but only because we are all so very small, and language is even smaller than that.


    I¡¯m carving this by hand. I may never know if it is found, or read. In some ways, I am already dead. So are you.


    In others, I am between moments, in a way that you do not yet understand.


    But you will, I think. You will. You¡¯re still reading, after all.


    Such a funny thing, death. We¡¯re both already dead. We¡¯re both still alive. We are both in between.


    Do you see me yet?


    I can see you.


    -Unknown, carved into bones found by Dr. Liona Silverstein, in an archeological dig dated ~230 BCE


    ____________________________________________________________________


    It¡¯s like dreaming. Like my new dreams, anyways. Empty, and nothing, and I am there but I am nothing. I have no knees with which to kneel, no voice with which to pray, and now, no mind to even want to.


    I am in the nothing.


    I am not alone there.


    There are things swimming in the nothing. Though perhaps swimming is the wrong word. They are¡­ hmm. Motion isn¡¯t quite right either. They are¡­ non-static. Or perhaps unstatic. Changing things, that move not by moving but by being, that are in fact not moving at all.


    And I am here, with them.


    They are so far away, but they are also so very large that it doesn¡¯t matter. I would be able to see details of them, if I could see. I would be able to feel them, if I could feel. They are infinitely far and infinitely vast, and there is nothing of me, of the whisper of me that remains, that does not know them in a way that terrifies and hurts and leaves me enraptured.


    I used to be agnostic.


    I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m real. I don¡¯t know if I can know things.


    I do not think that I¡¯m agnostic anymore. I don¡¯t think I can be.


    I¡¯ve met god. All of it.


    It lives in the nothing. The between. The beyond.


    It Lives.


    For a moment, I do not. In a dream-moment that is forever and is never at all, that is greeting and goodbye, that is good morning and good night, I am dead, and gone, and in the nothing and of the nothing.


    And then I am awake, and the dream is past.


    I vomit.


    It tastes like bile and blood, mixed together with whatever the hell I ate for lunch. It keeps coming, non-stop, flooding out of me like a fountain. I swear I can trace the entire path of my esophagus by the motion of the up-chuck which just keeps going.


    I manage to stop just long enough to pull in a breath, and then I¡¯m puking again.


    Eventually, it slows, well past the point of what feels possible. The floor around me is absolutely coated in fluids, most of it looking like liquid scabbing, crimson that¡¯s gone off and turned to maroon and black in my gut. I can still taste it behind my teeth, caked into my gums and the space that surrounds me, and it¡¯s vile, acidic and chunky and granular, wet and slimy all at once, the overwhelming taste of copper drowning my tastebuds.


    I inhale fully for the first time in what feels like minutes, and taste something new.


    Honey.


    The air feels¡­ sweet. It tastes almost herbal, almost floral.


    I blink, trying to see where I am.


    SHE smiles down at me.


    I¡¯m laying on what looks like some kind of¡­ wax? Springy but solid, off-white and full of chunks. As my eyes wander, trying to see the shape of where I am, I catch a glimpse of the edge of the platform we¡¯re on, and-


    It¡¯s still nothing.


    There is nothing left in me, but I try to vomit again anyways.


    SHE pats my back gently, almost matronly. I try to look at HER but I just- I can¡¯t-


    ¡°It won¡¯t be as easy next time,¡± she whispers. ¡°You won¡¯t always have your friend to vouch for you.¡±


    SHE waves a- not a hand. Not a limb. A shape, outlined only by the fact that it is not the nothingness, not the gaping forever-not of the space just beside us or the strange wax I¡¯m currently dying on.


    In that shape, there¡¯s a phone. Or frankenstein¡¯s version of one, maybe- it looks stitched together from a dozen different generations, with what looks like a gameboy console for a face and a scrunched-up keyboard for typing.


    As I stare, the screen flashes.


    C4LL3D 1N 4 F4V0R! $33 Y0U $00N! 8Y3 L177L3 848Y!


    I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Confused, I push, disoriented, trying to exhale into the right shapes, but-


    Oh.


    I have lungs again.


    I¡¯m in the nothing, I think, but I¡¯m me, not some unknown figure, not some anonymous perspective. I¡¯m Ilia Silva, and I¡¯m here.


    On an island of wax in an ocean of nothing.


    ¡°Hmm. I didn¡¯t expect it when they told me, but I suppose it¡¯s true. You¡¯ve barely awoken, have you? Here~¡±


    The wax, which was beneath me, which was the floor, becomes more. The process of how is¡­ it doesn¡¯t feel like it changes, per se, more like some more of it came into view, or like an optical illusion shifted and let me see more of what it tricked me out of seeing. I blink, and I am in a room, the nothingness replaced by still-wet wax.


    When I breathe, it tastes even more of honey than before, but it feels¡­ familiar. Like whatever I was breathing before wasn¡¯t really air, it just sort of felt like it. I try to speak, and this time, I do make a sound.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Out of my throat, an unholy croak, like that of a dying animal, matches with a squealing of rusted hinges.


    I feel more than see my host¡¯s reaction to that, a polite but noticeable wince.


    ¡°No need for all that, dear,¡± SHE says, a hint of an edge in HER tone. ¡°You aren¡¯t used to it, at least not yet. You¡¯ve skipped a few steps, haven¡¯t you? Though I suppose every journey has its own twists and turns.¡±


    I force myself to turn. I force myself to look.


    I can see her. There is a space that isn¡¯t wax, that¡¯s shaped almost like a person, but it sort of blends in, until it¡¯s more imprint than outline. It¡¯s like an indentation in the world, appearing only in the wax and dripping wetness of the chamber I¡¯m in, and it moves like a shadow unbound from a person, circling back around me. I try to follow it with my eyes, but they sort of¡­ slip away, again.


    I don¡¯t know where I am, but I know that something, someone is speaking to me. Which means they want something. And apparently, my ¡°friend¡± called in a favor with whatever this is, so¡­


    There¡¯s too many unknowns. Too many possibilities.


    I think I just died. Now I¡¯m here.


    Better not to irritate my host yet.


    I decide not to bother trying to talk a second time, instead just giving a sort of little bow, one hand touching my head and then my throat.


    ¡°Ah, at last. A hint of politeness. I suppose you aren¡¯t entirely lost to us, then. I amaze even myself with my talents.¡±


    I wave my hand, trying to find the right way to ask a question-


    ¡°No no, hold still. This is delicate work, and you¡¯re a mess as is. Your friend is going to owe me for this one, dearie, make no mistake, favor or no favor. You were doing¡­ passably, I suppose, but it¡¯s still taking you a while to get back. Best not to draw too much attention, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    A flash of memory, half-formed and barely real. Things, swimming out in the nothing, bigger than everything.


    ¡°Yes. Better not worry your little head over them. Nothing you can do about all that, and all this squirming is making it much harder to hide you.¡±


    Hide me? Not¡­


    Not bring me back?


    SHE snorts, even as a mix of embarrassment and grief begin to fill me. I felt myself die. I did, I felt it happen. I¡¯m dead.


    I¡¯m dead.


    ¡°Yes, and doing a rather terrible job of staying that way.¡±


    ¡­what?


    ¡°Your¡­ friend cashed in a chip on your behalf, though I haven¡¯t the faintest clue as to why. You¡¯re not a very impressive specimen, if you ask me, but I was called to hide you, nothing else. You were doing a fine enough job of making your way back on your own.¡±


    Making my-


    I can¡¯t help, this time I absolutely do turn to look at the indentation, glaring at her. I open my mouth, ignoring the way the imprint flinches preemptively, ready to ask something, anything.


    It comes out as an incomprehensible mess, a babble of cracking noises and screaming animal sounds, and-


    ¡°Ah! None of that!¡±


    My jaw clicks shut hard enough that I feel my teeth begin to ache.


    ¡°Have your little hissy fit somewhere else, missy. I am not so enchanted by your computronic patsy that I won¡¯t leave you here for a passing maw, so sit your be-hind down and shush. You are as lucky as fresh meat gets and you don¡¯t even know it, so why don¡¯t you appreciate that- oh. Well, that¡¯s you I suppose.¡±


    I almost go to try and ask what the hell that means, when I feel something warm on my leg.


    Looking down, I¡¯m sinking into the wax. It¡¯s become porous, turning to a strange wet muck, and-


    Ah.


    That¡¯s blood. I¡¯m sinking into blood.


    ¡°Finally. Next time you get your pretty little head knocked off, don¡¯t expect me to come rushing in. Hmph!¡±


    Something reaches up out of the blood and grabs me.


    I have time for one more breath- and then I¡¯m falling.


    Through layers of wax, woven from still-living organs, full of crawling and wriggling and shifting things just barely hidden in their own clusters and eggs and forms and-


    And then I¡¯m through, and it¡¯s just red.


    ¡ª------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    And then I blink- and the floor isn¡¯t wax anymore. It¡¯s hardwood, covered in splinters and wood and blood, and I am lying on the floor of a ruined building, the taste of blood and honey thick in my throat and coating my teeth.


    ¡°Damn. That was really something.¡±


    And that breaks the dam.


    I scramble backwards like an animal, head on a swivel, hyperventilating wildly, desperate to find who¡¯s here, who¡¯s come to hurt me, and-


    They¡¯re not hiding. They¡¯re crouched, off to one side, highlighted primarily by the glow of the moon and city lights behind them, leaking through where the front wall of the house used to be. Their form is- fuck, it¡¯s hard to define, hard to pin down, but I think I see a hood, maybe, and I definitely see a blinded eye on the back of their hand.


    It¡¯s fainter than it was before, its edges turning grey instead of vibrant red, like it¡¯s dying- but that¡¯s the same sigil I saw just a few hours ago, back at the bar.


    And then the figure raises their hands in a universal gesture of surrender, making a noise similar to a cough. ¡°Woah! Sorry, pup, I didn¡¯t mean to startle you so bad. I think your trick worked, big and ugly is-¡±


    ¡°Who the fuck are you!?!¡±


    Not my best moment. In my defense, I think I just died and came back.


    Hallelujah.


    ¡°Uh¡­ sorry, but-¡±


    ¡°No! No!¡± I can barely breathe, fighting to get my adrenaline back under control, but I raise a shaky arm at the figure, pointing at them accusingly. ¡°You! You¡­ you¡¯re a- Fuck you, you know that? That¡¯s what you are. Where the fuck do you- and I¡¯m- and-¡±


    ¡°Deep breaths, ok? You¡¯re kinda rattled, I think-¡±


    ¡°Your brain is a pile of mush full of dogshit and bad opinions! So shut the fuck up about it for a second!¡±


    They blink. I think. Maybe. They¡­ they don¡¯t not blink?


    ¡°And stop doing that! It¡¯s- god, fuck! What is, what, what is wrong with you that-¡±


    I stop.


    I look at my arm.


    The arm I¡¯m pointing with.


    The arm that the bigfoot¡¯s alien gorilla-dog very politely removed from my body.


    Which is currently attached, whole, and unbroken, a ring of dried, crusted blood wrapped around my elbow- where it was very politely removed.


    I let out a single breath, harsh enough that it¡¯s almost a cough.


    For a little while, the ruined cabin is quiet, except for the sound of my inhale and exhales, each one shaky and broken.


    Eventually, I claw back enough control that I manage a question.


    ¡°What the fuck is going on?¡±


    The strange figure lowers their hands, and lets out a long, slow sigh.


    And then, they reach over to the back of their wrist, and scrape away the eye there.


    I flinch, expecting some kind of gore or reaction on their part, but no- as they wipe at the strange organ, it just kind of¡­ comes apart. After the first few scrubs, it looks¡­ it looks like marker. Scrawled onto the back of a hand whose skin is olive-toned, rich and tanned, which leads into a hoodie that is made of leather and sewn-on patches, which leads to a face that¡­


    A face that is wearing green lipstick. With bright brown eyes, edging into golden-hazel, and short hair, curly enough to very nearly turn to an afro, and a look of genuine concern that I¡­ don¡¯t know how to process.


    ¡°I get the impression that maybe we got off on the wrong foot, yeah? My name¡¯s Leisha.¡±


    I don¡¯t answer. She already knows my name. I just hug my arm close to me, and stare up at her, quiet.


    ¡°Right. I¡­ don¡¯t assume you¡¯d prefer to have this conversation somewhere else? I don¡¯t know what kind of stuff that big monkey¡¯s got, but it won¡¯t keep people away from here forever, and you guys made a lot of noise with that fight.¡±


    Hah. Fight. Funny way to classify that series of events.


    I don¡¯t move. I continue staring at¡­ Leisha, very closely, my eyes not wavering as I slowly fix my breathing.


    It¡¯s important to focus on the little things sometimes.


    ¡°Ok. Message received. We got a little time, that should be fine. Listen, I¡¯m getting the impression that I did not read you right on our first meet, and I certainly was not expecting¡­ this. This is messy, and I¡¯m kind of shocked that it happened. I don¡¯t have a lot of answers, but I can promise you that I have some, and I am willing to share them with you so long as I¡¯m not sharing them here. Ok?¡±


    In the distance, I see lights. Blue, then red, blue, then red, flashing off in the distance. A few streets away now, but if they¡¯re close enough that I can see them reflecting, that I¡¯m beginning to hear the echo of the sirens, it means that they¡¯re going to be here soon.


    Leisha turns, sees what I saw, hisses through her teeth.


    ¡°I¡¯m not trying to stick around for the pig parade, lady. You coming or what?¡±


    ¡°How¡­ how do I know you¡¯re not going to¡­¡±


    She looks at me then. I look back at her. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve blinked since I woke up.


    She sighs.


    Then she takes something out of her pocket. It looks like a locket, or maybe like a woven string? It¡¯s got some sort of beads to it, and it feels¡­ off. Like it¡¯s heavier than it looks. Like I¡¯m watching someone lift a bowling ball a bit too easily.


    Leisha wraps it around her wrist, holding the edges together, and looks me in the eyes.


    ¡°I, Leisha, solemnly swear that I will not harm the Ilia I see before me unless she attacks me first, until sunset tomorrow.¡±


    And just like that, it¡¯s not a bracelet anymore.


    I watch, eyes wide, as tiny, crab-like little pincers bloom from out of the bracelet, locking onto each other around her wrist and digging into her skin, anchoring themselves. She acts like she doesn¡¯t even notice, no reaction at all from what must be excruciating- she just stares at me while the bracelet digs in and settles.


    ¡°Bound by my word. See? Magic bracelet. You¡¯re staring at it funny, so I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯s working. Now are you coming, or am I leaving you here?¡±


    The sirens get louder. The lights get a little brighter.


    ¡°...Ok.¡±

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.09

    The most important factor in survival is neither intelligence nor strength but adaptability.


    -Charles Darwin


    _________________________________


    I watch the way that my hand grips the wheel as I turn off the engine. The way the fingers curl from the joints, the way that the tendons flex beneath the wrists, the ways that they respond to unseen signals that flick out from my mind and down into the limb.


    The limb that was gone.


    I don¡¯t say anything as we make out way back to my apartment.


    I¡¯m not inviting her in. I barely know her. The fact that she already knew about this place is one of the only reasons I¡¯ve allowed myself to bring her back here, to accompany her to this place.


    But fuck no, I¡¯m not letting her in.


    I wonder at that, as I look at my home. It¡¯s a nice condo. Cheap and always leaking out all the heating and filled past its intended capacity, but nice enough. I wonder how much longer I¡¯ll live here, where I might go after.


    I wonder at the fact that, up by one of the windows, I can see a little crack, the red behind it so very bright and glistening off the reflected light from the lampposts of the street.


    I wonder at the fact that I don¡¯t see that same visceral wetness anywhere else. None of the other houses have the cracks.


    Just mine.


    We make it to the steps of the building before I turn and sit on the top step, keeping her from entering.


    She nods, shrugging. ¡°Fair enough. I know you guys can be finicky about the old¡­ whatchamacallit. The wizard tower, or whatever. Center of power.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t know what that means. You mean a sanctum? Sanctum Sanctorum?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ technically more of a religious thing, actually. But sure, if that means you know you¡¯re not coming in, then fine.¡±


    On the road behind us, I watch police cars flash past, all three of the sheriff department¡¯s finest chariots roaring down the street toward the source of the disturbance they were called for. Whatever defenses that Leisha mentioned being gone must have been impressive- even from here, in the dark and a bit more than two blocks away, I can see the deformations in the construction sites, the ways that two of the buildings have been torn apart and open.


    It¡¯s like looking at a pair of poorly butchered carcass, torn open as if by something rabid and far too strong.


    Like me.


    ¡°So!¡± she says, flexing her shoulder blades, cracking her neck like an old habit. ¡°I came here to figure out what the hell was going on. Didn¡¯t want to hear that you went and blew up a condo right after we had our friendly little chat, and then I got close, and I wanted to make sure the big freak wasn¡¯t just rampaging. I wasn¡¯t all that surprised, finding a corpse there, but I was a bit curious when I say that body sort of¡­ pull itself back together. Pretty advanced trick for someone who looks so spooked.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t what?¡±


    I sigh. ¡°I didn¡¯t pull myself back together. I think. I¡­ wouldn¡¯t know how. Also, pretty sure I was dead.¡±


    ¡°That your power, then? You come back after being mushed?¡±


    I blink, cocking my head to one side.


    ¡°My power? What¡­ the fuck does that mean? Does¡­ what, does everybody get a special ability?¡±


    Leisha shrugs, her hands out to her sides in a big gesture of ¡°I dunno¡±. She¡¯s very expressive- I notice that she spends a surprising amount of her communication using her hands, articulating.


    ¡°Dunno. You¡¯re definitely not like my sort of style, and sorry, but I don¡¯t really see you making something like the big dog.¡±


    I can¡¯t help it- I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting against the headache that so yearns to make itself known. I take a long, slow breath.


    ¡°Ok. I¡¯m assuming that the big dog, that¡¯s the thing that¡­¡±


    ¡°Killed you.¡±


    ¡°Right, tore me open and ripped off my arm and made me bleed to death.¡±


    ¡°Yup. That¡¯s big dog. Been in town for a while now, probably a few years, but it¡¯s only been active the last few months.¡±


    ¡°And you mentioned that it was made?¡±


    ¡°Once upon a time, maybe. We don¡¯t think it has a handler or anything, it just sort of roams around. This is the first time I¡¯ve heard of it going after someone like it did, and I¡¯d say it¡¯s pretty obvious that we would be able to tell if it had done it more often. Considering the damage, everyone in town would know. It¡¯s not exactly subtle.¡±


    ¡°More than you think.¡±


    She tilts her head, prompting me onwards with a raised eyebrow.


    ¡°Just¡­ don¡¯t underestimate it. It¡¯s smart. It can move slow when it needs to, be careful, and it¡¯s clever enough to make tactical decisions.¡±


    She shrugs. ¡°You have more experience than I do, so I¡¯ll take your word for it. Since that just means it¡¯s even scarier than it would be otherwise, I guess that tracks.¡±


    ¡°Will it¡­ will it come back for me?¡±


    She doesn¡¯t shrug this time. Her hands go into her pockets, hiding the most expressive of her motions. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s intentional, a choice made with the intent to be subtle, or if it¡¯s subconscious, hoping to hide her movements from me. If it¡¯s subtlety, it¡¯s not very well executed, but the idea that it¡¯s something she¡¯s doing without noticing is somehow more threatening- the idea of someone who knows so much more than me, the only person who might give me some assurances or information, having such a clear and human flaw.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t even know why it went after you in the first place. This is your first day out of your ¡®sanctum¡¯ since the big ripple, so maybe it just saw an opportunity, took a chance to get you alone. Maybe it will, maybe it won¡¯t. It¡¯s not exactly easy to track- it¡¯s got a den somewhere in town, but I have no idea where.¡±


    Despite myself, my eyes dart to one side, then another. I haven¡¯t heard any noise, that scraaaaaping sound, but the thought that it could return, that it¡¯s been less than an hour since it left me¡­


    I don¡¯t see it, but that doesn¡¯t mean it isn¡¯t here.


    I¡¯m starting to become paranoid. Except¡­ it¡¯s not paranoia if I¡¯m right, is it? Then it¡¯s just a reasonable assumption.


    If this isn¡¯t the onset of PTSD, I don¡¯t know what is. And, frankly, it would be strange of me to not have any.


    I died.


    I came back.


    Hallelujah. Now, to suffer further.


    ¡°Well, this is all great news, but you haven¡¯t actually answered any real questions yet. Hearing about how little you know about the thing that killed me, and how it might do it again at any time, isn¡¯t what I¡¯d like to call encouraging. So- what do you mean about the powers? Different ones?¡±This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    She shrugs, and this time, her hands are back out of her pockets, adding to the motion. ¡°You seemed really confused when I took out the bracelet, so I don¡¯t think you do that. And I can¡¯t do what the big dog does. If there¡¯s a single ruleset for all of this, I haven¡¯t met it. Whatever you can do, besides come back from the fucking dead I guess, it¡¯s probably not going to look like me. Hell, if something tore my arm off, I¡¯d-¡±


    I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s something in my face, or in my posture, but she stops what she¡¯s saying. Her hands follow suit a moment after, extended out into the air as if in the midst of a demonstration, before they too fall silent, back at her sides.


    It¡¯s cold out. I shiver a bit.


    My jacket isn¡¯t wet. I bled into it a lot when I died, but it¡¯s dry. I wonder about that.


    She lets out a breath, and it fogs in the air, a curling wisp of a thing that wraps back around her face before dissipating.


    ¡°Sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡±


    It isn¡¯t, but I don¡¯t want to talk about it. Certainly not with her. Maybe not with anyone, ever.


    My therapist would balk at the statement, but my therapist isn¡¯t here. We haven¡¯t talked in a while. She¡¯s not my therapist anymore.


    ¡°Still, I¡¯m sorry. That was¡­ I mentioned a big ripple, right? A few days back? I¡¯m assuming that you know something about that.¡±


    I don¡¯t nod, but I don¡¯t deny it either.


    ¡°Well¡­ point is, it was a big ripple, apparently. We- I dunno, it just seemed smart to check in on it. Figured that if anything that big happened, it happened because someone scary knew what they were doing. I wasn¡¯t expecting you to be new at this. Came in with the assumption that you¡¯re too big and scary to leave alone, so I went in, couple of safeties on, tried to get the lay of the land. You bluffed a good game, too. Impressed the fuck out of me, some excellent threat techniques.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. I practice.¡±


    ¡°I could tell. I walked out of there thinking we had some big shot move into town, just now got off a big ritual or something, and then got got by the big bad wolf-pig of the woods. If I¡¯d known you were brand new to this, I¡¯d have come to the situation differently. So¡­ sorry. Again.¡±


    ¡°Mmh. Apology appreciated, and not accepted.¡±


    Leisha shrugs, flapping her hands to the side and then back down with a satisfying ¡°smak¡± onto her jeans. ¡°Fair enough. Tough situation, tough start, and I¡¯m still pretty sure you died and came back. Beat the record-holder too, far as I know. Last fucker that did it took three days, you didn¡¯t even need an hour. And you came back clean, too. You should probably get some antibiotics, though, a lot of the blood that went back in was splashed out on the debris.¡±


    I flex my hand, feeling the line of red around my elbow and bicep, the tension of the connection there.


    Something wriggles at the motion.


    Under the skin.


    I pretend not to notice. I don¡¯t know how well I do.


    ¡°So what is it that you want?¡± I ask. ¡°Now that you know that I¡¯m not some weird bigshot.¡±


    ¡°Well, jury¡¯s still out on that, but now I know that you¡¯re new to this. You probably need a little time, right? Get back up after that whole¡­ event. I¡¯ll leave you to it. I haven¡¯t seen the big guy around during the day, so¡­ maybe just stick to only being out with the sun, yeah? No guarantees, but since it didn¡¯t attack before, it probably won¡¯t attack you at home. And when you¡¯re ready, sooner than later, give us a call, will you?¡±


    She reaches out of a pocket, and holds out¡­ a card.


    Like, a business card. The sort I¡¯ve only seen from businessmen and convention centers. The surprise of it actually pulls me back a little.


    ¡°Listen, it wasn¡¯t my idea, alright?¡±


    I can¡¯t help it- I snort. But I take the card.


    Written there, on hardened cardstock and with raised lettering, are a few short tidbits.


    Dani John Silvester, Medium


    Tarot Readings | Spiritual Assistance


    By Appointment Only.


    And on the back- a phone number and an email.


    I laugh, this time. It comes out like a cough, like an exhalation of smoke, like a release of pressure and pain- and a consequence of both. It tastes like blood when I laugh, and my throat hurts.


    ¡°Sure. Maybe.¡±


    Leisha nods, as if that¡¯s enough. ¡°Can¡¯t ask for more, except that you not come after me with a bat later.¡±


    I don¡¯t respond. I smile, but it¡¯s an instinctive response, a learned program more than anything real. Without another word, I get up, pulling myself by the arm that should not be, and find myself opening the door to my home, and then closing it behind me.


    I don¡¯t look to see if she leaves. I don¡¯t care. She can stand out there all night and it would do little for me. I¡¯m done. I have finished with this conversation, with this moment, with the cold air of the outside and the ringing in my ears and the way that my arm should hurt but doesn¡¯t.


    Because it¡¯s not fixed. It isn¡¯t healed. I know how my arm feels when it is whole, because I was informed, deeply and clearly, how it feels when it is broken, torn apart, pulped and pulled off of me. I didn¡¯t notice it at first because the shape is right, the form of it is all fine and good, and instinct had me waving my dominant arm around without even a thought, but now? Since I got out of the car?


    I stand in my doorway and look very carefully at the ring of red around my elbow and bicep.


    It is scabbed, but not dried. It is like clay, like that kind of ooze that you can make with the right shaving cream and glue.


    And underneath it, I can feel, ever so vaguely, the point where my skin does not meet itself.


    I look closer at the arm, and I can see lines. Like little razor cuts, precise and polite, failing to bleed in any way and yet visibly wounds.


    The ragged edges where my arms would, were, should be torn apart. I think, if I pulled, it would come apart. I could pluck and pull and tease away the illusion of sanity that my arm which is not whole implies, until the broken bones and red beneath it all are revealed.


    But my fingers curl. My arm flexes. Bones that I know to be shattered into splinters flex and move as if whole, and it does not hurt. Not a bit.


    I feel something move beneath the arm, right around the connection point between it and my body.


    I take a long, deep breath.


    I put the business card in my pocket, and let myself slide down the doorway, so that I can feel the hints of cold air leaking in from the bottom of the frame. I let myself exhale, just once, and then inhale again until my lungs hurt, until the bones of my ribcage feel strained.


    And as the air escapes, no longer like smoke from a fire inside, but invisible and just as strangely warm¡­ I speak.


    ¡°Show stats.¡±


    I feel something move against my eyeball, like a muscle that should not be, and feel as much as see what forms on the inside of my pupil.


    {MANIFESTATION OF [00000000]}


    GENUS: HOMINIDAE HOMINIA HOMO


    SPECIES: SAPIENS


    STATS:


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>


    ADAPTATION


    </td>


    <td>


    CANALISATION


    </td>


    <td>


    EVOLUTION


    </td>


    <td>


    SYNCHRONICITY


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>


    ??


    </td>


    <td>


    ??


    </td>


    <td>


    ????


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    ORGANS:


    CUTANEOUS


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS SKIN</li>


    </ul>


    SKELETAL


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS BONE</li>


    </ul>


    MUSCLE


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS MUSCLE</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS TENDON</li>


    </ul>


    CIRCULATION


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS CIRCULATION</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS HEART</li>


    </ul>


    RESPIRIUM


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS LUNGS</li>


    </ul>


    GLANDULAR


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS LIVER</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS PITUITARY GLAND</li>


    </ul>


    NEUROLOGOS


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS CEREBRUM</li>


    <li>


    UNDERDEVELOPED [0000000000000]


    </li>


    </ul>


    SENSORIA


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS SENSORIA</li>


    </ul>


    DEGUSTATION


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS DIGESTIVE TRACT</li>


    </ul>


    SKILLS:


    <ul>


    <li>GLIMPSE BEYOND</li>


    </ul>


    MUTATIONS: N/A


    SYMBIONTS:


    <ul>


    <li>DIVINE BLOODLING</li>


    </ul>


    Well.


    Here we go.


    Rebuild the glass. Step back behind it.


    You¡¯re not safe.


    You can¡¯t break down now. Not anymore. Bury it. Prioritize. Now.


    You¡¯re still in the game. Still in that other world. You need to survive.


    I need to survive.


    I¡¯m back in the fields of hair and bone.


    I¡¯m here in my home.


    I¡¯m not safe.


    Here we go.

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.10

    I believe I have found it. I believe that I have found something. All those years journaling, and now here I am, finally, at last.


    I still don¡¯t know what the purpose is. Not entirely. Each of these journals, I have made at a different point in my life. Child, adolescent, woman, mother, and now I make a book I never expected. Not matriarch, or grandmother, I write now of my journey as myself. As the person I choose to be, beyond the roles assigned to me or the bindings of what my body produces and morphs itself into.


    I am cut. I have bled. I shall do the same again, this I now know. I am perhaps not as kind as I had hoped or as I tried to hold myself to, but perhaps that is not the end of the story as I once feared. I still hold firm to the belief that purpose is created, not innate, that it can be as kind or as cruel as we shape it to be, and I believe I have created mine.


    If anyone should read this¡­ know that I have only ever acted in the hopes of making things better. And I believe that I can. I will be kind. I will be good. I am just beginning.


    Oh what a day. What a lovely day!


    -Fifth Scripture, first verse of the books of Lo-ahnn Daughtler, First Architect of Artistry


    _________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    The stats don¡¯t lie.


    Or¡­ well, there¡¯s every chance that they do lie, and I just have no way whatsoever to know, but that¡¯s not really a very helpful thought at all, is it?


    Either way-


    {MANIFESTATION OF [00000000]}


    GENUS: HOMINIDAE HOMINIA HOMO


    SPECIES: SAPIENS


    STATS:


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>


    ADAPTATION


    </td>


    <td>


    CANALISATION


    </td>


    <td>


    EVOLUTION


    </td>


    <td>


    SYNCHRONICITY


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>


    ??


    </td>


    <td>


    ??


    </td>


    <td>


    ????


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    ORGANS:


    <ul>


    <li>CUTANEOUS</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS SKIN</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>SKELETAL</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS BONE</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>MUSCLE</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS MUSCLE</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS TENDON</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>CIRCULATION</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS CIRCULATION</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS HEART</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>RESPIRIUM</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS LUNGS LUNGS</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>GLANDULAR</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS LIVER</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS PITUITARY GLAND</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>NEUROLOGOS</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS CEREBRUM</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>UNDERDEVELOPED [0000000000]</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>SENSORIA</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS SENSORIA</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>DEGUSTATION</li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>HOMO SAPIENS DIGESTIVE TRACT</li>


    </ul>


    SKILLS:


    <ul>


    <li>GLIMPSE BEYOND</li>


    </ul>


    MUTATIONS: N/A


    SYMBIONTS:


    <ul>


    <li>DIVINE BLOODLING</li>


    </ul>


    I¡¯m in my room, and I have cleared a space on the floor. It¡¯s hardwood, and while I¡¯d prefer to have something to ensure it does not leak, it¡¯s acceptable for now. I have towels and cleaning supplies on standby, a notebook on my desk beside me, multiple writing utensils, my phone, and the first aid kit that my roommates and I keep under the sink. It¡¯s not much, not for the level of craziness I¡¯m about to embark on, but¡­ well, it¡¯s what I¡¯ve got.


    My stat screen floats there, behind my eyelids, easier to see when I blink or close them wholesale. Whenever I look away from it on purpose, it just sort of drifts apart, a brief burst of iridescent, translucent squiggles darting away, and whenever I think about it, it just comes right back.


    I¡¯ve decided to copy it down onto the aforementioned notebook. It¡¯s¡­ less convenient, maybe, but I think, for now, I¡¯d rather just¡­ not have it floating inside my eyes.


    Fuck it. It¡¯s uncomfortable. It feels more solid when I see it written down in my own hands.


    Right away, there are a few differences between the stats here and the stats in the game. For one thing, the most obvious thing, there¡¯s no ¡°fleshling¡± anywhere on the ¡°sheet¡±. It¡¯s all the scientifically accurate name, as far as I can tell, of the human race- homo sapiens. It even digs up some extra stuff further back- family of Hominidae, subtribe of Hominia, and the genus, Homo.


    Heh. Homo. The thought of what it might be named if categorized in the modern day is a funny one.


    I don¡¯t know if it means anything that it has the family, but not the sub-family, and the subtribe but not the tribe, but quite frankly, I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll have any way to figure that out. And as far as important notes go, that¡¯s the least of them. While I¡¯m missing all of the organs from the game, including the weirder ones that didn¡¯t quite match with the ¡°fleshling¡± naming, I have a new inclusion, something greyed out and staticky in the brain department. Not at all concerning. Beneath that, a skill¡¯s cropped up, one I¡¯ve never seen in the game: ¡°Glimpse Beyond¡±. If I had to guess, that¡¯s probably my ability to see¡­ whatever I¡¯ve been seeing. The cracks in the walls, the way that Leisha¡¯s supposed ¡°magic¡± looks literally alive to me, and maybe even the eye I saw in the back of Jay¡¯s head (I haven¡¯t checked if it¡¯s still there. I¡¯m scared to.).


    Additionally, the stats have changed, pretty wildly. Adaptation¡¯s gone down to a zero, while Evolution¡¯s gone up. Synchronicity has gone down from the five-ish (five minus two) that I had back in the game, but it¡¯s still up to a three, by far the highest of my stats, while Canalization stayed flat, only a single red symbol filling it up. It¡¯s still weird to look at- it¡¯s not numbers, but it¡¯s not not numbers. I sometimes see a little red pyramid, sometimes I see a growth, sometimes it¡¯s a liquid that¡¯s filled up the space in the sheet part-way and I have to sort of guesstimate it, but I think I¡¯ve got it right.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Anyways.


    All that stuff is secondary (except maybe the grayed out part, that¡¯s still¡­ there) compared to the two most important features.


    Right at the top of the ¡°screen¡±, titled at the very top of it, is a line that stayed the same between now and the game.


    {MANIFESTATION OF [00000000]}


    Not my name. Not any sort of title that I associate with myself, not something I can edit, not something I made during the original character creation. But it¡¯s the same as in the game.


    A manifestation of something.


    Whatever is in the blocked-out parts, I can¡¯t read. Squinting at it doesn¡¯t help, and there¡¯s no zoom feature for the goo on my pupil, so ultimately, it¡¯s just a weird fucking title, one that¡¯s carried over in the spot where a name usually is, and has apparently remained the same as both Fleshling and Homo Sapiens.


    And at its opposite end, all the way at the bottom;


    SYMBIONTS:


    <ul>


    <li>DIVINE BLOODLING</li>


    </ul>


    I was experiencing a lot of blood loss at the time, and a fuckload of shock from the ongoing trauma, but I don¡¯t think there¡¯s any way that I could forget those last moments. They¡¯re in my head forever now, tucked in tight against the sensation of having my arm pulled out of my body.


    Three lines.


    OVERRIDE ACCEPTED


    CONNECTION REINFORCED


    SYMBIONT ACQUIRED: Divine Bloodling


    And now¡­


    There it is. Written on my eye, there every time I look for it. Every time I think too hard about it.


    SYMBIONTS:


    <ul>


    <li>DIVINE BLOODLING</li>


    </ul>


    I think it¡¯s pretty obvious that there¡¯s no giant blood cell circling me like a lost puppy. Or if there is, I can¡¯t see it. I didn¡¯t see it in my weird little death vision either, with whoever SHE was, unless you count the blood right at the end.


    This leads me to a theory.


    Whatever¡¯s going on in my arm, whatever brought me back and is currently holding me together, has something to do with the Bloodling. That ripple, under the skin, near the joint where things are¡­ ¡°attached¡±.  If I press down on my bicep enough, I can sort of feel where the separation is, where things pull on each other if I¡¯m not careful- it¡¯s not painful, but it¡¯s uncomfortable, feeling a spot where things that should fit seamlessly¡­ don¡¯t.


    The sensation extends to the rest of my arm, the hand at the end the only part of it that isn¡¯t decorated with thin seams that follow irregular patterns. If I pull on them, or press down on them, I can sort of push into them, glimpse bright red beneath the surface.


    Part of me is terrified that if I push too hard, it¡¯ll start hurting. Or worse, that it¡¯ll come apart like a badly glued toy.


    Another, bigger part of me, most of which is behind the glass, is very certain that if I don¡¯t push it, things will be worse.


    Anyways.


    In theory, the Bloodling is inside my body right now, acting as¡­ well, blood. The way it tried to right at the start, when I woke up in the game with my whole system in absolute agony. My body was swollen, bright red, like an overstuffed balloon, and the pain was¡­ blinding. It oozed out of me, and then, then, it looked like a blood cell.


    The descriptors on my current sheet aren¡¯t quite as rude as the ones on the Fleshlings. Expanding the ¡°species¡± tab on the sheet shows the following-


    SPECIES: SAPIENS


    The species, self-classified as Homo Sapiens, considers itself to be the apex of its genus, and acts as one of the apex predator and social species on their planet. While their development is stunted, and was brought about through lackluster means, they are effective tool users, persistence hunters, and omnivores. While ultimately disappointing, they have spread throughout the territory available to them with considerable, near viral growth.


    Loots of implications in that. Firstly; ¡°their¡± planet. Secondly: ¡°territory available to them¡±.


    So. Implies a lot. And raises the question, once again, of who the fuck wrote the descriptor.


    However, those are big implications, ones that I can¡¯t really do anything about. What I can do something about, and what I had the original theory on- the descriptors is way nicer than the one for Fleshlings. While that description basically treated the body I manifested in as a piece of shit, it has some complaints about the human form, but not a ton of them. It¡¯s possible that my body can handle the presence of the Bloodling better than the Fleshling could, which is what allowed it to pull me back together as it has.


    Another possibility is that it¡¯s weaker here. Whatever my Glimpse Beyond skill is showing me, the world hasn¡¯t exactly turned to flesh fields and skies of tallow. It might not be as powerful here, or it might be using its energy to keep me intact, not allowing it to manifest as more than a little ripple now and again.


    The possibilities don¡¯t really counter each other. They could all be true, or I could be completely wrong.


    I don¡¯t know. All I¡¯ve got, at the moment, are theories. Possibilities. So far, things have had a¡­ through-line. Whether it¡¯s videogame rules or cause and effect, there¡¯s logic here, and I can only run off of what I have and what I know.


    Which is very little.


    Which in turn leads me to my next point, the one I said I¡¯d circle back to.


    I need to push further.


    There are no other options. Being passive won¡¯t get me anywhere, and even if Leisha¡¯s advice to me is true and that thing won¡¯t try to kill me in the daylight, that¡¯s a stopgap at best. I will slip up, or it¡¯ll lose patience, or find an opportunity, something, and then it¡¯ll do worse than pull my arm off and watch me bleed out. Or it¡¯ll just do it again, which also would be bad. And that¡¯s if Leisha can be trusted, which¡­ signs point to yes, but not with any certainty.


    If they could kill that thing, Leisha and her friend or partner or whoever, then I think they would have. Or bound it somehow, or trapped it, or something- but she seemed at least a little intimidated by the ¡°big guy¡±.


    So even if I can trust her, even if I can trust her partner, even if they decide to help, if, if, if¡­ then there¡¯s still no guarantee that they¡¯ll be able to help.


    I¡¯m on my own. And if that thing finds me again, there will be nothing I can do.


    So. I need to get more things I can do.


    I don¡¯t know how to change my stats, and having died once already I am not willing to repeat the experience to see if I get to reroll my character this time. I have no Adaptation (which is weird, considering how adaptive humans can be, though maybe less weird considering how quickly the mutations took place in the game), and while Canalization and Evolution are both at 1 ¡°pip¡±, there¡¯s not a lot I can do with those. Not unless I¡¯m willing to procreate or try to find out how much I can resist mutation from, I don¡¯t know, radiation or some shit, and that¡¯s going to be a hard no from me.


    So. I use what I can.


    I look at what I have, arranged in front of me.


    On the table, the journal, with my screen written out and my notes and theories outlined. On the bedside, my laptop, open to a few wikipedia articles and some anatomy diagrams.


    And on the floor- meat.


    All in all, approximately thirty pounds of raw meat, most of it coming undifferentiated, bright crimson and still bleeding from the walls¡­ and about five pounds from the fridge. Chicken thighs.


    I would have gotten more, but¡­ that first creak, when I pulled some out to show Jay? It wasn¡¯t a fluke.


    The crack I pulled from, the one in my room, is almost twice as wide now. It snakes along the bedroom wall, reaching almost to the ceiling, and when I pull at it¡­ groaning. Like the house is settling, but it¡¯s not settling, it¡¯s complaining, or¡­ well, groaning. Like it¡¯s alive.


    Maybe it is. Fuck if I know.


    I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll sleep tonight. I¡¯ve got a few hours, at least, before the adrenaline wears off and I crash.


    In the meantime? My Synchronicity stat is the highest one I¡¯ve got, and the ingredients I have are before me.


    We work with what we have.


    The blood in my arm pulses, like a heartbeat that isn¡¯t my own.


    I don¡¯t want to die.


    I start working.

 INTERLUDE 1.b

    TARTARUS RESPONSE PROTOCOL TIER 1.01


    NON-VIOLENT PRISONER CONTAINMENT PROCEDURE:


    FULL-BODY RESTRICTIONS: CUFFS, ANCHOR-POINTS, STRAITJACKET, BLINDFOLD, GAG, MUZZLE (OPTIONAL)


    CONTAINMENT UNIT: 10x by 10x by 10X ROOM DIMENSIONS, LIMESTONE AND CONCRETE MIXTURE, FARADAY CAGE WIRING, ELECTROCONDUCTIVE FLOORING


    NUTRITIONAL PROGRAM: MILD SEDATION, MULTIVITAMIN AND INTRAVENOUS SUPPLEMENTS, LIQUID DIET AS NEEDED


    AUTHORS NOTE: If it seems harsh, it''s because you haven''t seen these things in action. Count yourself lucky, and follow the goddamn protocol.


    - Recovered file from [REDACTED], recovered from storage on order from Ranking Officer [REDACTED]


    _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    Special Agent Renee Fayez is not having a particularly good time.


    Babysitting duty has never been her favorite. It¡¯s not easy, proving yourself to an organization like hers. It takes years, it takes violence, and above all else it takes dedication, the kind that takes sacrifice. There are no days off, no time outside of work, no compromising connections, sometimes there¡¯s not even time to sleep, and she has done it. She¡¯s beaten out other scores, closed more cases, kissed more ass, shot down more undeserving assholes than anyone else around her, which is why she¡¯s made it this far.


    And now¡­ babysitting duty.


    Some little shit no-name, no record, no nothing, out in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The closest thing to anything nearby is a bunch of nowhere towns, full of dying shops and old folks with nowhere to move to, or who are too stubborn to do so- hell, the county has at least two ghost towns in it, fully abandoned.


    But here she is anyways. Babysitting.


    She still remembers the phone call she got, the folder that got delivered to her desk right after. ¡°Tiamat Void¡±, the reading had said. The last time anyone saw a Void-response entity, the Cold War was still ongoing, and a Tiamat type to boot? She had her go bag on her shoulder before she was done reading, and was out the door, headed to the airport, before she got to the second page.


    Which, honestly, is her own fault. She probably could have known to not be quite so eager if she¡¯d seen who they put in charge of things.


    Sam Wittiker, resident fuck-up and no-name nobody.


    The only conclusion she can come to is that someone called in a favor, somewhere, to keep the kid in the loop. That, or he¡¯s someone¡¯s precious nepo-baby. Nothing else makes sense. In military terms, he¡¯s barely above a Private, no matter what his ¡° Provisional Supervisory Agent¡± status might say (she¡¯s pretty sure that¡¯s not even a real rank). The fact that he¡¯s here, operating alongside her, is more than he deserves- the fact that he¡¯s the one who¡¯s taking orders from the red phone, and not her, has to be one of the most frustrating professional insults she¡¯s ever received.


    And to make matters worse, he¡¯s so. Damn. Nice.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Sam says, her thoughts summoning him like the world¡¯s most pathetic demon-clown. ¡°Coffee order coming in! You didn¡¯t mention what you liked, so I got you a black coffee, but I asked them to put one of those blueberry shots in it, and then there¡¯s cream and sugar in the bag.¡±


    ¡°Did I ask for a blueberry shot, soldier boy?¡±


    His smile falters, like a puppy that¡¯s just been shoved over. ¡°Well- I mean, I just-¡±


    She interrupts his stuttering by taking the cup out of his hand and taking a sip of it, ready to throw it out.


    And then she takes a second sip, with her back turned to him, because it¡¯s actually really good.


    ¡°No major updates since you¡¯ve been gone,¡± she says, rather than chuck the coffee down the sink in a show of pettiness. ¡°Just more of¡­ this.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ only been a week. You said that Epsilon types aren¡¯t really a big deal, right? Maybe it takes time for them to interact with things.¡±


    ¡°Well it absolutely does, newbie, but we should have gotten something by now. We know someone stole an asset from the site, and we know that asset¡¯s signature, so we should have seen something by now.¡±


    Sam gives a bit of a sheepish smile. ¡°Sorry, but that¡¯s¡­ sort of par for the course here. Most of the time nothing ever actually happens around these parts. This alarm is the craziest thing that¡¯s happened in¡­ well, the whole time I¡¯ve been here.¡±


    ¡°And that doesn¡¯t bother you?¡± she asks, one eyebrow raised high enough to be uncomfortable. ¡°I¡¯m a woman of action, Sammy-boy, and this is the least action I¡¯ve seen in months. Usually a hunt involves at least some wandering around, but half the people in half these towns are a bunch of rednecks who start loading shotguns as soon as they see a uniform.¡±


    Sam shrugs, seemingly unbothered. ¡°No one likes the tax man, and everybody knows everybody in towns like these.¡±


    ¡°Right! So they should know who¡¯s been acting strange! But nothing!¡±


    She flops back onto the desk chair she¡¯s been using, staring up at the bank of flickering screens before her in vivid frustration.


    Sam, for his part, just sort of sighs, the long-suffering sigh of someone who¡¯s had to deal with cranky superior officers before.


    ¡°I¡¯m not really sure what to expect in a situation like this. You know I got promoted in a rush- how exactly do these ¡®hunts¡¯ of yours usually work?¡±


    She sighs, leaning as far back into the chair as the uncomfortable office-space furniture allows. ¡°It depends, honestly. Most of them, we have people freaking out, paranoid, making a big show of things. Solid chunk of the time you can find the target by looking at recent medical cases and arrests. Out here in the boonies, not so much. Every now and then, you get one that¡¯s a real threat, someone with carbomb-level danger, and-¡±


    ¡°You¡­ still haven¡¯t explained what that means. You know I¡¯ve basically been operating on guesswork, right? The Phone doesn¡¯t exactly talk me through things, and the debrief was¡­ not very thorough.¡±


    ¡°Lots of redactions, right?¡±


    ¡°Like all redacted.¡±


    She rolls her eyes. ¡°It¡¯s fine. You won¡¯t really ¡®get it¡¯ until you see your first one anyways. Crazy is as crazy does, and every now and then there are real crazies. All the anomalies, the issues that we¡¯re supposed to keep an eye out for, they all pose a threat, and most people don¡¯t know to look for them. Usually there¡¯s signs- biohazardous materials, calls to the CDC, or every now and then, one of the cults the FBI¡¯s keeping an eye on starts getting hinky in a certain way. Every job varies. This one¡¯s quieter than most, ergo why the¡¯re keeping you on it. And thank fuck for that, because you have got to tell me your secret.¡±


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°My¡­ my secret?¡±


    ¡°I sincerely and genuinely have no clue how you stare at these all day and don¡¯t go insane.¡±


    ¡°In my defense,¡± Sam grumbles, ¡°I usually go on walks out and around, check the locks, make sure nothing¡¯s gone wrong. Helps to keep in shape.¡±


    I look him up and down, noting how skinny he looks. Not exactly the height of military physique, but¡­


    ¡°...alright, fair enough. But how doesn¡¯t that bore you to tears?¡±


    He shrugs again, his hands out in a ¡°what can you do¡± sort of gesture. ¡°Like you guessed a week ago, I didn¡¯t exactly get put here to thrive in my professional career. I got demoted to caretaker a few years back, I do my job, I get paid. Besides, you do actually have to check on things from time to time. The cameras have a lot of blind spots, and this room doesn¡¯t have any visuals for the inner compound. All of that needs to be checked by hand.¡±


    She quirks her other eyebrow, turning to look at him as she sips at blueberry-shot-infected coffee.


    ¡°Inner compound? I thought it was just this, the barracks, and the boomtown.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ it is. Kind of. This place is basically just a big office building, with the security room in the middle here. Then there¡¯s the barracks, off to the west of ¡°boomtown¡±, but boomtown proper has some installations in it. It¡¯s not just a dummy town, some of the buildings doubled as offices, and some of those offices and rooms are still locked up. I have to check them out, make sure nothing¡¯s broken in, that the site¡¯s secure.¡±


    ¡°And you¡­ actually do it?¡±


    Again, the gesture; ¡°what can you do¡±. ¡°You asked for the secret. Can¡¯t really use the internet in here, and I like to do a good job. Every few hours, I just¡­ rotate through, check everything out, get a little cardio, and then come on back. By the time I¡¯ve done it two, maybe three times, it¡¯s usually time to clock out.¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡±


    She looks down at the console in front of her, and then back up to the cameras. And then back down to the console again.


    ¡°Do you¡­ think you could maybe show me one?¡±


    He cocks an eyebrow, tilts his head in surprise. ¡°I¡­ why?¡±


    Now it¡¯s her turn to shrug. ¡°You hear stories about places like this. All the old guard, talking around covert operations and shushing you when you ask about where things took place. Now you¡¯re telling me we¡¯ve got secret locked rooms in the secret government blacksite belonging to the secret government organization? That¡¯s got to be more interesting than all this waiting and finicking with old tech, trying to get a trace. Any of them have something fun in them?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I mean they¡¯re locked. And it¡¯s not like I¡¯m going to break in.¡±


    She rolls her eyes again, harder this time. ¡°Of course not. I¡¯m merely suggesting that if there were, perhaps, a more intriguing sort of location amidst this incredibly creepy little ghost town, you could take me there before I claw my own eyes out from the headache these screens give me. Come on, there¡¯s got to be something that¡¯s a bit outside the norm here.¡±


    She watches him struggle a bit. He hems, haws, bites his lower lip, taps his foot. He¡¯s got all the energy of an awkward teenager, compounded by what looks like severe social isolation. If she didn¡¯t know better, she¡¯d have guessed that he spent all the time he¡¯s been assigned here on-base.


    Except she does know better, and that kind of isolation would leave a person basically feral. So that can¡¯t be the case.


    ¡°Well¡­¡±


    ¡°Well what?¡±


    ¡°There is one thing.¡±


    The look in her eyes is enough to convince him that he¡¯s not going to talk her out of it now that he¡¯s given in.


    ¡°It¡¯s not even interesting! It¡¯s just-¡±


    ¡°Nope. Take me there.¡±


    He sighs.


    And then, like a good little soldier boy, he does as ordered.


    That, in particular, has to be Renee¡¯s favorite part.


    Walking through the ¡°boomtown¡± to their destination feels surreal, like it always does. Even driving through the streets to go chase down interviews or check some of the other sensors, just in case something¡¯s been picked up, feels like a haunting experience. There are no mannequins, thank fuck, though apparently there used to be, but the space is still outright liminal, like walking through a school with all its lights off. A hundred houses and buildings, but not a single lit window. Lit streetlamps, but no cars beneath them, no yards to maintain beneath carefully manicured plastic left to rot. It¡¯s a funhouse mirror of a town, all the humanity and life taken out- or, more accurately, never put there in the first place.


    But Sam seems to know his way around with an almost preternatural ease. He waves to cameras she can¡¯t even see, moves around cracks in the pavement and unsteady footing like he¡¯s done it a million times, and doesn¡¯t seem bothered by the space at all. He doesn¡¯t seem comfortable, per se, but there¡¯s none of the tension in his walk that would indicate he¡¯s nervous and just hiding it well.


    The soldier-boy walks along, and she follows behind, the unease and curiosity better than the sheer numbness of waiting.


    Until, eventually, he turns to what looks like a storefront, its upper floor clearly an office space or residential, its lower lobby a glass wall with empty shelves inside. He pushes open the door, which swings open with only a mild squeal of old hinges, and makes his way inside like it¡¯s the most natural thing in the world.


    Renee is right behind him. She¡¯s seen worse.


    She keeps her hand near her holster as she walks.


    Instead of heading up, towards the offices as she expected, Sam turns towards what looks like a back room storage space, an ¡°employees only¡± sign hanging proud and dusty on the front of it. This door too is unlocked and it swings open surprisingly smoothly.


    They pass through a shadow of a break room, all the right shapes and none of the right details- and he turns to a third door.


    This door is not like the others. This door is open.


    The hinges squeal, not with disuse but with rust, their edges creaking loudly as he pulls the door open further. Unlike the others, the locking mechanism is on, the handle refusing to turn as Sam uses it to pull open wider the path beyond, but ironically, due to being locked, it can¡¯t close. The bolt stands out, hitting the doorframe rather than pinning the door to its interior, as if someone locked it but didn¡¯t close it behind them for some reason.


    Behind the door is a hallway made of solid concrete. No windows, no bricks, no walls- just dust and grey stone, like someone poured this part of the structure out of a mold.


    At the end of the hallway, there is a fourth door.


    This one isn¡¯t like the others. This one is shut.


    She can see three locks on the outside of the door, all three of them bolted into the wall, with a thick, padlocked chain wrapped around what looks like a combination lock. The structure is metal, possibly stainless steel, though it¡¯s hard to tell with the only light coming from the door they¡¯re in and the flashlight Sam¡¯s holding.


    The same flashlight that glints off of the surface of the door, near the top. Its reflection illuminates a single square of thick, solid glass, dusty from times long past¡­ but intact.


    Without a word, Sam walks into the hallway. As if it isn¡¯t in the top five most fucked up hallways Renee¡¯s ever seen. Like it¡¯s normal.


    She¡¯s starting to reevaluate her conclusion on how much being here has affected the kid.


    He makes it to the hall a little ahead of her- and then looks back in surprise when he realizes she isn¡¯t right behind him.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ um. You alright?¡±


    She cocks an eyebrow at him, all swagger and easy, laid back energy. ¡°Hmm? Just admiring the architecture is all. How¡¯d you find this place?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s on the route of places to check, but they never gave me a key or anything, so I couldn¡¯t unlock and close the door. I sent a report about it, but no one ever got back to me, and it¡¯s not like anything¡¯s getting through all this.¡±


    Looking at the door he¡¯s waving at, she can¡¯t help but agree.


    ¡°Well¡­ what¡¯s in there?¡±


    ¡°I mean¡­ you¡¯ve come this far, right? Might as well look.¡±


    Well. Now there¡¯s really no way for her to chicken out. Not that she would have anyways- she¡¯s dealt with freaky before, and this is just tantalizing.


    She steps up to the door, looking through the window, seeing, in the dark room beyond¡­ a glow.


    A familiar glow.


    The glow of a computer monitor.


    She stares through the grimy glass, frowning.


    ¡°Sam? Why is there a desktop computer in there?¡±


    She can hear him shrug behind her. ¡°No clue.¡±


    ¡°And why is it on? That thing has to be, what, forty years old? Is it- yep, I see the plug over there, it¡¯s got power. Why?¡±


    ¡°Also no clue. Sometimes I check in and it¡¯s got stuff on the monitor, sometimes it¡¯s blank. I think it¡¯s some old spy program they set up and no one told anyone to shut it off.¡±


    ¡°...Sam?¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°Get the car.¡±


    ¡°...ok. Why?¡±


    ¡°Remember how I said that usually, there are signs whenever we have a target crop up?¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah. But you mentioned calls to the CDC and stuff, no?¡±


    She points through the glass at the screen.


    There, glowing on the monitor, is what looks like a newspaper website for something called ¡°The Hollow Springs Gazette¡±. In bold letters at the top of the page, made grainy by the computer¡¯s low resolution and the dust on the glass, stands a rather loud title.


    DEVASTATING ACCIDENT AT HOLLOW SPRINGS CONSTRUCTION SITE!


    ¡°It¡¯s no call for disease control, but I think this counts.¡±

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.11

    .§ñ?i??? ???? ?I .ll?w ?d o? ¦Ôo? ??n?w ?i bn? ?¦Ôo? ??? n?? ?i ?¦Ô? .??§ñow ?i wo? ?''???T .??§ñi? ?? l¦Ô?ni?q ???wl? ?''?I .§ñ?i??? ???? ?i won? o? ¦Ôo? ?n?w I ?¦Ôd ??m §ñ??? ?''n?? ¦Ôo? won? I


    .?w?n §ñ????d b?? I ??iw I


    ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    The weirdest part about living in fear is how comfortable it is. How familiar.


    I don¡¯t really talk about it with people much anymore, but for all my loneliness and strained comfort in my current life, things are very close to being the best they¡¯ve ever been. Well before I even knew I wanted to transition, I knew something was wrong, felt it deeper than my bones, and a lot of the people involved in my life didn¡¯t exactly help.


    I keep an eye on the sun as I drive home, careful to make sure it¡¯s nowhere near the horizon, and marvel at how familiar it feels.


    I still get uneasy when I hear someone open the front door. I still remember what it was like, living every day worried that I might be hurt in a way that wouldn¡¯t even be recognized, let alone understood. I still remember what it feels like, living every day wondering if today was the day I¡¯d finally just¡­ let go.


    The fact that death would come from without rather than within nowadays is a point of pride, but it still aches just the same.


    Part of the reason it¡¯s so familiar is the monotony of it. Being depressed doesn¡¯t mean that you¡¯re allowed to just stop- I still had to go to school, go to work, do all the things most normal people do every day, even at my worst. If I didn¡¯t there would be consequences. Being unable to get out of bed, paralyzed by ennui and apathy, only takes you so far, and eventually, you either give up and die, or you have to go pay the damn bills, eat food, shower now and again. Though that last one¡¯s usually the first to go, when things get really, really bad. In the end, though, it¡¯s killing yourself or dying, and seeing as I wasn¡¯t doing the former, I wasn¡¯t allowed to do the latter, either.


    This feels much the same. At any moment, conditions might change enough that I won¡¯t make it, that I¡¯ll die and have nothing at all to show for it- but I still have to pay the rent. I still have to get food. On occasion, I even still have to shower.


    I learned my lesson the first time, at least. No more double shifts. I show up in the morning, and I leave by three, before the sun has time to dip low, before the shadows have time to get proper dark. Death becomes a certainty and distant possibility at once, and that state of mind, that constant hyper-awareness of danger, feels as comfortable to slip back into as any other childhood habit.


    It¡¯s been two days since I died.


    On both days since, I have gone to my job. For both days, I have served drinks, disregarded comments thrown my way, and cleaned a bar that reeks of old sugar and badly-disguised gunk. Every day, Chuck and his friends come by, pay me with better money than they¡¯ve ever had before, and brag about just how wonderful they are, pillars of the community that they¡¯ve become. I prep for service, I organize, I clean, I serve, I even find it in me to smile every now and again, and then I go home.


    And I do the real work.


    The headset remains untouched where I left it. I haven¡¯t gotten back on the forums since I last posted there. My research on the game has stalled out. I have other priorities.


    I close my car door with the usual heavy thud of impact, walk up the front steps, and pick up the bags left on the porch. Delivery apps; the fees are a bitch and a half, but when it could literally kill me to be out of the house after night, it seems like a good price to pay.


    My next check is already going to be pretty light, but I can¡¯t skimp on this. Not now.


    I don¡¯t bother stopping by the food with my groceries, trecking straight up to my room instead. I have to open the door carefully, just to make sure I don¡¯t bump anything out of place, but I¡¯ve done it enough times that I¡¯m pretty familiar by now, and I make it inside without any issues. Until I see what I¡¯ve left on the floor, of course.


    I have to take a long, deep breath. Febreeze and plastic wrap can only do so much in the end. It still smells like meat.


    On the floor, carefully placed atop a bed of plastic-wrap and improvised preservation, is the work.


    Of all my stats, the only one that even kind of matches what I had in the game is my SYNCHRONICITY. CANALISATION is only useful in theory, if I¡¯m in danger of mutation, and EVOLUTION, according to its description, is worthless without the ability to ¡°pass things on¡±, something I couldn¡¯t do in the game without dying and can¡¯t do here without, at the very least, fucking. Not really in the cards at the moment.


    But SYNCHRONICITY? That¡¯s the good shit.


    I had a crafting build, back in the game. Making Symbionts and modifying myself through them, gaining additional features only through my ADAPTATION. In the game, it allowed me to create tools, mechanisms, and modifications by using biological materials I could find about the terrain. Here, my scavenging has to be more thorough.


    The work, for now at least, looks like an art-piece focused on what biohazardous waste might look like. On one side, there¡¯s a small set of three improvised organs, meat wrapped in and around itself, pinned into place by bits of bone until they look like baseballs. Beside them, wrapped extremely tightly with plastic wrap to force it to conform to shape, is what might, in a cronenbergian nightmare, be considered a glove.


    And between the both of them, woven together almost entirely of hair and spit around a set of chicken bones, is what might be generously called a shrunken head.


    It has not been fun sleeping in the same room as these fucking things.


    I set the grocery bags down and start pulling out the ingredients.


    If it has a bone in it, it went into the shopping cart. While wider cuts of meat are useful, they¡¯re almost always exclusively made of meat and fat, which have their uses, but also their costs. As I take out chicken wings, thighs, drumsticks, bone-in beef stew chunks, and two t-bone steaks, I pull out most of the knives we have in the house, and get ready to work.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    There are more ingredients in the bags, gradually warming, but that¡¯s not what I need right now, not yet. Anything butchered with the bones still included comes with more than just meat and bone. Tendons and ligaments are crucial, I¡¯ve discovered- without them, energy is wasted by the muscles having to hold things together by grip, and hair isn¡¯t as good at binding things together as I¡¯d like. I need more than just raw muscle mass for this to work.


    But it is. Working. Bit by bit by terrible bit.


    I do as I have for the last two nights, and take apart the flesh, so I can put it back together again.


    Two bottles of hand sanitizer come out of the grocery bags, and while I make absolutely certain that I don¡¯t let any of it touch the meat, I do use it and wipe it off before I take out my notebook or my laptop to cross-reference.


    I don¡¯t have the abilities here that I had in the game. I can¡¯t just vaguely slap things together, or go off pure intuition, and make them work as if by magic. Additionally, it¡¯s not like the meat¡¯s fresh- none of it¡¯s butchered in town, none of it¡¯s alive in the traditional sense by the time it gets to me. All in all, it¡¯s nothing like it was in the game, and my first few attempts to make something have completely failed.


    But now, it¡¯s close.


    A gun would be useless. I¡¯ve never fired one, I don¡¯t have the know-how to translate something that mechanical into something this improvised, and I wouldn¡¯t have the resources to blindly fire stuff off even if I could. Melee isn¡¯t an option either- until I figure out how to make an entire goddamn exoskeleton, the ¡°big dog¡± is always going to be stronger, faster, and more at ease with its weight and speed than I am. I have to improvise something else.


    Ergo, the grenades.


    Each ball of tissue is wrapped tightly, contained by the highest-density muscle I could buy and pinned into place by sharpened bits of bone. Inside, I¡¯ve filled them with shattered chicken bones, broken glass and, most importantly, nails.


    I don¡¯t know if they¡¯ll work¡­ but I can hope. In theory, if I can activate them, I can make the muscles constrict violently enough that the bone pins snap, forcing the whole thing to convulse, pop open, and launch the shrapnel like an improvised frag. First and last recourse, and I¡¯m not exactly more experienced with frags than guns¡­ but in theory, they¡¯re easier to use.


    And in the meantime, I have the other pieces.


    The hair-and-bone implement looks like some kind of arcane totem more than anything, shaped into something old and runic and wildly improvised. I wanted to find roadkill, but all I managed to get my hands on was a dead bird I found by the side of the road, its organs long-since decayed, but its bones intact. I mentioned not being able to make things out of instinct, which is true, but some things do feel more¡­ right than others. Like some pieces should, in theory, more or less fit. This project is one such case, allowed to develop as it wants.


    It feels like it¡¯s missing¡­ well, a lot. But it¡¯s¡­ something. I can feel the shape of it, the sparrow-skull wrapped in human hair, bound together with ligament and spit, and it feels¡­ kind of like spaghetti art. Like something recognizable, made by a toddler with no idea how to make the original art, but imitating it. It is to this that I dedicate most of my focus, adding two more grenades over the course of a few hours before I focus on it wholesale.


    I put more and more bones into it. I yank out more and more of my hair, wrapping up the new material tightly, binding chicken meat and ligaments beneath it, and then more on top of that. I make an improvised sort of spine-shape out of beef chunks with bone, make little legs out of chicken thighs, ribs out of wings, and wrap more muscle around that in turn.


    It won¡¯t work in the shape it¡¯s currently in. I can¡¯t just put the chicken thighs as thighs. It won¡¯t work for this. I don¡¯t know why, and I don¡¯t know how I know, but I know.


    By the time I¡¯m done, the floor is covered in fresh grease, the plastic wrap bunched up in places and slimy in all of them, and I¡¯m covered to my elbows in the stink of the dead. Even with the hand sanitizer and alcohol, I¡¯m almost guaranteed to have gotten salmonella on my nice hardwood flooring.


    But it¡¯s done.


    The grenades are¡­ simple. Basic. Sort of desperate, if I¡¯m being honest. The most efficient method I have beyond making pipe bombs, which would have to involve more expensive and more eye-catching sorts of online purchases.


    The glove is¡­ complicated. I¡¯ll come back to that.


    But this?


    I look down at what might best be called a muppet made of meat.


    It¡¯s a necromancer¡¯s first children¡¯s toy. A madman¡¯s loose attempt at making some kind of weird centipede. It is, by far, the grosses, most horrible thing I¡¯ve ever seen, and I am entirely certain that it should not be holding together as well as it currently is.


    The skull of a bird, turned nearly black by the human hair wrapped around it and greased to high heaven, leads down into a mess of parts, vaguely aligned into something like a spine. There¡¯s nothing threaded through it, no way to properly secure the improvised ribs or awkward, poorly-made replacements for its internals, but using the rest of the rotted remnants of the bird and the ¡°fresh¡± ingredients, I¡¯ve gotten most of the way into making¡­


    Fuck.


    I get up out of my room, stagger through the hallway, and just barely make it to the toilet in time to vomit.


    I haven¡¯t eaten today. All that comes up is bile, stinging the back of my throat and making my eyes burn.


    I don¡¯t stop until my diaphragm is sore and my mouth tastes like battery acid, and even then, it takes most of what I have not to keep going. I take long, slow breaths, trying as best I can to feed oxygen into my system.


    It¡¯s disgusting. The thing I made is disgusting. Hair and spit and gunk, organic string and dripping, wet muscle, slimy bone and weirdly slick fluids.


    But it¡¯s whole. It¡¯s done. A muppet and a giant hand and an artistic rendition of a centipede made of gristle and food waste.


    When I manage to pull my head out of the toilet, I catch a glimpse out the frosted window. It¡¯s night. I don¡¯t know how long I spent working on that thing, how long it¡¯s been since the sun went down, but it¡¯s been at least two, maybe three hours. Maybe more. Hyper-fixated on the task, I don¡¯t even remember if I¡¯ve had water or stopped for a break since I started.


    I take long, slow breaths again, trying hard not to be sick.


    Two days ago, I died.


    Five days ago, I woke up into a dream that I think, but cannot prove, is reality.


    Am I even still me?


    I couldn¡¯t have made that thing before. Even with the sheer nausea that coming out of my hyper focused state brought about, I know it¡¯s better than it would have been before all this. I wouldn¡¯t have been able to spend ten minutes in that grim art studio, never mind hours, and I would never have been able to properly weave all the pieces together into something that works.


    Fuck. What will it look like when it works?


    I haven¡¯t even finished the glove yet, either.


    ¡­Fuck.


    Downstairs, I hear someone knock on the door.


    Thunk Thunk Thunk.


    Heavy knocks. Not angry, per se, but heavy, like from someone meaty who doesn¡¯t much care about being delicate with that weight.


    ¡°Hollow Springs¡¯ Sheriff¡¯s department! Anybody home?¡±


    Fuck.


    It really is one of those days, isn¡¯t it?

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.12

    Dispatch, come in.


    This is Dispatch, over.


    Yeah, any updates from the queen bitch? Or are we good to come back after this?


    Confirmed, patrol car 112. Just wrap up the list and we¡¯ll be good to go.


    Great. Copy that. Be good to finally get the fuck home after this waste of a night. Don¡¯t know why we even-


    ~Recorded radio chatter from Hollow Springs PD database.


    ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    I get to my room in time to dose myself with a fresh batch of hand sanitizer, change shirts and shorts, and lock it shut behind me before the second set of knocks comes, but that has a lot more to do with my panic than their patience. The second knock is even louder than the first, thudding hard against the door.


    In theory, I should just leave them out of it. Sarah is out for night shift, and my other roommates (who I really should know the names of off the top of my head) are out too. At least¡­ I think they are. I heard the door shut on their way out?


    Jane and Kylie, that¡¯s their names. Even for a small town like this, renters really come and go. I¡¯m pretty sure both of them are college students, both of them like six years younger than me, and both of them doing long-distance college courses. I don¡¯t really know their story.


    Shit. Doesn¡¯t matter- they¡¯re young, white, shorter than me, and they live here. Chances are they¡¯d let the cops in, no questions asked, on pure intimidation factor alone, nevermind a naive belief that the cops actually help.


    I don¡¯t hear any doors open on my way to the front door¡­ so I guess they are out.


    He knocks a third time, pounding on the wood like it¡¯s insulted him.


    ¡°SHERIFF¡¯S DEPARTMENT! ANYONE HOME!¡±


    Fucker. He saw my light was on, he can probably hear me moving around. I¡¯m sure I¡¯ve heard his name around town somewhere, but frankly, I don¡¯t give a fuck.


    I make it to the door.


    I take in a long, steadying breath.


    Small town america. Trans woman alone at home. Cops at the front door.


    There¡¯s really no way this goes well, is there?


    Fuck.


    Damage mitigation. Get behind the glass. If they say something, deal with it. If they make demands, be polite.


    Do not let them into the house.


    I lean right up to the door and look through the peephole.


    He looks¡­ like every joke about a small-town cop I can imagine. Fat, though not obese, hairy but not furry, with a mustache that I¡¯m pretty sure he thinks looks acceptable. He¡¯s got a wide-brimmed sheriff¡¯s hat, a shiny star on his shirt, and, as ostentatious as it is practical, a thick black belt around his hips, festooned with pouches for a radio, a taser, and there, in easy reach of his hands, a handgun.


    There¡¯s another guy there, too, someone else in the same beige-colored shirt, but I can¡¯t make out any details, not with this asshole taking up the whole viewpoint. I see him move, raising his hand as if to knock again-


    ¡°How can I help you, officers?¡±


    He pauses, and grunts loud enough I can hear him through the door.


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am, we, uh, stopped by for a quick check-in, just a little follow-up,¡± he says, enunciating awkwardly. ¡°We¡¯re looking for someone who is at this address. Just a wellness check sort of thing, dotting the i¡¯s, crossing the t¡¯s, you understand.¡±


    ¡°Well thank you for the consideration, officer. Who might this wellness check be for?¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    Deep breaths. Be careful. Be calm.


    ¡°Pardon, sir. Seeing as this is a wellness check visit, I appreciate your kindness, coming out at this hour. Who is it you¡¯re here to check up on?¡±


    I see him glance down at his watch, and then up at the night sky. Shit, I really have no idea what time it is, do I? Fuck it, it¡¯s dark out, it works enough.


    ¡°Ma¡¯am, could you open the door so we can have a proper conversation?¡±


    Alright. Deeep breath. Make or break time.


    Either I open the door, and he¡¯s gotten a little victory, and I have to hope I can play around him and the little satisfaction he gets from that-


    Or. Or. I keep the door shut, and the chances for this to escalate increase.


    No good options, really, but at least one way, I can keep a door between me and him.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but I really don¡¯t feel comfortable opening the door this late, and while I appreciate you doing your job, officer, I¡¯d rather just get back to work. I was¡­ cooking, you see, and I left a pot on the stove just to check over here.¡±


    ¡°Cooking¡±. Don¡¯t know if that was me over-exaggerating the ¡°southern belle¡± persona or making a joke about what I¡¯ve been working on, but either way, get it together.


    ¡°Well ma¡¯am, if you¡¯d just open the door, we can resolve this whole matter in no time flat.¡±


    Ok. Hasn¡¯t escalated, hasn¡¯t backed down. Trouble is, the more I ¡°escalate¡± (by not opening the door to armed strangers, to be clear), the worse it¡¯ll be if I end up backing down in turn. Better to commit to the bit, stick to the letter of the law (the obvious parts, the one¡¯s I can be at least sort-of sure the pig¡¯s read), and not let him in.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Huh. I just felt a little light pop on at that thought. I almost forgot the number one most important rule of dealing with the police other than not letting them into your home.


    Don¡¯t talk to the fucking pigs.


    ¡°Sorry officer, but like I said, I¡¯m just not comfortable opening my door for anyone at this hour. Thank you for your due diligence, your wellness check is completed, everyone at this address is fine. Have a nice night.¡±


    And I walk away from the door.


    5th amendment- right to not self incriminate.


    Common sense- don¡¯t talk to the fucking bad guys.


    Combined together with the fact that cops can lie, do lie, and will absolutely fucking make up some shit out of anything I say, no matter how theoretically safe, reasonable, or legal it may be, and the solution is simple.


    Don¡¯t talk to them.


    This is, of course, complicated by the nature of the police, which is in turn complicated by the nature of a sheriff¡¯s office of policing, which is in turn complicated yet again by the fact that Hollow Springs is a town in midwestern America with less than six-thousand people in it. A brave enough cop will break down a door and shoot an unarmed civilian in broad daylight, in a crowded neighborhood, while on camera in a major metropolitan area.


    Here? At night? In a town this small? These fuckers could be serial killers and I¡¯d never hear about it, and neither would the FBI or anyone else who didn¡¯t already have a vested interest. And even if they¡¯re in the miniscule percentage of cops that get in trouble, I¡¯d be dead, so who gives a shit?


    The sheriff (who never actually mentioned his name, funny that) slams his meaty fist on the door again, BANG BANG BANG.


    ¡°Excuse me! Ma¡¯am? I need you to open up the door right now.¡±


    Again, the question. If I say nothing, does he have an ¡°excuse¡± to break down the door and enter, claiming that he had a ¡°justified suspicion¡± or whatever it¡¯s called?


    Then again¡­ I guess he could technically do that anyways.


    And it¡¯s always a good idea not to talk to the cops.


    They are not my friends. They are not anyone¡¯s friend but each other¡¯s, and they do not have my best interests at heart.


    BANG BANG BANG.


    I¡¯m worried he might just break the door off of its frame.


    All the fear of harm I get from Chuck and his friends with twice the ability to enact it.


    I don¡¯t answer.


    All of the blinds are closed anyways, but I double check each one. I leave the lights off in the kitchen- they can infer that I was lying or cooking in the dark, I don¡¯t give a shit.


    BANG BANG BANG.


    ¡°MA¡¯AM! OPEN THE DOOR!¡±


    I keep my breathing steady. I keep my footing secure. I keep my heartbeat quiet. I do not need adrenaline muddying my thoughts.


    I am behind the glass. I¡¯m going to be fine.


    I don¡¯t want to die.


    My arm pulses at the thought, and faint seams of red and white briefly flare up along the skin.


    Breathe. Focus. No panic. Not now.


    Either he and his buddy are going to break in, or they aren¡¯t. I¡¯m not going to facilitate that at this point. I should go and hide, find a way to-


    No. That¡¯s the adrenaline. I¡¯m behind the glass.


    I need to see what I¡¯m dealing with.


    He mentioned he was coming in to check about something. Sirens and lights weren¡¯t on, and they aren¡¯t on now- this isn¡¯t a call, and they haven¡¯t radioed anyone else in. What the fuck could they be here about? It¡¯s not a wellness check, that¡¯s for sure. A wellness check would mean that someone called them and told them that someone hadn¡¯t let the house in days, that mail was piling up, that there was a funny smell, etc. The smell would be plausible, if not for the plastic wrap and my other precautions- the meat has yet to actually rot (though it¡­ kind of should have by now?), and I can¡¯t smell my little experiments in the hallway to my room, nevermind a different building. And besides- who doesn¡¯t call first on a wellness check? When it¡¯s on the lease that I have three roommates?


    There is a chance, however slight, that they¡¯re not even here for me, but in that case, that¡¯s almost more of a reason not to let them in. I ain¡¯t no snitch.


    No. He mentioned he was looking for someone at this address, and then, after, he brought up a wellness check. Something to put me at ease? Cop mumbo-jumbo, something he said without even meaning it?


    Doesn¡¯t matter. Here¡¯s where the adrenaline is most useful, where instinct is most applicable- assume danger, be precise, adjust accordingly. I have died too many fucking times to do otherwise.


    They¡¯re here looking for me. They didn¡¯t break the door down, and they didn¡¯t come when I¡¯m not home. I know Jonah¡¯s friends with the sheriff, so they have access to my work schedule, easily. Ergo, they came here at a time when they knew I¡¯d be home, and didn¡¯t proceed to immediately attack- and they don¡¯t know what my voice sounds like.


    It could be that they¡¯re just worried about harming my roommates, but let¡¯s not give the pigs any undue credit. I¡¯ll give them the benefit of the doubt when they¡¯ve good and earned it.


    BANG BANG BANG.


    I still don¡¯t answer. Instead, I try to shift one of the curtains as carefully as I can, peeking out of the far side of the blinds and the barest sliver of space I can make.


    Two men, one in his mid forties, early fifties, the other in his thirties, maybe. Both armed, both in sheriff¡¯s uniform and jackets, both with the big hats- and both still staring at my door.


    The larger one, the one I¡¯ve been speaking to, has a mustache, a pot-belly, and stands nearly my height, a little under six foot, while his partner, Slim, looks damn near underfed, and has a full beard.


    Slim and Wide, I¡¯ll call them.


    Sheriff Wide and Deputy Slim stand there a little longer- I catch sight of one of them looking up at my window, where the light is still on, though the curtain¡¯s drawn. He says something to his partner, his voice loud enough that I can almost make it out, though not quite. He sounds frustrated, but not outright angry- that¡¯s good. Angry means he starts acting more aggressive, while frustrated just means he¡¯ll probably come back later.


    Fuck. Why are the cops after me? It¡¯s not like I¡¯ve done anything to-


    Oh.


    Oooooh.


    I did die recently.


    In a major destructive incident.


    At the nearby construction site.


    Where I parked my car.


    Which I did drive straight there, past any convenient cameras across town, or in the construction site itself, at around the time that the events took place.


    I can¡¯t really know anything for certain- but then again, neither do they. If they actually suspected me, I¡¯d be under arrest by now, what with all the pressure I imagine they¡¯ve been getting about the incident. Chances are, the fact that I came home around the time that the destruction took place just makes me a potential witness, not a potential suspect.


    Which would be a relief. Cause then it¡¯ll be even easier to not talk to the cops. In theory.


    But they haven¡¯t left yet.


    I stand very still, and I ignore the way that my arm is squirming, reacting to my elevated heartbeat, and I watch.


    Deputy Slim says something back, and Sheriff Wide grunts out something that might qualify as a laugh. He says something, and I strain everything I have to hear it.


    ¡°Don¡¯t even ¡­¡­ fucking waste of¡­ fuckin fed¡­ pushy bitch¡­¡±


    Fuck.


    Fuck, what a relief.


    A waste of time. Probably. Waste of something, anyways. Heart¡¯s not in it.


    That¡¯s¡­ well, it¡¯s not all I needed, but fuck me if it isn¡¯t a relief to hear. An unmotivated pig is a safer pig.


    He tries one more time, making me jump.


    BANG BANG BANG.


    I do and say nothing.


    I can hear him sigh, and then he turns around and walks away, Deputy Slim right behind.


    They get in their car¡­ and they leave.


    I can breathe again.


    Now what the fuck was that about a fed?

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.13

    "And lift! There you go! Keep those knees high in the sky, ladies! This one''s going out to the glutes! Keep that heart rate pumping!"


    "Alright! From knee-ups, we''re going to go straight into a deeeep squat. That''s right, I want you to really feel it! Just because we''re cooling down, that doesn''t mean you shouldn¡¯t stay active on the way! I want you to go down into that squat and hold. That''s right, count it with me, we can do this!"


    "One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Nine! Nine! Nine! Nine! Nine! NIne! NiNe! NiNE! NinE! NInE! NiNE! NINE! NINE! NINE! NINE! NINE! NINE! NINE! NINE! NINE-


    ~Recorded VHS video, playing live, Hour 11:34


    ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    Knock knock knock.


    A different beat than my last visitors. Considerably less violent, for one thing, though no less hurried. Even tracking the differences in the sound, the ways that the weight behind the impact is so distinct, I can¡¯t help but feel a bit tense as I head down the stairs and look through the peephole.


    A flash of dreadlocks, rich dark skin, and a dark blue parka.


    ¡°It¡¯s chilly as fuck out here, girl! You gonna let me in or what?¡±


    The doorknob lock, the higher latch, and the chain all rattle as I open the door, one step at a time, tracking each step as if to reassure myself as I make way for Jay to make it in from the cold.


    ¡°Shit! Fuck! Winter wind coming in, got me freezing my ass off!¡±


    I let out a giggle- it¡¯s rare to see him curse so much outright, but minor discomfort? That¡¯ll absolutely do it.


    ¡°What a loss it would be, to see such a tuchus reduced to nothing but a frozen hunk on the side of the road. Quit whining, I¡¯ve got the kettle on. You¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    He shivers audibly, blowing a raspberry as he does, but shakes off his jacket, putting it on the hanger and beelining for kitchen-


    ¡°Hey! It¡¯s my kettle! Don¡¯t-¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a professional! Your idea of good tea is my idea of flavorless water, and I am cold! Let me work, woman!¡±


    I don¡¯t even bother trying to stop him; he¡¯s already past me and well on the way to manhandling my kettle and meager tea supplies. Frankly, it¡¯s insulting that he¡¯s going to somehow manage to make better tea in the five minutes I¡¯m looking away than I can with half an hour of prep and as many ingredients as I can get my hands on.


    But I¡¯m not above being the tiniest bit insulted if it means that I get tea as good as I know is coming.


    I take a seat in the living room, in sight of the kitchen, and get back to work as he waits.


    By the time he¡¯s back, I¡¯m almost done covering the floor in paper and paint supplies.


    ¡°So,¡± he asks, handing me a mug; ¡°what¡¯s all this about, then?¡±


    ¡°So, remember the fact that there¡¯s living meat in my building in a bunch of cracks you can¡¯t see for some reason?¡±


    ¡°Kind of hard to forget, hun.¡±


    ¡°Right, well, I figured, if there¡¯s cracks here, chances are there are way more somewhere else. If I can find them, then maybe, just maybe, I can figure out some of the pieces that I¡¯m missing.¡±


    ¡°About¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh, no clue. But something¡¯s going on.¡±


    He snorts, taking a sip (and conveniently, reminding me to take a sip myself. It is, predictably, delicious- somehow he¡¯s managed to get the sweetness just right, and it tastes a little bit like honey, though I know I don¡¯t have any in the house).


    ¡°Ok, fair enough. Why don¡¯t you tell me what¡¯s going on with you, hmm? Last time I saw you, you were in a depressive episode as bad as I¡¯ve ever seen, and now you seem to have swung really far the other way. Coming off a bit manic with all¡­ this.¡±


    He waves a hand, and, unfortunately, I can¡¯t really say he¡¯s wrong.


    I¡¯ve got about six full notebooks spread out around me, half of them scribbled in, half of them open and waiting for further input. I¡¯ve got a sheet of watercolor-paper on the floor, with about half of a hand-drawn map on it, detailing an amateur but functional rendition of the town of Hollow Springs. Between these parts, I¡¯ve got a few printed newspapers (had to dust off my printer for those, it¡¯s been a while) with circled phrases, tacked-on sticky notes, and an otherwise eclectic variety of mess all around.


    In summary, it looks like a scaled down, theatre-kid version of that one Pepe Silvio meme, and probably doesn¡¯t make me look particularly sane.


    Sarah¡¯s asleep, and the other two are¡­ vaguely out, or in their rooms, or not bothering me, and so commandeering the space was pretty easy. It¡¯ll be cleaning it up after that¡¯ll be tough.


    I take in a long, deep breath, the scent of fresh tea slightly alleviating the smell of wet paint covering the space around me.


    And I get to thinking.


    In the time since I last saw Jay? I died.


    I haven¡¯t told him.


    I¡¯m¡­ fuck. Not sure if I want to. Not sure if he¡¯ll believe me, for one thing- coming back from the dead¡¯s a step beyond ¡°magic wall meat¡±.


    Yeah. Alright. I brought him in, so¡­ I guess I have to tell him some of it. It¡¯s only fair.


    I breathe out, nice and meditative and slow, and take a sip of her tea.


    ¡°Alright. So. Lot of shit¡¯s gone down since last week.¡±


    ¡°Ilia it¡¯s been five days since I saw you. All in the same week.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, this is important.¡±


    He does.


    I didn¡¯t mean to make it snappy, but¡­


    Sip of tea. Important for composure and mental health. He waits, letting me set the pace/


    ¡°Ok. Ok. So.


    ¡°Someone came to my work. Someone¡­ weird. I wasn¡¯t sure who they were, at first, and then things got weirder. We sort of¡­ threatened each other? And then we split. I went home. Something followed me.¡±


    ¡°Wait, something-¡±


    ¡°I decided I didn¡¯t want it following me to my house, where my roommates live, so I went to the construction site next door.¡±


    He pauses. Waits for me to say something. In the silence-


    ¡°The exploded crime-scene construction site next door?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. That one.¡±


    I take another sip. My right arm, the one that was taken and came back, twitches, just once. I don¡¯t think Jay notices.


    ¡°Anyways. I¡­ I got hurt, and it thought I was dead. The weirdo from the bar came back, and she helped me out a bit, and I managed to get home. We talked, she gave me her card (her name¡¯s Leisha, by the way), and¡­ I guess I sort of bottled that whole thing up, and kept going to work.¡±


    ¡°Oh honey, I didn¡¯t- when I said you should go back to work, I didn¡¯t mean if you were in danger there! You don¡¯t-¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the important part. I-¡±


    ¡°Not the important part? Ilia, you were attacked! You said you were hurt? Where-¡±


    ¡°Jay!¡±


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    My voice is too loud. I can hear a shake in it.


    I haven¡¯t¡­ haven¡¯t talked about what happened yet.


    The house is quiet. I don¡¯t want to disturb the other people here. That¡¯s not, like, the most important part of this, not by a long shot, but I don¡¯t want to, so it adds to it.


    Fuck.


    ¡°The important part, Jay, is that I¡¯m not the only one. There are other people out there with these weird-as-fuck powers, or sight, or whatever you call it, and somehow, they know about me. They visited me. One of them outright attacked me, and apparently, it might do it again if I leave the house after dark.¡±


    Jay¡¯s tea is in his hands, but he¡¯s not drinking it. He¡¯s just staring at me. Quiet.


    ¡°And! Important bit! The sheriff came by. Last night. Knocked on the door, tried to talk, all that shit. Didn¡¯t say anything, didn¡¯t let him in, he and his little buddy left, but, and this is one of the important bits, but, I heard them talking before they left. Something about the feds.


    ¡°So. There¡¯s other people with some kind of weird powers. I don¡¯t know the through-line yet, but they exist, and they have some way to get information about me, or at least know I exist enough to do a search on me. And, coincidentally or not, there¡¯s some kind of federal pressure on the sheriff¡¯s office, and either because of that or because of the mess next door that they don¡¯t know I was involved with, or they¡¯d have arrested me, they came knocking at my door.¡±


    My mouth stumbles as I reach the end of the sentence. I¡­ think I expected to keep going? That¡¯s annoying. Makes sense, but still annoying. My hands are jittering, as I speak, nervous energy trapped without the outlet of speech, and I wrap them tighter around the mug.


    It¡¯s warm, and it smells earthy and sweet, and it tastes nice. I let out a breath I didn¡¯t realize I was holding.


    Jay puts his cup down on the living room table, a short thing in front of the couch, and joins me on the floor.


    ¡°Is it ok if I give you a hug?¡± he asks.


    I don¡¯t feel up to talking anymore, ironically, so I just nod.


    We stay like that for a while. I don¡¯t quite find it in me to let go of the her tea, and I spend a lot of time trying not to let the lump in my throat turn into something unproductive, traitor that it is, but I do lean my head into his.


    The hug is nice. It¡¯s warm. I forget how nice it is to be touched, when you haven¡¯t been in a while. A very animal-brain sort of need, but a very real one nonetheless.


    Eventually, he breaks away, and I let out another exhale, sipping more tea. It¡¯s only lukewarm now, but it¡¯s still quite nice.


    ¡°So¡­ I¡¯m sort of mad you didn¡¯t tell me, but only a bit. That¡¯s a lot to deal with. Getting attacked isn¡¯t some minor thing, and I¡¯m really sorry you went through that. I¡­ don¡¯t know that there¡¯s a lot I can do, but I don¡¯t want you to feel like you shouldn¡¯t tell me about something scary happening to you because you¡¯re worried about what it¡¯ll do to me.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not¡­ entirely fair.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Ok. But you got hurt, and I didn¡¯t know about it, and that makes me sad. Fairer?¡±


    I give a little grunt (I¡¯m not feeling up to a full scoff), and he takes it as the assent I intended it to be.


    ¡°Ok. So. After all that¡­ I¡¯m assuming you didn¡¯t tell me any of that because you were coping and managing. Super valid, totally tubular- but a few days isn¡¯t really enough to cope all the way, and I¡­ don¡¯t know that your new painting style is all that helpful.¡±


    At this, I perk up- that¡¯s easier. Like, way easier.


    ¡°Actually, this is something I can use your help with. Even a fresh set of eyes could do a lot here.¡±


    I set my tea down next to Jay¡¯s, then pick them both up and pull the drawing out from beneath them, pushing my laptop out of the way with my elbow as I do. By the end of the maneuver, I¡¯ve got two mugs in one hand, a drawing in the other, and a laptop on the verge of falling off the edge- but I can show everything I need to.


    ¡°So! Someone attacked me, and I met someone else who helped, but also wasn¡¯t, like, my friend. They gave me a card to contact them, and I will, that¡¯s in the plans, but not yet. I don¡¯t want to go until I know at least the very basic stuff, things I can figure out on my own and can cross-reference against whatever they say. To that, I¡¯m using the tools that I have, primarily that I can see meat walls.¡±


    ¡°Weird way to phrase it, but go off.¡±


    ¡°Literally no normal way to phrase it, fuck you. Anyways, since I¡¯ve seen you, I managed to try some stuff. I can¡¯t do everything I could in the game, but I can do some, and that some involves mostly being able to make stuff out of available materials. I can use non-living stuff, but only the smallest amount. I have to figure out conventional engineering the hard way, while the meat-stuff kind of just¡­ happens naturally as I build, so long as I have an idea in mind. And I need to know the lay of the land. I¡¯m in unknown territory, and a city planning map ain¡¯t gonna cut it.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ the map-drawing is for trying to figure where everything is, but on, like, the supernatural front?¡±


    ¡°Exactly. I won¡¯t be able to know for sure unless I go in person and check it out, and even that¡¯s not guaranteed, but it¡¯s a start. I figure if I can find the weirdest places in town, cross-reference that with parts that are mostly isolated in some way, and then reference that with previous events in the newspaper or old gossip columns, I can build a map of likely weirdness. I don¡¯t have time or feel safe just driving around town looking, but this strikes a middle ground of maybe giving me some direction, even if it¡¯s not guaranteed.¡±


    ¡°You said that twice, that it¡¯s not guaranteed. What do you mean? Like, the map isn¡¯t guaranteed, sure, but not even if you go in person?¡±


    ¡°...it¡¯s not always the same.¡±


    He stops, pivots, and full-body turns to face me.


    ¡°Ilia, that is what I would call a deeply unhelpful statement, and sort of basically some kind of omen. What does that mean?¡±


    I let out a long sigh-groan, letting the noise rumble as the air leaves.


    ¡°Ok. So¡­ the first time after playing the game. When I went to the ¡®Roast. I saw an eye in the back of your head.¡±


    ¡°You what?!¡±


    His hands are already up and feeling his scalp, his eyes wide, and I have to reach out and bap him on the elbow to get him to focus back on me.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine! It¡¯s not there anymore, I checked. Last time I saw you, it wasn¡¯t there, and it¡¯s not there now.¡±


    ¡°Well what does that mean?! You just see eyes in the back of people¡¯s heads sometimes?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ guess so? I don¡¯t know!¡±


    ¡°Well why was it there?!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡±


    ¡°Wha- that¡¯s not helpful Ilia! If you can pull weird meat out of the wall then-¡±


    ¡°Listen, it¡¯s not there. Ok? It¡¯s just not. I don¡¯t know why it went away, or what changed, but the point is, sometimes things change, or I stop seeing them, and I don¡¯t know why. None of the cracks in the wall have changed, they¡¯re all in the same places, and I can still see all the ones I knew about before, but I can¡¯t rule out that I¡¯ll notice something that goes away when I next check it, or that¡¯ll be a red herring or something.¡±


    Jay looks at me, gesticulates with his hands, points at the back of his head, and gesticulates again.


    ¡°Ok? But my head? Was it at least my eye?¡±


    I blink.


    I¡­ hadn¡¯t thought about that.


    ¡°...No. Kind of wasn¡¯t. Way too big, and the pupil was brown, I think.¡±


    Ok so I had somebody else¡¯s eye in my head?¡±


    ¡°Maybe! I don¡¯t know how any of this works yet! That¡¯s what we¡¯re trying to figure out!¡±


    He throws his hands up. ¡°For someone who just told me she saw an eyeball in the back of my head you are being weirdly frustrated about my freaking out about it! This is news to me, girl!¡±


    I throw my hands up this time, waggling them and giving him a Look?. ¡°Ok? I mean, I can check again, if that helps. I¡¯m not trying to freak you out, I¡¯ve just been seeing and doing a lot of weird shit!¡±


    ¡°Please do check it out, actually, please.¡±


    I almost sigh, but¡­ well, it¡¯s actually a pretty reasonable request. I get up and circle around him, looking at the part of the back of his head where I saw something last time. I have to ask him to move some of the dreads out of the way, but I don¡¯t really see any-


    Oh.


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°Oh? What does ¡®Oh¡¯ mean? Ilia, is there an-¡±


    ¡°No, no, there¡¯s¡­ there¡¯s no eye. It¡¯s just¡­¡±


    ¡°Just what?¡±


    I don¡¯t really know how to describe it.


    It looks¡­ inflamed. Swollen, and bloody, but only a little. It¡¯s visibly a different color than the rest of his skin, though not by much- same melanin, different blood flow, like watching someone ¡°go pale¡± in fright. It¡¯s there, on the back-right side of his head, looking just shy of natural and more than a little medically concerning, made worse by the cut.


    There¡¯s a line in the middle of it, slightly curved, and very clean-edged, like from a scalpel. It looks like a surgical cut, but without any stitches, like it¡¯s recent. It¡¯s also where the blood is coming from. Not much- just a little bit, and mostly dried, but even though it doesn¡¯t look infected or anything, it doesn¡¯t look healed.


    ¡°I mean¡­ it looks like you have a cut back here.¡±


    Immediately his hand goes for the area¡­ and I watch as it touches the wound and does nothing. The flesh of the area deforms at the contact, but not as much as regular skin, like it¡¯s tougher, or like the touch is lighter than it clearly is. He moves his hand around, and while some of the blood sticks to it, it doesn¡¯t seem to re-open the wound or even really bother it much.


    ¡°Where is it? I can¡¯t feel anything.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ here, let me-¡±


    I reach out and touch it. Lightly.


    This time, it reacts like normal skin would. It deforms under my touch, and I feel heat, slightly above body-temp, and the wet stickiness of half-dried blood. As I touch it, the shape shifts, the cut pulling back just a little to reveal a deeper redness¡­ and a glint of white. Glistening.


    Huh.


    So turns out, he does still have an eye in the back of his head.


    I¡¯ve seen and touched way grosser stuff than this in the last few days. By a lot. By a shitload. This isn¡¯t-


    Ok. Deep breaths. Look away. Deeeeep breaths. No puking.


    ¡°Ilia, where the fuck-¡±


    He stops speaking.


    I turn back to look at him, and he¡¯s staring at my hand.


    ¡°...did you get a cut? Like, on my beads or something?¡±


    I shake my head, and hold my fingers over one of the newspaper clippings so they don¡¯t bleed onto the floor.


    ¡°No. It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s not my blood.¡±


    We both stay very quiet for a hot minute after that, as Jay slowly runs his hand over his entire scalp.


    It comes away with a few streaks of red on it¡­ which he sees, can¡¯t not see as he checks his hand, and doesn¡¯t seem to notice.


    ¡°You¡¯re officially freaking me out, honey.¡±


    I can¡¯t help it this time. A little laugh escapes, an exhale just short of a breath.


    ¡°You should see the kind of shit I get up to upstairs, this is nothing.¡±


    Judging by his face, that maybe wasn¡¯t the most reassuring thing I could have said.

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.14

    Let it never be said that the great Enemy does not have wiles of its own. Our greatest strength lies not in our minds, but in our faith, but the mind, gift from God above and which places man above animal, is a close second. It is easy to believe the Enemy mad, that they are stark lunatics deluded and beyond all sense. Nothing could be more and less true at once. Each soldier of the Enemy is a beast of madness, tis true, but their madness is born as much from their human minds as by the perversions of such gift brought on by their consort with Satan. They will hide as trained hunters, speak as orators or innocents in turn, and will often appear as plain to the common eye as any God-fearing citizen of our nation.


    The trick, then, is not to simply assume one is smarter than the Enemy. Intellect is as freely given by God as any other human trait, and just as easily used against his chosen agents. Instead, we must turn to what no tempted, fallen evil can stomach, and which the God-fearing ever hold in their hearts as natural and true.


    If they can look like us, and think like us, and lie as ably as any devil, we must turn to the last and greatest recourse of the good. We must work harder than they do. We must try more than they do. We must sleep less, think more, speak more, and work more- for to do any less is to fall to slothful arrogance. And there is little easier to catch unawares than the arrogant.


    -A Guide ¡®Gainst The Enemy, 1745, by William Hunt


    ________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    I take a sip of tea.


    Jay takes a sip of tea.


    We take a sip of tea.


    I fight the impulse to pull out my phone or fill the silence.


    The tea, at this point, is a little past lukewarm, and Jay takes the opportunity to walk back to the kitchen and refresh us both.


    He comes back, and lets out the longest, loudest sigh I¡¯ve ever heard.


    ¡°Ok. So¡­ you¡¯re saying that there¡¯s invisible blood from an invisible cut on my head. And on your hand, it¡¯s visible.¡±


    ¡°Apparently.¡±


    ¡°Alright. Sure. Why not. Unless this is the most elaborate fucked up gaslighting anyone¡¯s ever experienced, I have no way to say that isn¡¯t real blood, because I have no fucking clue how it got there. But I still can¡¯t see or feel it. But¡­ I¡¯m assuming that means that the rest of town is the same?¡±


    I nod. ¡°Probably. I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯ll still be able to affect you, just not as much the other way around. Some, but not as much. That¡¯s why I need your help here, not out there. I don¡¯t want you to get hurt.¡±


    The statement doesn¡¯t quite have the effect I intended on him. He frowns at me, like he¡¯s about to protest, and then lets out a grumble instead, drinking from his mug¡­ and then firmly putting it down on the table, the thud of impact seeming to shake him out of something.


    ¡°Appreciated, but¡­ we¡¯ll cross that bridge when we get there. I¡¯ve got this phantom cut, right? I¡¯m already affected somehow. And I said I¡¯d help, so I¡¯m helping.¡±


    I nod. Not a lot more I can say to that. Not without scaring him more, maybe, or hurting him, or¡­ mmh.


    ¡°So! What do you have so far?¡±


    I take a deep breath, using it to center myself, and then mirror the way he put down his mug, turning instead to the map, newspaper clippings, and journals spread throughout the living room.


    ¡°Hollow Springs is pretty mundane overall, and I think if I wasn¡¯t looking, I wouldn¡¯t bat an eye. I mean, everywhere has myths and monsters and stuff, but if this town has any, they¡¯re word of mouth only, not big enough to make it into any local events or news stories or even online references. There aren¡¯t any stories of hauntings I could find, or weird creatures in the woods, at least none in public record or easy access- but that doesn¡¯t mean this place doesn¡¯t have some quirks.


    ¡°When the lumber mill shut down, the town should have shut down with it, turned into one of those dying places you see all over the continental US. Instead, it got put basically on life support. They pivoted to tourism, but the closest ¡°touristy¡± location is almost twenty minutes away by car, that being Lake Sufford, so they also had to switch over to hunting. That¡¯s seasonal, and it kept the town alive for another decade, but almost half the businesses in town started shutting down not long after.¡±


    Pause. Sip of tea. Don¡¯t let the energy get away from you again, me.


    ¡°That¡¯s where things get weird. All of a sudden, there¡¯s a bunch of nobody, mid-lister companies that decided to start moving in. I figured they would be buying up land, turning it to ranching like other towns in the county, but no, they start buying up areas around town and then start building. But never for long.


    ¡°Hollow Springs has three housing developments connected to it that never finished, not even counting the condo construction. We¡¯ve got a good seven different failed businesses downtown that got replaced, rebuilt, and then never actually got anything put up in them, and a few more buildings that ended up as just perpetual construction lots, the kind that just sit half-finished with a fence around them. Half the companies I found in charge of it don¡¯t exist anymore, and most of the rest of them just kind of vanish after a while. I¡¯m not a private investigator, most of this is just search-engine results, but it¡¯s weird, right?


    ¡°But! It kept the town alive just long enough for the world to change. Between seasonal tourism, hunting, and the construction projects, enough money kept coming in to justify (apparently) more construction, which then died, in a cycle, all the way up until the 90s. The town¡¯s half-decrepit, half unused lots, half again a mess of construction sites, and then Amazin is born. They¡¯re not all that big, not back then, when the internet was brand new, but someone figured out that all their buying and selling needed warehouses, and apparently, all those construction projects meant people had sunk enough money into this place to prompt one. So Hollow Springs got a new construction site, again, and this one takes years to finish, but by the early 2000s, the town gets a warehouse. It¡¯s one of the smaller ones, not like the big distribution centers, but it is very much there, and it¡¯s maybe the town¡¯s main employment including a lot of the construction workers, since a lot of the construction kinda slowed down after the warehouse went up. Now, we got this¡­ franken-town.


    ¡°Tons of empty houses and unfinished construction, but also more housing than we can even use. Tiny population, very few kids, but modern businesses here and there that followed the warehouse. Woods and ranching all around, plenty of hunting, but no real focus on it.¡±


    It¡¯s only when Jay puts his hand on my shoulder that I stop, pause, and recognize that the sip of tea didn¡¯t help as much as I¡¯d like.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Deeeeeep breaths, hun.¡±


    My first instinct is to grumble. My second, smarter instinct is to shut up and take some deep breaths. Haven¡¯t been this anxious in a while- maybe Jay has a point about the manic state.


    ¡°Sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. A lot of that went over my head, but it¡¯s nice to have you rambling. Haven¡¯t had a good infodump from my friend in a while.¡±


    I snort. ¡°You always whine when I go on tangents!¡±


    He just shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s endearing and annoying. Stuff can be two things at once.¡±


    I roll my eyes- but I take the advice.


    Slow. Deep breaths.


    ¡°The point is the town¡¯s very, very, very boring. But also boring in a way that¡¯s sort of off. Now I think, and this is just a guess, but I think the meat-cracks in the wall? Those are mine. They happened because I started seeing weird stuff, not before. Leisha, the woman who came to the bar? She mentioned that they felt something happen, some sort of¡­ I don¡¯t know, pulse? And I think that¡¯s what cracked the walls here. Since I know there are other people who¡¯ve got other abilities of some kind, I¡¯m assuming that some of them may have made cracks of their own. And I think these changes have an effect on reality, too. I¡¯ve heard the house creak and groan if I touch the wall-meat. If I can find the right places to look, I think I can find more examples of this weirdness, and then use them to figure out more of what¡¯s going on.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ doesn¡¯t actually sound like a terrible plan. It¡¯s a lot of leaps, but I can see where you¡¯re coming from with it.¡±


    I let out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a shout- just a long, messy exhale full of noise.


    ¡°Ok! Thank you! Already knew it was a good plan, I just wanted confirmation.¡±


    ¡°You called me over just for confirmation?¡±


    ¡°Well, no. That¡¯s sort of just the basics of it. I actually wanted your advice on where to actually look.¡±


    I pull out the map, gesturing to the half-drawn portion of it and pointing out my house, there in the bottom-left middle of it.


    ¡°Here¡¯s the condo. I can¡¯t be sure, but I think I¡¯ve seen all the ¡°major¡± cracks around here, those being the ones at my house. If there are any more, or anything else, it¡¯s small enough that I can miss it.¡±


    My finger trails northwest, closer to the center of town and away from the heavy woodlands I¡¯ve started drawing to mark the ¡°unknown frontiers¡±.


    ¡°I¡¯m close-ish to downtown, and so are the Golden Roast and the pub. It¡¯s got some empty offices I want to check out, and it¡¯s not too far from the shops to the library and town hall, I figure a quick drive past them wouldn¡¯t hurt. From there, I can head southwest, past the clinic, get to the suburban areas and the schools, out a bit towards the construction out there, and head back. We can pass by the sheriff¡¯s station and the fire department pretty easy, they¡¯re like, two minutes from each other, and then we can work our way northwest again for the trails, the park, and the pool. After that, we can start looking at stuff like the water tower, maybe.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a lot of ground to cover, hun. You got a plan?¡±


    ¡°Yeah; you. You¡¯ve been here longer than I have, and you actually listen when people yap at you. I could tell you where most of the best deer trails are, and whose foreman is more of an asshole, but that¡¯s all I get around True Blue¡¯s. I need you to point out places that people tend to avoid, places that people will complain or seem weird about.¡±


    He actually pauses at that.


    ¡°Are you asking me to breach barista-customer privilege and speak of secrets mine ears have overheard?¡±


    ¡°...yeah?¡±


    ¡°Ilia, I have waited years to gossip about these people. You¡¯ve come to the right place.¡±


    He stands up, clearing his throat and setting down his tea, before turning on his heel and bowing deeply. ¡°Jay Clark, nosy bitch extraordinaire, at your service, milady.¡±


    I chuck a paintbrush at his head (a dry one, I¡¯m not a monster), which he artfully takes right between the brows.


    ¡°Wha- Ilia!¡±


    ¡°Sorry! I thought you would dodge it! I was teasing!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have you know my reflexes are finely honed exclusively for spinning in place and juggling beverages! I am otherwise capable of literally tripping over my own feet!¡±


    I can¡¯t help it- I laugh.


    It comes out like air bursting from a bubble, like a breath trapped in my lungs. It just sort of happens, a cackle and a giggle and an exhale all wrapped up together in just how goofy the exchange has become. An hour ago, I was trying to finagle my nightmare moodboard of potential haunted houses that could kill me, and now¡­ now my friend is here.


    I don¡¯t think I¡¯m going to say it, and I don¡¯t think he needs me to, but this is why I called him here, why I would have called even if he was completely ignorant of the town. It¡¯s needy of me, messy, I know, but the loneliness hasn¡¯t gone away just because I¡¯m fighting for my life. It just got easier to push aside. It¡¯s been, what, four days(?) since I talked to someone outside of work and my roommates, and longer than that since I¡¯ve laughed for real.


    Fuck. Fuck.


    I really would shatter the limbs of any bitch that threatens him.


    Jay¡¯s better than me. He¡¯s too good for me, too. But I¡¯m glad that he¡¯s here.


    Almost as much as I don¡¯t want to die, I don¡¯t want to be miserable. And I am- but he helps.


    The laughs wind down, and to my immense relief, I manage to get the outburst under control before she dissolves into tears. I needed that little outlet, and Jay could likely tell- he¡¯s funny, and witty, but silly is reserved for when it¡¯s required.


    By the time I¡¯m back under control, he¡¯s sat back down, and has started pulling up google maps on my laptop, bringing up the town.


    ¡°Ok. I think it¡¯s a good idea to do the clinic, right? You mentioned this is all meat and biology related, and that¡¯s a place that¡¯s literally about that. I¡¯m not really a fan of driving past schools and suburbia without a good reason, though- book it for the construction site, check it out, come back. It¡¯ll definitely look weird anyways, your nightmare of a car is hella recognizable, but if you¡¯re not going way under the speed limit and staring at everything, that¡¯ll probably go a lot better.


    ¡°As for the rest- there¡¯s this one building downtown I¡¯ve heard about. Sometimes people say they heard someone say they wanted to open a shop there, or someone tried to open a shop there, but it always fails, like clockwork. The other buildings usually just stay vacant or have only had, like, one or two chains move through them, rather than a whole bunch.


    ¡°Last but not least- the lumber mill. People definitely say that shit¡¯s haunted. Nobody goes near there after dark unless they¡¯re on a dare, and I heard that even the rowdy kids don¡¯t push it, it¡¯s a big deal for the moms when they do. There¡¯s probably more, and none of these read like a medium¡¯s shop- that one¡¯s probably downtown somewhere, if I had to guess, but I haven¡¯t heard of it, so maybe not. But if we¡¯re talking about meat-stuff and places that are weird? Suburban empty construction site, lumber mill, and clinic. That¡¯s what comes to mind for me.¡±


    I inhale, exhale, and move my neck around, eliciting enough popping noises that Jay flinches.


    ¡°Ok. I have work tomorrow, but after that comes the weekend. I just have to make it there, and then we can do a scouting mission.¡±


    ¡°Alright. I can call off for a shift on saturday, if that¡¯s alright?¡±


    Ah. Fuck. I forgot- I¡¯m free on weekends, but he¡¯s not.


    ¡°Shit, Jay, I didn¡¯t¡­ that¡¯s my bad. You don¡¯t have to, I can call off no problem-¡±


    ¡°Gurl, I make way more in tips than you do, relax. I¡¯ll be fine, they can¡¯t live without me over there. I might not be able to see all this weird shit, but I can still be backup. Ooh, or your getaway driver!¡±


    I laugh, but it¡¯s quieter this time.


    ¡°Sure. I could use a getaway driver.¡±


    Fuck.


    I can only hope that I¡¯m not dragging him further into this. It¡¯s just a quick trip around town. We both drive around town literally every day.


    It¡¯ll be fine.


    It¡¯ll be fine.


    And if it isn¡¯t¡­ that¡¯s what the meat is for.


    ¡°Oh. Right, also, I made grenades.¡±


    ¡°You what?¡±

 INTRAMUSCULAR 2.15

    .?§ñ?? mo§ñ? ??§ñow ???? ?lno ?I .????l? .qo?? bl¦Ôo? ¦Ôo? ?¦Ôd ?b?§ñ??? ?d bl¦Ôow ¦Ôo? bn? ??§ñ¦Ô? bl¦Ôow ?I .qo?? bl¦Ôow ¦Ôo? ??iw I


    ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    With Jay¡¯s help, I¡¯ve got a list.


    Clinic, abandoned downtown building, suburbia construction, and the lumber mill. Saving the lumber mill for last- if there¡¯s going to be a fucked up monster anywhere, it¡¯s in the abandoned, apparently haunted, full-of-tetanus nightmare of old metal and broken dreams. It¡¯s not all the locations we came up with, not by a long shot, but for the first stretch of our likely-to-kill-me explorations, it¡¯ll do.


    Now, I know you might be wondering; Ilia! Why don¡¯t you just call Leisha and her friend? She helped you, didn¡¯t she? Chances are, they could help you again, give you the information you¡¯re looking for!


    Fun story- you¡¯re absolutely correct, metaphorical voice in my head. You have objectively measured properly what is most likely to happen. If I can find it in my heart to trust, to reach out, there is a non-zero chance that I end up allied with these people, that they have the answers I need. Bare minimum, they¡¯ll have some answers for me, which is a fair bit more than I have now.


    But it requires trust.


    That¡¯s not something I have a lot of. It never has been, and it¡¯s in even shorter supply nowadays.


    Leisha came to my bar and threatened me, threatened my friend. And right after that? The ¡°big guy¡± showed up.


    Correlation is not causation. It was my first day out of the house since I came back from the game, so maybe that was just the first chance everyone had to come and meet me, but that rings a little hollow. Leisha¡¯s excuse, the minimum civility she expressed between subtle hints, searching jabs and outright threats, yeah, it tracks, but the creature? It wasn¡¯t wild, wasn¡¯t rabid. It had an intelligence to it, and it probably could have come through my window and pasted me at any time after it found out where I was, which, apparently, wasn¡¯t that hard to do.


    And then? Right after, there she was, ready to clean up the mess.


    The idea that she was there to see what had happened isn¡¯t unrealistic. Probably what I would do in her place, even.


    Doesn¡¯t make it any less suspicious.


    Trust.


    Short supply.


    Now, some would argue that extending trust is most vital when none is present. They¡¯re correct. Some might even say that gambling on the good of others, and trusting those in a community that you can engage with and are a part of, is quintessential to advancing and growing as a person and society. That is also correct.


    Earlier this week, someone fucking killed me. Before that, I got trapped in a meat-videogame where I could physically feel everything that happened to me as I experienced body dysmorphia and surgical, symbiotic modification on super-steroids. I believe I have more than earned the right to protect myself rather than do the right thing.


    I¡¯m happy to extend that trust, and to take that gamble- once I know what my cards are. Once I know that losing the gamble won¡¯t kill me again, won¡¯t tear me apart, won¡¯t turn me inside out or erase me like the family in that abandoned house.


    Frankly? I don¡¯t think I¡¯m unjustified in waiting until I have something I can use to overturn the table before I put my faith in strangers, in a strange world, after something that might be correlation and might be causation and might be coincidence fucking killed me.


    Jay¡¯s gone. It¡¯s night out. The time when, supposedly, the big guy would be able to find me again.


    Sarah walks past me, and gives me a weird look.


    ¡°I¡¯m putting it away. Promise.¡±


    She shrugs. ¡°Ok! That¡¯s fine. Working on a project?¡±


    I nod. ¡°Yeah. Looking into the town¡¯s history, I guess. Trying to make a map of places to visit, see if I can¡¯t figure some things out.¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    I look at her and do my best impression of being genuinely calm and sort of bored with the whole thing, rather than my now-expected mix of anxious and angry. ¡°Not really sure. Just some weird stuff I¡¯ve noticed around town. You ever notice how there¡¯s always a shitload of construction around town, but it never finishes?¡±


    ¡°Hah! Yeah, that¡¯s Hollow Springs. Ever since I was a kid, there¡¯s always been some construction site up and running. Good for the town, I guess, but it¡¯s still a hassle. Kind of annoying that they never fix the potholes even with all those half-empty buildings, huh?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s definitely a lot more than any town I¡¯ve lived in before. I kind of assumed it was just a big construction period, but apparently it¡¯s always on? I¡¯m checking out some of the places.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    I shrug.


    ¡°Something to do.¡±


    She gives me a hell of a raised eyebrow, but then shrugs, grabbing some cheese sticks and a premade sandwich from the fridge. ¡°Fair enough. Can¡¯t be a fun time, spending most of the week at True Blue¡¯s. Plus, it could be good to have a reason to get out of the house sometimes. You¡¯ve seemed kind of down recently.¡±


    I can¡¯t help but snort. ¡°Yeah. A bit.¡±


    ¡°Mmh. Anything I can do?¡±


    I look up, surprised at the offer. My first instinct is fear, then anger, then back to surprise. I force the first impression to quiet the fuck down- paranoia is all fine and good, until it starts hurting me.


    I don¡¯t really know Sarah. I don¡¯t really like Sarah. But¡­ there¡¯s a difference between someone being a part of your loneliness, and them being a bad person. I don¡¯t think she¡¯s a bad person, and the offer, as trite as it is¡­


    She didn¡¯t have to offer.


    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    ¡°...No, that¡¯s ok. Thank you, though. That¡­ I appreciate it.¡±


    ¡°No problem.¡±


    And then, I shut my second instinct down as well, and actually think.


    ¡°Actually¡­ you work at the clinic, right?¡±


    She looks at me, then down at her scrubs, then back up at me. ¡°Yeah, girl. Why? You ok?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Maybe. I was thinking of coming in for a check-up over the weekend. You think it¡¯s doable?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, of course! You want me to schedule something?¡±


    ¡°Sure. This Sunday, maybe? If it¡¯s not too busy?¡±


    ¡°Sure! I¡¯ll check the schedule, let you know what times we have? Is it better in the afternoon or morning?¡±


    ¡°Early afternoonish?¡±


    ¡°Sure! I¡¯ll let you know.¡±


    And with that, she¡¯s out the door.


    Huh.


    That¡­ might be the most words I¡¯ve spoken to her since our first month together. Weird.


    I don¡¯t really¡­ want to talk more with her. I don¡¯t think we mesh really well. But it was nice of her to offer, and I¡¯m glad that I didn¡¯t reject her out of turn.


    Even at my worst (which this isn¡¯t, though it might be a side-step rather than an improvement), it¡¯s nice to see myself remember things, keep the important stuff in mind.


    I¡¯m scared, and liable to make more decisions that hurt me or other people soon. It feels like a victory, however small, to have ignored my lesser instincts and not snapped out at her. And yeah, in theory, it¡¯s nice to have an in for the clinic that I wasn¡¯t expecting.


    Small victories.


    I finish packing up the journals, the map, the newspaper clipping, and take my laptop with me back upstairs. Back to the cave, my lair, my den.


    Back to the flesh.


    The grenades. The¡­ puppet.


    And the glove.


    I did promise I¡¯d come back to that, didn¡¯t I?


    What was that I was saying earlier? Don¡¯t gamble unless you know the hand? Unless you can overturn the table in the first place?


    The glove. Glove. Capital G, at least in my head.


    The horrors of being in a body that isn¡¯t me is something I¡¯m familiar with. Even still, it was so much worse in the game. So much to deal with, overwhelmingly alien and wrong, and always changing.


    I don¡¯t mind the loss of ADAPTATION. EVOLUTION and CANALIZATION, both, in theory, rather useful- and in practice, worthless to me. I¡¯m not trying to adapt to things in that same way, where I lose control, or keep myself as I am, necessarily, and I still don¡¯t know how EVOLUTION even works outside of the context of the game.


    I¡¯m not entirely partial to my body- but losing it? Having it shift and change, beyond my control? Nightmare fuel.


    But¡­ that doesn¡¯t mean I don¡¯t mind modifications.


    The Glove is step one in that.


    In a strategy game, there¡¯s always one easily-neglected and permanently necessary resource: the research tree. You research, and it unlocks new buildings. Unlock new buildings, build more stuff, build more stuff, get more resources, and then circle back again, and research more things.


    I don¡¯t have the time or the leeway to build blindly. I only have so many resources to work with. So I need to start doing the research earlier than I¡¯d like.


    My arm twitches as I think of it.


    Ripples of damage. The topography of ruin, held together and remolded until it¡¯s only barely noticeable.


    Living proof of the supernatural. A limb that should not be. A body, torn to ruin, remade and held together by something I don¡¯t understand, something which followed me out of the dark and the unknown.


    It¡¯s not where my power comes from, I know that much. It didn¡¯t guide me through building my little constructs, it didn¡¯t show me the cracks in the world that I can pull from, but it healed me, and is holding me together well beyond what should be possible. There is power there, if I am willing to push.


    I have to be. My other choice is to gamble alone, blind, and with more than my own life on the line.


    I have to be.


    I unwrap the Glove.


    It smells, unsurprisingly, of raw meat. Sharp, like steak in the moments before it hits the grill. I¡¯m not sure how or why, but it¡¯s been a few days since I built it, and it¡¯s only just begun to leak. Bright red instead of grey, despite its time outside of refrigeration, despite how closely I¡¯ve wrapped it. It looks like something from out of a fantasy book, or from the gallery of some unhinged, avant-garde artist- a misshapen fist, twice the size of my own hand, poorly shaped and bound together like trussed ham for the oven.


    It¡¯s¡­ well. In practical, literal terms, I can¡¯t deny what it is; horrendous. It¡¯s a joke, a nightmare thing, half-malformed, half-mutated, all joke, a facsimile of something real made out of ignorance and desperation and just a hint of actual thought.


    In personal terms? Holding it?


    It doesn¡¯t feel horrendous. It doesn¡¯t feel like a joke, or at least not one meant to be laughed at.


    It feels¡­ alive.


    It doesn¡¯t move. It does not beat as a heart, or twitch at my touch, or exist as more than what I have made of it, in my own stunted, ignorant way. But it is alive. Like a grenade is alive, as you pull the pin and it becomes something new. Like something falling is alive, that moment before physics exerts a deeper touch, and the inevitable occurs: impact, and transformation.


    It feels dangerous.


    It feels mine.


    Slowly, I bring my hand up to the hollow, gaping side of it, and push.


    It¡¯s intimate in a way that disturbs me, but also feels right, like there¡¯s no other way it could be. I had to bind it tightly to force it to keep shape, and to unmake it now would be to forgo all of whatever it is I¡¯ve made. In theory, all I need to do is touch, command, pull the pins and watch things explode, but not for this. This is predicated on connection. Transformation.


    It feels wet, and warmer than it has any right to be.


    And then my fingers have found their place, and spread outward into them, and the first step is done.


    I take in a deep breath.


    I exhale.


    I reach deep into the idea of my arm, down to the twitching thing that holds it together, and tug.


    A muscle that doesn¡¯t exist and which I did not know was tensed comes loose, and I begin to BLEED.


    The arm comes apart like a wet mass, blood spurting out of held-together veins and falling out of severed chunks of flesh, but it¡¯s not the same as it was. The days held in place have forced at least some healing onto it, and it doesn¡¯t collapse entirely, the core of it remaining semi-connected.


    There is a moment, like the instant after you hit your toe on a table, where I don¡¯t feel any pain. What arrives first is the surety that pain will come, that it is on its way, tingling across and through nerve endings that aren¡¯t quite so fast as light or thought.


    And then the Glove comes alive.


    As if waiting for this moment, predatory, hungry, it drinks in my blood, the meat that makes up its matter squirming and wriggling such as to open up the places where I wove it together to better imbibe. As if a series of eels or fat, crimson maggots, it squirms in place, painting itself scarlet- and then digging further, down into the flesh, through the gaps in my arm where my Symbiont holds me together.


    For an instant, I glimpse a single blood cell, as large as a grain of rice, wiggling amidst the threads¡­ and then I know I am hallucinating, because I see it wave at me. With something almost like a hand.


    The Glove slips inside me, anchoring itself in my wounds and drinking deep, until the tips of its fingers are dripping crimson onto the floor.


    And then it clenches.


    I don¡¯t remember the rest. That¡¯s when it started hurting.


    I did not need to try not to scream. Before I could remember how to breathe again, everything went black.

 INTERLUDE 1.c

    The real world is where the monsters are.


    -Rick Riordan


    ________________________________________________________________________________________


    Hungry.


    Dark.


    Hungry.


    Trees.


    Hungry.


    Movement.


    Hungry.


    Chasing.


    Hungry.


    Catching.


    Tearing.


    Eating.


    The hunger gets quieter.


    Pupils, pitch dark as water under midnight, widen further, stretching out until there is no more shadow, only shape.


    Trees.


    All around, trees. The rustling of leaves. The crunch of nettles and dead floral flesh underfoot.


    There are no bushes here. No landscape. There are just the trees, and the ground, and the midnight just beyond what leaves still remain.


    And the lights.


    Far away, but never gone. Always there. Always loud. Glinting and noisy and sharp and bright, like malformed suns, stillbirth-stars cradled by cold metal and fearful flesh.


    It takes a bite. Tears away a fresh chunk, its hands pulling apart the meat as if it were never meant to be intact, simply waiting to be disconnected and made into food. It chews, and its teeth are not suited to the act. They grind and scrape against each other, and grind and scrape against the bone, and grind and scrape and unmake the strands of tissue and juices.


    Dripping noise.


    Its chin dribbles, the heat wafting away as steam from the red. Drip. Drip.


    It takes a bite, and once again there is the tearing.


    It can still see them. The lights. Stillborn stars, glinting so bright that their betters up above are obfuscated, distracted, fallen to formless dark. It smells those that carried the un-stars to term, their scent wafting even here, miles and miles away.


    Filth and decay. Ozone and oil. Grease and flowers. Flame and dripping, bubbling fats. Salts and alchemy and stranger, alien things.


    Hungry.


    It continues to tear, and continues to chew.


    What was once alive beneath it, before the tearing, before the pulling apart, had fur. It used to have fur, a long time ago. Now it is cold. Now the winter bite pushes against flesh long turned numb, shaped into leather over blubber and fat. Muscles ripple beneath the surface like leviathans in the deep, their shapes crossing each other and shaping pulleys and pistons and wire.


    It peels back the fur, and takes its time savoring it. The hint of warmth in it, quickly turning to frozen emptiness by the liquid crimson and the stillness of the torn thing. The shape of little seeds and smells, ingrained between the fibers. The smell of fear and the taste of it too, tangy and ripe and bitter.


    Hungry.


    Another leg torn off. Another bite.


    It wonders what fear is like.


    The prey was afraid, here. It is always afraid. It¡¯s always prey. The thought idly crosses its mind to wonder if, someday, it will meet something that isn¡¯t- but then the hunger is there, and it does not bother with the thought.


    There is alive, and there is dead. There is hungry, and there is full. There are those that run, and those that hide, and those that fight, and in the end, they all tear apart, or turn to mush, or crack and crumble and bleed.


    Fear is like bitter sweat and wide, glaring eyes and panting breath and screaming and the voiding of bowels and the frantic taste of adrenaline on the tongue.


    Fear is what food tastes like.


    It looks at the light that is not stars that is not sky that is not alive and salivates, eyes empty, as it stares towards the town.


    It has heard them make noises before. It¡¯s learned the unimportant ones. ¡°Help¡±. ¡°Please¡±. ¡°No¡±. It has learned the important ones: ¡°come¡±. ¡°Stay¡±. ¡°Find¡±.


    There are more, and sometimes it wonders. Do the other words have taste? Beyond bitter-scared-bitter-dying-bitter-crying? Likely yes, but those tastes it does not know, does not need.


    It doesn¡¯t like the not-stars. They are dull things, not as bright as day, but more frustrating than night, keeping the world away from the ease of the hunt. But there is good in this. If they see, then they run. Then they sweat. Then they make noises and fear, and then there is the taste of food in the air on its tongue in its ears in its hands, pulling tearing pulping gulping chewing-


    Hungry.


    It takes a bite. Bonier. There are no more limbs, and the spine crunches against its fangs and molars and incisors, all of them growing in forms and styles and scraping and gouging.


    There is only the middle bits left now. No legs, no head, no back. Just the purples and the reds and the pales and the shades in between, like little bubbles of flavor and juices and wriggling things that don¡¯t wriggle any more.


    It eats them one by one, popping them between its teeth and letting the juices dribble and drool and paint.


    Drip.


    Drip.


    Crunch.


    Then the food is gone, and there is just the quiet.


    Move.


    It is hungrier now. It moves more, it hears the important words more, but it is hungrier even still. Not so much that it cannot think, cannot play, cannot sneak and find and see and taste, but hungrier. It used to be able to sleep more, but now the things inside it rumble and churn and ask and plead and it delivers, like solving a puzzle, like finding the right pieces to put away and take apart and put into new shapes. It feels the burning as it moves, the pleasure of motion added to by the sting of its body pulling at itself and forming as it goes along, massive, swinging hands and thick strong legs pulling and pushing and allowing it to turn the darkness into blurry shadows as it moves.


    Hungry.


    But¡­ manageable. Not as hungry as before. It can go a few cycles without needing more.


    Smells.


    Ozone and oil. Grease and flowers. Flame and dripping, bubbling fats.


    But no stillborn light. No filth and decay. Out here, in the dark.


    With it.


    How sweet.


    In something else, there might be challenge. There might be aggression, or fear, the scents of food and animal.


    A predator does not feel challenged for having found a fresh meal. There is no territory to be divided, no struggle for dominance to be had.


    There is food here. Away from the lights, where they cannot see it, where they will not run and will not taste of bitter-scared-bitter-dying-bitter-crying. Not as quickly.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    It has already chased, and already eaten.


    It moves a body larger than carriage or prey through woods turned just-above pitch, the glint of far-away neon and ozone echoing faintly to its eyes. The world blurs, its eyes going quiet as its other senses come alive and tell it where it is, where it is going, what it can find-


    There.


    Ozone and oil. Grease and flowers. Flame and dripping, bubbling fats.


    But faint. Fainter than the rest of their kind. They have layered dirt and sweat and autumn death on themselves, the scent of vinyl and plastic partially coated by the smells of the dark where they walk and stop and rest.


    They are resting.


    It stops, and stands still.


    It has never seen another creature do this. The prey is always moving, always active, their hearts beating so loud that they shake and shiver, their breaths fogging the air and making them expand and contract like balloons.


    It stands still.


    Three tents, shaped like little igloos of man-made matter, dripping with the smell and taste of prey. They have pissed and shat close by, recently, and before that, made a fire, and put flesh over it until it dripped and glistened and was made rich. It can see the shape of the ground where they walked, trace the pathway back to one of the many places that the metal chariots pull to before the trees block their wheels and force the prey to disgorge out of the shell.


    It can hear them breathing.


    In and out. Like bags, wheezing, inflating and deflating to pass the right gases in and out of them. One of them is deformed, its passages out of shape, and the sound it makes is deeper, more jagged. They are snoring.


    No leaves crunch underfoot as it walks closer. Its weight spreads evenly across its mass, and the padding of its limbs is shaped enough that every step falls to silence. The prey does not stir.


    There is a container here with dead food, stinking of vibrant chemistry and brightly salted flesh- but it is half-empty. The prey has been here for a day, then, and has eaten some of its store of supplies. The flame is long gone out, and what is left is ash and cinder and bits of sugar and gristle that have fallen into it before.


    They are not the only pack of these creatures in the trees tonight. They are always moving through, and rarely do they cross paths. Old words, older than its understanding of words, weave a pattern such that rarely is it even interested in the pale, fatty things.


    But rarely is not never.


    Three tents. Each with a single morsel.


    Hungry.


    It goes into the first tent.


    Soft flesh sits and sleeps, full and warm and unaware. Wrapped in cotton and linen and plastic, layers and layers, like ablative fur covering it.


    One hand, the size of the creature''s head, gently wraps around its mouth and nose.


    It tries to inhale, and fails- and awakes.


    Eyes glimpse from out between clawed fingers, wide and startled and awake- and then it begins to stink of that oh-so-familiar smell.


    It cannot make noise. It can barely breathe, the air whistling quietly between its flesh and the prey¡¯s orifices.


    Its other hand lifts the arm that tries to strike at it, tries to pull it away. Similar to its own, but smaller. Weaker. So much thinner and softer.


    Squeeze just a little, and it starts to crackle.


    The sound that the soft thing makes is muffled to nothing under its hand, as it moves its fingers and squeezes again.


    Pop.


    Pop.


    Pop.


    Its hand is wet now. The soft thing is crying very loudly, and producing quite a bit of mucus, which is making it much harder for it to breathe.


    First arm is done. No more popping noises- just squelching.


    Leg comes next.


    Pop.


    Pop.


    Crack.


    Pop.


    Pop.


    Squelching again. It¡¯s turning a deep, dark purple, leaking in all sorts of interesting ways, going from a vaguely-shaped and functional thing to a bag of squishy bits.


    The soft thing is still crying, but it is quieter now, breathing like a much smaller animal. Fast and desperate, its heartbeat coming in through every blood vessel, a staccato rhythm that can be felt in its hand.


    It moves its other hand up this time, ignoring the way that the remaining arm of the soft thing flails at it, digs its little nails against its skin, failing to pierce.


    Up to the ribcage.


    Pop.


    An exhale, breathy and high pitched and shrill.


    Crack.


    Pop.


    Crack.


    Crack.


    Thinner here, in a lot of ways. More flexible. Expansive, so the bags that are the lungs can push against them.


    It knows where to avoid, where not to press or break. It has pulled apart enough of this form of prey to know more-or-less how much they can sustain, and which parts make them die the fastest.


    Snap.


    Crackle.


    Pop.


    It is still crying, but it is no longer squirming. The soft thing¡¯s eyes have rolled back, and it has started to spasm, just a bit, as the mucus in its nose has begun to close off its airways.


    No need to wait around, then.


    It squeezes, casually, and pops the soft thing¡¯s head, letting the blood dribble out between its fingers.


    It goes to the second tent.


    This one doesn¡¯t wake up even after it puts its hand over the thing¡¯s face, smothering its ability to scream. It takes until it begins to pull at the prey¡¯s arm, slowly stretching it, being ever-so-careful not to pull too hard, too fast, for the soft thing to awake.


    This one tries much, much harder to scream. The soft thing¡¯s little hands, scarred and weathered and aged, strike at it, and the feet kick and scrape at the tent and make the vinyl make little whisper-noises that are louder than any sound the prey can make with its mouth. Knees and joints and teeth all strike and try to pierce the skin or damage the tissue beneath, and all the while, one arm is pulled, and pulled, and pulled.


    A different kind of popping sound, this time. Not that of breaking bones, muffled by wet tissue, but that of disconnecting joints, ball-sockets and ligaments tearing and suctioning apart as it pulls.


    Louder screaming attempts- but less crying. Less mucus.


    A little further.


    A little further.


    The skin is stretching now. The layer of clothing above it has torn, and the red is starting to peek through the white tissue beneath it, little tears opening up one-by-one.


    And then, finally-


    Schriiip.


    Dripping noise.


    It takes a few more seconds, but this soft thing too goes quiet, and its airbags stop bellowing, and its heart goes still.


    One last tent.


    ¡­It has an idea.


    It goes back to the first tent, and drags out the soft thing from there, painting a trail of splattered brain and bone through the ground as it pulls. It goes to the second tent, and drags out the second thing, the not-quite-as-soft prey, and drops it on the ground just loud enough to make a muffled thump and rustle.


    Still the third tent does not stir.


    Ah well. Maybe it¡¯s better this way.


    It walks into the third tent, and finds the last of the soft things.


    This is the softest one yet. Smaller than the others, its muscles less developed, padded in the soft of softness that comes only with youth and easy access to the needs that come with it.


    It picks the young thing up by the back of the head- and this time, the prey wakes immediately.


    The prey emits a high-pitched shriek, a shrill sound harsh enough to make that which holds it blink in surprise. Prodigious lungs, for a youth. The prey squirms and shrieks and scrabbles and speaks words in a tone of desperation and panic- and no one answers.


    It actually chuckles as the prey almost breaks its own neck, struggling against the grip that easily wraps around the entire head of the creature.


    It lifts the soft thing out of the tent, the act taking up nearly no energy at all, and deposits the prey unceremoniously on the ground, positioned just so that its woolen outer layer touches the cold, wet red of what was once alive beside it.


    Midnight-black eyes stare at the screaming, squirming youngling as it tries to understand. It calls for help, it whimpers and scrambles- and it touches more of the wet. And it goes quiet. And it turns to look, and even in the dark, even crippled by unevolved night vision and lackluster senses, it sees.


    For a moment, there is only the quiet, and the warm smell of piss as the soft thing voids itself.


    And then¡­


    Something wet begins to wriggle.


    Just once. Just briefly.


    Brain matter and shattered skull¡­ wriggle. And then go still.


    The older soft thing¡­ hiccups. An escape of air from dead lungs that should already be empty.


    The dead soft things begin to¡­ shift.


    It¡¯s in small ways. Twitches, here and there. Strange and weak little gurgles, the bubbling sounds of gas inside a thick liquid, the fractional shifting of interwoven fibers and wet, dripping organs.


    The smallest soft thing is still crying, but it is no longer screaming. It is instead just¡­ babbling. Quietly. Whispered words coming from it as the smell of fear¡­ changes, ever so slightly. No longer blind, animal panic, nor the rational, ever-growing dread of fear. Something new.


    The hand of the older soft thing, severed entirely from its body, closes, very gently, around the hand of the younger thing.


    There¡¯s¡­ something. In the air. Not a smell. Not a taste. Not a color. Something.


    Pitch-dark eyes watch as the young soft-thing begs and pleads and babbles and cries¡­ and is answered.


    The bodies begin to move, in soft, slithering motions, as if boneless, or as if incapable of remembering how all their pieces work. They crowd closer to the softest and smallest of their number, torn apart flesh and offal squirming across leaves and dirt to interpose themselves between it and the thing that watches and smells and hungers.


    A voice from a dead mouth wheezes, lungs that no longer remember how to draw in air or exhale forming around misshapen words.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be ok¡±


    The smallest thing sobs harder.


    The thing in the dark is hungry. It is always at least a little hungry.


    It leans down very, very close to the soft thing, even as bits of corpse push against it, soft pressure failing to hold it back but staining its front crimson.


    One hand, the size of the creature¡¯s little torso comes up¡­ and presses. Just once. Right along the curve of the soft thing¡¯s spine.


    Crack.


    The crying gets louder again¡­ and then quieter, as the whimpering overtakes it, and the breathing, and the pain.


    The creature makes a sound not unlike a sniff. Just once. An inhale, like a large animal learning a scent.


    It is the only sound it has made through the event.


    And then¡­ it turns.


    And it goes to the trees. Into the shadows. Into the quiet.


    It is not so hungry it cannot wait a little.


    So it waits.


    And it watches.


    And the soft little flesh weeps, and whimpers, and eventually, goes quiet- save for the squelching movements of the dead.