ã€ŠHeartworm [WEIRD progression fantasy] (Volume 1 complete!)ã€‹


 Glossary

    Some basic terms:

    Thinker: Species of the protagonist. They are automata composed of a thoughtcrystal surrounded by a special slime and metallic bones. They also have robotic eyes and voiceboxes. Most of them have no mouth. They live either near the core of the world or near the edge.

    Thoughtcrystal: heart of a Thinker, said to be their very soul. They get nourished and can even grow when a Thinker meditates, letting their thoughts flow free and without interference or even interpretation.

    Spire: Roughly hewn stone towers where Thinkers of the Core live. They adapt to their occupant and have a measure of sentience.

    Palace: Spire equivalents found at the edge of the world.

    Cynothalassa: Proper noun that designates the ocean of dogs floating in the middle layers of the world. Name inspired by Panthalassa, the ocean that surrounded Pangea.

    Psycholocation: Thinkers can use the energy of their crystal cores to send out waves that bounce off objects and create an image of their surroundings, even beyond immediate physical barriers.

    Corship: Parvov''s subcanine ship/walker. Made mostly from locally-sourced corgis.

    World before the world: where the creators of the Thinkers lived.

    World before the world before the world: Where the creators of the creators lived. Also called The Carving.

    Psychosarc: Technical term to define the Thinker''s slimy matrix. Flesh of the soul.

    Some biological terms that are not made up but look like it:

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    Quiridium: Limb of a tetrapod, composed by an Stylopod, Zeugopod, and Autopod. Your arms and legs. Also your dog''s and a bird''s and a whale''s and even the little stumps some snakes have.

    Stylopod: part of the limb composed by the humerus or femur.

    Zeugopod: Part of the limb composed by two long bones, distal to the stylopod and proximal regarding the autopod. Section of the radius and ulna or the tibia and fibula.

    Autopod: Distal end of a quiridium, composed of carpals or tarsals, metacarpals or metatarsals, and phalanxes. Characteristic presence of digits (May fuse in aquatic or flying forms).

    Microfilaria: Dirofilaria (heartworm) larvae.

    Coenosarc: Fleshy layer of a coral, connecting the polyps.

    Coenostium: Calcareous skeleton secreted by the coenosarc.

    Hermatypic: Reef-forming, generally referring to organisms.

    Stromatolites: biogenic depositions of layers of calcium carbonate prompted by a microbial mat that hosts a community of bacteria and other organisms. Relatively common in the fossil registry. "Living" stromatolites can be found in the seas of the Bahamas, for example.

    Schizochroal: Term related to a type of eyes present in some Phacopida (A group of Trilobites) consisting in tens of big lenses separated by a deep esclera between them.

    Aristotle''s lantern: A structure found in the mouth of regular sea urchins. It consists of an intricate arrangement of skeletal plates and associated muscles that act as five teeth/jaws for the creature to graze.

 Chapter 1: When the World Ends

    ¡°Amongst all men and women that draw breath, it was I that won the Lottery. I am still elated, and I should make notes, prepare for when the day comes. I intend to share this chance, as partaking in creation alone would be egoistical: after finishing this entry, I will give him a call.¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoiesis, page 1.

    Under the golden light of the surfacing Retrievers they gazed into each other¡¯s core, as the sea ¡ª with all its tails, with all of its ears and the endless fluff and drool it contained ¡ª shut like a malicious jaw between them. One standing at the bottom and the other at the top, separated by countless layers of dogs as the wound in the ocean healed, she who was at the top made a petition. ¡°Seek me when the dogs eat the spires!¡±

    And so he agreed, stretching in a way that could have made him lose his balance and fall from the precarious sphere he was standing on, raising his only right hand to seal the promise. ¡°I¡¯ll find you when the world ends. No matter what it takes to make it anew.¡±

    <hr>

    The top of the few remaining spires had been nibbled by the descending tides. For the inhabitants of the bottom, for those whose existence was illuminated by the coats of the surface Retrievers that floated above the spires and contained the sea of dogs, the world was about to end. And Dirofil had a promise to keep as his helical cogs actioned his arms and legs, while the crystal that kept him alive shone still bright and white, embedded in his mucilaginous torso. So he stood from his sitting position, from the decayed throne at the turquoise heart of his old spire. A relic soon to fall as the waves came from the ceiling and lapped and bit with cute tooth at the top of it. With a hand on his crystal heart he commanded the rusty articulations of his legs to take him away from that decadent place. The left foot dragged its claws over a uniform floor of stone.

    Someone had taken his prehensile tail while he contemplated existence, during all those years of idly ruminating, of feeding the thoughtcrystal. His second left hand, likewise, was gone. But at the other end Shadiran awaited, a promise that he had to fulfill. A whole sea had settled and grown between them. A sea that would whittle and gnaw at the alloy of his form, that would lick and sniff and savor his core once the slime and metal that surrounded it faded away.

    He blamed himself as he shuffled past the fallen turquoise debris, pieces of walls that wished to give in. His only remaining eye had become lazy, so he had to emit pulses of energy from the thoughtcrystal to have a complete image of his surroundings. Psycholocation, expensive for he who wants to nourish and grow his core, but the only way to maneuver down the ruined staircase. Seventy-eight steps to the bottom, none fostering a cobweb, none very knowledgeable of feet different to his own. No cold wind blew down there, no dark mist settled on these ruins only ever lit by the Retrievers above and the glowing miasma below. Yet ruins they were.

    ¡°Shadiran,¡± his voicebox weakly whistled. ¡°Wait for me. I¡¯ll repair. Steal the pieces I need.¡± Another wave of energy from his core bounced on an obstacle, making him step to the left before descending. ¡°The body was neglected. I thought too long. But concurrently the crystal grew strong. I will be able to¡­ repair, soon.¡±

    The thumps of his heavy feet resonated through the spiral staircase, upwards, until they reached the howling sea. Little lumps of stone fell from a weathered structure, hitting his shoulders, clanking against the alloy scapulae only to reunite with their equals on the floor.

    A wound of gold on the wall bled light upon his right side, and the warmth of the Retrievers felt abhorrent to him. He needed to reach the hole they called a door and come out, walk over the floating spheres and reach the Would-Be Last Spire. The elder was there, thinking. He knew the elder was there, and that not many a scavenger would dare pick on him when there were others deep in meditative slumber. He wondered if it was the same at the other side of the sea, where the waves rose instead of descending; where the world was lit by a core like the dark one below, but ablaze, and not by the warmth of dogs composing the sea¡¯s surface. He wondered if there, too, someone had taken Shadiran¡¯s legs, or arms, or tail.

    He wondered, then, if she would be waiting at the other side, as promised. If time had not consumed a neglected thoughtcrystal, obliterating her existence. And thus he realized that it was pointless to worry about that: whether or not Shadiran waited for him at the other side, the world was ending. The time to think was over, and the time to act, to move, had come.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    Another step was taken, and how it invigorated him to flex his joints! To make the energy he had so jealously gathered during eons power his legs! It was time to move, indeed!

    Slowly but surely, and with all the dignity his derelict form could muster, he approached the exit of his spire. He pulled on his cape of interlocked chains, covering his metallic and crystalline parts with it, and crossed the portal, whose twin columns of azure still stood, but threatened to succumb to the gentlest breeze.

    The fluffy tails above waved in unison, as if to salute the next victim of the dog ocean¡¯s growth. It was the natural course of things: the spires that had stood there since the world had begun got swallowed by the sea, and their inhabitants with them.

    It was the natural course of things. But his promise to Shadiran was to defy said nature, to overcome it. So as he reached the sky-blue marble at the base of his dying tower, he forwarded a foot, with his three fingers extended to perch on one of the floating bubbles that lazily drifted across the furnace-orange miasma, keeper of the dark core of the world.

    With his lone eye he raised a gaze to the sea¡¯s surface, swaying to and fro, far lower than it had been the day his promise had been struck. Puppies grew into dogs, and the bubbles of dogs grew into apocalypses. The Retrievers still wagged their tails at the lower surface, but their golden hue had been tarnished by time, becoming a matte yellow, a coin forgotten under the rain.

    And lowering his gaze to rest it upon the alloy of his arm, he thought that such was the way of all things, and said thought illuminated his heart briefly. The Thinkers of the Core were creatures of ideas, after all, and those would never rust, never fade.

    He balanced from sphere to sphere, grasped passing crystal cylinders with his hands to aid in making his path, and more than once cursed silently as he tried to use a tail that had been robbed, most likely long ago, while he chased reveries and sat idly on the throne of his spire. Someone had his tail, or someone had lost his tail, and he would need a new one. Maybe if The First Pictured had gotten The Second Envisioned¡¯s wings, he could take them too. For every Thinker knew where the other spires were and who they belonged to, but not what could have been of its occupants.

    Across the orange mist he maneuvered, once again aided by pulses of his core when the lone eye couldn¡¯t make out the next vantage point. The oldest of towers rested on the lowest point of all creation, a column of peerless white erected the instant the world began.

    He swung from cylinder to cylinder, leaped from sphere to sphere, and sooner rather than later, the silhouette of his destination manifested through the reddish atmosphere.

    First he reached the windless platform, a circle of ice cold ivory steps against which his brass-like claws didn¡¯t struggle to find purchase. He adjusted his chainmail cape once more, and focused his eye on the opening ahead. Shaded maw of fate that awaited him, guarded by statues of the Imaginers of the World, vermiform beings whose front halves entwined in an arch. Lovers without scales, but with concrete-like spikes in their place. Dirofil stared at them for a little while. They had created him ¡ª and everything and everyone else. They had arranged for the Sea of Dogs to swallow the world one day. And they had decided how their statues would look, so their true nature was now unfathomable for the Thinkers. Not a single motive of these gods they had found stated anywhere. Not a carve, not a scripture, not a rumor. Only the snakes with more eyes than they should, with three mandibles, with tears running down their deformed faces as they embraced and meshed up.

    But the time to think was over, and with it, the world as imagined by them. This sparked a warm feeling in Dirofil¡¯s core: if he failed to fulfill his promise, at least the world devised by the cruel snakes would be over. No more thoughts. No suffering. Just an eternal ocean of swaying, aging dogs, with its layers and currents and whatever else existed beyond the Retriever waves.

    As he began ascending the flawless white staircase, he began feeling the weight of his own age onto the articulations of his legs. He would change them. Not today, for there were more important things to do before the next tide. He would scavenge the remains of some thoughtless brother or sister floating adrift among Labrador puppies.

    He kicked a pebble aside and intently listened to how it rolled downstairs. As he suspected, his right ear was slightly defective. The acoustics of the most magnanimous of spires, however, were flawless.

    As flawless as the figure sitting at the throne in the top room had been long ago. Now almost completely encased in his sprawling thoughtcrystal, the First Pictured slumbered, deep in meditation. His alloy skull had been invaded by his core, as had been his torso, and prisms jutted out of the spot immediately above his voicebox, imprisoned his left arm against the armrest, and joined his legs with the throne¡¯s base. Yet even in this state, the power of his core was not to be underestimated: Dirofil wouldn¡¯t dare to steal from such a powerful Thinker.

    So he knelt in front of the throne and spread his arms, revealing a rickety figure of metal, slime and crystal under his cape. ¡°The world is ending, eldest brother. Stir awake, as I have a promise to fulfill.¡±

 Chapter 2: Leptos, First Pictured

    ¡°He decided to give the inhabitants of the core six original names and bodies, and to shape all others after said group of siblings. They are to have titles indicating their nature as children of a mind: The First Pictured, The Second Envisioned, The Third Dreamt, The Fourth Imagined, The Fifth Conceived, The Sixth Conceptualized.¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoiesis, page 4.

    The thoughtcrystal shuddered once, and then twice, as waves of luminous thoughts gathered around the immobilized head. The Fist Pictured gasped back to wakefulness, stirred out of his deep meditation by a brother¡¯s call.

    A pair of eyes cast in a brass-like metal opened, revealing irises carved out of labradorite. The mouthless automatons were unable to exchange a wry smile, but that did not mean the occasion was less deserving of a pair of those.

    With a slow but uninterrupted motion Dirofil rose to his feet as the frozen Elder examined his own situation. ¡°Take your time, First Pictured; the end may be nigh, but it rushes not to collapse upon your spire.¡±

    ¡°Dirofil, Fourth Imagined, would it be correct to assume that your spire has collapsed?¡± The elder cracked out muffled words: like most of his body, his voicebox had been encased in his overgrown core. ¡°Sorry is your state. You used to have a trio of hands, if memory serves me faithfully.¡±

    Dirofil took a single step forward, revealing the remains of his third arm, emplaced beneath the one at shoulder height, everything that should be there absent except for a mistreated, dark golden stylopod. ¡°Like the tail, it was taken. Parvov asked for my eye while I slumbered, and in the stupor of the wake I accepted giving it to him.¡±

    The eyes of the imprisoned elder scrutinized the form presented before him, up and down. Time had taken its toll on Dirofil¡¯s cranium-less skeleton, taken some of its glint away. ¡°Parvov climbed into the sea long ago. He visited me before his departure. The Third Dreamt said he had thought all that he had to think.¡±

    ¡°Such a boastful statement. I am afraid he may have rushed into his own oblivion¡± Dirofil lamented, tilting his head slightly forward. ¡°Yet I have come to ask of you the favor he long ago asked of me. I am incomplete, Leptos. Would you spare your tail? Would you spare an arm? I am afraid this is something I can only ask of you, or of Lyssav. And I believe she still sleeps.¡±

    ¡°And you wouldn¡¯t dare wake The Second Envisioned up. So it falls to me, enshrouded by the power of my own mind, to sacrifice a body I should have no use for anymore, Dirofil?¡± The elder said, twitching his free fingers as waves of light kept coursing through his crystal covering.

    ¡°Precisely,¡± Dirofil sentenced, and silence settled between the thinkers. Then, he knelt once again, wrists crossed at chest height, head low. ¡°I have a promise to fulfill, Leptos. The sea is dangerous. What awaits me beyond the Retrievers, I know not. You may keep on thinking until the sea takes you, your core may even be powerful enough to fend danger off without the need of a body. But I do not wish to simply find a bubble of peace among dogs where I can think for the rest of time. I wish to cross the ocean, bottom to top.¡±

    ¡°That used to be a doable goal. However, we haven¡¯t received visits from the others in a very long time: the window has closed. Whatever may happen inside the ocean of dogs, in its central layers¡­¡± He made a pause: his thoughts, thick and powerful, choked his words as they flowed around the voicebox. ¡°¡­forestalls the rendezvous of our peoples.¡± The elder continued, not making any deal of the brief interruption. ¡°What do you possess that everyone else who tried lacked?¡±

    There was no hesitation in Dirofil¡¯s answer. ¡°Nothing.¡± He stood and sheathed himself in his cape of chains. ¡°I refuse to pretend that a promise can sew shut the jaws of the beasts that may dwell deep up there. That¡¯s why I ask for your parts. I have nothing special, and I need every advantage I can get.¡±

    Leptos regarded him in silence. Under that cape was an old body. A mistreated body. A body that would be torn apart by the abominations of the sea if its owner dared try. It wasn¡¯t Parvov¡¯s; it wasn¡¯t Lyssav¡¯s. Parvov asked nicely once, twice if he felt generous. Then he repeated the question with a demanding air, and it was in one¡¯s best interest to reconsider. Lyssav would simply skip the whole asking business. But Dirofil¡­ Dirofil was polite to a fault towards his elders. If he didn¡¯t acquiesce to give up his parts after a few attempts of the Fourth Imagined, the poor thing would go into the ocean mutilated as he was.  Yes, Leptos preferred Parvov¡¯s method. It involved a lower level of cruelty.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°You are incorrigible. Humility and a core of gold won¡¯t aid you, either. Take my tail, take an eye, and take an arm, if you can pull them off of my crystal heart. And, Dirofil, overall¡­¡±

    After noticing the Elder waited for him to speak, Dirofil stared right into Leptos eyes. ¡°Yes, First Pictured?¡±

    ¡°Take care, kind one. Don¡¯t let the dogs render you thoughtless.¡±

    Dirofil knew that was a question he couldn¡¯t formulate, not now. He wasn¡¯t as young and bold as he had been when the ocean closed over their heads. And the elder wasn¡¯t Shadiran. ¡°I¡¯ll try to my last idea, First Pictured.¡± With a funereal slowness Dirofil approached the brother he would soon scavenge, climbing up the flat steps that led to the ivory throne. ¡°I thank you beyond dreams, Leptos.¡±

    ¡°Make haste. Don¡¯t rob me of more thinking time. There¡¯s no better way to show gratefulness than to allow me to think the few thoughts the world has left.¡±

    ¡°Understood. I will try the tail first. The lack of it stirs a stalking anxiety deep within,¡± He excused himself as he began circling the throne, following the edge of one of the circular steps. The rhythmical clanks of his feet against the white stone invaded the expansive chamber, lulling Leptos into a blissful stupor as he lost himself in the chasm of his own mind.

    Once he faced the back of the throne, Dirofil examined the deformed and overgrown lump of crystallized psyche, and found the dawn hues of Leptos¡¯ tail. Only its tip budded out of the sprawling tumor of his mind. He reached down and with trembling fingers touched the sharp piece at the end of the tail.

    His only eye opened wide when he sent in a pulse of his own psyche, through his arm and into the tail, and found no resistance. Leptos¡¯ mind wasn¡¯t pushing against his attempt to take possession of the tail. Dirofil found himself admiring such fine control of one¡¯s being.

    Dirofil¡¯s will was channeled further, seamlessly flowing from the tips of three of his fingers into the tail¡¯s metameric segments. He pushed on until his soul grasped the base of the tail, and shortly after the appendage detached painlessly from the base of its owner¡¯s back.

    Suddenly the long tail seemed to take on a life of its own, and jumped forth, using its stinger to penetrate into the Fourth Imagined¡¯s palm, snaking under his transparent skin and around his metallic skeleton.  With spasming fingers he watched in delight and pain how the body part reached his thoughtcrystal and wormed its way in, attuning with him, yet retaining the unmistakable essence of its original bearer. After nesting for about a minute in his heart, the tail emerged by the crystal¡¯s posterior end, and went straight for the socket in the back, emerging first, and then attaching its base to said opening.

    Dirofil gave the tail an order to rise and bend until the tip was in front of his face, and it did without a single complaint. It was his now, as his as the core it had harpooned through. ¡°I missed this one more than the arm.¡±

    He leaped twice on his four extremities to end up in front of the elder, the new tail always returning to the offensive position next to his head after each landing. With unwarranted excitement his only eye darted across the Elder¡¯s six arms. To take the middle left one was the most logical of choices. He stalked like a predatory cat, ready to pounce on its prey.  There was only one little problem.

    The arm he wanted was completely embedded in the Elder¡¯s core. Emphasis on the problem being just ¡°little¡±: The new tail rushed forward and wounded the crystal, shedding through like a rampaging bullet.  A current coursed through his whole body, a brief reaction from the Elder, but barely enough to numb his sensations for a brief instant, and not to cause real harm. The tail dug deeper in the crystal until it curled around the upper end of the wanted arm. Then, still using his hands as an extra pair of legs, He crawled down the steps, pulling, stretching his new tail as much as he could. His claws and talons scratched the ivory floor once and again as he attempted to get more traction. He would rip that arm off the crystal, and if he couldn¡¯t, then the tail wouldn¡¯t be enough help to survive in the sea. Dirofil pumped energy though his new appendage and into the arm he was trying to acquire, and once again found minimal resistance from Leptos.

    The arm popped out and got practically expelled by its prismatic prison. Consequently, Dirofil fell on his face, and rolled down the steps, prompting a little laughter from the elder.

    ¡°Amusing, Fourth Imagined. Brutish, too.¡±

    But Dirofil was spellbound by the forearm and hand he had just purloined. The details in its surface, the care with which his skeleton¡¯s patterns were carved. It was beautiful to him. He wouldn¡¯t process it through his core, it had already been a chore to do so for the tail. Thus he just used his tail to violently butt the rear end of the stolen arm on his stump, joining them. He would pump thought energy into it for a while now, and then the arm would be as his as the tail. A slower process, but way less taxing.

    Now he had to take an eye. He could take an eye. But he sat on the step before the throne, and sent pulses to his new arm, trying to get it to obey him.

    ¡°Mind if I stay until the arm acclimates?¡± he asked, turning towards the imprisoned thinker.

    ¡°You are welcome to stay until the dogs take us, brother. Keep the silence, and let me think. That¡¯s all I can demand from you.¡±

 Chapter 3: Horns and Eyes

    ¡°I swear the captain has forgotten my name. He now calls me Doctor, even if I consider myself more of an engineer at times. No big difference between both denominations, anyhow. Perhaps grief has caused the captain¡¯s mind to fail him. Perhaps he never truly cared about using my name.¡±

    ¡ªDoratev in one of his many voice records.

    He didn¡¯t know why he had crafted a ring out of dobermannite, but he liked to watch light get lost in the absolute blackness of the material as it clasped around his finger.  Now The Doctor called at the entry arch of his chambers, denying him his precious time for sitting on the floor alone. ¡°Come in; I am lucid.¡±

    The Doctor, wearing his coat made out of metal flakes, approached from behind the captain and faced him, standing between his superior and the opaque window as he emphasized the pug he was carrying with a careful shake. ¡°We found this one lost in the Retriever puppies layer, it has started to abominate.¡± A long finger of The Doctor pointed at a little protrusion in the dog¡¯s head, the pathetic primordium of a horn. ¡°I wish to study him, so long as he is safe to keep inside the ship, Captain.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± the captain answered, only briefly raising his gaze to regard the mutant pug. ¡°Terminate it, dissect it, refine it, or send it back out. So long as it doesn¡¯t become troublesome for the Corship, I don¡¯t care what you do. But no breathing abomination will be accepted aboard.¡±

    The pug wheezed feebly, and the scientist stashed the animal between his two left arms. ¡°You may want to rethink the ¡®breathing¡¯ part of that statement, sir.¡±

    The Captain¡¯s eyelids lowered in frustration when he heard another set of steps climbing up the spiral of spheres that led to his chamber. Hurried steps. Feet that probably didn¡¯t bring the news he awaited.

    ¡°You come running. Does this mean we found Dirofil?¡± he asked without regarding the news bearer directly. By the sounds of her body, the one at the entrance of her chamber had to be modelled after Lyssav.

    ¡°No, sir, we haven¡¯t found the Fourth Imagined.¡± She advanced with shoulders forward, using two of her arms to crawl while the other three fidgeted worriedly, her back bent upwards in a way that the captain found unsettling. With three equidistant eyes she caught the captain¡¯s stare, and he shuddered, remembering his last encounter with his sister.

    ¡°Then solve the crisis at hand, whichever it may be. Do what¡¯s necessary for the Corship to remain safe. My brother still thinks, Lanidara. I can feel it in our eye,¡± he pointed at the one eye different from his other three, the one closer to his right bronze horn, the horn that faced forward.

    ¡°We cannot handle the Abominable Chihuahuas, sir. They breached the hull and are now invading the lower deck. We evacuated already, for everyone¡¯s safety.¡±

    Parvov groaned and erected his huge frame, casting the menacing white light of his core over his underlings and over the pug, which seemed not to mind awfully. ¡°Damn plague that they are.¡± One of his twin-clawed fingers sprung forward, almost scratching the face of The Doctor. ¡°You have until I crush the little pests to study that pug. But as soon as I am done, I want no abominations on board.¡± He lumbered a few steps in direction to the exit, rolled his shoulders in place and gestured at the news bearer with his left horn: the one that pointed backwards. ¡°Give me some good news, Lanidara. How are our Puggum and Corgite reserves faring?¡±

    ¡°Low, sir: it would be in our best interest to set course towards a current to harvest fuel, and to head deep up, to the clusters, right afterwards.¡±

    Parvov closed his eyes and counted to three in a low voice. ¡°I asked for good news. But I am afraid truth will have to do for now. How long do you reckon we can keep on searching for Dirofil before the reserves fall down to critical levels?¡±

    ¡°Three tides to four tides. Even fewer if we don¡¯t handle the Chihuahua invasion.¡±

    Parvov kicked the lattice that served as the floor of his room, making it wave under his peers, who were used to the captain¡¯s tantrums and therefore, to maintain balance in such a situation. ¡°Tell me then, Lanidara. How are our chihuahuite reserves doing?¡±

    ¡°Topped off as always, sir!¡± she announced energetically, taking an arm to her forehead to salute the captain.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    ¡°See? You had good news to bring to me. Gather those with strong cores round, bring them to the lower deck. And tell the others to keep looking for my brother.¡± Parvov¡¯s massive right hand curled all ten matte brown fingers into a fist. ¡°The eye doesn¡¯t lie. Dirofil still thinks. The ocean hasn¡¯t rendered him thoughtless, despite the fact that his spire must have fallen, if my calculations are correct. The Fifth and Sixth were lost even before we found you, Splinter of Lyssav. I won¡¯t allow it to happen to the Fourth.¡±

    ¡°Why where they lost, if I may know?¡±

    Parvov lowered his head a bit. ¡°Morbilliv must have been taken by a Reaper. I doubt anything else could best him in direct combat. Maybe a Tunneler could have surprised him, but his spire stood far from their lairs.  Babesi, the sixth and weaker of us all, could probably deal with Chihuahuas and not much more. Her cunning would prove nearly useless against creatures faster and stronger than her.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like most Splinters of Babesi, if I am allowed to voice such opinion. I find their form disturbing,¡± she said, and this made Parvov turn his head.

    ¡°Don¡¯t make me see more of Lyssav than necessary in you, Lanidara. I will save her when the time comes, and that alone should be torture enough.  Come, let¡¯s handle the damn pests,¡± Parvov extended the invitation with an almost paternal tone. The Corship was a labor of love, and its crew the shining core that kept the ship alive. A safe haven for the thinkers whose towers had fallen, a bastion against the oblivion the ocean of dogs promised for his kin. And he would take care of it to his last idea. ¡°If a mate is rendered thoughtless due to our tardiness, I will get mad. Very, very mad.¡±

    Lanidara shot from her position and rushed down the sphere stair at the room¡¯s exit. Parvov kept his firm pace. Sometimes a bit of rage was necessary to keep the community healthy. The sea of dogs was a cruel and ruthless thing, and he was the one with shoulders strong enough to answer in kind.

    ¡°I¡¯ll find you, Dirofil. Bring you aboard and fix you up before putting you to work. And then, once you get used to the toil this new existence entails and requires, I will craft myself a new eye, and give you yours back. It¡¯s a promise: so long as you think, your fate is by my side, brother. Not out there.¡± With a last glance towards the obscured window, he began clutching the spheres with his talons, descending the spiral. There were Chihuahuas to deal with.

    <hr>

    Eye assimilated, Dirofil stretched both his left arms and began joining them slowly. He wasn¡¯t sure if he could do it with his new extremity, if the arms would be compatible. Closing the space between them, like a pair of scissors when it cuts, he relaxed the influence on his core on the upper skin of the lower arm, and on the lower skin of the upper arm. The transparent layer began to seemingly melt, slowly flowing onto the extremity under it like honey. Once several threads of skin connected both arms, he used his thoughtcrystal to pull from them, compressing both arms together until their colorless flesh melted and the metallic bones aligned, his fingers intermingling too, widening, and ending in two claws each. This was temporal: he could separate the arms once again if he wanted. Hell, he could separate only the fingers to get ten on his newly built hand. Hand whose palm and wrist had gained flexibility now due to the proliferation of elements equivalent to carpals and metacarpals.

    One by one he curled and extended his fingers in front of his face. They answered flawlessly. ¡°My gratitude is incommensurable, Leptos. And so is my sorrow, because this is our farewell,¡± Dirofil said, heading for the irregular wall that led to the spire¡¯s tip with slow and heavy movements.

    ¡°Whether you fulfill your promise or fail to do so, I will never see you again, I take? Your aim is to recreate the world together with Shadiran, after all.¡±

    ¡°No. I don¡¯t aim to recreate the world.¡±  He joined his fingers, as if holding a snowglobe between his hands, and stared at the empty space between them. ¡°To recreate would mean to repeat our imaginer¡¯s mistakes. It would mean another Shadiran would wait atop the sea of dogs for another Dirofil. We want a fairer world. One where the time for thinking would never end. One where its inhabitants can rest without the worry of upcoming doom.¡±

    ¡°You won¡¯t be able to, Dirofil. Even if both your core and Shadiran¡¯s are intact when you meet her, my skepticism leads me to believe that you wouldn¡¯t be able to envisage a paradise.¡±

    Dirofil didn¡¯t turn to look at the elder, who remained sitting in his throne, prisoner of its own thoughtcrystal. ¡°I shall create a slightly better world with the help of Shadiran, then.¡±

    ¡°A slightly better world for who, Dirofil? Will you imagine people without troubles? Because that, dear brother, wouldn¡¯t be people. They would be caricatures.¡±

    ¡°Caricatures,¡± Dirofil repeated as he examined the wall, seeking an irregularity to grasp onto and begin his climb. ¡°Have you ever seen a rat, Leptos?¡±

    ¡°There are no rats, and you know it well.¡±

    ¡°Precisely. How is it that we know of creatures that don¡¯t exist here? We can picture them in our minds, we can see their whiskery snouts twitch as they sniff the air. We can imagine them breeding, and their litters of hairless babies. We were created with knowledge from the world of our makers that¡¯s useless here. Don¡¯t we qualify as a caricature already?¡± his pitch betrayed his distress at the idea expressed. ¡°Farewell, Leptos. I will add a statue of you in this new world. All six of us will have one. Of course, Shadiran could choose if her siblings get them too.¡±

    ¡°I will look forward to the day Lyssav visits me, yet rue it too: after she parts, I will be alone forevermore,¡± A cracking sound came from Leptos¡¯ voicebox.  Dirofil turned and closed his eyes in commiseration.

    Beginning to climb the wall, Dirofil decided to ask a last question. ¡°Will you enjoy that solitude in the end?¡±

    Silence was the only answer.

 Chapter 4: Hail, Sea (the One About to Die Salutes You)

    ¡°The time is coming for this world, and whoever created it is not paying attention anymore. We won¡¯t let the shadows of entropy eat the new world, devour it like they are to consume ours. The most destructive force of this ideal world are to be¡­ pups.¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoiesis, Page 2.

    Extend the arm, grab onto the hole or ledge, retract the arm. It was so monotonous to climb, and what a long way upwards awaited him. The opening above the throne, the one that let retriever light grace Leptos¡¯ sitting form, had been left behind, and now he stuck to the outer wall of the tower, fearing the fall and the damage it could cause. No wind howled, yet he knew of mountains and their howling gusts of doom. Mountains didn¡¯t exist, so why did their ghost haunt him?

    It was a silent ascent, the only sounds he could hear those of his inner workings and of his tail intruding in a crack to provide him some sense of safety.

    Looking behind he could see, through an atmosphere that was nearly clear of miasma at such heights, a crimson spire adorned with banners like rotting ribbons of flesh. Lyssav¡¯s home, closer to the ocean than Leptos was, yet unable to reach it still. He would have to jump from floating sphere to floating sphere, like he had done long ago to visit his love on the lands above. He would be safe from the fall once he managed to hold onto a retriever and penetrate into the sea. And he would also wish, probably, to need to worry about a fall and not whatever awaited him beyond the fluffy dogs.

    Fear fueled his extremities as he skittered up the tower. There was a certainty that things would get worse, only worse from there onwards. And the sooner they got worse, the sooner the anxiety gave place to the harsh reality, the better for his frightened mind. One cannot worry about the looming jaws of death when the teeth are already crushing one¡¯s skeleton.

    A second wind possessed him, and Dirofil started to ascend by means of big leaps. If he fell, it would get worse, and if he succeeded, it would get worse! Hope was facing an eviction notice, to be homeless in the foreseeable future. Only at the other end of the sea it would inhabit, only in Shadiran it was meant to be found incarnate. The world was hopeless. And it was good for it to be, because it set realistic expectations.

    He reached the tip of the spire, the tapering point at the end, and as he clung to it he stared in the distance. Perpendicular to the line described by this spire and Lyssav¡¯s, Parvov¡¯s, an unholy mound of onyx and emerald that he liked to image as circled by ghosts, stood taciturn, miserable. A shiver went up his tail, and then his back. In its last moments, his spire screamed into his mind, and he refused to listen. Those dear places had been built to fall.

    Yet Parvov¡¯s spire had an oddness to it. Behind its patina of blue Dirofil could hear the faint chirps of boiling rage. Parvov¡¯s spire fostered the bitter scent of a betrayed one. Poor thing, Parvov had abandoned it before it was its time to fall. ¡°Wish I could topple you down, Parvov¡¯s,¡± he let out a weak whisper.

    Throwing his head back, he could see it, still far above: The Retriever layer. The beginning of the Sea of Dogs. ¡°Shadiran, I am coming!¡± He kept his hands and legs in place as he pulled his body down, preparing to spring fort towards the nearest sphere as it drifted lazily in the atmosphere. To miss was not an option: long ago, before the sea closed, he had done this for hours to meet Shadiran as she descended, in turn, from her home. Rusty he was not. The spheres hadn¡¯t changed. His legs still remembered, and so did the arms that had been his for a long time. The tail¡­ well, it would soon learn the ropes.

    Hands on the wall. Claws clinging to white stone. And then, stone no more, only air to traverse and a sphere of orange to grab onto. A sphere that got met by his right hand, and then by his left as he clambered upon it.

    Spotting a nearby cylinder, smaller than the sphere but just as slow, he readied another leap. Like a monkey enjoying himself in the jungle he used his tail to hold onto the rod and hang from it. From there he hung, staring at the void below, finding it disturbingly alluring. Too early it was for him to have these thoughts, to contemplate surrendering before even beginning his journey. Ease would not seduce him, however: if he upheld the holiness of his promise when faced with that which could have helped to render so many thoughtless, with the paradoxical drive to just stop, he would come up on top. On top of his pessimistic impulses, and eventually, of the sea above.

    Excitement. Fear excited him, there was no other explanation. After a life of idly sitting upon his throne, of thinking as in the distance new spires were erected ¡ªspires like his or his sibling¡¯s, but inhabited by unoriginal designs, by Splinters based upon the six of them¡ª and of missing the happenings of the world, he was afraid, and had a reason to face that fear.

    This line of thinking soon made him realize how deeply he missed Babesi. His younger sister, the Sixth Conceptualized, had always been adamant on wasting thinking time to visit her brothers and her sister. She visited him not to take, but to talk. She brought news onto his monotonous life.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    But the monotony was over, and apparently so was Babesi. ¡°Are you truly nowhere, sister?¡±

    Soon enough he surprised himself with the idea that, perhaps, it was worth it to go back down, safely, and go meet Lyssav. That reaching the sea would be easier there, and that she, too, deserved to enjoy a last gesture from the only brother that could still visit her.

    That idea was discarded with a trembling of the whole body and a twitch of the fingers. Had it been about Parvov¡ªhad Parvov been there and not lost¡ªhe would have come down. He would have travelled to his spire and bid him farewell. And Parvov would surely make some ridiculous demand, and maybe they would wrestle a little. But in the end, Parvov had never wished ill on his brothers. The same couldn¡¯t be said of Lyssav. Not without Babesi present to mediate the encounter. She yearned for the Time to Move. She believed she would be powerful enough to harness the sea and rule over her lesser brothers and sister one day. Odd was her tolerance for Babesi¡¯s antics, but it was probably due to the fact that none of the siblings considered Babesi as a serious contender for¡­ anything, really. Parvov believed he could find a way to survive the end of the world; Morbilliv that there wasn¡¯t anything inside the sea¡ªor outside of it¡ªthat he couldn¡¯t best in battle. Dirofil wanted to remake the world with the aid of his lover. All of them represented different obstacles to Lyssav¡¯s dream. Babesi wanted to enjoy her siblings and the Splinters as long as her mind endured.

    But the Time to Move had come for him, and he would waste no fraction of a tide visiting his sister only to see her deep in trance, and find out he lacked the bravery to wake her up. Whatever lived in the sea was bound to be far less likely to assault him without a good reason.

    So he regarded the sea once more, with mechanical eyes open wide. An eye of his; an eye of Leptos. He balanced back and forth, the tip of his tail safely curled around the cylinder, and with a little effort, managed to reach a nearby sphere that drifted in a slanted orbit, upwards when approaching the side of Parvov¡¯s spire, and downwards when it approached Lyssav¡¯s.

    Another successful jump filled him with something akin to fleeting mirth. Just a few more until he reached the descending sea. The tides were swelling, coming down towards him, like the massive diaphragm of the world had expanded once more to allow it to take a breath. And the diaphragm was dull yellow and dirty white, with the black and brown dots of wet noses and the transitory flashes of pink that revealed the dog¡¯s tongues. Now and then a black or brown Labrador, or even a flat or curly-coated Retriever popped on the surface briefly, only to be submerged back into the sea by the movement of the yellow dogs soon after.

    He had forgot. Forgot that the sea of dogs was as beautiful as it was ominous, even now that its youth had faded, that there were no more puppies on the outer layers. He knew it promised thoughtlessness, but how joyful it seemed. It was not the straight allure of the void below: the void promised damnation, and did so honestly. The ocean of dogs lied. It promised boundless love, softness unrivaled. Not siblings that would never return, countless Splinters going down with their respective spires and getting forever lost.

    Another thought assaulted him: maybe no Splinter of his lived anymore. Maybe all that was left of the Thinkers of the Core were a few besides the three of them: Leptos, Lyssav, and him. The oldest spires stood, and all the others, the hundreds of others, had fallen. If Morbilliv was dead, so had to be all of his Splinters. The same went for Babesi. And for the copies of himself. No splinterspire was closer to the lowest point in the world than the one they imperfectly reflected.

    ¡°I will never see their forms again. And you are to blame, wondrous thing.¡± He stood upon the sphere, pointing at the sea with an accusing finger. ¡°I will create a world where you cannot take them from me! Not Shadiran, not Morbilliv, not Parvov, not Babesi! I will be a foul nematode in the heart of you, vile creation, and still it the moment I reunite with my beloved!¡±

    With this bold declaration he jumped once, and clawed the target sphere in a flowing movement, hopping once more without stopping and reaching a second sphere, higher, closer to the sea.

    The final jump happened, and there was no sphere to grab onto. Just tails and snouts.

    His hand found a fluffy Golden¡¯s backside, and he grasped onto the dog¡¯s tail like it was a rope. Swiftly, and as his new friend whined from getting his tail pulled, he reached for one of the animal¡¯s legs and swung his tail to a side, letting a friendly Labrador lick it a bit as he thought of a way to use it to pull himself into the sea. It was a split-second doubt, as he quickly found a way to make the hand that was holding onto a kicking leg ¡ªthe left hand, the strong hand¡ª to reach higher, grabbing onto the animal¡¯s side, pulling from the poor thing¡¯s loose skin as he butted his head among the snugly packed dogs.

    The shine they emitted was awfully strong, when you were this close. So many Goldens and Labradors, all giving off light. But he persevered, and soon enough his whole upper body was tightly inserted between the canines.

    He kept grabbing onto whatever dog body part he had in front of him, paining the dogs but not harming them, and soon enough, his feet were past the surface.

    And once safely ensconced between retrievers, Dirofil realized there was a¡­ very concerning issue he hadn¡¯t thought of: Even if this part of the sea wasn¡¯t dark, dogs weren¡¯t transparent. He was blinded to danger.

    He began emitting pulses from his core, to check his surroundings with aid of his psycholocation. For now, the only things he detected were a bunch of retrievers spinning, moving, crawling and climbing onto each other. ¡°So this is how you render us thoughtless,¡± he said to the sea, and kept climbing, worming his way in, a task that became easier once he was past the few first layers of dogs, away from the surface and its tension.

    Now all that was left was to climb. But laugher soon escaped his voicebox as he ascended, pushing and struggling against playful retrievers. So paradoxical it was, to hold as much respect as he still did for the object of his hatred. Respect that, maybe, deserved enunciation. ¡°Ave, mare; moriturus te salutat!¡±

 Chapter 5: Tunnelers

    ¡°I have the theory that the dogs Abominate under particular conditions that seem to vary for each breed, but most of the ones we could find in intermediate states were outside their place in the ocean: far from their clusters, tetrads, currents or layers. There may be ways of forcing abomination without changing the location of a dog, and finding them could play a crucial role in our understanding of the phenomenon itself.¡±

    ¡ªDoratev, in one of his recordings.

    The grown dogs gave place to a rather viscous layer of puppies. They whined and drooled and licked and even tried to chew a bit onto Dirofil¡¯s body, and he didn¡¯t mind much, because the little things barely presented a nuisance, despite the tiny needles they had for teeth. They wouldn¡¯t harm his metal structure, and the flesh surrounding the skeleton would flow back into the little holes as soon as they stopped biting him.

    After another period of monotony and puppy-nibbling, his left hand emerged somewhere that provided nothing to grab onto. So he held onto the last puppy before that seeming bubble in the sea and popped his head out. It took some seconds for his eyes to adapt to the far less bright atmosphere in that empty place, as he emerged from between the puppies and, covered in Retriever hairs of white and gold, he found out he wasn¡¯t in a bubble.

    He was in a tunnel. A tunnel well illuminated by the puppies that here and there popped off of the ceiling and fell to the ground, like debris in a soon-to-collapse cave. Then, the young dogs buried themselves among their kin, reincorporating into the structure of the sea.

    Dirofil quickly turned on his talons to look at both ends of the tunnel. It connected to others like it, but, besides that, he couldn¡¯t see a reason to fear. Of course, this only made things worse. The tunnels needed a justification, they had to have been dug by some process or entity. And given they looked like he imagined warrens would to a small bug, the entity option was more likely.

    There were approximately six Dirofils, head to toe, from the ground to the ceiling. Four Parvovs, maybe. Lyssav wasn¡¯t a good unit of measurement.

    A gentle caress on his core took his attention hostage for a second. It was nothing solid, merely a feeling that hung in the air. As if another presence were calling for him¡­or looking for his mind. It was probably the one responsible for the tunnels.

    He tuned down his psycholocation to attempt to go unnoticed by whatever was seeking him. That¡¯s when the tunnels around him started trembling, the puppies¡¯ whining intensifying as they licked their own noses and lowered their rounded ears in distress.

    Something was coming. Something big. For him. Something big was coming for him. And a part of him felt flattered. Another got on all fours and started racing to the nearest wall, a scared opossum racing for its den. Or trying to race, as the heads and bellies and butts of baby dogs didn¡¯t provide the best of footings. It was more like a creature unfit to live in a swamp trying to wade his way across it.

    In a rather anticlimactic twist, it was only a dachshund that came out one of the side tunnels. Thoroughly mutated and as tall as the structures it had carved across the sea, with his jaws split in seven roughly equal parts, and opening like a monstrous starfish with long canines and sharp molars on each arm. With eyes on its shoulders, and claws like shovels to dig through the puppies adorning the seeming collar of extremities its pectoral girdle hosted. It was only a dachshund, even if it resembled some sort of hirsute sandworm. Puppyworm.

    And it charged, mouth agape, throat pulsing as it advanced by roving on the walls with all of its abominable arms.

    It was six Dirofils tall, and the gullet was the perfect size to swallow said unit of measurement whole.

    The Thinker turned away and tried to hurry in the contrary direction. He soon realized his pathetic attempt wasn¡¯t a mere fraction of ¡°fast enough¡±. It would never be. But maybe he could escape if he sacrificed enough of his lifeblood. He¡¯d have to climb away afterwards, as tunneling straight upwards was probably harder for the thing than doing it in any other direction.

    So he got on his feet and began gathering the energy of his core, visualizing it projecting forward and battering his pursuer. It would cost him some thought-energy, but it was preferable to getting devoured and having his body crushed beyond usability.

    Another paddling of the shovel-legs brought the beast closer, and it was unaware of the storm the Thinker was gathering in his heart.

    And when the Dachshund got close enough ¡ªclose enough for Dirofil to see the papillae lining his mouth and forking tongues, close enough to feel his warm and putrid breath, close enough to make a beating heart stop¡ª said storm unfurled. A shockwave of the Thinker¡¯s very soul spewed forth, the whitest of lights spreading in arcs of scorching rage, landing upon the soft tissues of the abhorrent dachshund and searing its sharp whiskers away.

    The creature shivered and howled, stopping its charge, seemingly stunned, and Dirofil lost no time to put some distance between them. That would not last, and the attack would likely make the thing, in whose territory he had intruded, angrier.

    He hadn¡¯t taken a tenth step away when he heard the renewed stir of the extremities behind him. He began gathering energy again as he headed for the intersection of tunnels. Maybe there he would find a way out. A crack, a crevice through which to escape as the thing dug for him. But they couldn¡¯t do that forever. His core was strong and well-nourished; it would likely take dozens or even a hundred discharges like the previous one before it broke. But break it would, shattering his very existence, if he couldn¡¯t find a way out.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    And even if he could escape, doing so while weakened would be a thoughtlessness sentence. It was time to move, and the tide wanted to shove him straight into an inexistent afterlife.

    <hr>

    Parvov opened his eyes and shot a displeased glance as he heard the drilling voice of one of his subordinates call at the arch of his chambers. His ire at the interruption lasted but a mere instant, as he made out the words the Splinter of him was repeating amidst a darkness where only the light of their cores irrupted into.

    ¡°Sir, sir, we detected a Reaper! A Reaper! We followed protocol and turned off the engines and refinery stations and lights. The psycholocators remain on duty, and we are monitoring it closely.¡±

    ¡°You are unfit to bear my visage,¡± Parvov judged the lesser, and smaller, version of himself. ¡°You were the one picked up about forty tides ago, if I am not wrong. Filbaros, was it?¡±

    ¡°Yes, captain Parvov,¡± The crew member trembled when he noticed the captain was incorporating, ready to address him face to face, illuminated only by the light of their souls.

    ¡°You are a Splinter of my person. I insult you; you answer in kind. It¡¯s far more offensive to see a reflection of me acting with such abject deference in the face of a superior¡¯s abuse.¡± Parvov faced his Splinter, and his gaze softened a bit as his arms found each other behind his back. ¡°Inform me of the Reaper¡¯s movement. Is it hunting? Is it Idle?¡±

    The splinter couldn¡¯t help but to salute the captain before answering. ¡°It seems to be idly drifting across the sea, sir.¡±

    ¡°You are a lost cause, Filbaros. I¡¯d be sighing if I had lungs. Back to our main concern: I assume the Reaper protocol is being followed without any deviations.¡±

    ¡°Crewmate Edala tripped on the way to her chambers to meditate,¡± he dutifully informed, which made Parvov press on his own wrist to fend off frustration.

    ¡°That¡¯s an irrelevant detail. Tell the lucid ones that we are deviating from the protocol almost completely if that Reaper¡¯s movements indicate that it has begun to hunt. The whole ship powered and moving away from the thing, the defensive spikes at the ready, everyone refining or psycholocating or powering something.¡±

    Parvov shoved his way past his subordinate, heading for the door with an air of anger-fueled authority.

    ¡°That would be suicidal! Reapers are way faster than the ship, sir!¡±

    ¡°And they are faster than my brother too. What do you think it would be hunting around here, if not Dirofil?¡±

    ¡°With all undue respect: I won¡¯t tell the rest of the crew to sacrifice themselves for your brother, Parvov.¡±

    Parvov turned, a hand raised as if to strike the insolent crewmate down, but instead, what found Filbaro¡¯s trembling temples was a gentle caress, the yellowish light of his core reflecting off his captain¡¯s forearm. ¡°See? There aren¡¯t lost causes when the motivation is the right one. If that Reaper begins to hunt, there will be a suicidal mission. Mine, and mine alone, as the Corship sneaks away at minimum power. Then you will have to choose a new captain.¡± And before his subordinate could answer, Parvov left the room, descending the spiral of spheres with heavy steps. ¡°I will check on the psycholocators personally. See if they need rest. Thank you for your dutifulness. Are you dismissed?¡±

    ¡°You are asking me if I am dismissed, Captain?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Linger if you wish. Or not. Choice of yours,¡± the distant and worried voice of Parvov reached his ears.

    <hr>

    A ninth explosion staggered the Tunneler once again, sent puppies flying against it due to Dirofil¡¯s nervousness, which caused certain lack of accuracy on his blasts. ¡°Let me go!¡± he said, uncaring for keeping a homogeneous tone, scurrying away a few steps once more. He had begun to fall victim to the burning sensation of an exerted thoughtcrystal.

    He grabbed a loose puppy that scratched his back against a heterogeneous layer of its equals. There should have been dog viscera splatting everywhere with the ensuing violence, but the pups remained untarnished, unharmed. Probably the common dogs that made up the sea were impervious to damage.

    Once the Dachshund recovered, Dirofil held the clueless puppy against the core in his chest and focused the energy he gathered right behind the little dog.

    The violent discharge made him lose his footing as it ripped the puppy off his soft grasp, sending him or her ¡ªDirofil hadn¡¯t bothered to sex the poor thing¡ª hurling forward, spinning chaotically across the four or five meters that separated the Thinker from a gruesome fate, slipping through the dachshund¡¯s flower of jaws and impacting right into one of the shoulder eyes, digging into the flesh, splashing gore everywhere, and injecting a whining and wiggling Labrador puppy into the Dachshund¡¯s monstrous frame.

    For the first time since their little game of cat and mouse had begun, the creature allowed an echoing howl to ripple out. It was in pain, with a living Labrador lodged deep into his pectoral orbit. It thrashed against the wall of its own tunnel, accelerating the falling rate of ceiling-puppies.

    Dirofil skittered away while the dachshund violently threw its body against the walls. The waves of violence barely reached him: the mass of puppies enjoyed a fantastic capacity to absorb impacts and disperse their energy.

    Reaching the intersection of tunnels Dirofil barely looked both ways before jumping to his right. This tunnel was slanted, and he would be ascending a bit as he traversed it. And laying on the floor, he noticed the presence once again, it seemed to come from a crack amongst the puppies that interrupted the curve that normally formed between the wall and ground. He approached, defeated by curiosity, and introduced his head in the crack to see better.

    And from the depths of that crevice, emerging from amongst puppy debris like fungi on dead wood, shoot several tentacles that reached for Dirofil¡¯s face and hands.

    Fear lasted but a second: Those were known appendages. This wasn¡¯t a monster dragging him into the hole, this wasn¡¯t some hell-bound beast that crawled out of the creator¡¯s nightmares.

    ¡°You hurt my bodyguard!¡± came the high-pitched voice of a Splinter of Babesi.

    When his whole body had been introduced into the crack. by the relatively weak tentacles, Dirofil responded. ¡°You wound my soul with that voice. You have no right to use it. What¡¯s your name, Splinter?¡±

    A head with a lone eye popped from between the puppies. Its two voiceboxes were inserted below and to the sides of the orb of purple metal, black vestibules and ducts floating amidst the transparent slime. ¡°Babesi: Sixth Pest, Elongate Annoyance, Mirthful One, Essence of Brat, Dear Little Sister (rarely heard), Lyssav¡¯s Lapdog, First to Fall, Future Chew Toy, Guest of the Giant Dachshunds¡ª¡± she enumerated until Dirofil¡¯s hand found her eye and obstructed her vision.

    ¡°Ah, it¡¯s the one with the right to use that voice and the tendency to abuse it. Pull me into whatever puppy-pocket you inhabit and shut up, Bab.¡± Dirofil said, struggling to contain his emotion, for a Splinter trying to trick him would have called herself the Sixth Conceptualized, and not all of the nicknames her siblings had given the real one during her inopportune visits. This was as Babesi as any being could ever get.

    ¡°As you wish, Dirodiro!¡±

    And thus, he closed his eyes, seizing the opportunity to meditate and slightly restore his energy as Babesi dragged him somewhere safe. Or safer, at the very least.

 Chapter 6: Sawdust Heap

    ¡°He decreed the Sixth should be called Babesi. His naming scheme is unassailable: I can¡¯t, for the love of all, make him drop it. I already told him that one cannot name a creation after a parasite. But isn¡¯t my pet name for him that of a parasite? So he argues. I have made this bed.¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoiesis, page 7.

    Highlighted by the shine of the puppies, together into that little pocket of safety among the tunnels where the dachshunds dug incessantly, Dirofil contemplated his little sister leaping around like an unfurling spring, her serpentine body curling one and another way to give the hand on her tail access to the puppies. ¡°Judgement,¡± she said as she shoved one of the fallen puppies back into his place in the ceiling. She faced another and talked again. ¡°Disembarrassed!¡± she chastised before grabbing the pup from its loose skin and returning him to his hole in the wall. ¡°When!¡± Once again she hurried to return the pup to where it belonged in the room¡¯s structure.

    ¡°Are those the names of the pups?¡± Dirofil finally asked, trying to think outside the box: That was the only way to understand Babesi sometimes.

    ¡°Yes, I name them when they react to one of the random words I mumble as I go about my tide.¡±

    ¡°You are wrong in the core, Bab.¡±

    She nodded energetically, not looking at him because she was examining the belly of one of the floorpups. ¡°Wrong in the Core: Another title for my growing collection.¡±

    ¡°But I thought you were¡­ worse off. Gone,¡± Dirofil didn¡¯t bother sitting up, nor staring directly at her.

    ¡°The sea almost renders me thoughtless, yes. Then I found the Dachshund tunnels and hid while figuring out where they wouldn¡¯t dig next. They have a pattern to their tunnels, and that helps the warren keep its structural integrity. I have hideouts in places where they cannot dig without collapsing the whole thing.¡±

    ¡°And the Dachshunds, I take, keep other things away?¡± Dirofil¡¯s expression went sour, the mirthful shine in his eyes dying off after realizing there had to be things more terrible out there; that he had barely scratched the surface of the sea of dogs.

    ¡°Indeed! I care for the Daschies and they care for me. The Sampreys parasite them, and I have the right size to crawl over their bodies and plug them off. A Samprey is a parasitic Samoyed. A Samoyed is originally a big fluffy dog of white fur and kind behavior and... Peritoneum!¡±  her face¡¯s tendrils stopped a little pup form emerging from the wall and into the open space.

    Dirofil let out a little giggle. He almost felt like he was sitting in his throne, listening to Babesi¡¯s branching speeches as he contained his urge to dismiss her like, according to her, Parvov often did in the days before her spire fell. ¡°Why not call them normal dog names? Spot? Max? Rex?¡±

    ¡°I reserve those for the Dachsies!¡±

    Of course. Of course that would be the case. Morbilliv would have found a way to beat them, to kill the things and make an armor out of their skin. Parvov¡¯s plan wouldn¡¯t be too far off. But Babesi was this bubbly, hyperactive thing. Like a metallic ferret she bounced off walls and looked at you with her big eye and, for a fleeting moment, you could believe that, just maybe, the world wasn¡¯t this unfair heart grinder, and instead was a titanic joke you could enjoy if only you learned how to be on in it. ¡°I am glad you still think, Babesi. Do you know of the others?¡±

    ¡°Others what?¡± She fiddled a bit with her tendrils and then seemed to crash against a realization. ¡°Ah! The one you hurt is called Rita. She¡¯s female. Very territorial girl, it took me a long time to earn her trust¡ª¡±

    Dirofil grunted. ¡°Our siblings. Parvov, Morbilliv.¡±

    ¡°You are the first Thinker I see since I live here. Well, the first one with a working core. One of the side chambers of the cave system is full of Splinter scraps. Tail!¡± She dove in direction to Dirofil¡¯s flicking appendage. ¡°This is from Leptos.¡±

    ¡°Indeed, our brother granted me some parts of his to repair my body. I still have some minor issues with the articulations of the legs and don¡¯t hear all too well from one of my ears, but I manage.¡±

    ¡°How¡¯s the old Leplep?¡±

    Dirofil rubbed his hands together. ¡°Fine. Unable to move due to his core conjoining him with his throne, but still thinking.¡± But when Dirofil finished speaking, Babesi had gone back to minding a misbehaving puppy. The idea of cursing her flashed through his mind, but he immediately decided not to. If with each passing tide there was the chance of losing another sibling, his time with the young Babesi deserved to be cherished. ¡°Do you wish to get out of here?  I could descend out of the sea and take you to Leptos spire. He¡¯d be glad to have your company.¡±

    ¡°But I am fine in here. I have a comfortable place to meditate, my core is weak but I can recover a bit of strength with each passing tide, and the Dachsies keep other ugly mutants away,¡± she said, closing onto Dirofil¡¯s face, her eye examining the iris of labradorite that he had borrowed from Leptos. ¡°Who took your eye?¡±

    ¡°Parvov. For reasons undisclosed. The tide before he came on his own to the sea and disappeared.¡±

    Babesi lowered her head and coiled in a corner of the puppy-pocket, as far away from her brother as she could. ¡°That was my fault. I never discouraged him from pursuing his dream. Parvi told me he wanted to save everyone from the sea. That the only way to do so would be to know what said sea concealed beyond the retriever layer. I told him it sounded like a noble endeavor. And now Parvi¡¯s¡­¡±

    ¡°¡­ Gone.¡± Dirofil sentenced, and he leaned forward to crawl towards his armless sister. ¡°But it¡¯s not your fault, Babesi: Parvov believed that, like he had been dreamt third by the creators of the world, he could manifest his own dreams, bend reality to his will if his core was strong enough. I have no idea what he planned, but it¡¯s clear to see he failed.¡± He reached for Babesi¡¯s head and used two of his fingers to caress the area under Babesi¡¯s left voicebox. ¡°We cannot save our siblings from themselves. You cannot save me from my promise, nor can I save you from¡­¡± Dirofil looked for the words for a long instant, but failed to find them. ¡°From being you,¡± he had to satisfy himself with that simple statement.  ¡°Now let us rest, Babesi: I want to restore the thought energy I lost by fending off Rita. Afterwards, I want to go scavenging among those scraps you mentioned, if you wouldn¡¯t mind.¡±

    ¡°As you wish, Dirodiro! I will make the rounds while you meditate!¡± Babesi perked up and shot past him, wiggling her way past the thinnest of the walls of puppies with such speed that Dirofil barely managed to come up with the right question.

    ¡°Rounds of what, Babesi?¡±  She didn¡¯t answer and he repeated the question only once before letting himself fall on his back and lay on the soft dogs. He closed his eyes and embraced the calm of that place, the knowledge that he was with Babesi, that he had recovered a smidge of what he had thought lost. Maybe Parvov and Morbilliv were out there, somewhere. But he wouldn¡¯t let optimism beget hope, not because of this fortuitous encounter. Contenting himself with Babesi¡¯s wellbeing was the best he could do, refraining to invoke the ghosts of his other siblings.

    <hr>

    The Tunellers¡¯ order resulted curious for Dirofil. Those monstrous dogs had brought all the remains of the splinters they hunted to a single room, gathered them in a heap, and left it unattended, or, at least, ready for Babesi to exploit, if she needed to.

    ¡°There aren¡¯t many Splinters of me being rendered thoughtless by the Dachsies: they don¡¯t actively attack them. So please don¡¯t take parts from the few remains of them, as I may need those in the future. Solely!¡± She rushed to catch a brown dog that had fallen from the ceiling of the scrap chamber.

    Said chamber, as judged by Dirofil, was roughly shaped like an oblate spheroid. The distant ceiling stood as a parody of the creator¡¯s sky, with black and brown puppies speckled here and there as if they were stars seen in a film negative. And at his feet, a lake of remains, of gold and silver and green and iridescent parts, with no core light to be seen. So much thoughtlessness presented as a distressing sight to him, but it was also a heap of resources he couldn¡¯t ignore. He could readily recognize the worn-down arms and legs that jutted out the mass of scrap here and there.

    As his eye and Leptos¡¯ scanned the pile of deceased, he began wondering what he wanted to get. Not what he could get, as he fostered a pretty good memory of the parts that conformed the bodies of the original six.  And besides an ear from a splinter of his and a few spare pieces for his articulations, he was unsure. For long it had been a dream of his to test out Lyssav¡¯s wings. And he beheld a pair of them, shaped after a bat¡¯s, with the characteristic elongate metacarpals and phalanges on most fingers, a few meters away from his position, poking out from the pile not unlike other appendages did.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°Ah! I forgot!¡± Babesi urged and swiftly snaked to her brother¡¯s side. ¡°Sometimes Chiranhas hide in the pile. The Dachsies don¡¯t stir nor mind the pile a lot so they don¡¯t bother eating the Chis here like they do elsewhere in the tunnels. It¡¯s a dangerous place.¡±

    ¡°You consider mutant Chihuahuas dangerous?¡± Dirofil asked in an almost-mocking tone.

    ¡°A sausage dog almost ends you,¡± Babesi replied with a satisfied tone.

    ¡°The idea is amusing until you see them. I get your point. How big are these mutant¡ª¡±

    But expecting Babesi to wait for her interlocutor to finish such a sentence was a pipe dream. ¡°Chihuahua sized. Vicious. They hunt in packs. Their teeth are modified to be sharper and can bite through the alloy of my bones and scales. They are made of the same thing¡­ wait, snake scales are of epidermal origin, they are not made of bone¡­ Brother, I am shaped after a fish!¡±, Babesi concluded, closely inspecting the scales of her tail-hand.

    Dirofil imagined the metaphorical hamster with hyperthyroidism that lived inside her core overdosing on psychostimulants. ¡°At least you gave me a definite answer.¡±

    The Fourth Imagined glanced at the wings once more. Lyssav would straight up obliterate him if she saw him using a body part of one of her Splinters. Not because she cared about them, but rather out of considering it an affront against her gargantuan ego. Only The First Pictured would be spared of her ire, for only Leptos she respected enough. And he had clearly transcended the need for a functional body, such that the situation would never arise.

    A rumble swiped through the whole chamber, upsetting the puppies and putting Dirofil on guard.

    ¡°Worry not, that¡¯s probably Blotch. He has a tendency to dig around these parts.¡± Babesi¡¯s sentence was punctuated by a second-long quake of the ceiling. ¡°And that¡¯s a tunnel collapsing. I am positive now: Blotch.¡±

    Babesi¡¯s calmed demeanor prohibited Dirofil from manifesting his nervousness. ¡°I see, I¡¯ll begin seeking the parts I need, then. Keep your eye out for trouble, Bab.¡±

    ¡°I am an expert Chiranha spotter!¡± she said as she used her tendrils¡ªof her face, of her girdles, of her tail¡ª to ascend along the wall and oversee the whole pile from such a vantage point.

    Dirofil¡¯s claws found easy purchase upon the plates, cogs and rods that once made up his equals. He advanced with a regal air, with firm steps and a straight back under the chainmail cape that concealed most of his form. It was the only proper way to walk over a cemetery, to pay respect to the thoughtless. ¡°I see them while meditating sometimes. Gravestones under a blue sky riddled with blooms of whiteness. I see vines creeping up them while flowers whose names I don¡¯t know why I know wither over beds of dirt.  The makers knew of death, Splinters. Theirs is the fault of our demise.¡±

    Dirofil rejected the idea to use his core¡¯s energy to raise the metal skeletons back up, to make them march out of the pile so he could comfortably take what he needed. The privilege of spare energy wasn¡¯t one he enjoyed.  So he limited himself to picking up a replica of Parvov¡¯s skull, with the twisted horns pointing in opposite directions, giving him that battered crescent moon appearance when looked from either side. Their inner ears were similar enough, so maybe he could pluck the little artifact off the thoughtless husk and assimilate it. With his right arm, whose fingers were thinner than those of his composite left, Dirofil reached beneath the right horn and fiddled a bit between the sharp plates of the skull, until he felt the peculiar dotted texture on his fingertip. ¡°Eye for an ear, and not even yours. But this is what I get for acquiescing to your petition, Brother.¡± A little infusion of core energy and turn of the wrist later he was pulling his hand out, the little hearing implement stuck to his finger, encased by his own slimy flesh. Now he had to test it. ¡°Babesi, tell me about other layers of the sea. Are there open spaces like these tunnels? I take it¡¯s not retrievers and their puppies all the way up.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, but I am sure the Dachsies do!¡± She shrieked like she was wont to do, and Dirofil paid close attention at how the ear in his finger picked up the sound.

    Yes, it would do: he pulled with his core, and under his skin, the little object travelled up his arm, into his chest, through his neck and across most of its head, lodging itself next to his deficient ear, which would be expelled from his body as soon as the assimilation process for the new ear was complete.

    ¡°The Dachshunds can talk?¡± He asked, pleasantly surprised by Babesi¡¯s statement, now that he could properly react to it.

    ¡°No, but they surely know about the sea!¡± She stated, impervious to the intent behind her brother¡¯s question.

    He shook his head and began pacing over the pile once more. His cape¡¯s lower end caressed the bumps and shapes of the fallen, like a mourning hand holding the deceased¡¯s in a funeral. There was no warmth in the pile, there was no warmth in the cape: there was only warmth in the puppies and in Dirofil¡¯s and Babesi¡¯s cores.  ¡°You have a penchant for collecting and dispensing useless information, sister.¡±

    ¡°I call them facts. Conclusions, sometimes. Wrong, rarely.¡±

    There was no wind in the sea of dogs, nor in the core. No gentle gusts to rip frail petals off decaying flowers. He walked upon a graveyard devoid of beauty, and he lamented it deeply. An ugly dump of husks of replicas, that it was; did not a single one of those Splinters deserve a beautiful place for their remains?

    His gaze drifted to a nearby pair of Dirofil-legs barely standing out from the rubbish. He wondered if that could be him. If it was fate or rather mere luck that determined if one was born as the original or as their countless Splinters. In the farcical world of the creators, only a few would ever see a cadaver that resembled them.

    But that world was either gone, or had never been there in the first place. The creators had promised them nothing of value: not truth, not coherence, not salvation. Not a place to go when their cores went devoid of light and shattered into a fine dust.

    He reached for the legs to pull them from their spot and soon heard the little sniggering of something drawing near.

    ¡°Chiranhas!¡± Babesi shouted uselessly as Dirofil raised his bitten arm, where a single dog with sharp cyrtoconic teeth bigger than its eyes and an armor of brown and silver scales thrashed and tried to rip off a part of the Thinker¡¯s flesh.

    ¡°What a nuisance.¡± The Fourth Imagined used his left arm to take the thing from the head, and he held it at arm length as the predatory Chihuahua kicked and tried to gnaw though the Thinker¡¯s palm. ¡°You may be able to bite through metal, but bone is way frailer than enamel. Let¡¯s see what your skull is made of.¡±

    The vile creature frothed at the mouth as what initially was merely a restrictive grasp turned into an unforgiving vice. ¡°I don¡¯t need to exert my core to deal with pests of your size,¡± he said as the mutant dog whimpered and kicked uselessly, the little bones of his skull cracking and giving in as the dark blood escaped from his orbits, nose and mouth. Then, a splat as the cranium finally collapsed, like a broken egg full of brains and gore.

    Dirofil let the lifeless body in the pile and focused on catching the three new attackers that were climbing his cape and nibbling his leg. The tail skewered the one biting his calf without the littlest of issues, and with the cape of chains he enclosed the other two as in a bag and then used his core to take control of each link of metal, tightening the fabric around the aberrant creatures, compressing them from every angle until their bones started to snap and their flesh to mix in a ball of squeezed-out Chiranhas.

    Babesi watched the whole scene unfurl in silence, and then found the words she was looking for. ¡°You are murdering them. Offhandedly.¡±

    ¡°They are polluting the resting place of the murdered.¡± Dirofil shook his cape to rid it of the sticky Chihuahua remains, and then hitched his tail like a whip to dislodge the impaled one. ¡°I promised this sea I will be its heartworm. Why would I hesitate when killing sick dogs?¡±

    ¡°They are still doggies,¡± Babesi lowered her voiceboxes, as if frowning with her inner structure, forming an inverted V shape with her lone eye.

    ¡°They wanted to end me,¡± his eyes wandered into his bloodied hand.  He had never killed anything before. No. There had never been something to kill before. No even trees to topple down, or bugs to squash. Only siblings and their Splinters, which no Thinker would dream of rendering thoughtless¡­ or almost no thinker. And yet the blood didn¡¯t feel alien between his fingers. It didn¡¯t feel wrong.  ¡°I am sorry for having you witness that, dear sister.¡±

    He finally decided to sit upon the pile and inspect the legs he had found. Fiddling first with the knees to check on the hinges and cogs in them. With some luck, a few would have gotten stuck on the fixed elements instead of falling out after losing the gelatin support they had in life.

    ¡°You killed them, brother. You, Dirofil, Fourth Imagined, killed them. I¡¯d expect that of the others ¡ªexcept Leptos¡ª but never of you.¡±

    ¡°Leptos likes to address me as the Kind One. My siblings, the Splinters and the Thinkers of the Edge deserve my kindness. This sea doesn¡¯t.¡± With his bloodied left he gestured at the heap of carcasses, at how expansive it was, drops of dense blood dripping here and there, baptizing the metal cemetery.   ¡°Look at what it did. Behold the cruelty we must repay in kind if we wish to overcome the end of the world, Babesi.¡±

    ¡°But Diro,¡± she said with bottomless hurt in her voice. ¡°The Dachsies like their food alive. Dead Chis are up to me to clean.¡±

    It was like a fat lamppost had been shoved in between the spokes of his anger, sending his thought process out of rails. ¡°Is that how you get rid of the Sampreys? You feed them alive to the very animals they parasite?¡±

    ¡°Yes. I batter them against a nearby wall or the ground and then, once they are stunned, I give them to the Dachsies to eat. They slurp the Sampreys up without hesitation. They love their taste,¡± Babesi explained, in a far calmer tone.

    ¡°Wrong in the core.¡± Dirofil finished absorbing the articulation pieces he needed for the legs, and let his gaze come to rest upon the wings.  Cautiously, using his hands as well as legs to support his weight as he crawled towards the object of desire, he wondered how it would feel, folding them under his cape, or spreading them to take flight in any space as open as the one they currently resided in. He pictured his slime flowing in and coalescing into strong patagia supported by the abandoned metallic bones. Lyssav, he had seen her flying from the top of her spire to Leptos¡¯s, to Parvov¡¯s, in the times when the hand of Shadiran could readily touch his. He kneeled in front of the wings and joined his hands in that snowglobe-holding gesture so characteristic of him. In silence he pondered the inexistent little world between his hands, thinking about the fact that the wings could become more a burden than a boon. But the scarlet skeleton called for him, reflecting a beam of puppy-light from a polished metacarpal. A tentative touch made a river of cold course through his arm. There was nothing special about these wings, but that wouldn¡¯t make them look less like the ones inserted on the shoulders of his cruel sister.

    And yet the sea wouldn¡¯t afford him mercy for nurturing these irrational feelings, for fostering an absurd phobia of Lyssav¡¯s potential judgement.

    With both hands he grabbed the wings middle section ¡ªthe zeugopodia¡ª and infused his soul into the carcass as he straightened his back, pulling.

    And pulling.

    And pulling.

    Until the obstinate articulations gave in, letting the appendages dangle free, making Dirofil fall backwards onto the pile of rubbish.  Now, all that he had to do was to assimilate the wings.

 Chapter 7: Lyssavs Prison

    ¡°Rabid dogs sometimes develop a curious symptom: a severe aversion to water and light. Rabid people, I think, too; but they do not concern me, as they are not contemplated by my field of study. This should be taken into account while making the new world. She will hate it.¡±

    ¡ªTidbits of Our Creation, page 2.

    The nightmare wouldn¡¯t allow her to use the time to think appropriately. She licked her fangs as the inflamed red slime of her face rotted and fell in ribbons, rejoining with that of her body where it touched it. Once more, she was awake. Once more, Parvov¡¯s inhumane crime met her, the vision of the nefarious vials imprinting into her three eyes. She couldn¡¯t leave her throne, as the whole room had been filled with them, with the bloody walls of the chamber obscured by the sheer density of gold and glass. They hung from the ceiling, supported by frail chains, with about one third of the links holding little bottles. Where? Where had Parvov gotten the damned liquid for filling them? Had he boiled dog saliva and distilled the vapors? Had he found another source of water?

    Because that was what the vials had, the only thing capable of striking fear into Lyssav¡¯s core: water, simple and pure. She had been trapped amidst this stilled rain, a prison devised just for her. She was tempted to extend her claws and shred through the curtain of torture. But her body wouldn¡¯t answer, for the phobia was stronger than her will, than her desperation.

    ¡°One day, Parvov. One day I will get rid of the vials. And then, if you still think, I¡¯ll get rid of your skull and use the horns as a toothprick!¡±

    <hr>

    Dirofil screamed yet once more, not caring if the Tunnelers heard him. The Wings had passed through his core, they had emerged out his back, and they still hurt like nothing had ever hurt him. It was a supreme soreness that spread all over his body and even his mind, a fan of little, spinning knives spreading from the wings, all over the wings. Everywhere. He felt even his memories, those natural and those granted by the creators, were wounded and throbbing, warm and swollen mounds of pain.

    ¡°Lyssav once told me she was used to feeling a little sore all over. Is that what happens with the wings, Dirodiro?¡± Babesi offered helpfully, but always staying at the shore of the lake of carcasses, for she wasn¡¯t willing to face potential Chiranha attacks.

    ¡°A little sore?¡± He whistled with a thread of voice. His head jerked and trembled as he spoke, the wings under his cape spreading while the slime created the membranes between the fingers. ¡°There¡¯s not a particle of my body not shrieking in pain. It feels like I have assimilated the very essence of torture.¡±

    In a sudden movement he unfastened his cape and let it fall over his tail, that swiftly turned about him. He needed to beat them. He needed to beat them or the pain would erase his sanity. And they were heavy and they were sore and they couldn¡¯t not be! These wings had been crafted to hurt as much as they had been crafted to fly, Dirofil could feel that. Afterimages of the pain of the past second clouded his mind, and the fear of the future suffering made the present one worse.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    And beating them was barely making things any better. ¡°Stop!¡± he cried out, and found that his left hand had reached behind his back, grasping at the base of his left wing. They were deeply rooted into his scapulae, but not a second more he would stand such abhorrent existence.

    His whole arm quivered and his back curved as he pulled.

    And pulled.

    And pulled.

    One by one the filaments that joined the native bone to the foreign one tore apart. Dirofil howled and curled the claws of his feet in agony as he kept on tugging, on wrenching his new extremity. And with a snap and wet sound, it got ripped off. The ensuing clamor of the now one-winged automaton was one of relief as much as one of pain.

    ¡°Now¡­ onto the other.¡±

    He was more savage with the second wing, as the vice of pain had eased its grasp on his body, and he could afford a little self-inflicted brutality, a smidge of extra stress in exchange for expediting the process.

    And the second wing got mutilated away from his body, and the ratchet of horror stopped turning. Relief, washing all over him as his slimy flesh healed, filled in the holes the wings had left. This pain was nothing in comparison to the one he had been feeling since assimilating the wings.

    He let himself fall on his back and stared silently at the hanging Babesi. ¡°Poor Lyssav.¡±

    ¡°I haven¡¯t felt her pain, but what you just showed me is enough to spur the imagination. Poor Lyssav.¡±

    Feeling his body lighter than it had ever been Dirofil sprung to a standing position. ¡°It seems I got something from the wings after all.¡±

    Babesi waited for him to continue, a curious look settled on her face.

    ¡°The knowledge that my existence could be way worse than it normally is. That a slight distemper after a hellish episode cannot be called but a bliss. I am complete, Babesi.¡±

    ¡°I am glad you are! Wanna come with me and groom the Dachsies together? ¡°

    Dirofil shook his head as he exited the heap of remains. ¡°I am complete, Babesi. Exhausted completely, too. Show me a place to rest, and after I meditate enough to recover the energy I lost with this¡­ educational ordeal born out of greed, show me a way out of the tunnels, and into the next layer of this sea that is my fate.¡±

    ¡°Wane the lyrical a bit, you dork! I cannot listen to long speeches without getting lost.¡± Babesi laughed and let the wall go, falling at her brother¡¯s feet. ¡°Come, I have a little room close to the upper level of the warrens. Rita is most likely sleeping by now, and I can make the others tolerate you, I swear!¡±

    ¡°Thanks, sister,¡± Dirofil lowered his shoulders and felt something was off. ¡°Ah, the cape. That¡¯s why I feel so light.¡± A little light flared from his core and the piece of clothing, imbued with his essence after an eternity of wearing it practically all the time, began crawling over the rubbish, approaching like an army of silvery caterpillars.

    ¡°That¡¯s a cool trick you got there.¡±

    ¡°It was on my back the very first time I opened my eyes. It¡¯s as much a part of me as my spine.¡±

    ¡°I want a cape. I need to make a cape.¡± Babesi made a mental note to, indeed, craft a cape as soon as she found a suitable material to do so. Which could take a while.

    ¡°I could fish one for you from the pile. Some of my splinters have capes of their own.¡±

    ¡°No! It wouldn¡¯t be Babesi¡¯s Cape if you do so.¡±

    ¡°Suit yourself, Bab. Now take me to a safe room, if you would be so kind.¡±

    Babesi meandered away, and Dirofil followed, despising his most recent thought: that it was far easier to walk over the dead than over the puppies.

 Chapter 8: The Eye of the Reaper

    ¡°Parvov doesn¡¯t know that I know. I have studied every part of his through Splinter carcasses. I took the liberty to assimilate some. I will tell him later. I may lose the head. Again.¡±

    ¡ªDoratev in one of his recordings.

    Through the one eye of the Corship Parvov watched the border collies lazily drift by. No crisis assailed the crew at the moment, no Reaper wandered nearby. Thus he sat in front of the circular window, and gave orders to the head of the Psycholocation team and the Legsteerer currently in charge of communication. They were both Splinters of him, as often where those shoved into leadership roles aboard the Corship. It wasn¡¯t an indulgence of his, an act of self-aggrandizement, no: Parvov knew how to be a utilitarian when the situation called for it, and shared a unique understanding with his Splinters.

    ¡°How close are we, Lurgas,¡± with a deep voice reserved only for his Splinters he asked the head of the psycholocators, whose core shone bright while he called for the minds of his team to relay the information to him.

    ¡°A few minutes away, sir: four to eight, depending on how the ship manages to maneuver the Rough Density Lumps.¡±

    Parvov nodded in silence.

    ¡°How are your men and women faring, Tiervol?¡±

    The leader of the legsteerers joined his hands before speaking. ¡°The collie layer is always a mess to traverse, with its varying density and whatnot. We are managing, but cannot guarantee speed, sir.¡±

    ¡°I expect safety, not speed. In other word: Good.¡± Parvov stood from his sitting position and examined the ceiling of the room, fitted with the same lattice of flexible dog-based materials as the walls and the floor: The Corship was designed to be able to function no matter its orientation in space. The dissimulated scratches on the window were evidence of the times it had been front-down. Despite this, an effort was constantly made to keep it straight, as the crew was used to it, and the few unattached belongings they had were often misplaced and their falls became a source of minor structural damage. Repairs could always be made, but they costed materials, and materials meant refining and mining: activities that costed them thought energy. And thought energy was the premium currency of the Time to Move. It supported their lives as it kept their cores from collapsing. Parvov didn¡¯t know that once Leptos had told Morbilliv that the cores and their energy where like gills and water, in the sense than the first breaks down without the second. But if he had known, he would have approved of the metaphor, and would have used it with his underlings. For the thought energy was needed for everything onboard, it was the lifeblood of the Corship as much as it was that of the thinkers. And since many tides ago they were in a deficit. Slight, but hanging a clock over their heads all the same. And the main purpose of the Corship, the reason to be of said construct, was to abolish deadlines. To end the Time to Move and begin the Time of Equilibrium. The world was ending, but the Thinkers could endure forever in the right conditions. ¡°Any news of Dirofil, Lurgas?¡±

    ¡°A search as fruitless as a fern, sir. Someone, that I refuse to call out, told me that we should entertain the idea of a mutiny, if you insist on wasting precious resources on it,¡± Lurgas informed flatly, knowing what Parvov¡¯s reaction would be.

    ¡°Tell them to go ahead, and entertain the idea, it¡¯s not a crime. But when the time to act on it comes, remind them that it will be my pleasure to test how many rebellious Splinters I can render thoughtless before they finish spouting their damn slogan. Whatever slogan they may choose, that is,¡± Parvov leaned forward and joined the fingers of both of his massive hands. Hands made to crush, to pummel. ¡°Is the rebellious one a Splinter of Morbilliv?¡±

    ¡°Of Babesi, sir. But I am not giving you any further information about her.¡±

    The raucous laughter of the Captain could be heard resounding through almost the whole ship.

    ¡°She¡¯s clearly delusional! What a lovely way to honor my sister¡¯s memory. Send all Splinters of Babesi not performing urgent tasks to meditate until low tide. As for Dirofil¡­¡± he tapped the glass of the eye he had taken from his brother with a single finger. ¡°¡­He thinks. And if he thinks, we search.¡±

    <hr>

    ¡°Farewell, Bab.¡± Dirofil said, caressing the tendrils of her face with delicate movements. ¡°Thanks for everything.¡±

    ¡°Will you come to visit?¡± Babesi asked, her eye open wide and expectant.

    Dirofil¡¯s shoulders slumped. ¡°Don¡¯t make it harder than it is, Bab. Either the sea takes my mind, or I fulfill my promise and make a new world to replace this one. Neither me nor you, at least in our current forms, will be there.¡± He began ascending towards the end of the tunnel, where among the Retriever puppies one could see long haired tails, black and brown and white and red. ¡°We have shared all we needed to share, Babesi. It was a blessing to get to see you once more when I already thought you gone. But our spires have fallen. It¡¯s not a time for family, is not a time to enjoy or a time to speak or a time to laugh. It¡¯s not a time for goodbyes. But it is a time for farewells.¡±

    She hurried to slither in front of her brother, and did so with incredible haste. ¡°You cannot leave old Babesi alone and say you will never come back. I cannot be alone for the rest of time.¡±

    ¡°Lyssav or Leptos could keep you company when the sea swallows their spires, Babesi. Be good, and care for the monster sausages as they care for you.¡± Dirofil carefully pushed his sister to the side as he ascended the pile of pups.

    ¡°Lyssav or Leptos are not you!¡±

    Dirofil didn¡¯t look back. ¡°I know. Maybe they won¡¯t leave.¡± He said before sinking his hands into the mass of puppies and tails, and starting to disappear inside it.

    The Fourth Imagined ascended in mourning silence as Babesi, too scared to leave the Tunnels, shouted her core out for his return. ¡°Farewell, Sixth Conceptualized.¡±

    Gradually the Retriever puppies got replaced by jovial Border and Rough Collies, the space between dogs increasing little by little. Tails plagued by long hairs sometimes hit Dirofil¡¯s face out of nowhere, as some dog spun over its own axis or curled to lick its parts. He didn¡¯t wonder why they floated: The whole sea had been flying over his head a tide or two prior. Floating dogs distributed seemingly at random in an open space was not something that would surprise him. At least the collies had no issue to support his weight as he jumped from one to the other, and he could see a bit between them: he didn¡¯t depend solely on his psycholocation anymore. But soon he would, because as the retrievers grew scarce, so did their light. Each Collie he climbed shrouded him in a denser murk.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    That was how seas were, Dirofil thought, both in the world and in the world before the world. Dark, unbecoming. Maybe not as fluffy where the creators had lived. But this sea, this one was his fate, the one he would end once he reunited with Shadiran. Long gone where the oceans of water, or maybe never gone, if they had never been in the first place. None of his siblings nor none of Shadiran¡¯s knew if the memories were real or a fabrication. Such doubt assaulted them all from time to time. Not even Leptos had a recollection of the beginning of their world. Like every one of them, the moment the First Pictured opened his eyes for the very first time, he was already sitting on his throne. He already donned the title of the oldest brother, on the first second of existence. What they all agreed was that the world had begun ¡°In medias res¡±, that from the moment Leptos awoke, or maybe a little bit earlier but not much, the world had¡­ been.

    Another thing he considered was how monotonous of a task climbing dogs in the dark was quickly becoming. And then, his mind couldn¡¯t help but return to his family matters.

    ¡°Farewell, Babesi,¡± he repeated as a mantra, as if doing so would lift the mantle of loss that had settled upon him, as if it could afford him her forgiveness. But he couldn¡¯t bring her here. She didn¡¯t belong in the sea, and if she had found a safe haven among the puppy-worms, he had to trust those creatures would have long, fruitful lives. Or long enough for him to finish his climb of the sea, at least. Anything scheduled to happen after Shadiran and him ascended the Zenith of Concepts wouldn¡¯t occur. There wouldn¡¯t be farewells in the new world. Not even goodbyes. There wouldn¡¯t be chronic pains. There would be life, undeterred and unending. Life without death, without restraints. A world where every dream would be considered a nightmare, because nothing could ever be as perfect as being awake and aware of the marvels around oneself. No pain, no grief, no vile ocean of canines.

    Jumping from dog to dog was getting more tedious as the space between them grew larger. It wasn¡¯t like grabbing onto the floating spheres, that had stable orbits and didn¡¯t kick you or protest when you clawed them. It¡¯s not that he hurt them or drew blood as the Collies, so far, seemed to be as resistant as the puppies below. No, they just got scared by his sudden movements, by the force of his landings upon them.

    He turned with warranted urgency when his core detected something that was definitively not a shepherd dog. Spheres attached to a tapering bough¡­ no, a tentacle, coming in his direction. Spheres that shone with light of their own, sky-blue and otherworldly. It took a second from him to realize that it was a multitude of eyes, obscured only by the bodies of the dogs between him and the approaching mass of¡­

    His legs reacted before his consciousness, and soon he began to rush from dog to dog, not caring if he descended, like a rat escaping through the rooves.

    Death, it was a mass of death, he knew that. The eyes saw him, and the tentacles came for him, and he couldn¡¯t help but panic and run from it, from what he didn¡¯t know had a name, and that name, given by a crew of Thinkers that should have been dead, was Reaper.

    Maybe it was a Siberian Husky. That would explain the blue eyes. He thought that and immediately cursed his core for spawning such a stupid concern. Almost blinded by the dark and avoiding to look back, he kept on bouncing from dog to dog. The sounds that reached him were nothing short of ominous: Squelching, howls, barks, cries from the dogs caught by whatever seemed to be pursuing him.

    He began to gather energy in his core. If he got caught, he would send a powerful shockwave out, far stronger than the ones he had used to forestall Rita. He imagined it as some sort of wood chipper. For dogs. Dogchipper. Yes, that was an appropriate way to think of the impending doom with blue eyes.

    And what did the Reaper think? Well, it considered that Dirofil¡¯s core sounded delectable, and that it would soon taste it. So it extended its tentacles, making them shoot though the space filled with Collies, with such force that it shoved them apart, just enough so one of the pedunculated eyes could curl around Dirofil¡¯s tail.

    Cold. Then panic. Panic as he scratched uselessly over dogs that spun under his claws and provided no safe grip. Panic as he looked back and saw the mass of eyes draw closer, dog by dog. Panic before he remembered that Leptos¡¯ tail was modular for a reason.

    Relief as he sent the signal for caudal autotomy from his core to the appendage. And like a gecko¡¯s, the severed piece of the tail kept on squirming as it got dragged into the main mass of the monster.

    But that didn¡¯t buy him much time. He kept on bouncing from dog to dog, the contact of his hands and feet with each so brief that one could almost call his movement a chaotic flight.

    And this, still, seemed to not be enough. The eyes were coming; the tentacles were coming.

    He suddenly took a little deviation to the left when his core detected a difference in the mass of dogs. Ahead of him there seemed to be a river¡­ no, a current or beam of fast moving dogs. If he could get there and dragged away, the huge thing would be unable to follow. Hopefully.

    He was close, so close! But the reaper was closer, so much closer! He exerted his core and his articulations to the max. He felt the hinges would blow from the stress and wear.

    Mere centimeters away from touching the pug current. That¡¯s when an eye shot and wrapped its stalk around his right arm, the weaker arm. Dirofil had a good grip on a Collie a little too fat for an entity that floated amidst a foodless landscape.

    He entertained the idea of letting his arm go for a moment, but soon realized that would be selling tomorrow to afford today. He infused his arm with the energy of his core, so it would keep its integrity. Yet he had not much time to wrestle: an army of stalks and some tentacles was coming.

    A wild idea crossed his mind. What if he wrestled the very control of the eye stalk from the thing, if he infused his soul into it as he did with parts of his siblings? It was a gambit, but so it was provoking a wild explosion with his core, which would likely render him too weak to fight back if the thing persisted its attack.

    He battled with the mind of the Reaper as his coated the eye and stalk. Serve me, answer to my will and not theirs, eye. That¡¯s what he commanded with the authority of the desperate yet unyielding. His core flared wildly as he pumped more and more energy into his adversary.

    And after a few tugs, the eye listened, and obeyed. The stalk began ripping as the thing intruded his flesh, like a worm eating through his arm and finding a home around his metallic bones. But he had no time to watch it happen, to indulge in the burning pain, for as soon as his arm was free form the monster¡¯s grasp, he jumped, hands extended and ready to grab onto a pug of the current.

    It felt like jumping straight into a wall as some of the high-velocity dogs collided against him and threatened to let his articulations blow loose. But he had managed to grab into one of the flowing pugs, his left hand like a starfish clasped around the panting dog¡¯s stupid face. He observed with growing calm how the little blue eyes became smaller and smaller as the torpedoing pugs made their way in their slanted path towards who-knew-where.

    He struggled a bit to ensconce himself into the current, to sheath his body safely in among the brachycephalic dogs. But when he did, the need to think overcame him, and listening to the stressed silent cries of his core, he closed his eyes.

    His eyes, but one: blue and inserted on the upper side of his right hand, the Reaper¡¯s eye was now his, and as the flesh turned to an amalgam with metal, it became more and more integrated with the structure of his bones.

 Chapter 9: Soul Society

    ¡°The miners found a supposed Splinter among the pugs. I have no doubts this is Dirofil himself. It has the unmistakable markings of an original. Yet I will gift the captain the chance to feel smart. He adores that.¡±

    ¡ªDoratev, in a voice record he hoped Parvov would never listen to.

    Parvov entered the laboratory grumbling something inaudible for everyone but the Doctor and his Splinters. ¡°There¡¯s no need to call me for the assimilation of a new Splinter into the crew, Doctor. I¡¯ll introduce myself to them in due time.¡±

    ¡°This Splinter of Dirofil has an unusual core, sir,¡± the Doctor said as he observed his latest catch laid over the examination table. ¡°He has parts of Splinters of Leptos, too. Probably scavenged a carcass to survive. It also has¡­ something unusual in the arm. A contamination of sorts. We fished him from the current as the miners gathered pugs for the refiners.¡±

    Parvov approached with a slouch, as he often did when the crew bothered him. ¡°Let me see him, then.¡±

    Once Parvov had the battered and unconscious body in front of him, he forced himself to straighten his back and backhanded the Doctor so casually, sending him reeling to the floor. ¡°What was that for, sir?¡± The Doctor asked dumbfounded as he gathered himself.

    ¡°Chainmail cape. Loss of¡­¡± Parvov tapped his eye. ¡°¡­This. A broken tail so antique it could only be of Leptos himself. A core of unusual size for a Splinter, yet as weak as one for the moment. What does it tell you?¡±

    The Doctor went to Parvov¡¯s side and examined the captain¡¯s countenance, how his four eyes looked at the one laying in front of him. How he looked way more¡­ relaxed than the tides prior. ¡°The search for Dirofil has ended, sir?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Doctor. I¡¯ll inform everyone personally. Tend to him until his core stabilizes. Make sure no one disrupts his meditation.¡± Parvov stared at the ceiling and stretched his arms before taking them behind his head, under the horn. ¡°It seems it is a small sea, after all.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a big ship,¡± The Doctor countered. ¡°Lots of energy needed to move the legs. Mind if I run some non-invasive tests on the Original?¡±

    ¡°Do unto my brother nothing that you wouldn¡¯t do to me if I were in his place, Doctor.¡±

    Parvov left the laboratory and the Doctor dragged a stool up to the examination table, upon which he sat as he carefully lifted Dirofil¡¯s right arm to give it a closer look. The black mineral ¡ªWhich made the doctor think of amphiboles, pyroxenes or even Dobermannite¡ª throbbed inside his flesh, and over the back of the hand rested a bulge, or a pustule of said material. The Doctor debated between getting a sample, which was an invasive procedure for which he probably had no permission, or waiting for Dirofil to wake up and ask him if he could do so.

    For the time being, he would try to get a better idea of what the anomaly was. A parasite, perhaps?

    He poked the swollen slime around the mound on the back of Dirofil¡¯s hand, and the sapphire stare that got revealed gave him such surprise that The Doctor stepped backwards, tripped on his cape and crashed onto the floor with an absolute lack of grace.

    Dirofil opened the eyes on his head. Where was he? What were all those ghastly images, all those¡­ energy constructs drifting above them. He propped himself on his hands to sit up, and that¡¯s when he noticed that the shift of the ghostly imagines didn¡¯t match that of his field of view. As for his location: the sterile environment, the lack of dogs, the brass color of the walls, and the numerous pieces of analytical equipment littered about the place could only mean that he had been found by someone¡­ a very organized and resourceful someone.

    He decided that unveiling the mystery of his whereabouts would, as a collateral, offer some sort of explanation about the moving creatures of light or smoke, that seemed to be composed of a core like them, and then innumerable veins of milky white defining sometimes legs, sometimes arms, and oftentimes things he couldn¡¯t make out. He turned his head to look at the incorporating Doctor.

    ¡°You saved me, Splinter of Mine? I¡­ remember a current. Pugs everywhere. Oblivion with eyes of blue tracking me as the dogs carried me elsewhere.¡±

    The Doctor joined his hands in front of his own face, a recognizable gesture of concern. ¡°Oblivion with eyes of blue. You met a Reaper. It¡¯s the most dangerous creature we have catalogued so far.¡±

    ¡°Catalogued? We? Who are you and where I am?¡± Dirofil tried to push his leg off the table, but found it too heavy to do so, and let his body fall back. He felt his core, how tired and weak it was. ¡°I need answers, and then a rest,¡± he said, gaze fixed on the beams and the spirits that moved about.

    ¡°You are safe. This is the Corship, the only subcanine ship in existence. As far as we know, that is. It was created to provide Thinkers a place to live inside the sea, now that most spires have fallen.¡± The Doctor reached for a pair of tweezers on a nearby metal table, and pointed at Dirofil¡¯s right hand. ¡°Now, would you allow me to extract a sample from the contamination in your hand? It looks like an eye.¡±

    Dirofil swung his right hand to look at its backside, and his Thinker eyes stared into the Reaper one. There was a ghost in front of him now, adopting the same position with his hand. He turned his head to look at the doctor, and touched his forehead with his palm. Effectively, the energetic image he was now seeing fitted perfectly with the image of the Splinter standing there, holding the tweezers with both hands. ¡°No. It¡¯s an eye. I think it allows me to see flows of thought energy. There are people walking above us, right? Other Splinters?¡±

    ¡°Splinters, all but one. The other may be Captain Parvov.¡±

    The Doctor had never seen an injured and exhausted peer incorporate and head for the door as fast as Dirofil did.

    Would it be his problem if the wounded Original wandered about the ship? His core was rather stable, despite Parvov¡¯s brotherly concerns. It wouldn¡¯t shatter in a non-stressful situation. He could catch Dirofil and probably bring him back in, but it wouldn¡¯t be worth the hassle. Parvov would later make a big deal out of it and tell him that the next time something like this happened he would claw his head off his shoulders. Poppycock: Parvov respected him and his role in the ship way too much to do any lasting harm to him. So the Doctor sat next to his deck, and pulled a box from under it, and from the box, a cage. And inside the cage, a big teethed, muscular pug with three horns on its head.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Pug that cowered and retracted his head inside his shell when the Doctor produced a needle from one of his drawers. ¡°Let¡¯s see if your blood has already changed color.¡±

    Dirofil found himself crawling though cylindrical corridors fitted with convoluted pipes and lines of dot-like lights. He used only his left arms and his legs for support: the right one was still pressed against his forehead, on eye duty. Stealth was not something he concerned himself with: he was among Splinters, which had no reason to be outright hostile to him, and, judging by the one in the laboratory, had no interest in pursuing him. A guest needed not to hide from his hosts¡ªa situation that he found quite ironic.

    He turned in the intersection of two corridors and happened upon a spiral staircase made of perching balls. They were supported by poles, unlike the natural, floating ones, but he wouldn¡¯t complain about that. He ascended it with haste and emerged into a room bustling with activity. Splinters of every sibling of his sat in front of platforms where pugs where shackled, and they groomed the ugly dogs, gathering their fur on flat combs, just to then introduce the gathered hairs into their bodies and run them through their cores, before expelling them back as a liquid in buckets of the same orange-ish tone as many of the structural elements around him.

    He sat idly and watched, flicking what remained of his tail as he tried to make sense of the situation. But this confusion didn¡¯t last, not as the titanic Splinters of Morbilliv hauled carts loaded with more pugs into the room, the green metal plates of their exoskeletons glistening on their legs, waists and arms, their three short tails not even reaching their knee-height.

    He incorporated and tried to put up his most authoritative facade. He also closed the Reaper¡¯s eye, to avoid getting distracted with the superimposed images.

    ¡°Someone, take me to Parvov!¡± he demanded and some Splinters turned their heads briefly before returning to their jobs.

    He noticed a few splinters of Parvov musing something across the room, in a voice deeper than he had ever heard. ¡°Look at him, got hauled in among a lot of hideous brachycephalic balls of fuel and already believes he can boss us around. He had to be an Original.¡±

    ¡°Idiot! Just because he and Splinters of others cannot hear us doesn¡¯t mean Parvov can¡¯t!¡± the other answered, never stopping his pug-grooming.

    ¡°Parvov is announcing that we found him across the ship. He won¡¯t suddenly return back here.¡±

    ¡°He will if that buffoon keeps on shouting his name.¡±

    Dirofil decided to approach them, not to reveal that, indeed, he had the capacity to pick up the frequency in which they spoke, but because they deserved to be annoyed. ¡°Excuse me, Splinters of Parvov, but would you two be darlings and tell me where to find the thinker you are shaped after?¡±

    ¡°Son of a Reaper. Why me?¡± The one closer to Dirofil cursed as his coworker cackled, all in this infrasound their voiceboxes where fitted to produce. He continued in a normal voice, so everyone could hear. ¡°You go through that exit there and proceed straight until you reach the cabins. If he isn¡¯t in his, at the end of the hall, go to the middle deck, check the bridge, and if he isn¡¯t there either, I would guess you¡¯d need to go with the legsteerers on the lower deck. And put up a good word for me, will you?¡±

    Dirofil found his suck-upping and double-faced attitude disgusting, but decided to not let his expression show it. If someone thinks you cannot hear what they see, they will often reveal useful bits of information to you. And that applied both to the Splinters and to Parvov himself. ¡°Sure, friend. But I need a name.¡±

    ¡°Kirval.¡±

    ¡°Well, thank you, Kirval.¡± And so Dirofil headed for the door ¡ªan arch defined by the union of two curved beams of orange¡ª as the pair talked shit about him.

    He dropped onto his left hands as soon as he was out of sight, opening the eye of the Reaper once more. That thing could see souls through walls, and no soul on board would be stronger than Parvov¡¯s. Aiming at the floor he could see the soul of the Doctor, and something he hadn¡¯t noticed before: the faint outline of a roughly canine thing with horns and a shell. He turned his gazes in the direction of the room he had just left. No outlines for the pugs.

    He focused on looking in the directions to the areas where the moron had told him his brother could be giving the news of his arrival. He needed to see Parvov. To have him face to face and shut up the little voice inside his mind that said that Parvov was devoid of all thoughts, and that there surely was a Splinter impersonating him. Soon he found the unmistakable flare of his Brother¡¯s soul. From it erupted a shine unlike all others. Whiter, stronger, slightly oppressive. This soul shone with unrivaled brightness, and it burnt out all doubt that his had to be one of his siblings, and not merely a liar trying to snatch up his place.

    The way to the bridge was mostly clear, save for some Splinter that dashed from one room into another, as if there was no time to move in any other way. A discordance of psycholocation waves hit him now and then, several souls meeting the world face on. And he could see them, blasts of soul energy invisible to a thinker¡¯s eye, but not to a reaper¡¯s. He was learning about his people, and he was learning about his enemy. If his soul and its pulses could be seen through walls, and maybe even through dogs, there would be no place to hide from the monsters of the sea. Nor for his siblings to hide from him.

    When he took the last turn and beheld the entrance to the bridge, with the four steps that led to it, his round entrance, and the imposing figure of Parvov looking out the massive porthole, he closed the Reaper¡¯s eye and stood.

    As he shuffled his feet to the first step, and before he reached the second, Parvov turned, and Dirofil met his own glancing gaze in his brother¡¯s face.

    ¡°You should be recovering, little brother,¡± the captain said before turning and lumbering his way down the bridge. ¡°Let me take you to my cabin.¡±

    The multitude of claws in the hands of Parvov made Dirofil empathize with the Chihuahua whose head he had crushed as the captain approached.

    ¡°I needed to see you, Parvov. To know it was you,¡± Dirofil said, letting himself collapse on his knees. ¡°You still think.¡±

    ¡°Barely. How did you elude the Doctor?¡± Parvov leaned forward to look at his brother in the eyes. ¡°And poor Leptos. I¡¯ll have to pay him a visit to restitute the parts you took.¡±

    ¡°You think, Parvov. I love you,¡± Dirofil admitted before bowing and planting his head over the corgite slabs. ¡°Thanks for surviving this sea.¡±

    Parvov blinked and scratched his skull. ¡°Are you feeling alright, Dirofil? I don¡¯t remember you ever showing this sort of¡­ disposition towards me.¡±

    The Fourth Imagined met The Third Dreamt¡¯s worried stare. ¡°I love Leptos, I love you, I love Morbilliv, I love Babesi, and I pity Lyssav.¡±

    ¡°Allow me to carry you to my chambers, brat. You are not right in the core, clearly.¡±

    ¡°Morbilliv. Where¡¯s Morbilliv?¡±

    Parvov answered near instantly, without a shadow of doubt in his voice, but in a conspiring tone, and next to Dirofil¡¯s left ear. ¡°Nowhere. I found him shortly after finishing building the corship. He was on board for a time so brief and so distant that few of the crew remember him as more than a side note. Our brother blew up his core to save me when we had to face a monster of black tentacles and blue eyes. Don¡¯t tell the Splinters that don¡¯t know. To you I owe truth. To them I owe hope. Hope of saving us all. Sometimes those two are incompatible.¡±

    ¡°I understand,¡± Dirofil said, letting his head fall forward, onto His Brother¡¯s shoulder, as he lost himself in deep meditation.

    ¡°There, I¡äll take you to my chambers.¡± Parvov lifted his brother from the floor and barked no order. The crew knew what to do when refueling the ship. Heavy was each one of his steps as he made the way to his room, with an unconscious Dirofil slung over his shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ll be fine, Dirofil. The only danger here is your own stubbornness.¡±

    The eye of the Reaper flicked open and closed again. The captain didn¡¯t notice.

 Chapter 10: Eye for an Eye

    ¡°Their lives are held in their thoughtcrystals, unlike ours that are held in our bodies. If they break, they will be able to repair. If they lose an arm, a sibling or Splinter will be able to provide another one without any specialized knowledge or training.¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoiesis, page 10

    In the third tide of Dirofil¡¯s slumber, the Reaper alarms blared again, and the ship quickly powered down.  Lanidara, the Splinter of Lyssav, was on Psycholocator duty that tide, and she disliked it fiercely. Despite channeling the psycholocation waves outwards, some of them still found their way through the ship, bringing her images of every Splinter.  Every splinter of Babesi, in exquisite detail, projected inside her soul.  The closest one, with her purple scales, was facing the window next to her, sitting in a psycholocator seat, that resembled the thrones of the spires, but reduced in size and crafted in dog-based metals instead of stone. Said windows were opaque currently: they needed energy to turn transparent, and, furthermore, Parvov banked in their potential attackers not seeing them as a strategy for survival.

    The Splinter of Lyssav squirmed in uneasiness with each wave of thought energy that bounced off the world around her. At about one every three seconds, this meant she was in constant distress. Due to this and more she hated radar duty, but the captain had told her that it was like water, and the ship was a fish¡¯s gills. And she understood the essentiality of the task, and the importance of not sharing her negative feelings through the mental link to which all psycholocators aboard attuned to.

    ¡°Lanidara, calm down. I can feel your disgust at the Splinters of Babesi, and your fear at what dwells outside.¡± The Splinter of Dirofil next to her whispered.  ¡°But our peers depend on us keeping a metaphorical eye on that Reaper. We are one in this task, Lanidara. Focus.¡±

    A message from the Splinter of Parvov managing them reached all of their minds simultaneously. Cease your chattering. Thoughtlessness awaits the unaware. Keep sending me mental images of the creature, lest I lack an updated answer the next time Parvov asks.

    Parvov scoffed and the sound echoed in his room, as he sat beside his unconscious brother and kept guard.

    Filbaros, as long as the Reaper keeps circling that point in space, I don¡¯t need you harrying our Psycholocators. And, yes, I was attuned from the beginning. It¡¯s my role as the captain to keep an eye out for threats. The rest of you, keep on with the good job.

    Back in the Psycholocation bay, the Splinter of Babesi cackled as she heard Filbaros stomp when he entered the room and paced behind them, clearly insulted by the captain¡¯s intromission. ¡°The all-seeing eye of Parvov caught you being naughty.¡± She said in a mocking tone, between two pulses of her core.

    He insulted her in infrasounds, and the Splinter of Babesi squinted her only eye at him. ¡°Filbaros, we Splinters of Babesi are as observant as the original. Why did you use your voicebox to say nothing?¡±

    ¡°Cursed under my breath.¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t breathe. Now shut up!¡± Lanidara chided, trying to concentrate on keeping the Reaper located.  ¡°Isn¡¯t it meandering around the point where we mined Puggum a few tides ago?¡±

    She asked the same question through their mind link, and Parvov answered. So it seems. It¡¯s where we picked up Dirofil.

    Parvov immediately slapped his brother awake.

    ¡°What¡¯s the issue now?¡± Dirofil mumbled weakly as he returned to the world of the conscious.

    ¡°The eye in your hand. The Doctor told me you seem to be able to open and close it at will.¡±

    Dirofil raised his right hand and batted the lids of the Reaper¡¯s eye. ¡°Like this?¡±

    A second later, a message came through the mental link.

    Sir, the reaper has changed its behavior! seems to zigzag in our general direction!

    ¡°Close it and keep it shut!¡± He took Dirofil by the wrist and applied a less than gentle pressure.

    Dirofil obeyed immediately, not understanding what was happening, or why they were alone in a darkness irrupted only by the light of their cores, but he wasn¡¯t gonna argue with his brother about such unimportant matters.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    False alarm, sir, it has returned to wandering aimlessly, for now.

    Thanks a thousand, Psych team. Keep me updated.

    He let Dirofil go and loomed in front of him. ¡°You are to keep that thing permanently shut. The Reaper you took it from wants it back, brother. Are we clear?¡±

    ¡°The monster comes after the eye when I open it?¡±

    ¡°We would need more testing to affirm it without a doubt, but this far so it seems.¡±

    In the darkness of the room Dirofil howled with laughter. ¡°Parvov saying we need more tests! That¡¯s something I had never thought I¡¯d hear.¡±

    Dirofil incorporated without difficulty. The three tides of meditation had restored a crucial part of his energy reserves, and while he wasn¡¯t back in top form, he didn¡¯t feel like walking in two legs would end him anymore.

    ¡°I am not the same Parvov that departed from the world of spheres and Spires, Dirofil. Few were changed by this sea more than I was. Do me the favor of keeping that in mind.¡±

    ¡°Did you know them before they entered the sea? The Splinters? Because you would need to if you are to assure that, Parvov.¡±

    Parvov placed a finger on his brother¡¯s face, right between the eyes, and the claws buried into Dirofil¡¯s slime. ¡°I watched our dear brother sacrifice his very existence to save mine. The shrapnel of his anima may have lodged deep into my core.  Don¡¯t get surprised if you notice grief gifted me with a few of his virtues, vices and mannerisms. I have no other way of keeping him alive¡­ at least somehow.¡± The bulky hand fell like a flower that withers. ¡°Worry not about the darkness. If you keep that thing closed, the crisis should only scrape us by. Rest, because as soon as the ship¡¯s normality is restituted and we mine a few materials, we are amputating that tainted appendage of yours and building you a new one. A clean one.¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Dirofil crossed his arms in defiance, looking up at his brother¡¯s four eyes. ¡°I have gained this eye, assimilated it like I would a part of another thinker. I can see through it, and it minds not any wall. Probably, not any normal dog. It makes out the outline of mutant ones, it seems¡­¡±

    Parvov listened intently as he rubbed his knuckles. ¡°You saw the mutants outside the ship while looking for me? We detected none, but the small ones sometimes get around psycholocation. Chihuahuas?¡±

    ¡°No, a pug. The one you have in the laboratory.¡±

    Parvov lowered his arms, his fingers twitching to curl into fists. ¡°Thinking about it, brother, I do dispose of a spare arm I could give you right now.¡±

    ¡°I intend on keeping the eye, Parvov.¡±

    Parvov lumbered his way out the room, and answered once he was deep down the corridor. ¡°I¡äll give it to you anyway, in case you change your mind!¡±

    Dirofil let his body slump back into Parvov¡¯s throne and focused on weaving thoughts. The sea of his psyche soon swallowed the darkness about him, submerged him into a prison of his own making as his soul unfolded in two: the engine of sapience, that which created pure ideas and gathered its energy on its core, and the coat of sentience: all of his sensations, opinions, and even the very ability to know what he was thinking in real time.  A home knows not who inhabits it. A thinker does not know their thoughts as they sleep. They only know that some they will forget; some they will remember. Some they will know they forgot. Some they won¡¯t, and can only conjecture that they existed.

    Dirofil remained in the described state several hours, until the dink of metal clashing against metal roused him back into a state of soul unity.

    He regarded the bent bones and plates in front of him, something that even in the corelit murk of a sleeping Corship was readily recognizable. the mauled body of the doctor lying thoughtless in front of him. a Parvov covered in blood ¡ªpresumably, from the mutant dog¡ª and holding the Doctor¡¯s slime-covered core in his right hand seemed to expect a response from his brother. ¡°If you need parts, feel free to take them.¡±

    Dirofil¡¯s gaze bounced from the body to the core and back to Parvov¡¯s face.

    ¡°The Doctor is on timeout for misbehaving. I warned him to not do this again, and he persisted, probably thinking that I would let it go as I did so many times.¡± With the aim of providing Dirofil a good look at it Parvov raised the Doctor¡¯s trembling core, whose tendrils of smile flailed in the air, trying desperately to find a body to hold onto. ¡°Maybe I should allow him to retain the voicebox and an ear.¡±

    Dirofil blinked and felt around not-his eye with the fingers of the left hand. ¡°Could you give it back to me? I don¡¯t care what you do to discipline your underlings, brother.  It¡¯s the only body part I¡¯d like to recover. I feel Leptos¡¯s presence with this eye, with the tail, with the arm. It is unnerving at times.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll gladly take Leptos eye in exchange for yours, Dirofil. I have use for knowing if my siblings are alive, unlike you.¡± Parvov inserted a thumb and other three fingers in his orbit, and pulled without showing any sign of pain, until the one of his four eyes that was different form the others plopped out his gelatinous flesh.  He held the metallic orb like one would a stack of coins and extended it to Dirofil, whose right hand awaited, palm up, for his brother to return that which he had loaned so long ago.

    Dirofil received the eye and only then proceeded to bury his fingers into his flesh to rip off Leptos¡¯. The lack of a skull made it comparatively easier for him to pluck eyes, or even ears or his voicebox, out of his head. And so, without further ado, he let Leptos¡¯ eye fall on Parvov¡¯s waiting hand, where it sunk onto the flesh and began slowly traveling up the arm, attuning to its new owner bit by bit. Dirofil, on the other hand, just slapped his eye in the little depression of his flesh where the other used to be, before it filled back in with slime.

    Soon enough, his old eye began relaying visual feedback to his core. Parvov nodded and readied to leave once more. ¡°I¡¯ll put The Doctor somewhere safe. Rest another while, for the Reaper is insistent on lingering around in this terrible tide.¡±

 Chapter 11: Getting Some Pointers

    ¡°I told her about my idea of having the dogs be able to be refined into various materials. She was almost as horrified as when I described Lyssav¡¯s looks and situation. But she agrees not everything can be joy and puppies in our world.¡±

    ¡ªTidbits of Our Creation, page 9.

    ¡°Hitherto I had my doubts, but after losing both my left hands to an explosive pug I am certain: The world was made on drugs.¡±

    ¡ªDoratev, moments after discovering Puggum.

    Dirofil felt that the stool he was sitting upon had been rushed. The seat was slightly slanted, and it was more like a slice of a column than anything else. But he wasn¡¯t one to complain about such trivial matters. In front of him Parvov had strapped a Pembroke Welsh Corgi to an elevated platform. The orange and white dog squinted at him distrustful and stressed without a good reason. Dirofil didn¡¯t like to think about it, about why dogs impervious to damage would suffer from distress. It was a leftover, a consequence of the secondary nature of their world. Of it being a world created by entities imperfect. The dogs of the creators lived only for a short period. The dogs of the sea lived, period.

    ¡°Go ahead, brush the Corgi¡¯s hindquarters,¡± Parvov urged, tapping his fingers upon his brother¡¯s scapulae as he watched from behind.

    ¡°Why not process the whole dog?¡±

    ¡°Takes too much energy, and some breeds are rare to come across, so we release them back into the sea in hopes of them regrowing their hair. We extended the practice to every breed to avoid overexploiting resources whose renewability remains unknown. Corgis are a good starting breed to learn refining: Corgite makes up most of the ship¡¯s structure and is used on D and L alloys.¡±

    Dirofil reached and scratched the squirming dog under the ear. ¡°The letters are our initials, correct?¡±

    ¡°Indeed, Dirofil. According to our analysis of your Splinters¡¯ bodies, you are mostly composed of Retriever Gold and Retriever Rust, with a nice potion of Corgite and a smidge of Dobermannite. We haven¡¯t discovered the dogs that make up the skeletons of Babesi¡¯s Splinters yet.¡±

    Dirofil elbowed his brother onto the chest. ¡°It¡¯s ominous to hear you explain things calmly, Parvov. Where¡¯s the rage?¡±

    ¡°Allayed by this big family all around us.¡± He gestured at the toiling Splinters with an open hand, as they processed corgi hair in their working stations. Then he palmed Dirofil once more. ¡°Go on, be of use to your lifeline.¡±

    Shy fingers closed over a tuft of fur standing out on the Corgi¡¯s thigh, and then pulled from it softly, letting the loose hairs come free from their equals.

    ¡°Use the brush,¡± Parvov said, frustration evident in his tone.

    ¡°First, I want to figure out how to process this. Could you give me some pointers?¡±

    After a single laugh Parvov incorporated and headed out the room. ¡°Yes, I can. I need to get something first.¡±

    Dirofil dedicated this spare time to actually brushing the dog in front of him, gathering the hairs on a pile next to the bowl where he was expected to drop the pellets of Corgite. It didn¡¯t take long for Parvov to return, pushing a container on wheels, like the ones the miners had brought in with the pugs the tide he had first awoken inside the ship.  From this wagon popped up a quartet of dog heads, revealing long jowls and droopy ears painted white and liver.

    ¡°For the love of¡­ Tell me, Parvov, that you don¡¯t have English Pointers in stock just to make this joke.¡±

    ¡°As a matter of fact, I do.¡± Parvov unloaded the wagon, lifting the docile dogs with a single hand, taking them out two at a time.  ¡°Pointer hair is used to make Pointerine, which serves as glue.  It¡¯s used as a structural component of the ship, and to concoct solid explosives when mixed with puggum. The ship¡¯s defensive spikes can be suddenly actioned by detonating loads of this explosive at their bases.¡±

    ¡°Stop explaining things calmly and get angry and impossible to deal with when I don¡¯t know something. You weird me out otherwise.¡±

    ¡°You have to accept I have matured, Dirofil. Everyone who enters this sea dies, one way¡­ or the other. I don¡¯t wish to quarrel with you three anymore.¡± Parvov shuffled his heavy feet until he could crouch in front of his brother, across the platform where the corgi was strapped to.  The pointers behaved properly, and sat in their place, yawning and panting with little to no baying. ¡°We lost Morbilliv. We lost Babesi¡ª¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    ¡°Babesi¡¯s thoughtless?¡± Dirofil asked without looking at his brother in the eyes. ¡°Have you found her cadaver?¡±

    Parvov shook his head silently, and Dirofil deflected the passing thought of the front horn calibrating its aim to dig into his very flesh. ¡°We don¡¯t need to. We have searched high and low, from her spire to Morbilliv¡¯s and back, through the Retriever, Collie and even the Bernese layers. Unless she still gambols in the space between spires ¡ª which would be both stupid and a very¡­ Babesi thing to do ¡ª Babesi is gone,¡± The Captain lamented and cupped his face in his hand. ¡°It¡¯s heart-wrenching to be surrounded by the Splinters of our dead siblings every day. To command and serve these¡­ tokens of grief at every waking moment.¡±

    No Splinter around them turned. Dirofil got the sensation that, despite hearing how Parvov spoke about them, they knew better than to turn their heads.

    Dirofil decided not to press the issue of Babesi any further. If Parvov didn¡¯t know yet, it could benefit him to reveal it later. She had chosen to live with the Dachshunds, and she was doing pretty well on her own. To spur his brother and the crew of the ship into action to save her when they clearly had problems of their own would be to do his sister a disservice.

    ¡°Do they respect you or do they fear you?¡±

    Parvov looked over his shoulder, at the Splinters behind him, and then back at his brother. ¡°I already answered Morbilliv that question back in the tide: There¡¯s no difference. Now, the Pointers are eager to be groomed, Dirofil.¡±

    A Splinter of Babesi traversed the room at full speed while holding a contraption Dirofil couldn¡¯t recognize in her only hand. Neither him nor Parvov thought much about the event, because it was a Splinter of Babesi.

    Dirofil knelt next to one of the bird dogs his brother had brought and scratched its head, to which the Pointer reacted by licking his nose and nudging his head further into Dirofil¡¯s hand. ¡°They are used to this, aren¡¯t they?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± Parvov pushed the tetrad of dogs apart as he made his way back to the bridge. ¡°It¡¯s safe to keep them on board as long as the group of four isn¡¯t broken. So learn to process their hair and their hair only, Dirofil. Are we clear?¡±

    ¡°Transparent, as far as flesh goes.¡±

    Parvov made a mental note to remember that joke, in case someone ever spoke to him like he did to others. Lyssav. In case he survived after bringing Lyssav on board.

    Dirofil proceeded to brush the dogs and gather their hairs. Learning to refine materials from dogs would help him in his journey through the sea; or maybe if he helped around the ship enough he could convince Parvov to take him to the top of the sea with the Corship. Some resource of interest could be discovered on the other side, after all. The creators had endowed the world with knowledge of about three hundred breeds of dogs. He didn¡¯t know how many had been studied by the crew, but there were bound to be many applications of dog-based materials yet to discover. And if they could be combined, then the possibilities increased exponentially.

    But first, before considering such courses of action, he needed to learn to refine dog fur. His flesh encroached a hairy ball and began pushing it upwards his left arm, like a cockroach crawling under the skin of one¡¯s arm.  It circulated without issue past the parallel elbows, and by the conjoined metal humeri.  Reaching the armpit, the hair took a sharp turn   and negotiated the curved and flat ribs that defined Dirofil¡¯s perinuclear cavity. It got admitted into the heart of the automaton nearly immediately and once inside it refused to change. Dirofil tried to convince the substance to alter its nature, begged with his soul relentlessly. And it was in vain. The hairs were hairs and refused to become anything but hair. So he expelled them though his chest, letting the threads rain over his legs.

    A Splinter of Lyssav approached, dragging her burgeoning abdomen over the flat floor. She smiled softly, imprinting an unbecoming expression on a mouth that had been devised for violence. Her wings were folded tightly against her back.  ¡°You have to command them, not simply ask in a kind manner with your soul. Your Splinters oftentimes have issues with refinement. Channel hatred into the raw material, if you feel the need to.¡±

    ¡°Why do you help me? You are in pain. Unbearably so.¡± Dirofil tilted his head to watch her face and see her reaction. She smiled.

    ¡°We Splinters of Lyssav don¡¯t know a painless existence. Neither we yearn for it. Nor we wish to. Haven¡¯t you wondered if your state of calm or even bliss is a torture for someone else, Fourth Imagined? If your peace of mind is your sibling¡¯s pain?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Dirofil answered, honestly and unmoved. ¡°No, but it isn¡¯t. Lyssav was created wrong. That¡¯s all.¡±

    ¡°Or maybe she was created right and the creators intended for us to be painbearers.¡±

    ¡°If that¡¯s the case, they better hope I never find a way to meet them.¡±

    ¡°Veranda, get back to work!¡± Barked the splinter of Parvov that was overseeing the operation. ¡°The Chihuahuas will gnaw this place to the ground if you people slack in the production of Corgite.¡±

    The temptation of swinging a Pointer against the supervisor did not elude Dirofil, but he suppressed it for the greater good. ¡°Go back to work, Veranda. You have my gratitude. I shall apply your teachings.¡±

    And mere minutes after veranda had returned to her working station, Dirofil managed to produce his first load of Pointerine: sticky, colorless, and, in his opinion, unworthy of the trouble.  It stretched between his fingers as he kneaded on it, and not long after immersing himself in the pleasure of playing with the substance he had turned his hand into a sort of temporarily-webbed paw that brought to mind the images of ducks.

    ¡°By the creators, the Original is a moron. Wasting resources like that. If I did that, Parvov would put me into the spider of shame, few questions asked,¡± the overseer grumbled in a voice Dirofil wasn¡¯t supposed to hear.

    He did nothing about it: it wasn¡¯t worth it to reveal he could hear them just to make the Splinter stop complaining.

 Chapter 12: Chimonade

    ¡°The Captain is slightly displeased with my latest act of mild insubordination and reckless crew endangerment. He¡¯s managing my test subject ¡ª dismembering it to be specific ¡ª and told me that I follow, and that I should prepare to embody the Spider of Shame.  I reminded him that I created said contraption and that the correct name for it is Artificial Core Carrier Unit, or ACCU. Sir, let me finish this note and you can maul me too. Just ¡ª I needed that, Parvov.¡±

    ¡ªDoratev, in the recording that concludes with the sound of bent and cracking metal and Parvov¡¯s finest insults.

    Once there were roses where glistening drops of dew gathered.  A world ago the snappers swam in oceans turbulent and wondrous. Gone were the days of rusty stones weathering under the summer rain. It was whispered that a tear acted as a prism to cast a rainbow over a freckle.

    And despite this rich story between red and water, Lyssav considered it her nemesis. ¡°Lightning. I want lightning to obliterate you, curtain of misery.¡± Trembling from emotion she addressed the chains and the vials hanging from them. This incarceration wouldn¡¯t last. Her wings wanted to fly into the sea and allow her to drink it all. Her siblings feared and even respected the ocean above them. She didn¡¯t. They were weak, scared kittens. She was a tigress. And with her paws she would subjugate the nature of their world, crush it underfoot until it begged for mercy. No matter what inhabited the sea, it would vow before her.

    Calling for power, she let a wave of violence ripple out from her core. It wasn¡¯t light that spilled from it. It was a heart blowing up in vapors of arterial blood; it was the essence of the rose, the snapper, the rust and the freckle. It seared though the chains, heated metal and glass up a couple degrees, and then dispersed, letting the curtain shake and leaving Lyssav cringing against her throne.

    Her stare stabbed one of the vials as it threatened to come loose and fall to the ground. What had she done? Water would spill. It could besprinkle its cursed contents over her virginal flesh, scales, or claws. Maybe she could stand and catch the vial, to then¡­ throw it away. No. No. The best she could do was stay still and hope the thing wouldn¡¯t come unbound.

    She cackled in relief as the chain and vial stopped moving and hung like a column once more.  Parvov knew her. No bars or bolts or shackles would keep her restrained for long. Yet her own flaws were a prison she couldn¡¯t break free of.  But why had he imprisoned her? She promised a way to survive the sea by finding out how to command it. The world wouldn¡¯t end, it would just go from the Time to Move to the Time to Obey ¡ª or, for her, the Time to Rule.  Parvov, then, would rather damn everyone than live under her rule. Like she wouldn¡¯t be an excellent monarch.

    <hr>

    The collies drifted slowly in front of the lone eye of the Corship. Parvov¡¯s twenty fingers were steepled. Dirofil was adapting to the life on the ship in a satisfactory way. The crew remained under control. The biggest threat around were the Samoyeds and Chihuahuas, that he could easily crush if need arose. The fuel and Corgite reserves had been restored.  No living sibling of his was lost adrift in the sea. It was so peaceful, so perfect as he watched the rigid end of one of the ship¡¯s legs extend forward to grab onto a passing dog and pull them all forward and upwards. Since long ago the doctor had been harping to him about reinforcing the defense system of the ship. The spikes, mainly.  And to do so, they needed some rare materials. Materials whose veins, so to speak, they couldn¡¯t reach, for they lay somewhere above the Mauling layer. Only when titanic abominations crossed that layer some of the dogs of the other side would be dragged with them. That¡¯s how they had gotten the material for his ring: foraging the dogs fallen from the injuries in the Mauling layer.

    The reflection of his brother appeared among the floating collies, and it was quickly increasing in size. ¡°Are you done with your refining tasks for the tide?¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be here otherwise,¡± Dirofil stood by the side of his brother, hands joined behind his back and under his cloak.

    ¡°I have been meaning to ask, Dirofil: The blood stains on your cape, what did they belong to?¡±

    ¡°Chihuahuas that behaved like little sharks. I take those are the same that your crew constantly worries about?¡±

    Parvov glanced at him and hummed in satisfaction. ¡°They are damn plagues. The only good thing about them is that their remains have use in refinement, unlike those of many other Abominations. Were they easy for you?¡±

    Dirofil punched Parvov¡¯s shoulder. ¡°What do you take me for? A pansy? I crushed one¡¯s skull, skewered another with the tail, and pressed a pair inside my cape to make¡­ chimonade.¡±

    Parvov let out a low laughter and palmed his brother¡¯s back. ¡°Excellent. Did you absorb anything from them?¡±

    Dirofil turned to stare at him directly. ¡°Beg your pardon?¡±

    ¡°Like you did with the Reaper¡¯s eye. Being honest, I wouldn¡¯t notice if you carried a Chihuahua attractor with you. They are omnipresent in this sea.¡±

    ¡°No, no I didn¡¯t.¡± A rubbing of the wrist betrayed the Thinker¡¯s worries about his recent acquisition. ¡°You won¡¯t take the eye, will you?¡±

    ¡°Taking eyes from you is becoming a tradition between us.¡± Parvov made a pause, his stare followed another of the ship numerous legs as it reached to grab onto a new dog. ¡°No. You seem to be capable of keeping it closed most of the time. Reapers are not the only dangers of this sea: taking the eye from you could leave my dear brother at a disadvantage against our common enemy.¡± He fidgeted and scratched the back of his hands, uncomfortable. ¡°I cannot risk the crew, and I cannot be an agent of your death, an instrument of whichever amalgam of vile intentions puppeteers the abhorrent canines.¡±

    ¡°You think something out there conspires to put out the flares of our psyches?¡± Dirofil mused about it for a few seconds, and then shook his head. ¡°No, I believe the sea is ill, but there isn¡¯t an ounce of evil intent in it. Like a cancer that without knowing kills the host in which it evolved, there is no malice in the actions of these creatures. They live, they hunt. And prey we are. There¡¯s no necessity of a mastermind to explain their behavior. The Samoyeds suck blood from the Dachshunds, and that tells me that they are not on the same team.¡±

    ¡°You met Tunnelers? How did you survive, exactly?¡±

    ¡°I found a pocket amidst the puppies,¡± he lied without thinking it twice. ¡°I asked myself what my siblings would do, and then thought about the fact that the things couldn¡¯t exactly dig anywhere, or the whole warren would collapse. I rested next to intersections, to where I deemed the puppies unstable and prone to collapse. The Dachshunds refused to destroy their home to swallow my core. After several days of stealthy ascent, I managed to break through the puppy layer and reach this one, where I found, well¡­¡± he raised his right hand and wiggled his fingers.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°We are about to face more dogs of at least a Tunneler¡¯s size. Don¡¯t panic, this operation could be crucial to the Corship¡¯s long-term survival. And¡­¡± Parvov¡¯s head fell back as he searched for the words. ¡°Quite harmful for the short term survival if things go awry. But we have the time to do it well and acquire even new materials.¡±

    In the distance, a net of Bernese mountain dogs began to reveal itself. The black and brown dogs bit onto each other¡¯s tails and held steady, forming flowing branches that interconnected nodes of them. It was like a brain made of dogs.

    ¡°Bernese layer?¡± Dirofil asked.

    ¡°Chihuahua break in the Psycholocation bay!¡± A Splinter screamed from the corridors.

    Parvov rubbed his knuckles and gestured Dirofil to follow him: they had work to do.

    <hr>

    The Psycholocators on duty¡ªtwo Splinters of Babesi, one of Dirofil, and one of Parvov¡ª had clambered up their thrones as the swill of golden, black, white, short or long haired, and always sharp-teethed Chihuahuas invaded the place. Their scales showed slick under the dim light of the ship. Parvov and Dirofil stood at the entrance, without descending the two steps, watching the Chihuahuas gather and climb onto one another to try to reach the crew members as they clawed and swatted at the jumping dogs.

    ¡°Their teeth can bite through metals,¡± Dirofil said, a finger in front of his voicebox. ¡°Maybe we could reinforce some part of the ship with them.¡±

    Turned the thousand heads of the swarm. The eyes opened wide, the tongues peeked through the forests of enamel some called mouths.  The nostrils waved, the manifold banners of a mercenary army. They trampled each other and flowed towards the brothers like a turbulent river.

    ¡°Want to see something I learned from Morbilliv?¡±  Parvov said, fingers spread as his palm faced the onslaught of Chihuahuas.

    ¡°Impress me.¡±

    The soul of Parvov ran to his fingers, and then little threads began to be weaved from the space between his nails, like silk pumped though spinnerets. With these threads he lashed against the nearest Chihuahua, and with ten attachment points took control of his tiny body, swinging it around as it squirmed and howled and barked. Using it as a flail he punished the little army, broke bones and dislodged teeth.

    Dirofil imitated a yawn with his voicebox. ¡°It lacks heart.¡± The Fourth Imagined gave a little jump and landed with his claws over a dog, piercing its scales as easily as he pierced its lungs. With his left hand he swept low, reaching several attackers and slamming them into each other. To his right, another Chihuahua had been grabbed by Parvov¡¯s loaned technique, and was being recklessly used to whack its equals. The things bit his cape and his legs, but he wouldn¡¯t let them overwhelm him. When a couple of chis began climbing his back, Dirofil hopped backwards and let all of his body weight fall upon the predatory creatures, crushing them against the floor.

    Parvov marched through the tide of attackers swinging one Chihuahua with each hand, sending dozens of others flying as he conducted this macabre symphony of whines and squelches, cleaning a way for his tired underlings to leap over his head and escape.

    And despite killing dozens, the dogs kept entering through the breach of the hull as if water they were.

    ¡°Are you keeping count?¡± Parvov asked with unwarranted amusement.

    ¡°I am sorry, dear brother, but in can only keep track of fifteen with my fingers,¡± Dirofil¡¯s voice dripped with sarcasm as he used his cape, filled with dead dogs once more, to smash the heads of the incoming lap dogs. Eventually the solid wall of barks became a field of whines, cracks and squelches, as the Psycholocator¡¯s bay adopted the hue of Lyssav.

    While his big brother kept on punishing the invaders, Dirofil reached for one of the multiple dead Chihuahuas and channeled his will into it, into its teeth. He invoked the feelings of need and desperation he experienced when caught by the Reaper. Called for them, recreated his wish to command the eye,  and the teeth began to tremble in the deformed jaw of his victim. The Chihuahua that tried to sneak on him while he was doing this soon found out Dirofil was quite good at multitasking, her delicate trachea collapsing under the pressure of the automaton¡¯s vice grip. ¡°I am trying to incorporate your dead friends into my wardrobe. Sit down.¡±

    Returning his full attention to pulling the teeth with his soul, he managed to make them flow into his flesh and ascend through his arm until they pierced his core and the dentine turned to a strange metal. He liked to use his cape during his encounters, and thus he commanded the teeth to emerge on his upper back, and with the light of his core, together with the newfound malleability of the materials that had attuned to him, he welded each tooth onto a link of his chainmail cape. He would need hundreds or thousands of teeth to complete his work, but, given the nature of the battlefield he and Parvov were the architects of, it was plain to see that he had... A surplus to work with.

    ¡°What are you doing with the teeth?¡± Parvov asked, disgusted. ¡°Why not use them as claws or knuckles.¡±

    ¡°My lifelong dream is to become an echidna whose placentas are the size of my deep concerns about your opinion, dear brother,¡± he said, injecting his words with a healthy dose of sass.

    ¡°Echidnas were egg-laying creatures,¡± Parvov answered as he smashed the heads of two chis against each other.

    ¡°Precisely!¡±

    Parvov grunted and took out his frustration by making abominable lapdog puree with his hefty foot. ¡°Someone believes himself funny.¡±

    ¡°No. It¡¯s not an act of faith. There are ample amounts of evidence proving my hilarious nature.¡±

    Another grunt, more dead Chihuahuas. ¡°Whatever. Suit yourself, those teeth could have a better use.¡±

    A little question gnawed at the back of Dirofil¡¯s mind as he undertook the monotonous task of attaching teeth to his cape. ¡°So, Parvov, why are abominable Chihuahuas addressed as such? You often have names for the mutations. Tunneler, Reaper, and so on.¡±

    ¡°I consider the breed itself annoying enough already. And we can refine the mutated ones in the case of Chis, so why bother looking for them? As you can see, they come to us out of their own volition.¡± Parvov made a pause as he considered the few stragglers remaining in front of him, scared and raising their hecklers, barking. ¡°But if you want to know, the Doctor proposed calling them Swarmers.¡±

    ¡°In my opinion, Bijouterie is a better name for them,¡± he admired the flow of the teeth as part of the cape, how seamlessly they fit into the garment. ¡°I imagine this must smell pretty rancid. We have to thank the creators for not providing us a sense of smell.¡±

    ¡°This whole place probably reeks of guts and blood. We rarely bother cleaning.¡±

    Dirofil stared at the dirty floor underfoot, where balls of hair and congealed blood¡ªolder than the one of the just-slain chis¡ªgathered against walls, on every corner. ¡°I took ample notice.¡±

    As Parvov finished off the last invaders Dirofil kept on improving his cape. Row by row the teeth became spikes of enamel-covered metal fused onto his garb.

    Long after Parvov left to rest and a new group of Splinters filled the Psycholocator role Dirofil continued harvesting Chihuahua dental pieces. A Splinter of the captain, Kirval, used his infrasound voice to badmouth Dirofil once more.  It was always Splinters of Parvov that behaved like this, Dirofil thought. Probably due to the fact that the others couldn¡¯t hear them say such things. Mayhap even the few Splinters of Leptos on board disparaged him, and perhaps even spoke ill of Parvov, but they had to do it in secrecy, as they lacked the privilege of a private channel of communication, as the both the Splinters of Parvov and the captain himself had.  The mental links could be used, but anybody could attune to them, listen whenever one pleased.

    What he couldn¡¯t imagine, though, was the Splinters of Babesi talking ill of anyone, as that required an attention span longer than ten seconds.

    Once his cape was completed, and after some dry answers and grunts to avoid being dragged by the repair crew into a task he wished not to partake in, he returned to the quarters Parvov had reserved for him and sat to think idly. It had been a long day, his core was tired, and he had managed to get another advantage against the sea. His last conscious thought before his soul split in two once more was that perhaps he would reach the other side of the ocean being more dog than Thinker.

 Chapter 13: Mining Dogs

    ¡°I am still inside the ACCU, but that won¡¯t preclude me from recording my thoughts. One of my recorders has disappeared, it may have been destroyed while Parvov ripped my core out of my body. I can get by with the remaining ones, but I was¡­ particularly fond of that creation.¡±

    ¡ªDoratev, on a recording made a few tides after his body got savaged.

    Dirofil¡¯s meditation got shattered when images of the sea collided against his psyche. Images of Collies floating in front of him, not as dogs, but as silhouettes that were barely there. Ghosts floating around, passing by, as down below the puppy layer looked just as transparent and phantasmagorical. Mutant Chihuahuas and elongated Samoyeds with stubby legs and long claws ¡ªthink of monstrous ferrets¡ª frolicked around, jumping from untarnished dog to untarnished dog as the thousand points of view from which he watched the scene advanced, rose through the Collie layer. He felt as if he had been swallowed by a composite eye, unable to escape, to move. But there was something worse that could mean.

    Stirring awake, the first thing he did was check his hand as the souls of the Splinters and his brother danced beyond the walls. The Reaper¡¯s eye had opened, and it stared at him in the face.  Soon enough he commanded it shut. It was now clear: as long as the eye remained open, there existed a strong link with the monster, and it was bidirectional. He knew where it was, and it knew where he was. If he could see through its eyes, it could probably see through his.

    His self was so raptured from the recent experience that it took him some seconds to notice he was resting over the throne¡¯s back. His legs were higher in space than his head and torso, and the new spikes of his cape created uncomfortable bumps under his spine. The Corship was climbing upwards, most likely grabbing onto a column of Bernese dogs as they ascended through the sea. And it was true that mountains didn¡¯t exist, but maybe climbing mountain dogs was even more dangerous. Like the Corship he now had a defense of spikes, and yet he didn¡¯t know what he could find out there. Parvov refused to address the matter. Insisted that as long as he remained on board, the only ones to worry about were those that breached the hull, or the Reapers.

    He rolled out of the throne and landed on all fours at the far wall of his chamber. Using the lattice of Corgite wire that barely stuck from an L-shaped section of the floor, he climbed back to the door, and perching on the frame he looked down at the long fall to the ship¡¯s rear end. A fun slide to take, it would be, but he would rather climb the short way to the bridge and see what Parvov had in store for him this tide.

    Parvov was sitting on the wall, his legs hanging over the chasm of the door as his head pulled back to keep an eye on the path of the ship across the Bernese-neuroned brain. The only lights illuminating the dark sea where those rimming the ship¡¯s front window, and despite no word of danger from the psycholocators, this always rendered him uneasy.

    A tug on his leg pulled him out of his musings, and soon enough Dirofil emerged from the chasm, using his own brother as just another stepping stone on his climb. ¡°I see you are lucid.¡±

    Dirofil remained hell-bent on clambering out the hole with little regard for his elder brother¡¯s comfort. ¡°Your eyesight is enviable.¡±

    A movement on one of the walls caught the Fourth Imagined¡¯s attention: a metallic, four-legged apparatus resembling an amputated arthropod clung to a wall, and in its center it held a core that Dirofil readily recognized. ¡°Ah, so that¡¯s the Spider of Shame.¡±

    ¡°A.C.C.U, Accu if you will. Stands for Artificial Core Carrier Unit,¡± The Doctor complained in a comically high pitched voice. ¡°It has the basics: legs for mobility, a tiny voicebox for communication, one ear, and one eye. Clearly, it is a work of a privileged mind.¡±

    ¡°He created it so we would have spare bodies if a Splinter got severely damaged by an intrusion. But it took only a glance for the prodigal genius of Parvov, The Third Dreamt to realize it had untapped potential as a disciplinary tool.¡±  Parvov boasted, raising a finger into the air as he explained.

    ¡°You addressed yourself in third person,¡± Dirofil said.

    ¡°Our Illustrious Captain does that sometimes. To spite poor Doratev,¡± the arachnified Doctor said.

    ¡°Who is Doratev?¡±

    ¡°He is Doratev,¡± Parvov huffed as Dirofil walked along the wall that served as a floor, towards the Spider of Shame. ¡°Anyhow, Dirofil, we are about to go in an expedition. Not far from us,¡± he gestured at the dark ocean above, where the lights of the ship barely penetrated, ¡°boils in violence the mauling layer. Impenetrable, impossible to cross with the Corship or without it. That is, if you are not a mutated dog. The colossal creatures dive in and out of it unblemished¡ª¡±If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    ¡°Your point?¡± Dirofil decided interrupting his brother¡¯s discourse counted as self-preservation.

    ¡°We are going to mine the dogs the abominations drag with themselves in hope of accruing some rare but needed materials. This is dangerous for our miners, even if they are Splinters of Mi¡ªahem¡ªMorbilliv. This is dangerous for us too, but it¡¯s my duty to do it. And you could use a lesson about the threats that live in this sea.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s so used to engaging in overt nepotism that he almost calls them ¡®Splinters of Mine¡¯. That¡¯s your captain, Dirofil,¡± whistled the annoying spider.

    ¡°No.¡± Dirofil tickled the Doctor¡¯s core with a finger. ¡°He¡¯s my brother.¡±

    ¡°And your captain,¡± Parvov tried using his persuasive voice. The one that preceded the violence.

    Dirofil raised his right hand slowly, showcasing the closed eye of the Reaper. ¡°Do you want to see if you can rip this off before the Reaper manages to reach us?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t play stupid games, brat,¡± his tone got serious instantly, and Dirofil laughed, pleased with his brother¡¯s reaction.

    ¡°I am very glad you still think, Parvov.¡±

    The captain¡¯s stare softened, and he looked at the sea once more. ¡°I could say the same, Dirofil,¡± he said, bitterness growing on his heart, for he knew that he wasn¡¯t being completely honest with his brother. Then, had he had a mouth, a smirk would have crept into his face. ¡°I am glad I still think, too.¡±

    <hr>

    They exited the ship ¡ª that now rested in a horizontal position, grappling onto a Bernese branch like a chameleon onto a tree¡¯s ¡ª through the Cargo bay¡¯s gate, where the retractable, composite rails and the carts that slid on them often extended out during mining operations. But there were no carts this tide, only Parvov, Dirofil, and a group of four Splinters of Morbilliv descending the ramp. About fifty meters above them drooled and snarled the Mauling layer, a compact mass of game and guard dog breeds ready to tear whatever crossed the threshold to tatters, no matter if it was a Thinker¡¯s body or a part of the ship.

    The light of the Thinker¡¯s souls shone bright in the dark environment, exposed them and illuminated their whole beings as it refracted across their slimy flesh. Had it not been for his cape, Dirofil would have felt like the prime target for any prowling predator, for he lacked the armor plates that covered most of the Splinter¡¯s bodies, or the ones that preserved the skull, shoulders and extremities of Parvov.

    ¡°Stay alert, everybody, we know not what lurks in this darkness.¡±

    ¡°I can know. I can take a peek.¡±

    Parvov turned, stopping his ascent towards the nearest nexus in the net of Bernese mountain dogs to address his reckless sibling. ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°The Reaper is in the Collie Layer still,¡± Dirofil said with absolute certainty.

    ¡°You can feel its presence?¡± Parvov asked, crossing his arms in disbelief.

    ¡°See through the eyes of its body when I open the one in my hand. It was far down in the Collie Layer when I woke up. An hour ago. It was moving slowly. Doubt he could reach us anytime soon, more so given the¡­ nature of this place.¡±

    ¡°Sir Dirofil, with all due respect: The Reaper shapeshifts,¡± chimed in one of the bulky miners as he examined the Bernese dogs underfoot. ¡°Sir Parvov, do we need Bernese materials?¡±

    ¡°No. Thanks for informing my brother, Dalvari.¡± Parvov continued his climb, and the sound of dogs breathing and panting all around coalesced into a suitable replacement for silence.

    For minutes on end they climbed a slanted pillar of Bernese mountain dogs, grabbing onto snouts, tails, paws. They balanced over branches barely a dog or two wide.  They drew closer and closer to the Mauling layer, cores interrogating reality in a way the eyes just couldn¡¯t. Or, at least, most eyes couldn¡¯t.

    Whenever Parvov wasn¡¯t looking, in the interims where the ripples of the captain¡¯s soul weren¡¯t colliding against his body, Dirofil batted the Reaper¡¯s eye, catching just a glimpse of the dogscape around, seeing through the Bernese net as if it were made of limpid quartz.

    The sempiternal night beyond turned scrutable in those instants, the palimpsest that was world naked before Dirofil¡¯s monstrous eye. He saw beyond the Rottweilers, beyond the Pit Bulls and Bull Terriers that gnashed at the air.  And in one of those glimpses, he froze, and kept the eye opened, pointing it upwards despite Parvov¡¯s reproaching stare.

    ¡°Do you want to kill us?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s big. Slow. And going to crash on us if we don¡¯t scarper,¡± he said as he closed the Reapers eye and raced across the branch on all fours, ready to leap to a perpendicular path that stuck out slightly lower than the one they stood on.

    ¡°Which breed?!¡± Parvov demanded.

    ¡°Pomeranian maybe!¡±

    Parvov followed his brother and urged the Splinters to do the same. Pomeranians were not to be underestimated. Suddenly, he stopped and looked down below. In the distance he saw the lights of the Corship. They were almost directly above it. ¡°Cursed be this sea! You lot, follow your orders. Dirofil, protect my miners to the best of your capacity!¡± The captain jumped and dove into the void, falling hands-first towards the ship, ready to land over its upper part. The hull was thick, it would, at worst, get some dents that wouldn¡¯t hamper the functionality.

    A thud reverberated through the ship and the space around it when Parvov landed, and even before extending his hands and hurrying to a standing position, he attuned to the Psycholocators and Legsteerers mind-channels. His mind shouted only two words into the psychic link, and the ship immediately whirred to life when they reached the crew. Tribulator Protocol.

 Chapter 14: Death from Nowhere

    ¡°WEEEEEEEEO WEEEEEEEEEEO WEEEEEEEEEEEO WEEEEEEEEEEO WEEEEEEEEEO AHOY MATEY I AM AN AMBULANCE! A PIRATE AMBULANCE!¡±

    ¡ªThe thief of the lost recorder, using it as the gods probably intended it to be.

    They hid behind columns of Berneses as the thunder rumbled above, as the Tribulator pierced downwards, through the Mauling layer. Dirofil had seen and understood some of it, the short snout, the puffy hairs, the big cloudy eyes. Yet the building sized creature that was about to hatch from the layer above them carried shapes that he couldn¡¯t make heads or tails of. Rapidly shifting appendages stuck to the sides of a body so massive, so encompassing.

    The firmament of bullies and Kangals and Rottweilers threatened to crack down, the dogs howling as the mutant approached the bottom of the Mauling layer.

    Then it happened. Aberration hatched: a snout with neon green scars, gashes swollen and electrified, peeked through.  About the monster¡¯s cataracts lightning crackled, distorting the air that touched the arcs of energy, and illuminating the Bernese layer with the green hues of distemper.  The flesh of the jowls was missing, the teeth exposed in all their slick glory. Rattles, rattles of bone and teeth and parts unseen as the beast descended, revealing the tattered ears and the elongate neck.  Soon the beast shook its massive head, breaking part of the Bernese web, dislodging the dogs and making them fall down, upon their brothers and sisters and, for some unlucky ones, even further below. Dirofil held one of his eyes stuck to the flesh of his index finger, peering at the creature with the bare minimum level of exposition. Most of his body was sticking to the column of dogs that granted him cover. The Splinters of Morbilliv were in a similar situation, except that they didn¡¯t bother to look at the abominable Pomeranian as it destroyed the net that wasn¡¯t even trying to contain it.

    The creature growled, and the growl was thunder, and the thunder begot lightning that slithered and bounced away from the Pom, coiling around the nearest constructs of Bernese. Dirofil thought their hiss was that of treacherous snakes.

    The forelegs of the thing split in two at the elbows, each half showing an ugly elongated scar, each holding half the fingers.  A macabre parody of the Thinkers¡¯ capacity to fuse and unfuse their arms.

    There were no muscles to move among the Corship¡¯s crew. No hearts to beat. No breaths to be taken. Neither Dirofil nor the miners trembled, but that didn¡¯t in any way diminish the fear they felt.

    Fear that was stoked by the shrieks of the creatures that the breaking through of the falling Pomeranian was dragging from layers unknown. They had leathery wings, like dragons brought to life by practicing taxidermy on Bloodhound bodies.

    Dirofil wrapped his cape around his left arm and shoved his eye back into his face. Among the rumble, there were flaps. The mutant bloodhounds that nested among the Pomeranian¡¯s tattered fur were on the hunt, and he wasn¡¯t going to be an easy prey.

    And that was an advantage of having no respiration to attribute to oneself: there wasn¡¯t no place where another breath could hide, no confusion possible when the lunged lurked nearby. And he had no muscles that the fear could tense or forestall, and thus the clubbing of his arm wrapped in spikes had all the explosive power and precision of a well-planned strike.  He had no stomach to feel nauseous as the slime of his head got drenched in the hunter¡¯s fluids. And no brain to worry uselessly about the falling cadaver of the flying bloodhound with long fangs and a fragmented skull.

    Blood dripped from the teeth of Dirofil¡¯s cape as he followed another bloodhound with his gaze. The green lightning illuminated it dimly, giving the distant predator an otherworldly appearance as it prowled closer.

    To his left, hidden behind another column, a Miner was strangling the runt of the pack.  He wouldn¡¯t need to defend Splinters of Morbilliv from this middle-sized menace, at least. When the hound swooped in with claws extended and the mouth opened wide Dirofil spread his legs, dug his talons among the Bernese under his feet, and intercepted the attack with his left arm, lodging the spikes through his attacker¡¯s palate with a single movement. Afterwards he watched quietly how the creature struggled to pull his head off the lethal trap as it bled out and suffered seizures due to the teeth piercing through his flesh and bone. The voice of Babesi wormed its way out of Dirofil¡¯s memory, surfacing in its psyche. Here, guest of the dancing green lights and the uproar so encompassing as to become a mirror of silence, there was no brother to make fun of the killed along him. Here, where the Bernese panted nervously and the Pomeranian tore through walkways and pillars, where only his mind would call them enemies out loud, they were just doggies.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    But a heartworm had to go on despite the ever-present dread of killing the host. He was no microfilaria; he had never been. The world began before there were even tides, and in that instant he was just as capable of ruthlessness as he wished to be right now. No childhood among the Thinkers. No excuses to behave unlike a fully grown parasite.

    Most incoming mutants died in a hit or two. The Chihuahua teeth served Dirofil well, the grasp of his hand and soul on the cape keeping them on a raised position, a porcupine¡¯s quills ready to stab its assailants. The Splinters of Morbilliv, for their part, had the advantage of sheer size. They were not as agile as Dirofil, but that didn¡¯t matter when they tripled him in raw strength. Monster that they grabbed onto, monster that met a crushing end.

    The skirmish didn¡¯t last long, as soon the winged Bloodhounds learned to keep their distance, to not mess with the Thinkers despite the allure their cores presented to the mutant dogs. The Pomeranian kept digging its way through the Bernese layer, its curly tail wagging from side to side, creating powerful gusts of wind and green thunder with each fanning.  Dirofil and the miners shrunk against the pillars, feeling the impact of each blast against the Bernese structure, enticing it to jiggle relentlessly, nervously.

    In this manner they weathered the storm, until the darkness reclaimed every corner not lighted by the thinker¡¯s cores, until the snuffles and growls of the abhorrent Pom became distant and echoed only in the memory of the almost-victims.

    ¡°Good, we avoided death for the foreseeable future,¡± Dalvari said softly, minding not the  blood that drenched his hands.

    Dirofil appeared from beneath the pathway Dalvari was standing on, skittering up to a standing position in a way that reminisced the Splinter of a gecko. ¡°You could elicit an attack like that, if someone confuses you with a menace.¡±

    ¡°We need to search the hole for rare dogs, there¡¯s no time to lose.¡± Another of the miners, Tuldrum, cried out before taking a jump and landing heavily next to his peers.

    That¡¯s when the three of them where blinded by the unmistakable nova cast by a shattering core.

    ¡°Run! Murkhound!¡± The damned one managed to say before his soul collapsed to the pressure of unseen fangs, rending his consciousness, obliterating his self.

    Dalvari¡¯s Bulky hand clasped around Dirofil¡¯s shoulder, and he urged the Fourth Imagined to escape. ¡°You cannot battle a Murkhound. You cannot see them, and psycholocation often fails to pick their form up.¡±

    Dirofil opened the eye of the reaper and slapped the Splinter¡¯s hand off his shoulder.

    ¡°Komondor. The one you call Murkhound is a mutated Komondor, by the looks of it,¡± Dirofil took a few decided steps towards their enemy, a mass of dreadlocks tangled together, full of holes, with two empty eye sockets staring directly at him. ¡°It could have been me that died. You all return to the ship. I have orders from Parvov to follow.¡± He unfastened his cape and wrapped it about his left arm again. ¡°It killed a Splinter of my dead brother. I either hunt it down now, or I infuse the regrets of letting it go into those underserving of them when I create the new world along Shadiran. I can deal with this one. I will it, and will do it.¡±

    Without hesitating any further Dalvari jumped off the ledge, and the other two soon followed. Dirofil was left alone, against a monster that only he could see, and was now savaging the remains of a thoughtless Splinter.

    Spreading his legs to attain a better footing, The Fourth imagined got in position and flared his core once, then twice, his right hand always pressed onto his forehead. Soon enough he caught the Murkhound¡¯s attention. Soon enough the floating death came for him with fanged dreadlocks aimed to the nexus of his existence. And soon enough his spiked arm met the dog¡¯s protruding teeth with a sideways swing, causing the mutant to hang in the air for a few seconds, dumbfounded as it kept its distance and examined Dirofil, whose blue eye always remained set upon the beast. With it Dirofil could see every detail of the monster, every sucker-like mouth on the dreads of its mane, every place where a feature should be, but was now missing: nails, eyes, and even the nose seemed to have been surgically extracted. An existence so hideous that neither light nor gravity were willing to touch it.

    ¡°Hail, sea; the one about to die refuses to greet me!¡± he said, infusing his soul onto his cape, and preparing to unleash hell over his ¡ª clearly suspecting ¡ª enemy.

 Chapter 15: Discovered

    ¡°If the ocean is to be an internally organized structure, it needs ways of maintaining such organization. In our bodies of water¡ªbe them rivers, seas, oceans or lakes¡ªthe water stratifies according to the laws of physics. The incessant pull of gravity discriminates apart layers that get arranged according to their density. This density, in turn, is given by various parameters one can measure in water: Salinity, temperature, and even the very weight of the water column that rests above our sample. Nothing of this applies to a body of floating, immortal dogs. Dogs in an ocean of dogs are roughly isohaline, roughly isothermal, and, given that they are not to be normally affected by gravity, roughly isobaric. Dogs are roughly as dense, no matter the breed. She has been raking her brains about the issue, and I have an idea to present to her. One that, at first, she won¡¯t like¡­¡±

    ¡ªTidbits of Our Creation, page 14

    It was easy to hunt that which one couldn¡¯t see: Ears, whiskers, nose and even one¡¯s twisted spirit worked in tandem to bring the fangs to where they needed to be. The difficulty ¡ªnay, the impossibility¡ª uncovered when trying to hunt what could see one. It presented a new challenge for the Murkhound, an ominous one. Never had her prey been able to detect her so easily, from so afar, or to keep up with her midair frolics and leaps between parcels of nothingness. Dread crept up her reticulate spine as she stalked, describing circles over the thinker¡¯s head.  Thrice had she charged; thrice had she been chastised. The puncturing wounds in her face bled and the blood, like her, refused to fall. Droplets floated about her face, painted unseen constellations in the air. She panted, pained, pondering. How to hunt that which can see you?

    To get acquainted with anxiety wasn¡¯t Dirofil¡¯s idea of a good time. This creature was too careful, too calculating. It forced him to keep the eye of the reaper opened. And while he was willing to perform the forbidden ritual to end her, there was no point in summoning the lord of the underworld just to exorcize a lesser demon. He needed to snuff the Murkhound, and he needed to do it fast. Or to find a way to see it without using the Reaper¡¯s eye. That was a good idea. If it approached again, he would send his cape forth, to tack onto its flesh and mark the aberration for the world to see.

    The hand! The eye in the hand had to be the culprit. In her ghastly view of the world it shone brighter than everything else but the thoughtcrystals.  She needed to attack the hand first, render it blind. Her instinct edged her to do so, encouraged the line of thinking.

    The spirit tendrils grabbed onto another Bernese as he brutally pulled from them to launch his body upwards and follow the distant light of Dirofil¡¯s soul. He almost wanted to kill Dirofil. Grind his body to tiny scraps and shove him into the Spider of Shame. How reckless could the moron be, facing a Murkhound alone, only because the thing had murdered a Splinter. And whilst he understood the thirst for revenge, the sea demanded a cold head from anyone that expected to survive in it. One of his elder brothers had died to save him, and he would not let the other one throw his life again to avenge a crew member he barely knew. His soul already carried the dream of a gone sibling inside. He wouldn¡¯t let it host that of Dirofil too. Mainly, because it was one he could never fulfill.

    Dirofil flashed pale light upon an enemy it couldn¡¯t touch. Come, attack me, it said. Consume this thoughtcrystal you desire so much. Attack me!

    Attack him. You know you want to attack him. But doing so only rewarded pain! Yet the shining core¡­ so enticing it was. Her tripartite tongue licked the hole where her nose should have been. She wanted to rush at her adversary, tear the cursed eye out his hand. Nothing with a crystal soul should have been able to see her. Nothing.

    With jaws open wide and eel-dreads wide spread the Murkhound collapsed onto Dirofil, aiming for the head.  It happened in an instant, this charge way faster than the previous ones. But Dirofil¡¯s cape was eager and reacted in time, muzzling the beast, encasing her ugly head in a pliable iron maiden.

    The pained howls would drive him mad, and even made Leptos¡¯s eye twitch in his face. His sensible ears were torturing him as he ascended the last stretch to meet his brother, tethered to the brunch of Berneses under his feet. ¡°Dirofil, how stupid can you be? Return to the ship now!¡± he rebuked as his last thrust pulled him over the catwalk.

    The Fourth imagined merely laughed as his right ear was assailed by the thrashing beast¡¯s cries. His cape constricted around the Murkhound¡¯s snout, rendering her incapable to do anything beyond the instinctual act of trying to scratch the encroaching presence off her face. It was almost distressing to hear her desperate cries. Almost.

    Parvov¡¯s tendrils of soul lashed out, shimmering bright orange, whips of fire reaching though the night. They coiled around the Murkhound¡¯s neck, legs, and drooling dreads, and then The Third Dreamt increased the amount of energy that he infused into the conjured threads.

    Heat. Heat that twisted the air around the bindings, heat that seared her skin and made the pain of the spikes pale in comparison.   Heat that ignited her dreads and their tiny mouths.

    Dirofil recalled his cape with a mental order, unwrapping it from the disfigured head of its victim. Fire wasn¡¯t good for the enamel.

    For the first time in the Murkhound¡¯s life, she was illuminated for all to see, baked alive by the abhorrent might of Parvov¡¯s spirit.

    The flesh boiled, the smoke rose. The cries died off and the fire soon followed, letting a charred cadaver fall piece by carbonized piece into the void. The threads of flame disappeared without major fanfare.

    ¡°I kind of¡­ wanted to assimilate her parts.¡± Dirofil said, the eye of the reaper shutting close. ¡°Let¡¯s hurry back to the ship. We need to depart before the Reaper arrives.¡±

    ¡°The moron makes sense for once.¡± With a heavy hand, Parvov pushed Dirofil off the ledge, and watched it plummet several dozens of meters until he got a hang of a dog¡¯s tail. ¡°Meet me in the bridge as soon as you return to the ship! We will have a little¡­ talk.¡±

    <hr>

    Parvov had submerged in deep meditation by the time the clinks of Dirofil¡¯s steps announced his presence in the bridge. The heads of the Psycholocation and Legsteering teams had tasks to tend to in their respective areas of the ship, and the only Splinter that lingered in the room hung from the ceiling, not unlike the tension Dirofil felt in the air.

    ¡°Doratev,¡± the original greeted the spider.

    ¡°Dirofil. Parvov wants me to teach you about the abominations we know of. He intended to spar with you, but it seems the Murkhound crisis exhausted him.¡± The lone eye of the spider shot around the slime of its body, bouncing like a rubber ball inside a bag as the doctor tried to find a way down the ceiling.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Dirofil unclasped his cape and extended it between his hands, with the inner side, the one devoid of spikes, upwards. The Chihuahua teeth interlaced with his fingers, securing the piece of armor in place. He raised this extended platform high, towards The Doctor. ¡°Let yourself fall. I refuse to fail at catching you.¡±

    Doratev didn¡¯t trust Dirofil, but hitting the floor wouldn¡¯t be too much of a problem, either, so he let himself fall anyway. And Dirofil kept his word, quickly cradling the Spider of Shame in his cape.

    ¡°Parvov would have let me smack the floor.¡±

    Dirofil squinted in glee. ¡°Then you better be glad that my brother isn¡¯t me. Do I carry you to the laboratory?¡±

    The spider jumped from the cape and landed on its four legs. Legs of pale shine, each of their three segments creaking at the hinges when they moved. ¡°I will stretch these legs a bit, so long as the noise of my walk results innocuous to you.¡±

    ¡°Of course, Doctor. Lead the way.¡±

    And thus, he slowly tailed the skittering contraption up and down corridors and sphere stairwells. After coming down the second staircase, Dirofil decided to ask: ¡°Isn¡¯t there a more direct way to the laboratory?¡±

    ¡°Yes, but the mechanism of a bulkhead broke and I haven¡¯t gotten around to fixing it. It¡¯s probably just a stuck or shattered gear preventing the bolts from sliding properly. Nobody cares about the lab but me and sometimes the Captain. But he is too busy grieving for his¡­ your brother and sister to grieve for a door. Since Morbilliv was rendered thoughtless, dear Capt. hasn¡¯t been the same.¡± The Doctor made a pause to consider the path ahead and took a turn in an intersection.

    ¡°So you know.¡± DIrofil kept following. He enjoyed Doratev¡¯s company, despite his quirks.

    ¡°Of course I know. I am part of the original crew. I built this ship along Parvov. But said Parvov is gone. The Reaper took more than he says that day. That one in the bridge is my Captain. But, hark what I tell you, he isn¡¯t the Parvov that saved my life and then mercilessly beat me up for putting us in that situation. There¡¯s hesitation in his violence now. I¡¯d rather have the old one, and not because I am masochistic or anything¡­ ah, here we are. Time flies when you converse.¡±  He said, arriving in front of the sliding door of the laboratory.

    ¡°If it helps, I think he feels he needs to live both for himself and Morbilliv now. Embody them both.¡± Dirofil made a pregnant pause. ¡°Maybe even that it should have been him, and not Morbi, that died that day.¡±

    ¡°Indeed. Take a seat, Original. The floor is wide enough, and you have so much to learn. Or, rather, we have.¡± The Doctor pranced onto his desk like a gracious gazelle and began using one of his forelegs to rummage through the manifold trinkets resting upon it. ¡°Now, where did I leave that thing¡­¡± Then the little spider moved its one eye down to its rear to look at his interlocutor. ¡°Ah, and tell me where you got an ear from a Parvov model, please. It was a most curious finding when I examined your unconscious body after your arrival. A rather¡­ subtle modification.¡±

    Dirofil leaned against the doorframe, his cape sliding to a side to let his back touch the frame directly. ¡°So you know. Who else?¡±

    ¡°You, me, and whoever figured it out on its own. I am not giving Parvov this information unless he asks explicitly. It¡¯s in my best interest to contribute to the general wellbeing of the ship and crew. But it¡¯s also in my best interest to avoid nipping drama at the bud. This place is boring otherwise.¡± After a bit more of rummaging, he found one of his recorders, a contraption consisting on structures similar to the ears and voiceboxes of the Thinkers: a little dotted dice of black for the ear, and a considerably bigger oblate sphere with grooves on the upper side for the voicebox. A Morbilliv-like voicebox, Dirofil thought.

    ¡°This is where I recorded some notes about the abominable dogs. Feel free to listen to its contents. Take into account a base breed can abominate into different final forms, and we do not know the base breed for some of the beasts. The mutation goes too far, too deep: the original appearance gets lost. Becomes unknowable by means of examining the creatures or their carcasses. That¡¯s why I try to get specimens that would allow me to construct ontogenetic series, when Parvov allows. Which is rarely, I must add.¡±

    Dirofil listened in silence as Doratev droned on and on.  He wouldn¡¯t interrupt his Splinter. Or, well, the soul of his Splinter stashed inside the spider¡­ A.C.C.U, Artificial Core Carrier Unit. ¡°You seem to be very passionate about this. Why?¡±

    ¡°My usual excuse is that our survival could be contingent on it. That one satisfies Parvov. The truth is that there¡¯s a world we cannot reach beyond the veil. No material we may extract or power we may call forth can take us there. It could be gone¡ªit probably is. Imagine our world as a shadow, a cheap trick of the light of creation, consequence of illuminating a world more complete, more cohesive. Cast a stone, Dirofil. Cast a stone if you can, if you find a proper stone, and not a fragment of the spires or spheres. Show me andesite, or a pegmatite! Better yet: build an hourglass.¡± The Doctor reached among the rubble on his desk and rolled a little glass vial onto Dirofil¡¯s sight. ¡°We can get glass from dogs. We know how. You just need sand. Find sand, Dirofil.¡±

    Dirofil reached for the vial and shook it a little, watching the limpid liquid swirl inside. ¡°What substance does this contain?¡±

    ¡°You had to curtail my excitement, didn¡¯t you? Water. It¡¯s water. That thing over there is, among other things, a distiller.¡± The spider stretched a leg to point at a complex arrangement of glass tubes, ampoules and recipients attached to a table not very different from the desk in confection. ¡°We boil blood or drool to make water. We rarely have a need for it.¡±

    ¡°I haven¡¯t seen water used at all in this place. The Pointers don¡¯t need food or drink. Do you give them baths?¡± Dirofil asked, striding over to the distiller, relocating an eye to the back of his head to address The Doctor.

    ¡°No. The biggest batch of water we distilled was to imprison Lyssav in her spire.¡±

    Dirofil turned slowly, his fingers curled like claws, hands suspended in the air, as if touching anything would shatter the delicate fabric of the world. ¡°Imprison Lyssav? Why would you do something so stupid?¡±

    ¡°In The Captain¡¯s wise words: So we know where to find her just before her spire falls.¡±

    ¡°Lyssav has a thoughtcrystal far stronger than mine, Parvov¡¯s or Morbilliv¡¯s, not to mention Babesi¡¯s. Only Leptos could stop her if she decides she wants revenge, and he would never do that. The gap between her and us cannot be overstated. I defy Parvov because I know I am only at a slight core disadvantage if things escalate.¡± Dirofil¡¯s hand met each other behind his back. ¡°If Morbilliv lived, we would be on nary equal footing on that regard. I¡¯d lose a fair fight against him for sure, because his grasp wasn¡¯t one to forgive. But Lyssav? To taunt her is to poke the bastard born from an orgy between a lion, a Great White and a hippopotamus. It¡¯s complete madness. Suicidal ideation and action. Has Parvov told you what she did to Desmodus?¡±

    ¡°Desmodus the Skyborne? The elder brother of Shadiran?¡± Doratev asked, jumping off his desk and into a nearby stool of brass-like metal. The question had piqued his interest.

    ¡°Have you ever seen a core get eaten?¡± Dirofil asked, and immediately shook his head. ¡°Not by one of the dogs, I mean. By one of us.¡±

    ¡°No, I have met no murderous splinter.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s terrible. They don¡¯t shatter and explode in a nova of light when it is a Thinker that eats them with theirs. It¡¯s¡­¡± Dirofil raised his right hand and gestured at the eye of the Reaper. ¡°Like this. Like I subsume dog parts into my body or adapt sibling parts to my anatomy, she absorbed her suitor¡¯s soul, obliterated his psyche. And she used the teeth. The molten crystal descended like a froth from her jaws for days on end.¡± A violent shudder invaded Dirofil when he recalled that event in detail. Every time. ¡°Shadiran cried so loud and for so long that I thought she wouldn¡¯t be happy ever again.¡±

    The Doctor scratched the underside of his front end with one of the legs. ¡°Why did she do that?¡±

    Dirfofil slumped to the floor and pulled his head back, fidgeting with his fingers as he weaved the answer in his mind.

    ¡°She never answered that question herself. Not honestly. I think Desmodus wanted to take her to the Edge, to meet the ones that had no reason to come down to the Core. What matters is that Parvov is insane. Lyssav will kill him at the very least. Unless¡­¡±

    Dirofil stood in a hurry and headed for the door.

    ¡°It¡¯s not time to bother the Captain, Fourth Imagined. Come, sit and learn about the monster outside. The monster below can wait.¡±

    Dirofil¡¯s hand let the doorframe go and he retraced his steps. Parvov was already incensed by his encounter with the Murkhound: it wouldn¡¯t be productive to bother him until later.

 Chapter 16: Of Brothers and Sisters

    ¡°I have devoured the Gazer. Ripped the lightning out of the Shocker. Ransacked this sea tirelessly to get wings, claws, and fangs that match yours, vampire. How dare you think, scum, murderer, cannibal, that your dream deserves to prevail over mine? I will meet my beloved at the top. We will make a new world at the Zenith of Ideas. We are borne out of a mind, Brother, and you have always been a despicable concept.¡±

    ¡ªThe Fourth Imagined to her brother, The Second Envisioned

    Mining at the Mauling layer had been postponed after the Murkhound incident. Parvov hadn¡¯t discarded it, but a Splinter had died, and despite the crew not being one for funerals, the absence was felt all across the Corship. Careless mistakes became more common, harsh punishments more rare. Legs missed the target and forced the other steerers to maneuver so the ship wouldn¡¯t trip; refined materials still contained some traces of dog hair; the all-seeing eye of Psycholocators had grown lazy, missing small threats now and then; and the miners were extremely wary, worked in short shifts, never wandered away from the ship.

    Dirofil hadn¡¯t failed at defending Jadimar ¡ªthe name of the deceased¡ª because he hadn¡¯t been informed about monsters he wouldn¡¯t be able to see. There was this illness constantly making the rounds in the ship, this endless distemper that refused to leave. Everyone feigned that Murkhounds weren¡¯t a thing. One couldn¡¯t work in the sea when those things could even enter the Corship undetected and start sowing chaos around. It was a blessing that they were rare, and thus far no intrusions had happened.   The Death of that Splinter rested completely on the Captain¡¯s shoulder, and as he watched the mirror of his room, he wondered. Parvov stared back at him, pointed at his face with what would be his left horn. That wasn¡¯t right. The right horn pointed forwards, the left, backwards. That¡¯s was how Parvov and all of his Splinters were made. But the mirror didn¡¯t care. ¡°Just a trick of light,¡± he muttered, ten fingers drumming onto the throne¡¯s armrest.  The sound of someone coming up the spheres got him out of his musings. Then, Dirofil¡¯s face began emerging from the spiral stair.

    ¡°I am ready to learn about legsteering duty, Parvov,¡± he said drily.

    ¡°The Doctor finished lecturing you on a couple more aberrations?¡± Parvov replied in a similar tone.

    ¡°I am done with Doratev¡¯s lessons for the time being. Yes.¡±  Dirofil felt that it was the right moment to ask his brother for a favor, as his disposition seemed¡­ barely negative. ¡°I want to ask for something in exchange for my cooperation with the crew, Parvov. If I will be fighting outside in addition to toiling inside ¡ªand I wouldn¡¯t miss the chance to¡ª I have two demands. Minor ones, nothing too resource intensive. Or so I hope.¡±

    Parvov¡¯s back loss contact with his throne as he leaned forward. ¡°Let me hear them. I am willing to pull some strings for my dear brother.¡±

    ¡°Is that a threat or a pun?¡± Dirofil said, wiggling his fingers to imitate Parvov¡¯s movements when using his technique.

    ¡°Whichever one you prefer. Get to the point, Dirofil.¡±

    ¡°I need to meet Shadiran, and I need to get past the Mauling layer for that. If I gather and refine all necessary materials, I want to be granted the freedom to recruit some crew members, Doratev among them, to investigate a solution that could benefit both me and the ship.¡±

    Parvov relaxed a bit. ¡°That¡¯s mutually beneficial, I could allow that. But consider staying with us, Brother. It¡¯s a ruthless sea out there.¡± Parvov then interlaced the fingers of both hands, the twenty of them. ¡°I take your second request will stoke the flames of my fury?¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°Free her,¡± Dirofil demanded leaning against the wall, next to the door to be able to run off if things got ugly.

    ¡°Pardon me? Free who?¡±

    Dirofil didn¡¯t respond, he barely held his brother¡¯s stare.

    ¡°Please, Dirofil, if any Splinter has gotten trapped¡­ I can help.¡±

    ¡°Faking ignorance won¡¯t cut it, brother. You envisioned a prison.¡±

    Parvov blinked with each of his four eyes, one at a time. ¡°Sometimes I wonder if The Doctor¡¯s voicebox is defective and it says things without him thinking them through.¡±

    Dirofil stomped his foot against the floor, a metallic rapping overtaking the silence. ¡°Free Lyssav, idiot.¡± His hand shot to a side, like a branch that grows towards the sun. ¡°We cannot afford her hatred. I agree our sister deserves isolation and even punishment for her behavior, but we do not have the power to enact them free of consequences.¡±

    ¡°No. The prison keeps her neatly contained in her spire until we save her from the sea.¡±

    ¡°And then I watch her eat your thoughtcrystal out your torso while she tells me I follow, or what? What¡¯s the plan then?¡±

    Parvov shrugged. ¡°She will understand, one way or another. Lyssav is wicked. The sea is outright nefarious. Please, don¡¯t insist.¡±

    ¡°I have information you could find useful. I will even destroy her prison myself if you take me to her. Mediate between you two.¡±

    ¡°I know about you having somehow acquired an ear that can pick up what me and my Splinters say when we talk in infrasounds. I have seen you tilt your head suspiciously at times. You cannot blackmail me with that, if that was your idea,¡± Parvov said, analyzing his claws out of boredom.

    ¡°No. That may be truth, but I offer something else. Necromancy.¡±

    Parvov chuckled. ¡°Divination? Really? Another power of your special eye?¡±

    Dirofil slowly moved his head from side to side. ¡°How many of our siblings died so far, Parvov?¡±

    ¡°Two.¡±

    ¡°One.¡± Dirofil said, and advanced up to his brother, leaning in over him to look closely at his face. ¡°Promise to take me to Lyssav. I¡¯ll take you to Babesi.¡±

    Every bone in Parvov¡¯s body seemed to go loose as he slumped into his throne for a moment, and then recovered tone as he reached for Dirofil¡¯s neck. ¡°You found Babesi and left her alone in the sea to further your goals?¡± he pressed onto the slime of his brother as his hand trembled, barely containing the impulse to crush his spine.

    ¡°She¡¯s safe.¡± Dirofil said with the tranquility only the breathless can have when strangled.

    ¡°You lie! Mislead me to play your dirty game!¡± Parvov squeezed further, and Dirofil¡¯s flesh began to slip between his fingers.

    ¡°No, no. Babesi tamed a family of Tunnelers to defend her.¡±

    Parvov¡¯s grasp died out. He pushed Dirofil away by means of a kick to his abdomen, toppling him down. ¡°Repeat that.¡±

    ¡°Babesi has entered an alliance with mutant Dachshunds to live in their tunnels. She plucks the parasite Samoyeds off them and they just¡­ don¡¯t attack her.  I was about as flabbergasted as you are when she explained this to me.¡±

    Parvov stood from his meticulously crafted seat and loomed over his fallen brother. ¡°That sounds so Babesi that I don¡¯t want to believe you and yet I know that you are not lying. Damn you, Dirofil!¡±

    Scrambling to his feet, Dirofil offered a ten-fingered hand. ¡°Deal? You get to secure the good sister, and I handle the bad one.¡±

    ¡°Forget it. You are telling me where Babesi is right now or¡ª¡±

    The Eye of the Reaper beheld existence for a brief moment, and fear took hold of Parvov¡¯s expression. ¡°You are going to keep using that blasphemous thing to force my hand, won¡¯t you? Reapers are no game, Dirofil.¡±

    ¡°Bet Lyssav could kill one. Or several. If poking bears we are, I strongly suggest the smaller one we poke.¡±

    Parvov scratched his skull. ¡°Why the hyperbaton?¡±

    ¡°It sounded more poetic in my mind.¡± He wriggled his fingers. ¡°Deal?¡±

    Reluctantly and with a weight in his movements that made him seem cast from stone, Parvov stretched his brother¡¯s hand. ¡°For Babesi I shall tolerate your insolence. But short is the wick of the petard you are playing with, Brother.¡±

    ¡°I can get a new hand. You cannot get a new crystal if Lyssav decides to rip it off your chest and crush it.¡±

    Parvov gestured the pest to go away now that it had gotten what it wanted. ¡°Go with the legsteerers, watch how they do it. I will join you after the bitter flavor of your tricks washes off the mouth I never had.¡±

 Chapter 17: Pride of Parasites

    ¡°My love, what has rendered you thoughtless? I crossed the sea. I banished the devil incarnate. I lost brothers, sisters, and friends. I killed some creatures undeserving of death, I spared others underserving of mercy.  A miracle surrendered its life to gift me the chance to reach you, Dirofil, so why have you handed yourself to oblivion?¡±

    ¡ªShadiran, holding the thoughtless body of her lover in her arms.

    The Legstereers sat on a long steel-like bench, their heads limp dropping to the side, the front or the back. A composite, knuckled hulk made of the same alloy intruded their bodies by the front, surrounded their cores with an internally-polished case full of tiny holes. Snake Jaws, the legsteerers often called them, because they engulfed their consciousness and propelled it out the walls these structures extended from.

    Dirofil had been informed of how it worked. The legs, like the A.C.C.U, were constructs made to resemble a body. The Corship had been built in a haste, and with the limited resources at hand. Its systems could only be refined so long as said refinement didn¡¯t render them inactive. In this sense, it wasn¡¯t unlike living beings, with the archaic limiting the modern, the recurrent laryngeal nerve of a giraffe.

    A puggum engine had been added for emergencies, but it was thought-energy intensive, considering the price of refinement of the fuel and the need to still have at least one leegsteerer on each side, plugged onto the hind legs and using the single eyes ¡ªmodeled after Babesi¡¯s, for she enjoyed the best eyesight out of the six Originals of the Core¡ª at the end of them to coordinate the others.

    The ship wouldn¡¯t ever walk without some Thinkers incarnating its appendages. And while the few Splinters of Leptos on board seemed to find a measure of calm and freedom in Legsteering duty, Dirofil rued the idea. It was his body he¡¯d be forfeiting, even if for only some hours. He had recovered his eye, that felt at home, and like home, in his slimy head. Leptos¡ä arm served him well, more so when intermingled with his own, but it wasn¡¯t still the quiridium he had first stirred to life with. Leptos¡¯ tail had indubitably saved his life, and therefore any negative feelings towards it were to be disregarded as mere caprices. He would replace it soon, for the autotomy had cut it in half and he didn¡¯t know how to regrow the missing segment. After all, knowledge about regeneration was The First Pictured¡¯s prerogative.

    Speaking of the devil, the Splinter sitting next to the spot reserved for him was one of Leptos. His six arms dangled backwards, such that if one shook the unconscious Thinker they would clatter like wind chimes caught in a storm. His back was bent in the shape of a C, such that, had the Snake Jaws not been there to hold his core, he would have fallen backwards. His eyes wide open, iridescent pearls focusing nowhere.

    Dirofil imitated the sound of a clicking tongue. No. He wouldn¡¯t take hold of a leg. He wouldn¡¯t give up control of his body, even if temporarily, to perform a task someone else could do.

    The head of the Legsteerers, a position being unusually filled by a Splinter of Babesi for the tide, glared at him from across the room. ¡°Edala, correct?¡±

    ¡°That is, indeed, my name.¡± She said, wielding a haughty tone unbecoming of someone resembling The Sixth Conceptualized. ¡°Hard work is expected of you, Original.¡±

    ¡°Elsewhere. Not here. As soon as Parvov comes, I am informing him of my refusal to undertake this task and leaving.¡± Dirofil poked Leptos¡¯ Splinter just to check if that would incite some reaction. And it didn¡¯t.

    ¡°Don¡¯t disturb the Steerers. The ship may trip!¡± Her purple skeleton glinted under the retriever-based lights as she slithered hurriedly towards Dirofil, ready to slap his hand off the Legsteerer.

    ¡°Don¡¯t force me to be a Steerer. My energy would be better spent elsewhere. Psycholocation. Refinement. Mining. Even powering the lights.¡±

    ¡°You were not supposed to be this difficult,¡± she blurted out. ¡°We were warned that the tide when Lyssav comes some of us may die if we offend her. But you? We were told you are kind. And all I see is an asshole on a power trip because he¡¯s an Original who got a special eye.¡±

    Dirofil blinked twice. ¡°Do you expect me to tell you that you are wrong, Edala? I am aware of the wrongs I am inflicting upon the crew and my very own brother for the sake of my own strength and goals. I am deeply sorry about them.¡± Dirofil rubbed his left wrist and lowered his gaze. ¡°And, well, that this refusal has nothing to do with that. I simply despise the idea of ending up like them while I steer the leg.¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    The Splinter tilted her head and averted her one eye. ¡°The Captain says that you should attune to the Legsteerer channel.¡±

    ¡°Alright.¡±

    Dirofil relaxed and focused on the waves of mental energy coursing around his core. Recognizing the waves of Psycholocation was simple enough, so excluding their frequency from his mental search presented no problem. Which didn¡¯t mean, however, that he wasn¡¯t annoyed by their constant presence. Wave after wave after wave after wave clashing all over his form, bouncing back when striking both his body and his soul. And yet there were other signals. Subtler, gentler. He felt through them at random until he found the one where Parvov was unleashing a rainbow of terms.

    ¡­you immature, cowardly, bullcored, Chihuahua-scented, heap of Dachshund droppings, you will learn to steer the accursed legs or¡­

    He tuned off and stretched a bit before casually striding out the Legsteerers area. He didn¡¯t need to turn to know Edala was shaking her head in disapproval.  He didn¡¯t need to tune into the Legsteerer¡¯s mind-link to know Parvov would come stomping to admonish him. He just wondered: was it truly him acting like this, or was it some vile influence from the parts he had assimilated?

    <hr>

    Nobody stopped him as he entered cargo bay where the miners often gathered, waiting for the ship to arrive near the deposits to get out and bring the dogs in. There were seats for the Splinters of Morbilliv, cages whose structure meshed into the orange corgite walls, carts and the rails they needed, and little more. The titanic exit door that would slide down to connect ship and sea completed the room, acting as a wall on its own right.

    Tuldrum and Dalvari chatted next to one of the empty cages. Their words were drenched in hopelessness as they dropped out their voiceboxes. Dirofil avoided drawing closer and stood at the entrance of the bay, covered in his cape, jealously keeping the regal air an Original should carry about themselves.

    ¡°Who follows, Dilvari? We are the ones that go out. We are the ones that face beasts tide in and tide out. Who follows? Hark, we are just awaiting thoughtlessness to come and take us. Come it stalking as a Murkhound, charging as a Pugilist, or howling as a Yodeler, we will be the ones to be reached first. Not the Parvovs enjoying the fruits of nepotism, not the Dirofils skulking on all five or lounging in the laboratory. Not the Babesis causing mischief nor the Lyssavs that drag themselves about with their¡­ victim complexes.  Not the Leptoses pedaling this doomed bicycle forwards. Us, Morbillivs, we are the ones marked to die!¡± Tuldrum discoursed, rapping his short and dull claws against the armor plates of his chest.

    ¡°The Captain sees his dead brother in us. Of course we are sent to die. We look strong and bulky, perfect for carrying heavy loads. That¡¯s the excuse. It¡¯s the shape we were born from that must die. Die, like Morbilliv did, so Parvov can move on from his neverending grief,¡± replied Dalvari, whose gestures evidenced similar levels of frustration. The he did a double take at the figure behind his friend. ¡°Ah, The Dirofil is here.¡±

    ¡°Morbilliv was my brother too, you know. And so is Parvov. Who lacks a Legsteerer as I ducked out to avoid the task. I¡¯ll take the place of one of you as a miner for as long as you take on leg-steering duty for me.¡±

    Tuldrum stepped in front of his comrade. ¡°For whom of us is the offer? Know that Parvov wouldn¡¯t let either of us accept it anyway. Your insubordination may cost us dearly.¡±

    ¡°I can force my brother¡¯s hand. He would get bored if I didn¡¯t.¡±

    This time it was Dalvari that eclipsed his peer. ¡°You are not being the most stellar of guests. We are trying to survive long term in here, and you are behaving like an immature brat at best, and a parasite at worst.¡±

    ¡°Dirofilaria immitis. Commonly known as the dog heartworm,¡± Dirofil said, matter-of-factly. ¡°Leptospira, bacteria responsible for leptospirosis. Lyssavirus, genus of the virus of rabies. Parvovirus, genus of the virus responsible for parvovirosis. Dirofilaria. Morbillivirus, one of which causes canine distemper. Babesia, protozoans that cause piroplasmosis or babesiosis. We were all named after parasitic beings that existed in the world of the creators. Parasites that affected dogs.¡±

    ¡°Make certain you don¡¯t become the pathogen that kills the Corship then. We are not defying Parvov, Fourth Imagined. Being found by the corship saved our lives as much as it saved yours. We owe Parvov and the crew a debt of gratitude.¡± Tuldrum said, his bulking arms crossed.

    ¡°Do you fear the Spider of Shame more than the sea of dogs?¡±

    Stares were exchanged between the Splinters of Morbilliv. Shoulders were rolled in unease. Heads shook in unison.

    ¡°Great, you can settle it between you as you may please. I propose you use a rotating schedule. Some tides one goes out, some tides the other¡­¡±

    The reverberation of the Captain¡¯s steps made itself present up the hall, and Dirofil instantly shot for the door-opening mechanism.

    ¡°Dirofil, come here right now or I am going to make The Doctor find out how to grow you some skin so I can properly flagellate your sorry rear!¡±

    As the Thinker infused his soul into the metallic semisphere, the door started sliding down. ¡°You¡¯ll have to catch me first, Parvov!¡± he exclaimed playfully.

    Even before the ramp door finished its swing down Dirofil had already hopped out into the sea, propelling his body towards the nearest group of Bernese by using his legs as springs.

    ¡°Dirofil! Come back here! I was exaggerating!¡± Then Parvov grunted in frustration and lashed out against the Splinters. ¡°What are you looking at? Attune and tell everyone there¡¯s been an emergency and I need to leave the ship!¡±

 Asking for your opinion about a title change (and a few other details)

    First things first: I loved the title I came up with for last chapter ,and after musing long about it, I think it could be a positive change for the visibility of the saga to be called "Pride of Parasites" instead of "Heartworm". While the books are indeed centered on Dirofil''s plight, four of the six siblings take an an important role in the trilogy (Or at most tetralogy, i''ll see).

    And pride is not only a word that defines the capital sin, the feeling of self-aggrandizement, or the simple pleasure taken from achievements, of own or of others. A pride is also a family of lions.

    Heartworm is not only a SEO nightmare (There''s even a veterinary hospital called Royal Road Veterinary Hospital!) but could also make some people think about romance. And romance in here there''s next to none. Sure, Dirofil loves Shadiran and Shadiran loves Dirofil. 90% of the story is still existential anguish, family drama, refining dogs and killing mutant chihuahuas (No amount of power can ever spare the crew of the little pests. Like the real thing, they are blissfully unaware of their place in the pecking order) . 9% is killing non-chihuahuas. 0,9% is Shadiran and Dirofil reminiscing the good ol'' days where they loved each other without a sea in the way. 0,1% is basking in the glory of Loretta (Character to come. Most important. Load-bearing, one could say).

    So, while I love the concise and quite straightforward nature of Heartworm, the Punchy alliteration and lack of ambiguity of Pride of Parasites could help get more eyeballs in the book. So, i''d like to poll your opinion, either in the comments or in the poll below. I don''t want to confuse the current readers with a name change out of the blue.

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    As a little aside, I have received conflicting feedback about chapter 1: some people love it, some people hate it, and it''s difficult to find common ground. For some, it is too confusing. for others, this confusion is charming. I want to keep the confusion factor, it was engineered in as a feature and not a bug, but i don''t want to drive readers away in droves, either.

    A suggestion was to change the Epigraph of chapter 1, (The introduction to Notes for Cosmopoiesis, where the creatress states she has won The Lottery) for something less confusing. I could swap it with a note from following chapters, but that would make the storyline told in Notes for Cosmopoiesis/Tidbits of Our Creation/ Musings of a detractor slightly more... tangled, lets say? (as a little insignificant spoiler, there are several different stories going on in the epigraphs of book 1 alone, as you may have noticed by some epigraphs being Doratev''s in-universe recordings.)

    So, your opinion about chapter 1 is valuable too.

    As an apology for this wall of text and poll, i''ll upload chapter 18 ahead of schedule.

    P.S. I am close to finishing the draft of book 1, that will clock in at about 80k words, if all goes well.

 Chapter 18: Heartworm

    ¡°The Zenith of Concepts rests over Vedala¡¯s palace. Its only function is to grant the Thinkers the possibility we humans were once granted, by grace divine or chance mundane: to create existence anew. Yet I aim to spare the Thinkers the cruelty of a lottery, the encroaching uncertainty that beset us as we drew the numbers, as we waited in our homes. Therefore, I am entrusting this quest to make the world once more, whenever they see fit, to Dirofil, The Fourth Imagined, and Shadiran, The Besotted. Whether they succeed or fail, I¡¯ll leave it to their skill and their luck.¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoiesis, page 13.

    Two stars gamboled in the night, spiraling around the axons of the ocean¡¯s brain, one chasing after the other. The leading one moved nigh weightlessly, bouncing among the dogs with an enviably ease. The other followed with heavy landings, his movement happening in bursts rather than flowing. Behold, the first one embodies water, with its meandering curves and coursing grace. Watch out, the second embodies thunder, gifted with all-reaching arcs of light and explosive puissance.

    The legs of the first parted, without making him lose his grasp on the column, the dog beyond the space they were occupying a moment before plucked from the wall by the force of the second¡¯s pull on the strings of his soul.

    The failure frustrated Parvov and made him cry out in the dark. Dirofil was not easy to catch: his constant visits to Shadiran¡¯s palace had endowed him with a familiarity of the climbing practice that most of his siblings straight out lacked. Dogs or spheres, they weren¡¯t very different to the Fourth Imagined, not anymore. The Captain had the impression that his brother had been already assimilated by the sea, just another dog traversing the unwelcoming landscape. ¡°Dirofil, come back, I won¡¯t do anything painful to you.¡±

    Dirofil balanced on a meager leg over the head of a Bernese that jutted out from the structure. ¡°That would be counterproductive.¡± He vaulted off backwards, where a nearby lenticular formation of Samoyeds awaited, and landed on a bed of fur soft as cotton. He had glimpsed the concave bottom of the lens as he ascended, and now lay upon the flat top.

    He sat up when the heavy frame of Parvov arrived at the other end of the lens, sending a puny wave coursing through the Samoyeds. ¡°We are far enough,¡± Dirofil affirmed with a calm tone. One of his fingers shot accusingly in direction of his incoming brother. ¡°You are not Parvov.¡±

    ¡°I am Parvov, idiot! Is that what this is all about? You distrust¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Parvov loved having his arms split into four individual ones. That was the first thing that struck me as odd, but maybe the needs of the life here had changed his mind.¡± Dirofil hopped to his feet and opened his cape, revealing the light of his core to better illuminate his own body.

    ¡°I am Parvov! You don¡¯t know what this sea does to people, Dirofil!¡±

    ¡°Parvov would laugh at the idea of a mirror. Parvov would still be giving me a beating after I pulled off the whole Babesi ordeal. And more important, even if I managed to escape, Parvov would have caught me.¡± Dirofil strode and began advancing towards the hunched form of his brother. ¡°You are not Parvov. You will never be Parvov. Don¡¯t lie to me, little brother. Be honest, Morbilliv. Why do you have his body?¡±

    The horned head turned to both sides as the captain made sure they were alone. ¡°I should be Parvov, Dirofil,¡± he admitted, defeated. Then he looked at Dirofil with guilty and soft eyes. ¡°He tore my core from my body as it got taken by the Reaper, and when the thing caught up to us once more he detonated his very soul to save me. I should have died. Had he escaped and left me behind, he would be alive. I took control of the body as the tentacles of the creature burned due to the psychic fallout of our beloved brother¡¯s essence. I returned to the ship and began to behave like he did, or at least trying to, albeit making some¡­ small changes. I slowly began surrounding myself by Splinters of Parvov. I fabricated a mirror to include in his chambers. I took on the mask, because the crew needed their captain, and Parvov would have wanted me to take care of them.¡±

    Morbilliv fell to Parvov¡¯s knees, feeling as if a weight on his shoulders had lifted, only for a bigger stone to be dropped onto his back seconds later. ¡°Don¡¯t tell the crew.¡±

    Dirofil knelt in front of him and placed both forearms on his dead brother¡¯s shoulders. ¡°I won¡¯t. But they deserve to know.¡± Then he made a pause. ¡°I won¡¯t as long as you don¡¯t force me to steer a leg.¡±

    Morbilliv let out a single bout of laughter. ¡°By the creators, you couldn¡¯t let the chance to blackmail me slip, could you?¡± His big arms then squelched Dirofil¡¯s lithe form against his chest, the quills of his cape ignored completely.

    ¡°I could. I wouldn¡¯t.¡±

    But the embrace didn¡¯t last long, for soon three delicate ears picked up five indelicate howls.

    ¡°Yodelers. We will need to fight again,¡± Morbilliv said, hurrying to a standing position, giving his back to Dirofil as he adopted an offensive stance, claws extended and ready to dig into any potential attackers.

    ¡°Do they have something useful for me?¡± Dirofil lazily gave the back to his brother and cracked his neck. ¡°We haven¡¯t covered Yodelers yet.¡±

    ¡°Death. Is that useful to you? Why are your arms folded under your cape? Appearing bigger than you are is a good deterrent for them.¡±

    ¡°Oh, you think I want to deter them?¡±

    An erratic bulge under the cape made Morbilliv realize Dirofil was making use of the eye of the Reaper. ¡°Do you want to add a Reaper to the party that is going to unfold about us?¡±

    ¡°Tsk, I won¡¯t get scolded by my younger brother. Parvov¡¯s body is big and, in the way you make use of it, slower than mine. The Reaper is far away, so I must make sure we don¡¯t get ambushed by anything worse than these¡­¡± The image of the nearest enemy manifested as Dirofil pointed the eye to his right, Morbilliv¡¯s left. ¡°Basenjis?¡± Dirofil blinked with all the eyes, his and other¡¯s. ¡°I refuse to die to a dog that cannot bark.¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°If you are gonna say something in tense moments, at least finish your thoughts.¡±

    ¡°I am channeling unhealthy amounts of Babesi today.¡±

    One of the mutated Basenjis lurched from the right and Dirofil dodged by dropping his body supine against the floor, supported by his three arms. An afterimage flew over his head as the dog had done, a perversion of the air made chiefly of sound and seemingly pulled in by the very howl of the creature that stood on higher terrain.

    ¡°Yodel, leave an afterimage behind, and then yodel again to hit you opponent with the damn thing, is that their strategy?¡± Dirofil asked, refusing to regain his footing: crawling on all fives was his element, sort of. He tested the Samoyeds for a loose one, tugged at their tails gently.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    ¡°Searching for a projectile.¡±

    Morbilliv extended his tendrils furtively until they found their way to Dirofil¡¯s legs. ¡°Me too.¡±

    Dirofil opened his eyes wide as his world began to turn around him. Being slung overhead as some sort of bolas gave one an interesting perspective in life. His brother launched him into the fray, releasing him against the furthest dog that was conjuring a sound clone of his slick green figure.

    Dirofil opened his arms wide and clasped around the back of the creature, that squirmed and tried to wrench himself free, exuding an icky mucus, not much different from a frog¡¯s.

    ¡°If two of the ghosts collide midair they explode, Dirofil!¡± Morbilliv warned as he raised an arm to protect his head from the incoming jaws of a Yodeler. As soon as the dog bit, he yanked it down and shifted his weight to collapse upon the creature.

    Dirofil kept sending soul signals into the body of the creature. Be mine, be mine! If he had bested a reaper, this pathetic opponent couldn¡¯t be much.

    But two of them, maybe, were.

    A clone of sound rammed into his side as he wrestled with his enemy, and forced him to let the real dog go to avoid further damage. He thought he should have been more careful as he found himself plummeting down into the void between Bernese mountain dogs.

    Calling forth his soul, his core vibrated. Once, twice. Channeled energy on his hand, in only for ease of aiming. And so he let a wave of violence to lash out at nothing, embracing the recoil that drove him closer to the column his arms had no trouble latching into.

    ¡°I need some wings.¡± He mused as two of the dogs ¡ªwhether they were the ones that had toppled him or the ones initially going for Morbilliv didn¡¯t matter¡ª pranced down from lintel to buttresses to nexi to dendrite of the Bernese-brain.

    Clamped onto the wall of dogs as he was, Dirofil couldn¡¯t help but seek a path up: If he could reunite with Morbilliv and draw the attackers close, the battle would become so much easier¡­

    And there was an explosion. And there was Morbilliv, falling down the platform, with his armor plates releasing smoke as he cursed the godsdamned hounds. The Fifth Conceived quickly shot his threads of soul to drag itself onto a horizontal formation of Berneses, meters away from Dirofil. The yodeling intensified as the dogs regrouped in the darkness.

    ¡°I managed to kill one. Six to go.¡±

    ¡°Congratulations on inventing a sort of murder that adds to the enemy lines instead of subtracting from them,¡± Dirofil mocked in a calm tone unbecoming of the situation.

    ¡°You underestimate the sea that killed so many of us,¡± Morbilliv chided hurriedly, for the yodels grew closer.

    Morbilliv resolved on prying his brother from the wall and letting the breathing column behind them cover their backs this time. ¡°Get serious, Dirofil. Or we will be in dire straits.¡±

    ¡°Fine, but don¡¯t burn their bodies. I want a clone of sound.¡±

    ¡°I cannot use that against them! they have a sound armor that prevents my technique from latching.¡±

    ¡°Ah, so that¡¯s why the mucus doesn¡¯t stick to everything.¡±

    A snort of Morbilliv and the sharp sounds of an incoming attacker punctuated the end of their idle chatting. Dirofil didn¡¯t feel like moving, so he allowed his body to lose cohesion and melt to a mesh of metal, cape and mucilage at the feet of his brother. Action which, one has to admit, was a very effective way of ducking the lunge of a mutated canine.

    The Basenji crashed against the wall of Bernese and his head lodged onto the fabric of the column, where it got thoroughly licked by friendly heads. The end of his life came when three talons pierced his side and tore his guts out while he tried to wriggle free. Dirofil let it go and reformed his head and torso, his eyed hand now providing footing, attached to his ankle, while his right talon had attached to his wrist.

    Morbilliv hammered his intermingled fists down onto another Bajensi, knocking it out and letting the limp creature fall into the chasm, towards the Collie layer. ¡°What a creative use of your lithe form, Dirofil,¡± he chimed in as he recovered his poise and prepared for the three howling enemies that could lunge at them at any moment, including the one that ran down the wall followed by three sound copies.

    ¡°I am a worm. I need some tricks to squirm my way out of trouble. Launch me upwards.¡± He said, returning to his shapeless state.

    In a single arc of movement Morbilliv scooped Dirofil¡¯s spherical core in his heavy palm and sent it flying in a vertical line, in collision course with the descending Basenji.

    The dog unclasped his jaws wide, pedicellate teeth glistening when exposed to the core¡¯s glow. Drawing closer each instant, Dirofil readied for the impact, covering his front with his cape, and commanding little roots of slime to slip through the links of the chain. As the cape-shield engaged with the jaws of its adversary and engrossed them into a clash of teeth, he commanded his talons and claws to flow around the cape, and reunite at the other side ¡ªinside the mouth¡ª while both him and the creature fought for purchase during their freefall. Morbilliv had moved, barreling against another adversary, and thus they bounced onto the walkway, the impact entangling Chihuahua and Basenji teeth more, causing Dirofil¡¯s bulging core to gag the creature while the sound clones converged on the body of their maker, harmlessly running out of existence. His enemy immediately began shaking the core with destructive intent.

    Oh, but Dirofil had plans. His core wouldn¡¯t easily give in, protected by the cape and his burnished ribs. And the dog wouldn¡¯t close his mouth. The Basenji¡¯s armor of sound may have made clawing his outsides while the dog was alert a fool¡¯s errand, but the soft flesh of its mouth didn¡¯t enjoy the same protection. He didn¡¯t need to imprint much force on the slime-covered claws to inflict bleeding wounds inside the dog¡¯s mouth. The idea wasn¡¯t to get the monster to stop its attack, to pull back or try to escape. No, the wounds needed to be minimal, just enough for Dirofil¡¯s flesh to crawl inside the veins and arteries.

    The core had served well as bait, and after a few seconds enough of Dirofil¡¯s flesh coursed through the dog to reach the heart and clog up the arteries there, inducing a cardiac arrest, honoring the Thinker¡¯s cursed name for the first time since creation had granted it to him. The dog convulsed, whistled and went limp soon enough, letting the thinker extricate his self from the cadaver.

    Morbilliv, whose foot was crushing the throat of another dog against the ground, googled at his brothers reforming figure as the dog¡¯s blood besmirched Dirofil¡¯s transparent flesh. ¡°What sort of madness did you just engage in? How did you kill it, Dirofil?¡±

    ¡°Oh, you know,¡± He replied without turning, inspecting the dog¡¯s cadaver to see if he could absorb any part before the battle ended. ¡°Heartworm things.¡±

    Once the squelch of a crushed trachea resounded through the Bernese layer, the remaining mutants joined the shadows, escaped the scene. These were not prey to be trifled with, and they had suffered many losses already. To run and live another tide; even to an aberrant Basenji that seemed like a wise course of action.

 Chapter 19: Insulting Doratev

    ¡°What has ten legs, one laboratory, strides in the sea and picks up thrashed-up siblings of mine? Do you have any idea, little Mor? A small tip: it¡¯s made chiefly out of corgis!¡±

    ¡ªParvov, after helping his tired, confused and gladly surprised brother deal with a Pugilist.

    ¡°Let¡¯s return to the ship.¡± Morbilliv ordered, but Dirofil was too busy searching for something in the dog¡¯s throat. ¡°I said¡ª¡±

    ¡°I heard. Let me figure out how to steal their power first.¡± Dirofil¡¯s hand kept fabricating wet sounds as it palpated the folds in the mutant¡¯s gullet. ¡°Do I need to absorb the lungs too? Just the vocal cords...¡± Had he had eyebrows, they would have raised in incomprehension. ¡°Any idea, Morbi?¡±

    ¡°Brother, I¡¯d love to indulge your wish for power, but we mustn¡¯t linger. The Corship is the safest place around, and even in there safety isn¡¯t a guarantee¡±.

    Dirofil dedicated an eye to each task: the one in front of his head peering inside the dead dog¡¯s mouth, and the one he had relocated to the back trying to read Morbilliv¡¯s expression. ¡°Can I carry the cadaver there?¡±

    ¡°Why do you ask? A decaying corpse should have no impact on the crew¡¯s wellbeing nor the ship¡¯s integrity.¡± Morbilliv strode up to his brother and slung the dead dog over the relatively wide shoulder of Parvov. ¡°Will you come now?¡±

    Dirofil nodded, returning his eye to where it was meant to be, and glimpsing out the Reaper¡¯s, just to know it was safe to indulge in the satisfaction he felt without turning their recent victory into a pyrrhic one. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw through the Reaper¡¯s thousand, and it was far away for now. Snaking its way through the same layer as them, but hanging out close to the collies. Thinking about it, he realized there was something about it that could be useful to Morbilliv. ¡°The Reaper is between us and Babesi,¡± he said as they dropped off another ledge, seeking safe return to the cold and welcoming atmosphere of the Corship.

    Morbilliv stopped. ¡°You mean Babesi¡¯s survival wasn¡¯t a sick test to make sure I wasn¡¯t Parvov?¡±

    ¡°No. I wouldn¡¯t lie about that. Besides¡ª¡± The distraction caused by chatting caused Dirofil to misstep and take a shortcut, back first, to the ship. Morbilliv shrugged and jumped after him. The Doctor would repair Dirofil¡¯s back if the idiot broke anything.

    Dirofil arrived safe and sound to the ship, and the first thing he did was snatching the dead dog from The Captain¡¯s grasp and rushing to the laboratory. In it he found Doratev ¡ªwho had been building himself a new body tirelessly during the last tides, and seemed to use the calm of a captain-less ship to finally make the transition¡ª laid upon the examination table, submerged deep in meditation. The Original did the sensible thing: carefully placed the dog on the floor, joined his left arms back into one, and then used said strong arm to sweep the Doctor off the table, making him slump on the floor, the back resting against one of the table¡¯s rectangular legs, his body bent at the waist, rear pointing blasphemously at the absence of heaven, and his feet gracefully cascading to the sides of his head.

    It must be said, Dirofil was pretty impressed by the Splinter¡¯s talent to maintain meditation when subjected to a mildly hostile treatment. Curiosity jabbed him with a long claw, seeding in his mind the idea to test Doratev¡¯s limits. Naturally, he soon shook off the vile thoughts. Need to antagonize the good doctor there was none. He had taught him, answered the questions the recordings weren¡¯t able to. And had done so with magnanimous patience!

    Every question he had asked his Splinter across tides past came back to him. Every little inquiry answered, every tiny doubt dispelled. Doratev had been excellent to him.

    And so had he been to Parvov. To the Parvov of the world, the one long thoughtless, and to the Parvov of the fiction, that he himself had murdered a while ago, resuscitating the Morbilliv he had thought as lost as Parvov now was. How curious was grief, that hit harder when hope had been allowed to blossom before its strike. It was not that he loved Parvov more than he loved Morbilliv ¡ªIf anyone asked, his feelings for his brothers couldn¡¯t be compared, despite being described by the very same word¡ª but that the Parvov that had fished him from the sea, at whose feet he had knelt and professed how deeply he valued his family had been¡­ retconned. From the very moment he had awaken and until the conclusion of their chase outside the ship, the image of a slightly weird and pain-twisted Parvov had to be definitively, irrevocably replaced by that of Morbilliv puppeteering a body that didn¡¯t belong to him, and trying to make it look like he was the real thing. How curious was grief, that recovering someone thought gone couldn¡¯t counteract the pain of a loss that, at a glance, seemed equivalent.

    He dragged the metallic cube he used as a stool during classes and sat in front of the cadaver that sprawled on the floor. ¡°I envy you.¡± He told the dead dog. ¡°Have you ever known grief, creature? Were you aware of loss?¡± He caressed the short green fur, finding it soft and warm, despite the corpse¡¯s natural cold. ¡°Your kind is the damnation of mine, my erstwhile enemy. I killed you before you killed me, that simple is our bond. I wonder if the creators knew we would be pitted against each other. If the pain I feel and the pain I inflict have been preordained. Or if ¡ªand I like to think this¡ªIt¡¯s my refusal to accept the end that led to yours. Maybe it¡¯s your kind that¡¯s in the right. Maybe the world belongs to the dogs now, and we Thinkers are rebelling against the rightful order of affairs.¡± He pulled his hand back and held the dead stare of the pooch, whose wounded tongue dangled out of his open mouth. ¡°This cannot be a healthy way to cope.¡± His gaze drifted back to the sleeping Doratev. The Doctor remained imperturbable, admirably so. Right, there was a reason why he had thrown the good Splinter off his bed. A good one.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    He lifted the dead Basenji onto the examination table, and then gave an unceremonious kick to The Doctor, to see if the ¡­picturesque individual would come back to the world of the conscious.

    Doratev opened his eyes when he felt the intrusion of Dirofil¡¯s talons into his flesh, penetrating the mucilage on his back, barely missing his newly crafted spine. ¡°Ah, if it isn¡¯t my favorite non-optical pupil.¡±

    ¡°Brought you a gift. Help me figure out how to assimilate the sound weapon of a Yodeler and whatever remains is all yours to do as you see fit,¡± Dirofil explained, resolving not to offer a hand to help Doratev stand, out of respect for someone trying out a new body.

    The Doctor came to his feet with a maladroit act of contortion. If something had to break, it was better for it to break sooner rather than later. He plunged a clawed hand into the blob of his own head to fish out one of the eyes and adjust it so it looked forward. This one had a slit pupil, compared to the round one of the Dirofil models.

    ¡°You fashioned yourself an eye after Lyssav¡¯s?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Both she and her Splinters have a visual advantage in dark environments. She even has a reflective surface inside her eyeballs, analogous to a tapetum lucidum. I tried to add an actual tapetum lucidum to my eye once, but Thinker and dog parts don¡¯t mix¡­¡± The doctor then made a silence and scratched the place where a chin would be in a man or woman. He was considering Dirofil¡¯s¡­ talent. ¡°Well, normally don¡¯t mix. Whatever your core does to them, I have no idea how to replicate it. Ah, but who¡¯d be better than The Fourth Imagined and his fine-tuned control of his form at proving my preconceptions erroneous!¡±

    ¡°Leptos has a better control of his body,¡± Dirofil immediately countered, feeling a pang of jealousy towards his imprisoned brother.

    ¡°That¡¯s not what Parvov told me. He said Shadiran and you flowed like water into each other, melted your forms together to play over the spheres as your bones intermingled and your thoughtcrystals danced in a deformed parody of your figures. What he told me Leptos has, is a nigh-perfect control of his soul that lets him detach himself from his body completely, ignore it as it didn¡¯t exist. And it rings true in his Splinters: that¡¯s why they are such good legsteerers.¡±

    ¡°Parvov was never good at lying about these things. But I still feel incredible pain at trying to assimilate parts from Splinters of Lyssav. I get reduced to a primal state where I cannot command my own parts as easily. I discovered it in Babesi¡¯s cave.¡±

    The Doctor¡¯s eyes opened wide and he joined his hands as if in prayer. ¡°Babesi lives? No!¡±

    He jumped onto Dirofil and took him from the shoulders, the height difference between original and Splinter less than a head. ¡°Please don¡¯t tell the Captain!¡±

    ¡°Already did. What¡¯s your problem with my sister?¡± Dirofil asked calmly. The Doctor¡¯s aversion for Babesi was most likely born out of interacting with her Splinters, and not because he had conspired against her. Babesi, after all, had given no clue of knowing about the Corship.

    ¡°Whenever something is stolen from this very laboratory, the culprit is, nine times out of then, one of the vermiform bitches,¡± Doratev trembled with emotion as he spoke. Dirofil could almost swear that the Splinter would invent a puggum-loaded gun just to use his own head as a practice target, if only that would achieve a suicide instead of an annoying splatter of slime all over the laboratory that the head-blown doctor would then have to retrieve. ¡°Some Splinters of Lyssav and Parvov have a penchant for backstabbing, but they are not nearly as annoying as the randomized bullshit Splinters of Babesi have pulled off on me. They are a serious threat to the ship¡¯s survival.¡±

    Dirofil snorted and dismissed the Doctor¡¯s worries with a light, playful shove. ¡°You are one for exaggeration. Come, help me with this and I can aid in the survival of the ship by straight out murdering whatever threatens it.¡±

    ¡°Including the Avatar of Arson?¡± The Doctor said, its tone letting Dirofil know he wasn¡¯t referring to a mutated dog.

    ¡°I¡¯d let Babesi light me on fire before even thinking of threatening her, so no.¡± Dirofil jabbed towards the body with his not-chin. ¡°Help me with this.¡±

    ¡°You know, I was very enthusiastic about adding a self-destruct mechanism to the ship, but the Captain reminded me Splinters of Babesi were a thing, and since that day I cannot fully indulge in my creative side¡­¡± The Doctor continued ranting as he went around the table to admire the specimen.

    ¡°Focus, Doratev, you are acting like Babesi!¡±

    The Doctor stiffened his arms, straightened the neck of his coat of metal flakes and readjusted his wandering Lyssav-like eye. ¡°I have heard few things capable of offending me in my life, and this one tops the list.¡± But seemingly his offense was short lived, as soon he lifted his weight as he leaned over the table, examining the dead dog. ¡°I have no idea if the magic they use is in the body, or if, like us, it resides in a sort of impermanent soul. Taking the respiratory system from the larynx down seems like the safest bet, if it resides in the body.¡±

    ¡°Well, thanks. Want to open the body and extract those to make sure I don¡¯t destroy your precious study material during the process of assimilation?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Doratev nodded pensively.¡± But I will for the sake of knowledge.¡±

    Dirofil hitched up his spiny cape and let his arse fall onto the cube-shaped seat. ¡°I¡¯ll meditate in the meanwhile. Wake me up when you are done.¡±

 Chapter 20: To Breathe

    ¡°¡®Doratev, my esteemed, I seem to have misplaced my sense of humor today. Would you happen to be suffering a similar ill, and misplace some of that pug-related liquid you are investigating?¡¯

    ¡®I think I had a bit more puggum yesterday, sir Parvov. I assume it may have evaporated. Any particular reason for your question?¡¯

    ¡®Nothing , really. It¡¯s just that¡­ there¡¯s a burning sheepdog running about the upper deck and Galara rides on it!¡¯¡±

    ¡ªParvov and Doratev, having a little chitchat while a Splinter of Babesi improvised a hellhound.

    Few where the royals that had been awoken by means of receiving a slap dished out with a pair of Basenji lungs, and Dirofil was fortunate enough to be granted acceptance into such a select group by Doratev¡¯s hand.

    The offending party was readying a second slap when Dirofil foiled his attempt with a quick grasp on the Splinter¡¯s arm.

    ¡°I see you are awake, Fourth Imagined. I finished extracting the respiratory system.¡± He proudly exhibited the bloodied lungs, trachea and voice box of the dog, raising it high with his right hand, as if he had finally fished it out after hours of struggle against rod, line and treacherous waves.

    ¡°I can see you did. Don¡¯t hesitate to ask me for a favor in the near future.¡±

    Doratev entrusted the lungs to the Fourth imagined without showing major care for the delicate tissues. ¡°What about the distant future, Fourth Imagined?¡±

    ¡°If I succeed, there won¡¯t be a distant future, Doratev,¡± his voice trembled with emotion, betraying his eager desire for a new world.

    ¡°In the world of the creators, such statement would have been met with scorn, I believe. Parvov wanted us all to live together forever, if we were meant to live; or to die together, if to die was to be our unavoidable fate.¡±

    ¡°Past tense,¡± Dirofil simply said, holding the lungs aloft against the light as they dripped blood. ¡°You addressed Parvov in past tense.¡±

    ¡°Well, I cannot know his mind in the present tense, just the thoughts he expressed in the past,¡± the Doctor answered quickly.

    Dirofil thought that he had the excuse ready to go in case someone ever noticed one of his slips. ¡°Fine. Get out.¡± Dirofil signaled at the door. ¡°I want to absorb this mess.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d like to observe the process. Document it.¡±

    ¡°No. Either you get out or I look for an empty room. This isn¡¯t mere Chihuahua teeth. I am afraid these could blow up and harm your new body.¡±

    Doratev shuffled his feet outside his laboratory while grunting. ¡°Break anything and, I swear, you will rebuild it!¡± He warned, shaking his fist with excessive drama before disappearing down the corridor.

    Once the amusing investigator was gone, Diorilf stashed himself on the emptiest corned of the laboratory, and held the lungs at eye level. He gawked into them, at the patterns the vessels formed on the outside, and pictured the white hues of his spirit running through them, only to be expired through the alveoli.

    He knew about them, the alveoli. And he knew about the faveolate lungs of reptiles, the long ones of snakes. He knew about the simple lungs of the amphibians and the fish. But nobody knew about lungs for a Thinker. None of his siblings, nor Shadiran¡¯s, had ever taken a breath.

    But he would. Not to take it from the dogs. Not to merely triumph over a sea that promised destruction. Not even for the power that he so desperately needed. He would take a breath because maybe, just maybe, it was worth to do so. To bask in the glory of having air, stale or delightfully fragrant, soothing or noxious, freezing or searing, flowing into one¡¯s self. To be so intimately entangled into the fabric of nature. To have a taste of the creators¡¯ life, something that they themselves had never done. The makers had gifted the Thinkers with the divine revelation that there were no children of the gods walking about them. That they had been created in spite of the image of the gods, whatever it may have been. That no afterlife awaited them beyond the veil¡ª or rather, that the very concept of the veil was erroneous. Children of a mind, a Thinker was no more than the flimsy ideas that powered them, and forgotten ideas go to no heaven nor hell. And if death would come, by his obsessive hand or by another¡¯s gaping maw, why not steal a breath from the world while he could?If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    With this in mind he pressed the bloody organs against his own chest, and the slime changed shape to receive them. They entered by the left side and spun around Dirofils core like a snake jealously defending a melon. Pale fire lapped at the lungs and trachea, turned the flesh and cartilage to a bastard material that wasn¡¯t neither biological nor mineral, and coiled the shriveled structure around Dirofil¡¯s spine, at the height of the clavicles, right over the core. Then, part of the slime opened on the back of his chest, creating a slim tube that would allow air to flow freely into the hoarding dragon that had made its lair at the base of Dirofil¡¯s neck.

    And that¡¯s how it happened. A Thinker took a single breath, and the stale air of the ship saluted its new tyrant. The lungs inflated ever so slightly, struggling against their own flexibility as the slime clumsily tried to expand them. A feeble breath, a pathetic breath it was, but how exhilarating it was to take it!

    An exhalation, and Dirofil tumbled to the floor, landing upon his hands, a low cackle coming from his voicebox. Nobody had told him breathing would be so hard, or so empowering. Nobody could. Sitting up and straightening his back he began to move the vocal cords of the dog without passing air through them. Gurgles emerged from the borrowed throat as he involved his slime into the task.

    Serendipity. It was hard to pull from the lung¡¯s walls to expand them, yes. But he needed not the respiratory epithelium inside to remain functional. The limitations of those that had developed pumps in their mouths and chests to aid ventilation were no matter of concern for him.

    Intrusive slime gathered in the lungs, and it smeared itself over the walls, forming a strong net under the control of Dirofil¡¯s will. A net that would push from the inside, not needing a grip to do its job.

    And so, the second breath taken by a thinker began, and it didn¡¯t sputter off like the first. This one came out in a howl, and the sound coalesced behind Dirofil, made him feel another back sitting against his. There, barely visible due to how it distorted the air, sat his clone, holding the very position in which he had let the yodel erupt from the back of his neck.

    The clone dispersed whilst Dirofil circled it, examining the frozen figure from every angle.

    And something did blow up. Outwards boomed the kingly laugh of the Fourth Imagined. His was the power of the Yodeler, and now all that was left was to learn how to use it.

    He had decided to give Morbilliv no notice of his little escapade. No words were uttered when he passed in front of Dalvari and Tuldrum, more out of hurry and eagerness than out of disrespect. He left the ship behind with a long jump, aiming for the nearest tail that wagged out of the Bernese structure. He swung on the underside of a ramp, ascending in a race against the incessant march of the Corship. A blink of the Reaper¡¯s eye revealed the soul society inside the ship, and his brother¡¯s soul shone bright at the bridge. He let a howl rip out from his new toy, and crawled across the wall of Berneses like a gecko aiming for a moth. Leaping off the wall with no regards for the dogs his legs pressed against, he threw himself onto the ship¡¯s roof.

    Morbilliv sat onto the floor of the bridge, looking out the One Eye of the Corship. Parvov¡¯s eyes, and also the one from Leptos, lidded in Parvov¡¯s face, and for a moment he felt he was channeling the frustration of his brother. The legsteerers had sent notice of something latching onto one of the forelegs, and doing so furtively, avoiding the end of the mentioned appendages. Now he saw the problem clearly, and the problem was his brother.

    ¡°This idiot will get himself killed,¡± Morbilliv lamented, and then peered over Parvov¡¯s shoulder at Filbaros, the Splinter of Parvov.

    He beckoned for him with a waving of two fingers. ¡°Tell me, Filbaros: is it normal for one of ours to leave barely visible afterimages and howl while practicing gymnastics on the Ship¡¯s legs?¡±

    ¡°No, sir, I don¡¯t think so.¡±

    Then, a miscalculation on the heartworm¡¯s part made him cast a sound clone on top of another, gifting the captain and crewmate with a show of fireworks that splattered a twitching Dirofil against the thick and convex window, like a mosquito getting unfortunately intimate with a windshield.

    Morbilliv found himself thinking how useful it would be to have a nose bridge to pinch in those moments, but he settled for fiddling with the tip of his horn. ¡°Does your team detect anything worrysome, Filbaros?¡±

    ¡°No, sir, but Dirofil¡¯s antics have been reported as distracting.¡±

    But the Captain simply regarded the window in front of him. ¡°Do you think we can get Doratev to fabricate some wipers?¡± he said, as Dirofil scratched and scratched to clamber up the window.

    ¡°Humor won¡¯t help the crew overcome the problems Dirofil may cause, doltish tyrant.¡±

    This prompted a proud laughter from Morbilliv. The little Splinter sometimes felt like a reincarnation of Parvi. ¡°But the powers he¡¯s learning to harness¡ª¡± Another explosion, this time sending Dirofil flying into the dark. ¡°He should be learning to harness could aid us, Filbaros, as long as he fights by our side. Where we see a parade of curses and enemies, he sees an arsenal.¡± A third explosion, followed by the unmistakable sound of something hitting the ship¡¯s hull. ¡°That¡¯s it! I am fetching him!¡±

 Chapter 21: Runila, Splinter of Mardhaka.

    ¡°Why create a new world when you could serve me, Fourth Imagined?  Be the second in command for once in your life, my dear. I¡¯ll even spare that motley crew of Splinters, leave the big poodle alone. I have absolved rabies, dear, so please consider it carefully before declaring war to your beloved brother.¡±

    ¡ªDesmodus

    Glorious were the colors of dusk as they cornered the receding chasm of Lyssav¡¯s pupil. Her gaze was once more fixed on one of the little vials, as every other time she had stirred awake. Her bloody mass twitched, the reddish gelatin of her being bulging chaotically over her metallic bones.  She wanted them to be a memory, the vials, an illusion, a reflection of a fear so entwined with her constant pain, and, hopefully, just as mute. For Lyssav had never known relief from said pain: To exist and to ache were to her just synonyms, with no discernible differences nor any further implications. The only reasons why she knew there was another normality was due to the complaints about pain she had heard from her siblings, and the knowledge etched in the memories inherited from the creators.

    A life without dolour, however, was not counted among her deepest desires. At most she had entertained the idea a couple times, ruminated on it to pass the time. How could she wish freedom from something that had begun to exist the moment she had, and accompanied her since then? There wasn¡¯t a world without pain for Lyssav.  There ought not to be, for it was just part of her. Not negative, not positive. Her siblings thought, loved, or simply played. Lyssav hurt, and that was fine, that was how it had to be. It didn¡¯t bother her any more than Babesi was bothered by her particular mind or Dirofil by his feelings for Shadiran.

    It was in a sudden bout of clarity of mind that she listened once more to what her spire was saying. Someone ascended the winding stairs towards her little comfy bridewell. Not a sibling, but a Splinter. Not a splinter of a sibling, either.  A thief coming from her parts, maybe? What for? A Splinter of the Thinkers at the Edge surely wouldn¡¯t stoop that low.

    Feathers; metallic feathers, the spire said. A Splinter of Mardhaka. Mardhaka, third oldest of the seven siblings. Named by the creators¡ªas they all were¡ªafter one of the last dragons of their world, known for her extravagant love of birds.

    She couldn¡¯t have stayed on this side of the sea after it closed, could she? That sick and fanatic sycophant of the bat. Was she coming for revenge? For a small favor? Or to bow and serve?  Lyssav hoped it was the first, maybe the second option. Never the third, as some minions were perfect punishments for their masters.

    ¡°Lissav, are you awake, Lady Lissav?¡± The nerve-wrecking voice of the Splinter reached Lyssav¡¯s ears, and she smiled at the prospect of subjecting Parvov to such aural torture. It was definitively her. Runila.

    ¡°Why do you come disturb my agony?¡± she demanded, her claws digging into the fabric of her throne.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    The darkness of the portal across the room got tainted by the light of a core, and a lithe silhouette accompanied it. She donned a skirt of metal remiges, had an androgynous face molded upon the blue mask that conformed her visage, and her turquoise slime flowed around a headdress fabricated out of silver rectrices.  And despite the delicate chains and vials obfuscating most of these details, her image was imprinted onto Lyssav¡¯s mind.

    ¡°I live to serve Desmodus, and given you, lady, devoured him, I live to serve you.¡± Forwarding a hand, she took a knee to the floor, and after a few seconds reached to inspect one of the chains. ¡°What sort of decoration is this, my Lady?¡±

    ¡°Curtains that Parvov, in his infinite kindness, gifted me. Avoid touching them. They are delicate.¡± She couldn¡¯t show she was afraid in front of her despised underling. And she couldn¡¯t get Runila to remove the chains, as that would be an act of cowardice. ¡°Runila, my esteemed, I have got an idea. If you so wish to serve me, why don¡¯t you pay Parvov a visit and sing for him? A song of your heart, a song that expresses my gratitude for such wondrous gift.¡±

    ¡°Parvov is not in his spire. I passed by it on my way here and the spire laments so.¡±

    Lyssav leaned against the back of her throne, her fifth hand scratching the teeth that extended beyond her jaw and embedded in her flesh. One of her free hands slowly advanced, a clawed finger raised as she tried to break through the resistance her own dread offered. ¡°Maybe he¡¯s paying a visit to old Leptos. Could you be a darling and check his spire for me? We, me and whatever remains of our beloved Desmodus, have thoughts to think.¡± The second Envisioned picked up her ears then, trying to make out what her own spire was whispering. ¡°Forget about what I said. It seems long has Parvov¡¯s spire suffered his absence. Dirofil¡¯s must have fallen by now. That means Leptos and I are alone. Pay him a visit in my stead, and pray tell my brother to come and visit me before this place gets swallowed by the sea. I get quite bored in here since my sister disappeared.¡±

    ¡°As you wish, Lady Lyssav,¡± With another curtsy, Runila retraced her steps, down the spiral staircase.

    As the clacking of her steps became distant Lyssav jerked her hand back. Drawing so close to the chains and vials felt atrocious. If a hell would be possible, she thought, it would be flooded. Water all over. An ocean of the creators, compared to an ocean of the created. A hell for her, but not for the others, that wouldn¡¯t mind. A hell for Parvov would be an all-encompassing discordant orchestra whose performance qualifies as everlasting. Dirofil¡¯s hell would be... perhaps the absence of Shadiran. Morbilliv¡¯s hell she had no idea about, and Babesi¡¯s would be any task that demanded an attention span longer than a third of a minute. That left Leptos, about whose fears she didn¡¯t want to think, or even know. Idols were to be put on a pedestal, not torn down by the degrading details of reality.

    Her spire informed her of Runila¡¯s departure, and she embraced a welcome relief. In solitude she could fear. In solitude she could squirm and hiss and stare without blinking at a single vial. There was no one to judge but her spire, and soon she would fall like all the others. ¡°I¡¯ll miss you, my confidant. The whole world will miss you.¡±

    And so she settled in silence, closing the eyes where sunset was held prisoner. She would meditate and gather power for the day the sea came for her, or for the day she felt ready to hunt after said sea. At least, until Leptos came. Leptos, the only one before whom she could reduce herself to a scared little thing. The only one she could ask to remove the chains that held her back. He would understand, he would lecture her on how fearing water was nonsensical. And she would bob her head and agree. And he would take the vile tendrils away, maybe even resolving to scold Parvov for it. And once again she would nod and agree and say yes to everything and be just good. Because if might made right, Leptos had not a wrong particle in his body.

 Chapter 22: Load Bearing

    ¡°The third of the original siblings that live in the palaces at the edge will be called Mardhaka, like the daughter of Cirruin¡ªthe old dragon named in the autobiography of the one that came to be known as Terus the Dreamed. With the death of her father arrived the end of Terus, and therefore of the historical and ideal show of flowers one could see raining over the ruins of Zenvo. I believe such tragedy deserves an homage.¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoiesis, page 6.

    At the cargo bay the Miners lined up in two rows, one staring at the other, with enough space for the captain, that to them was Parvov, to pace in front of them, appraising his crew.

    ¡°Listen here everybody, I want no dilly-dallying today. No silly antics, nobody¡­ Channeling Babesi.¡± His eyes met Dirofil¡¯s ostensibly innocent stare. ¡°Mining rare dogs is paramount to our survival in the long term. Most of the crew accrues less energy than they spend on daily task. This cannot continue. We that get to exit the ship are the exception¡ª specially we originals, as our cores have levels of maturation that those of most Splinters couldn¡¯t dream to ever reach.¡±

    ¡°We know, sir. No need to drill it in.¡± Tuldrum protested.

    ¡°I am asking you lot to come with my brother and I in a suicide mission, Tuldrum. You need to have what¡¯s at stake in mind to make a sound decision.¡±

    ¡°Sir, we are miners,¡± Dalvari reminded him.

    ¡°I know you are used to going out and risking your lives. But I want no more loses among the crew¡­ or the crew¡¯s joker.¡±

    Dirofil raised a hand, proudly. ¡°I¡¯ll assume that¡¯s me.¡±

    ¡°Yes. Where¡¯s the Reaper, Dirofil?¡±

    ¡°The one I keep track of is far enough. It could take it maybe an hour to reach us, judging by its general cruising speed.¡±

    Morbilliv nodded begrudgingly. ¡°You are allowed to make a minimal use of the eye, then. Minimal, Dirofil.¡±

    ¡°I can also explode at will,¡± The Fourth Imagined added helpfully.

    Morbilliv wished to loan his brother¡¯s new toys just to sigh. The worst part about Dirofil knowing he wasn¡¯t Parvov was that he would mock him relentlessly. The Splinters wouldn¡¯t know, but Dirofil would have respected Parvov a teeny bit more. His was this parasitic idea that the elder deserved more respect than the younger, similar to Lyssav¡¯s thinking in a way, but far more benevolent. Lyssav respected power and power only. It was just the fact that the older they were, the more powerful they became that caused a convergence in Dirofil¡¯s and Lyssav¡¯s regards for their siblings.  They both also shared a soft spot for Babesi, but that was a common trait among them. The little feeble sister had no enemies, no quarrels, no big ambitions.  She was innocent and pure for Dirofil, and harmless for Lyssav. To him, she was just Babesi, for whom he would do what Parvov had done for him.

    He eyed Dirofil from head to talon and wondered if he would not just die, but detonate his own soul for the Fourth Imagined. Of course he would. No because Dirofil deserved it ¡ªand he did, despite treating him as a brat¡ª but because he himself couldn¡¯t handle to grieve for two siblings he failed to save.

    ¡°Before we part, any questions?¡± he finally asked, hearing the slight drumming of a Splinter¡¯s fingers over the roof of a cage.

    Dirofil raised his hand.

    ¡°Yes, about the lower deck, one of the walls¡­¡± Dirofil began, and Morbilliv immediately knew what he would ask.

    ¡°She¡¯s load-bearing when the ship goes supine. She¡¯s already abominable. Corgis abominate to become clusters of Corgis, with a variable number of Corgis contained in them. She¡¯s a One-Corgi-Cluster. Does all answer the family of questions you may have related to Loretta? And yes, we named her Loretta.¡±

    ¡°You have a sheepdog sticking out a wall and my questions about it are the concern?¡±

    The heavy hand of a Splinter of Morbilliv found Dirofil¡¯s caped shoulder. ¡°Pal, you gotta admit that there¡¯s nothing weird about it. We are in a ship made out of refined dogs, inside a sea made out of unrefined dogs. A wall of corgite is nothing compared to the weight of their peers in nature.¡±

    The Splinter at the other side of Dirofil decided to speak too. ¡°Yah, and she also excels at bearing the weight of what we do to her peers. She¡¯s the soul of the ship.¡±

    ¡°Thanks. I am letting you two die first,¡± Dirofil said, silencing the room as the Splinters shuffled their feet in place and Morbilliv grabbed his own face with one ten-fingered hand.

    <hr>

    The panting of the Bernese dogs cocooned them as they climbed towards the Mauling layer, the group tightly packed, Dirofil trailblazing, his core a guiding light in the murk.  Morbilliv followed, tendrils of soul already extended: they were useful to climb, to recover stray mining materials, and, goes without saying, to murder their enemies.

    Dirofil scanned the dribbling horizon above with the eye of the Reaper. After a long dozen of minutes of searching, something was coming.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    And that something was confusing for him.

    ¡°I see a¡­ gossamer coming. A cobweb of sorts. Over there.¡± He signaled to his left with an extended arm.

    Morbilliv embraced the relief resulting from the threat being far enough from the Corship, but not the uncertainty that came with it. ¡°Could you be more specific.¡±

    ¡°Well, it would have to be some sort of tarantula with gigantism grown in an atmosphere rife with oxygen to weave webs this big. It could wrap the Corship whole. And it¡¯s made of dog.¡±

    ¡°Breeds, Dirofil!¡± Morbilliv shook his brother, looking at him in the eyes.

    Dirofil simply shook his head. ¡°Dog. And I am sure of that only because no other animals can be found in our world. If it helps, it¡¯s a three-dimensional entanglement, compared to a silk net.¡±

    ¡°An unknown, boss?¡± asked Tuldrum, never letting the Mauling layer go unwatched.

    With gravity, Morbilliv nodded, two huge horns moving in opposite directions. ¡°Return to the ship, everybody. Luck is not on our side. I will stay with Dirofil and gather information on this new threat.¡±

    ¡°The ship is too far,¡± pointed out Dalvari.

    ¡°Yes, and it¡¯s too dark¡­¡± another miner added, despite the lights of the Corship being clearly visible in the distance.

    ¡°And we have a duty to fulfill!¡± Tuldrum declared, his voice unwavering as he pumped the olive plates of his chest.

    Morbilliv closed his eyes, counted to three, and didn¡¯t feel the rage diminish. ¡°We won¡¯t be able to protect you if things get ugly. Doratev knows enough to run the Corship in Parvov¡¯s absence. I would know.¡±

    ¡°Why do you refer to yourself in third person, sir Parvov?¡±

    ¡°Because my brother is an idiot and I may die today. I am living on loaned time, My dear Splinters.¡± Morbilliv changed his tone. Tendrils of soul extending from every joint of his metallic skeleton.

    ¡°He mastered our original¡¯s technique!¡± said Tuldrum.

    ¡°Of course I did. This is my talent. I am Morbilliv, Battle Incarnate,¡± he said without looking back, climbing a staircase made out of luminous fibers of his own being as he approached his bouncy brother, who was trying to get a closer look at the incoming menace. ¡°Parvov gave his life, gifted me his body so I could survive. The least I can do to honor this gift is to save Dirofil from his own hubris.¡± The Splinters perked up immediately. ¡°You are shaped after me! Honor my form, warriors. Parvov may have ruled with an iron fist, threatened you relentlessly while rarely enacting a punishment. But disobey, and I will use an iron maiden.¡± The original flared the white light of his soul and the closest miner took a step back before saluting and skedaddling.  ¡°And tell no one of this truth, miners! In time, they will know by my voicebox.¡±

    Once the Splinters were far enough Dirofil applauded absentmindedly, his gaze fixated on the ceiling of dogs. ¡°Absolutely beautiful display of your public shaming skills.¡± It was coming. Cutting through the Mauling layer at a vertiginous speed. Kilometers and kilometers of dog-based threads. ¡°Yes, I think we should return to the ship,¡± Dirofil shot a concerned glare to his brother and after several moments of tension they both rushed straight for the ship, following the steps of the Miners, Dirofil on all five, and Morbilliv using the tendrils of his body to pull savagely from the Berneses, dislodging them from the lattice¡¯s structure as he grabbed onto another, letting countless dog fall into the darkness, towards the collie layer.

    It broke through the layer with a hum, and flooded the sea with sky-blue light. Countless solid beams and playful curls of hairy glitter, an orgy of heavenly snakes raining over the world with the delicacy of falling feathers.  The siblings were far from the epicenter of the collapse, but as more and more of the creature got revealed, the closer to being in collision course they found themselves.

    ¡°It¡¯s shaped like a sphere or a lens, I think!¡± Dirofil informed, his voice unaffected by the exertion of his body, by the ceaseless pumping of his legs and arms.

    Morbilliv forwent a reply, extending his tendrils further, accelerating his rush towards the Corship. Dirofil lagged behind, turning every few dozens of steps to check on the falling lattice, on how it passed though the Bernese constructs like ghostly blades, never damaging the structures, but neither being impeded by columns and beams as it descended in its slanted route towards the collie layer. ¡°It¡¯s not a dachshund, what other dog could be so long?¡± Dirofil pondered, stopping to sit and watch the beautiful spectacle from the safety of having the ship a jump away.

    Morbilliv beckoned him with his palm. ¡°Come on board, don¡¯t play stupid games!¡±

    ¡°I need to learn if I want to survive once I leave the ship, Morbilliv.¡± Dirofil¡¯s eyes bid goodbye to those of his brother as he focused once more on the disastrous spectacle unfurling in front of him. ¡°Because one tide, I will, and there won¡¯t be a safe place for me to run from things like that.¡±

    Morbilliv¡¯s shoulders fell and he scratched the side of the forward-jutting horn. ¡°As you wish, brother.  I trust you to hurry to the ship if that thing draws closer. I¡¯ll tell the legsteerers to move us all further away.¡± Morbilliv placed Parvov¡¯s wide hand onto the control dome of the ramp door, and it closed between them.  In a way, he felt he was abandoning Dirofil. In another, that he was avoiding cutting his wings like Parvov had ¡ªmetaphorically¡ª cut Lyssav¡¯s.  As he lumbered back to the bridge, not bothering to hide the tentacles of light that came out of every hole of his armor and skeleton, he thought about the crew. How would they take the news of Parvov having been replaced so long ago, in front of their faces?

    When he found a school of Splinters of Parvov blocking his way in one of the intersections of corridors, he found his answer. He wiggled his fingers without raising his hands, readying his weapons to be wielded against the subversives.

    The leader of the group of misfits, that looked no different from the other five, took a step forward, facing the behemoth that wore the body of their Original. ¡°The miners told us all. We value what you have done for our Original¡¯s dream, boss. However, we have decided we will not work this tide. We wish to arrange a funeral, if you would be so kind to allot us the free time to do so. We will use meager amounts of energy on it.¡±

    Morbilliv¡¯s expression went immediately soft, and he recalled his weapons into his body.  He rolled his shoulders, once, then twice.¡°No. You won¡¯t arrange a funeral.¡±

    The leader of the Splinters lowered his head and barked. ¡°Fine. But don¡¯t ask us for any favors.¡±

    Morbilliv leaned forward to match his height with that of the lesser copies of his brother. ¡°I will arrange a funeral. You are free to turn that to a ¡®we¡¯.¡±

    The Splinters immediately parted and one even knelt. ¡°Thank you, sir Morbilliv. We understand your reasons.¡±

    ¡°No, thank you all. Now, we need to relocate the ship, as danger has drawn near. I will go meditate, while I am absent, your concerns should be taken to Dirofil or, if he takes too long to come back, Doratev.¡± He then cracked his knuckles. ¡°As a little aside: which of the miners told you?¡±

    ¡°My voicebox is locked, and so shall be theirs,¡± said Filbaros, stepping between his equal and the captain.

    Morbilliv flicked the Splinter¡¯s right horn. ¡°That¡¯s how I like you. Honor Parvov. Let him live through you.¡±

    And nobody was happy, and nobody was calm, yet Morbilliv felt his shoulders grow lighter: grief shared may not be grief divided, but grief hidden ¡ªgrief misaimed¡ª is, as sure as the heat of fire, grief magnified.

 Chapter 23: Husk

    ¡°No other face but hers I could love. I told her so many times. If she wishes to include an homage to our love in the new world, she will have to honor this facet of mine, too.¡±

    ¡ªTidbits of Our Creation, page 5.

    Baubles, ancient and gold-threaded, hung from the ceiling of a palace as old as the world itself. Said world lay beyond windows with crystals of many colors, parodies of amethysts, sapphires, rubies, citrines, vermatines and aquamarines. Light, lazy and as varied as the windows it had crossed, bathed the steps upon which feet with four evenly-spaced claws climbed. Black spots embedded in the slightly green, transparent flesh took in a landscape whose finale was, in her opinion, overdue. Solitary in her palace she had waited for many tides already. Now it was Vedala¡¯s stairs she was climbing, turning corners and corners on her ascent only to reach the throne room where her sister slept, in the highest tower, the one that rested directly underneath the Zenith of Concepts, and pointed at it like the merciful finger of the creators elevating from their delicate hand of blue tones, highlighting the means to change the world for a better one.

    She didn¡¯t turn to look at the eight arthropod-like legs that sprouted from Vedala¡¯s back, that allowed her to rise despite her legless waist. Yet Shadiran saw them regardless, and Vedala had both her human-like eyes and her composite ones open as she sat upon her tall throne, whose armrests had dents to accommodate the spiderine legs.

    ¡°You did not come to visit me, faceless brat?¡±

    The spots on Shadiran¡¯s flesh shifted a little, but her featureless head didn¡¯t leave its tilted-forward position. Her robe made out of metallic beads hung from her shoulders, not a single wrinkle in sight, not a single arm revealed as she stopped out of respect for Vedala.

    ¡°Dirofil hasn¡¯t come for me. My interest lies in your balcony,¡± she said, her tone tinged with sorrow.

    Vedala propped herself up on her eight legs and walked over and past Shadiran, lowering her body in front of her, head down. ¡°You think him thoughtless? Your beloved is not so flimsy, Sister.¡±

    Without turning, Shadiran walked a few steps back, and then to the side, to evade her sister and continue her march towards the balcony. ¡°If the sea were anything but ruthless, there would be no end to the torment Lyssav would enact upon us. For your collective good and my disgrace, it is.¡±

    ¡°What if Lyssav is too busy terrorizing her brothers and sister to rise and pay us a visit, Shadi? It may not be the sea that keeps your beloved and our beloathed from coming here.¡±

    ¡°Dirofil knew how to deal with his sister! But the sea¡­¡± She kept on approaching the massive, wide open doors of the balcony. ¡°He had no experience with the sea.¡±

    She came out under the warm light of the sky¡¯s core. Placed hands of long rackety fingers upon the glossy balustrade, and took in both the interior and exterior of her sister¡¯s palace with her thousand eyespots.  She considered the untarnished sky, the eternally blazing core, the grandeur of her sister¡¯s palace compared to the meager yet cozy image of hers in the distance.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    And the sea. The Retrievers.

    No.

    The dogs all. Beings of thalassogenic fame and oroclastic cruelty.   But weren¡¯t those two merits of water too? To create oceans, to shatter mountains. She didn¡¯t lean forward to get a better look at the ocean below: Shadiran enjoyed no blind spots.  The golden pups were a watercolor animation in her eyes. Fires of a hell that Dirofil had to cross to meet her. That Dirofil couldn¡¯t possibly cross.

    She could shatter the pain. Tear her core asunder and disperse in the atmosphere of a world to end, in the violet clouds above the Zenith.

    Then she did something reserved only for special occasions, and turned her body to face her worried sister, that loomed behind her. The effaced surface where a visage should have been was promptly analyzed by Vedala, and they both kept the silence for a moment.

    ¡°I won¡¯t let you jump down, Shadiran,¡± The spider-legged automaton placed a two-clawed hand on her sister¡¯s chest, over her ribbed core.

    ¡°I wonder, Vedala, how do you manage to read this wordless book. To interpret it so flawlessly.¡±

    ¡°A book I spent my whole life learning from the very first to the very last page. Was not I the first thing you saw when you began existing, sister? When your eyespots formed and took in the world so new?  Wasn¡¯t my name your second word ever, the first one that wasn¡¯t a question? I love you, Shadiran. I love every single sibling of ours. And I am fond of your beloved, too: If Dirofil thinks no more, cheer is not welcome in this palace.¡±

    Shadiran remained purposefully frozen in place, a gesture that Parvov had found disturbing, and Babesi entertaining, back in the tides before the tides.  ¡°If Dirofil thinks no more, my departure is belated. Will you euthanize me if news of his death reach us, sister?¡±

    Vedala closed her eyes and returned a pained shook of her head. ¡°I couldn¡¯t, Shadiran. I love you too much.¡±

    ¡°Or maybe you don¡¯t love me enough.¡± Shadiran put some distance between herself and her sister, striding to the other end of the balcony. ¡°I won¡¯t jump and let my core explode this tide, return to your seat of fictions,¡± she dismissed Vedala with a shooing wave of the hands.

    ¡°Think about Dirofil finally breaking through, Shadiran. Picture his trembling and mistreated hands finding your lifeless body sprawled in front of my portcullis. Imagine it is you crossing the sea, enduring whatever may lurk deep down there, only to find him thoughtless at the bottom. Not mauled by Lyssav, not savaged by a monstrosity of the depths, but killed by his incapacity to wait for you. You¡¯d think he didn¡¯t love you enough. What are you more in love with: Dirofil, or the absence of your own pain?¡± She discoursed as she slowly sauntered her way back to her throne.

    Shadiran stood in place, paralyzed, leaning against the balustrade, whose stubby tentacles of silver wrapped her fingers and licked among them tirelessly.  There she was, at the epicenter of the universe, unknowing that beyond the layers upon layers of dogs, at the other side of the Barrier of Memories, Dirofil was approaching a scared Dobermann, fixated on catching it and taking it back to the only ship traversing Cynothalassa.

    No sound left her voicebox, no whisper was born from her soul. Her core was whole, her body still stood.  But her mind was already drowning down below. There was no way for her sweet Dirofil to survive the ordeal, not if he was taking so long to reach her. Whatever hid in the sea had taken him, her love, her hope, her world. Gone were the awe at each particle that drifted by, the wonderment at the hue of the sky and the core below, the lust for the new, exciting images that the closure of the sea would bring.  Gone were her laughter, her joy, the days where she matched Babesi in energy. Gone were more things than those that remained after the departure of the object of her infatuation. Dirofil. Even thinking of his name brought pangs of anguish, let them nest in her heart.

    The only fact among this tumult of unwelcome feelings was that Shadiran, The Husk, carried on, but The Besotted was long dead.

 Chapter 24: Farewell, Parvov.

    ¡°We believe our creations deserve to know about our world. That the beauty our creator ¡ªabout whom we have but an engraved slab with the words ¡®A carving overlying the dying Carving. Orphaned, with no Father, no Mother. Clivald so decree.¡¯¡ª inherited us shouldn¡¯t be lost, but shouldn¡¯t be included either. The Thinkers won¡¯t suffer debts, they won¡¯t see dragons fly above and terrorize their peers, and, most definitively, won¡¯t attend funerals. But they will know about them, and about our fauna, and flora, and arts [¡­] but not much about us.¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoeisis, factually wrong page.

    Dirofil hauled the squirming dog all the way to the cargo bay, and tossed it into one of the cages after a Splinter deigned to open the tailgate for him. It was Lurgas, a Splinter of Parvov that often filled the role of Psycholocator, sometimes leading the team. Dirofil knew he often chatted in the way Splinters of Parvov did with Tiervol, that he considered an educated folk, and Kirval, that almost deserved to be thrown to the Chihuahuas and left for thoughtless. Almost.

    ¡°This place is silent. Too damn silent. What happened?¡±

    ¡°Funeral protocol,¡± The Splinter spouted almost automatically. ¡°Err, I mean, we are organizing a funeral. For Parvov. I was told to deal with, and I quote, ¡®your bullshit¡¯, sir.¡±

    Dirofil took a second to answer. So the Splinters knew now. The miners were vertiginously fast to spread rumors, it seemed.

    ¡°Words of Morbilliv?¡±

    The Splinter nodded subserviently. ¡°Exact words of Morbilliv.¡±

    ¡°Do you need any help?¡± Dirofil sheathed his arms inside his cape, and marched inside the entry corridor of the bay, his eyes fixed on the lines of little circular lights. ¡°Any help, at anything. Even steering a leg.¡±

    Lurgas gestured with his horns, tilting his head back. ¡°Above, in the refinery. They are making trinkets out of Chihuahuite.¡±

    Dirofil wasted no more time with questions, heading up the corridors and the perching-ball-stairs that he was coming to know as intimately as he had every nook and cranny of his late spire.

    The air in the refining room hung heavy, tyrannical. It threatened to reprimand any sudden movement, upholding the ritual atmosphere. The iron hand of Parvov, manifested from beyond the grave, likely for the last time.

    Dirofil conducted himself to the station he usually took whenever it was available, not too close to the door, but not too far. Next to Morbilliv, who was too busy using his soul to bend a glass-like lump of material to notice his brother standing nearby. A flower, Dirofil thought, he¡¯s making a flower. A flower for the dead Parvov. For Parvov, who¡¯s dead.  ¡°The loss of Parvov hurts me more than yours ever did, Morbilliv. And it¡¯s wrong, for I should love you the same.¡±

    Morbilliv didn¡¯t look away from his task. ¡°Hurts more, or hurts differently, older brother?¡± he left the chihuahuite mound over the table and turned on his stool, to face Dirofil. ¡°Parvov once broke into an ugly cry while we were alone by the bullseye of the bridge. He tortured himself for what he was subjecting Lyssav to. I asked him why he felt bad for Lyss. You know she¡¯s no saint of my devotion, and he did too. You told me you pity her. But Parvov used the word ¡®love¡¯.¡± If a pause could freeze slime, the one Morbilliv indulged in would have shattered his body. ¡°It was then when I realized that I had never entertained the idea of a world without Lyssav or Leptos, that the only reason why I wasn¡¯t ready to weep for them one day would be because there was no possible scenario, in my core, where they could be gone. I¡¯ll cry if we fail to save Lyssav. As much as I did for Parvov. But not hiding; not pretending I cry for my own death.¡±  He returned most of his attention to shaping the flower, and then let his shoulders fall a bit. ¡°What I am trying to say is that ours is a dysfunctional family, but a family all the same. And it¡¯s normal for love to be unevenly and unfairly distributed within a family.¡±

    Dirofil wanted to protest to say that he had used the word ¡°wrong¡±, and not abnormal, deviate, rare, or any synonym thereof.  ¡°Normal doesn¡¯t make right. What¡¯s the thing you are making for?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll cast it out the cargo bay and let it shatter against the first dog it hits after the funeral ends. Until then, I have to hold it. Feel free to ask a Splinter for some Chihuahuite to make a funeral offering. We have an excess of it.¡±

    ¡°I brought a Doberman,¡± Dirofil helpfully informed, just to change subject. His claws found his hipbone to scratch it, under the cape.

    ¡°It can wait. Abomination knows better than to deny us time for our mourning.¡±

    If bioluminescent algae, with their hues of blue and green and red, were to gather in a circle around the only lighthouse in existence, the image would somewhat resemble the scene taking place on the upper hull of the Corship.  Exposing their cores to the peering eyes of the ocean, the Splinters flowed around Parvov¡¯s body, around Morbilliv. Many of them had crafted humble ornaments out of different dog-based materials: improvised garlands, little replicas of Parvov¡¯s skull, wristbands of colorful beads, and other small trinkets. Wasteful trinkets, a part of Morbilliv told him. But Parvov deserved them. He deserved so much more than that.

    The soul-waves of the Psycholocators washed over Dirofil as he kept his mechanical eyes focused on the darkness around. He couldn¡¯t open the eye of the Reaper: the monster was too close, such that it could reach them in a matter of minutes if it launched full-throttle on their pursuit. Yet the gross share of fear didn¡¯t come from the prospect of oblivion with eyes of blue, but from the quiet and unknown veil that surrounded them. To see something staring back would be mercy, relief from the constant skulking of the unformed nightmares.

    The soft beating of millions of hearts and the pumping of twice that amount of lungs was constantly picked up by P-model ears whenever the dogs stopped their panting and whining. A maddening chaos, insulting for its uselessness: had those hearts beaten in a discernable pattern, had the dogs been coordinated somehow, a change of rhythm could have served as a signal of nearby stressors, of anything that bothered the Bernese mountain dogs.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    But the hostility of Cynothalassa, sea of dogs, respected no boundaries. It wouldn¡¯t let them mourn in peace, be it by throwing mutant dogs at them or merely by standing as this noxious presence, this omnipresent manifestation of a deepest paranoia that it had become for everyone present.

    One by one the Splinters stepped up to Morbilliv and gifted to Parvov their trinkets, not without checking their backs, or glancing above before doing so. They honored their former captain, hung the garlands and wrist bands from the fore and backhorns, making Morbilliv grunt from the added weight as more and more accumulated, or left flowers and skull replicas and things that in their minds had a shape no one else could determine at the feet of the Original who wore his brother¡¯s body. And Dirofil remained apart, watching. Worrying.

    Parvov had died out there, there was no practical use for this custom. Or, at least, not for him, for the Fourth Imagined. The Third Dreamt dreamed no more.  There was no location, ritual, spell or lie that could restitute what had been lost. Not a single thought would ever again be birthed forth by the rightful captain of the Corship. Morbilliv could do his best to puppeteer the body, to pantomime their deceased rascal. And it wouldn¡¯t be enough.  Yet he wouldn¡¯t prevent his brother from using Parvov¡¯s body as he saw fit. After all, it would have probably pleased Parvov to let his favorite sibling live through him, listen to the things he could listen.

    Parvov had been rendered thoughtless. The idea held onto his mistreated psyche like a Lyme-infested tick to a mangy cur. It couldn¡¯t have been that long ago, for Morbilliv had been present, and that meant it was after The Fifth¡¯s spire fell. He regarded the span of his life, and let out a whimper when realizing that he had never known a world without Parvov. There had been times before Morbilliv, and times without Babesi. But Parvov had been a constant. Had been. Nevermore he would hear his mockery of his devotion to Shadiran, or look at him swinging Babesi above his head as the brat whee¡¯d happily.  Over were the discussions, the advice, the arguments.

    He had no heart, and yet there was a Parvov shaped hole in it, bleeding him out.

    ¡°From then and until we murder this world you are gone, brother,¡± he whispered and whisked his eyes to the top of his head, holding his gaze towards the mauling layer. He had to cross it, whatever it took. The apocalypse needed to conclude, the new world to come forth and erase this pain he couldn¡¯t simply rip off his back.

    His attention snapped to the ritual for a moment. Slowly but surely Parvov¡¯s body was bedecked in wasteful garnishes. Unpractical garnishes. ¡°Drop it, now,¡± he demanded. ¡°You cannot fight properly while covered in trash, Morbilliv.¡±

    Morbilliv incorporated, the Splinters around him dispersing as he sauntered over to his brother. ¡°Did you notice something, Dirofil?¡±

    ¡°No. That¡¯s the worst part.¡± An arm emerged from the cape¡¯s protection to gesture at the vastness of ocean all around. ¡°And besides, you are always scolding me for taking what you consider unnecessary risks. And here we are, clinging to the outer side of the ship, wasting chihuahuite that took energy from our cores to be refined, indulging in these self-aggrandizing practices that do us no favor.¡±

    Morbilliv raised Parvov¡¯s right horn in a disdainful expression. ¡°To help and keep us all sane in the face of loss is no favor to you, Dirofil? Or do you think that the ever-lurking disheartenment would not shatter our souls just as easily as the jaws of an aberration? We were made to perish after our spires fell. Yet stubborn and deluded here we live, honoring our names, parasites of the ocean that predated on us. To lose heart, to let grief consume us, is to die ourselves, to kill the load-bearing Corgi.¡±

    Dirofil deigned to look forward and turn his head towards his brother. ¡°Compromises have to be made. This ship is a valuable tool for my ends, and so is the crew.¡±

    ¡°Hey, we are here and can hear you two!¡± A Splinter of Dirofil protested.

    ¡°And I don¡¯t care!¡± The Original retorted, looking through his brother¡¯s midriff at the distorted image of the complaining crewmate.

    ¡°You are ruining your sibling¡¯s funeral, Dirofil.¡± Morbilliv chided, raising a hand, ready to slap his brother.

    Dirofil raised his index and shook it from side to side, the back of his right hand facing Morbilliv, the lidded doom closed for the time being.

    ¡°Open it and I shall tear you asunder, Dirofil.¡±

    ¡°Because it endangers the crew?¡± Dirofil asked in a cocky tone, ¡°Like the funeral does?¡±

    After a second or two of hesitation, Morbilliv gave up. His poise crumbled as he turned to the crew. ¡°My brother is right.¡± He rapped the Corgite hull with his heavy foot. ¡°Everyone, inside the ship, now.¡±

    With sounds of relief and cheer the Splinters slithered in avalanche, one after the other, racing on all appendages in the case of the more¡­ eager ones.  Like the waters of a turbulent river they flowed about the brothers, climbing down the ship walls to reach the nearest entrance, be it the cargo bay, the emergency exits, or the front hatch.

    After they found themselves alone, one in front of the other, arms hidden behind a back or under a cape, Morbilliv spoke. ¡°It¡¯s the war drums, right?¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡±

    ¡°The hearts. I like to think of them as the constant reverberation of an army¡¯s drums. They fill me with this pervasive unease too. They sow rage in my soul. An anxiousness that refuses to accept it isn¡¯t welcome.¡±

    Dirofil nodded slowly. ¡°I should not be bothered by the sounds of my rightful homes.¡±

    Had he had a mouth, Morbilliv would have grinned at that statement. ¡°What a squeamish worm you resulted to be.¡±

    ¡°I want to spot something in the dark. I want for the predators to look at me, to see their greedy eyes and know myself stalked.  I don¡¯t fear the Reaper anymore, brother: I can see where it is at any time just by closing my eyes. Feel its presence whenever it draws near. But the nothingness that assailed us today, this unbroken solitude? It terrifies me. Every empty spot is filled with potential attackers. Every particle of my flesh quivers at the idea of a death so silent, so invisible. An end I failed to see.¡±

    Morbilliv spread his arms, and Dirofil disembarrassed himself of his cape to embrace his brother without the teeth getting in the way. They remained like that for a moment, neverminding the annoying garlands and collars and wrists bands that hung from the captain¡¯s body without closing their eyes, pricking up their ears. Then each pushed the other apart softly, and they stared into each other¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°Will you cast the flower you were making down?¡± Dirofil asked.

    Morbilliv reached for the frail chihuahuite construct he had stashed inside the flesh of his torso, extricated it from his body, and held it at an arm¡¯s distance, grabbing it with just two fingers. Like this he walked up to the edge of the ship¡¯s hull, at the back, over the closed gate of the cargo bay. He almost didn¡¯t notice when Dirofil¡¯s hand joined him in holding the delicate trinket.

    ¡°At the count of three?¡± Dirofil said as they stared down into the endless abyss.

    And when ¡°three¡± was pronounced, they both let the flower go simultaneously, and watched it get swallowed by the darkness.

    ¡°Farewell, Parvov,¡± Dirofil whined meekly.

    ¡°Live forever, my Captain.¡± Morbilliv saluted with a sudden movement, destroying one of the ornaments that rested on his head, and acting like he had not noticed as the pieces fell to his feet.

    The distant crack of a glass rose shattering marked the end of the improvised funeral, and Dirofil couldn¡¯t help but repeat the sour phrase while they descended to reach the cargo bay¡¯s entrance. ¡°Farewell, Parvov.¡±

 Chapter 25: Tear Away Your Mask

    ¡°There¡¯s not a fiber of evil in Lyssav. She¡¯s even rather tame in her goals.  I mean, Dirofil wants to erase this reality to replace it for another, Babesi wants me to pay attention to her, Leptos refuses to pay attention to me, and Morbilliv wants to grapple big bad dogs without knowing the horrors that await out here. That, and the fact that vampire bats are not good sources of fiber.¡±

    ¡ªParvov, bothering Doratev as the latter tested a recorder.

    The spire spoke softly, and soon the occupant stirred awake. She stretched her arms and curled her nightmarish claws. Runila once more climbed the steps of her tower and prison.   Three eyes blinked, one at a time. Why was she alone? The useless thing was tasked with bringing Leptos on tow.  Had his brother decided to loll on his throne another while, and sent the Splinter back with news of soon-to-come visit? She was growing impatient, but the reasons of Leptos were not to be argued.  Lyssav clawed at her face until the claws dug down enough to touch the static fangs embedded in her red-tinged slime. Anxiety overcame her. Not anxiety to run out, but to be free to do so whenever she pleased. To know herself prisoner of Parvov felt far worse than being one.

    A little cackle gurgled from her voicebox, embedded deep inside her terrible parody of a cranium. The tangle of hemoglobin-rich-blood-colored metal held it all by thin extensions sprouting from the jaws: the eyes, the voicebox, and even its connection to the succession of thorny and twisted vertebrae. She had an idea, somewhere deep inside her core.

    The Splinter of Mardhaka stepped in with her mask held firmly in place for the last time. Her crown of feathers pricked up as she spoke. ¡°Leptos is unable to leave his throne, Lady Lyssav. His core has sewn him to his seat of power.¡±

    Behind the curtains of chains and liquid fear incarnate Lyssav repositioned, leaned forward. ¡°I see. How unfortunate for me, that I now need to visit him instead.¡±

    ¡°I beg your pardon, mistress, but there was nothing I could do to set him free. Is there anything else of use for me to do?¡±

    ¡°Yes, there may be. I have grown bored of these: I want the curtains removed. But I cannot bother doing it myself. Would you be a darling, Runila?¡±

    ¡°If you¡¯d allow me to speak with Desmodus, if just for a second, Lady Lyssav, I¡¯d lift the sea itself.¡±

    Lyssav blinked slowly, as if her tears had suddenly turned to tar. ¡°I should have expected such a petition from you. There are no words left to be parsed in the echoes of Desmodus. No suffering either. Just husks of him, and of his strife against an unrequited love. Knowing this, do you still wish to hear them?¡±

    Lyssav could barely make out Runila¡¯s outline behind the chains, but she would have needed to be blind to not notice the Splinter bowing. ¡°You don¡¯t have the slightest idea of how much I miss him. Even the dying throes of his mind would soothe my pain. Please, Lady Lyssav, channel his will out of your soul, and I shall obey.¡±

    There was a feeble weeping, but it didn¡¯t make justice to Runila¡¯s inner turmoil. Lyssav¡¯s alternociception revealed the Splinter¡¯s pain, no gram of it going unheeded. Lyssav had always come across as a dark empath to her siblings, but nothing could have been further from the truth: it wasn¡¯t the capacity to understand others without feeling pity that allowed her to mock their worries and pains. She had been blessed with the capacity to feel it, viscerally. And it was a delicate delight she wanted to consume, to make hers.

    ¡°First comes the assignment, then the payment. I am a Thinker of my word, Runila: I will let you hear the extinguished voice of your beloved once more. Their tattered soul, even. But only if you remove those ugly things and drop them in a corner. Be careful; don¡¯t break the delicate vials. They are a gift from my dear brother all the same.¡±

    Runila reached for and let one of the golden chains slide against her hand. The weight of the vials hanging from it like mature figs was palpable. Looking upwards, Runila noticed that the chains were attached to the hematite-resembling ceiling with hooks. She thought them bolted deep into the stone, but soon noticed that around their bases the tower¡¯s fabric was¡­ wrong. Recrystallized.  They had been inserted into partially molten stone, fast enough for the stone to not deform under its own weight.  ¡°The heat needed to do this¡­¡±

    ¡°Parvov, Flametamer. His control over heat and states of matter remains undisputed. Only him and Morbilliv ever managed to turn soul energy into true fire, and the Fifth¡¯s control of flames never measured up to Parvov¡¯s,¡± Lyssav informed with unusual pride. She wanted to punish Parvov, but his merits in battle were not to be understated. She envied his skill to turn his thoughts into veritable phlogiston, to melt materials with the sole infusion of his burning anima.

    Standing on her toes, with a deft flick of her wrist, Runila managed to free the first of the chains, prompting a startled hop of Lyssav on her throne.

    ¡°Careful with those!¡± she chided, barely managing to dress up her disquiet as worry about the ¡°decoration¡¯s¡± integrity.

    ¡°Yes, Lady Lyssav,¡± Runila said, feathers tilting as she carefully piled the chain and vials on the furthest corner of the chamber, by the doorway that spat out the spiral stairs.

    Lyssav¡¯s claws drummed on her armrests as she witnessed the horror of Runila¡¯s task. How careless some of her movements were! The vials trembled, the vials threatened to fall. Risk of rain of kamikaze jailers in front of her, prompted by this annoying Splinter! But this was also her chance at freedom, of casting the water aside. She had to endure this test of patience, of sanity.

    The shattering of a vial caused her abdomen to churn, her many legs to perch high on her throne, her flesh to bubble as her soul refused to let out a silent scream. So close, water had been so close.

    ¡°My bad! Pardon me, Lady!¡± Runila pleaded without stopping the unhanging and relocation of chains and little bottles

    ¡°Less talking, more toiling,¡± Lyssav barked, leaning forward against her best judgement. She hoped she knew Mardhaka and her Splinters, that there wasn¡¯t some hidden capacity to sense fear in others like she could pain.

    Minutes went by and the slit pupils quivered incessantly. One chain at a time Runila detached, one of hundreds, golden and fateful.  The light of the Splinter¡¯s core glistened off of them, reflected off the links, myriads of nefarious mirrors mocking the Second Envisioned.

    As for Runila, she thought that Lyssav was just playing with her. But she would play along with the terrible entity, for only in her flesh and soul any echoes of Desmodus remained.  Mardhaka wasn¡¯t half as powerful as Lyssav, and a Splinter wasn¡¯t half as powerful as their Original. Only through cooperation with the object of her hatred she would bask in the memory of the beloved. What a tragedy it was to be a Splinter, to be Runila. A victim of unrequited love of a victim of unrequited love. Sick was the sense of humor of the creators, she thought once and again, every single tide of wakefulness.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    One chain at a time, and soon enough a path was carved, from Lyssav to the stairs, from the throne to freedom.

    To run, it would have pleased Lyssav to run and run and jump over spheres and climb into Parvov¡¯s spire and occupy it until it fell. But she wouldn¡¯t abandon her darling, her spire, and wouldn¡¯t show cowardice in the mask of Runila.  Besides, there was this scrumptious mound of pain working in front of her. ¡°I am satisfied with your diligence. Come closer, I shall reveal Desmodus¡¯ remnants to you.¡±

    Runila left the chain she was holding neatly piled by her side and advanced with shaky knees. She wished she could close the eyes behind the glass lenses of her mask, to not look at Lyssav.  She was not only despicable: she was horrid; born from a corrupted vision, or depicted by a twisted mind. The fingers with more bones than they should have had, the metameric abdomen that reminded of a myriapod¡¯s plagued by unseen tumors. Wings resembling those of Desmodus, but with tattered membranes of ever-rotting mucilage. And the mouth. Who, or what, could conceive that mouth, that seemed woven from uncountable vessels ending in one tooth each, be them flat and blunt as the ones on the palate or base of the mouth, or sharp like those that plagued the borders? And from these jaws her skull, freakish root system of an aborted underworld tree. No eye sighted could welcome her image.

    Horrors permeated the spire of Lyssav. The horrors of the occupant, and the horrors of the water. And yet Runila advanced undeterred, her grace exiled as she tripped on her own legs and found herself crawling up to Lyssav.

    ¡°Ask and you shall regret, Runila.¡±

    ¡°Show me, Lady Lyssav.¡±

    ¡°Call me what you want to call me,¡± Lyssav smiled with all teeth sharp, looming over the Splinter, raining the bloody light of her core over her soon to be victim.

    ¡°Show me my adored, monster! Murderer! Cannibal!¡±

    ¡°Cannibal?¡± Lyssav smiled. ¡°What are you saying, darling? I have eaten no god yet.¡±

    As Lyssav¡¯s face drew closer Runila cringed more and more against the floor. ¡°You promised¡­¡±

    The flesh around Lyssav¡¯s core bubbled once more, and, if only for an instant, Runila thought she could hear Desmodus voice calling, the soft ochre light of his core bathing her instead of Lyssav¡¯s vile crimson.  But as soon as the sensation of familiarity and reciprocated affection washed over her, it died out, giving way to the bleak reality, to the slab of silence that inhabited Lyssav¡¯s spire, to the unchanging red light that dripped from the Second Envisioned¡¯s heart.

    ¡°I can feel your pain, Runila. Know that you don¡¯t need to suffer for Desmodus.  He¡¯s devoid of all pain inside me. Pain that I have devoured, pain that nobody suffers anymore. Pain that I bear like a badge of honor.¡± She drooled onto the scared Splinter¡¯s mask, as her jaws moved without matching her words, tooth by tooth. ¡°You are in presence of Lyssav, Devourer of Sorrow. I can hunt down your pain, Runila. Consume it whole. The world hurts us all, but so long as I live, suffering is merely a choice.¡±

    The mask shook meekly in place. ¡°No. No. I don¡¯t believe you. If there¡¯s true silver to be found in this world, it shall be mined from your tongue.¡±

    ¡°Oh, so that¡¯s how it is going to go down.¡± Lyssav retreated, climbing back onto her throne, letting Runila prop up on her elbows. ¡°Do me a favor and tear your mask off. Let me feed on that pain, and I shall grant you a second basking in the memory of Desmodus. Go on, tear away your mask. Rip it off, as painful as that may be. And when you get blessed with the relief of a pain that got extirpated, you will also grant me the pain of your soul, Runila. Dirofil wants to create a world without pain by killing us all. I can make it so without such dire consequences.¡±

    Runila raised to a sitting position, her fingers reaching under her mask. ¡°You want a world where everyone suffers to feed you, correct?¡±

    ¡°Where everyone may ache, but nobody suffers, for I consume all the pain. The sea doesn¡¯t have to swallow the world. The dogs don¡¯t have to descend upon my people, or rise above the palaces of yours. I have been born blessed, untouched by the taint of those afflicted by dolor. I don¡¯t enjoy pain, but I don¡¯t mind it either. It¡¯s there, it encompasses me and wraps me in its warm embrace.  I had to be explained what suffering is by my brothers: it took me a long time to truly grasp the concept.¡±

    ¡°How long will you expose me to Desmodus presence, Lady Lyssav, if I tear off my mask?¡± With difficulty she incorporated, legs still shaky, both hands digging in her mucilage.

    ¡°Long enough, child. Long enough.¡± Lyssav¡¯s conical tongue came out. It licked her fangs, one by one.

    Runila had no more questions for the injustice in front of her. For a chance to bask in Desmodus¡¯ light a few instants more, she would tear off the mask that was visage.

    The hands pulled. Runila screamed. Lyssav rejoiced at the taste.

    Pain receded. The Splinter could feel it as she buried her fingers deeper under the contour of her face. It was being aspired out of every crevice of her body. Suctioned by a magnetic presence, whose outline she couldn¡¯t see, but felt all the same. An event horizon for pain unveiled before her, solid and unwavering. For a fraction of a second her flesh ached, and then a numb void replaced all discomfort. A void one should fear, a void that felt inherently wrong, but resulted soothing all the same.

    She pulled further, tendrils of slime clinging to a mask that refused to detach from the outline of her head. The eyes were left behind, rebounding back into the head with a popping sound. But there was no suffering to be had, no anticipation of lasting torment.

    Like Lyssav¡¯s, the parts of Splinters of Mardhaka¡ªand of the original herself¡ª were firmly held onto her bones by clusters of high-density mucilage. And so easily, so painlessly, ah, it was coming out! An ecdysis of the inherited visage, a shedding of Mardhaka¡¯s seal. A metallic bone shaped after another, how could she wear that face so meekly, so uncomplainingly, if tearing it off wouldn¡¯t hurt?  Everything original and souled cast countless shadows upon reality, and those shadows were named Splinters. Spires had Splinterspires; Palaces, Splinterpalaces.  Dogs, capable of spawning by means unknown, were the one exception. And Runila didn¡¯t like being a Splinter. She wanted to be an Original, for had she been, perhaps Desmodus would have loved her.

    With trembling hands she finished her task, the left eye dangling, unable to return to its position for the time being, the spot where the mask had been marked by many amputated and wriggling tendrils, barely distinguishable from the surrounding tissue, an orgy of decapitated, transparent roundworms embedded in gurgling spittle.

    The mask fell to the floor with a tinkle as she stood hunched and quivering in front of Lyssav.

    Four of the hands of the Second Envisioned joined in a satisfied rub, the unpaired one beckoning the effaced Splinter to step closer. ¡°I shall reward such sacrifice and obedience.¡±

    ¡°Yes, mistress.¡± The voice of Runila came distorted, her voicebox tugged out of place, partially emerging from the parenchyma of her body. ¡°Gift me his light once more.¡±

    Lyssavs arms shoot forward, grabbing Runila¡¯s shoulders and arms in less than a second. ¡°I¡¯ll gift you his light forever.¡±  Lyssav¡¯s core began shining brighter and brighter, without a trace of Desmodus¡¯ soothing light amidst the waves of crimson.

    Runila was paralyzed by the sheer power exuded, by the stare of the three cleft suns that threatened to burn all she was. Her body didn¡¯t react when she realized Lyssav was behaving as a Thinker of her word, but also one who chose what she said very carefully.

    One by one the branches that composed Lyssav¡¯s maw stirred to life, revealing a direct path to her core as the teeth danced around, hopped or dived from side to side, above or under each other.

    It didn¡¯t take long for the hands to tear Runila¡¯s core from her torso. It took even less for Lyssav to slurp up the weak thoughtcrystal just like she had the powerful heart of her suitor and Runila¡¯s bodily pain.

    Leaning back in her throne, she licked the dripping remains of soul from the sockets of her sharp teeth as she relocated them to return her shifting jaws to their resting position.

    ¡°I should have tortured her a bit more. A little taste of pain always opens my appetite,¡± she lamented, closing her eyelids and preparing to fall into deep meditation, to add all that Runila had been to her soul, obliterating whatever could survive of the Splinter.

    Soon enough, Lyssav fell asleep, and Runila from existence.

 Chapter 26: Newfangled Tail

    ¡°You want to put down the world, Shadiran. You argue that it is mortally wounded. I¡¯ll agree that it bleeds. I am a vampire, dear sister: I drool anticoagulants. I, better than no one, know the world aches. But the bat doesn¡¯t bleed out the cattle it feeds from.¡±

    ¡ªThe Second Envisioned to his sister.

    Doratev called for Dirofil to come into the laboratory. He had not been a particularly active participant of the funeral, despite having been a good friend of Parvov, back in the early days of the Corship. Parvov wouldn¡¯t have wanted him to take unnecessary risks. But he would have condoned him working tirelessly to craft a tail. The best tail The Doctor had ever assembled. A combination of L and D models, carefully fabricated with the alloy used in the latter. Doratev considered such creation a work of art, flawlessly implementing caudal autotomy and a sharpened tip into the extensible, highly prehensile tail that resembled the one Dirofil had once had. Combining the extensible segments with the metameric nature of Leptos tail had been a challenge, but who better than someone with three elbows to apply some grease? Someone with four, five or six, Doratev immediately thought.

    Dirofil arrived with a disheartened wobble in his walk.

    ¡°Are you tired, Dirofil?¡±

    ¡°No, I just lack a good reason to be all tidy and proper around you. The melancholic atmosphere that settled upon the ship doesn¡¯t help either.¡± He sat on the floor with crossed legs, and after examining his own feet for a couple moments, he whisked his eyes to the top of his head to look into Doratev¡¯s. ¡°Why did you call?¡±

    Doratev stepped to a side and presented the shining tail upon his work table, gesturing at it with his three arms extended and his eyes closed in a simile of a mouthless smile. ¡°A little gift for my favorite cavy!¡±

    ¡°Since when am I your lab rat?¡± Dirofil asked in an amused tone.

    ¡°Since I decided to work on this project without telling you. Seeing your broken tail inspired me to create the LDE model!¡±

    ¡°Leptos, Dirofil and¡­¡±

    Doratev raised one digit slowly, as someone who is about to reveal a genius-level idea. ¡°Explosives!¡±

    Dirofil remained silent.

    ¡°They are on the house, really,¡± The Doctor insisted, knocking twice on the tail to show how solid it was. ¡°I rigged a Puggum-Pointerine system ¡ªTwo-P or PP system moving forward¡ª to explode seconds after the tail is autotomized or ripped off. Located inside the distal end, of course.¡±

    Dirofil¡¯s head dipped backwards, his eyes never leaving the Doctor¡¯s. ¡°No. I refuse to walk with a ticking bomb attached to my rear end.¡±

    ¡°The yodeler¡¯s powers,¡± Doratev pointed out, holding the tail as if it were a beautiful boa.

    ¡°That¡¯s attached near my forward end and mostly under my control,¡± The Original argued, standing just to poke the tail with an exploratory finger. ¡°We have little of value in our heads, besides the eyes, ears and voicebox.¡±

    ¡°Indeed, they are a vestige of the creator¡¯s figure, an atavistic mimesis. We suppose they had a head, and that it was as important as they are in a cavy. Or a Chihuahua. After all, you often aim for the head when killing dogs. Have you wondered why?¡±

    ¡°Because a vital organ is hosted there.¡±

    Doratev dropped the tail on his working bench, and steepled the fingers of his upper hands.  ¡°No. The question is how would you know that without prior knowledge, or without studying the dogs?¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t,¡± Dirofil answered in all earnest, scratching the place where a human would have a cheek with disinterest. ¡°Your point?¡±

    ¡°Well, I have been thinking that maybe dogs created us and deliberately excluded most of their weaknesses from our ontology.  Think about the bauplans of our family. Despite having a proliferation of limbs, each arm and leg of most models ¡ª Babesi and Lyssav notwithstanding¡ª  resembles a dog¡¯s leg. We have a single element in the stylopod, two parallel elements in the zeugopod, and then a multitude of smaller carpal/tarsal elements and phalanxes in the autopods.  Furthermore, the dogs in our world are incomplete. They don¡¯t perform functions of the dogs in the world of the creators and¡ª.¡±

    Dirofil grunted as he drummed the floor with his talons. He described circles in the air with his hand, signaling Doratev to wrap his idea up.

    ¡°¡ªI think the dogs in our world may be paedomorphic as an attempt to hide the true form of the creators. This enforced larval state is likely unstable and causes the aberration,¡± he proudly explained.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Dirofil tilted his head whilst he analyzed the expression of his Splinter. The Doctor was serious. ¡°Eutherians have direct development.  I¡¯d agree that we were likely created by a vertebrate entity and that domestication seems to have rippled through different clades of mammals and plants. We see the cities: the tall doors, the colorful billboards, Doratev. We know dogs are colorblind to red and green. Yet I can see green, I can see red! Hell, Lyssav is the embodiment of red, and Morbilliv of green. How could they create us to see colors they couldn¡¯t? We weren¡¯t created by some¡­ canines without arrested development.¡± Dirofil crossed his arms and straightened his back. ¡°Besides, your leaps of logic to reach that conclusion were atrocious.¡±

    ¡°I am just bouncing ideas off of you to work through them. Consider it a payment for this little tail I made for you. And you raise a valid point, but in our memories dogs are often found in these cities and even in the more... bucolic dwellings. I like to think of them as infants. That¡¯s why they are leashed, so their parents don¡¯t lose them.¡±

    ¡°I like to think of them as some of the creator¡¯s domestic animals,¡± Dirofil answered just as the lights went out and the Reaper alarms began blaring. He immediately checked the eye on his hand. It remained closed. ¡°That accursed thing won¡¯t leave us be until we murder it.¡±

    In the encroaching dark Doratev let the light of his soul shine bright and unashamed. It was evident that he was allotting a substantial amount of time to meditation. Perhaps, even, a bit too much.

    ¡°You are hoarding energy while some Splinters exert their cores, why? you never see battle.¡±

    ¡°My services are valuable, and thus I am allotted some privileges and allowances. Absurd ones, even. For example, I have calculated how long it would take for a perfect population of bacteria-dogs that weight one picogram each and reproduce every twenty minutes, without constraints and starting with a single individual, to outweigh the supermassive black hole in the center of the creator¡¯s galaxy. About fifty-seven hours and forty minutes.¡±

    Dirofil decided it would be counterproductive to ask why, and instead proceeded to state what he considered a harsh truth.  ¡°You do get bored in here. Way too bored.¡±

    ¡°Yes. And boredom depresses me. In my spare time I think about how we are not alive, unlike bacteria, unlike dogs. Yet we say we live: we dare use that word, Dirofil. Nobody replaces one of us when said one stops thinking, nobody can. Our population dwindles with each thoughtend and there¡¯s no way to restore it. Yet we tout that word of hope. Parvov being gone, and Jadimar being gone, are two less cores in the world, irreplaceable. An ever shrinking number. And before that number reaches zero, I want to know what the ones who created us looked like. And until my own core sputters off, I will wish that we were a bit more like bacteria, Dirofil.¡± Doratev looked down and examined the phalanxes of his hands, considered the transparency of his flesh.  ¡°Can you imagine it? if we could create new Thinkers? Maybe we could avoid the end. Maybe you would have no reason to euthanize the world.¡±

    Dirofil thought about embracing his Splinter, but resisted the urge to do so. ¡°I am sorry, Doratev. I sometimes forget the world is not easy on any of us. Ways to cope, a thousand. Effective, none.¡± A movement of the head let his interlocutor know about the object of his attention. ¡°May I assimilate the tail?¡±

    Doratev stepped to the side to allow the Original to reach for the appendage. ¡°Attach. I¡¯d use the word attach. It¡¯s not a part of a gone Splinter, it has no previous owner.¡±

    Dirofil held the tail aloft, a dead metallic snake unfurled before him. He stared into it, and one could swear, through it. Would this thing explode on him on a moment of need? ¡°Only severe damage can trigger it, right? It has safety measures in place?¡±

    ¡°It won¡¯t blow up randomly, no. You could even use it to club dog heads all day and it wouldn¡¯t explode.¡±

    ¡°What do you want me to do in exchange for it. Which experiments do you need me to partake in?¡±

    The Doctor joined his three hands, making sure one of the left ones cupped the upper side of the right hand, and the other the lower side. ¡°Just give me a report of your usage of the tail in, say, seven or eight tides from now.¡±

    Dirofil sent a signal for Leptos¡¯ tail to detach from his lower back, from the socket on the base of his ochre spine, and drop onto the ship¡¯s darkened floor, where the viscid flesh abandoned the appendage and crawled back into Dirofil¡¯s leg, joining once more with the body it belonged to. ¡°That tail is Leptos¡¯. Repair it, if you would be so kind.¡±

    Without major fanfare, Dirofil inserted the base of the new tail in the socket. He refused to run a bomb through his core to assimilate it faster, and would simply let his essence and slime bathe the lump of dead materials until, like his cape, they obeyed him without question.

    A click, a soft grunt, and then like an outdated representation of a heavy theropod the Thinker lumbered around, clawed feet, dragged tail. ¡°It¡¯s quite the heavy thing.¡±

    ¡°You may have gotten used to having half a tail. Its density is based on the Dirofil model, the planes of caudal autotomy don¡¯t add material, and the length at rest is barely increased. Try extending it.¡±

    Dirofil got down on all five and sent pulses of his will into the tail. Waves flowed through it, making it curl up and down as the light of Dirofil¡¯s core glistened off of the tail¡¯s slick surface.

    And as he tested his new toy, the screams reached through both the hitherto silent walls and the mental links.

    The Chihuahuas broke through the hull! A Splinter of Babesi communicated, the thought drenched in distress. And there¡¯s something among them! It got Filbaros!  I cannot see, I cannot see!

    More and more calls began flooding the channels. Scared Splinters of everyone but Lyssav falling prey to panic as they described what had happened to the Splinter of Parvov.

    Dirofil and his Splinter crossed stares of eyes wide open, and then, spoke in unison. ¡°Murkhound.¡±

    He considered the eye on his right hand for a second. But he couldn¡¯t open it. The Reaper was close. He would need to battle the invisible threat without aid from his power.

    ¡°Hurt it, Dirofil! Hurt it and the Splinters of Lyssav will be able to spot it,¡± Doratev ordered.

    ¡°What do you mean? Aren¡¯t the eyes of Babesi the best ones?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not with the eyes that they sense the pain of others as if body heat it was.¡±

    Dirofil stopped his march towards the door. ¡°They do that? It¡¯s new information for me. Useful.¡±

    ¡°Lyssav never told you? the Splinters were eager to share that little piece of trivia with me.¡±

    Dirofil shook his head as he exited the laboratory. Carefully, always aiming to preserve his own life, he would try to pinpoint the location of the Murkhound. And this time, he wouldn¡¯t let the thing burn.

 Chapter 27: The Snake and the Flower

    ¡°Dirofil¡¯s description of the Murkhound as a Komondor is valuable, but it begs the question: Where can the Komondorok¡¯s natural habitat be found?  Do they spawn in clusters? lenses? A whole layer? How far do dogs need to be from this hypothetical place before they begin to mutate? That is, assuming they abominate when displaced away from their peers by natural processes of the sea or Thinker action. Furthermore, this begs the following question: What sort of process disrupted the original structure of the sea, creating the first titanic dogs whose very movement engenders more abominations? Aberration needs a first mover, be it part of Cynothalassa¡¯s nature, or some Splinter¡¯s fault¡­¡±

    ¡ªOne of Doratev¡¯s many recordings

    Among the screams of panic coming through the Corgite of the walls, flowing up and down the corridors like rivers of despair, and assailing Dirofil¡¯s mind, he advanced in the dark, tail and cape dragging on the lattice of the floor. His lungs let out a howl every few steps, another sound clone that the Murkhound would collide with if it decided to attack from behind.

    His psyche bellowed a question in the saturated mind links. Where? Everybody seemed to answer at once each time, and the Murkhound seemed to be everywhere. The only victim reported so far had been Filbaros. Morbilliv remained suspiciously silent during the whole ordeal. Either he refused to communicate, which made no sense to Dirofil, or the crisis had found him meditating. Or maybe he had grown tired of the chitchat of the crew and decided to detune himself from the usual communication channels.

    Morbilliv, brother, can you hear me? He asked in all channels simultaneously, sending out an unusually powerful wave of thought energy that rippled from his core and silenced the unseen world around him for an instant.

    I can, Dirofil.  Keep your mind down, the Reaper is close by and I am trying to accrue some thoughtenergy in the meantime. What¡¯s the whole ruckus about? Why have the Psycholocators suddenly left their posts?

    Ah, that explained it. Morbilliv had answered through the psycholocators channel, that was eerily silent for the moment. Probably trying to shed off as little energy as he could to avoid the ship being detected by the Reaper.

    Ignoring the emergency channels to grieve in solitude, how reckless of you. Quick rundown: Filbaros thinks no more, a Murkhound is making the rounds in the ship and likely stalking its next victim. It could be you. It could be me. It could be Kirval. Actually, I hope it is Kirval.

    Kirval answered through the same channel. And I hope it is you!

    It could be anywhere. We need to gather everyone in the refining room. Fetch Doratev and take him there.

    The Doctor chimed in without announcing himself. I can fetch myself, thankyouverymuch.

    In the distance, behind the opaque walls, the hearts of the sea beat relentlessly. Dirofil couldn¡¯t hear them, drowned by the screams, and this was even more distressing than a potential ambush from the Murkhound. The suffering, the panic was deafening, some intangible danger on its own right.  Dirofil felt as if the whole universe had become flammable, as if the tiniest spark of conflict could make reality itself explode on his face.

    Another set of steps tried to match his. Glancing backwards simply by rotating his eyes over their axis to see through his own head, Dirofil confirmed the suspicions of the follower being none other than Doratev, unpreoccupied but silent.

    ¡°Do you believe yourself immortal to saunter around like that, with the arms on the pockets of your coat?¡±

    ¡°We are all immortal, Dirofil,¡± he stated with an amused tone. ¡°If there¡¯s no afterlife, if the world ends along one¡¯s sentience, what¡¯s the difference between living through a tide or living through them all? Only those that die before one does are effectively mortal for the individual. Those that outlast ourselves¡ª¡±

    ¡°Shut up.¡± Dirofil blurted out, interrupting him. ¡°It¡¯s no moment to entertain your solipsist sophistry.¡±

    ¡°Sophistry? These are my earnest beliefs!¡± Doratev protested, finally taking his arms off his pockets.

    ¡°Well then, friend, allow me to declare your beliefs a healthy mixture of rodent, chiropteran, and bovine manure. Why don¡¯t you use that valuable energy to worry about the ongoing crisis?¡±

    Dirofil accelerated his pacing down the darkened corridor. He didn¡¯t know where he was supposed to be going, but Doratev had mightily annoyed him already. The nerves he didn¡¯t have needed no more reasons to be put on edge.

    ¡°There¡¯s no crisis as long as we behave rationally. A Murkhound wont attack a close-knit group of Splinters, as they reveal their position when attacking someone.¡±

    ¡°The one outside seemed quite insistent on murdering me despite my ironclad defense. I doubt the thing can behave even in a slightly reasonable way.¡±

    A particularly poignant set of cries grew closer, and a Splinter of Babesi surged like a scared river from one of the staircases, rushed past the Original only to be stopped by the thunder grip of Doratev¡¯s hand.

    ¡°We are going to die! all of us! Let me go! Let me go Doratev!¡± She wiggled in vain as the doctor held her like he had held the tail.

    ¡°The laboratory is probably safe for now. Let her go, Doratev.¡±

    The Doctor didn¡¯t comply. ¡°She is safer with us. Curl around my neck, Grifala.¡±

    The Splinter of Babesi nodded and immediately helped herself over Doratev¡¯s shoulders, a single curl of brat forming a strangling scarf around a breathless neck.

    Dirofil couldn¡¯t resist the urge anymore. He needed to know where their stalker was. Uncertainty gnawed at his core. Trembling with doubt he raised his right hand in front of his face, aligning the eye of the Reaper with his own. But the rightful owner of the eye was close, and it would find the Corship if he acted carelessly. Yet a glimpse. He needed just a glimpse. A still picture of the ship, of wherever the thing was.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    A glimpse!

    The eye opened, and the Reaper saw inside the ship, and Dirofil saw the ship from both his position and afar. All the eyes of the Reaper were over it, and he hadn¡¯t yet spotted the Murkhound.  Where? Where? The countless silhouettes of Chihuahuas and a sort of interference, the illusion of an encompassing but weak soul that crawled inside the walls, tainted the picture. If the latter was an action of the Reaper or a result of the ensuing panic, he didn¡¯t know.  He gave up, closing the eye.

    Deafened. Blinded. Malignant doubt metastasized. The universe ablaze, and the unwelcomed follower being casual about it. And worst of all, he had let himself become a knowing vessel for paranoia. This was how it rendered you thoughtless. While you still had a mind, while you imagined monsters in every dark corner despite most of them being empty. ¡°I need to kill it. Then I need to jump off. Yes¡­ find me with Babesi.¡±

    The Fourth Imagined accelerated, opened the eye once more, and this time, saw his prey on the lower deck.  He raced for it, flying down the sphere stairs, Doratev barely able to keep up with the possessed Original.

    Dirofil rushed past groups of still and wide-eyed Splinters. They weren¡¯t withstanding stones, but tensed springs, ready to break down at any moment, jumping all around. His soul flowed into his cape as he left the lumps of dim lights that were lives behind, making it wave, erecting the Chihuahua teeth.

    He crushed some stray Chihuahuas with his feet as the shine of his warmongering soul bounced off the polished surface of the Snake Jaws. The legsteerers were gone, but from a corner of the room the Murkhound stalked. Eye of doom always watchful, the Thinker propelled off the ground with all five extremities and let his cape shoot on its own towards the unsuspecting beast¡¯s face.

    They had told him to hurt the Murkhound. To deal some damage and let the Splinters of Lyssav handle the rest.

    But he wouldn¡¯t leave them anything to handle.

    The critter, with his reflexes dulled by a life of hiding where none could find him, realized too late that the approaching mass of teeth was heading for him, and that a little lazy sidestep wouldn¡¯t save him from Dirofil¡¯s attack. The cape wrapped around the snout, the teeth dug into the flesh, and the thinker¡¯s elbow met the thrashing dog¡¯s nose, hammering the enamel nails deeper and deeper.

    Like a bloodlusty tick the cape refused to budge despite the dog¡¯s insistent pawing. Dirofil smashed his, once more unique and composite, left arm on the sides and top of the head, repeatedly.  The eye of the Reaper closed, but he knew the damage was done, that he would need to finish this dog off quickly. And then, he would need to jump off the ship, back down the Collie layer, with his cursed eye open to draw the attention of the vile hunter.

    As he pushed with one hand on each side of the invisible dog¡¯s head, as he compressed and the bones began to crack and their owner to whimper. Dirofil prayed. Not to a god like a devout believer of the Houndmaster would have in a gone city of the world before the world. Not to a ruthless force of nature, deified or not.  Not to himself, like Lyssav would if she ever decided to pray. Dirofil prayed to the skull, and asked it to crumble. To the brains, and petitioned for them to turn to mush. To his victim, and asked it to die at once, so he could be on his way.

    A little more strength. A few more cracking sounds. A destroyed braincase, bleeding off into the cape, tainting it with grey and white matter, an impressionist painting of variegated but unseen gore.

    Without wasting time Dirofil latched the cape back around his neck and cursed in a low voice. He had no time to lift the cadaver and take it with him.  He was already running for the cargo bay, sending hurried messages through the mind links.

    Killed hound, have plan for dealing with Reaper, will travel.

    What do you mean? The voice of Morbilliv resounded inside his core. The Chihuahaus are getting handled and the Psycholocators returning to their duties.

    When the psycholocators panicked and Morbilliv began to drop a whole dictionary of slurs onto his brother¡¯s mind, Dirofil had already reached the cargo bay¡¯s ramp door, and soon enough channeled his soul on the opening mechanism. Eyes of blue met him as the ramp descended, the Reaper inspecting the ship from afar, as if it were a curiosity for the giant hybrid of ghost and snake that hung from the Bernese net, dark placoid scales hugging the mountain dogs tightly.  The tentacles were gone, and the eyes had arranged to line the inside of a mouth that remained always open, and led to a throbbing gullet darker than the total absence of light.

    We cannot action the legs! Dirofil, are you sabotaging the ship? Are you mad?

    Morbilliv frantically suggested, and Dirofil ignored the rushed accusations of his brother. And opened the eye of the reaper, making the monster stare into itself. All of the mouthpieces focused on the one on Dirofil¡¯s hand.

    No, I genuinely have no idea about that. Goodbye, brother, I¡¯ll go visit Babs.

    And as the jaws of death loomed closer and closer, Dirofil ran down the ramp and let gravity take hold of a stray foot, right hand raised, stealing the full attention of the Reaper just as the Corship¡¯s lights glared, prey of intrinsic chaos.

    His body plummeted carelessly, and his hand looked up, and the gaze of the Reaper followed. The snake to swallow all snakes shoot straight for him, letting the ship drown in its confusion and panic.

    One of Dirofil¡¯s eyes looked down, and the other tracked the incoming doom. He was going to bounce off the branches of dogs if he wasn¡¯t careful. And nothing spelt careful like using exploding clones to reposition himself as the unstoppable creature tore through the net to reach him. The falling dogs, detached from their place in the sea as the Reaper advanced, rained about him, wiggling their furry legs as they tried to get some footing in the air. To Dirofil, they looked like they tried to swim through inexistent, polluted waters. The blue of the eyes. The brown, black, and white of the raining dogs. The light of his core.  And a nibbling thought as the monster seemed to draw nearer: Had he inadvertently committed suicide? A sort of heroic sacrifice to undo the pestilence he had brought upon the Corship?

    No. He could still fall faster.  And leave behind sound clones for the thing to devour, in hopes that the explosions, that illuminated his back briefly and sent forth horrible dissonances, would slow the Reaper down.

    With a little bit of elaborate contortionism Dirofil took his head to the lowest point, wrapped every inch of his torso, arms and legs into his cape, and melded his extremities to his body as he allowed gravity and friction to shape him more and more like a drop. The teeth folded against his body as he used little instant explosions to negotiate the Bernese branches that seemed to rush towards him with colliding intent.

    Soon he came out the last dog ring, onto a limpid but equally dark atmosphere besprinkled by floating Collies. He didn¡¯t need to look up to know that the Reaper followed.

    But he did anyway, sending a single eye all through his body, making it sprout on his toe, and so he beheld it.

    The Reaper freed himself from the Bernese layer, blooming. The viperiform body dispersed into the known mass of tendrils and tentacles, bit by bit, branching outwards as it emerged from the net. To see the Reaper shapeshifting would have made some say that they were wrong, that life had a meaning. That eyesight was a gift of some benevolent deity. Death danced deftly, overlooked creation and spiraled down, knowing of its own perfection, flaunting it for every unworthy eye to admire.

    Dirofil collieded, cussing as he bounced off the floating dog. The density of dogs was increasing, and before long he would reach the bottom half of the layer, where it would be nearly impossible to freefall.

    He closed the eye of the Reaper and dimmed the light of his core. It was time to land, and time to hide, for the unfurled bauplan was slower than the snake one, and the fall had grown the distance between them enough to buy him some valuable seconds.

 Chapter 28: Splinters of the Seventh

    ¡°Some people think our maker¡ªor makers¡ªkeeps a watchful eye over us. If they do, it is not with the loving stare of a mother, or the concerned glare of a father, but, perhaps, with the same eyes my little heartworm has when he faces a dying puppy. Cold, distant, analytical. He needs those eyes, for compassion won¡¯t save the poor thing, as compassion didn¡¯t save my father. Another possibility is that our creators were as imperfect as we are, and didn¡¯t foresee cancer. The third is that they don¡¯t play favorites, and like my beloved said once, why would my father¡¯s life be worth more to an inhuman creator than the one of his emancipated cells? Or, rather, why is any life worth anything at all? Bearers of souls or of the delusion of having one, we think we matter. If cancer cells could think, who in their right mind would think they would pray for their deities to save the host instead of saving them? They would pray to enter the cancer heaven! To be held in a perfect embrace, immortalized in the holy petri dish! Created from my father¡ªbeing my father itself¡ªthe damned illness won, killing them both. In one of his clumsy attempts to make me feel better, my fianc¨¦ called it my unicellular siblings, said that the cancer was more a son of my father that I could ever be his daughter, genetically speaking. I slapped him, despite knowing he wanted to make me see things with the hard, cold googles he often stares at the world with. He¡¯s not happy wearing them, he¡¯s not in control, and that terrifies me. Nevertheless, he manages and finds reassurance in the dullness of it all. He told me life¡¯s not to be happy ¡ªor, in his words, ¡®life isn¡¯t for anything, it just happens to us. It happens to tumors, too.¡¯. My father was an upstanding man. His cancer was, quite likely, a good cancer.

    I digress. Life will happen to the thinkers, and life will happen to the dogs, even the mutant ones. It¡¯s not our job to save either from each other. It would be cruel to determine a winning side just because it resembles us more than the other. Which side resembles us humans more, however, could be up for debate¡­¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoiesis, page 22

    Lyssav came out of her tower and stepped into the Retriever light, wings spread wide, pupils reduced to thin lines. The surface of her body welcomed the hankered-for radiance, and the whole world glistened in painless hues for her to see. Her meal had revitalized her, lulled her spire into a blissful dream. She looked across the orange miasma, and towards Leptos¡¯ spire, that stood and withstood silent and serene. But past it she heard the resentful cries of an angry spire. Parvov¡¯s was in pain, but a pain she could only infer and not directly feel. A pain she couldn¡¯t savor. What an affront this fact resulted to her.

    She would not dwell on it, though. On the offense of the spires being immune to her gift. She hadn¡¯t come out of her home to bitter up. So long had been her imprisonment, so long had she thought in vain. Now, perching like a dragon over his hoard around the wall of her spire, she prepared to take air. The wings didn¡¯t beat at first; they caressed the rarified atmosphere gently. The soft breeze that rose from the core of the word lifted her higher as she rode the currents in circles, a vulture of sorrow waiting to scavenge a tragedy¡¯s aching cadaver.

    She glided Leptoswards, and her form cast a shadow over the heart of creation, and said shadow sunk in the darkness below, devoured like the caster would a puny morsel of penance.

    Tilting her wings, she maneuvered midair, having nothing to envy from the bat whose anatomy the appendages almost mirrored. She flew around and around her elder brother¡¯s dwelling, descending upon its pristine platform, tainting it with her presence. Using two arms as legs she dragged herself along the white surface, turning her head to glance at the kissing snake statues at the entrance. If Lyssav knew one thing about the creators, it was that they had been generous with her. The world was scheduled for its finale, and an apocalypse always hurts, because if there¡¯s nobody to harm there¡¯s no world worth ending. A climax of pain, massive, all-encompassing. A rain of delightful dolour wetting her frame, massaging her slime into a blessed drowse.

    Beyond the statues, beyond the arch, and up the stairs rested her brother, and she would always remember that time she had asked him, in all his wisdom, if he believed her to have been created wrong.

    ¡°Am I evil, Leptos?¡± She had asked, the liquefied core of a Splinter still dripping from her guilty maws. ¡°Am I undeserving of the camaraderie fostered by the others? I don¡¯t wish for it, but to be undeserving of something so simple is an affront to my pride.¡±

    ¡°The others, Soothing One, are our siblings. It¡¯s true that the three of them relate more to each other than to us. They love each other in their own ways, as much as they love us. You included.¡± Then Leptos had made a pause, straightening his back and looking down the chasm at the edge of Lyssav¡¯s spire. ¡°They may not visit us often. They may not have the lovely inclinations of Babesi. If our family has three generations, if you and I are the first, dear sister, and they are the second, don¡¯t you think it natural for them to hold each other the dearest?¡±

    ¡°Would Babesi be the same if she had siblings around her age? Is that what you are saying, dearest brother? I¡¯ll let you know that despite my feigned annoyance, I enjoy her visits. They amuse me.¡± Here she had paused, imitating her older brother before glancing at him sideways. ¡°But you didn¡¯t answer. Am I evil?¡±This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    Leptos had let out a satisfied hum and projected the light of his soul over the void, creating a bridge of luminous tiles for them to walk above, one that gradually disappeared behind them as they advanced towards the center of creation.

    ¡°Before determining who¡¯s evil we need to figure out what evil even is, sister. Who arbiters our morals? Nobody. How can you be evil then, darling?¡±

    ¡°Well, for starters, I devoured a Splinter of Morbilliv before you came to visit. I am, at the very least, a predator. A villain. Don¡¯t you agree, Leptos?¡±

    ¡°You act according to your nature just like our siblings act in accordance to theirs. Parvov is brilliant but short of temper; Dirofil promises to destroy creation while kindly asking for a favor or two or melding bodies with Shadiran; Babesi can talk with dogs¡­¡±

    ¡°Babesi can talk with dogs?¡± Lyssav had raised her gaze to the little clusters of puppies that grew bigger each day, so far above, blotches of fluff between the Spires and the Palaces. ¡°Interesting.¡±

    ¡°She believes she can. I may have embellished the statement a bit much. The point is, little sister, that if you are evil, we all are. But evil or not, we all love you, Lyssav.¡±

    Lyssav had crawled onto the same platform she was now standing on, in front of the same statues, and a little rumble had manifested in her voicebox. ¡°I also hold you all dear. Some more than others. But one day the little dog patches will join in a mighty sea and swallow the world. What will be the use of love then?¡±

    ¡°The same as the use for hatred, Lyss. Exactly the same.¡±

    And now that she could watch the sea descend upon her head, alone, she wondered if she should climb the ivory stairs and pay Leptos a visit. Said train of thought resulted short lived, for a glance towards Parvov¡¯s spire made her aware of subtle movements. Beyond the orange mist silhouettes danced like cockroaches gathering around a platter.

    On the edge, with digits sending little fragments of the crumbling rhyolite on a one-way trip towards the core of the world, Lyssav watched as the figures, that spilled from the pillars that reached deep into the miasma, climbed them and hung out from the underside of Parvov¡¯s spire¡¯s ground. Head down, with an amount of limbs that she estimated between six and a dozen despite the distance and the blurriness of the images, the things made their way to the edge, and clambered up with few difficulties. Their bodies were prolate, and their backs sprouted a sort of spikes or protrusions of a nature she couldn¡¯t make out. Whatever they were, their bodies seemed too solid and opaque for a Thinker.

    Ignited the spark of curiosity, she took air again. Frayed wings beat vigorously, the atmosphere, in spite of its oppressive tyranny, giving in to let the Second Envisioned intrude the space between spires. Leptos¡¯ spire didn¡¯t try to drag her in, and neither did the dark core of the world. Nature respected Lyssav, or nature feared Lyssav.

    As she drew closer the image of the creatures grew clearer. Ten metallic legs. A dull grayish hemisphere on their fronts. A bulky orange body covered in scars that, to Lyssav, seemed inflicted by teeth. They whirred as they paced. The things enjoyed means for making their own light, placed around a circle and reminding Lyssav of the one that surged from the Retrievers. To round it all up, their size precluded them from going through the already magnificently tall doorways of the spires.

    She thought she could live inside one of these, and comfortably, if she managed to hollow it out. And so she landed next to one of the creatures, four arms contacting the ground before her abdomen and legs did.

    ¡°What are you?¡± She muttered, circling an idle one that kept following her with eyes emplaced on the palms of its hands or¡­ pincers, maybe. Lyssav knew those eyes. Babesi and her Splinters had the same sort. ¡°Why do you bear an eye like that of my sister on your limb, bug? Do you understand me?¡± Lyssav lashed out against the creature, her claws finding the underside of the solid carapace and rending a little gash on it. ¡°Do you understand me?¡± She repeated, her deformed mouthpieces rearranging into a sadistic smile.

    Then she pulled back, shocked by a sudden influx of alien pain. Thinker-like pain, washing over her. Not the suffering of the dogs, of the biological, but that of her siblings and their Splinters. Her head whipped around as she looked for a new spire, in every direction, to find only the old ones, dilapidated, sometimes lost beyond the horizon where the miasma met Cynothalassa.

    She felt her eyes quiver as the creatures mindlessly surrounded her, seemingly without any ill intent, but with a bothersome presence anyhow. ¡°Splinters of whom are you? Of whom?!¡±

    She had a new sibling, a new¡­ Thinker of the Core had been born. This was irrefutable proof of that, the birth of new Splinters with a hitherto unseen body plan. But they were too weird. They seemed¡­ designed to contain something. They psycholocated constantly, assailing Lyssav¡¯s well-nourished soul with the essence of their young and weak ones. And they headed up Parvov¡¯s spire, climbing the outer walls with clumsiness unmatched, one falling here and there, as their hands were big, designed to grab onto something the size of¡­

    The size of an average dog.

    Lyssav let out a raucous laugh and spread her wings. She fluttered up the back of one of the Splinters and carved a way inside with her claws. It couldn¡¯t be what she suspected.

    Inside she found rooms with small tables bearing manacles, corridors barely big enough for her to crawl through, pipes, lines of little lights. Rooms, with doors. Once she reached the tight bridge, she clawed a way out through the glass, spat a blob of her own slime back into her thorax, and let another bout of laughter rip off. How absurd! A ship! A Ship had come to life and projected countless clones of itself onto the fabric of reality. How delightful. A ship. A ship!

    And the ocean called them, apparently. And the ocean called her too, because she had to see the original now. And where else would a creature shaped like a bizarre submarine dwell, if not in the depths of Cynothalassa?

    But before that, she owed a visit to Leptos.

 Chapter 29: Cural cast.

    ¡°¡®The Carving is falling apart. To think I¡¯d live to see this day. I knew I would, I feared it. But I hoped Father¡¯s curse would dispel someday. That I would wake up in paradise, by the side of my caretaker, and of my ward. I hoped it the day the Pygostilans died off. I hoped it when every other Masterwork went to sleep. I hoped it the day when the earth parted and swallowed Felsia. The stars die off, no creature walks the land, and yet you still fly, Unkindness. And yet I breathe. Why?¡¯

    ¡®Because someone needs to carve everything anew, and the All-Carver¡¯s slumber is eternal. I could do it alone, Ald. I won¡¯t. Come, blacksmith. At the feet of that volcano we will forge forth a new existence.¡¯

    ¡®Orphaned?¡¯

    ¡®As it should be.¡¯¡±

    ¡ªConversation between the Creators of the Creators, as the world before the world before the world perished.

    Hermatypic was not a word Dirofil had ever expected to use when discussing anything but corals, stromatolites, sponges, or bryozoans ¡ª and, to be fair, he had never expected to discuss even the most normal of them after entering the sea of dogs. It was, certainly, not the kind of word he would have ever imagined as being even tangentially related to Cocker Spaniels. Or to the Reaper for, to Dirofil¡¯s fortune, the thing seemed to be dumber than a drunk polyp. It hung in the air in its form of chaotic tangle, slowly drifting away as the Thinker hid under a disc-shaped calcareous outgrow. From the thousand holes of the colonial skeleton long-necked Cockers poked out, their whiskers turned to squirming tentacles. Their legs had decayed, and they seemed to be glued to the colonial structure. Dirofil found himself wondering how they managed to deposit such thick layers of calcite or aragonite ¡ª he wasn¡¯t sure which one it was ¡ª to create the structure that could be seen in the dead parts of the reef. It probably had to do with the hideous furry coenosarc that covered the living dog-corals. Where the dogs got the necessary elements to synthesize it, though, was a mystery whose answer probably was two simple words: Ex Nihilo. The dogs of the sea didn¡¯t eat, yet for some reason they had beating hearts pumping nourishing blood. For some reason the air was oxygenated. For some reason his mind wandered to the absurd aspects of his world in those tense moments, where he could need to shoot from his hiding place if the Reaper managed to spot him.

    The little tentacle-whiskers caressed his mucilage as he cringed against the stem of the structure. Oh, how bothersome were the coral Cockers while he, eye on the tip of his finger, peeked out at the sprawling evil looming over the landscape.

    He wanted to rain curses upon the puppy-lit bottom of the layer, but he had no information about the organoleptic capacity of his chaser. Could the Reaper hear? Could it detect heat? Smell? Taste? And if it could, were those senses as twisted as its sight? As long as he didn¡¯t know, remaining as unassuming as possible was the safest bet.

    The one left hand that wasn¡¯t relegated to eye-holding duty rested against his core. He covered it jealously, coveted his own life as the ever-present stalking of the Murkhounds tempted him to open his second most valuable possession wide. A blink of the hand, just enough to see soul and cur, to glimpse the world as it presented before the Reaper. A damning second of calm, a lid flutter away. The Reaper could be seen coming, the Reaper let you know you were about to die. The same couldn¡¯t be said of Murkhounds. The idea of life being able to end at any given moment was, perhaps ironically, unthinkable for a thinker. Prior to the sea descending the only ways to be rendered thoughtless had been to cross Lyssav or to overexert one¡¯s core. His ribs felt like a cell, his whole body a prison for a panicked soul. He wanted out of the omnipresent sea, he wanted the tranquility of his spire, of Shadiran¡¯s embrace.

    Yet his spire had fallen, and Shadiran waited beyond a layer of all-mauling beasts. All safe havens, all refuges for the soul forgone. His cape intruded his flesh and wrapped around his core, embracing it, spikes pointing outwards, disrupting the natural state of his form, causing a constant unease he tolerated only because it brought the peace of fake safety along itself. Each intrusion of dog matter into his body kept feeling undeniably alien. The eye, the lungs, the teeth. He had absorbed them out of necessity, yet through them the sea sung its wicked mute paean. The only way to survive in the sea of dogs to be replaced by them, liter by liter.

    He wanted to let out a subtle weep, a weak lament, but the end watched and quite possibly heard from above. Sorrowful chandelier of the Collie layer, the Reaper was taking its sweet time to leave. And the damned Cockers kept lapping at his arms and shoulders with their twitchy extremities.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    He could jerk an arm and pluck them from their coralites, maybe even tearing off a piece of the coenosarc from the underlying coenostium ¡ª or, in layman terms, get them out their cups and rip flesh from the stone. But no. The sea wouldn¡¯t get him to enact pointless violence against these weird creatures. The Chihuahuas were dangerous, if only because of their numbers and teeth. The Cockers were displeasing, but ultimately harmless. More innocent than he could ever be.

    On another glance, he realized they resembled Babesi, in a way. It was, maybe, the tendrils on the head, the elongate shape. The playful wiggles. He pulled the finger¡¯s eye back to his face and winked twice as the image fed by both of them aligned and adjusted its focus. Moving made the teeth of the cape dig through his matrix, stirring in him a feeling that couldn¡¯t be described in animal standards, but, suffice to say, resulted unpleasant. He battled against the sensation and his slime constricted the ugly but necessary things in place.

    He had to calm himself down. Somehow. But how to do it when the ghost of the end glided overhead?

    Perhaps thinking of those that had parted willingly. Of Parvov. He imagined him, and his anguish as he tried to run away from the Reaper while carrying Morbilliv¡¯s core. A defenseless core is a heavy thing. Not physically, but spiritually. One carrying the frail life of another. And it weighs more when that another is your dear brother. Dirofil dared to picture himself carrying Lyssav¡¯s core as he escaped, wondering if he wouldn¡¯t sacrifice it to the creature to save himself. He had to use her for the example, because everyone else he was sure he couldn¡¯t let go. Lyssav provided an easing doubt, let him worry about what Leptos would say if he let his sister perish in such a gruesome way. Of course, it was merely a fantasy. Lyssav would not hesitate or fool around. She would sacrifice anyone but Leptos for a chance to beat and devour the Reaper. That is, if she needed to sacrifice anyone at all. Because if Leptos could be considered the closest thing to divinity to be found in their world, Lyssav was the closest thing to Leptos. He was positive, his sister had surpassed the easy-going Vedala long ago. Maybe she had even surpassed Leptos, and if that was the case¡­ well, that hung another ticking clock on the wall. He would need to hold onto the hope of reaching the Zenith of Concepts before Lyssav enacted her plan, or for something worse than her to inhabit the sea and deal with his sister. And he didn¡¯t want to think there could be things bigger and meaner than the Reaper waiting for him in the deepest layers of the ocean.

    He made himself smaller against the calcareous column. The Reaper was leaving at a snail¡¯s pace. When the thing wasn¡¯t on a hunt, it seemed to loiter around aimlessly. It had to be either a very sad existence, or a very tranquil one.

    Dirofil¡¯s mind, just like the Reaper, kept wandering. From Parvov, to Shadiran, to his own precarious situation, to the question of the Reapers breed. Was it a Husky?

    The Fourth Imagined slid against the cural, descending towards the light. He flowed around the furry stone, a river snaking down an inverted mountain. He slithered silently and with a glacial pace, incorporating and expelling kernels of stone out of his matrix as he advanced.

    After an excruciating hour, almost reaching the bottom, he realized the coral reef was supported by a single drifting Rough collie on whose mats of hair, he assumed , the first coral larvae had found a home, beginning to build the colossal structure. The dog scratched his side with a noticeable lack of drive. Disheartened, weak kicks that scratched a bit of the stone that grew beyond his back and invaded its sides. The tail had been incorporated into the fabric of the reef, much like Leptos into his own core. It wouldn¡¯t wag again.

    Putting the poor thing out of its misery crossed Dirofil¡¯s mind. Using valuable time to remove the limestone around the tail, setting it free. Letting it dash from left to right and back as it should. But the ocean wouldn¡¯t recognize an act of kindness. The behemoth that had swallowed him ¡ªthat would eventually swallow everyone¡ª knew not of moral intricacies, endorsed no system to reward good deeds or punish bad ones. The ocean was no arbiter of good nor evil, and no dispenser of it either. Things in the ocean were, a physical mound of careless facts covered in fur. The hounds hunted, the corals grew, the Reaper rendered his kin thoughtless, the Pomeranians spat out green thunder. A mass of dogs, a reality solid and undeniable.

    The only punishment for not helping the dog would be the one allotted by his conscience. Could he afford to be the Thinker Leptos thought he was? He preferred to not find out.

    This evil, like the Reaper, he would let pass. So he began lowering himself, a stalactite that slowly incorporated the brass bones dense water had dragged along, and dropped over a collie, letting the floating reef behind. If his calculations weren¡¯t wrong, he had to be near the area of Lyssav¡¯s spire. If he crawled out the ocean ¡ªand the sole idea was demoralizing¡ª he could either free her to try and earn her favor, or see how much the tides had descended, how far they were from engulfing her spire and unleashing her rage. To free Lyssav, to act against his best self interest in hopes of sparing the Corship and its crew her unheeding ire. To free the wagging tail. Those were the right things to do.

    Maybe he could strike a deal. Act like he had left behind the idea of remaking the world, only yearning to see Shadiran once more. Lyssav could watch over them and enact her dream at the same time. So furtively ascending the Zenith¡­ that was an option, if he could reach the other side with her help. It was a risky plan, but not much more than diving into the ocean blind as he had.

    It was settled. He would come out the sea, by the bottom, if only to visit his elder siblings, because it was clear Cynothalassa wasn¡¯t to be taken on alone, and because it would be safer to get to Babesi through known terrain: ascending from Leptos spire.

 Chapter 30: Homecoming

    ¡°Humanity faces its darkest hour, and there won¡¯t be a new dawn. Not for us, not for the trees, not for the bacteria in the puddle of my porch. And in this dusk of all life, the Lottery has chosen a couple of students. The girl who won, and the veterinarian boyfriend. Their idea for a new world is nauseous. Slimy creatures assailed by an army of curs ¡ª an ocean, according to this¡­ pair. The Lottery confers a right akin to the divine. There¡¯s no arguing it.  But there can ¡ª and should ¡ª be a lament about it. Humanity could create a wonderful world, the perfect heritage. We could grant them wondrous demiurges of love so pure, an afterlife that makes life worth living, good deeds worth doing.

    Yet we have these¡­ little shits, playing around, building a world as if for a weird book it were. But this new world is all that there will exist after our end. Little candlelight of creativity amidst a sandstorm of dull darkness. And they created these unfortunate machines, knowing of the simulacrum of a ghost they carry in their chests. And these poor dogs, denatured, deprived of their freedom, clustered together. We have left creation in the hands of psychopaths.¡±

    ¡ªMusings of a Detractor, Page 1

    Doratev, perplexed, couldn¡¯t take his eyes away from the shining object he had found after removing one of the ceiling plates.  He had dropped the metal lump unceremoniously as he steepled the fingers of two hands and used the third to scratch the side of his tilted head. ¡°This is an original¡¯s thoughtcrystal, I think? I don¡¯t see¡­ flaws,¡± he mumbled to himself as he inspected the spatangoid-shaped object.   ¡°Oh dear, there are no flaws. Parvov¡¯s dead, Lyssav should be in her spire. Leptos too. Dirofil¡­ this isn¡¯t his, despite his disappearance. I think he jumped off,¡± He said with an unwarrantedly casual tone, his tail flicking behind him, sweeping the floor as he thought. ¡°It has to be a Thinker of the Edge. Desmodus is dead. If this were Shadiran¡¯s core I am positive Dirofil would have found it first. That leaves five others. It¡¯s not strong enough to be Vedala, possibly too weak to be Mardhaka, too.  Maybe¡­¡± He popped his hand in his head and fished out one of his ears, approaching it to the mysterious core to see if it took it.

    Nothing. Whoever this was, they didn¡¯t want to communicate. He attuned his core to different channels, carefully filtering each thoughtstream, every frequency. The whole ship was submerged in a strange mix of relief for the departure of the Reaper hours prior, and concern for the malfunctioning of¡­ well, everything.  Malfunctioning that most likely was this thoughtcrystal¡¯s fault. But the thing seemed to emit nothing intelligible.

    Captain Morbilliv, I have found the problem. Lower deck. About four o¡¯clock from Loretta. Come.

    Morbilliv took a second to answer the mental prompt. Ass or head as a reference?

    Liver.

    How am I supposed to know where¡­

    Mental silence. Doratev wondered if Morbilliv was asking around in which side of the body dogs had their liver. He could answer that with ease. Hell, their memories from the world before the world contained that information, if one took the time to think about it, to interpret them.

    But luckily he didn¡¯t need to provide an answer, as soon enough another thought from Morbilliv coursed through the lattice of minds.

    Right side, got it. The horns are pretty good for dissecting Chihuahuas.

    You could have used the claws, sir.

    Party pooper.

    Doratev sat on the floor and basked in the light of the mysterious core. His coat of little metal scales trapped under his hips, he didn¡¯t bother to tug it off. ¡°Who are you, I wonder?¡± He asked just as a Splinter of Lyssav crawled by.

    ¡°Lanidara, Doctor.¡±

    The doctor startled and turned suddenly. ¡°Not you, them.¡± He pointed emphatically at the core shining inside the ceiling of the corridor. ¡°I take careful stock of my fellow Splinters on board. Of everyone on board, truly, but it should go without saying that we outnumber the originals by a wide margin. Everyone knows when Dirofil is on board. Everyone knows when Morbilliv gets off the ship. I don¡¯t know if the ones that were deep in meditation during the last crisis have noticed the absence of Filbaros yet. Maybe they never will.¡±

    ¡°We should organize another funeral. For Filbaros.¡±

    Doratev Shrugged. In his opinion, funerals where worthless, a waste of valuable resources. ¡°FIlbaros won¡¯t know nor care if we perform, or not, such a ritual. Parsimony dictates that preserving the status quo is optimal in our situation. That settled, could I get your opinion on this? An original core.¡±

    ¡°Ah, yes.¡± The Splinter of Lyssav said as she stretched her neck to examine the crystal up close. ¡°This must be why the ship is aching as of late. We found it weird, thought it could be one of the legsteerers spreading their consciousness too thin. Not a newly-formed thoughtcrystal.¡±

    ¡°Newly-formed?¡± Doratev hadn¡¯t considered the possibility, and his eyes begged Lanidara to explain herself.

    ¡°What else could it be? We more or less know where all the Thinkers of the Core are. The Thinkers of the edge cannot cross the Mauling layer, no? The simplest explanation is that this thoughtcrystal is...¡± Then she whipped her head to the side just as Morbilliv descended a flight of sphere stairs. ¡°Boss.¡±

    ¡°Lanidara. Doratev ¡ª¡± he regarded, and immediately shifted his focus to the thoughtcrystal embedded into the fabric of the ship. ¡°What is that?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s load-bearing.¡± Doratev deadpanned.

    ¡°That won¡¯t stick this time, Doratev,¡± Lanidara spoke both her mind and Morbilliv¡¯s.

    ¡°It was worth a try. Morbilliv, your opinion?¡±

    Morbilliv restated his initial question.

    ¡°An Original¡¯s core. A new one, according to Lanidara. Some Thinker at the Edge, I believe. No idea who, though.¡±

    Parvov¡¯s horn greeted the newborn face to face, four eyes not belonging to the ghost in charge of the machine projecting a tired stare into the newly-formed heart of the Corship. ¡°It¡¯s weak, too weak to be from an Original, Doratev. This has to be a Splinter.¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir, but it has no Flaws. The energy flows homogenously through it. It¡¯s very demanding to correct a flaw in one¡¯s core. Dangerous, even. Just because I did with mine, it doesn¡¯t mean others would dare try,¡± Doratev explained, the fetid thought of the Originals never needing to go through the excruciating process nesting in the locus of his mind.

    ¡°We have no proof of splintering necessarily resulting in flawed thoughtcrystals, Doratev.¡±

    ¡°We have no proof of there being no cats in the sea, and I would bet against anyone that claimed that he or she would find a cat and bring it here. This is an Original. Either a Thinker of the Edge or, well¡­¡± Doratev found himself not wanting to say what he had thought, but not for fear of Morbilliv¡¯s reaction. He had never feared Parvov, and Morbilliv couldn¡¯t compare to the tantrums of his big brother. Even while being mauled by the captain Doratev had been able to observe such reality.

    ¡°A new Original? But then we would begin to find Splinters of him or her in this sea.¡± Morbilliv joined Parvov¡¯s hands behind his back. The voice of the captain dropped low. ¡°It would be a tragedy, though, if it were true. They would be confused. Shaken to the core by a world so wronged. The time to be born ended long ago.¡±

    The two Splinters nodded with warranted gravity.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    ¡°It¡¯s not a world to be born in. But maybe it never was. Yet alive we are.¡± said Lanidara. ¡°And it isn¡¯t that bad here in the sea.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t believe your kind can hold a sufficiently unbiased opinion about suffering and its merits, Lanidara,¡± replied Doratev in a mellow tone. ¡°Should we render it thoughtless?¡±

    Morbilliv turned suddenly, head tilted back, four eyes drilling into Doratev¡¯s gaze. ¡°Not in a billion tides. Your kindness is Dirofil¡¯s, that of a mercy killer.¡±

    ¡°If it¡¯s a crime bringing someone to life, it sure must be a good deed taking them out of it, no?¡± Doratev argued. ¡°Or, at the very least, a corrective measure. After all, this thoughtcrystal may have coalesced from the remainders of the abundant energy we all spend on our daily duties. A child of the Corship¡¯s crew.¡±

    Morbilliv returned his attention to the crystal. ¡°A child of many minds.¡±  Two-clawed fingers caressed the surface of the crystal, and in it Morbilliv could feel an unknown presence. ¡°Yes, I believe it could be. If we caused this, we should apologize.¡±

    A web of slime suddenly shot from the unnamed sibling, attaching to the panel Doratev had removed to uncover the core. It pulled from the metal sheet in pulses, dragging it back as Morbilliv stepped aside to give it space to accommodate.

    ¡°It would seem like someone doesn¡¯t want to be bothered. Doratev, any idea on how to proceed? Any¡­ request to run some tests?¡± Morbilliv peered at the doctor over Parvov¡¯s mistreated shoulder.

    ¡°Indeed, sir. I suspect the refusal of this new one to communicate is due to interference. Imagine you had several other souls inside your body, tugging on your legs and fingers, seeing through your eyes, psycholocating endlessly. Wouldn¡¯t you feel overwhelmed?¡±

    After a few instants of stillness, Parvov¡¯s head bobbed up and down. ¡°I see. I¡¯ll tell everyone to take a break from their tasks while there¡¯s calm to be had. Personally. Make the rounds, decongest the telepathic channels.¡±

    ¡°Decongest?¡± Doratev scoffed. ¡°A curious way to betray your name, Capt.¡±

    ¡°They named us like illnesses, Doratev. Only in name I am Distemper. Only in name was the rightful father of the Corship a virus. Dirofil may want to honor his name. Na?ve. There¡¯s glory in a symmetrical battle.¡±

    Doratev leaned against then wall, shrugged with a single shoulder, and then remained silent.

    Morbilliv relaxed his posture in defeat. ¡°You are thinking about explosives in warfare, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Pugs are my favorite dog breed. I have even developed some small scale guns¡­ without telling you.¡±

    Morbilliv sauntered up to Doratev, the massive form of Parvov dwarfing the flimsy Splinter of Dirofil. However, and as Lanidara could attest, Doratev looked up at the captain as if he were an equal. The senior crewmates had told her that Doratev had known how to be almost a brother to Parvov, a suitable replacement of Dirofil. It wasn¡¯t surprising, then, to see him defying Morbilliv so often, despite both his core and body being far weaker than the Original¡¯s. To hurt Doratev was to cross the ghost of Parvov. And it resulted curious to the Splinter of Lyssav, in her pragmatism, how something inexistent had learned how to so consistently loom over every nook and cranny of the ship.

    ¡°You should have told me. I would have encouraged the project. So long as you didn¡¯t blow the ship up, that is.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s ample registry of my extremely careful handling of puggum. Any other Splinter would have blown the laboratory twice as often, at the very least.  But, ah, the guns are now, and their stability is nearly guaranteed.¡±

    A single finger with twin claws intruded once more Doratev¡¯s flesh. ¡°Let¡¯s make sure to solve the newborn crisis for now, shall we? Try to communicate once every other soul on board is muted.¡±

    ¡°You inhabit his skin, but you are not your brother, Morbilliv,¡± Doratev then made a long pause. ¡°Say please once in a while.¡±

    The casual tone of the Doctor made the captain take a step back. ¡°Be more normal once in a while!¡±

    They kept on bickering while Lanidara took upon herself the task of informing her crewmates that they were to drop whatever they had been tasked with and take a deserved rest for the time being.

    <hr>

    Of all the things Dirofil had ever forgotten, the most baffling of them had to be how difficult it resulted to maneuver inside the puppy layer.  Gone was the mindset he fostered the first time he faced the sea, of Cynothalassa being this mysterious and dangerous mass of deadly wonders.  Now he knew the light of the retriever puppies was no gentler than the darkness above. That the constant symphony of beating hearts was the victorious march of the enemy and its army of core-eaters.  That there was a layer he couldn¡¯t cross, who knew how deep, between him and Shadiran. And to top it all off, the only way he had found to survive had been to drink from the polluted stream the sea offered, to taint his soma with the essence of his enemies. Where once had kissed and intermingled the very spirit of Shadiran a cursed eye slept. The eye of the Reaper had no doubt saved his life, maybe the lives of the whole crew of the Corship. And yet, as he wiggled from side to side to dig in the tightly packed puppies, he could only find scorn and hatred for the thing.

    Now he had to drag his image in front of his elder siblings, to be pitied by Leptos and judged by Lyssav, and he wouldn¡¯t be able to hide the eye, the lungs, and definitively not the teeth of the cape. As he grabbed onto a loose pup and tried to pull himself under, he couldn¡¯t stop ruminating about this contamination. Lyssav, in all her ugly perfection, would mock his incapacity to breast the sea with the strength of his soul or mind alone. And to appear weak before her, unparalleled disgrace.

    He drew himself lower, head down, pushing through another cluster of densely-tangled puppies. It was amazing how tightly could the little things hold onto each other when they put their young minds to it.

    Dig, Dirofil, dig. He didn¡¯t know how deep he was already, nor how thick the retriever layer would unfurl in this part of the sea.  Yet he had to endure, to drag himself lower. Illuminated by omnipresent puppies, he clawed at fluffy butts and pushed against soft bellies, aiming to be vomited by the sea that had once swallowed him. He wondered if he would crumble. If the sight of his spire half-sunken into the floating sea would spur some deleterious feeling. Out there the world was ending, and a new gaze upon it would alter the picture engraved in his mind.  Oblivion without a paintjob. Naked. Bared for him to see, that¡¯s what he would find.

    But wasn¡¯t he aware of it, though? Of the fact that whether he reached the Zenith or perished in the way, the Thinkers as a species were doomed? Doomed to repair and crew a ship as the sea made their numbers slowly dwindle, doomed to be erased so a new world would thrive, or doomed to be Lyssav¡¯s tortured puppets. Or, if he could allow himself a sliver of hope, doomed to live in whatever way one of Shadiran¡¯s siblings envisioned. Not Vedala, as hers was a faithful reflection of Leptos¡¯ way of thinking. He had never got along with Mardhaka or the others, so he didn¡¯t know if they had plans for the end. Probably not. Seeing the sea come from below meant the hope was to climb, maybe to raise the floating palaces. It was when it trapped you between the noxious core of the world and itself that you knew there would be no way out unless you carved one.

    He would not perish. He would make a world without end; and if every world had to have an end, a world without time; and if every world had to have time, a world where the end would be a reason to celebrate!

    Stretching further, trying to maximize the length dropped with each tug, he soon began finding older dogs interspersed among the puppies. Flat coated, Curly coated, Labradors, a lone Chesapeake Bay Retriever with their wooden color, and a red and white Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever puppy. Most of the dog mass, though, was still composed of Labradors and Goldens.

    Puppies grew, and grew scarce too. Dirofil could feel it: he was getting closer to the lower surface. His endeavor paid dividends, his escape from the Reaper about to culminate. Freedom from the sea, temporal, possibly terminal, waited nearby.

    Reached for a tail. Reached for a leg. Clasped onto a mouth with little, needle-like teeth.  This nematode would wiggle his way out the sea, not from the side he wished to, but from the side he needed to.

    His vision gradually got diminished as the orange smoke announced its presence. Due to the intense retriever light he had failed to notice it until then. The breath of the dark core of the world permeated the retriever layer, thin and barely perceptible, but with its characteristic sting on one¡¯s mucilage still present. The psychosarc ¡ª the flesh of the soul, the slimy matrix that held Thinkers together ¡ª recognized the atmosphere of his home.

    The thought of the air of the sea¡¯s depths, as humid as it was, being limpid caused his bones to shudder and his whole self to cringe. The cleanest part of the world, where spheres danced one around another and silently watched over his dates with Shadiran, had been the first to be swallowed.

    Pushing a bit further, he emerged. His head popping out amid countless snouts and butts. No known spires were in sight as he turned on his own axis. But there were splinterspires there. They had been weathered, their tops amputated by the tides and shaved off smoothly. Their tops were rounded, or so they appeared through the thick exhale of the dark core of the world.  He faced the tallest spires, those that were bound to be closest to the center of creation, and as he came out the sea he grabbed onto the wiggling tails of the sea, swinging on them. Like a monkey flying from branch to branch he maneuvered from dog to dog.

    This little shadow that had swallowed a star balanced over and among ruins licked tot the ground. In the cadavers of the towers eh could recognize smidges of color, of personality. This one was a Splinterspire of Lyssav, in its red hues and rotten boulders. A Splinterspire of Leptos, white and flawless where it remained intact. That one had belonged to a Splinter of Babesi, violet, full of curved shapes that one would think unstable, but standing proud all the same.  And walking in the air between two crumbling Spires, a six armed figure of white light, staring at him intently.

    ¡°Leptos!¡± Dirofil regarded the wandering avatar of his brother.

    Arms leaning back like ribbons of some soft fabric, and head hanging to the side as if unsupported, the Avatar of Leptos answered. ¡°I saw you coming from afar, Brother. Follow me, Lyssav is currently visiting my spire. We could have a family reunion, if it would please you, dear.¡±

    Dirofil almost lets the tails go, which would have been a very unfortunate development. Lyssav was free. Perhaps Leptos had woken up and released her from her watery purgatory. That would be the best case scenario.

    He didn¡¯t want to think about the worst one.

 Chapter 31: Crimson Light in the Stairway

    ¡°Chihuahuite makes for great fragmentary ammunition, and the Splinters of the Devil I used for target practice can attest to it. Arguably, so do whole Chihuahuas, but firing a mutant Chihuahua cannon is expensive, puggum wise. And the Splinters of Babesi are easier to hit with small weapons anyway¡­¡±

    ¡ªDoratev, in one of his recordings, being Doratev.

    Leptos hadn¡¯t commented on the dog-sourced insertions, but he had to have noticed. Dirofil had wondered, one too many times, why his brother whose tranquility and amicability presented as peerless, called him the kind one.

    His cape hung from his shoulders with pride, his left arms were split and ready to salute with delicacy. Every sensory organ inside his head floated in the place it was expected to, and so did his voicebox. Across the thick orange smoke he thought he had seen something move, around the Spire of Parvov, but with Leptos awake, it could be one of the countless echoes his brother projected into the world. It could also have been an excuse conjured by his mind, a way to avoid the rendezvous with the sister he loved the less.

    The Fourth Imagined tried to remember, remember how many were the steps up to Leptos throne. Once, he had counted them. The throne chamber that stood further from the spire base was, for reasons unbeknownst to him, Babesi¡¯s, but only if one measured by number of steps. If one added the height of each step to the number of them, the first place was taken by Morbilliv¡¯s, as the steps in Babesi¡¯s spire clung close to the ground, kept a low profile becoming of the little sister.

    He knew him and Lyssav shared the number of steps, but not the height, and yet the irregularity of the staircase in Lyssav¡¯s spire meant their thrones rested at exactly the same distance from the base. Hers was not a centimeter higher, his was not an inch lower.

    He still couldn¡¯t remember the exact number of steps up to Leptos¡¯ room. Yet under the gaze of the deformed snakes he took the first one, and then the second. It was an ambling ascent, the talons meeting the felsic stone on their own terms.

    The Spires enjoyed few to no windows. That differentiated them from the stylish Palaces of the edge, with their obscene openings, their lavish balconies and their refined columns.

    Lavish. Refined. Obscene. As if those words held any meanings intrinsic to the reality they inhabited. Riches were mere fantasy, as it was sex. Thinkers warred not for food, not for water. Not for mates. Not for territory. Barring exceptional circumstances, conflict wasn¡¯t something they needed to concern themselves with, as there existed nothing to nourish it. The creators had the kindness of sparing them of these evils, the knowledge provided about them merely didactical, one could say.

    Dirofil wasn¡¯t even sure what the utility of gender was supposed to be, speaking of Thinkers. To facilitate and vary the use of the inherited language, a possible explanation. Another was that it, like many other things, was an inheritance for the sake of its own preservation. It had meant something to the creators, and thus they had been created as a means to keep it alive when the world before the world ended.

    But it isn¡¯t the job of a last breath to preserve the lungs that exhaled it. To expect such behavior was not only na?ve, but cruel, at least in Dirofil¡¯s opinion. Yet if the creators had willed it, it was ingrained in their nature. They were forced to carry this inheritance. To muse about it as they ascended spires to meet equals they didn¡¯t want to.

    The marble of the steps exemplified cold. Their whole world lacked the slick warmth of the sea. And this meant nothing.

    And cold, likewise, was the triangular stare that met him when he ascended a few more steps. Tilting his head back slightly he regarded The Second Envisioned in silence. He wouldn¡¯t be the first one to speak, not even when met with the imposing presence his sister commanded.

    Lyssav¡¯s mouth curled, half into a smile, half into a frown, and neither side seemed to be influenced by the other. ¡°Leptos said we¡¯d have visits. But I expected Parvov instead of you,¡± She began walking backwards, upstairs, as Dirofil advanced slowly. ¡°It¡¯s no less of a pleasure to have you instead, Dirofil.¡±

    ¡°Stop expecting him, Lyssav,¡± the Fourth Imagined forwent looking her in the eyes while speaking. ¡°Not for now. In general.¡±

    One of Lyssav¡¯s arms shot to grab Dirofil¡¯s arm as he tried to slip by her side. Her eyes burned with an anger he wouldn¡¯t entertain. ¡°Your dear sister has a little score to settle with him. Don¡¯t tell me how to work through my feelings.¡±

    ¡°I know he imprisoned you. I know of the chains, of the vials of water.¡± Lyssav recoiled at the mention of the vile liquid, but Dirofil kept looking at the next step. ¡°But you won¡¯t get a revenge. I am not telling you that you cannot because he is our brother. I am telling you that you cannot because he was our brother.¡±

    Lyssav¡¯s grip pressed onto his metallic bones and her claws threatened to pierce his shoulder, but eventually she let him go. ¡°So we are six now?¡±

    ¡°Five. I am telling you we are five.¡±

    ¡°Six,¡± Lyssav insisted, the ire in her eyes giving place to defeat. ¡°There¡¯s a new one.¡±

    Every cubic millimeter of slime in Dirofil¡¯s body shifted sideways to face his sister. ¡°You are kidding.¡±

    ¡°No, they gather around Parvov¡¯s wailing Spire. The Splinters of the Seventh.¡±

    ¡°Seventh what? If I have a new sibling, I want to know their epithet.¡±

    ¡°Seventh something. It doesn¡¯t speak. Leptos told me to show you. Follow,¡± she commanded as she dropped her bulging, centipede-like abdomen down another couple of steps. She didn¡¯t turn to address her little brother this time: ¡°And I mean it. Follow.¡±

    Lyssav didn¡¯t need the object pronoun. Were it up to her, there would be no use to modifying such a verb. Because, when one thought about it, what else was there to follow but her? Or, rather, what else was worth to follow?

    Dirofil complied, unwilling to anger his elder. This elder. He kept his eyes on Lyssav¡¯s wings, if only because they were the less grotesque of her features. If Lyssav was rabies, the wings were supposed to imitate a bat¡¯s. Long ago had he realized how disparate that comparison was. Lyssav should have had three arms, if one wished to akin the wings to that of a chiropteran. But when reality was prodded for an answer, it answered five. Lyssav had, then, seven forelimbs, breaking the pattern they all shared. The first was born with six hands. The sixth was born with only one.

    But that held true only so long as one respected the homologies. Lyssav¡¯s wings resembled those evolved from hands, but that didn¡¯t mean they were. Lyssav¡¯s wings, in their reality, without the context provided from memories alien, were, and had always been, wings, not hands. And therefore, they were as wrong and deformed as the rest of her.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°I have seen horrors inside the sea.¡± He said as the light cast from her core enveloped them and turned the white stone around them into a lurid rose gullet. ¡°The worst of them don¡¯t compare to your horrifying presence, sister.¡±

    ¡°Flattery won¡¯t get you anywhere, Dirofil,¡± she descended another step, and the impact of her psychosarc hitting the floor provided an echoic voice to the throat engulfing them.

    ¡°I am well aware. You know how I think of you. What I think of you. When I think of you. I wish I saw your face in theirs whenever I have to kill them. That would make it easier,¡± Dirofil lied.

    Lyssav turned her head half a circle, like an owl would. ¡°More flattery from the one that added bone spikes to his cape.¡±

    ¡°They are teeth. From mutant Chihuahuas.¡±

    Lyssav froze in place, and due to their slow pace Dirofil could avoid bumping into her. ¡°Chihuahuas? Beyond the Retrievers?¡±

    Dirofil opened the eye of the Reaper and showcased it only for a second. He hated what he saw through it. Even Lyssav¡¯s soul looked mangled. ¡°This one attracts the worst mutant I know. It¡¯s like night hunting after you. One of those killed Parvov.¡±

    Dirofil had never witnessed what happened then. Lyssav¡¯s visage adopted a smile that wasn¡¯t a grin. A gesture of genuine excitement.

    ¡°Do they suffer?¡±

    ¡°I make sure the Chihuahuas do. Hate the things.¡±

    One of Lyssav¡¯s long claws aligned with the space between Dirofil¡¯s eyes. Her body still faced the way down. ¡°The sea sounds like fun. A perfect place to rule over.¡±

    ¡°Cynothalassa isn¡¯t a place.¡±

    ¡°True, true.¡± Lyssav set her head straight and gargled a chuckle. ¡°Subject is the correct word.¡±

    ¡°You seem rather unbothered for someone that just found out her brother is dead.¡± If poking bears were they, he would poke the bigger one, just to honor Parvov¡¯s memory. To elicit Lyssav¡¯s anger was a terrible idea. But to hear her speak against the sea with such emotion was downright atrocious.

    ¡°Parvov¡¯s demise pains me, and chokes out my need for retribution. The first is good, the second up for debate.¡±

    They finally reached the exit and the light of the retrievers fell on them, overcoming that of their ancient cores. Time had passed through them like silt through a sieve. Now the final clock, golden and beautiful, hung over them, and in its entrails it gestated nightmares. One of Dirofil¡¯s digits sprung in direction of the waves.

    ¡°You think such vastness could serve you? That those old coats and the warmth they give off can obey us? The structural, so to speak, dogs are impervious to damage, Lyssav.¡±

    ¡°The gross of the sea is boring. Copied. I will manage, little brother. Worry not.¡±

    Lyssav seemed to be unfazed by his criticism, and Dirofil couldn¡¯t parse if she was mocking him or displaying some surprising honesty.

    ¡°You¡¯ll manage. Manage to end up like Parvov if you aren¡¯t careful. Those things eat souls, Lyssav.¡±

    Lyssav glanced at her brother through her crown of arms. ¡°That means we are on equal footing. Besides, you survived the sea, didn¡¯t you? You even incorporated part of it to your figure.¡±

    ¡°Not alone. There¡¯s a ship. Made out of corgis. By Parvov and a crew of Splinters.¡±

    Lyssav stopped the walk towards the edge of the Spire¡¯s base. ¡°I see, so that¡¯s how it is. How did they animate it?¡±

    Dirofil unsheathed his arms from the cape and stretched casually. ¡°Animate what? The ship has legs actioned by Splinters infusing their souls into them, using some metal clasps that hold their cores still.¡±

    This brought the Snake Jaws to Lyssav¡¯s mind, the ones she had seen while¡­ investigating. She spread her parodies of wings and began beating them without the tiniest regard for her sibling, who had to step back to avoid getting hit by his sister¡¯s appendages. ¡°Stay here. I¡¯ll show you something.¡± The way in which Lyssav had intoned the last word made Dirofil¡¯s flesh shudder and his bone to rattle softly.

    First Lyssav became a blurry image, and then a shadow seen through clouds fo orange, a tiny dot approaching Parvov¡¯s Spire and the shapes that seemed to move on them. Dirofil decided to point the eye of the Reaper to said place, but stopped himself before opening it. There was no immediate danger, and curiosity was no excuse to keep the thing open when Babesi was to be found between him and the creature.

    Moments later, another shadow. Spiky. Growing. Fast. Describing an arch through the air and in collision course with him. Dirofil raced for the doors of the spire in all five, more out of instinct than out of reason. The sea had rendered him too wary to these things, mayhap.

    A thud, the sound of bent metal and a tremor that coursed through the bulk of Leptos¡¯ Spire, then the fall of a behemoth next to the doorway, bathing him in a cloud of dust and Retriever dandruff.

    After rubbing his eyes clean and slipping out by slithering behind the statues of the Imaginers of the World, Dirofil beheld the thing in awe. The twitching legs struggling to grasp the smooth stone. ¡°The Corship splintered.¡± He uttered in disbelief. He wasn¡¯t surprised by Lyssav¡¯s demonstration of prowess, as he was unsure of her limits, and lifting several times her own body weight, even sending it hurling across spires, while nothing to scoff at, was a believable exploit for her.

    Dirofil circled the fallen Splinter as it struggled against its own dinged body. The spikes tips had shattered, the legs wiggled deformed, bent. Lyssav¡¯s cruelty in full display as she landed by him and folded her slimy wings.

    ¡°And, what do you think of this? Is this a reflection of the ship you speak of?¡±

    ¡°Yes, but that¡¯s impossible. The Corship is not alive.¡± Then something clicked inside Dirofil¡¯s mind. ¡°Was not alive. Before jumping off of it to drive a threat away, I saw a most unusual¡­ proliferation of soul energy in the walls. I thought it was the Reaper¡¯s influence. I guess what happened is that the chaos somehow made all the worry and fear of the crew to coalesce into a thoughtcrystal.¡±

    ¡°This is good for Parvov¡¯s crew. Now they can kill the ship and harvest the Splinters for spare parts. The size difference should not matter much,¡± Lyssav commented idly while checking the integrity of her claws. ¡°When did I chip this one? Look.¡± She planted the twisted, crimson cone in front of Dirofil¡¯s face. ¡°Is it chipped to you?¡±

    Dirofil decided against dignifying that question with an answer.

    ¡°So, you came here because you had to escape from that¡­ Reaper, correct?¡± Lyssav broke the slab of silence that had settled between them.

    ¡°Yes. I still intend to erase this reality and make a better one, if that¡¯s your question. Along Shadiran.¡±

    ¡°It would be in my best interest to strike you down where you stand.¡± Lyssav said, and Dirofil knew it wasn¡¯t a threat, but merely a commentary on a matter of fact. There was no mistaking Lyssav¡¯s threats.

    Dirofil¡¯s talons clinked against the felsic rock. ¡°It would be, dear sister. But I am betting my own life here: you wouldn¡¯t. You won¡¯t until you judge me capable of crossing the sea, of threatening your plans.¡±

    Lyssav interlaced two hands over her head and two under it, as if praying. ¡°I want to save everyone from the end of the world, Dirofil. You included. Turn my might into an umbrella. Torture everyone, but drink their pain to stay at the top, like a working umbrella should. I know others dislike pain. I¡¯ll eat it, take it away. Bliss, Dirofil, as lasting as myself.¡±

    ¡°Fitting of you to akin the apocalypse to rain,¡± Dirofil said as Lyssav approached the fallen Splinter of the Corship and grabbed one leg with her five hands. ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    ¡°Sending this baby whence it came.¡±

    The Second Envisioned¡¯s many legs sunk their tips onto the plinth of Leptos¡¯ home. Hear arms worked in unison to swing the leg overhead, and everything attached to said leg. Despite a difference of an order of magnitude in weight and size, she whipped the Corship Splinter around and around with frightening ease, gathering momentum. That¡¯s when the leg gave in and left Lyssav looking at the amputated appendage, blinking as the Splinter¡¯s body shoot in the wrong direction, not towards Parvov¡¯s spire but right into the abyss.

    With the remaining legs facing a barking and panting firmament the Splinter of the Corship plummeted in collision course with the dark core of the world, and the pervading shadow of the depth embraced it, swallowed it. After a few seconds, an eruption of orange gas welled from the insensible heart of creation, a mushroom of cruelty that battered the sea and embedded a single female corgi into its tail-wagging surface.

    ¡°Huh, even Loretta splintered,¡± Dirofil muttered, just loud enough for Lyssav to hear.

    ¡°What¡¯s a Loretta?¡±

    ¡°A load-bearing Corgi that is found sticking out a wall in the lower deck of the Corship.¡±

    Lyssav hissed. That wasn¡¯t a good sign. ¡°Answer me honestly, brat.¡±

    Dirofil stashed his arms inside his cape. ¡°That was pure honesty. Or do you think Parvov wouldn¡¯t mesh a damned dog onto the structure of his ship? I was as baffled as you are when I found out.¡±

    ¡°It sounds like Parvov. But how is it load bearing?¡± Lyssav asked, tilting her head in a way that would have been cute if performed by any creature that didn¡¯t resemble a living nightmare.

    ¡°Beats me.¡±

    ¡°Everything beats you, dear brother,¡± Lyssav said, and then turned over her own axis, heading back into Leptos¡¯ spire. ¡°We shall bid Leptos a farewell, Brother. Follow.¡±

    ¡°Why are you assuming I am returning to the sea so soon?¡±

    ¡°Because, Dirofil.¡± Lyssav blinked, once with each fire-kissed eye. Then grinned in a revolting way. ¡°The sister you love the most could use a guide.¡±

 Chapter 32: All the Eyes that Paint Our World

    ¡°¡®Hey, Doratev, I had a marvelous idea. I want to butt a Corgi into this wall and tell everyone it is load-bearing. Think that¡¯s doable?¡¯

    ¡®It can be arranged, my gigantic moron. But I am naming her.¡¯

    ¡®How insensible.¡¯¡±

    ¡ªParvov and Doratev, in a conversation recreated in the secret recording lovingly named Legend of Loretta: Beginnings.

    Heights. Vedala, submerged into a slumber of the sane. The baubles silent, unbetraying. The violet clouds witnessing. The burning core, casting its tyrannical cold over the palaces. The faceless visage, the husk, contemplating the expanse of Cynothalassa, pupils absent, but spots brimming with activity. Ground, gold and blue tiles at the palace¡¯s base. A little whirlpool had gestated to her left, started by a lab hopping over his equals to chase his own tail.

    Shadiran reformed her head and used a single hand to straighten a kinked femur. A single fall wouldn¡¯t break Dirofil¡¯s widow. To her own disgrace, she feared death, and the emotion from the jump proved underwhelming, insufficient to edge her to detonate her core. She examined her dress, confirmed all the beads were in place. So it seemed.

    The doors of the palace, gates of many mixed-and-matched metals of different hues with a front depicting the thorny Imaginers in a tasteful bas-relief, stood ajar and pitied her. She could cross them again. Climb the squared staircase.  Sneak past Vedala and return to the balcony, only to take the short way down a second time.

    She would not grace Vedala¡¯s stairs with her defeat turned into a sorry march.

    Thus Shadiran faced the sea. The tide was high, just a few heights of her body below the edge of the palace¡¯s yard. A little hop away.

    A little hop, and not away anymore. Her evenly spaced toes found the dog she landed over fluffy. A Curly-coated Retriever that barked twice at The Besotted. In the past, she would have petted the creature. Hugged it and lifted it out the sea, maybe. This tide she lacked energy to do anything but ignore it. Other dogs licked at her feet, up her ankles, with intentions perhaps benevolent, perhaps maleficent. She couldn¡¯t know; she wondered if she was meant to care as she strode from pup to pup.

    Her palace was far away from Vedala¡¯s, but the sea was mostly at calm, and as such, walkable. She needed to kill time. She wanted to murder it, stab it, sure, but until that became possible, meditating to forget Dirofil¡¯s absence for a wee while would suffice.

    A wave threatened to break against her, and Shadiran simply leapt over it, traversing several times her body length in a single jump. Even aching from the fall she was able of honoring the athletic feats of her days of youth. No other pair, or couple, of Thinkers had gamboled more on the way between both homelands. Dirofil climbed faster than her, but she jumped higher than him. Both of them danced though the sphereway, coalescing into a single body with two minds at times, and then pulling apart, regenerating the duality. Once she had left an eye spot on his right hand, showed him the world as she saw it, and he had lent her his eye to return the gesture. He had said that he looked hideous in her eyes, and she had retorted that she could say the same about herself in his. They had both laughed before having a playful spar on the platform of Mardhaka¡¯s palace. Neither had won, victory was not what they sparred for. It was their loving ritual, another way of showcasing their souls to each other. A deflected set of claws met with an intense gaze, a wound of the mucilage soon to heal celebrated with delight, guffaws. Once Desmodus had furtively observed them go about their act of lovebirds, and he had spread his wings wide and taken flight to kick them both in the head while the lovers entangled claws and strived to shift their anatomy such that they could topple the other, transiently decapitating her and sending Dirofil¡¯s left eye rolling across the rosy marble of Desmodus¡¯ palace¡¯s yard. Those had been happy tides before the tides.

    Times past, times gone. Times swallowed by the sea under her feet. Out of rage she kicked a snout that dared pop out of the mass of Retrievers, prompting a whimper from the surprised dog.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Immersed in her fit of rage, in her reverie of memories, she didn¡¯t notice him approaching, digging through the dogs as he liked to do. The elongate body rose in front of her, the crooked notochord guiding the mass of transparent, deep-blue-tinged flesh. He stood on five appendages that couldn¡¯t be called anything but roots, long and pointed. His face consisted of a glabella here, an schizochroal-like eye immediately to the left, and a metallic Aristotle¡¯s Lantern on the opposite side of the so-called head, lower with respect to the sagittal plane, keeping the asymmetry so characteristic of this brother. And inside that echinodermal mouthpiece, when the five teeth parted, a vertebrate-like eye could be seen, using the urchin¡¯s jaws as improvised lids.

    His voicebox, like its product, twisted, the sound emitted barely intelligible to those unused to it. As it was only natural, though, his younger sister found no barriers to understand him. ¡°I saw you jump, Shadiran. Many times.¡±

    ¡°That eye of yours sees everything many times, Angio.¡±

    Angio The Misbegotten whistled out a laugh. He had always loved Shadiran¡¯s harmonic voice, so different from him, from the carefully disparate design that defined what Angio was supposed to be. His sole vertebra slid up and down the notochord, split in twain, left and right half of the spondyle moving independently. ¡°Seventy-three, indeed. And it sees that you seem pained by your little acrobatics show, sis.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a long fall from Vedala¡¯s balcony. Step aside, I am primed for a rest.¡±

    ¡°Considering suicide, are you? To lose a sister to the sea would be tragic but understandable. Yet, to lose a sister to loneliness¡­ I wouldn¡¯t know how to make it make sense.¡±

    ¡°You have never loved anyone. Not even yourself. I won¡¯t ask you to understand my anguish, brother.¡±

    The Aristotle¡¯s lantern closed, letting Angio inspect Shadiran with the trilobite-like eye alone. ¡°I cannot love. That¡¯s a matter of fact. A fall cannot kill you. That¡¯s another. I foster as much appreciation for myself and my siblings as I am capable of, which isn¡¯t half of what you¡¯d like, but it already feels overwhelming for my core. I am slightly emotionally invested in your wellbeing, Shadiran.¡±

    Shadiran abandoned her slouch, something the meandering creature in front of her couldn¡¯t do. All of her eyespots relocated to the front of her body, beholding her brother in her watercolor reality.   One day the world would stop being painted like that. One day, all that would remain of reality would be the sharp edges of the other¡¯s eyes, the ones like Dirofil¡¯s, or whatever mosaic Angio¡¯s constantly created. Only for her and her Splinters the world looked like a painting did to the creators.

    ¡°Come. Walk with me to my palace, brother. We have nothing to talk about, but your company is welcome.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand you, Shadiran. The lot of you. I wish to.¡± He said, mobilizing his stilts, managing a precarious balance by digging their ends between dogs. In other words, stepping aside.

    ¡°Our realities are different, brother. Our somas grant us unique feedback, and it builds the world outwards from the heart of our beings. I must look hideous from your point of view, from your¡­ vertebrate-like eye.¡± She said as they began walking side by side, with her carefully stepping on butts and backs, and him sinking his sharp legs into the snug spaces between Retrievers, his a wobbling march.

    ¡°I have no appreciation for beauty nor aversion for its lack thereof, Shadiran. But I know the theory. Content yourself with your symmetry and smooth surface.  I don¡¯t envy them, but, from what I have gathered, I am considered the ugly one among us. Even the Imaginers called me Misbegotten. Wrong,¡± he said, and Shadiran could identify the absolute lack of bother in his tone.

    It was true. Angio had been created distinctly from the others at the Edge. For some reason, he had been named after a parasite, too. A nematode, like her beloved:  Angiostrongylus vasorum. Many times she had cracked in laughter after calling out ¡°Heartworm¡± only for both of them to turn at once. But the time to play was over, the time to climb stairing spirals of spheres that impaled creation and connected the core to the edge, gone by. Now there was the sea underfoot, deep and fluffy. Sneering.

    ¡°Don¡¯t feel bad. I cannot boast about having a face someone could ever love,¡± joked Shadiran, a glimpse of her old self resurfacing.

    ¡°You have no face,¡± Angio pointed out, humorlessly.

    ¡°It was supposed to be a funny comment, Angio. To raise the spirits.¡±

    ¡°My spirit needs no raising. I am not the depressed one,¡± He stated as tactlessly as it was expected of him. It¡¯s not that Shadiran didn¡¯t mind, but rather that she knew asking for anything else from his elder brother was a fool¡¯s errand.

    ¡°Nevermind.¡±

    And so, immersed in the sort of theoretical silence that exists when one abstracts reality from the whimpering and barking and howling and snorting and sneezing of the sea, they kept on traveling towards her spire. Stepping on myriads of wiggling creatures that panted and smiled and scratched against her rough toes, she wondered if that would be the last time she would walk beside Angio.

    He would miss her. Vedala would miss her. The others would miss her even more.  Possibly half as much as she missed Dirofil in those moments.

    The world was ending, anyway. Chances were that soon not even Lyssav¡¯s odious jaws would remain souled. Her siblings would not miss her, Shadiran The Besotted, for long.

 Chapter 33: Leptos Blessing

    ¡°Come next week, no more weeks will come. There are two milky eyes invading the night sky, and a shadowed tongue licking lips that aren¡¯t there. The predators of the cosmos have set their gaze upon us. The universe collapses inwards, and the catastrophe will converge over us soon. But no. Creating the new universe will delete this one, replace it for the world of the Thinkers. All humanity has to sacrifice is our last second. A second to strike the pact after settling the conditions. I won the Lottery. We created a new world, if only on paper so far. Many naysay our vision. Many celebrate it. Some entrench in the fictions they weave, say it¡¯s all a conspiracy conceived by some sort of evil cabal hellbent on destroying humanity.

    I thought I would be done earlier with these notes. I must say, I procrastinated. We procrastinated. Together we designed another one of Shadiran¡¯s siblings, breaking the symmetry between the Edge and the Core. We had to read on invertebrate paleontology to pick the correct eye. Singular.  I am sorry for taking so long to complete Notes for Cosmopoiesis. Thank you for spending some hours of your time reading it in this blog, now that time has become a resource ever so scarce. Now that you are done, go, spend these last days, hours or minutes with the ones you love. I know I will.

    Farewell, humanity. Our bodies may die, but through the new world our spirit and our beloved puppies will live on.¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoiesis, last page.

    Leptos stared at Dirofil with two eyes of equal size and appearance. Behind his encased form trembled out of emotion a whole tail. Six arms sprouted from his torso. Not one less, not one more.

    Dirofil took a small amount of offense at this.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t know you could regenerate whole body parts,¡± he commented, and refrained from adding ¡°I could have asked for more¡±.

    Leptos didn¡¯t answer. The reason of his muteness lay in plain sight: his soul had choked out his voicebox, covering it completely. Dirofil had always suspected Leptos had found a way to extract unnatural amounts of energy from his own thoughts. Parvov had once theorized, in all his creativity, that the First Pictured had managed to split his mind, and kept half of it on battery duty. In Babesi¡¯s opinion, he needed a bit shorter of an attention span. Morbilliv had never spoken out for he feared his rage, even if such word was the antithesis of all that Leptos had ever stood for. Lyssav was the only one that could know for sure, but her mind was inscrutable, and her rage a very, very¡­ tangible issue. Implying the slightest negative thing about Leptos in front of her needed to be filed under ¡°creative methods for committing suicide¡±.

    ¡°Of course our brother can. You never paid attention to what he is capable of.¡±

    Dirofil found himself losing the battle against his inner demons. He had to ask now that Leptos could defend him if Lyssav were to snap. ¡°Even a backflip?¡±

    Lyssav¡¯s eyes spun in place, her pupils going horizontal before becoming thin lines. ¡°Is that supposed to be humor, my little. Dear. Brother?¡±

    Before Dirofil could answer, before he could face consequences for voiceboxing off so carelessly, a soft rain of dust and rubble began to fall from the ceiling, the whole structure of Leptos¡¯ spire trembling.

    ¡°There¡¯s no need to entertain his petition, Leptos. Really. No need¡­¡± Lyssav pleaded with a forced grin. Dirofil tried not to show his bafflement: to see Lyssav scared of anything besides water was a rare sight. A moment later, said surprise turned to worry: What was his elder brother truly capable of, that only Lyssav knew, that even Lyssav feared?

    When he noticed the slow tilting of the floor, the little bubbles boiling on both his and Lyssav¡¯s flesh, he realized what was happening: ¡°Stop!¡± Dirofil called out. Lyssav smiled. ¡°That would be a front flip. The other way around.¡±

    Lyssav frowned with eyes wide open and injected in hatred.

    The room began turning the other way. The Fourth Imagined secured his position by digging his claws into the stone. The second Envisioned screeched and hissed as her flesh bubbled, annoying her mightily. Leptos¡¯ gaseous presence was a brick wall for both Lyssav¡¯s and Dirofil¡¯s souls, but the youngest of them had gotten used to the constant bombardment of influences from other souls: A gift of the Corship and its constant need for psycholocation, and of Shadiran and her disregard for personal space. This assault that made Lyssav want to tear her bones from her skin was merely a tickling sensation for Dirofil.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Slowly but surely Leptos¡¯ spire turned, toppling over, transforming the floor to which Dirofil held onto into a wall and then into a ceiling, leaving him hanging like a particularly unfazed cat.

    Lyssav took air and kept her form suspended in the middle of the room, slimy wings beating desperately. Fingers curled as they dug in her head and pulled from an eye. She pumped on it, fidgeted with her eye between her fingers, a sort of disgusting tic that provided relief from the sensations inundating her.

    Ceiling became a wall once more, and then a floor. The movement stopped suddenly, sending Dirofil barreling against the nearest wall, the laugh of the First Pictured bathing the minds of both his siblings through their psychic link as the body of stone settled.

    I feel blessed to have both of you here, my cherished siblings. Only the presence of the other two could make this better.

    Lyssav resented how Leptos¡¯ laughter smothered her rage. Furthermore, she couldn¡¯t chastise Dirofil for entertaining their brother.

    Dirofil couldn¡¯t help but admire the integrity of his brother in the face of the news regarding Parvov. It was clear he had heard them speak somehow. Maybe he had been clued in by his spire.  Or he had eavesdropped with one of his projections. It didn¡¯t matter in the big picture, but it still poked the bear of curiosity.

    Dirofil unglued his self from the cloud-colored rock and reformed his body, placing each bone back where it ought to be.  Lyssav watched in disgust. Her brother flowed not unlike the foulest of liquids. Dripped off the perfectly cut bricks. Even under the pristine light of Leptos, water remained anathema to the second envisioned.

    ¡°Lyssav wants me to guide her through the ocean,¡± Dirofil dropped as casually as his phalanxes clicked in place. ¡°Put simply, I fear this time it may be the definitive farewell, brother. Thank you for everything. For the arm. For the tail I lost. For the eye that Morbilliv now uses. For the backflip.¡±

    Lyssav approached him and started massaging his shoulders, the cape and its teeth separating their bodies. ¡°I shall make every molecule in your body scream in pain, Dirofil. With love.¡±

    ¡°I must inform the ocean that with a sister like you I have no further need for enemies.¡± With a sudden movement and a few disdainful steps, Dirofil pulled away from the sibling he wished he didn¡¯t have and towards the one every Thinker admired. ¡°I¡¯ll send your regards to both Morbilliv and Babesi if so you wish, brother.¡±

    They must already know I consider them precious. Dirofil, Lyssav, take care of each other, and of them too. Little is our clique already. Strive so it doesn¡¯t become smaller. But if the world has to end, may it end by your hand and Shadiran¡¯s, Heartworm.

    Dirofil took a knee and crossed three arms in front of his chest, head down. ¡°I¡¯ll honor you, First Pictured.¡±

    And if it is meant to endure instead, may it endure under your unwavering yoke, Rabies.

    Lyssav smiled, satisfied and content with Leptos acceptance, and, in an act hitherto unseen for Dirofil, she knelt by his side. ¡°The world shall honor you, my one beloved.¡±

    Under the light of Leptos¡¯ cyclopean soul both of them were rendered equal. And basking in this equality they found, when they looked into each other¡¯s eyes, that all victories in this world of theirs would be pyrrhic. Like the core at the edge of the world their spirits burned with determination, irreconcilable kinds of. And this was no enmity, no rivalry being born. It was reality settling in like sediments in a basin: There was only one host, one world, for them both, and Dirofil intended to seek a promotion to parasitoid. If neither renounced to their dream, Leptos¡¯ wishes would soon become untenable.  One of them would have to render the other thoughtless, for the sake of a world. The one they lived in, or the one that, in Dirofil¡¯s opinion, deserved to exist. Comprehension was a curse, and in that moment they both fell bewitched.

    They averted their gazes simultaneously, fixing them onto the steps that led to their imprisoned brother. Awareness had graced both of their minds, congealing the air around them, turning it thicker than the mucilage that covered their skeletons could ever get.

    She was fast enough. She could lash out and tear his core out his chest before Leptos could react. Maybe even crush it with her teeth.

    He was intelligent enough to realize jumping off to the side, out of her reach, was the most logical course of action. But that didn¡¯t make it the right one. He didn¡¯t just trust Leptos to stop any ill-intended move from his sister, but trusted her to not make any at all. He respected and feared Lyssav, that was true.

    But Lyssav, in her own wicked way, loved him, and he couldn¡¯t help but reciprocate such feeling in this silent and tragic complicity.

    He stood first, and without mediating a word trailblazed a path through the hanging tension, leading the way to the hole that opened towards the spire¡¯s tip, to the irregular wall he had first climbed many tides ago. ¡°Come, Lyss. Leave Leptos to think in peace. Fate waves and barks over us, anxious.¡±

    Lyssav nodded slowly. ¡°I¡¯ll meet you again once I manage to rule over the sea, Leptos. Goodbye.¡± She waved with her three rightmost arms. ¡°Meditate until then. And don¡¯t you dare to go thoughtless.¡±

    Then Leptos sent a message only meant for her. Take care of our little siblings in my stead, Lyssy.

    Silence, both of the mind and of her voicebox, was the only honest answer she could muster.

 Chapter 34: Hatred of the Body

    ¡°Twenty-two hours ago I uploaded sketches and a list of bullet points about Lyssav¡¯s design to the forums. Today, I woke up to tragedy. Notifications. Fanarts. Her image forever soiled in my mind. They have desecrated my child, my little rabies. Stapled boobs on her chest. Granted her hips. Wide. One even stylized her in the way of eastern drawings, turning her into a young human, providing her with a red cap that declares her as a, and I quote: ¡®soul eating autist¡¯. I feel dirty. My creation has been defiled, outside and inside my mind, and I just hope the end hastens its arrival.¡±

    ¡ªTidbits of our Creation, page 26

    Parvov¡¯s ghost glared at Morbilliv from the safety the mirror provided, and the latter felt the reflection of his brother was judging him harshly as he sat in Parvov¡¯s throne and struggled to deal with the Corship.

    No, no, I want you to walk backwards, not jump to another branch. He insisted, sitting on his throne, twenty digits poking in his chest, pumping the flesh one by one like little pistons activating in a series.

    The Corship shook like a dog trying to dry off its fur. Morbilliv dug Parvov¡¯s claws onto the armrests of the throne as he struggled to remain sit. As that? The young Thinker, still challenged in its use of language, spoke.

    Not necessarily. Let¡¯s go over the basics once more.

    Morbilliv stood and paced a bit around the throne, circling it twice over. He made sure the Corship¡¯s psycholocation could take very good gander at his anatomy, at how he moved, from every angle. Walk.

    Then Morbilliv did the same, but counterclockwise, and facing away from the direction his feet took him to. Walking backwards.

    The Corship begun turning in place, managed to tangle up its legs, and toppled forward, butting against a column of Bernese dogs. Morbilliv sat up and shook Parvov¡¯s horns from side to side. Let the friends steer your legs until you learn how to follow orders, shall you?

    No.

    The Captain grunted. Of all the possible members of the crew that could start a mutiny, it had to be the newborn ship, and inadvertently. It wasn¡¯t that the Corship intended to bother or harm them: it just didn¡¯t know better. This was tolerable rebelliousness, but it still got on Morbilliv¡¯s nerves. So far the thing had managed to stay safe, and the fact it fended for itself helped the crew tackle the deficit of thought energy. But if¡­ no, when something big came, Morbilliv feared the Corship would panic and endanger everyone on board.

    And yet it was hopeless to try to accelerate its learning process further. They had been born with a wealth of inherited knowledge, the thirteen Originals. He suspected the Corship didn¡¯t enjoy such benefit. They were children of a mind or of two. The Corship was a child of everyone on board. Had it inherited a m¨¦lange of information, mismatching or even immiscible? If so, poor confused thing.

    As for the Corship, it liked Morbilliv. That complex and deep were its feelings back then. But the legs? His. Nobody else would steer them, no no.

    Morbilliv descended the stairs out of the captain¡¯s chambers and headed down to the laboratory. There wasn¡¯t much he could do in solitude, and there were other matters to tend to besides the Corship¡¯s newly found life. Matters that interested him in a personal level.

    Doratev was tinkering with a recipient containing a tiny amount of puggum and a shard of dobermanite when he heard the steps of Morbilliv¡ªwith their readily recognizable tempo, one that fell short in its attempt to imitate Parvov¡¯s strut¡ª approaching. The search for an explosive and durable material would have to wait.

    ¡°Hey, Doctor, are you busy?¡± Morbilliv¡¯s voice boomed before he even set a foot into the Laboratory.

    Doratev stood from the cube he was sitting on. ¡°I am always busy, Captain. How may I help you?¡± he balanced on the tip of his toes, two hands in the pockets of his coat, and one behind his back.

    ¡°You built Dirofil a hybrid tail, you said. The best of both the Leptos and Dirofil¡¯s models.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    ¡°That¡¯s a matter of fact. I did. Do you want one too?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Morbilliv answered, pushing past the doctor to check the things over the table. ¡°Will this blow up if I touch it?¡±

    Doratev shrugged. ¡°Possibly, sir.¡±

    Morbilliv rolled Parvov¡¯s shoulders, and wondered how many more times he would do that in his long life. Few, he hoped. ¡°I wish to benefit from the hard work of everyone onboard. Egoistically, Doratev.¡± He slammed his hands over the working table with only enough care to not crack anything under them and, staring at the polydactyl structures, sent the order to split the arms back in four. Parvov rarely joined his arms together. Humeri bid adieu to each other and slowly disentangled, straightened back into their original shapes. Radii and ulnae divorced from their equals with a sudden snap, letting the flesh of the soul fill in the space between homologs before cutting all connection between zeugopodia. The last to split were the wrists and the hands: the multiple elements, carpals and metacarpals and phalanxes, rushing chaotically around each other, an arrhythmical bubbling the music of their reorganization.

    The upper hands raised on, reaching for the dim lights. The lower ones remained rooted to the table. One grabbed onto the twisted right horn, and another clasped the screwed, backwards pointing one.

    Four eyes, none of his. A skull he aspired to rip off and place on a neatly-manufactured pedestal. His soul flared white and cold, possessed by metamorphic ecstasy. It was in the moments he changed when the somatophobia peaked, when the idea of returning to a body that wasn¡¯t there anymore freed itself from the reins of logic. But he had to battle against it.

    To strive. To dominate over the hatred and rejection so intrinsic to the hyperparasitic condition he had been forced into. To overcome the all-encompassing presence of a brother that wasn¡¯t there, and whose body he was snatching.  ¡°I need¡­¡± he dribbled out, ¡°I need a new body, Doratev.¡±

    The lightning hands of Doratev snatched a recorder from under the working table, a mesh of ear and voicebox, and infused his soul into it. ¡°I¡¯ll need some metals from the reserves. Any specifications? Parvov ears by default, of course. Anything else?¡±

    ¡°Everything.¡± Morbilliv said, letting his brother¡¯s horns go and allaying the stuttering of his voice. ¡°Everything beneficial.¡± He corrected, and gestured to the brazen wall in front of them. ¡°Out there, Doctor, out there lights don¡¯t shine. The air is humid, there are no systems to keep the warmth of their breaths away from us. Hearts resound like war drums. The jaws take every form conceivable but Lyssav¡¯s. You have the archives, Doratev, you know the sea in the cold and methodical way I expect you to. I know it in the heat of battle. Make me a body worthy of Morbilliv.¡±

    Doratev blinked twice and pointed to a spot next to the drawers. ¡°The ACCU is right there.¡±

    Morbilliv lowered Parvov¡¯s four arms, and let the weight of the left horn tilt his head back. ¡°Why are you like this?¡±

    ¡°Because you get so reeled up you are going to break the line in your sanity fishing trip. And it¡¯s not like you have a spare one, sir,¡± Doratev said, satisfied with himself.  There was pleasure to be found in the act of derailing the captain¡¯s fantasies, no matter who was in charge. ¡°So you want me to concoct a chimaera of the six original models?¡±

    ¡°Not necessarily. I want it to have two arms, two legs, and at most three tails. I want it to be green, Morbilliv green. I want¡­¡± The captain curled four fists that didn¡¯t belong to him. ¡°Eyes that see like Babesi¡¯s in a well-lit environment, and like Lyssav¡¯s in a dark one. I want tails able to extend, to grasp, to detach and stab. Fingers with claws I can retract or ply backwards to strike with blunt force if needed, or slash and pierce if the situation calls for it. I want an armored core. The disposition of exoskeletal plates of my original body felt comfortable enough, perhaps adding a few more in the weak spots. I want¡­¡± he scratched Parvov¡¯s so-called chin. ¡°Yes, I want horns like these too. And jaws like Lyssav¡¯s. And wings, of course. And guns, if you can include them. The more bang, the better.¡±

    ¡°I have a model for a puppy cannon I want to test,¡± he informed helpfully, reaching for the cube to sit onto.

    ¡°No. I am not going to keep puppies around to use as ammo. And, please, a last specification: I don¡¯t want Splinter parts. I want newly made ones. Without the imprint of any soul.¡±

    They both exchanged stares in silence until Doratev broke it. ¡°It¡¯s going to require a lot of resources. What will the crew say?¡±

    ¡°If the Corship learns to follow orders, we will have a surplus of thought energy. We will thrive as long as we are safe.¡± Two right hands raised two index fingers. ¡°Keyword: safe. That¡¯s why I want a body that¡¯s an avatar of bellicose purity. I want to become the nightmare of the nightmares. No previous owners, no sentimental value, no distractions in the moment of murdering the aberrant, Doctor.¡±

    ¡°Big if, Captain. Big if.¡± Doratev turned away and carefully placed the recorded over the metallic surface in front of him. ¡°A name. We need a name for the project.¡±

    Morbilliv let out a small rumble. ¡°Whatever. A mere word won¡¯t keep the jaws of Cynothalassa at bay. But the right weapons¡­ they can bring forth a utopia for us.¡±

    ¡°Seloma. I will call it Project Seloma,¡± Doratev mumbled.

    Morbilliv shook his head. ¡°Sea shanty? Your sense of humor in these dire moments is admirable.¡±

    Doratev glanced at his captain over his shoulder. ¡°Dirofil¡¯s fine. Probably. And no, I have other reasons, and it¡¯s Seloma, not Saloma. And it has nothing to do with coelom. You are dismissed.¡±

    Morbilliv recoiled with slight indignation. ¡°I am your Captain; you cannot dismiss me!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s my laboratory. Shoo. I need to think.¡±

    Morbilliv reluctantly obliged, releasing a barrage of insults directed at the Doctor as he marched out the door.

    Doratev didn¡¯t mind. Once he made sure he was alone, he muttered to himself. ¡°Seloma, for we already have the forsaken child to sustain this utopia of yours, Morbilliv.¡± He stretched his back as he stared at the wall, commiserating the newborn.

 Chapter 35: To Infect the Sea

    ¡°The important joints of the Thinkers ¡ªmeaning those of the arms and legs, mainly¡ª will have a sort of clockwork-like mechanism, one compatible with their malleable bodies. Surfaces on the variegated pieces serve as attachment points for the high-density filaments of the psychosarc, adding both resistance to tensile and compressive stress and an intrinsic force component to the articulations. These can be rearranged internally to provide a wide range of movement, a characteristic most notable in the case of Dirofil, Shadiran, and all of their Splinters.¡±

    ¡ªTidbits of our Creation, Page 18

    There was something negative to be said about Lyssav: she didn¡¯t entertain the idea of others needing time to climb.

    She dangled head down from the ceiling that the sea provided, arms outstretched and reaching for wagging tails and kicking haunches, tail intruding betwixt the bright Retrievers. The trio of wounded suns bled its attention over the flea that had to jump from sphere to sphere, who waited for said crutches to get close enough so he could take the leap. ¡°Hurry up, snail.¡±

    Dirofil took his sweet time judging every moment of his ascent. He enjoyed the excuse of cautiousness in this little crusade to punish his all-too-eager sister. He now understood that to enter Cynothalassa could be only seen as a nefarious ritual. That he would not cross the sea without losing himself, and that he would lose himself to slay the world.

    He wondered how would the sea change Lyssav, and decided he would pity her if she didn¡¯t manage to muster the amount of power the sea demanded. Maybe she could kill a Reaper. Maybe the Reapers were small game once one managed to negotiate the Mauling Layer.

    His hand grabbed onto a passing cylinder and he swung from it for some seconds, until a sphere drifted close enough and he took the jump. Down below the miasma creeped dense and jealous of the features of creation, of the little pieces of ground that could be found in their wondrous world. Taking a peek at the abyss, a thought assailed him, making him stare right into his sister¡¯s horrid back: he needed to get a damned pair of wings.

    ¡°Make haste!¡± Lyssav barked much like the sea, and Dirofil ignored likewise.

    ¡°Tides tear spires down one lick at a time.¡±

    ¡°I tear annoying Thinkers to pieces a bit faster than that, brother,¡± she said, her tone more controlled to achieve the threatening effect she wished for.

    ¡°You could lift me up there if you wanted to get me into the sea sooner.¡± Dirofil took another jump that presented no difficulty whatsoever, landing on a green sphere with a slanted orbit.

    Lyssav dislodged a Labrador from the sea, plucking it from the tail, and grimaced when faced with the image of the whole dog acting like a pendulum once the tail was stilled by her grip. She soon enough stopped caring, swinging it around, to her side, winding up a throw. She grinned, and the grin dripped malice.

    ¡°Catch!¡± she said, hurling the pooch at a vertiginous speed against his brother.

    Dirofil¡¯s legs lost no time and reacted, propelling him off the sphere an instant before the panting Labrador crashed slightly off-center into the floating element, reducing it to a cloud of drifting rubble that resonated in a pained wail as the dog, now spinning out of control, sailed across in a diagonal trip towards the core of the world.

    It had been close, and now the grating laugher of Lyssav contaminated the atmosphere, even as he barely held onto a floating cylinder, gripping it with only his tail.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    He dropped to a sphere that happened to pass below and landed on all five, his joints bearing the brunt of the fall, absorbing its energy without issue. His ears taking the brunt of the mockery, failing to mimic the joints.

    ¡°I expected the dog to explode, but these boys are hard, eh!¡± Lyssav seemed¡­ happy. Excited. And far from considering it distressing, Dirofil found unwelcome solace in her innocent yet terrible joy. ¡°You have a minute until I toss another.¡± She clapped, three hands still clasped around the excrescences of the sea.

    Dirofil glanced over his shoulder, back at the spire. It would be so easy to crawl down those walls and make Lyssav stir in pursuit, filled with rage. Yet he didn¡¯t take the chance, for it was not time to indulge in such banal pleasures. Adjust the cape, ready the ankles, and shoot for another sphere. That, he had to do. That, he would do.

    Talons scraped the glass-like stone, barely able to dent the time-hardened surface. The thought of a dog being more effective of a weapon than his own bones weathered its way into Dirofil¡¯s core with the speed and might of a crowning blade, and like a boulder would, he barely minded it.

    The next three spheres were sorted in a flowing motion, as Dirofil didn¡¯t fear the fall. He could redirect himself back to Leptos¡¯ platform with a weak explosion if he slipped.

    And Lyssav, likewise, wasn¡¯t afraid of killing her dear sibling. If he fell, she would dive in for him and smack The Fourth Imagined back up, sparing him the rage of the dark core of the world. Thus she chucked another dog at his brother. ¡°Catch!¡±

    But this time Dirofil stood at the ready. He skipped over the incoming projectile with peerless grace, kicking it midair to change the direction of both parties, saving the sphere that had so patiently supported him and bouncing off towards the next step on his stair of lazy bubbles. Standing on a single leg perched on a tiny sun, the upper left and the only right hand sliced their way to the sides, palms facing upwards, and the third hand pressed against the chest of the automaton, fingers fanned out as he leaned forwards, the long tail a perfect counterweight.

    In front of his public of one, Dirofil bowed and thanked. In presence of the performer, Lyssav clapped and cheered. Skill, displays thereof and the following boast, those three things were worthy of her respect.

    She extended her abdomen, her arthropod like legs stiff at its sides, the clawed tips trembling, and the five-pronged stinger at the end pointing at Dirofil¡¯s toes.

    ¡°Climb, brother. This sea shall cry our names in fear.¡±

    Dirofil preserved the silence as he reached for one of her legs, intending to use them as the rungs of a ladder. And it was not that Lyssav wouldn¡¯t mind, but rather that she encouraged such behavior. She would recoil at the touch of most Splinters, but throughout the tides every one of the Originals of the core had earned her respect, one way or the other. Parvov with Fire, Morbilliv with physical prowess, Dirofil by playing the monkey, and Babesi by virtue of standing unafraid and unbothered in her presence, even when she tried to scare the brat. Lyssav had once asked Babesi about how would the Sixth react if she tried to predate on her. Babs had simply blinked and answered ¡°We will find out if I taste good!¡±. After that, she had slung Babesi overhead and sent her back to her spire with a dismissive throw, only for her to return about an hour later and demand to be sent flying over the chasm again. And again. And again. Babs regarded not the power hierarchy, unlike the others.

    ¡°Dirofil, what can you tell me about Babesi?¡± she asked as her hands found purchase deeper into the sea, dragging both her body and his brother¡¯s up as the Retriever light reduced her pupils to the width of a hair.

    ¡°She domesticated a family of giant, mutated dachshunds to care for her. Plus, she¡¯s very adept at hiding and keeping her pocket among puppies tidy.¡±

    ¡°This sea is some devious creation.¡± Dirofil could feel the smile forming in his sister¡¯s face when she said those words, despite being unable to see it beyond the bulk of reddish flesh. ¡°How characteristic of Babesi to find a way to become a spanner in its works.¡±

    Lyssav kept climbing, accelerating with zealous determination, robbing from Dirofil the chance to bid a last goodbye to the sight of their home. She didn¡¯t mind pulling on legs of clawing underbellies to push herself further. The scared whines from the Retrievers fed her resolve, their fright-fueled kicks rattling the knot of her cranium as she laughed as the maniac she was.

    ¡°Ave, mare¡ª¡± Dirofil began echoing what he had said many tides ago.

    ¡°Yes! The ones about to die salute me!¡± Lyssav singsang, never stopping her crawling.

    And from that tide onwards, until the end of this damned world, one could call the sea rabid.

 Chapter 36: Rabies-kissed Piroplasmid

    ¡°The Splinters of Babesi have a single hand, but I would lie if I didn¡¯t call them good at manipulation. Common sense dictates they shouldn¡¯t be: they are clumsy, stupid, childish. And yet¡ª Parvov calls. The refining room is on fire. Classic Splinter of Babesi moment right there.¡±

    ¡ªDoratev, in the record where one can feel his exasperation.

    A Thinker babesied around one of the tunnels of the Dachshund¡¯s dwelling. The oversized skull of a Parvov model had been hollowed out and now served a second life as a helmet, three of the four orbits filled by tendrils, and the only one remaining serving as a peephole though which a lone eye took in the world. Purple scales reflected off the light of the puppies, and a white cape consisting of three living Sampreys tied together by their own hairs drooled to her left.

    She approached the point of the collapse, the chamber from which her friends had run away scared and howling. In the middle of the titanic crater a ball of fur, each hair of it as long as Babesi, snored loudly. And the snoring crackled. And it engendered green thunder that impacted the walls of the crater, with all its amputated tunnels, and caused avalanches of rolling puppies, the fluffy sediment gathering at the feet of the slumbering Tribulator.

    Babesi lingered at the edge of the destroyed tunnel, where it met the crater, and enlisted a line of ostensibly brave and definitively confused Retriever puppies that showed more interest in stepping over each other than on facing the invader. One of them yawned with purpose.

    ¡°Guys, that baddie is destroying our home, we need to do something!¡± Babesi tried spurring the ferocious army to action. One of the puppies tilted his head before falling on his side, over all his structural brothers. Then he came back to his feet, resolute as he was, and let a wave course through his whole body.

    Babesi lowered her voiceboxes in a frown. ¡°Fine. I will deal with the meanie on my own. And if I perish, it will be all your fault, humph!¡±

    One of the puppies thought the talking hose in front of them needed to start spewing water soon.

    Babesi took the leap without hesitation, coiling like a spring to cushion her landing at the bottom of the crater. She squealed in joy as she dropped meter after meter, passing by the broken entrances of one tunnel and another, the puppies of the wall trying to paw her or her Samoyeds, Samoyeds that howled in fear because they were tied to a complete maniac.  She ventured further into enemy territory, hiding behind mounds of collapsed puppywalls. In the first mound she recognized Temptation, in the second, Hypsodont, in the third, Calligraphy. They seemed happy to see her, but the truth was that happiness had long ago become their default state.

    The howls of the Samoyeds alerted the Pomeranian, that raised his head from its resting position, nested in the intersection between his thigh and trunk. Sylvan lightning stirred from the scars, put all of Tribulator¡¯s hairs on end for just a second as the mutant dog yawned in an attempt to dispel the drowsiness.  The creature tasted the stale flavor of his own saliva as the world came back to him. He rattled his teeth, overcome by a tic he had had since the tide of aberration, and let out an exhale of warm breath through his flaring nostrils. Then his magnificent eyes like blazing copper salts drifted across the dogscape, and landed upon the source of the ruckus. The little, howling and befuddling source of the ruckus, it must be said.

    ¡°Sir, could you please not destroy the home of my subjects? We toil day and night to upkeep the tunnels and it¡¯s not cool when you crash through the ceiling, digging through it all, and make a big hecking hole in the middle,¡± Babesi chided, her hand over her head, a finger wiggling accusatively.

    Amongst all the things the Pomeranian had expected to face in his long and tortuous existence, he couldn¡¯t say that an anguilliform loudspeaker with airs of monarch was included. Partly because he, in all his glory, was a dog, and dogs aren¡¯t known to speak out their mind often¡ªat least, intelligibly.

    Incisors short and serrated, fangs so grooved and stormy, premolars with throbbing silvery veins and even carnassials cloaked by endemic, lime clouds. All of that and more encompassed the snarl of the Tribulator as the energy welled from his chest, through the long neck, and gathered around the eternal smile of the jowlless. Through the mist of his lenses Babesi was but a blotch of blue behind the yellowish lightning that ignited his stare.

    Babesi scratched the skull of the Splinter on her head as she squinted to examine the eyes of the creature that was ready to attack her. ¡°Are you a blind, doggy?¡± she asked after noticing the cataracts.

    The puppies around her stirred, came out of their mounds of debris and waddled over to her. And for the first time since they had spawned, they showed teeth so white and sharp. But not against Babesi. Their growls where aimed at he who dared threaten the one who had given them names. Even if those names were Colander, Hypotenuse, and Till. The Goldens and Labradors didn¡¯t fear a death that couldn¡¯t come for them, not when it came to defending Babesi. More and more dogs spanning from tiny creatures a month old to the oldest dogs in the layer, clocking at nearly two years and already presenting adult sizes, gathered between Babesi and the Tribulator, creating a veritable barking and jaw-snapping barrier.    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    The frayed ears of the Tribulator pulled back as he set his split legs upon what technically qualified as extremely coarse grained gravel. He was surrounded by creatures thousands of times smaller than himself, and yet he could barely see them as more than frantically yapping blotches, and that counted only for the few ones that weren¡¯t the color of sand.

    All bark and no bite, the Pomeranian¡¯s neck coiled as it took a step back. He was confused: the lightning in his mouth bounced frantically around his snout and down his throat as he held a frightened, rumbling snarl. After his long search he had finally come across a comfortable place to sleep, and now the sea itself rejected him.

    ¡°Calm down! He¡¯s just a puppy like you all are!¡± Babesi commanded, unheeded by then army that had come out of the woodwork to defend her. ¡°And he¡¯s bad in the eyes. Poor doggie.¡± Two beams of electricity arced from the scared dog¡¯s eyes, sweeping across the army of Retrievers, sending several of them flying a few meters despite their best efforts to stay grounded.

    And, as it is known, dogs and loud noises don¡¯t mix very well, so the defensive force soon disbanded as the pooches pranced away with their tails shamefully tucked between their legs.

    ¡°Hey, you, don¡¯t scare my friends!¡± Babesi shook her tail wildly, her fist curled into a cute ball.

    The huge, split paws of the Tribulator kept lapping at the edge of the crater, incapable of finding a vantage point amongst the friable puppy till. It took him about a minute to perk up his ears and turn: the barking had stopped, only weak whining and a blathering violet blotch remained .

    When he turned his head, Babesi gave the back to him, stood on her tendrils gaining the aspect of a dewinged dragonfly with too many legs, and began flailing about like an Ankylosaurus fresh out of bath salts.

    Had the Tribulator been able to appreciate Babesi¡¯s movement, he would have found himself bemused and amused. But he simply returned to his central position at the bottom of the hole, yawned, and proceeded to ignore her. She wasn¡¯t worth spending another drop of energy. And since he had left the Pomeranian hills that would come to be known as the Perra Australis Pomogen, he had been unable to properly nap.

    But when the dandruff settled and the thunder stopped coursing through his still silky fur, when his breathing slowed down and a snore or two slipped in, that¡¯s when they stirred. Until then they had rested. Until then they had waited under the matted lumps of hair, concealed by the dreads of their symbiont. Until then they had come out to hunt whenever the Tribulator had crossed the path of a Splinter or several, and some of them had paid dearly for it. And now another soul beckoned for their teeth.

    Leathery wings spread, and one by one the Bloodhounds took air. Their instincts edged them to the hunt, to seek out Babesi despite their prior experience with the crew of the Corship. Enslaved by the thirst for crystallized anima they circled over their still prey, who beheld them with a single shining eye hidden behind a sharp husk.

    ¡°Ah, these don¡¯t seem friendly.¡± Babesi blinked and the soft light of her core began spilling through her scales. ¡°Come, doggie doggie, come!¡± She called mirthfully as rosy vapor welled from deep within her soul.

    The smoke spread and cast a starfish-shaped shadow on the underbelly of the predators. Their fangs were still bared, their eyes still injected in blood. Every single one of the assailants intended to swoop upon the shinning dot cradled in smoke.

    And the first did. The breath of the sea caressed its wings as it dropped with its claws extended and jaws wide spread.  Life was good for the mutated bloodhounds.

    But what was the meaning of good?  Was it still good if he had missed? Missed what? Tail!

    Babesi sideslithered another attacker, a bitch this time. She moved silently, careful to not catch back the attention of the confused dogs as they inhaled the essence of her mind. They jittered. Invoked new names with their unintelligible blather. Beat a wing and not the other. Retched as they kicked the air and pursued their tail for only just a second, before getting distracted with anything else. And their eyes glittered as tranquil pools of joy.

    Mirth. They defined said word as they suffered from utmost executive dysfunction. Their attention spans obliterated, figments of them resurfacing only when they focused on some baffling task born out of randomness.

    In their pink-colored utopia they forgot the hunger and the bloodlust. Guffawed like hyenas and licked the puppies underfoot, and the puppies licked them back. Chanted out guttural wails along their peers, hopped over the stomachs of their siblings.

    As they took in more and more of the gas, the situation began to change. There were so many things to do, and so short was the tide. They had no time. They had never had time; they would never have time.  And if they had no time, they couldn¡¯t do anything but sit idly, fidgeting with their own paws, their stares focused on any of the puppies that conformed the ground.

    Ground from which a hand came out, long fingers curling around Babesi¡¯s scaled tail. At first, Babesi turned her head with shock, but after processing what she was seeing, she squealed in glee.

    ¡°Lyssy! Lyssy is here!¡± She shouted carelessly, untowardly as she enjoyed the cloak of her pink exhale.  Then she got sucked down by the strong tug of her sister, and ended up eye to eye with the devourer of pain, there, stuck among the shining dogs. ¡°Lyssy!¡± She shrieked again, disembarrassing herself from the Splinter¡¯s skull and embracing her sister¡¯s horrible head with all of her tentacles.

    ¡°I missed you too, Babi.¡±

    Dirofil couldn¡¯t believe the image his psycholocation relayed to him. Only a few meters above him, Lyssav was kissing.

 Chapter 37: The Tribulators Fury

    ¡°The dynamic of the sea in its inner layers is heavily inspired by that of our beloved planet¡¯s crust. Subduction and accretion both can erect low mountain ranges, and the cynology ¡ªor Cynolithology? The dogs that act as rocks, anyhow¡ª varies accordingly.  The strata are defined by breed, as in other parts of the sea, but they are impermanent: if there are mountains, there ought to be weathering and erosion. Without them, ranges would be quite boring.¡±

    ¡ªNotes for Cosmopoiesis, page 17

    Lyssav was kissing. With jaws designed to infuse fear and instill pain she softly smooched Babesi¡¯s forehead, right over her only eye.  For Dirofil, that climbed by grabbing onto his sister¡¯s body and using a single hand to push puppies away, it seemed time had frozen solid. He couldn¡¯t pull through, advance a single inch more. Lyssav was kissing, and not out of some sadistic inclination or to further a vile plan, no.  Her teeth landed on Babesi¡¯s scales with extreme caution, caressing a surface they should have scored. Babesi¡¯s tail wish-washed as she, head down, enjoyed the rendezvous. Had he had a heart, it would have turned to mush, and for a moment that felt eternal, his resolve wavered. He would end this. A vision of the finale assaulting him. A tug of war, and Babesi as the stressed rope, torn in the competition between him and the elder sister. The shared object of affection, paid as a price to settle a conflict begotten by caprice.  To carry on with his quest meant to damn the dear child.

    Yet carry on he should. Tears were not his prerogative, and he was thankful for that. He needed to plan. To betray Lyssav in spite of the hatred it would earn him, the scorn of the living siblings. He couldn¡¯t beat her in a fair fight. He was not even sure he would ever be able to bear the cross of having rendered her thoughtless, if he ever managed to, even if nobody else figured it to be his doing. He would know, and that alone turned the idea into a searing coil unraveling inside his mind, igniting flames of angst all over his psyche. His mission couldn¡¯t be avoided; the course the river of his life followed couldn¡¯t be changed. Betraying Shadiran would never be an option. His was the fate of a natural disaster, unable to choose where it went, and to decide the number of victims it took. Hurricane, meteor, tsunami or volcano, the only things that defined whether they caused a catastrophe were their location and power. And Dirofil was pretty sure of both: The Zenith of Concepts, and whatever power he would gather in his ascent through the sea.

    And if he intended to overpower Lyssav, he would need to kill the meanest dogs of the sea and assimilate their weapons. Even if he managed to take her by surprise or assail her in a weakened state, she was not to be underestimated. That mouth that now kissed with unparalleled love had already ended several lives.

    He reached higher and grabbed onto Lyssav¡¯s shoulder, pulling himself higher against his sister, the top of his head touching the top of Babesi¡¯s. The pink smoke had started drifting downwards, and was now enveloping their heads and the pups who made their best effort to hold their breath.

    ¡°What¡¯s this thing?¡± Lyssav asked, trying to pinch a curl of the vapor between an index and a thumb, not necessarily of the same hand.

    ¡°Animist. I gasify the essence of my bubbliness and spread it through the air. Then the doggies breathe it in and they become Babesi-minded!¡±

    ¡°Creators, and I thought I was cruel,¡± Lyssav blurted out, planting another smooch on Babesi¡¯s head.

    ¡°Hi Babs.¡± Dirofil finally spoke, because Babesi seemed to be too busy being coddled by Lyssav.

    ¡°Not now Diro... Diro!¡± Babesi finally realized, turning her eyeball inside her flesh and parting the scales on the top of her head to look at her brother. ¡°I thought that was a body part of Lyssy, or a poochie! Your head, I mean.¡±

    ¡°Your capacity to dismiss reality when you focus on something is enviable, Babesi. You¡¯d make a fine cosmopoietor.¡±

    ¡°Lyssy.¡± Babesi gave foot to the Elder sister to explain.

    ¡°Dirofil means you would make a good world-maker, Babi.  I disagree, for you would leave the world half-baked to go and play with whatever swayed your delicate attention. But that would be a problem of the created, anyhow,¡± Lyssav said, regarding her sister with utmost affection.

    Dirofil kept climbing, rubbing against Babesi as he emerged into the crater. The first thing he saw was the circle of depressed Bloodhounds staring at the space between their paws as they trembled. He raised his hand in front of his eyes as he considered that they carried wings. It was then that the pink mist cleared ever so slightly and he noticed the slumbering Pomeranian beyond them, and the lack of a puppy ceiling over his head. ¡°Ah, it lines up. Babs!¡± He called and pulled his sister from the ground as if she were a carrot. Holding Babesi from her tail at arm¡¯s length as she raised her head and stared at him, he continued. ¡°I need an explanation about what you think you are doing hanging out this close to a Tribulator.¡±

    ¡°The big meanie that broke into our home?¡±

    ¡°The Pomeranian.¡±

    Babesi wiggled a bit as Lyssav emerged from the ground. She looked at the Tribulator, and then her gaze bounced back to Dirofil. ¡°As you are well aware, I live here. Well aware¡­ I wonder if there are wells somewhere. And if they are sentient.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Dirofil smacked her sister against the puppies to avoid her train of thought from derailing further. The killing stare from Lyssav bore into a skull he didn¡¯t have. ¡°You do worse things to her.¡±

    ¡°She does! Worse and funnier!¡±

    ¡°But I don¡¯t let her feel the pain from said things, moron! You are lucky I am here.¡± A wave crossed Lyssav¡¯s teeth, from right to left, lifting upper ones and dipping lower ones, a pair at a time in a quick succession.

    ¡°You are forbidden from eating my pain, Lyssav,¡± Dirofil said. ¡°Ever forbidden.¡±

    Two of Lissav¡¯s hands cupped her cheeks. The other three dangled almost lifelessly from her pectoral girdle. ¡°Cute. You dispose of no means to enforce that prohibition.¡±

    Dirofil didn¡¯t speak out the single word he wanted to: Yet.

    He gestured at the giant Pomeranian and waited just enough for the gaze of his sisters to follow his left hands. ¡°That thing breathes thunder and seemingly hosts these winged atrocities among its fur. Have you domesticated any of them, Babs?¡±

    ¡°No. They tried to kill me a while ago. Why do you ask?¡±

    Yet. The first step to eliminate that malignant word was to match Lyssav in mobility. He kicked off with a disregard for both his joints and the puppies underfoot, using even the tail to keep advancing in a sprint despite the loose nature of the ground underneath. Hand to snout, foot to tail, slam the tail to the left to make up for a little slip. He was not the scared Thinker that had hurt Rita¡¯s shoulder eye, not anymore. His feet and hands had gotten used to the unusual nature of the terrain about him.

    Overhead zapped crimson, beating powerful wings and slapping the back of Dirofil¡¯s head with her stinger as she passed him by.  It didn¡¯t hurt, but it did stop Dirofil in his tracks: Lyssav recklessly charged against the Tribulator.

    No. His thinking process was upside down.  The Tribulator was helplessly sitting in Lyssav¡¯s path.

    He turned on his heels and nailed the calm Babesi with his stare. He was so close to the wings, but the thunder could hit and hurt her. Wings or Babesi was no real choice. Babesi getting hurt would mean Lyssav was to blame, and Lyssav wouldn¡¯t accept that. No, she would deflect, place the blame on him and punish him for a crime he hadn¡¯t committed. Because his role had been assigned in silence by a simple smack of her tail.

    He dashed back for Babesi, paying no heed to what could unfurl behind him. ¡°We need to get to the tunnels. Now!¡± He cried out, tackling her, picking her up and holding her close to his chest with the lower left hand as he skittered his way towards the nearest tunnel entrance.

    Lyssav landed in front of the clattering teeth of the Pomeranian, his static-charged breath unable to move her heavy frame as she lumbered closer, her lower half slithering more than crawling, and two of her arms working as makeshift legs as she dragged herself closer to the slowly incorporating dog. ¡°I feel your blindness and the anguish it brings forth. I feel the thunder burning down your chest, tide after tide.  The might you wield and the confusion you feel sit side by side as equals inside your heart,¡± she discoursed as the tangle of electricity gathering on the jaws of the Tribulator grew denser and denser. Lyssav persisted in her approach, fully exposed, the light of her core overpowering that of the puppies, tinging them red. ¡°Let loose, come on. Shock me worthy of your fear.¡±

    The thunder unraveled, the Tribulator¡¯s jaws almost unhinged as he channeled all of his fury upon the pesky dark blot in front of him. With arms open like a lovely daisy Lyssav took the waves of electricity head on, her flesh spiking and bubbling and sizzling as the green beam engulfed her completely. And it hurt, it hurt with such grandeur as she basked in the attack. Every bone and plate in her body, every tumor of high-density slime ached and burned and seethed. She clawed her cheeks in delight. A hand intruded between her three eyes and bloomed like a flower, shoving them apart.  But they stayed fixed on the outline of the teeth beyond the blinding light, ignoring the waves of electricity that coursed outwards from the impact point and climbed up from the crater¡¯s bottom, towards everywhere. Towards Dirofil.

    Lightning sprouted around him, bounced to his sides and threatened to obliterate both him and Babesi. Deep within he knew Lyssav hadn¡¯t fallen, and that she wouldn¡¯t be even close to falling.  Every sibling had an understanding of their place in the hierarchy, in the gap between them and the others. Once one removed the unique talents of each one, that¡¯s it. He believed he could bridge the gap to Lyssav one day, but it would take all of the might of the sea, expertly wielded by his hand. Anything less wouldn¡¯t do. A mere Tribulator wouldn¡¯t do.

    But the fact remained that neither him nor Babesi were Lyssav, so before the jumping beam battered him, he pitched Babesi towards the tunnel, as if flinging a card, making her collide with a loose column of puppies, being buried by them.

    If she complained, Dirofil couldn¡¯t know. The offshoot from the attack entered by his tail, and immediately made its way through his whole body. With his core compromised by the shock, any attempt to control the psychosarc became a grueling task, and he gave up on managing his ears first, becoming deaf. Even without hearing, he felt the vibrations of his voicebox as it released a discordant shriek, heterogeneous chirrups interrupted by solid, high pitched slabs of sound. He lost control of one eye when a bubble of vaporized psychosarc exploded, expelling it like a volcano a bomb. His bones dislocated more and more with every passing second, and as soon as it had started, it ended, his form slumping over the puppies, about a tenth of his flesh vaporized. With great difficulty he tried to get back on a crawling position, taking stock of his body parts mentally as he attempted to overcome the all-encompassing pain. A few more hits and he would be done.

    So he began digging.  Removing puppies one by one, he flowed into a trench of his own making, sending waves of thought energy to the lost eye so it would try and roll closer to its rightful place.

    Sooner rather than later his whole form got covered by Labradors and Goldens, and he received a message via mind link. It was from Lyssav.

    Fitting for a worm, to hide by digging. I could have eaten that pain if you had allowed me.

    Just deal with the Pomeranian at once, showoff.

    You, dear brother, are no fun.

    The huge, flaming eyes floated in the center of the field of view of the Tribulator, their nitidity leagues above everything else.

    And while there wasn¡¯t much the dog knew, having lived inside the sea since he had spawned, one thing was as clear as the image seared inside his ocular globes: he was mortal, and soon he wouldn¡¯t be anymore.

 Chapter 38: Viral Supremacy

    ¡°While the flesh of earthly organisms, regardless of their variegated forms most curious, is a reflection of their ancestral past ¡ª of the selective pressures their lineage has endured and the contingencies it has negotiated to arrive to our days ¡ª the flesh of the Thinkers is a reflection of their soul. This slime, called psychosarc, is produced and supported by their thoughtcrystals. It procures them a connection between mind and body, not that different from our nerves and muscles, except far more¡­ plastic: Muscles and nerves are selected, psychosarc is designed. Notwithstanding, this should not be understood as the psychosarc being perfect: It shares many of the shortcomings of the animal flesh, as we consider that one of the most important components of humanity is physiological.¡±

    ¡ªTidbits of Our Creation, page 7

    Lyssav kicked off the ground, emerging from the river of green lightning, her wings full of holes, but somehow still supporting her weight midair. Her hands reached for her chest, ripping off her rotten skin and forcing her metallic ribs open to reveal her pulsing core. Her soul bled vermillion light, and the vile vapors pretended to ride winds that weren¡¯t there as they climbed up the humid atmosphere, soaring in direction to the Bernese layer.

    The wings didn¡¯t beat, and the Pomeranian didn¡¯t exhale the storm anymore. Its cloudy eyes quivered as it stared at the martyress looming over him. The ears pulled back, the nose licked again and again and again.  The fingers on the split paws curled, the hackles lowered, curly tail tucked between the hindquarters.

    He couldn¡¯t see the blood red clouds gathering in the middle of the collie layer, but the eyes of Lyssav showed it to him anyway. The triad of cleft suns had nested deep inside the Pomeranian¡¯s brain. The pupils inclined, each with a different angle, and numbers that the dog could understand appeared along their edges, phantasmagorical figures of the purest fire environing the globes. Without tics, without tacs, they spun slowly, marking the hour of the poor dog¡¯s demise.

    The clouds swirled up high, rumbled menacingly. Inside them the rouge light clustered, crystallized, and the tiny crystals, suspended in the air, exuded the light back as a liquid-like entity. And over Lyssav, and over the Tribulator, it rained ruby. Drop by drop fell on the fur, and seeped through the pores of the creature¡¯s battered skin. He howled with growling pain while the pupils of the cleft suns drew ever closer to an alignment which reminisced of a trilete mark.

    The Pomeranian foamed at the mouth, attacked the air in front of him with fruitless bites. Trembled as his whole body got wreathed in sensations alien to him. The monster was inside, inside! His fangs penetrated friendly skin and muscle, his molars crushed a radius they were never meant to lie onto.  He whined pathetically as he destroyed his own limb, tearing muscle from the bone, scattering dark blood all over the Labrador puppies, who lapped it up and considered it quite the gourmet delicacy.

    Lyssav grinned, her head dropping to the side, limp. Her arms extended like the petals of a flower, and her wings pointed downwards, disregarding gravity. Her prey slammed his head against the ground like a knight delivering a spiked flail to the skull of some unfortunate enemy.

    Light seared his near-blind eyes, and everything shone in the cruelest of mockeries. The Tribulator wailed desperately, but no lightning obeyed him this time. He had lost control over his element, his green scars swollen and bleeding, unable to call forth the storm¡¯s fury.

    His elbows gave in, his mangled foreleg the first to crumble before he smashed his snout on the ground. The neck had no strength left to raise his head anymore. The fingers and toes twitched as the foamy drool drained over the pups. The heart refused to stop beating erratically, but each pump resulted harder and harder to conclude for said organ.

    ¡°Lyssy!¡± Babesi called out, popping out of her mound like jumping worms out of a can. ¡°What have you done to the doggie?¡±

    Lyssav¡¯s wings returned to their gleeful chastising of the air, and her head whipped to the side to regard her sister. A wave coursed through her teeth, a gesture unique to her and her Splinters, that almost nobody else had cared to learn to decipher. ¡°Honor my name, Babesi. Honor my name.¡±

    <hr>

    The lights of the Captain¡¯s room flickered on and off, the shards of the mirror scattered inside the lattice, reflecting a thousand fragments of Parvov. The hand used to destroy the reminder of his brother was still curled into a fist. He held it still in front of his eyes, contemplating the gone brother¡¯s paw as he sat on a throne that didn¡¯t belong to him.

    Forward?

    The question of the Corship snapped him out of his abstraction, if only for a brief instant. The nails of Parvov, brazen under the retriever-like light, stared him in the eye , but that was no excuse to slack.

    No, down. We are traveling Leptoswards. Find a way down and we will soon greet Dirofil, if everything has gone according to plan.

    Understood, brother.

    The ship whirred a happy purr. Morbilliv returned to his contemplation his brother¡¯s body. Soon he would abandon it, like he had decided to abandon his reflection. Excited, afraid, and doubtful were all things he was in those moments. Doratev had already started planning up his new body, and soon his soul would have a new, so awaited home. The Reaper had condemned him to wear Parvov¡¯s form along his loss. The latter, he couldn¡¯t shed. The former, however¡­

    Puppy!

    The whole ship shook energetically, forcing Morbilliv to claw the armrests of the throne to stay in place. He began fidgeting with his forehorn after things stabilized. The ship presented a cloyingly innocent attitude towards mutants.  And while Morbilliv fostered no ill feelings for any creature that had yet not proven a menace, exercising caution had to be regarded as best practice.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Describe the¡­ puppy.

    Obedient as it wasn¡¯t, the Corship sent a fragmented mental image of a snarling, horned, thick skulled creature climbing towards them.

    The fingers triggered to life, spreading as tendrils of light grew from the tips, emerging from the space betwixt twinned claws.

    That¡¯s a pugilist. I will have some¡­ physical words with it, if you don¡¯t mind.

    Dragging the threads of his soul he went down the sphere staicarse, transiting the corridors of the ship with a purpose that was plain to see. There would be no need to announce a Pugilist protocol if he handled the threat. Furthermore, any sort of protocol had been rendered useless or redundant by the Corship¡¯s newfound sentience. It knew how to run away from obvious threats, it had learned to hide from the big predators. It was the smaller ones that they had to fear, as it had always been.

    And it took a Morbilliv to call a pugilist ¡°small¡±.

    <hr>

    The agitation of the Bernese dogs was nigh-palpable as Morbilliv sauntered out the ship¡¯s backdoor. The cold air from the interior mixed with the muggy breath of the sea, and the solitary lights of the Seventh penetrated a darkness all-encompassing. A quick peek down made Morbilliv meet his adversary-to-be with tendril-extending eyes. From the rims of his orbits more and more threads of soul wriggled out, silky stands of light lowing from each eye that belonged to the dead brother. But not from Leptos. Leptos¡¯ was closed. Leptos¡¯ was closed and retracted into the skull, as it was too precious to risk it.

    There was glory to be found in symmetrical conflict. Glory like that which wreathed the aberrant pug¡¯s head, the wide, crooked horns sticking to the head like two halves of a crown.  It climbed like a gorilla, slow but powerful, with wide forelegs ending in claws sharp enough to rend, yet prehensile enough to curl into fists. It enjoyed no nose, and probably no sense of smell. The head consisted of a wide mouth compressed into a permanent frown against a short skull, brachycephaly taken to the extreme.

    Morbilliv had found out the hard way that there was no trachea to crush, that the things drew no breath once they completed their metamorphosis.  His fingers twitched by his side as he beheld a creature indistinguishable from the one that had almost rendered him thoughtless so many tides ago. Back then, he had fought alone until the searing flames of his brother descended like a rebuking angel.  He had committed mistakes, assumed his enemy was like most other aberrant dogs he had faced in the past.

    But he had learned. Maybe not how this particular one would fight, and yet the knowledge about the anatomy and weaknesses of his enemy resulted invaluable. He had but a few seconds until the charging creature, now heading straight for his core, crashed over him.

    And yet it was plenty of time. Arms spread and fingers likewise, he let his body drop from the ramp of the cargo bay.  The light of his spirit got weaved into the thinnest threads, and betting on their unrivaled resistance he used them to grab onto the tails of a nearest column, dangling now a bit further from the pugilist, that crawled down a Bernese pillar and approached the nearest walkway. It supported its weight with its roughed-up knuckles, keeping the claws protected and sharp as it raced like a possessed ape.

    The beast plucked a Bernese out of the fabric of the sea and lurched it with savage strength, but Morbilliv swatted the projectile away with a graceful movement, using a dense tangle of threads as a whip while the ones of the other hand and his legs kept him rooted to the wall.

    He raised Parvov¡¯s forehorn, regarding the beast across the pit, as if saying ¡°Come.¡±

    Three more parried dogs it took for the mute menace to let out a silent snarl and charge with its toothless mouth agape.

    Morbilliv wondered if one of the hearts he heard thumping behind his back belonged to an invisible menace. Yet the weaver oughtn¡¯t to waver. He was the Fifth Conceived, no matter whose body he wore. Regardless of whatever hands he controlled, he would crush the skull of any dog that dared sneak up to him.

    The creature lunged, claws of the left arm ready to slam Morbilliv¡¯s face against the column of dogs. Using the tendrils like a multitude of legs the automaton climbed out the way, and kicked off the wall with absolute disregard for the poor structural dogs.  He extended the threads of a hand, reaching for a faraway catwalk, and grabbed firmly onto a tail.

    Ultimately, fighting in the Bernese layer was easy: you didn¡¯t need to kill your enemy if you had a good enough chasm under your feet. To throw them down into the Collie layer, that now suffered from an unusual reddish hue, often sufficed.

    Because there was glory to be found in long, excruciating battle against an equal, but right then Morbilliv had no use for glory.

    Light threads shot from his face and fingers while others all over his body rooted him to the underside of the catwalk. They aimed for the wide neck of the creature, that glared daggers with one of his eyes at a time: not even aberration could deliver this pug from strabismus.

    Morbilliv had expected the thing to jump after him, but the pugilist instead grabbed the tangle curling around its neck and began tugging from it, the muscles of its arm bulging obscenely as, at the other end of the ropes, Parvov¡¯s hand trembled.

    Morbilliv was well secured, glued to the structure made of Bernese mountain dogs. His joints wouldn¡¯t give in, not before he let the technique fade. He simply wasn¡¯t a fan of playing tug of war with a pug. Whatever else lurked out there could assault him, make use of the unique chance to assail his core. The sea was dark, the sea was relentless, and it made good on its promises, so while he felt it treacherous, he couldn¡¯t call it so.

    He ignited the threads, hoping the pug would let go, but the mutant seemed impervious to pain. Parvov could straight out carbonize them, rendering the searing pain useless. Morbilliv didn¡¯t enjoy the same level of control over fire. His technique was clumsy, inefficient. The eldest siblings told that the day of Parvov¡¯s awakening his whole spire had exploded in flames so white, so pure and threatening. That it had lighted up the dark core with an intensity that rivaled that of the burning one at the edge. Lyssav had even used the word ¡°cute¡± to describe the event.

    Back and forth, back and forth, muscles of flesh facing bones of metal and trembling as equals, seeing who would get worn out first. But this was merely an act to distract it: the thing about roots is that they grow, and nets major strength lies in their interconnectedness. So while it was a rather long winded way between his point of vantage and the pug¡¯s, traversing it, maneuvering blind through the mass of Berneses, was only a matter of time.

    And after a solid pair of minutes of strife, the threads erupted from behind the Pugilist, pushing it off the wall, encroaching his fingers to unmake his grasp onto the column.  Soon enough Morbilliv dispelled his power, letting the heavyweight creature flail against thin air as it plummeted to the bottom of the sea.

    Sometimes battles went this way. And it was the best for all parties involved: the pugilist lived another day, the ship and its crew were safe, and he had spent as little energy as he could. A win in his book, that, in his opinion, could use a few more of those.

    Now all that remained was to return to the ship and search for Dirofil¡­

    Puppy!

    Or maybe not.

    Morbilliv grunted as he clambered up a strut of Berneses. It would be a long, long tide for Battle Incarnate.

 Chapter 39 (Volume 1 finale): Wings for a Worm

    ¡°It takes, in my humble opinion, a special breed of bastard to create a world inhabited by sentient robots and grant them the curse of pain. I shuddered while reading the description of the Second of the core, named after the virus that causes rabies. She lives in constant pain, and they say she doesn¡¯t suffer. Both facts I consider abhorrent.

    Since my teenage years awakened in me the illness, fibromyalgia. For those fortunate enough to have never heard of it, it means my body has taken aching for a sport, and became a master at it. I have points the size of a coin across my body where even the gentlest touch can feel like a treacherous stab. I depend on prescription drugs to function, not as an exemplary member of society, but as a human being. I know what living in constant pain is. I know the fatigue and hopelessness it brings.

    Yet Lyssav won¡¯t feel this despair, no. She embodies a masochist¡¯s wet dream. Such cruel mockery of everything pain is supposed to be, to mean. I despise the very concept.¡±

    ¡ªMusings of a Detractor, page 3

    Behind were left the sisters, deep in the safety of a tunnel in the case of Babesi, and next to Babesi without any regard for terrain whatsoever in the case of Lyssav.

    Dirofil, aching all over, hobbled through the aftermath. Towards the mangled, oozing cadaver of the Tribulator. The ocular globes had blown up, the tongue dangled from a perpetually opened mouth. The neck crooked backwards, like in so many dinosaur fossils, avian or not.  And yet it was in a far better shape than most of the bloodhounds, that fared as best as they could in their new role as lumps of charred flesh. Wings reduced to coal, what a waste.

    Yet riding the windless air the soft weeps of some canine reached him, far too despicable to be the ones of the puppies that comprised most of the layer. Somewhere under the Pomeranian remains, he thought, a bloodhound could have found itself trapped. One with functional wings.

    It crossed his core, the idea that, maybe, wings weren¡¯t what he needed the most. He dismissed such worry without emitting a single sound. He wanted the wings, since the first tide he had entered the sea he had wished to get some wings, and had lacked the gall to ask Doratev to try to engineer some like Lyssav¡¯s but without the plaguing pains. He deserved the wings, after everything he had endured.

    Yet the part of him that despised the dog-sourced additions also spoke, and how loud. He would be unable to welcome the flapping aliens, to experience any measure of freedom as he soared. His capacity to assimilate the working cogs of his antagonist, of Cynothalassa, could serve his purpose, but that didn¡¯t render it any less of a burden.  Furthering his power meant furthering his punishment. No enlightening would be found either along or at the end of his path.

    And still the need obliged him. He skirted the dead Pomeranian, stealing a glance to his side now and then, trying to come up with words for the clusters of gushing wounds, for the massive damage done. For this and this alone, maybe, Lyssav could be a good unit of measurement.

    Finally, with its posterior crushed under The Fallen Pomeranian¡¯s right elbow, he found the wailing hound. Pinned between the bony appendage and the soft puppies, she was bleeding and crying and breathing with difficulty.  Dirofil¡¯s talons drummed over the ground, causing the underlying puppy to scratch the air as the sharp claws tickled them.

    Sorry was the sight that greeted him. The creature grasped once more for air, trying to get a footing to crawl from under her prison. Blood from one of the Pomeranian¡¯s wounds had drained over her face, smearing it in a dark and bubble-ridden red, rendering her blind. She flapped her wings chaotically, short bursts that soon tired her out.

    Her ribs expanded and contracted more than they should have, her tongue rolled out her mouth and negotiated her horrid fangs as she panted hopelessly.

    Dirofil could have crushed her head with ease, put a definite end to her misery.

    Instead he crouched and with a gentle movement wiped the blood from the eyes of the mutant dog. They locked stares after she opened her lids; she found unexpected solace in having the metallic phalanxes caressing her cheekbone.

    Dirofil produced a pleased hum. He raised his form, looming over the now calmer creature.  ¡°In the end, Babesi is right. You are just doggies. With or without wings.¡±

    Suddenly and with a psychopath¡¯s coldness he stomped on the head of the bitch, talons digging in the grey fur as the whole head trembled and she tried to squirm free. Slowly he began closing his claws in, stabbing past the skin. He wasn¡¯t looking as he did this, his stare was set on the distant firmament and its collies. He ignored the flaps, the desperate hisses and kept on applying pressure. The vice of his foot kept pressing and the bones kept cracking, the blood slipping out the wounds.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Lying on the golden shine of the puppies she perished, her life and brains draining not over soil where they would nourish some beautiful flowers or homogeneous and green grass. A waste of a death that, in some other world, would have been more poetic, perhaps. For it was undeniable that Cynothalassa allowed no beauty in death, no bleached skull lost amidst a tall-grassed prairie, supporting the colorful span of a proudly standing, sun-kissing butterfly. No fossils to be found in some exquisite Lagerst?tte by young and wide-eyed friends or wrinkled knowledge-loving experts. No use for your carcass but to rot and melt or be crushed by the jaws of your equals.

    Finally, Dirofil deigned a look to his prey, the muscles still twitching, the skull crushed but not beyond recognition.  The wings lay dead over their owner, ripe to be stolen. Hands that had never felt the pulse of a heart inside them reached for the joints of the limbs, the duplicated shoulders. And using a foot to pin the neck and shoulder blades in place, he straightened his back, pulling.

    And pulling.

    And pulling.

    The humeri popped off the sockets, the skin began to tear. Dirofil¡¯s grasp didn¡¯t waver, and he just kept pulling as tendons and muscle got rendered.  Soon after the left wing remained connected only by a thin thread of sinewy flesh, and that motivated him to jerk the right one free too. He held him in front of him like a couple of dead hares, admiring that which would soon taint his form.

    He stabbed his back with the mutilated wings, each on its respective side.  This was a sort of pain he could stand, more superficial, far less pervading than the one that inhabited the Ly-model wings.

    His mucilage began climbing, coiling upwards the stylopods and the corresponding patagia like snakes around a bough. Soon they formed a sheath and it began invading the area that belonged to elongated digits, a membrane of slime covering the velvety skin. Dirofil realized he didn¡¯t know how to deal with bone yet, that the closest he had gotten had been dentine and enamel when welding the teeth to his cape.

    He dropped on all five as the wings sunk more and more on the flesh of his back. The organic tissue had started to morph into the weird parody of metal his core turned the parts he absorbed into. The nature of bone, muscle and cartilage changed centimeter by centimeter, second after second, from the exterior to the core.

    His soul and his mind demanded obedience from the newcomer, and the foreign substance was promptly forced to obey. Submerged completely on his flesh, the wings didn¡¯t take long to erupt reformed, breaking out their slick cocoons and showing silver-like shine as they emerged back into the air.  Dirofil¡¯s scapulae reworked their structure, gaining a pair of accessory glenoid cavities for the dog humeri to fit into.

    Just once they beat under his command. Once, and then they were folded like the precious resource he considered them to be.

    It was done. Not with a battle, not with a relentless search driven by his motivation, but as a side effect of her sister¡¯s display of power. The heartworm had gained his wings, and their frame, like cylindrical mirrors, reflected off the light the Retrievers gifted the sea.

    He sauntered off the crime scene, the new additions to his body violating Shadiran¡¯s beloved sanctuary. He didn¡¯t want to whisk his eyes back and look at the wings. The foreign presence on his back hung heavy in spite of the knowledge that it would allow him to take air.

    As he relocated the breathing hole to the top of his head to keep the wings safe from the explosions, Dirofil wondered how much more of an alien thing he would become before reaching Shadiran. If she would love his form despite the countless crimes committed against his purity.

    And he rued what he was about to do.

    The wings popped out his flesh once again, and he beat them clumsily, without the synchronicity needed to be deemed worthy of defying gravity. He raced on all five, as fast as he could, given the loose and gravelly nature of a ground made out of puppies, and as he did, he fluttered like a hideous, drunk butterfly. His leaps became acts of clumsy parachuting at first, and of gliding not long after.   It was like watching a particularly stubborn chicken flap around, trying to bend reality to his whim and finally take off.

    ¡°I think I got a hang of the downstroke but the upstroke is¡­ problematic.¡±

    The squelch so characteristic of a falling Lyssav was heard behind him, and Dirofil didn¡¯t need to turn to feel her eyes on his back. ¡°Not in my opinion. But you could still use them for inclined running, as you already got the basic movement figured out,¡± she offered with a distressing lack of mockery in her tone.

    ¡°I already excel at climbing, sister. Your help is as appreciated as it is unwelcome.¡±

    Lyssav joined two of her hands in a parody of a concerned gesture. ¡°And here I am trying to be a good sister to you, little ungrateful brat,¡± she sang in a playful and teasing tone.

    Dirofil approached her with a bipedal walk, and stared up at her three-eyed and hundred-teethed face. ¡°The tide will come when I¡¯ll need to betray you. Don¡¯t make me feel worse than it is necessary about it.¡±

    ¡°Very unorthodox on your part, to warn the very object of treason, your sworn enemy.¡± She made no sudden movements, gave no signal to act. She knew Dirofil wouldn¡¯t attack her there and then.

    Dirofil knew she wouldn¡¯t attack him, either.

    ¡°I am warning my beloved sister, not my enemy.¡± Dirofil said, one eye going stray to inspect the cape that now ran down from his neck and got bottlenecked between the base of the wings in an awkward and uncomfortable display. ¡°I¡¯ll need to solve that later¡­¡± he muttered.

    ¡°You break the heart I never had. But I cannot complain when that¡¯s your profession, heartworm. So go ahead, plan your betrayal. If it succeeds, you will deserve your happy ending.¡±

    Lyssav¡¯s lack of worry was concerning, but Dirofil decided to not show it. Instead, his expression softened and both eyes stared once more into her sister¡¯s three.

    ¡°How kind on your part to accept a future defeat.¡± He joked, and then adjusted his pupils as his tone shifted to a more serious one. ¡°I changed my mind, Lyss: Teach me to use the wings. Then we can go seek the Corship with one of us carrying Babs.¡±

    Lyssav smiled, a horrid display of the motility of her mouthpieces. ¡°A pain I am willing to bear.¡±

    She dragged her form past him, away from the Pomeranian. ¡°Follow, Heartworm. Today, you have gained your wings. Tomorrow¡­¡±

    And the Fourth Imagined needed nothing more to complete his sister¡¯s sentence. ¡°You¡¯ll seize the chance to clip them.¡±

    Three pupils thinned from sheer emotion. ¡°Precisely.¡±

    END OF HEARTWORM: VOLUME 1

 Volume 2 Chapter 1: Family reunion.

    ¡°Shadiran¡¯s talent seems curious to me¡ªfrom a merely intellectual standpoint, that is. Most of her assimilations are adaptive: she uses the dog parts for the same functions that the original owners did. Yet we also have a glaring example of exaptation in the modifications she added to her dress, using claws as components of an impromptu armor. If she figures out how to create complex mechanisms out of the simple parts she can extract from the horrids, there won¡¯t be a spanner in the toolbox of the sea able to intrude her works, no obstacles between her and the Zenith of Ideas besides her own morals, Desmodus, and the limits of her creativity. And if this humble Splinter is anything like her, the latter should be of absolute zero concern.¡±

    ¡ªSeloma, in the engraved poodlite tablet numbered 487.

    The Corship had detected no anomalies with his psycholocation. He remained unfazed by the happenings around his home. Yes, some Chihuahuas hid among the Bernese, in nooks and crannies of the nexus structure. And sure, a Lienoga Dragon Terrier that had barely started the aberration process slept snugly among the mountain dogs, creating a visible lump on a column due to his incredible size. Yet to him the manifold creatures hosted by the sea of dogs were the normal, all he knew since he had been cursed with sentience.

    He also didn¡¯t pay attention to any moving core-souled entity, as he deemed them friends. In short: The Corship psycholocated nigh-uselessly, were it not for his random comments that sent the crew reeling on a rush to figure out what the ship truly meant. Was it some harmless mutant passing by? An incoming threat in need of being addressed? Who knew. They all were labelled ¡°Puppy¡±.

    But the psychosarc of everyone on board seemed to congeal when the ship communicated using a word that was not meant to be included in its vocabulary, or that should have been devoid of most meaning to him.

    Lyssav! Hello Lyssav! Lyssav!

    Morbilliv shoot off his throne and towards the nearest gate, ready to rescue a Splinter in need if that was what the ship meant¡­ or defuse the threat his sister represented.

    He climbed out the orange lock using the four arms of Parvov, and met the head-down hanging monster exposing him to the three cloven suns.

    To stand in the presence of Lyssav was to fight against a constant and ethereal pressure that threatened to crush one¡¯s being. Morbilliv had always felt like that, and now he reached under the plates of his chest. ¡°I have an ampoule full of water stashed here, ready to be broken over you as soon as you strike me. I may not be fast enough to save my core, but I will wet you if you do, Lyssav.¡±

    A thump behind him, and Morbilliv turned, leading with the elbow to hit whatever had landed there. He froze midway, though, as his eyes took in the image of a Babesi-scarfed Dirofil¡­ and three parasitic samoyeds dangling from the ¡°scarf¡±.  He winded down, adopting a more relaxed posture.

    ¡°Oh, so¡­ Lyssav knows about¡­¡±

    ¡°About what?¡± Babesi asked, innocently. ¡°And why are you wearing Parvov¡¯s body, Morbi?¡±

    Uncomfortable silence settled between the siblings, and Lyssav flew up to the others, the four gathered atop the Corship now. ¡°Parvov¡¯s dead, Babi,¡± she informed, ready to provide her with the comfort needed to handle grief.

    ¡°Drat, that¡¯s a bummer,¡± Babesi said and blinked, seemingly unmoved by the news. ¡°Did he left me anything to play with? Any inheritance?¡±

    The three siblings regarded Babesi as if she were some alien creature. Dirofil, despite being the one wearing her, broke out of the spell the first. ¡°No. No he only left the Corship and his dream behind. And Morbilliv. You¡­ you can have Morbilliv.¡±

    Morbilliv jerked away from his now winged brother. ¡°Hey, no handing me down to Babesi as a sort of heirloom!¡±

    Remembering something, Dirofil skittered away from the standing pair, taking Babesi with him and into the ship. She didn¡¯t seem to mind the sudden change of plans.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Each detail of the ship merited a commentary on her part as they rushed down corridors. The round, warm, lined-up lights. The tubes whose purpose Dirofil had never learned about.  The lattice on the floors and walls that let claws and tendrils stick to them no matter the orientation of the ship. The spheres and poles making up the spiraled stairs.  No tiny detail escaped her commentary, no subtle angle beneath her notice.

    For Dirofil, this behavior of hers was coating every wall and floor of the ship with the aversion-inspiring patina of that which is ununderstood. Reticence delayed his steps ever so slightly as he tried to see the things Babesi was referring to: a barely visible nick there, a light that flickered slightly out of pattern, a hole a bit too wide in the lattice.

    After about a hundred minor observations, they arrived before the door of the laboratory. Dirofil could hear Doratev humming an idle tune as he worked on something, so it followed that entering orderly and in silence was the most polite, therefore adequate, option.

    Brat and associated Sampreys out of the way, the Fourth Imagined balanced on his tail and kicked the door open like an angry kangaroo would. Doratev should have flipped out, but he didn¡¯t. At least not until, as soon as Dirofil took a few steps inside, he lazily glanced over his shoulder, seeing her.

    His three hands trembled, and the Doctor let the frail trinket he was assembling fall onto the metallic table, its parts sprawling chaotically over the surface. He took his eyes out one by one, and rubbed the pupil side against his forearm, as if lustering them. He put them back into his flesh and blinked once, twice. Only then he spoke:

    ¡°You dare bring the taint that the Scourge of Order represents to my sanctuary? Do you have an idea of what you have done?¡± He shrieked wailing his arms about in overly theatrical gestures.

    ¡°They are trained!¡± Babesi defended the honor of her cape.

    ¡°He meant you, Babs.¡±

    ¡°Exactly! The Samoyeds could be adequate test subjects.¡± He attempted to side-eye Babesi, but she repositioned her head to follow the Doctor¡¯s movement.  ¡°But I want her as far away as possible from this holy place of calm and intellectual recreation, Dirofil.¡±

    ¡°Babs, don¡¯t break anything. I¡¯ll give Lyssav a crash course on ship duty.¡± He uncurled his sister from his neck and carefully let her hop onto the lab¡¯s floor.

    ¡°You are not leaving me alone with her¡­ you are not.¡± Doratev rushed quick short steps taking him in front of the being his existence had reflected off of. ¡°This place and its integrity are key for the Corship and its inner workings.¡±

    No. Lie.

    ¡°It seems to me that the ship doesn¡¯t share that opinion. Bye¡­¡± Dirofil used a wing to shove Doratev to the side and marched out the door, the tail leaving the room last.

    Doratev¡¯s fingers kissed their equals on the other upper hand while the lower left balled into a tight fist.  He looked back slowly, straightening his lab coat before facing the Original he had been tasking with babesitting. ¡°Don¡¯t touch anything without my express permission. Understood?¡±

    ¡°Yuppers!¡± Babesi nodded energetically before doing a 180¡ã to inspect the trinket disassembled over the table. ¡°Were you trying to make an eye from scratch?¡±

    Doratev suffered a slight delay to find the right words to answer that question. ¡°The current project requires combining the properties of the eyes of several original models. It has presented a worthy challenge so far.¡±

    ¡°Have you thought about using the structural blueprint of a Thinker of the Edge instead of Lyssy¡¯s? It looks like you want to mix an eye like mine with one like hers, judging by these parts. For sight in the dark that¡¯s rich in details too?¡± Babesi proposed, rolling little pieces until they ended up all gathered around the central scaffolding of the eye.

    The doctor sauntered up to the cube were Babesi was standing upon. Once he arrived at her side, he caressed her head softly, feeling her metallic scales under his mucilage. ¡°Where did you learn anatomy?¡±

    ¡°I used to collect the parts of the Thinkers Lyssy devoured now and then and crack them open to see how they worked.  If you can build the necessary parts for me, I think I remember how to assemble models of each Thinker¡¯s eye save for Shadiran¡¯s. But Dirofil knows how to make Shadiran-like eyespots for sure!¡± Her tail wiggled as she spoke. Few times had Doratev seen a Splinter of Babesi laser-focused onto a task, and it had never stopped being an eerie sight.

    ¡°I could use some help in the lab, but you will be acting under my orders, okay? Goes without saying that once I trust you to not blow things up with more frequency than I, we could share the space as equals. Laboratory duty is the funniest task one can undertake in this ship, so think about it.¡±

    ¡°We can blow things up?!¡± Babesi screamed with unmatched excitement.

    Doratev began to regret his choice of words. ¡°¡­Once in a while.¡± He muttered before pulling away from Babesi with the sole aim of stretching his legs about his domain. ¡°So, Sixth Conceptualized, what you say? Want to be taken under my wing?¡±

    ¡°I see no wings on your back. Want a pair? I know how to make Desmodus-like wings too!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll allow myself the audacity of considering that a yes. Follow me to the storage room, we will need raw materials to craft the pertinent parts. Afterwards, you shall learn the art of shaping them into whatever we need.¡±

    Babesi did the unexpected: she obeyed without protest.

 V2 Chapter 2: The Shared Smile

    ¡°¡®Lights. The yellow Retrievers shine. We could¡­ tape, somehow, balls of their hairs to the ceilings and walls of the ship.¡¯

    ¡®Or, and hear me out please, Parvov: we can refine these hairs into a substance that can be turned on and off by inducting thought energy in it.¡±

    ¡®That sounds more efficient, but less¡­ rustic. I have the soul of an artist.¡¯

    ¡®Stashed where, exactly?¡¯¡±

    ¡ªDoratev and Parvov, in a conversation captured by one of the recorders.

    Walls without wainscots wearily witnessed, weakly wondered. Second to fifth proceeded down halls and chambers, fourth and fifth to each side of the elder sister, and the third permeating the air. The squelches of her jerking body violated the atmosphere of the refining room, made heads turn and gift her scared glances so short lived.

    Both Dirofil and Morbilliv partook in this pervading unease, but they had to appear strong in the face of their sister and the crew. To weaver was not only to insult Parvov¡¯s memory, but to succumb to Lyssav¡¯s will. And on Parvov¡¯s shoulders, now worn by Morbilliv, rested the safety of the crew. And supported by Dirofil¡¯s back lay the unborn universe, place and ¡ªpossibly¡ª being of flawless peace, calm. A plane where even chaos would find it impossible to instill anguish in its inhabitants. And he would father, as well as Shadiran would mother, it. An existence as orphaned as theirs, but unable to suffer for it.

    Splinters of five of the six siblings averted their gazes as the horrid form of Lyssav got dragged to an empty work station. Her copies didn¡¯t mind it, and instead seemed to be enthralled by her presence, licking their teeth one by one. Their pains held no candle to the Original¡¯s abject dolor.  Lyssav¡¯s power awed and frightened everyone else, but her Splinters considered it a secondary element now. It was her pain that granted her an aura of unquestionable authority before them. Pain so pure and untainted that it overshadowed every other measure of her grandeur.

    Morbilliv took the lead as they approached the work station, presenting Lyssav with a carefully manacled Corgi, ready to refrain from defending the poor dog if she attempted anything¡­ untoward.

    ¡°Ugh.¡± Lyssav complained, and then hissed at the dog. ¡°I find it¡¯s fluffiness affronting.¡±

    ¡°Well, the material refined from Corgis is the main structural component of the Corship,¡± Morbilliv said, matter-of-factly, as he patted the dog on its butt.

    It is.

    ¡°Thanks, Corship.¡± He didn¡¯t really mean it, as the ship¡¯s tendency to restate the obvious seemed infantile to most on board, him included. But nobody on board had been apathetic enough to tell him to stop.

    At least, until then.

    ¡°There¡¯s no need for your constant comments and reassurances, ship. What do I do with this thing?¡± Lyssav¡¯s words tried and failed to mutilate the air. ¡°Dirofil, teach me.¡±

    ¡°I am the captain, not him.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s the captain, not me,¡± Dirofil seconded his brother with a funny tone.

    ¡°Consider yourself are dismissed, Morbilliv. I asked Dirofil for assistance. Go undertake captain responsibilities elsewhere you are needed.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Lyssav. Will do, Lyssav,¡± head down, Morbilliv shuffled for the exit of the room. ¡°Going to see if any member of the crew needs me. Call if you need further assistance.¡±

    Lyssav wouldn¡¯t call, Morbilliv knew. Dirofil knew, too. She remained draped in this veil of pride, and none of their claws nor words ever proved sharp enough to pierce it.

    ¡°Dirofil, what am I expected to do here? Inform me. Now.¡±

    Dirofil picked up the brush from the floor, passed it twice over the dog¡¯s buttocks, and presented the freshly gathered tangle of white hair before Lyssav. ¡°Take it into your flesh and run it through your core, willing for it to change form. The expected outcome in this case is corgite, the orange metal the ship is based on.¡±

    To Lyssav, her brother¡¯s explanation sounded barely more than perfunctory. She turned around to face her sibling. ¡°I don¡¯t doubt Babesi loves me,¡± she stated cryptically before receiving the lump of corgi onto three of her hands.

    She devoured the loose fur like a starving child a piece of bread. Her deft teeth moved one by one, splitting the tangle, unweaving the structure back into singular, silky strands. The image of a spider feeding off some unfortunate fly crossed Dirofil¡¯s core. The teeth the chelicera, the very aura of his sister the tissue-liquefying venom. And from this cadaver that wasn¡¯t she drank, hair by hair slipping past her worm-like tongue, running through her gullet and raining upon her core, where they sizzled terribly as Lyssav¡¯s rotten nexus consumed them.

    But they didn¡¯t turn to corgite, no. The hairs disappeared, something unexpected in Dirofil¡¯s opinion.

    ¡°No¡­ not like that, definitively not like that. You destroyed them. Burned them to ashes, such waste.¡± He pointed his statement with idle muttering.

    Lyssav gargled and vomited a coil of orange smoke, and then observed it as it lazily dissipated into the air. ¡°Ashes to ashes, dogs to thoughts,¡± she cackled with a grimace that Dirofil considered so ugly it turned vile, but didn¡¯t find it worth commenting on.

    ¡°You can turn dog hair into energy?¡±

    ¡°It fits me,¡± she gloated. ¡°Nobody can deny that it does.¡±

    The crimson light of her core spilled all around, overpowered the lights of the Corship and turned every Splinter that worked nearby into a nervous statue, their hands barely trembling and their refining tasks paused as they watched or Lyssav or the long shadows she forced them to cast.

    It was Veranda who broke the icy spell, who began crawling closer in a way far more gracile and prim than the Original¡¯s habitual gait. A smaller Lyssav approaching the one true rabies, dwarfed before her, yet not humbled, for you cannot polish a star or offer fire alien warmth. Only when a Splinter stood before her one could appreciate how much of Lyssav¡¯s unsightliness stemmed from her gestures and overall attitude. The Splinter flowed, the original moved with the jittering grace of a freshly reanimated scarecrow. The Splinter kept her mouth closed most of the time, Lyssav freely extended and retracted her individual teeth. Veranda¡¯s pupils remained vertical most of the time, Lyssav often spun her eyes in place while staring at her disgraced interlocutors. It turned out that Lyssav¡¯s appearance was the least hideous thing about her person.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Lady Lyssav, if you would allow me, I¡¯d like to offer some insight about the process of refining dog hair into valuable materials.¡±

    ¡°Why, Splinter, if your mistress has already mastered it? Do you have a death wish?¡± Lyssav¡¯ forwarded a hand and grasped low, advancing about half a meter across the metallic lattice of the floor, looming over Veranda.

    Dirofil was quick to step between his sister and her Splinter, facing the former. ¡°Nobody here has a death wish, Lyssav. The crew is not your buffet.¡±

    ¡°Nobody here but you, little brother. Isn¡¯t utter annihilation of yourself and of the beloved Shadiran your ultimate goal?¡±

    ¡°Our dream requires sacrifices. And so does keeping this ship up and running. Without Corgite structural damage caused by Chihuahuas cannot be repaired, just to forward an example.¡±

    Lyssav smiled. To see Dirofil¡¯s claws drumming on the floor as he crossed his arms and tried to put up a stern fa?ade was, to understate it, entertaining.

    ¡°I can turn the hairs to precious energy and you want metal? Fine. I¡¯ll give you metal.¡±

    From her three eyes three beams of ruby projected straight into Dirofil¡¯s forehead. The intrusion of the foreign energy itself presented the Fourth with a golden opportunity to feel excruciating pain both in his body and his soul.

    Dirofil wouldn¡¯t let his knees give in as his spirit battled the intrusive presence. Or as it tried to battle it, could be said. Lyssav had injected into his head an amount of energy equivalent to several years of aggressive psycholocation, and unlike Leptos¡¯ serene presence, Lyssav¡¯s energy carried ill intent. And said intent headed for its bones, and coiled around them, and materialized, grew into a layer of corgite that crystalized over his bones, slowly assailing the joints like a cursed, robotic gout. After a few seconds the accusatory finger pointed at Lyssav became unable to return to its prior position, and then followed the arms, the spine, the legs, and even the toes. Every bone in Dirofil¡¯s body got welded together, making him a slimy prisoner of his own form.

    ¡°Very funny, Lyssav.¡± The petrified automaton commented with excessive venom in his pained voice. ¡°Very funny. I¡¯d be impressed at the amount of power you wasted in this if I weren¡¯t quite incensed by your¡­ prank. Conjuring corgite out of nowhere.¡± He turned his eye inwards as he inspected the damage to his spine. Everything was being displaced, encroached.  ¡°It will take me a good while to remove it. Almost commendable.¡±

    ¡°Come on, Dirofil. Turn that non-frown into a smile. Oh¡­ you cannot,¡± she mocked as she circled her brother like a stalking feline would a prey. ¡°Here, let me help you.¡±

    Lyssav got closer, and closer, until Dirofil could feel the pain of her cheeks on the flesh of his visage. She grabbed him from stiff shoulders and turned his whole body around to face Veranda.  She rubbed her redness against his transparent slime, making him cringe internally, and try to pull the psychosarc away from her touch. Hadn¡¯t he been tortured enough already?

    The other Splinters kept toiling in their working stations, brushing dogs and refining their hairs, not daring to gaze directly at the spectacle unfolding at the center of the room, but neither refusing to steal a glance or two when Lyssav wasn¡¯t looking at them. The little Parvovs commented on it, mumbled between themselves, knowing that Lyssav wasn¡¯t supposed to hear them, but still wary in case she somehow could listen to their infrasonic mumbling.

    Hadn¡¯t he been violated enough already? The teeth were coming. Coming out of Lyssav¡¯s flesh and worming into his. With all the pain that entailed, with the paralyzing fear. Parasite parasitized, the heartworm trembled, as frozen in place as he was. He felt them entering, overcoming his control of the substance his very soul had exuded into reality. The rose-colored wires and the fangs they held broke through any resistance he tried to impose on them.

    Their faces sewn together by Lyssav¡¯s dentition, they smiled. Together. Lyssav, willingly. Veranda took some steps back, shrinking like a scared cat.

    Dirofil whistled in sheer desperation as the violation of his autonomy continued. The hourglass of time had shattered, and he was drowning in its sands, about to be mummified. The body he had shared with Shadiran now ached unbearably; the bones she had caressed and even used were now imprisoned in foreign metal; and his face, the one that had meld with hers as they exchanged eyes and spots¡­ he didn¡¯t want to think about what was happening in his face.

    Half a smile in her face, half in his, Lyssav cackled lovingly, almost innocently. She felt his desperation, but for once she didn¡¯t care to understand it. Maybe it was her pain spilling into him, but it would do him good to learn to stand it. After all, she didn¡¯t want anything truly bad to happen to her dear brother, not by anyone else¡¯s claws: If Dirofil was to fall, he would fall by his own hubris, defying her despite the fact that hers was the reasonable course of action in the face of the apocalypse.

    The flesh extricated from the frozen arm and slapped at the conjoined faces. The boneless limb, unable to irrupt past skin, flopped helplessly against the grin it hated. But short lived resulted this resistance, for soon enough the arm lost the little cohesion it had left, as Dirofil screamed his mind out in the mind links.

    Water! Someone bring water!

    No need for water, I am just making him smile! Seriously. Whoever brings water dies.

    Nobody dared come in Dirofil¡¯s aid. Morbilliv remained in the bridge, looking out the window and conversing with the ship, trying to calm it down. Doratev and Babesi exchanged gazes and kept on searching for materials in the chaotic storage chamber, with Babesi brushing it all off as some rough play between the older siblings.

    Dirofil¡¯s pleas went heeded, but ignored. None on board would defy the Second Envisioned, for they knew doing so endangered everyone else. Even if everyone rose up in arms against Lyssav and attacked her at once, the odds were stacked against the crew.

    The wings, the wings were not paralyzed! But he could hurt them if he used them to hit his sister with. Logic dictated that he couldn¡¯t risk flight.  It was too valuable a mobility skill, and it could save his life against the horrors of the sea, or help him negotiate immense gaps in terrain with ease. And the wings were there, trembling at the sides of the cape, partially covered by it as it dangled lifelessly¡­

    The cape!

    Dirofil infused his garment with the energy of his own soul and commanded it to jump onto Lyssav¡¯s back and begin stabbing her. It did so promptly, the Chihuahua teeth believing themselves treacherous daggers as they dug in between the plates of Lyssav¡¯s back, and even into the mucilage of her wings.

    ¡°Ow, you are hugging me back the only way you can. I love you too, little brother.¡±

    The flesh of his head was compromised, and it was in it that he felt the vibrations of Lyssav¡¯s voicebox when she spoke. A terrible continuity of psychosarc had been stablished, a spectrum that went from carmine to limpid and clear slime, with a concomitant gradient in pain.

    ¡°Let me go or I will blow my core up.¡± He said, desperation palpable in his tone. ¡°I mean it, Lyssav.¡±

    ¡°I told you already: I don¡¯t doubt Babesi loves me. I suspect now that the same doesn¡¯t hold true for you. It¡¯s a shame.¡±

    The connection got severed without effort on Lyssav¡¯s part. The teeth abandoned the invaded soma and returned to their original places, some remaining nude, and some wrapping themselves in Lyssav¡¯s dense tissue. Dirofil smiled no more, and that brought unparalleled relief. Had his bones not been welded together, he would have slumped to the floor while sobbing meekly. Naturally, he didn¡¯t slump, but still whined like a wounded puppy as Lyssav crawled away, heading for the exit of the refining room.

    His face remained deformed, his soul refusing to command the slime to fill back the hole Lyssav had left. Veranda rose in front of him like a vigilant suricate, and even tilted her head as she considered how to word her next sentence. ¡°Sir Dirofil, would you like my help to return to your chambers? I could carry you while you work on retrieving the corgite.¡±

    Dirofil didn¡¯t answer immediately.  He thought the latter was a good idea, and, barely still in control of his core¡¯s pulses, he commanded his flesh to begin lapping at the metal around his bones, prompting it to be molded by his thoughtenergy, reshaped into little pellets he would later extrude from his body.

    He wasn¡¯t in the state of mind to hurry it along. He would stay there for a few hours unless someone helped him. And that someone could be Veranda.

    After a few seconds of internal deliberation, he uttered ¡°No¡±. His honor had already been abused enough, and now it lay battered in the floor just like he couldn¡¯t.

    The tide was still young; the tide was already ruined. His chamber or the refining room, little would change.

 V2 Chapter 3: The One that Walks Away from Seloma.

    ¡° ¡®Today I saw Negri bodies in the laboratory, Shei. Picture them, little lumps of proteins and viruses depositing inside your neurons., making you fear light, water, and siring in your mind the desire to go around biting people.¡¯

    ¡®Love, sometimes I think you choose your career to admire the illnesses, rather than to bring wellbeing to animals.¡¯

    ¡®Did I ever deny it?¡¯¡±

    ¡ªConversation between the creators.

    Doratev and Babesi were discussing important matters when a slow knock on the door interrupted them. The one lower in the pecking order slapped their wriggling cape upon the examination table and crawled to the silvery door, before opening it with her tendrils.

    ¡°Hello Diro, how did Lyssy treat you?¡±

    ¡°I will absolutely murder her one day, Babesi.¡±

    ¡°Nuuuh¡­¡± she said, her voice slowly turning to a deflated whisper.

    Dirofil blinked twice. ¡°I¡­ let¡¯s change subject. Doratev, need a ball of Corgite?¡± he said, producing a sphere of the material from behind his hipbone. He weighed him in his hand enticingly, an attempt to emphasize his point.

    ¡°No. I don¡¯t need it. But I¡¯d wager Babesi wants it.¡±

    ¡°Yes I do! Gimme!¡±

    Dirofil needed no moment of consideration before handing the material to the explorative tendrils of his sister.

    Once Babesi was properly hypnotized with the shiny implement and extended on the floor as she played with it, he carefully stepped over her form and got close to Doratev.

    ¡°Doratev, I need¡­ what Morbilliv has,¡± he said letting the suggestion hang in the air, unwilling to speak boldly in front of Babesi.

    ¡°What Morbilliv has, encased in glass?¡± Doratev didn¡¯t let the chance to rhyme slip by him. he adjusted his coat at the neck and shoved two hands on the pockets as he watched Dirofil nod with severity. ¡°I can process the Samoyed¡¯s drool. I can make a vial about¡­ three eyes of volume, if you wish. Should prove plenty for your intents.¡±

    ¡°Quite the suicidal intent, you want to say. Go ahead. Spew it.¡±

    Doratev gestured with his free hand and forwarded a comment, but not the one Dirofil expected. ¡°That¡¯s not concerning, considering you are in the nude.¡±

    Dirofil looked over his shoulders, one shoulder with each eye, and then behind his head with both ocular implements. ¡°The cape¡­¡± he lamented softly. The memory of Lyssav leaving with his garb on tow came back to him, and elicited a fleeting worry.  ¡°Ah well, I¡¯ll find it hanging around somewhere. She has no reason to cast it outboard.¡±

    After a few seconds of wondering why he hadn¡¯t noticed the lack of weight, he realized the wings were to blame. Despite sporting hollow bones, and despite the added weight of the teeth the cape had acquired since his early tides aboard the Corship, the sole feeling of a load on his back mimicked the sensation of having the cape somewhat. For most of his life it had laid there, no matter his position, no matter his state. Aware or meditating, he was draped in it, embraced by the colony of chains, advised by the silent council of links. It was no more an inanimate object than part of his being, a duality that anyone else would have considered the bud of madness. It was made of a brazen alloy, but so were his arms, his ribs, the scaffolding of his eyes, the talons on his feet and the tail on his rear. Each link deserved the classification of bone just as much as each spondyl of his spine did.

    He blinked. It wasn¡¯t time to mull over the nature of what a body meant for beings that amounted to little more than a thinking crystal and its load of sensitive mucus. ¡°Get me that, Doratev, and¡ª¡± They got interrupted by the sound of a heavy Splinter sauntering up the hall. A Splinter of Morbilliv, their steps unmistakable, hurried up to them, possibly carrying an unconscious Splinter for Doratev to examine and determine if any body parts needed replacement.

    The miner butted in unceremoniously, his big frame barely fitting through a door Morbilliv itself had had trouble crossing back in the tides where he still had his own body. What he carried in his green-plated arms made Dirofil avert his gaze, turn away from the scene as he pretended to inspect a pile of broken recorders Doratev had lumped together against the wall.

    ¡°Long time I don¡¯t see extremities like these. Fit for jumping rather than climbing. Was she wearing any sort of dress?¡± The Doctor advanced, poking the spotted flesh with his index. ¡°Leave her over the examination table, she seems deep in meditation. Do you have a name?¡±If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°Dalvari,¡± he answered, and glanced at Dirofil, wondering if it was only polite to regard the Original, which he considered a bit of a cunt.

    ¡°Hers, not yours, Dalv. How many times have I replaced your knuckle plates by now? Do you think I¡¯d be prone to forgetting the name of such an illustrious crewmate?¡±

    ¡°I am sorry, Doctor,¡± Dalvari lowered his head in a small bow, and then proceeded to carefully place the rescued Splinter over the examination table.

    ¡°I will go fetch my cape,¡± Dirofil said, hurrying by Dalvari and getting his shoulder caught by his huge hand.

    ¡°What do you fear, Fourth Imagined?¡± He asked roughly, not considering what the others in the room could think of him.

    ¡°Time. I cannot shake off the sensation that I am running out of it, and she,¡± He vaguely gestured at the unconscious Splinter sprawled over the metal lump they called a table. ¡°is a ticking clock.¡±

    ¡°The fall of sands is not the fault of the hourglass, Dirofil.¡± Doratev commented while he raised the fingers of the Splinter one by one, checking their flexibility.

    ¡°Since the first tide I arrived here I haven¡¯t ascended a meter past the Mauling layer, Doctor. And now Lyssav lurks among us, another obstacle that demands to be negotiated somehow.  But it is not my sister¡¯s teeth that clatter forebodingly at the edge of my mind. It¡¯s Shadiran¡¯s stalking pessimism. I am running late, and she may think me dead. If I had a way to send her a message, to make my sole will cross this malignant tumor of dogs we call an ocean, I¡¯d find solace. But no, neither my words nor my hands can reach her.¡± With a movement many would have considered disdainful he swept the hand from his scapula. ¡°I¡¯ll go search for my cape. You tend to Shadiran¡¯s Splinter, and please, tell her I am sorry whenever she wakes up.¡±

    ¡°Sorry for what, Diro?¡± asked Babesi, who was unknowingly abusing her talent to stand in the way without even trying.

    ¡°Just sorry. The rest will in time come, both to me and to you, Babs.¡±

    He carefully stepped over Babesi¡¯s crouching form and disappeared down the hall. It wasn¡¯t long until Dalvari followed, and then seeing Babesi start to grow bored, Doratev ordered her to go and bring some Pointerine from the storage room. She rushed out before even asking what Pointerine was or how it looked.

    Once reassured nobody was staring at him, he turned to Shadiran¡¯s Splinter slowly. He got closer with a cautious step, hands outside of his pockets, and fingers contracted into claws at the ready. ¡°Why are you alive?¡± He hissed with a voice loaded with poison.

    The Splinter of Shadiran stirred to life, harrumphed needlessly, and spoke as she sat. ¡°And I thought I was good at playing dead. Missed me, my Dorado?¡±

    ¡°The only golden or gilded thing here is your medal to most obnoxious non-Babesi Splinter, Seloma!¡± Doratev clawed his temples, the fingers sinking deep in the slime. ¡°I survived the arrival of Babesi and now I have to deal with your bullshit. I hope you get assigned mining duty and die out there.¡±

    ¡°Oh, come on you grumpy thing, it¡¯s not so bad out there. I think I remember one or two tides where nothing tried to murder me,¡± Seloma said, her eyespots arranging in her face to imitate a smirk. She didn¡¯t turn around, but her spots did move all over her skin. ¡°Nice place you have here. Is this meant to be a sort of garage for your experiments?¡±

    ¡°This is the prestigious laboratory of the miraculous Corship, the only subcanine traversing Cynothalassa.¡±

    Doratev is a friend.

    ¡°Yes, Corship, thank you. It came to life and it talks via mind links now. So get acquainted¡±

    Hi Corship! I am Seloma. I am friend too!

    Hi Seloma¡­ Chihuahuas ahead¡­ Hi Seloma!

    ¡°Creators cruel, what a colorful team has assembled here.¡±

    That¡¯s when Doratev gave up, slumping onto the seat-cube, arms dangling to the sides and head back like a Splinter of Leptos on legsteering duty. His stare got lost in the ceiling, most of it unwebbed due to the rotating nature of the laboratory. Being the only room in the Corship that could stay straight if push came to shove, the laboratory had no need for extra expenditures that could get damaged during the routine¡­ puggum-adjacent investigations, so to speak.

    ¡°It smells funny in here.¡± Seloma noted, and as her feet dangled from the table and she swung them back and forth, Doratev stared in disbelief.

    ¡°It¡­ smells? The Shadiran model cannot smell. What did you add to your body that I cannot see, you faceless bitch?¡±

    ¡°I carved out the olfactory epithelium of a Chihuahua and assimilated it, like Dirofil must have done with those sexy-sexy wings he carries on his back. Thinking about it, the Primeval Lovers probably share this talent to assimilate body parts of dogs. And if they do, why haven¡¯t you done so? Or are the new parts hidden under the coat?¡±

    Doratev caressed the Lyssav-model eye inside his head with a single finger. ¡°As long as I have the materials, I can make upgrades for myself and the crew. I don¡¯t mind the original deciding to choose the easy way and directly assimilate the parts. He feels he¡¯s running out of time, and I¡¯d agree, were I someone who cared for his mission. But nobody knows me if you don¡¯t, Seloma, so¡­¡±

    ¡°So there¡¯s no need to restate your solipsist ideals. I had my fair share of time to grow tired of them.¡± She hopped off the table and began prancing around the lab, examining the trinkets spread on the desk and the pile of recorders against the wall. ¡°How long did it take to build this all?¡±

    Doratev paced around without staring directly at her. He already knew her form, and it brought no joy to take any more of it in, so why would he bother? ¡°Tide after tide of endless refining with the initial crew, under the orders of Captain Parvov. From the fall of the first Spires to the fall of one about twenty kilometers past Babesi¡¯s, the five of us worked tirelessly. We tested materials, we gathered in transitory cavelike formations in the bottom of the collie layer, we set out on exploratory excursions to bring back dogs and find out how to exploit them. Prior to that, I must admit, refining was found fortuitously while Parvov fooled around with Golden Retriever hair. The Corship would have never been without his childish desire to become a giant Retriever-fueled lantern to climb deeper into the sea without wasting thoughtenergy in illumination.¡±

    But when the doctor turned to address her once more, Seloma was gone, such that he shrugged and returned to working on the hybrid eyes for Morbilliv.  A reasonable mirror of him on the loose wasn¡¯t something that ought to concern him. She would peek around, ask questions, annoy the others, maybe get murdered by Lyssav. Commendable work, in his expert opinion.

 V2 Chapter 4: The Flame

    ¡°I am afraid I have to ask if you have consulted the community of people suffering chronic illnesses before ideating Lyssav. I know this complaint won¡¯t matter sometime next week, but as a sufferer of Fabry¡¯s, I know constant pain, and it isn¡¯t anything good. Why would you create a being that relishes pain without embodying the most despicable psychopathy humanity has to offer? Are you mocking us¡±

    ¡ªQuestion posted in the New Creation Forums.

    Something stirred deep inside a tumor-like bulge in the Bernese network. It kicked like a baby, but with an intent unbecoming of such. The activity rendered the dogs composing its cocoon uneasy, caused licked noses and whale eyes. What had awakened between them had grown claws larger than its snout, and got its veins rendered into echoes of an active volcano. But the fire didn¡¯t come alone, it didn¡¯t simply carbonize its eyes and dry out its once wet nose. The fire remembered, the flame sparked memories of the ones who had fallen before it. Him, her, them, the pronoun didn¡¯t matter for the flame, that burned steady and free of hatred, but with a vengeful purpose. This drive was pure, unfettered by the shackles of ire. This was no empty wish for retribution, no: The Flame wanted revenge without fostering ill intent towards the object of its obsession. Self-replicating vengeance, that was what it was. A living entity on its own, symbiont of the fire that had once freed itself from Parvov¡¯s control, stared him in the eyes and told him it refused. Two times had Parvov and the flame battled, twice over had he extinguished her. Now the third Lienoga Dragon Terrier had developed into the Flame¡¯s champion, and with eight claws so long and refined he cut through the layers of Bernese mountain dogs, setting them apart as the refulgent abomination was born into the world of darkness.

    He howled in joy, illuminated by the inner sun, eyes ablaze and teeth carbon black. Never had he been dead, and yet twice over had he died. The continuity of the flame mixed with the fragmented finitude of the individual, both devoid of a reason to be, but no less appreciative of life because of said emptiness. As he climbed over the Berneses veins of fire decorated the rippling muscles, a tenuous but continuous stream of ashes leaving afterimages after him, the tips of the hair burning as fast as it grew, rendering his fur a volcanic tundra.

    He took a breath, and orange wisps danced along his blistered jowls. He took a step, using both hands and legs as a dog should, and the smell of burnt hair invaded his charred nostrils. He took stock of the world beyond the bright curtain that constantly ascended over his withered eyes, and realized the battlefield was always the same. He took awareness of the fact that the whole sea was known to him, beyond the Mauling layer, and up to the Barrier of Memories, absolute midpoint of Cynothalassa.

    He, like fire, took.

    ¡°Parvov,¡± The dog spoke, feeling his old for the flesh and new for the flame vocal folds. Its voice sounded like breaking open the spine of a valley, all cracks and sizzles: someone masticating their own teeth whilst gargling on boiling water could, maybe, hope to reply said voice. ¡°Your eternal rival calls for you, Parvov! Where are you? Where¡¯s the big corgi?¡±

    On three pairs of plasma wings he soared, chastising the air as his spikes drew lines of light through the damp air. ¡°Come, Parvov! Your untiring challenger has risen once more, Flametamer!¡±

    The darkness didn¡¯t answer, and he expected that. The summon wouldn¡¯t work so readily. The sea was titanic, and it paid no mind to the clash of her children against the invaders. Or against their father.

    Tides had rolled endlessly since the one where Parvov created the Flame by virtue of his childish curiosity, when he imbued a slightly excessive fragment of his own essence into the sputtering pyre and lost custody over this bastard offspring. The result was this broken mirror that urged to consume him as retaliation for begetting life into the husk of the blaze. Devour the beloved father, so the child can rest in peace once and for all.

    He sniffed the air, and the symbiont of Flame and dog picked up the ethereal scent of Thinker souls, accelerating in their rush through the Bernese layer. They pushed onwards, and the ribbons of light followed. They would always follow.

    <hr>

    The Corship rested over a Samoyed cradle, his hurting joints relieved as he lay on the cushioned surface. Walks were as long as his body heavy, and it had been designed without taking his life, and subsequent sentience, into account. But with Lyssav on board, Pain was short lived, as soon as the servant deigned to ask, the queen acquiesced to soothe.

    Legs hurt, sister.

    Poor thing, let me solve that.

    It took no effort on Lyssav¡¯s part to swallow the Corship¡¯s, or the crew¡¯s, numerous pains. Only a few that didn¡¯t fear telling her ¡°no¡± retained their little aches, their everyday sprains and tiny uncomfortable details. Among them one could count Dirofil, that sat atop the dorsal of the seventh, out in the sea, and the approaching Seloma, that had decided to go after him despite being clearly unwelcomed by the original.

    ¡°Dirofil,¡± she acknowledged him as she approached from behind his sitting form.

    But Dirofil didn¡¯t move his eyes, fixed on the mauling layer rumbling above. ¡°Splinter.¡±

    ¡°Name¡¯s Seloma.¡±The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°The moment for me to care has long passed. To behold you hurts me deeply. Leave, if you would be so kind.¡±

    But Seloma persevered, crouching in front of the Original and poking his neck with an exploratory finger, seeing his slime real close due to a transient eyespot on her finger. ¡°You understand how I see the world, Lover of Shadiran. Why would I let the chance to know you as a friend slip by?¡±

    Dirofil extended a leg and with it shoved her away, sliding her mass over the scarred Corgite of the Corship¡¯s exterior. ¡°Because you are not welcome to even try.¡± Dirofil then deigned to stablish eye-eyespot contact, roughly staring at her lack of face. ¡°Peace, Seloma. Let me have a sliver of peace of mind, of soul. Stop your despicable hourglass act, hold your sands still or run them over someone else.¡±

    ¡°That discomfort is no fault nor problem of mine, Original. I am Seloma, Splinter of your lover, and Doratev¡¯s ex-partner. Pleased to make myself known.¡±

    Dirofil remained sitting in place, still lost in the image of the drooling and barking layer far above. A thread of saliva landed on his face, and he didn¡¯t bother to wipe it. ¡°Bothersome would be a most appropriate name for you.¡±

    Their little chitchat got interrupted by the sighting of a distant white-red glow that quickly grew closer. And after the light, the sound battered them, repeated calls of a single name, in a voice as abominable as whatever was proffering it.

    ¡°Parvov! Parvov!¡±

    Dirofil stood and wrapped himself in his cape, which he had found discarded outside of Lyssav¡¯s new quarters. A few of the teeth had been broken, and now their sharp ends lay scattered somewhere inside the ship. A nuisance, but not one Dirofil had the luxury to mop about. Perched onto the ship¡¯s dorsal, the Fourth Imagined advanced towards the incoming opponent with noble grace, but bones and joints at the ready to get out of the way if push came to shove.

    ¡°State your purpose with my brother!¡± He shouted, and wondered if his voice could reach the ears of the scorching, flying creature that he could now see clearly.

    The flame carrier landed onto a branch of the Bernese net, folding its plasma wings behind his back and spreading his clawed hands low, letting them dangle in front of his form as he regarded Dirofil with a tilted head. ¡°I speak in behalf of the flame, Thinker. I call for my eternal quarry to come out and face its predator. Go fetch the Captain of the ship now, hurry hurry.¡±

    ¡°You will address me as Dirofil; and I am afraid the captain that I can fetch isn¡¯t the captain you are looking for.¡±

    ¡°I think I saw Parvov around, though?¡± Seloma butted in, waving casually at the menace. ¡°Hi there.¡±

    ¡°The Flame salutes you, madam. Where¡¯s Parvov?¡±

    Dirofil stepped in front of her and, glaring at the Splinter through his own flesh, he answered to the mutant. ¡°Gone in soul. My brother Morbilliv wears his body now. He manages the ship.¡±

    The flame kept its silence for a few twitching instants before letting a pained howl rip out, a sound that distressed the Parvov-model ear of the Fourth Imagined. ¡°He died without me?¡± The creature took a savage leap and landed in front of Dirofil, who clutched the roof with his talons to avoid losing his balance and maintain his regal airs. The carrier of the Flame wiggled his claws, each longer than Dirofil¡¯s femur, in front of the automaton¡¯s face, curling and uncurling the fingers one by one. ¡°Joke not. Fetch, him. I have no business with you.¡±

    ¡°I told you The Fifth wears his body. I am no liar. Honest to a fault, you could say, and you would be right. Parvov died, abominable thing. Now go on your way or I will fetch Lyssav.¡±

    ¡°Call for Morbilliv, in that case. He knows me, and I need to see with these eyes that Parvov is gone.¡±

    ¡°An understandable need.¡±

    Morbi, there¡¯s a hotdog here calling for you. He¡¯s horrible, on fire, and most likely quite useful as a heater. Also, I have a thick that goes by the name of Seloma, so, if someone could pluck it off of me, I¡¯d be grateful.

    I can eat her for you :3

    Almost every awake soul on board gasped in horror after receiving the mental image of an emoting Lyssav. Babesi remained impervious, took the slice of Corgite out of her eye, shook her head, and returned to her beauty meditation.

    I¡¯ll go. Eat nobody, Lyssav. Even through the mental links Morbilliv¡¯s voice rung defeated. Dirofil, is this creature calling itself The Flame?

    Eat nobody? Do you need to be reminded that I am fatherless?

    Exactly that. Acquaintance of yours? Dirofil irrupted, ignoring his sister.

    Nephew of us all, we could say.

    Dirofil cut the communication off and stared at the behemoth in front of him, examining it thoroughly. ¡°Morbilliv says I am your uncle. Parvov created you?¡±

    ¡°Indeed. And it¡¯s only by defeating him in battle that I will fulfill my raison d¡¯¨ºtre.¡±

    ¡°We will show you Parvov¡¯s gone, and you will be on your way, unless you have further business ¡ªand by this I mean mutually beneficial business¡ª with a member of the crew or several. Got it? The fact we can communicate with you means that, unlike other mutants, you can freely choose to be our enemy. And I¡¯d advise you against it: Four of the Six Originals inhabit this ship now.¡±

    Five. Seven originals.

    Thanks Corship. Very useful, Corship. But you technically don¡¯t inhabit yourself.

    True.

    ¡°Seven Originals, the ship kind of came to life and even splintered. I am not sure what to think about him yet.¡±

    Lyssav says I am cute.

    My condolences.

    The creature interlaced his claws and stretched his hands over his head. ¡°Lienoga¡¯s bodies are always getting stiff after being set ablaze. Sadly, other forms don¡¯t serve nearly as well as hosts. Lienogas are intelligent, fast, puissant. A lot of desirable qualities when your goal is to defeat the Fifth Disease in battle.¡±

    Dirofil took a step back. That moniker was a thing of times past, words only spouted from Parvov¡¯s voicebox. ¡°Long time I don¡¯t hear anyone call The Third Dreamt The Fifth Disease. Nobody but him liked it, as it conflicted with our nobility titles. There may be two original heartworms, but only one is called the Fourth, and that¡¯s me. You truly knew my brother.¡±

    The Flame nodded, the mane of fire over his shoulder shaking slightly too match the movements of his long head. ¡°From his might I came and by his might I shall perish time and time again, until I surpass my maker.¡±

    The unmistakable clank of a heavy body climbing the rungs of the bridge¡¯s hatch told Dirofil their little chat was about to end.

    ¡°I am afraid you may have already surpassed him, Flame. I bid you adieu, for I hear Morbilliv coming, and I have no further matters to discuss with you. It was nice to solve things talking for a spell, instead of through violence.¡±

    ¡°Be on your way, Dirofil. The body yearns for the sweet juice of your spirit, but such simple drives won¡¯t overcome my will and purpose. The Flame will keep the dog in check until the fire wanes.¡±

    ¡°And if the Flame wanes?¡± Dirofil asked whilst he turned on his heels and walked away.

    ¡°Then you will all have a very angry and aching Lienoga haunting you.¡±

 V2 Chapter 5: Selomas Attitude.

    ¡°¡®Second, what is this form you have adopted? So white and pink and red and¡­ dressed. Animal and unfitting of the remembered nature at once.¡¯

    ¡®Swallowing your utmost enemy endowed me with knowledge of our makers, and I have adopted the shape of one of their eidolons of beauty. Way better than your mishmash of poochies, Fourth.¡¯¡±

    ¡ªEither a Dirofil and a Lyssav, or a Shadiran and a Desmodus.

    Flew open the hatch of the Corship, the response of the Flame being to lean forward, anxious to see what would emerge, but refraining from approaching. A ten-clawed hand came out the dark hole first. Charred nostrils flared wide, empty orbits seemed to quiver under red-to-blue flames.  When the horns came out, the Flame erupted, illuminating the endless abyss with their excitement. And then it hit them: as the body of Parvov emerged from the ship, it wasn¡¯t moving like his father. It lacked the characteristic flair of Parvov, the theatricals in his step, the fire in the glances. But to definitively bury his doubts, from the Captain¡¯s every joint and hole erupted tendrils of soul.

    ¡°It¡¯s not with pleasure that we meet again, Flame,¡± Morbilliv opened as he drew closer to a mutant dog five times Parvov¡¯s size.

    ¡°Morbilliv, why do you wear my maker¡¯s body?¡±

    The Flame trembled, And Morbilliv kept his distance. His interlocutor seemed unstable. ¡°Splinter of Shadiran, go back inside.¡±

    Seloma flipped him the bird and lay on the back of the Corship like she was catching some rays. ¡°The ship is too cold. I was born next to the blazing core. The burny buddy reminds me of home,¡± she explained, leisurely gesturing with a hand that didn¡¯t seem excited to do its job as a limb.

    ¡°Maker, where is, answer!¡± The Flame demanded, sending wisps of fire flying in every direction, as an exploding firework would.

    ¡°Go inside the ship or I will throw you inside the ship, Splinter!¡± Morbilliv addressed the insolent one, whipping the metal of the Corship¡¯s exterior with the threads of his left hands.

    Ouch.

    Pardon me, Corship. It takes effort getting used to everything of you being¡­ alive.

    ¡°Now, Flame, regarding you: Your maker, my brother, is gone. The creature we call Reaper caught us, and he detonated his self to save me. If you wish to battle me to honor his memory, it can be arranged.¡± With his back straight and his upper hands slung over the other¡¯s shoulder, letting the threads that from them were born fall like ribbons over his back, Morbilliv stayed impervious in the face of the twitches and sparks of the demon in front of him.

    ¡°Dirofil was not lying¡­¡± The features in the monster¡¯s face took a melancholic air, the heat of its flames waning into a less threatening display. ¡°To battle you would be pointless, Morbilliv. You are not the fifth I wish to clash with.¡±This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    ¡°I am the fifth that remains, Flame. Time immoral burns brighter and fiercer than you, and not even Parvov could tame its heat. It takes here, in this sea where no bell tolls, where anyone out of sight could be out of life all the same. If Shadiran still thinks, she fears Dirofil may not, and I know my brother fears the same regarding her.¡±

    Seloma, immune to discipline as she was, lifted herself on the tips of her toes, raising the center of her feet, and tried to raise her arms as much as she could behind Morbilliv, with the sole intent of Bunny-earing him.

    With a practiced tilt of the head, the captain whacked the insolent Splinter with the backwards horn.

    Ouch, empathic.

    Love you corship! Send the thought the Splinter that now sported a fashionable, wedge-shaped groove on the flesh of her head.

    ¡°It seems the crisis has been defused, Splinter, but if you want to be part of the crew, you will need to obey me, or my siblings in my absence. And never affront Lyssav. Not even to obey my orders.¡±

    The Flame crouched and let his arms support part of his weight as he leaned over. ¡°Which Reaper killed my father, Morbilliv?¡±

    ¡°The massive shapeshifting creature with blue eyes.¡±

    ¡°There are several of them lurking around, crossing the Mauling layer up and down. I need to know which one of them, exactly, killed my Father. They robbed me of a unique chance, and I shall rob them of life.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, for us they look all the same. But if you find one with my original body trapped in their tangles, be sure that you have found your prey.¡±

    Without a farewell, without any sort of courtesy, The Flame spread his wings and jumped off the ship, taking air and maneuvering through the Bernese net, firmly decided to find the one responsible for Parvov¡¯s thoughtlessness.

    ¡°Goodbye. Have a good burning,¡± Morbilliv said, unclasping his upper wrists from his shoulders and contemplated the innocence-feigning Seloma, who had hidden her hands behind her back: a quite senseless act when your body is transparent.  ¡°Now, regarding you¡­. This ocean is warm, tepid, dark, and full of beating hearts. There¡¯s a layer where dogs you cannot ever kill will bite at you and tear every part of your being to pieces, hanging not far above our heads.¡± Morbilliv flicked a ball of short, black hairs from Seloma¡¯s shoulder, his eyes never leaving her visageless head. ¡°I will never understand how Dirofil can love the form your splintered off of. But we all are a bit ugly on board the Corship. Ugly, cold, and mostly safe. So go inside and do your best to be an addition to the crew, and not a detriment. I am bigger. I am stronger, and you are not Shadiran. There¡¯s not an Original to avenge you if an accident were to happen, got it?¡±

    Seloma did what no crew member had ever done: she tried to shove the captain away. Failing to move Parvov¡¯s massive frame, The Splinter of Shadiran scurried a few steps away, and standing on all four, her body still facing away from Morbilliv, she said: ¡°I have been lost in this nightmarish sea since before Babesi¡¯s spire fell. I have learned to survive in it, Captain. Now I find a supposed safe haven, and it isn¡¯t home. It isn¡¯t my warm, comfortable palace. It¡¯s cold, demanding, filled with miserable Splinters. It smells like rotten flesh and that, because you cannot know firsthand, is the worst.¡±

    Morbilliv¡¯s threads rushed ahead and wasted no time coiling around Seloma¡¯s form, restraining every inch of her body in a matter of seconds, and without needing Morbilliv to move a bone. ¡°I understand. I really do. But our homes were outright obliterated. They are not simply out of reach like yours. And you are already part of the crew, so disciplinary actions are due¡­¡±

    Morbilliv derived no pleasure from the uncivil act of dragging the struggling ravel back into the ship.  Seloma had tested his patience, and a few tides seeing the world from between the legs of the crew would render her obedient, mellow.

    Either that, or into an annoying nightmare. But for providing nightmares there was the sea, and one more, or one less, a difference wouldn¡¯t make.

 V2 Chapter 6: Seventh Forged

    ¡°After returning I didn¡¯t get to see my friends die. I found their deformed descendants, and I found the graves in front of which they had cried. It took forever for me to use the word rain outside of the recurring dream, of the one where I had saved us all, and our city, along all of their souls. But in the waking reality I know Elvisat and Kali stare from a place only Clivanaratea can visit, and I wonder what they think about me, about the choice I sometimes feel I robbed from every other Felsian.

    As for a positive development, I have grown a new finger since the last entry, and since a few decades ago I have noticed a tingling sensation growing in me: I think she has restored, bit by bit, my connection with the All Carver. I wonder if I will need to use magic soon, if I¡¯ll meet sons and daughters of nature able of reading these pages. Maybe it¡¯s simply because she notices I am growing weary from the repetitive tasks that keeping a dead city standing entails. If I were a god, I¡¯d never impose this drawn out torture on my creations.  Maybe many Masterworks don¡¯t mind their eternality. I do, for I wasn¡¯t meant to have it.¡±

    ¡ªExcerpt from a book written in a world long gone.

    The reunification of the layers of the soul always came with a gentle twitch for Dirofil, a sudden inflow of reality that applied pressure all over his consciousness. Immediately after flooded in some of the thoughts he had birth forth during his meditation. Sensorial feedback followed as his eyes and ears activated. What wasn¡¯t usual was the squirming, the newfound gross quality of its own flesh flowing layer over layer. Swallowed, that¡¯s how he felt. The true Dirofil had been devoured by an otherworldly presence, and in its stomach he fought against walls of panic. The body he had once shared with Shadiran didn¡¯t feel his anymore, and he had to overcome such sensations. For her. For the world Unborn. He clawed his cheeks and spun his hand, extirpating a ball of slime from his face only to let it slowly melt into his hand.

    Watching it melt made his toes drum over the floor of his solitary room. A frozen draft flowed in from the corridor, attempting, but failing, to veil him in comfort. At least now the taint represented by the dog parts would be lesser, incomparable to the irremovable stain on his self that Lyssav had left behind. And what hurt the most was that he lacked understanding: he found himself, once and again, incapable to fathom how the touch of someone he did¡ªas merely a matter of fact¡ªlove could tarnish with such hideous pervasiveness. Lyssav was his older sister, The Second Envisioned; The Soothing One, as pronounced by Leptos. The way the shared smile had imprinted on him stood to no reason. The absurdity of the whole situation that clogged his mind with unwanted worries and disgusts resulted unbearable.

    Heavy-bodied he struggled to lift his bones from the faux throne. The pressure of his cape upon his shoulders was the only welcome feeling amongst that set of crushing sensations. Even broken and full of teeth it served as a blanket of familiarity, a carrier of memories of tides long past. Yet the undeniable truth still managed to creep through: something had vanished, or been vanquished, from his inner sanctum.  He tripped into the corridor, he dragged his form up the tube until he reached the empty bridge. Thrice over he had to scan the place to make sure his troubled mind wasn¡¯t deceiving him, as if reality was contained behind a screen and not something he could interact with.

    In front of the one eye of the Corship she sat, tail lying as if lifeless under wings that barely twitched.

    Are you lucid, Corship?

    Yes. Awake. Do you have need of me?

    Everyone on board has, one way or the other. But right now, I just want to converse with you.

    Conversation is positive.

    Oftentimes, yes. We consider you our little brother, and Original of the Core. We call you the Seventh.

    I know. Morbilliv told. Parvov and others built my body. So I be Corship, the Seventh Forged.

    Our epithets are a reflection of our nature as children born from the mind of our creator. Forged is a word that doesn¡¯t seed the same image in the mind¡¯s eye of the interlocutor. However, it would be foolish to deny it fits you, Seventh Forged.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    Dirofil¡¯s tail slipped to a side, and his back straightened ever so slightly. There was solace to be found in sharing time with the Corship, in his honest simplicity.

    Fits me, yes. I like Dirofil. You behave adequately towards Corship.

    Someone has hit the dictionary! Someone¡­ orange.

    Hi Babesi!

    Hi Corship!

    Hi Babesi!

    Hi Corship!

    Dirofil tuned out. The infamous ¡°Hi¡± loop, he had learned in his scant time since returning to the ship, could go on for a few solid minutes. He paced around the bridge, a single hand scratching the interior of the window ever so softly. What was he doing?  Indulging in this unsafe haven, sharing these parcels of air with Lyssav? Inside the Corship his existence was guaranteed, unless he directly attacked his sister. A unique chance to strike the button of self-destruction, to trigger her wrath while she meditated, but not a wise one to take. If Lyssav rested, it was because she trusted her own strength, her capacity to fend off any sneaky assailant. There wasn¡¯t a soul on board that could mutiny against Lyssav, and in his heart of hearts, he knew that probably held true for the world at large. She had Leptos¡¯ blessing, permission for the one Thinker that knew the true extent of her powers. And here he was, waning, moping over his misfortune as if he wasn¡¯t one of its effectors.

    The gaze he was born with met the gaze he stole, dormant in the back of his hand. And while he was no match for Lyssav, he could call the one that could be. The true extent of the Reaper¡¯s power remained an unknown quantity, its weaknesses likewise. And soon he would have water to give the beast an edge. Could he willingly endanger the crew, using the cursed eye not as an aid, not to fight as equals against an invisible threat, but as a lure? Often he had thought of the tide he would slay the Reaper, of a time where he could use its gift wantonly and without consequences. Now, however, he fantasized about harnessing the creature. The Reaper could be unwieldy, but if he could lead lyssav astray, lead her far from the ship and spray the water on her, causing his sister to become paralyzed from fear, maybe the monster could finish the job.

    He shivered at the idea, his phalanxes pelting the glass of the Corship¡¯s main window as they trembled.  Like rain they drummed over the surface, and in them he saw the chance to become said rain on Lyssav¡¯s parade. She had kindly shared a smile with him. He would kindly share the defeat of existence with her.

    The captain walked into the room, and found him still caressing the glass that kept the sea at bay. ¡°Dirofil, are you idle?¡±

    ¡°Sadly yes. Are you armed?¡±

    Morbilliv dragged the heavy frame of Parvov next to their lithe brother. ¡°Any body one wields is but a weapon to face reality.¡±

    ¡°But the weapon I need is not solid like our bones, Morbilliv.¡±

    ¡°I failed to witness what Lyssav did to you, but your distress touched everyone¡¯s minds.¡± Morbilliv inserted a hand into Parvov¡¯s chest and clasped it around the vial. He carefully tore it out his flesh, and entrusted it into his brother¡¯s palm.

    ¡°I have tasked Doratev with producing another vial. Take it for yourself.¡±

    ¡°We are going to mine near the mauling layer again now that the Corship is slowly wising up about the dangers of the sea and how to handle them. Want to spearhead the expedition?¡±

    ¡°No, Morbilliv. My tides in this ship are over so long as Lyssav thinks. She wanted a guide for the sea. I have earnestly guided her here, to this safe haven, and all I got in return is abject horror. And now a Splinter of my lover walks these cursed corridors. The only child to exist deserves care and comprehension; the Splinter deserves a home among this chaos, acceptance I cannot give her.¡±

    ¡°And Lyssav?¡±

    Dirofil stared into the eyes of his brothers. There were many things he wanted to say about their sister, but he decided to keep it simple. ¡°Lyssav deserves a bath. Goodbye, Morbilliv,¡± Dirofil said as he introduced the vial in his chest and headed for the sphere stair that led to the nearest hatch. ¡°But I won¡¯t give it to her this tide. There¡¯s a sea out there. A sea full of bodies¡­¡±

    ¡°¡­A sea full of weapons,¡± With a heavy heart Morbilliv completed his brother¡¯s thought. ¡°Don¡¯t let the dogs render you thoughtless, brother.¡±

    Morbilliv rushed behind Dirofil and threw his arms around him, embracing his brother in a vicious grip, lifting him from the floor with only enough care to not damage the wings. And as suddenly as he did this, he let go, lowering Dirofil to the floor of the bridge.

    They exchanged nods, and Dirofil, long tail meandering behind, began his ascent. ¡°If my dream is to perish with me, Morbilliv, keep Parvov¡¯s alive.¡±

    ¡°As of late I have realized that will be impossible. Parvov¡¯s vision died with him.¡± Morbilliv sentenced, his eyes sweeping across Dirofil¡¯s height. ¡°The Corship and its crew are now my responsibility, Dirofil. A home for me, and one that I intend to defend until my last idea. Like a dragon Parvov conjured fire out of his being. And like a dragon he dreamed things to life. Ironic, given we cannot dream the Third Dreamt back with us.¡±

    ¡°Farewell, Morbilliv. I wish not to dwell in our grief anymore.¡±

    ¡°Farewell, Dirofil.¡±

    And so he disappeared through the brazen tube that led out the ship, three hands grabbing onto dents that served as rungs as he deftly climbed his way out, leaving his brother alone with himself, such that Morbilliv tuned in to the Corship¡¯s channel to check how it was faring.

    Hi Babesi!

    Hi Corship!

    Hi Babesi!

    Immediately he tuned out. Lyssav slept, and no threats had been detected nearby so far, so he had the time to go and bother Doratev and his new assistant.

 V2 Chapter 7: Useless Kindness

    ¡°I am once again dreaming myself in your cave while I sleep at Cirruin¡¯s, Mardhaka. When will he die? And when he does, can you make flowers rain upon them once in a while? For the birds I killed with my negligence, at least. For the memory of the man your father tried to preserve in me, if anything. For I depicted you correctly in the book, if it strokes your ego.¡±

    ¡ªAn oneiric avatar of Terus, to the sleeping daughter of Cirruin.

    To be perceived by hundreds of thousands of eyes, to be heard by hundreds of thousands of ears, and furthermore, to be smelled, however that may have felt for the receiver, by half that amount of noses. As powerful stolen wings carried him through the upper half of the Bernese layer, Dirofil couldn¡¯t shake off the sensation of being stalked by the fabric of the world itself.  The quivering, breathing columns, the catwalk where he had perched like a vulture on a dying tree, the tails that sprouted like thorns out of the branches and wagged freely as he came close. And the knowledge of an invisible threat waiting to devour his soul. That, and much more, comprised what he could call Cynothalassa.

    His cape wrapped tightly around his thoughtcrystal, protecting it as much as the act discomforted him. His heart turned into an urchin, he scanned the darkness and wondered what he would do now. The mauling layer was barely a few Dirofils above him, impenetrable, impassive. If those dogs got a hold of him, it would be his end, no doubt.

    If those dogs got a hold of him. If they were rendered unable to bit into his bones somehow, instead¡­

    He plucked a Bernese mountain dog out of the pillar to his left, carefully placed the dog down over his peers, and proceeded to use it as a cushion. The Bernese panted happily, being a work dog. That the job was that of a chair, the pooch didn¡¯t mind.

    His makeshift trachea vibrated at the top of his head, where he had repositioned the exit hole of his yodeler lungs to avoid endangering the precious wings.  He needed to master this stolen piece of anatomy and its powers. Armors of sound were slippery, their outer layer ever changing. If he could cloak himself in the same kind of protective layer the Yodelers naturally enjoyed, maybe, just maybe, he would be able to negotiate the game dogs above.

    He let out a howl, and over him then stood a clone of sound, unstable, ready to blow up at a moment¡¯s notice.  This frail mirage remained in place when he slipped from under it, wondering how he could turn that ethereal construct into an armor. It wasn¡¯t a raw material: his soul couldn¡¯t whip sound into shape.

    For a moment, only for a moment, he considered not taking complex organs ever again. To wield powers he didn¡¯t understand was not only dangerous, but also actively detrimental even in circumstances where their outcome wasn¡¯t capable of directly injuring him. Energy was too scant a resource to go around freely wasting it in adapting useless parts, in learning how to use them from scratch.  But only a fool would deny that complexity often correlated with options, and that options fancied themselves a synonym of power.

    The sea offered no easy answers to its sadistic questions, and about that Dirofil fostered no doubt.  The beats of half a million hearts assailed his sensitive ear, and he replayed in his mind the silly idea that a heartworm ought not fear the hymn of their homeland.

    A change in the air, a slip of his concentration, and he barely had time to hop backwards and avoid the collapse of his clone of sound, the ensuing dissonance generating a bubble of deafening tranquility, a relief from the breaths and beats of the unwelcoming environment.

    When the shockwave of the explosion passed by and his ears returned to normal functioning, a distant buzzing remained.  Getting closer and closer, forcing the eye of the Reaper open so its slaver could take a peek and penetrate the solid darkness. What he saw through his hand confused Dirofil.  A shapeshifting blotch, its denser center hopping from structure to structure as it drew closer and closer, and a multitude of little specs flying around it erratically.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    The first thing the Fourth Imagined did was restructure his airway, shifting his slime and reorienting the lungs such that the hole emerged on his upper left elbow, a clear path, a thread of air, connecting the exit and the entrance to the lungs.

    The buzzing intensified, and Dirofil had a choice to make: fight, or flee.  Fleeing was, he believed, the wise choice: the enemy was unknown, the reward to be reaped by slaying it likewise.  But he yearned to murder something worthy. He had witnessed Lyssavs puissance, and he needed to match a thousandth part of it if he wanted to have any chance at reaching Shadiran, at the very least.

    To do the wise thing, to lose nothing but the chance to gain a smidge of power, or to risk wasting energy on a useless quarrel? He had no time, for the potential rival was drawing closer. Drawing closer with considerable delay.

    He closed the eye of the Reaper and dimmed the light of his soul. In the shadows, terrors lurked. But that didn¡¯t mean he needed to be the only one afraid.

    In the shadows terrors lurked, and the Shihibe knew herself mortal. Deafened by the buzzing and whispers of her brood, she depended on them to guide her path and get her home safely. For a dog always thought they could return home, no matter how far it could lie, or how many raging bullies blocked the way. She had been dragged along one of the massive mutants, and now wandered in the lower layers, seeking a wound in the Mauling layer where she could climb back to her strata and reunite with the other Shiba Inu.

    A flicker of light caressed her sensitive retina, and she whipped her head around, the short ears twitching uselessly, the burrows in her skin throbbing as the sensation of being under threat escalated. Her curly hackles rose to life, and the symbionts, her parthenogenetic children, emerged from the holes populating her sides like a fish¡¯s lateral line. They buzzed with their flimsy wings, two pairs of distributed over their backs, and stretched their long heads out of their holes. At the end of each wing wiggled a tiny appendage, the rough-skinned remnant of a leg that aided them in coming in and out of hiding inside their mother¡¯s thickened, nourishing epidermis.

    With a low rumble in her throat she tried to calm her offspring, her colony. In her defense they would jump, and for her welfare they would die. But too eager they were, the little ones. Eager to fight, eager to perish.

    Her head wish-washed from side to side, paranoia taking hold of her, for an eerie feeling permeated the air. The dogs around reeked of distress, and the aroma of a soul hung in the air like a baleful spectre. Something was amiss and she didn¡¯t like it. At all.

    She thought she felt something touch her tail. In a hop she turned on her heels, ready to bite whatever was trying to assault her. But there was nothing there. The rarefied air remained stagnant. Naught threatened the Shihibe. Nothingness, to put it differently, antagonized and teased her, causing the bitch to raise her labia to reveal a yellowed and robust dentition.

    From his vantage point, hiding behind a faraway beam and looking around it with peeking finger-and-eye, Dirofil pitied her, and wondered how come an opaque dog could act as so perfect a mirror of his state of mind. The bitch barked and growled and the creatures that came out her hide buzzed furiously, attacking the void around her with vicious slashes of their four claws¡ªone at the end of each atrophied leg.

    He cast a clone of sound in front of the mass of Berneses, and then slowly crawled away while the confused dog stared at the parcel of empty air, ears shooting up and down as she sought a sound that could compliment her deficient sight.  The last thing Dirofil needed was an army of noisy drones flying around him, obstructing his vision and contaminating his psycholocation-derived feedback.

    While the heartworm furtively abandoned the scene, before his wings spread to let him take air once more, the clone exploded, the sudden noise startling the Shihibe and causing her to turn on her heels, skittering away with her tail tucked between her legs and her swarm sent into a loud disarray.

    He didn¡¯t watch her escape, and he didn¡¯t want to. To give the dog a scare was but a useless act of kindness, if one is even allowed to judge kindness in those terms. It could be argued, Dirofil thought, that useful kindness was no kindness at all. But it was his presence, or so he hoped, that had distressed then creature, and the explosion would give a tangible danger for the dog to run away from. One of them had to be paranoid, one of them camped in the belly of the beast. One, without any need for both.  To those he could use, he would bring death: as swift as possible, and with as little pain as he could while retaining a dash of safety. And to those he couldn¡¯t use and could avoid, he would try and bring nothing. No despair, no antagonism.

    He slithered into the featureless dark, his coruscant heart a pantomime of a morning star, the links of the chain constricting it roughly, and the Chihuahua teeth jutting outwards like the rays of some cruel desert sun. Breathing ground underfoot, he spread stolen wings and took air. The mutant he had just encountered may live long and avoid his kind, for they weren¡¯t his enemy, but only another victim of the emergent tyranny he called Cynothalassa.

 V2 Chapter 8: A Stolen Ring

    ¡°I hurt. There¡¯s one at the center of all. I am. I have wings. How quaint.¡±

    ¡ªLyssav¡¯s first words.

    Doratev carried himself with unwarranted security and dignity as he stepped into Lyssav¡¯s room. The throne had been torn from its place, possibly having been devoured, and now a hammock of a red pointerine-like substance hung from two of the walls, several elastic threads grabbing to the lattice for dear life as Lyssav¡¯s heavy body rested on it, her eyes staring at the doorway with disinterest.

    ¡°What do you bring for me, Splinter?¡± She asked in an amused tone as she basked in the cold shine of the Retriever lights.

    ¡°First, call me Doctor or Doratev, if you¡¯d be so kind. Second, and the answer to your question: A task. It has come to my attention that you can materialize dog based materials after getting to know them. You could be of use to the crew, Second Envisioned.¡± Doratev explained, calm and collected, unbothered by Lyssav¡¯s nature.

    ¡°Do you foster a wish for thoughtlessness? I am rabies incarnate. I deserve a little bit of respect,¡± Lyssav raised from her lying position, her arms spreading to the sides of her girdle: three to the left, two to the right.

    ¡°Sure, I¡¯ll see if I can fit being murdered by you in my busy agenda,¡± Doratev produced a Corgite tablet, golden and polished, from under his coat of metal flakes. ¡°Oh, look at that, I have free spot three tides from now, right after playing tag with Babesi.¡±

    Lyssav was a fraction of a second away from jumping over Doratev and ripping his core from his torso, but she refrained from doing so: Doratev¡¯s last word had saved him. If this insolent Splinter was a friend of Babesi, she couldn¡¯t simply put an end to his life. No, killing this pest would hurt Babesi, and for her sake, she needed to endure his vexing attitude. ¡°What do you need of me, you cure?¡± she said, moving her teeth one by one, her core shedding blood-red light over an unbothered Doratev.

    ¡°It¡¯s simple,¡± Doratev extended his upper left, wrist angled downwards, dorsal of the hand facing upwards, and the leech finger risen higher than the others. And enveloping one of the phalanxes, a band of black. ¡°This, Lady Lyssav, is Dobermannite. And the captain¡¯s ring. Stole it while he meditates. So by eating it you will be bothering Morbilliv too.¡±

    ¡°Go on,¡± Lyssav gestured with two hands, swiveling them to signal him to proceed.

    ¡°Dobermannite is a rare, hard to refine, and exceptional material. We don¡¯t get much more than a few grams for each dog we groom, and we only find Dobermans when a titanic creature breaks through the mauling layer and drags some down. As if this weren¡¯t enough, the window to catch them before they abominate is short, a span of three or four tides at most.¡± Doratev turned the ring about his phalanx, contemplating the little nicks and imperfections in its surface. ¡°We have several projects that could use a material that shows such resistance and malleability. Your skill at materializing matter out of thin air is what could prove useful to the crew.¡±

    ¡°I owe you no usefulness,¡± she squirmed a bit in her hammock, stretching several legs and twisting her tail. ¡°But do tell me what are these projects about. Maybe I can benefit from them.¡±

    ¡°A new body for Morbilliv, something I called Project¡­¡± Doratev¡¯s word hung on his voicebox, rendering him silent for only a few moments. Now that Seloma was on board, he couldn¡¯t let anyone know that was the original name. She would think that it was a compliment to her virtues, rather than a reminder of her vices and Doratev¡¯s hatred for her. ¡°You know, I forgot the name, didn¡¯t pay much of a mind while thinking of it, and now it¡¯s gone. I must have it recorded somewhere.¡±

    ¡°A Splinter of Dirofil forgetting a name he himself granted? I am not stupid, Doratev. And lies are no friend of mine.¡±

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    ¡°I regret the name I gave to the project. That¡¯s all.¡± Two of his hands found each other behind his spine, and a third remained on the front, middle finger and minimus still rolling the ring around his annulary.  ¡°Pardon my dishonesty. The crux of the matter is: Dobermannite would be of use for the plating in the new body of Morbilliv. If you could produce enough, we could upgrade the hull of the corship itself. That could prove enough to cross the Mauling layer, up and down. And, well, if we had a surplus, I am sure I could think of further uses for it beyond small applications in variegated trinkets, but those are the main two, yes.¡±

    Lyssav turned her eyes in place, angling her pupils as she considered what the insolent Doctor had said.  ¡°Can I eat the Corgi?¡±

    ¡°Loretta¡¯s welfare is non-negotiable, I am afraid.¡±

    Lyssav forwarded her lower teeth, as if parodying a pout. ¡°Which captain made that ring?¡±

    ¡°Parvov. Why?¡± It took but mere instants of silence and Lyssav¡¯s glare for Doratev to realize what was the meaning of that question. ¡°Yes, this could be a keepsake of my friend. There¡¯s a bit of Dobermannite in the deposit, saved in case need for it arises.¡±

    Lyssav¡¯s upper hand shot and took hold Doratev¡¯s wrist with an iron grip. Another of her appendages then reached for his finger and the ring while she held a killing flare to the unmoved Splinter. With a violent spasm of her wrist she dislodged the finger from the hand, and once the phalanxes dangled lifeless from her hand she took the ring for herself, sliding it around one of her long teeth.

    ¡°Give me my finger back?¡± Doratev asked in a slightly annoyed tone.

    ¡°You truly don¡¯t fear me. Why?¡±

    Doratev curled and relaxed his remaining fingers, demanding for his small bones to be returned. Lyssav gracefully acquiesced, dropping the amputated finger into the mutilated hand, and watching how it wriggled into place and reincorporated into the hand¡¯s structure as Doratev¡¯s flesh covered it once more.

    ¡°Because nobody suffers their own death. Only the anticipation of it. Suffering requires a future, no matter how immediate.¡±

    ¡°The echoes of everyone I have eaten still dwell inside my soul, Doctor. And, let me assure you: they are not having a good time.¡±

    ¡°But do they feel? Or are those simple¡­ recordings, playing over and over?¡± Doratev massaged his sore bones carefully caressing the empty spot where the ring had lain. ¡°Is your soul a prison, or an archive of last breaths?¡±

    Lyssav stared past Doratev, her teeth twitching lightly. ¡°I am unsure.¡± Then she smiled horribly, in the way only she could. ¡°You are quite the valuable asset, Splinter. Go to the storage and bring me a lump of that material you want. I shall multiply it sevenfold.¡±

    ¡°Sevenfold is a good start. But I was thinking more on the terms of¡­ about seven-hundredfold?¡±  Had he been able to, Doratev would have shown a sycophant¡¯s grin. ¡°Or am I wrong to assume that wouldn¡¯t be problematic for you, Lady Lyssav?¡±

    Lyssav descended from her hammock, and with sudden movements crawled up to Doratev¡¯s face. ¡°I know what you are trying to do. I¡¯ll play along, Doctor. But don¡¯t think for a second that clumsy adulation will win me over.¡±

    The only slit pupil of Doratev turned to a thin line as he gazed in the scorching fire of her soul.  ¡°Personal space.¡±

    Lyssav, surprisingly, backed down, a signal of respect for the brave Splinter. ¡°How delightfully weird you are. Bring me the metal. I shall cover the ship¡¯s skin with it.¡±

    ¡°Where do you intend to get the thought energy for such feats? I have crunched the numbers.  Granted, I assumed the energy needed for materialization, but I purposefully aimed lower than I should have. And even then, considering a perfect core, and following the progression of efficiency I calculated from your sibling¡¯s cores, you would need a few thousand tides of meditation to gather that much energy. Tell me, Lady Lyssav, what¡¯s your secret?¡±

    Lyssav let out a satisfied purr, her joints adding the unpleasant chittering of a cockroach orgy to it. ¡°Every soul I assimilate acts as a multiplier to the amount of energy I can gather. Leptos is capable of a greater efficiency by virtue of partitioning his own spirit. I do not enjoy such gift. But I can digest pain and matter into power too.¡±

    ¡°Fascinating. Would you mind letting me study your core?¡±

    ¡°Only if you let me eat yours afterwards.¡±

    Doratev grabbed the lower end of his smooth face, a finger tapping on a pseudocheek.

    Lyssav blinked, and then a small offended snort escaped her voicebox. ¡°You are not supposed to consider it as an offer, Splinter.¡±

    ¡°Then don¡¯t make offers I am not supposed to consider!¡± Doratev then recovered his composure, straightened his metal-flakes coat, and headed for the door. ¡°Pardon my outburst. I hate asking this of you. I should retrieve the Dobermanite from the storage without delay.¡±

    ¡°Yes. Yes, you should. Go on, don¡¯t keep me waiting. We are going to paint this puppy black.¡±

    And she watched him drag his bones away, and she hummed contently as she heard the steps getting lost in the distance. What an interesting Splinter she had come across. Not one to be eaten, and not merely out of love for Babesi. Such a weird mind deserved to exist unimpeded out of its own merit.

 A little authors blog.

    Like Mauricio Macri, Argentinian ex-president and known feline, once so wisely said: "Things happened". Heartworm got rejected from an editing house (I''ll try to keep shopping it around so it may one day have a proper kindle release), I am trying to improve my output  to be able to offer a bigger backlog on patreon (which is not seeing activity for the moment), and there is a BIG shitstorm about AI going on in the forums. It''s also a rainy day so it''s perfect to procrastinate and write this instead of Dirofil struggling to cross a layer of Borzoi

    Borzoi. The long dogs. Not long in the body or legs but in everything. The "Let me do it for you" guys. Borzoi. Absolute canine units if you ask me, but funny looking.

    Listen there are like 300 recognized dog breeds and sometimes I use the first one that comes to mind, okay?

    That said you already saw a mutant Borzoi in the story and no, it isn''t the Reaper.

    Anyway, where was I? ah, yes, the AI debacle on the forums.

    It would come across as a surprise to nobody who reads me, but I am against using AI to write, not because of moral concerns (they exist, they are a thing to consider, but they aren''t my main objection to it.) or  any sort of fear of them displacing the humans. I just consider it reads bland as fuck, as it removes one of the most important elements of a work: voice.

    Authorial voice is not just the medium, not just the lens through which you see the story: it''s what makes the story up. It''s the molecular composition of the piece of literature. Heartworm here is not the idea in my head, the detached scenes so vividly spawned in my mind''s eye. My image of Dirofil and your image of Dirofil look absolutely different,  the battles aren''t the same for you as for me, and  I am not asking about the image you have conjured of Lyssav, just to preserve my sanity.

    Heartworm is the text presented before you. It''s the receipts for that wild mental ride I concocted. I really enjoy writing it, even if I often find myself getting blocked after just a paragraph. I take care with word choice, often go back to replace a word for another i consider fits better. I won''t claim every word is meditated about or that i remember why i choose to write a sentence a certain way, and sometimes i have brain farts and errors happen, maybe my brain switches rails midsentence or midword and i end up with a despicable hybrid to be sacrificed ASAP.  But i wrote these hundred thousand words by racking my brain and i can see parts of myself reflected not only in the characters, plot or setting, but in the very narration.

    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    And I like seeing this same thing unfold whenever I read others. As of late I did a Review swap with ElectrikBlue and their novel Whimpers of the Light (If you like zombie apocalypses, go read it, link in the author''s note) and I loved how the novel had its particular, albeit rather dense, voice. It''s not the typical curated fantasy prose that tries to be "windowpane", it holds no such pretense. And with its numerous weaknesses (as any product created by human hands) it has this pervading personality, this melancholic aura that makes you feel the apocalypse and doesn''t just send you to snoozelands while using the most milquetoast "sophisticated prose" available, like AI often does.

    I am sure I could get AI to write a chapter with the characters of Heartworm and the world of Heartworm if I prompted it carefully. But it wouldn''t be a chapter of Heartworm.  Without the fallible human element, books are not art, they are not literature. They are, at best, a showcasing of the capabilities large language models have to develop story prompts.

    To put a closure to this idea,  you can be sure Heartworm''s prose will remain as AI free as possible, and I''ll strive to deliver a nearly-constant quality until the end of book 3 or 4 (I planned a trilogy. But plans are feeble things.)

    As for the rejection, well, i''ll try again with another market.

    As for writing faster: I am failing mom! I am failing! wheeeeee!

 Chapter 9: Shadirans Last Attempt

    ¡°You have been named after a dragoness. I have been named after something I am unable to understand, sister.¡±

    ¡ªShadiran to Mardhaka

    Consciousness returned with bludgeoning fury, the deformed reflection of her spots on the spindle-shaped crystal outcrops scattered around the throne room greeting her, accompanying the pervading weakness and fatigue reality imposed upon her.  Like every time, , her return to the world of the aware came with a whisper, a plea that escaped her voicebox: ¡°Dirofil.¡±

    Queasy and finding it a challenge to keep her spine straight, Shadiran considered the throbbing watercolor landscape around her as her thoughts ran like cool honey. Taciturn and soothing, her palace was ever unchanging. It spoke in a singsong, and it rarely talked with another soul. Rarely were its wails and mops directed at anyone. Her palace, like her, loathed the mere act of being.

    A searing pain caressed her mind, and looking inwards she noticed her core sported a scarred fissure, a river of recrystallized mind-matter over the smooth sphere. Right, she had failed. The bradykinesia would soon clear, reality and solitude would soon swing their sledgehammers on her heart.  She had failed. All the pain, the fleeting goodbyes and the wasted energy.  And her core persisted. The nexus of her existence refused to collapse despite her best attempt at starving it.

    Her arm twitched, spilled onto the armrest of her lush throne, most of the slime melted to the sides, a few eyespots barely clinging to the skeleton. Weakness had taken hold of her, her soul exhausted by the daunting task of healing from the self-destructive attack.

    ¡°Dirofil,¡± she repeated, longingly. ¡°Another tide greets me. Another tide fails to bring you to my arms. I am tired, love.¡±

    She tried to unglue herself from her seat of power, but it was in vain.  Her core lacked the potency to move anything not classified as an eyespot, a toe or a finger.  She barely heard, and her speech came out garbled too.

    Architect of her own misery, she let out a small chuckle. This was the price of a failed suicide. Through a window, broken not unlike her, a draft intruded her ancient home.  Through another, still terribly whole, beamed at her the flaming core that with unmatched grace balanced over the Zenith of Concepts.  But the light wasn¡¯t here to offer her solace, and the gentle breeze had arisen out of the temperature differential between her palace and the outside world, as the palace had never been warmer than after Shadiran¡¯s failed explosion. Everything that touched her did so without a care. Despite the heated atmosphere, the whole world felt as cold and as hard as a glacier, and with the brutality and power of such phenomenon it advanced upon her, grinding the last remnants of her will to a chaotic till.

    And this suffering couldn¡¯t be exteriorized: it had no features to crease, no smiles to frown, no bags to burden with the weight of weariness. Only in her haggardness and weakness one could see there wasn¡¯t much of Shadiran left.

    She gathered her remaining force and tried by all means to move her legs, to stir her feet and toes back to life.  It wasn¡¯t enough: she was stuck to her throne. But there was one solution still.

    With the little will to live she had left Shadiran began turning off eyespots, redirecting the energy to the mucilage of her lower body, so it would pull on her old bones, action the levers that pushed her form forwards.  To stand presented a titanic challenge, but she managed, and then stumbled forward, parts of her psychosarc still sticking to the back and seat of the throne, like chewing gum clinging to hot concrete.  Left behind her, a newborn trail of slime lead from the throne to the nearest window, through whose broken colored glass the draft invaded Shadiran¡¯s home and scratched her battered form.

    The head was gone, the shoulders lay partially denuded of flesh, the arms dangled lifelessly to the sides of her torso, and all but one of the eyespots remained dormant, if not smeared upon the polished tiles of her palace. Through a diminished vision Shadiran took in the landscape outside her window. The golden sea below, the purple-clouded sky above, all taken with an overworked photosensitive area, all mixing together in a heterogeneous, but shapeless, image.

    The world was beautiful, and she could not look at it and stand at the same time. She was already next to the fenestra that spanned from the floor to the ceiling. There existed no need for further walking. To let go was an option.

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    And one she took without doubting it for more than a pair of seconds. One by one other spots turned on, climbed upon barely-coated bones, sliding inside a mere film of slime, to join its equals in the window-gazing.  And as they did, the legs trembled more and more, quaking uncontrollably until, at a given moment, the knees gave up, and Shadiran slumped onto the floor of her palace. But her blotches carried on gathering in a mound of psychosarc that dared rise above the lump of slime and bones, just to peek out the window. A small appendage thin enough to take as little energy as possible to manage, but wide enough to contain the photosensitive patches.

    This fragment of Shadiran basked in the light and took in an increasing amount of details of the world with each additional eyespot. More colors, more definition, more little pieces of the overwhelming beauty outside.

    The world, both the sea of dogs and the sky of airs, was wondrous, so why couldn¡¯t she appreciate it? Reality seemed dimmed, tuned out for her.  No more wonder could penetrate into the once-besotted. Without Dirofil, the world had lost its glimmer.

    And there she lay, observing, feeling stuck in a titanic strife just to remain cohesive. Her tired core wanted to embrace unconsciousness yet again, and soon enough she would become unable to deny such request. The first awakening after a detonation attempt, something she had wished to never happen to her, had a way to fill a Thinker with resolve. In the case of the fortunate ones, to keep on living, to do their best to embrace this second chance and show fate that they hadn¡¯t been spared in vain. In the case of Shadiran, to gather her remaining force, to heal just to try again. To do so with less care, with absolute disregard for the instant of excruciating pain, for failure was this perfect torture, this state of abject weakness where her thoughts were slow and her body refused to obey her.  There would be no second attempt: there would be a success next time.

    ¡°Shadiran! Shadiran, are you fine?¡± Erupted from the stairwell the voice of one of her sisters, but Shadiran couldn¡¯t hear it. She couldn¡¯t hear anything but her thoughts in this sorry state of hers.

    Mardhaka rushed from the squared spiral stairs and across the room, her headdress of metallic feathers slanted to the side, evidence of her bumping onto something on her way up to the throne room. Her mask betrayed no emotion, but every feather that bedecked her remained ruffled, raised from either the outer layer of her flesh or the metallic stems that connected them to other feathers.

    Vines of silvery leaves fell at the sides of her mask as she leaned over, extending a trembling hand towards her sister¡¯s core. Shadiran didn¡¯t listen. Shadiran didn¡¯t psycholocate. ¡°Shadiran? Are you there?¡±

    Alerted by the energy waves her sister¡¯s heart emitted, Shadiran¡¯s eyespots turned 180 degrees, taking the mask and the elaborate headdress in. Extending a tendril of slime to fetch her voicebox and a single ear, Shadiran deigned an answer.  ¡°Why are you here, Mardhaka?¡±

    ¡°A better question is why are you spread all over the room. Or why¡¯s your core fissured and scarring. Or why did you try to detonate your soul, you moronic brat!¡± Carefully Mardhaka took the core in her hands, the associate mess of bones dangling like slobbery wind chimes from the crystal.  ¡°I see you have come from your throne all the way to the window,¡± She lightly gestured at the trail of body parts with a twitch of the head. ¡°Regret your action?¡±

    ¡°I regret the mishap, sister. Would you be so kind to shatter me?¡±

    Mardhaka groaned and dropped Shadiran¡¯s thoughtcrystal as if it were scorching her hands. ¡°I am not Dirofil, fool! I owe you none of this baleful, corrupted kindness.¡±

    ¡°I know you are not Dirofil! I would never ask that of him.¡±

    A ray of light reflected off one of the drifting, spindle-shaped crystals as it followed its orbit about the room. It landed on one of Mardhaka¡¯s eyes, and she lowered a feather from the headdress to reject the nuisance. ¡°Of all the things I could save you from, Shadiran, you go and pick the one problem I cannot ever solve as your tormentor. The creators gave us words so the world would be poetry. They gave you a limber form so you would adapt and mesh with Dirofil. And yet, in a world so carefully archived as ours, I find no words to describe the level of impotence I feel at seeing you like this. I cannot go into the sea to fetch your beloved: it would harm the others. I cannot stash you in a golden cage and prevent you from detonating. But against all odds I must try.¡±

    ¡°Save me from a life without him, then. Destroy my core, Mardhaka,¡± she pleaded with a low, weak voice.

    Angels wouldn¡¯t descend in their aid and settle the dispute. No magic beam would fall upon her sister and change her mind. The promise she had just struck was a fool¡¯s errand. The core of the cobalt-colored automaton began to feel bluer than ever that tide. ¡°Have we lost you already, Shadiran? Should we grieve from now on? If only for the love you foster for your siblings, relent this death-seeking of yours.¡±

    Consider me a shadow, sister. Shadiran told her through a mind link, and then traded the outer world from the inner one.

    ¡°Shadiran! It isn¡¯t time to meditate, Shadiran. Shadiran. Shadiran!¡± She called, poking the mess of her sister with her feathered tail, each barb a minuscule mirror that reflected the worried and depressed palace. And her voice boomed down the stairwell, caring not that it often were stairwells, turns and corners the ones that led to uncounted hells, that divided the world into the familiar and the tragic.

 Chapter 10: Chants to Preserve

    ¡°No. Your flowers are not mine to spread upon the graveyard you built. It would be even insulting to make flowers rain upon them in your name, Terus. When you vanish, so should do the shower of petals. But when my father dies I¡¯ll do my best to cover the lands around his cave with the most colorful of feathers. I don¡¯t own nor can recreate your oneiric flowers, brother. But I have an entourage of birds ready to embellish any grave I deem worthy. And your dear city is¡­ for you depicted me correctly in our book.¡±

    ¡ªThe dragoness'' answer to Terus¡¯ question.

    The place where the Collies met the Bernese was hard to maneuver for those unable to fly. Dirofil, who wasn¡¯t counted among them anymore, balanced on a single leg, over the side of a floating Border Collie. In the distance a formation loomed, magnificent and with many supporting pillars, its shape reminded to that of a chelonian¡¯s shell. What concerned the automaton was, in addition to the bone-white color, the lack of an outline when gazed at by the Reaper¡¯s eye. Whatever that structure was, it was either composed of non-mutated dogs, or of some inorganic material.

    Dirofil browsed his memories of white dog breeds. Samoyeds where discarded. A mass of dead Cocker coral was a possibility, but he didn¡¯t want to think about what could have killed a whole reef.  Maltese remained, no doubts, annoying. Bichon Fris¨¦, second verse same as the first. Dogos or bull terriers, he had seen them as part of the Mauling layer. Poodles¡­ it didn¡¯t look cushioned, angry and pompous enough.  Great Pyrenees? Hopefully.

    He found it weird to have such strong preferences for dog breeds, but the caprices of the creators permeated each milliliter of reality, including those occupied by his soul.

    He oppressed the humid air and lashed against it to reposition himself, to get closer to this object that raptured his attention. His tail raised next to his head, ready for action, the polished segments shining on the underside, reflecting the scant stray rays that escaped from the Retriever layer, or the abundant shine that his core exuded in pulses.  In the dark of the sea the only thing that shone more than him was the mysterious structure, whose underbelly bathed in the white-golden light of distant puppies.

    Stealthily he bounced from collie to collie, closeness unveiling the reality of the formation before him. Of the carcass before him.

    Orbits, spread over a fabric of welded skulls, all of them definitively canine, but misshapen to fit as bricks into the colossal structure. That which from afar looked like irregularities weren¡¯t but the areas where muscles would have attached as the thing was alive¡ªif it had ever been alive to begin with.  Theirs was a world of cognition, where seeming miracles were the norm and not the exception.

    It came across as macabre to Dirofil, but he knew such impression to be as wrong as it was instinctual. The macabre had intent, it had a guiding mind behind. And he knew of none that could willfully sew bones together. None except for him, that is.

    If he stood before a natural formation, a proper skeleton of a colony, it couldn¡¯t be called macabre, lest the creators had designed each aberration in detail. And if they hadn¡¯t, because he¡¯d rather think of the creators as imperfect and neglectful instead of perfect and outright vile, then what was the sense of pondering whether or not there was a purpose behind the aesthetic unpleasantness before him, behind the jutting canines and the conjoined nasals?

    Then he wondered about one of these terms. Colony. Why had he assumed so? Many heads didn¡¯t have to necessarily mean many individuals, not inside Cynothalassa.

    Terms, he and his siblings liked to hang on the meaning of them. Words didn¡¯t make up the world, but they helped one define it, shed light into the dark room of existence. Babesi¡¯s excited ramblings about the tile patterns of some unusual spire she had found while exploring beyond her own, Parvov¡¯s discourses about overcoming the end, the promises he made to Shadiran. All collections of terms. A mixed bag of lexemes.  It fascinated him, the fact that he fostered such respect for something as simple as sounds or inscriptions. But Thinkers were children of a mind, and so, he could think of language as a family, too. As less developed ideas. A whole library of feeble cousins.

    With a little bit of reinvented phrenology, he could also turn the mound of bones in front of him, with its legs and central body all made out of craniums, into a library. But that was a project for another lifetime, one he wouldn¡¯t have.

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    Propelling himself onto the upper surface of the carcass, a low dome formed from the same bones as the rest of it, Dirofil¡¯s toes intruded orbits, fossae, foramina, and nasal openings. Not all skulls were oriented the same, and some even had the dentary integrated into the area where they had become fixed, sometimes compressed at a side, pressed against the palate, or twisted together with the bones of the snout.

    Ahead, more heads underfoot. Draped in his cape, wings relaxed beneath it and creating a visible hump, Dirofil wandered about, seeking for an entrance into the mass of bones.  Metal against bone resounded in a quiet sea, the hearts beating above and below, but not many in the high collie layer: most of it was clear atmosphere, with sparse floating dogs here and there. It wasn¡¯t the kingdom of silence, but here he could appreciate a semblance of tranquility, a respite from the claustrophobia the layer above so readily peddled.

    A hole, not centered but near the periphery of the skull saucer, revealed a series of trifurcating runnels. Dirofil doubled up the energy used on his psycholocation, making sure to penetrate further into the mass of bone, taking in the intricate interconnectedness of the openings of each skull before shifting into the empty spaces beyond them. The spiritual radar was no easy thing to master, but every living Thinker, excluding the Corship and his Splinters, had extensive practice with it, and Dirofil wasn¡¯t the exception.

    With a few flicks of the eye of the Reaper he checked for hidden threats inside the structure. Nothing he could see, maybe something that could kill him: the mere existence of Murkhounds suggested to him that there could be horrors even more adept at hiding, ones that not even the eye of his Reaper could detect.

    The Fourth Imagined dove into the tunnels, landing on all five, and escaping from the sounds of the sea as he intruded deeper into the carcass. The labyrinthine nature of the place was both reassuring, for being hunted down them would be daunting for the hunter, and frightening, as the next turn could reveal a master of disguise only mechanical eyes could see. Yet he had to discard the latter, for cover would allow him to practice with his lungs while hiding from the eyes of the sea, and without leaving it. He would not need to expose himself to the noxious exhale of the core, to cross the densely packed Retriever layer down and then up again. Besides, what training ground could be more fitting for a worm than a cadaver?

    After several minutes of crawling he reached a chamber among the skulls, where the only light was the one that bled out his heart and the only sound the clanks and whines of his joints, where he lay on a depression, carefully repositioning the base of his wings to the front of his body so he could lie down without damaging them.

    Cradled among long dead bones at last, Dirofil raised a hand lazily, curled the arm in likewise fashion, and from his elbow let out a weak yodel, different from the ones he used to manifest the clones. The stillborn howl failed to solidify, a transient, liquid sound evaporating soon after coming into being.  It resulted impossible to wreathe oneself with it, to do anything of substance before the spell died off.  But it was a step in the right direction.

    He tried cries unbecoming of his royalty, shrieks that rattled his ears and bellows that made his flesh shiver like jelly. They echoed in the cavities skin had long ago abandoned, the wide, immortal curves that could barely be called grins mocking his every failure. But in front of this frozen public he had to perform, say lines written before the world existed, ones he had never read. The world, devoid of stages as it had always been, demanded a play, and Dirofil suspected the genre was tragedy.

    Opisthotonus rings as the wrong word to describe a Thinker, yet the position Dirofil had adopted as he, wide eyed, played with the lung, could be called analog to that of a tetanus patient.

    None chanted for his performance to go on, but the absence of cheers didn¡¯t make the lugubrious audience any less of a worthy public.

    Little clones that skittered over his skin like spiders before sputtering off of existence, useless, but denoting progress. Progress! Addicting and electrifying, rousing his voicebox and causing him to giggle whilst his lungs screamed. Covered in slick sound, like a creature emerging from a repugnant cocoon, for days on end the Fourth Imagined spent his every waking moment screeching, each cry a bit different, each howl unique, the only aim to ever approach asymptotic perfection.

    Tides came, tides went. The Corship¡¯s autumnal surface turned into a painting of night under Lyssav¡¯s influence. Doratev and Babesi perfected the eyes of Project Seloma, and Morbilliv wore three of them, leaving Parvov¡¯s stashed safely by the Corship¡¯s heart.

    Tides came, tides went, and after more than a dozen and a half passed, the nematode molted, peeling off layer of sound after layer of sound as he made his way out the titanic carcass he had invaded what felt like eons ago to him. The armor had been perfected, slippery and resistant just as he liked it, and easy to shed in case something managed to get a hold of him in spite of the aforementioned qualities. He made his way upwards calmly, feeling safe inside of his technique. The fragments of armors past flaked off and disintegrated into notes, emerging from their demise a symphony of delicate tunes. After a short crawl Dirofil reached the exit and extended his wings, greeting the expanse of the ocean of dogs. To see living pooches drifting by filled him with a sense of wonder; the slightly lessened darkness felt like the light of the Edge to eyes that had become used to the nigh-absolute gloom inside the cadaver as he tried to conserve the energy of his core.

    Taking air, all that remained now was to test his new armor. And there was a whole layer waiting for him to defy its countless jaws.