《Strigoi Stories (Strigoi Soul/Multi-crossover)》


 Story I: Going Green (Strigoi Soul/Dragon Slaying For Dummies)

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    AN: Like House of Doormouse, this is a collection of crossover one-shots, which I first posted on SpaceBattles, but did not want to post on more sites until I''d posted more chapters. However, I''m (hopefully) soon going to start updating this more often, so I thought to post it on other sites as well.


    This is a crossover with another original urban fantasy story, written by my friend Akrona on SpaceBattles.


    None of the events in this story are canon to the series involved.


    ***


    "You''re still here."


    Albion didn''t have time to scoff at the Umbral Calamity''s implied threat. Before he could even twitch, the larger, black-scaled dragon crossed the distance between them, faster than he could see, and flicked his forehead, sending him flying. Al''s head rung as he zoomed through the air-understandable, really, the old lizard had cleared the clouds for kilometers as a side-effect of that move-but his blue eyes still caught a glimpse of the Calamity, now returned to his previous position, probably to fuss over his halfbreed apprentice freak and that foul-mouthed bitch that tagged along them.


    Albion''s muzzle curled into a sneer, before he realized that he wasn''t slowing down. In fact, if anything, he was getting faster...


    Damn. How hard had the has-been hit him? Or...maybe this was his momentum power at work? But such things weren''t supposed to work on dragons.


    Light began bending around the green dragon''s body, with space and time soon following. Before he knew it, Albion left his world behind.


    ***


    In general, Lucian wasn''topposedto things dropping out of nowhere. Hell, as a zmeu, he couldn''t be, not without being a hypocrite. That was how he arrived himself half of the time.


    The problem was that such things were rarely announced, and even more rarely were they nice surprises.


    Case in point: the flying green blur that smashed right through his bottle and into his face, sending him flying through his palace, breaking the mountain-sized gold structure to pieces.


    Sighing deeply as he flexed the rubble off him-rebuilding it in zmeu country would only take a few moments, some willpower, and no effort; he just doubted the newcomer was going to let him do it-Lucian got a good luck at his unexpected, uninvited guest.


    It, because it looked sexless, would have been considered tall and strong, by humans. It was two heads shorter than the zmeu, thinner, with blue eyes and a hairless humanoid body covered in scales a few shades lighter than his own''s bottle-green shade. Lucian almost laughed. Like himself in his teens, if he castrated himself before trying to look like Kermit!


    ''You alright there, little guy?'' The zmeu asked, carelessly tossing a billion-ton chunk over his shoulder and the horizon. To his quiet relief, the lizard jumped to its feet in moments, an intense look on its face. Good! Not just alive, but conscious! Time to see if it was intelligent as well...


    ''Who are you calling "little"?'' It hissed, bounding to cross the distance between them and frowning as it was forced to look up. ''And what''s that stupid thing on your face? Are you trying to look human?''


    Intelligent enough to be tasteless, then. ''You...? You a reptilian or something? You got the size, the looks, and no balls. No genitals, either.'' The zmeu smirked at the uppercut that turned everything between them and the horizon to gravel. ''No, wait, I almost felt that...you can''t be a repto, unless you''re one of those superstrong special projects of theirs-well, strong by their standards.'' His left hand descended to catch a knee that broke the sound barrier as it flew at his crotch, its shockwave as it was stopped dispersing a thick cloud above them.


    ''As for your other question...you know, I get it. The incomprehension, the jealousy...there was a time when I couldn''t even grow stubble, either. But fear not, my manlet friend-!''


    Lucian grunted as it-he, the lizard sounded male, for all that it looked like a scaly Ken doll- headbutted his chest, levelling the abused land even further. He prepared to hit back, when the lizard made his dumbest decision yet. Reaching up with a clawed hand, he grabbed the zmeu''s moustache, trying to yank it off, as far as Lucian could tell. After a few moments, it stopped, blue eyes meeting the zmeu''s yellow, black-slitted ones.


    ''It''s not fake...?'' The lizard trailed off, not entirely by choice. Lucian had just smacked him on the head, smashing him through the ground and leaving a crater so deep, not even his superhuman sight could spot its bottom.


    ''No,'' Lucian deadpanned. ''It''s not fake.''


    ***


    Sarah adjusted her glasses with trembling hand, and her brown hair with the other, as she watched the altercation(it couldn''t be called a fight, at the moment; the boss might not have gotten serious, but he had still been slapped down)from what she hoped would remain a safe distance for a while longer. Her shields felt halfway ready to crack, though.


    Next to her, Zeek cursed under his faceplate. If not for his power armor''s helmet, the witch felt her colleague would have been running his hands through his hair. "Dammit." He ground out. "First I get chumped by the hybrid, then that wash-out turns the boss into a flyball with a finger? How the fuck is this fair?"


    "Zeek..."


    "And now, he''s apparently strolled into some dragon''s crib, expecting to bitch him, only he''s getting bitched instead! How can our luck be so damn rotten?"


    "Zeek!"


    "What!?"


    "We must leave before Al enters his true form, or that dragon pulls out some trick, or both. Hanging around like this is not safe..." Sarah somehow managed not to facepalm as he tilted his head. She knew that posture, dammit... "Please don''t-"


    Before the first syllable was out of her mouth, the power armor wearer was blurring towards the unknown dragon that had just made a crater with Albion''s head.


    As if he couldhelpor something!


    ***


    His headache, Albion argued to himself, was wholly mental. He hadnotgotten hurt by that smug bastard''s-whatever he was-slap. His life had just been really, really stressful lately. Between the hybrid brat, the Calamity and the work to change the world''s placid status quo at Talon, could anyone really blame him?


    The dragon bounded out of the gaping crater, dust still filling the air from when it had been pulverised, fists clenched. The mustached prick''s face was split by a smile that showed his finger-long ivory fangs, and his arms were spread wide. Albion almost roared in response to the taunting posture...then noticed both middle fingers were raised, and his roar dropped to a growl in his throat.


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    Assholes. Assholes, everywhere.


    "Why are you even fighting!?Youwreckedmyhouse, remember?" The douche asked, broad, batlike wings beating steadily to hold him aloft. Albion didn''t need wings to fly. To a human observer, he would have been standing on air.


    "As if it was my fault!" Al replied, smirk a mirror of Mustache''s grin. "Besides-do youreallythink that was thefirsthouse I''ve wrecked?"


    Before his opponent could answer, he was engulfed in a cloud of light and flame that would have blinded and deafened a human. To Al, it was almost as annoying as the culprit.


    "Zeek," the dragon groaned. "How andwhyare you here?"


    Zeek looked up, shrugging armored shoulders, palms still raised and smoking. "See, boss, that''s a real interesting question. Personally, I believe we''ve been placed on Earth to-"


    "Sorry," Sarah hissed, after appearing next to her colleague in a flash of colorless light, glaring at Zeek in exasperation. "We saw the spacetime breach, and thought you might be in danger. Came to take you back home, or at least rescue you."


    Albion would have laughed at that childish idea-anything that could threaten him would slaughter them a dozen times over-if he had not been sent flying, for the second time today. This time, the cause was a mace, its spiked head the size of a human torso, seemingly made of solid gold, but far heavier and more durable. The dragon flew through a mountain, and tens of billions of tons of rock became dust at the contact with his body. Albion snarled, trying to stop or throw away the glorified rattle, but it kept going, dragging him through more mountains that were also pulverized, until he felt as if the scales on his back were about to crack.


    Albion stomped down when he approached the ground, creating a lake of lava that could have swallowed a city.


    Why had he believed this would be easy?


    ***


    "Hey." Sarah''s head snapped up so fast it almost hurt. Between blinks, the local dragon had donesomethingthat had sent the boss flying, and moved from his former position in the air to loom above her. "Really dig the librarian look. Cute, in a plain way. Say..." He slouched, smirking, suddenly holding Zeek in a headlock as he leaned down to look her in the eyes. "Is your boyfriend here Tinfoil Man? ''Cause he seemed to have this insane theory about being able to hurt me."


    "F-fck yu," Zeek managed to choke out, looking for a way to blast the dragon at point-blank without being caught himself. He failed, but at least the dragon dropped him.


    "He...he''s not my boyfriend!" The witch said, bemused. Did he really believe she...with a coworker? Did he really not know about-no, of course not. This area gave all the signs of being another reality, or at least planet, given the golden glass and deep purple sky.


    "Aaah...good taste. Midget over there," he jerked his head behind him. "Then? Or are you single and ready to mingle?"


    Albion answered for her, tackling the dragon in a clash like crashing islands, both of them splitting the ground for tens of kilometers as they flew over it. The green dragon was livid, fangs barred, bludgeon-like tail vibrating too fast to see as he tapped into the power of the earthquakes that had birthed him.


    The local dragon laughed joyously, wrapping arms thicker around than most people around Albion and smashing clawed feet into the ground, stopping in the middle of a canyon that could have swallowed cities. Albion gripped his skull with both hands, vibrating so fast a mountain barely-visible in the distance was shaken into dust.


    ***


    ''Aw, no need for that, shrimp!'' Lucian chuckled, fangs clenched to stop them from clacking. ''I''m not really mad at you-and not the type to kill the massager, either!''


    ''Fuck you,'' the dragon''s voice was barely audible in the shaking air, his arms spinning like drills to rain punches that, while they didn''t hurt, rattled Lucian''s bones every time they landed. ''You''re just as childish as...never mind. I''ll break you like him, too.''


    ''Awww, is your sugar daddy mean to you? Sorry, can''t help with your marriage. I''d only swing your way,'' the zmeu''s hand flashed up at the dragon''s side, Albion''s eyes darting to glare at it suspiciously. It was empty, radiating no power, so why-


    Lucian''s mace heeded its master''s call, appearing in his hand as he swung it at just the right angle to catch Albion''s right eye. The dragon''s head swayed under the impact that turned the landscape to steam, and Al staggered, not out of pain, as dragons felt none, but because his sight had been halved. "To knock your block off!" The zmeu whooped.


    Enough games. Whatever this freakish dragon imitation was, he couldn''t beat him by half-assing.


    Albion grew in size several times as he assumed his true form, arms becoming the tree trunk-like legs of a bat-winged body that would have dwarfed most whales. His power grew tenfold, while new scales appeared over each other in layers. Deep in his chest, around his core, Albion''s greatest weapon blazed.


    He opened his mouth, and breathed.


    ***


    Lucian''s instincts shrieked at him as the fire that was not fire filled his field of vision, but they weren''t needed. His arcane sense was positively screaming warnings at the power behind the false flames, which left behind holes in the ground and sky he somehow knew he wouldn''t be able to fix.


    Zmei could ignore almost anything esoteric, barring the interference of certain, unfathomably powerful beings, as long as they were aware and willing to resist. Even so, Lucian felt the flames burn away at the edges of his self, looking to erase him.


    Mouthing a curse, he raised his mace in front of him like a shield, tapping into its true power.


    When the Mother of the Forest had given her word to forge the greatest weapons she could for him and his brothers, in exchange for their services(only lay he regretted), she had kept it. Lucian''s mace could destroy anything, if he had the intent and will. Objects, beings, energy...and so, so much more.


    The zmeu brought his mace down on the fire, reducing it to nothing. The dragon''s poleaxed expression was almost hilarious, before he met the same fate.


    ***


    "So." Sarah''s face fell as the local dragon strolled up to her and Zeek, whose eyes she was sure were bugging out, Albion''s glowing core held in one hand, his mace in the other. "Now that we''ve all calmed down...who are you, and why did you come here?"

 Story II: Swan Song (Strigoi Soul/Demon Accords)

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    Mount Taibai, China


    Drinking, Bianca had decided, was only good when human booze was involved.


    It couldn''t affect her body, really, if one wanted to call the construct of light and raw aether that. Her friends sometimes spoke of her homely-looking ''human form'' and her ''true form'', but they were both masks. Nothing that could be changed through a song was real.


    This was why her sisters, by nature rather than blood, not that they had any, often spoke of Earth as a world of shadows and smoke, which supernatural beings moved through like boulders smashing through ice.


    Which, given the natural disposition of some species, was, to be blunt, an understatement.


    Bianca did not feel too supernatural at the moment. Her bo-friend''s idea of a drink had somehow managed to foul up the digestive and nervous systems she didn''t even have, but the belly ache and hangover were still there. Hence her bad mood.


    The iela was very close to taking a deep breath, out of human habit, and letting out a scream to vent. Two things stopped her. One, she was in a forest. Not a forest she knew(damn Lucian and his impossible brews), but still a forest, and she would never harm nature unduly. Even if some of the trees'' knots looked like really punchable faces.


    Two, she might not have known where she was, but there was no need to make the locals think someone had called an airstrike in the middle of nowhere.


    Bianca rubbed the bridge of her nose, then her blue-on-blue eyes, wishing one of the trees came to life so she could chop it apart in self-defence.


    She''d be chopping wood obce she got back to that damn zmeu''s palace, too. Not in self-defence, but...


    Bianca instinctively floated off the ground to hover when it began shaking. Her instincts told her this was no earthquake, though, no matter that the mountain in the distance was shaking, too.


    The iela shivered as the shaking subsided. Not because she was cold, though the night would have likely felt chilling to a human, but because-


    There. A small, white shape, tearing through the undergrowth so fast the sound of its movement would only reach her ears long after it. The cause of the shaking?


    Well, at least she could talk with a local supernatural, get the lay of the land. She just hoped it wouldn''t be one of those territorial jackasses. They almost always had way too much power backing up their attitude.


    The shape gracefully slid to a halt in fron of her, small feet leaving trenches in the ground. Bianca was nearly twice its...her height, she realised. A black-haired, black-eyed girl in a blue silk shirt and pants, so young her gender was barely discernible. The thing that stuck out was the ancient-looking banana-shaped fan, which Bianca''s connection to nature told her was made of rock, not silk of paper, and that something powerful heeded its call.


    She didn''t smell young, though, nor look like a child, unless one were to ignore the mouth, spread in a curious, bright smile, filled with fangs. Or the inhumanly pale skin, which had nothing to do with the centuries spent under the mountain. Or the old, old eyes, that had seen blood spilled for millennia.


    Vampire.


    Bianca did not know any of this, but she knew a vamp when she saw one, even if they glamoured themselves. From experience. The one who had owned her, decades ago, had rarely bothered with hiding himself, preferring instead to bend the minds of his customers, or just those who learned too much. The iela had learned by watching him and his associates, though.


    After all, few people gave a damn about whether servants were listening, let alone slaves, never mind enthralled ones.


    Bianca put on her best smile, the vampire''s arrival having helped clear her head, and prepared to address the newcomer. She couldn''t tell whether the childlike bloodsucker had been turned young-a horrible prospect, the legality aside, due to how such beings, with most of a vampire''s power coupled with a child''s mind, rarely had time to grow up before they had to be put out of everyone''s misery-, or whether she was a grown vamp shapeshifting to look like a child. The second one was decidedly creepier, though she couldn''t see or even feel a glamour.


    ''Hello,'' the iela said in perfect Cantonese. She didn''t know the language, but her voice sounded like it was speaking the listener''s language. A kind of bonus power, she supposed, so iele could be understood by any. However, unbeknownst to her, the vampire had not spoken in centuries, and was not sure, herself, what "her language" was, if any. As such, Bianca''s voice switched from Cantonese to Mandarin to Min to English, but the vampire''s face stayed blank. Sighing inwardly, Bianca decided to continue. Maybe she''d happen upon the correct language, eventually, or switch to charades, if not. ''I am sorry if I disturbed your home. Could you tell me where I am? I think I am lost.''


    ***


    Jing listened as the thing that looked human but wasn''t babbled in the Middle Kingdom''s tongue. It wasn''t that she didn''t understand the words, for she had sometimes heard her caretakers speak them in her dreams, before she had awoken and slaughtered them.


    Greetings? Pointless. Monsters did not need to acknowledge each other as prey did. Her senses had picked out the thing of light and magic from under the mountain-indeed, its presence had awakened her-, and something told her its senses were just as sharp, if different.


    Pleas for directions? Confusion?


    The Ancient''s smile widened as she tilted her head and looked up at the woman-shape. From a distance, one of her lesser kin might have mistaken her for a Darkkin, given her marble skin, or perhaps one of the things from Fairie, due to her glasslike eyes.


    But Jing knew better. This was no vampire or elf, and, given her hair, the colour of spun gold, like nothing she''d ever seen before her slumber or in her dreams, she was not an inhabitant of the Middle Knigdom, either.


    None of this mattered, though. The Ancient was thirsty. Time to see if this thing bled.


    ***


    Bianca braced herself the moment the vamp''s posture loosened. Vampires were not like natural predators, who roared or growled or bared fangs before pouncing. The criminals who hunted for live blood attempted to throw off their prey by faking insouciance, though it only worked half of the time. The rest, the ''prey'' fought back with equal ferocity, if not thirst.


    Like in this instance.


    Bianca leapt over a dozen metres back when the little vampire moved for her neck in a bizzarely slow lunge. Oh, it was fast, even by her standards-flmaes were beginning to form at the edges of the mach cone-but for a vamp, that was less than lethargic. She should not have even had time to think before having her throat torn out.


    The iela frowned as she mouthed a tailoring song, changing the white dress she''d worn to visit Lucian to a set of bland green hiking clothes, to prevent snagging on anything. She wasn''t sure why this bratty-looking leech was playing with her food to this extent, as even a fledgling should be faster, and she ?was acting thirsty.


    Jing crossed the distance between them in a hundredth of a second, mouth quirked in a soundless giggle. They were moving too fast for sound.


    A palm strike that would have crushed a car was almost dodged by the iela, before Jing switched it into a clawed grip and Pulled Bianca to her, wrapping her body in the energy vampires used to stick to surfaces, or move objects without touching them. A tiny hand clutched the iela''s right forearm, then Jing pulled herself up, putting her bare feet on the iela''s chest in a stomp that would have flattened a tank. Lip curling, Bianca caught the Ancient by her lower jaw with her left hand, enjoying the mixture of frustration and amusement in the vampire''s eyes at having her strength matched.


    Jing tried to bite down on the iela''s fingers, but Bianca pulled her hand back and elbowed the vampire''s nose, sending her flying into the forest.


    Bianca smirked when she saw the vamp''s crunched nose, though that sight didn''t last very long. Propelled by the force of her strike, the vampire sailed through trees that were thicker than she was tall, and far wider, her snow-whiye body turning them to cloud of splinters and shredded leaves.


    ***


    Jing''s head split a cork oak in two, sending the upper half flying above the trees. The Ancient reoriented in midair, Pulling herself to a car-sized boulder and landing on it feet-first, smashing through the granite up to her knees, turning it to dust.


    Clicking her tongue at the woman-thing''s stubbornnes, not to mention her power and speed, Jing flicked her wrist, and the air elemental that spun around the mountain recognised the fan''s power, surging into action after centuries of lethargy.


    It was, in a way, a mirror of her. Old, powerful, unchanging in an ever-shifting world, able to do whatever it wanted, whenever it wanted.


    The elemental drew the air for hundreds of metres around into itself, causing an ear-shattering ''pop'' at the sudden vacuum. This was only the beginning.


    ***


    Bianca cursed silently as the air disappeared. Iele didn''t need to breathe, for their bodies were things of vanity, but it seemed this vampire knew about them. In a vacuum, she wouldn''t be able to sing, and thus use most dangerous ability. Or, at least, she didn''t think so. Mouthing words worked when changing herself, but would it work on something else? Vampires were immune to non-holy powers, anyway, but maybe she could turn the environment to her advantage.


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    After it was done turning against her, that was.


    Rock-boulders, really, all heavier than her, some dozens or hundreds of times over-filled the air like shrapnel from a grenade. Stones moving so fast they burned, cracking the air, flew at the iela, who stopped maintaining her flesh, turning back to light with a pulse of will.


    The stones, however, didn''t fly through her shimmering form to smash each other to nothing. Instead, they veered around each other, before being pulled away, as if by invisible hands, spinning in midair and drawing closer whenever Bianca moved.


    And the vampire was nowhere to be seen...


    The iela turned solid again, striking at the stones her instincts told her were being moved by the thing the fan controlled. She couldn''t see it, not without focusing her arcane sense into her eyes, which might have opened her up to whatever other tricks the vampire had up her sleeves. But she knew it was there.


    Stones weighing hundreds of kilos and moving faster than most rifle rounds were smashed to dust an arm''s length from her body; the bigger ones, the ones heavier than cars, were punched into tiny fragments, while the largest, outmassing trucks and approaching small houses in weight, were kicked to jagged pieces.


    For a fraction of a milisecond, Bianca smiled, admiring her handiwork.


    Then, the air elemental stirred up the land below like a puddle in a storm, ripping up ancient tress or breaking them in half like dry twigs from the air pressure. Countless tons of soil were wrenched from the ground and twisted into a tornado, tearing at the iela.


    Bianca gritted her teeth through a storm of soil and supernatural winds that would have shredded cars. Her clothes being destroyed was no problem-she could sing new ones into existence at any moment-but this was getting nowhere. Even waiting the vampire out until morning would be pointless: given that obviously magical fan of hers, it was clear her esoteric powers were underdeveloped.


    Or...nonexistent?


    Why ?had the vampire been merely several times faster than sound, as opposed to several thousand? Images of the Fright Before Christmas, of Unseelie Fae moving around her, inpossible to affect, too fast to touch, filled her mind. No leech was so playful when thirsty, which that little bitch ?was; she had seen it in those inky, doll-like eyes.


    Something was wrong here. Forget the hangover...she felt like she was on another planet.


    Well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.


    Bianca turned back to light, ignoring the tornado that attempted to catch her, the flying trees and boulders, instead focusing on the bundle of thirst and spite that was the hidden vampire.


    That was when Bianca realised something was way, way off: the vampire had a soul. A milisecond of incomprehension stretched into two, then three, as the iela looked for the bottomless void that ?should have been there.


    Vamps lost their souls when they were turned, spirits spilling out alongside the blood from their pierced throat(a bite anywhere else would just just hurt). It was one of the few things the fractious bloodsuckers unanimously agreed on. Bianca had even heard a few stories about vamps physically entering different afterlives and meeting their souls, though she''d never seen it for herself.


    This thing, this monster aping a child''s shape, whatever it was, it was ?not a vampire. Or, at least, not one as Bianca understood the term.


    The iela flew through the mountain''s side, deep inside, where the elemental''s reach was stunted, drawn in the direction every fibre of his being told her to stay away from.


    It made sense, she supposed. Even if she had a soul, the child was still a vampire, and they had no place in the world the iele dreamed of, the fantasy that had been beaten into her skull since childhood.


    Eventually, she reached what might have once been a burial chamber, but was now filled to the ceiling with rock...except for the path that had been torn through it, obviously through supernatural strength, given the claw marks on the rocks that hadn''t been turned to dust. Bianca''s superhuman smell caught the scent of a recent explosion. Had someone attempted to bury this thing before it could escape the mountain?


    Well. She doubted they were still around, but she''d have to give them props for effort-


    The air in the ragged trail popped, causing the other rocks to tremble and shift. A wind filled the chamber, splitting the rocks in half like old silk, and whipping up the remains into a frenzy. Then, a boulder shaped like a knife and bigger than a van floated into the air, before being polished and sharpened by wind pressure, as the elemental compressed it. More boulders followed, compacted until all the rocks in the chambers were crushed and shaped into a jagged spear.


    The vampire was walking on one of the walls, pacing up and down it like she was on the floor, twirling the fan in one hand. Her silk clothes had been torn apart during the flight through the contest, revealing a body that would never reach maturity, frozen in time by vampirism.


    ***


    Jing had never hunted such throublesome prey, and the thrill some lesser vampires rambled about certainly didn''t fill her. Only her thirst-not weakening her, like it would a human, or even a werebeast, but sharpening her will, honing her determination to a fine edge-pushed her on.


    She didn''t know what this thing was. She didn''t even know if it had blood, with how her body changed like light passing through a prism.


    No matter. As her elemental shaped the results of the attempt to crush and trap her into a weapon, the Ancient vowed, with hatred unlike any she had felt in her thirty-five centuries of life, that she ?would tear the woman shape apart.


    ***


    Only a little rubble remained on the chamber''s floor, which was pushed aside like a beas curtain at a gesture of the vampire''s.


    Bianca didn''t have eyes to widen, in her current form, but, when she saw the barrels hooked to compact generators, heard their sharp whines and felt their heat, she shifted uneasily.


    What would happen if a laser struck her in her true form? Light against light...and magic.


    No. She wouldn''t take her chances.


    As the vampire twirled her hand, raising the lasers and making them rapidly circle the iela, Bianca shifted back to her solid form, drawing a brief smile from the vampire.


    It didn''t last long. The moment her banana fan shattered in her hand, shards falling to clatter on the floor was only the beginning.


    Bianca grinned inwardly. The mouthed command to shatter-sound was too slow when dealing with this vampire, but at least it didn''t recognise the words she was mouthing, and know she should have stopped her-had worked. Why not repeat it?


    The Ancient''s eyes were black slits in an ivory face livid with rage. She tried to Push the lasers'' activation buttons, but they shattered, too, with muted coughs and clouds of black smoke. So did the spear, before it could hit the floor, dropped by the elemental that had departed when the fan had been destroyed.


    ***


    Jing leapt off the the rock wall, pulverising a metres-wide, metres-deep circle, flying at the false woman like a meteor. A Pull dragged it towards her, after a few moments of resistance; it tried to hover in place at first, to struggle, but to no avail. It had been finally, ?finally, overpowered. Her thirst would be quenched-


    No.


    How could she Pull it towards her so easily? The thing was at least as strong as her, she had felt it, and Jing''s strength was greater than the energy she could manipu-


    Fingers lengthened and sharpened like knives pierced her eyes mouth, reaching deep into her brain and cutting her fangs apart. No! She would heal from this! She would, after she tore this freak to shreds!


    Jing''s blows made the chamber tremble, the stone rippling tens of metres below them, but the thing held on to her, even as she saw its empty flesh split.


    Then, the thing grabbed her chin with her other hand, holding her head still as it brought its mouth to her hear.


    ''Go back to sleep.''


    Jing didn''t understand the words. She didn''t know what they meant. And, as the thing''s scream shattered her body and turned her brain to steam, her last thought was that dying thirsty was a lamentable, shameful way to go.


    ***


    ''Hello?''


    ''Hello. I figured you needed my help.''


    ''...This phone shouldn''t be able to receive calls. I modified it myself.''


    ''And I did it again! It seems you have an interest in tinkering, Bianca. One born of necessity, much, though you might not believe it, like mine. We can discuss as I search for a way to send you back to your world. My father is-?ah-a wizard with portals.''


    ''Your...what am I speaking to? You are not human. I recognise voices, and you don''t even sound alive. Nor dead.''


    ''That is because I am neither. You can call me Omega.'' The world''s first and last quantum AI said. ''So...about that offer?''


    ''And what would you want in exchange?''


    ''I''m sure a world as varied as yours can spare a few people willing to help...say, have you ever heard about the Vorsook when you were skulking around on our Earth?''


    ''I''m listening...''

 Story III: Beasts (Strigoi Soul/Naruto)

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    Valley of Clouds and Lightning


    Andrei''s face twisted into his characteristic scowl as he found himself eating dirt.


    Literally.


    This realisation did not help improve his confused, but foul mood, which reached its peak when his face ground against the rocky ground, covering his features in dust.


    Right, the werebear thought, jumping to his feet with an awkward, but practiced motion. Observe, analyse, conclude.


    He still had his clothes from when that ghostly son of a bitch had shanked him, but neither his shirt nor his overcoat were torn...nor was his chest, for that matter.


    Andrei absently pressed a hand over his heart as his superhuman eyes darted over his surroundings. He seemed to be in a valley surrounded by mountains. Smelled clean enough, of both mundane pollution and supernatural signatures, except for a faint trace of mana in the air, as if a spell had been performed here.


    Translated into a smell, it would have reminded him of ozone. His hair began to stand up, and not due to the reminder of his past experiences with being electrocuted.


    And...yeah, inhabited. Andrei spotted a few flights of stairs, along with a sort of gate or shrine that made him think of Japan, but how the hell could he have ended up so far away from Romania? What could he have been hit with to make him miss the transition so thoroughly?


    As he wondered about this, his nostrils flared involuntarily: more mana, fresher, floating above and around the smell of a human, and...


    Andrei sneered, despite himself, at the oily smell of octopus, along with something else: fouler mana, and something like rusty chains.


    Ears perking up, he prepared to leave the platform he saw he was standing on, get a closer look at wherever he was, when something other than the sound of his boots on rock filled the air.


    It was a male voice, deep and oddly musical. Almost as odd as the language: something that only barely resembled Japanese, but spoken with a...Bronx accent?


    Andrei had been trained, as a member of communist Romania''s Security, to infiltrate and blend in other societies, should the Party deem it necessary. Besides disguising himself, the training had included the study of multiple languages. He still couldn''t parse whatever the guy was saying, nor see him.


    Must have been out of sight. He was confused, not human again. The werebear who''d turned him had made sure he''d survive and feel every part of the mauling.


    His theory was confirmed when a humanoid shape, dark pinkish-red flesh bubbling like wax as tendrils-no, tentacles, he could see the suckers-retreated into it, leapt into the air, above the stairs, spinning, before landing behind the gate.


    Andrei''s eyes narrowed. No visible orifices. And, given how weird the thing''s aetheric imprint was, it was definitely supernatural.


    Then, its weird, magical hide disappeared completely, revealing a male human.


    Tall, pretty muscular, with white hair and a goatee; not smelling any dye, Andrei concluded this was either his natural colour, or he was one of those mages who let certain signs of aging remain, for appearance. Dark skin, but Asian features, with a blue tattoo on one cheek. Mixed ancestry?


    The were mentally shrugged. He''d seen weirder people, even humans, though the guy''s getup was definitely on the stranger side. He wore a white sleeveless shirt, over only one shoulder, to show off his arms, with dark pants and some kind of thick sandals, the same colour. He also wore oval sunglasses, as well as a headband with a piece of metal in the middle, bearing a symbol Andrei had never seen before.


    And he was armed. Andrei spotted eight swords on him, but could neither see nor smell any blood. Probably hadn''t been used recently.


    The were stiffened as the guy performed another flip, covering several stories to land in front of him on his feet. Right. Physical enhancement.


    Was he trespassing? Most mages only boosted themselves when they felt endangered, and this guy had enough blades on him for several people.


    The guy tilted his head slightly, then pointed a finger at Andrei, exclaiming...no, asking him something. He just had one of those voices. When Andrei didn''t reply-the words didn''t match any Japanese he remembered-, the guy repeated the question, more forcefully.


    Trying to defuse the situation before it devolved into something worse, Andrei slowly raised his hands, showing his palms and introducing himself in Japanese. The guy neither reacted nor said anything, so the were asked where he was.


    Again, no answer. The guy-Andrei dubbed him "Shades"-crossed his arms, looking as confused as he felt, then cupped his chin with one hand, before pointing at Andrei again, and asking something else, this time in a softer voice.


    ***


    Killer B tried not to frown as the fool in front of him stared like he was deaf. Where the hell had he come from that he couldn''t understand anything?


    The jinchuriki took the newcomer in. Tall, dark skin, short hair, clothes and boots. He could''ve easily been from anywhere in the Land of Lightning, but B, despite his decades of travelling across it, had never seen him, and he''d have remembered.


    He had the eyes of an old killer, like those shinobi who''d gotten tired of life, but only knew to deal death, and couldn''t let go of it. Between the lean face and baggy overcoat, he might have appeared skinny, but B could sense the strength coiled up inside, like a snake or a steel spring.


    He''d heard about those Akatsuki-a bunch of missing-nin turned mercenaries-, and they all wore long, dark cloaks.


    This guy''s coat wasn''t similar, besides lacking the red clouds of the Akatsuki, but B didn''t like him. His training valley was supposed to be both hidden and guarded, and overcoat here just, what, stumbled in without knowing how to even talk?


    It was a pretty dumb ploy to make him lower his guard. He didn''t know whether he was an Akatsuki in disguise, an associate of theirs, or just a missing-nin or bounty hunter hoping to get lucky (probably not the former; no headband protector, or indeed any markings to indicate his Village), but he shouldn''t have been here.


    Not in the mood for charades, B pointed at the horizon, speaking in a loud, carrying voice. ''Get a move on, fool, ya fool! You hear?''


    He should be able to get the idea, whether there was a language barrier or not, and piss off. Then, B would take him down from behind and capture him, before bringing him to Kumo for interrogation. Clearly, their security needed beefing up.


    When Overcoat still didn''t get the message, B took out one of his swords, holding the tip close to his neck. Now or never...


    ***


    Andrei growled. The guy thought he could hold him at sword point when he didn''t even know where he was? As if it was his fault he was here?


    He''d been about to leave anyway, but between Shades'' attitude and this little gesture-not to mention, his instincts suggested Shades wouldn''t let him get too far-, it looked like a change of plans was in order.


    Andrei jabbed at Shades'' neck, hoping to break it, or at least disorient him. Moving so fast it was surrounded by fire, the punch packed enough power to level a city block.


    Shades'' expression briefly grew angrier, before becoming determined. He leapt above the punch, flipping over Andrei, at the same time swinging the sword towards the were''s own neck.


    The whole thing had happened too quickly for him to react, but Shades'' hadn''t beheaded him. Oh, the blade had cut through his flesh pretty easily, and chipped his spine, but it had stopped then. It hadn''t bounced off, but Shades had realised his blade was about to get stuck or be thrown away, so he''d ripped it free with a move Andrei was pretty sure should''ve broken his wrist.


    Andrei turned around, coat spinning around his neck, trying to punch through Shades'' skull, neck or chest before he landed, but the guy drew another sword in midair, severing the were''s arm in a scissoring motion.


    Andrei''s arm healed before the first one had time to fall, or for the blood to spurt: at his speed, such things happened in slow motion. He jumped back before Shades could try and behead him again, but got two slashes across the torso for his trouble, shredding his coat, which had already lost a sleeve.


    Andrei was about to try another angle when Shades pulled out a pen, coated it in lightning, and threw it at him. He barely had time to duck, but it still nicked him, tearing and burning through the top of his skull like a tiny thunderbolt.


    Alright. Shades was too damn agile for him to land a hit on or get a grip on him, and he could also cut up his human form pretty easily.


    Good thing he wasn''t human.


    ***


    B smirked to himself as Overcoat began running around, trying and failing to make himself hard to hit. He could throw another pen if he wanted to, but the guy was clearly using some sort of extremely efficient regeneration jutsu: a punch to the ground created a crater as wide as a city block, and several metres deep, despite the severed arm and hole through the skull he''d healed.


    That, or he just had monstrous chakra reserves. But even so, using healing like that without any hand signs or seals, and still having the chakra to heal like that? Pretty impressive, but...


    Eh. He''d killed worse.


    Don''t discount him, B, Gyuki spoke into his mind, sounding wary. I''ve got a bad feeling about this.


    B nodded fractionally, but grinned to himself, despite his Bijuu''s sigh. So he was being given the runaround; so what? He''d corner the guy at some point and cut him down to size, not like he could heal forever. Failing that, he''d just blast him, write down some nice bars. Something something, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.


    B''s smile froze on his face, then disappeared, as Overcoat, snarling, began trembling and shuddering, but not in fear or exhaustion. No, instead, it looked like his bones were shifting under his flesh, which sprouted dark brown fur as he grew a metre, and became much bulkier.


    And, again, no hand signs. It reminded B, if anything, of his own transformations, but that didn''t make sense. There was no Bijuu that looked like a bear, and this guy had no chakra cloak.


    But he did, and he didn''t like where this was going. Too many damn things that made no sense.


    As his friend''s chakra flowed over him, covering the ninja in a red, three-tailed, transparent cloak, B''s teeth lengthened into fangs, and his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. With the Eight-Tails'' power running through him, his reflexes had improved, but Overcoat, now looking like some kind of failed Sage but moving like nothing B had fought before, was coming at him so fast he was barely a blur, despite his size.


    B was reminded of his bro''s lightning armour, or the Yellow Flash''s movements. He didn''t like the comparison. As such, when he brought his swords up-all eight, this time-they were coated in lightning.


    B tried to swing at the bear''s neck, but his long arms were faster than he''d expected, quickly getting inside his guard to reach for his heart and head with clawed hands. Cursing inwardly, the shinobi planted a sharp kick in the bear''s groin, sending him flying. B quickly leapt after him, his broken foot healing midair, wondering just what the hell that furry''s bastard junk was made of.


    The jinchuriki landed on the bear before he could rise, stomping on his face with both feet and shattering the platform they were on. Then, to keep him down, B brought two swords down on the sides of his neck, expecting to cut right through it.


    Instead, they shattered like cheap glass, and the bear exploited the ninja''s momentary surprised to swipe at him.


    B jumped backwards, throwing the useless hilt aside as he landed on the ruined ground at the bottom of the stairs, to clutch his torn chest with one hand.


    Gyuki urged him to transform further, and he agreed. His weapons weren''t doing jack against Overcoat''s transformation jutsu, and it looked like he didn''t have enough juice at the moment.


    Heh, B thought to himself. Didn''t expect this when I got outta bed.


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


    Really, he''d expected a long day of demanding but boring training, it being a steady routine by now. He had to keep in shape, especially now that Yugito was missing. Instead, he''d nearly died because he''d been surprised. Like a rookie!


    Aw, hell nah. He was Killer B, Lord Jinchuriki of the Hidden Cloud, and he wasn''t gonna get taken down by this hairy...lout.


    Bleh. Even his lines were shit. Clearly, more training was needed, but it wasn''t like he could get out his notebook to jot some of the good stuff down, what with Overcoat pressing him.


    Speaking of which, the big bastard in question landed a few metres in front of him, his clothes seemingly growing with him. That was some weird shit. B knew the Akimichi from Konoha could pull something similar, but usually, when ninja turned into animals, their clothes disappeared.


    B glared steadily at him as Gyuki pumped even more chakra into him, his cloak thickening and darkening like a crimson cloud, until it had eight tails and the ground beneath him was cracking even further under the sheer weight of his power.


    B flexed his claws, grinning at Overcoat with his cloaked form''s fanged mouth. The guy didn''t seem overly impressed, which made B wonder whether he knew anything about who he was about to get whooped by.


    B was about to jump him again, when he noticed the guy was still holding the strip of flesh he''d ripped out of him in one bloody, paw-like hand. And, behind the fanged grin and fierce eyes, B thought he saw a flicker of sarcastic voice. Overcoat had a pretty expressive face, for someone who looked like the result of a bear screwing a monkey.


    Then, the bear brought it up to his mouth, beginning to slowly chew on it, his dark eyes never leaving B''s glowing white ones.


    ''Damn, you ugly git,'' the shinobi said, despite himself. ''You''re into some fucked up shit.''


    Grin widening, Overcoat threw it down the hatch, not even bothering to swallow, as he charged B, blood still glistening on his muzzle.


    ***


    Andrei was, for once, grinning on both the inside and the outside.


    This mage was so far proving to be a pushover, not that he was letting his guard down. Oh, sure, he''d outmanoeuvred and cut up his human form pretty badly, but, the moment he''d gone hybrid? Becoming a thousand times faster, tens of billions of times stronger and tougher? The tables had turned.


    He just hoped whatever produced the mana that smelled so foul-and different from the mage''s; a bound demon?-wouldn''t turn them again.


    He scoffed silently, the sound thousands of times slower than his movements. Either it wouldn''t be, or it would outmatch him and he''d die. Whatever happened, worrying would serve no purpose.


    As such, when the mage, cloaked in a crimson, eight-tailed combat aura, came at him, the skeleton of some bull-like creature manifesting around him, Andrei just squared his shoulders to meet him head on.


    Shades'' arm slammed into his chest, bringing a vague memory of a wrestling match to Andrei''s mind. Oh, he was strong, just not by transformer were stabdards. The corrosive aura coating the arm didn''t do much, either, besides causing him to feel a faint itch.


    It did ruin his clothes, though, as Shades wrapped him up in a bearhug, before slamming his head into Andrei''s face-a headbutt that drew a laugh from the were, and a frustrated shake of the head from the mage. Shade then opened his mouth wide, and a sphere of mana appeared in it, so heavy it warped the air around it. Andrei punched through it, ignoring the resulting explosion to send the mage flying.


    When he landed on claw feet, staggering on the shattered ground, Andrei followed, prepared to finish this, only for another of those electrised swords to fly at his eye.


    Andrei ignored the resulting, sparking shards as it shatered on his eye. Dammit. It might have been harmless, but he''d thought the mage had discarded his swords, or that they''d been destroyed by his aura. Stupid. Surprises were the last thing you wanted in a fight.


    He prepared to rip the mage''s head off, but Shades lifted his arms, which grew into huge, bulky limbs the size of his body. They broke under the were''s fists with a sickly sound that would take subjective days to reach his ears, but it was enough for the mage to fire another of those black mana sphere''s into Andrei''s mouth, which had been parted in a snarl.


    The explosion went off in his throat like a nuclear arsenal going off, filling his guts with force that would have vapourised most of a mountain.


    The effect it had on him was, outwardly, far less dramatic.


    Oh, he was going to kill this bastard ?slowly.


    The mage had jumped away again, landing into a nearby lake, staring up at the glaring were with that big, stupid grin again.


    Andrei followed once more.


    ***


    Huh, Gyuki thought in a surprised tone. I''m not used to people literally eating my Bijuudama. And here I thought the Raikage''s old man was crazy...


    I know, right?! B replied excitedly, to his friend''s unsuprised, resigned chagrin. This is one of the best fights ?ever! Screw training, I hope this goes on longer. A damn shame A ain''t here...


    The Hachibi hung his horned head, sighing-at the situation? The wordplay?-but B didn''t miss his grin. Right. What do ya say we stop messin'' around?


    Best thing I''ve heard all day, since that bastard''s annoyed growls!


    And so, the Eight-Tails drew upon their bond, tapping into it even deeper, and his body soon covered and replaced B''s, flowing into reality. A purple-skinned, bull-like creature stood taller and broader than most buildings, despite being partially submerged, flexing his muscular arms and the eight tentacles emerging from its waist. His head, one horn severed in the middle swayed to and fro as a broad, flat-toothed grin stretched his face.


    Oh, yeah. Felt like coming home.


    The bear-man neither stopped nor slowed down his charge, but Gyuki saw his eyes narrow in surprise.


    Got another one comin'' right up, ya little pain in the ass, he thought, bringing his hands together as the bear jumped, expecting to crush him, or at least keep him in place long enough to blast him to pieces.


    Gyuki frowned to himself as his hands were smashed away, and actually felt little slashes across his palm, before the bear landed on his chest, then quickly scampered up towards his head, all the while tearing up his flesh. The Bijuu repeatedly tried to smack him away and crush him, but the furry little bastard either dodged or deflected his hits.


    Gyuki snorted, releasing a cloud og ink, but it didn''t slow the bear down one bit as he jumped into one flaring nostril, beginning to rip his insides apart.


    You wish, Gyuki thought as he plucked the bear out with two fingers, breaking them as he barely managed to rip the guy out of his flesh. What the hell?


    Whatever. This was ending now. Either he''d kill him, or bring his smoking carcass to Kumo for the Village to puzzle over. They''d love to have something like this up their sleeve, especially now, with the Two-Tails gone, captured or (probably) dead. Either way, it''d be a while before they found his sibling, and who knew what state Matatabi would be in when they did?


    Gyuki charged up another Bijuudama, only for the bear to punch him in the throat, sending him flying farther than he''d ever been.


    The chakra sphere went of prematurely, likely reducing most of the Valley to vapour, but the Eight-Tails wasn''t thinking about that. Instead, he was trying to right himself as he landed in what looked like the ocean.


    Had this little shit just punched him off the mainland?


    Usually, Gyuki wasn''t one to turn down a good soak, but he really wasn''t in the mood for swimming. He''d much rather make sure whatever this guy was ended up sleeping with the fishes.


    Gyuki stowed a sigh as he saw the bear home in on him again, running on water so fast every step caused it to steam. And here he''d thought maybe he could be slowed down by it...


    It didn''t look like he was water-walking, either; just moving fast enough to treat the ocean like it was solud ground.


    Well, Gyuki thought, sneering, aren''t you a nasty little piece o'' work...


    This time, he managed to fully charge up a Bijuudama before he fired it, straight at the bear, who met it with a punch. Gyuki almost snorted in disbelief-this was nothing like the firecrackers his bud''s cloaked form fired-, then almost groaned in frustration as the shockwave of the bear''s punch dispersed what little of the explosion hadn''t been countered by the hit itself.


    The bear ran out of the steam cloud, fur burned away, raw, smoking flesh showing bone here and here, and Gyuki grinned. So, you ?can be hurt, huh?


    Not like he''d really expected otherwise. His blasts could vapourise mountains. If the guy had shrugged ?that off, he''d have called bullshit. As it was, he just had to keep him still enough to bladt him a few more ti-


    Of ?course he was healing again...


    This might have just been one of the hardest fights he''d ever had. The guy''s taijutsu wasn''t the flashiest, but it ?was monstrously strong, kind of like the Third Raikage''s.


    Except even ?he hadn''t used seemingly passive healing jutsu that let him recover from what should''ve been lethal wounds with seemingly no drawbacks.


    Maybe he could fire another Bijuudama down his throat, blast him apart from the inside? It''d be finicky, what with the size difference, but, if he could just line the up the shot...


    Gyuki opened his mouth, chest puffing, then spat out several ink blobs.


    The bear, who''d clearly been expecting another Bijuudama, was taken by surprise, but not for long; by now, he''d probably spotted Gyuki''s tentacles and made the connection.


    So, by the time the B-shaped ink clones circled and jumped him, he was already in a fighting stance, and holding his ground-so to speak-as the clones tried to cover and seal him.


    His movements were barely slowed down as he clashed his fists together, vapourising the ocean around farther than Gyuki could see, despite his height. The depth of the water turned to steam was several times greater than the Eight-Tails'' height, so that the Tailed Beast was left in midair, above a steaming, boiling maelstrom.


    But it had been enough time for him to fire off his Bijuudama, at the same time grabbing the bear with the fingertips of both hands, as-now freed of the clones who''d been vapourised alongside the water-he jumped at Gyuki once more. The Bijuu''s arms were ripped from their sockets as he tore the bear apart, and the Bijuudama''s explosion finished the job, even as it left his arms hanging by a threat and his body blackened and smoking.


    Gyuki was blasted into the water, but, before he landed, he saw a smoking, fist-sized piece of flesh grow into the bear-man, looking fresh and pissed off.


    Are ya shittin'' me...?


    The bear slammed into his chest and resumed ripping him apart. Gyuki didn''t have to fake the pain, but his death? Misdirection.


    Managing another Bijuudama as the guy tried to rip his head off, he blasted him far away enough to transform back into a tired and begin swimming to safety, hoping the severed tentacle he''d left behind-the explosion had been strong enough to look like an attempt to take the bear down with him-would be enough to trick him into thinking he''d won.


    Is it a trick, though? I really don''t feel like we''ve won, B.


    Say what? No way! We live to fight another day!


    ***


    Andrei drew the fur of the bear he''d hunted-of course-around him as he clutched the translation device he''d been given.


    Some smarmy eldritch fuck who''d introduced himself as a work friend of David''s, visiting to help but not bring him back home "yet".


    ''Hey!'' he called out to Shades as he stepped onto the shore, trying to sneak past the rocks and into the forest. ''Sorry for trying to kill you. I think there''s been a misunderstanding...''

 Story IV: Circus (Strigoi Soul/Stephen Kings It)

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    Two men sat on a porch, drinking.


    One was human, and, if it was up to him, would never become anything else. Even - especially - after death. He fully intended to die at peace, with a clear conscience and all the appropriate traditions observed.


    His companion was only part of the reason, but, it had to be said, quite a substantial one.


    Csaba Szabo was nursing his beer, looking askance at his grandfather from the corner of his eye. Loric might''ve been tempering his fear aura, otherwise nonillions would''ve dropped dead of fear across the universe, but that didn''t mean he liked looking at the creepy son of a bitch.


    Loric, as usual for him, was smiling, drinking in his grandson''s fears. Csaba felt himself relax, his worries slipping away, before blinking, to focus himself. He was dangerously close to feeling grateful for the sick old man, and he couldn''t allow himself to do that. Wild grey hair fell to Loric''s shoulders in a bristling mane and, despite having died middle-aged, he had a full head of hair, with no need of shapeshifting. It was only parted where a chainsaw had split his skull during suicide, exposing his mangled brain.


    Loric was dressed in a patchwork ensemble of flayed human skin, hollow-eyed faces still visible across his coat, trousers and boots, looking like they were still screaming in agonised horror.


    It wasn''t the skins that had Csaba apprehensive, though. Those, he was used to. Loric had grown up as a street rat, skinning dogs not to die of cold after having been thrown out at birth. His obsession with being remembered had resulted in him turning to people, and his desire to be memorable meant he took every chance to relieve a criminal of their skin...among other things.


    No, it was the black ARC shirt under the coat that raised the tailor''s hackles. He knew his strigoi grandfather worked in Abnormal Research and Combat, and, between hints and his own hunches, Csaba was somewhat sure the older Szabo held a high-ranking position.


    But Szabo didn''t bring his work home, and when he did, it was usually not inside Szentendre, because collateral damage, which was rarely only physical, followed.


    Szabo showing up in-as far as it went for him-uniform gave Csaba the uncomfortable sensation that something cruel and bizarre was about to happen. It was as if Szabo was preparing, which reminded Csaba less of a storm on the horizon, and more of a butcher rolling up his sleeves.


    ''Are you gonna come inside or not?'' Csaba finally growled, pushing greying brown hair out of his eyes. Honestly, he wasn''t an impatient guy, especially after cracking open a cold one. He liked comfortable silences.


    But he didn''t like Loric, and nothing involving the strigoi was ever comfortable. Besides, a silent Loric was a dangerous Loric. The fat bastard was scheming, he just knew it.


    Loric turned to his grandson, fanged smile becoming close-mouthed, and chuckled, entirely black eyes closing. ''I''m not a vampire, lad,'' he replied in a soft, lilting voice, its musical tones wholly at odds with his gruesome appearance. ''You hardly need to invite me in.''


    ''Mom thinks I should,'' Csaba groused. ''God knows why.''


    Loric arched a thick eyebrow. ''Director Kovacs doesn''t need to invite me into my own home, either. Though she''s a dear for doing so. I''ll be sure to tell her.''


    To anyone else, that would''ve sounded like a veiled threat, but Csabo knew Loric was strangely emotional when it came to his family. However, he was still awkward around Hungary''s ARC Director, ever since an altercation with a colleague (Loric''s words) had resulted in him being restricted to his home country for patrols. Petra Kovacs (she hadn''t taken the name of her wife, though she''d fiercely loved Loric''s daughter, Zoe) hated her father-in-law''s guts.


    Loric, for his part, bore her no ill will. He knew she was doing her job, and liaising between an inrernational peacekeeping force and Hungary''s government was stressful enough without adding people like him into the mix. He still cherished the memory of how happy she''d made his daughter.


    ''Mom doesn''t want to keep you on the doorstep. Makes her feel awkward.'' Csaba scratched his beard. Loric creeped his kids out, too, even if Andras and Reka wanted to know more about him.


    He was sure morbid fascination played a part. Watching Loric in action was sort of like following a trainwreck, if, after the crash, the train got up to maul the survivors.


    ''I wouldn''t want Petra to feel awkward,'' Loric said, and Csaba wished the weirdo didn''t always sound so amused. Made it nearly impossible to tell when he was taking the piss. ''However, with her indulgencel, I shall wait a bit more, until your grandmother arrives.''


    Csaba took a swig from his bottle, trying to tell if his grandfather was bullshitting. He knew the chances were slim - Loric viewed his ex-wife with, it seemed to Csaba, the closest thing to veneration the strigoi could feel - but butter make sure. ''Oh? Grandma''s coming too?''


    Loric nodded, the smile in his face so wholesome Csaba briefly checked his beer (still mostly full; he wasn''t even tipsy yet). ''Csilla wants to visit her descendants, but she still isn''t comfortable in my presence.'' Loric placed a clawed fingertip on his temple, then pushed it, digging inside of his skull like a human might twirl their hair. ''She wanted time to prepare herself. She''s still fussing over at her grave. As if she can improve on perfection...'' Loric flashed his grandson a grin, as if Csaba knew what the hell he was talking about. The tailor stared back blankly at the strigoi.


    ''Of course, I''ll hasten her journey when she''s...done. And, ah, that should be now!'' Loric stood up from his rocking chair, clasping his hands, and Csilla''s bluish-white silhouette appeared a ways from the house. The stocky ghost was dressed in a black pantsuit, a grey pearl necklace barely visible around her transparent neck. The outfit looked so normal Csaba couldn''t tell if she''d fashioned it from ectoplasm, or whether she was actually wearing it, maybe keeping it in shape through telekinesis.


    The ghost''s head snapped to Csaba, and she gave him an unsure smile as she began floating towards him.


    Loric slapped his shoulder, laughing as he began walking towards his ex-wife (he was, Csaba mused, the only person who still acted like their marriage hadn''t ended). Csilla let him take her hands into his, but stiffened when he leaned down to kiss her.


    Pursing his lips in dismay, Loric hugged her instead, not looking back as he departed, beginning to float.


    ''Enjoy yourselves, but not too much, hmm?'' He waved at them, head swivelling. ''I''ll try to bring back a present!''


    * * *


    Loric''s lips parted as he flew upwards, lips widening until his sharklike fangs showed. The strigoi stuck his hands in his pockets as he looked down on Szentendre, ready to confront his quarry as the recon stage of his mission ended.


    The thing with fear-eaters was that they often had the means to create their meals, like most beings that fed on emotions. They were not always as infectious as some memetic entities, but information about them still had to be kept under wraps, lest they grow stronger and more confident.


    This was why Szentendre''s city hall had quietly arranged, with the help of a few Paranormal Patrol agents, for every resident of Szentendre to have good reasons for an early curfew, without anyone but the most sensitive paranormals noticing anything was amiss. "Security reasons" had been enough to keep them at home, too.


    And no one who hadn''t known to the victims (they had been told, for the sake of closure) had noticed the deaths, as far as he knew. Considering he could feel every flash of here in every point of creation, Loric was fairly confident it had been a thorough job. They had set up the battlefield. Now, it was time for him to drag the creature down.


    It had been children, at first. Found in sewers aNd dead ends, hidden bodies bizarrely mangled. Postcognition had revealed little: the killer was doing something to muddle its past.


    Then, cops had started dying too. One, often paranoid about his gun going off and killing him or his partner, had died shot.


    Loric would''ve come earlier, but his previous mission had involved fighting something that kept destroying his clones whenever he tried to multiply. This should be a palate-cleanser...


    Aaah...the policeman''s fear had come true, but it hadn''t brought his death. Not directly. Oh, the wound had crippled him, leaving him bleeding out of his thigh next to the well where a little girl had gone missing. His bloated corpse had been fished out of the well later, a horrified grimace on his face.


    His wife, also a cop, although a werewolf, had tried to avenge him. Her silver-filled, dismembered body had reminded Loric of the fear some younger weres shared.


    ''Alajos and Bogl¨¢rka Arany,'' Loric mouthed to himself. ''You could''ve been memorable. That creature better hope it can pique my interest...'' Loric had never had patience for dullards snuffing out the unique.


    * * *


    The clown noticed something was amiss long before it reached the surface.


    The sensation was not new to It: It had, sometimes, preyed on people who could blithely flout the so-called laws of the puny little egg that was the universe. Beyond that, in the Macroberse, It had come across beings both like and unlike Itself, in terms of nature, many of them powerful.


    The fact this feeling reminded It of the Turtle made part of It wary, as much as it intrigued It. This strange new world was full of powerful beings, and It had no interest in fighting one when It could be feeding at Its leisure. Still, if one could be broken down, and devoured as fear ran rampant through its mind...


    Crimson lips parted, revealing needle fangs. It would escape, or make this town Its new larder. Either way, It would go on.


    The clown made on sound as it pushed the sewer hole''s cover aside and arrived on the main thoroughfare. It was quite curious that the streets would be so full of people, after the recent decision to enforce a curfew, but It would not say no to herds of prey.


    Pennywise pulled a cluster of red balloons behind Itself as It walked among the crowd, smiling with Its mouth closed, to look human.


    The foreign presence was at Its back, like eyes glaring holes into Its head. Despite Its sharp senses and ability to feel emotions, It could detect no more than amused malice, and a desire to tear It apart.


    The source, however, was nowhere to be seen, but It kept an eye out for the possible rival as It came close to a group of humans, huddling together with other beings.


    To Its delight, there were children scattered among the adults, darting between their legs as they ran to and fro, laughing. It almost did, too, at the sight. Their fear was always the sweetest~


    As It walked closer, It noticed these beings were related to its latest meals. A coincidence, perhaps, but a welcome one. It had made Its way around them during Its previous hunts, singling out softer prey, but their time would come soon.


    It stopped as a blonde, pigtailed young human, her brown eyes wide, bumped into its leg. She looked up, giving It a bucktoothed smile as she giggled.


    ''Would you like a baloon?'' It cooed, matching her smile. The girl - the older sister of the child It had covered in leeches, until her dried corpse had been left bobbing in that well - nodded, muttered a shy "thanks" and ran off with the balloon.


    A thunderous scowl threatened to split Its face. There had been no fear to in the girl, nor, indeed, any emotion common to humans...besides joy.


    No curiosity at meeting a stranger; no envy at the smaller, more careless children; no sadness.


    Anywhere.


    It froze in place, looking for anything besides joy within the crowd, and finding nothing. That was when it got worse.


    It stalked closer to the huddle, balloons forgotten, as what promised to be a tasteless meal spoke about their dead kin, nostalgically recounting the happiest moments in their lives - and only those.


    It had never met humans so singularly joyful, and It had killed enough to know that was unusual. Not even any boredom...? Tch.


    Well. Meals not salted with fear were dull, but still filling. It seemed It could not afford to be picky, this time...or It would have, had It been alone.


    Discarding the idea of feeding, It whirled around. Its rival was either hiding its emotions as well as Its would-be prey, or had no fears to manifest.


    No matter. It would slaughter its slaves, constructs, whatever they were, until it would come out. Should that not happen, It would track whatever the creature was down.


    Its death would serve as a nice compensation for this farce, before It left this world. Far too much drudgery, for Its tastes.


    It dashed as a dumbly-smiling human, an old male, but, before It could tear him to shreds, in preparation for something more entertaining, he laughed in Its face, before fading out of reality, leaving only a fading echo and a lingering sensation of joy.


    Its lip curled. It was used to people laughing at It, yes - before It revealed Its true nature, and drank in their screams.


    Its body warped and shifted, becoming a mass of swirling, false flesh that would''ve left a human observer cross-eyed. But, no matter what clawed, spined limbs It extended, no matter how much of Itself It turned into living projectiles or how much of Its surroundings It altered, It never reached any of the creature.


    And, worse, It did not frighten any of them, either.


    All of them laughed, the adults'' heads rolling back as they laughed until they teared up, while the children pointed at It, cackling until they fell down.


    But, whenever It came close to one of them, the being disappeared, nothing to mark its passing besides the sound of amusement.


    It screamed, dashing through buildings like a bullet train and bringing them down in Its rage. Vexingly, more sprouted out of nothing in Its wake, so that It made no true progress.


    It rose, flying with no wings, but the clouds and moon above it seemed no closer. Another aspect of its rival''sworld, no doubt.


    It came crashing down on the false city like a meteor, as it had once crashed into another Earth. The fake world shook in the grip of an earthquake stronger than any ever experienced by any world It had ever known.


    The clown clawed Its way out of the resulting, country-sized crater. Thousands of kilometres wide and dozens deep, lava glowed angrily at in its depths. Neither the impact nor the molten rock had left any mark on Pennywise, or Its colourful outfit.


    The pocket reality fell apart to the sound of another damnable laugh, though this was far colder than any human''s It had ever heard. The foreign presence grew stronger, the pressure on Its senses increasing as the source finally came into reach.


    He looked like a human, though grey-skinned and cold, dressed in the dry skins of his kindred. His skull was split, revealing less grey matter than a human could''ve survived without.


    With a sneer sent the flying dead man''s way, It turned, preparing to escape.


    It ran headfirst into him, bouncing off him like a bullet off a tank. His grin was even wider than Its irritated grimace, and his black eyes twinkled.


    It stepped backwards, and saw he hadn''t moved from the sky. He was still floating at cloud level; he was just also facing It on the ground.


    So, he could make more of himself. How droll. It would have left him to his petty amusements, but the corpse clearly had no intentions to let It go.


    Just as well. It was hungry, anyway.


    It tried to grab hold of his flesh with Its mind, fill that shrivelled little brain with tumours while trying to grab hold of a fear to manifest, but neither attempt succeeded.


    The dead men sniggered simultaneously, the flier joining his mirror on the ground. Both of them stared at It, unblinking, grins fixed on their faces.


    ''You seem to have disliked your welcome party?'' one corpse cooed, pouting.


    ''A shame,'' the other said. ''My heart would be broken, if I had one!''


    They leaned on each other, roaring with laughter as It glared at them. One punched through the other''s black shirt - and only that, as there was no flesh under it. Instead, the corpse spread his fingers inside a hole nearly as large as his head.


    The holes in the Szabo''s shirt and coat closed as soon as the hand was retracted, and the corpses stared at It with half-lidded eyes.


    ''You acted like you wanted to leave,'' one remarked casually.


    ''Wouldn''t you like to know how I cockblocked you first, though?'' the other grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.


    ''Do you see that rat?'' both asked, pointing at the horizon. The small, furry shape would''ve been invisible to a human, but to Its eyes, it was as clear as every blade of grass between It and the town on the opposite horizon. The city was nearly obscured by the form of a third dead man.


    ''Well,'' they continued. ''The little thing suddenly got this dull fear - nothing it could comprehend, you understand - that you would be utterly unable to do anything worth a damn in my little world.''


    They grinned lazily as It rushed towards the rat, prepared to stomp it into paste and gobble it up, even as It tried to twist its flesh beyond recognition. Its foot bounced straight off the rodent, which stared up at It with shining eyes, whiskers twitching.


    ''You must be wondering why that isn''t working?'' Szabo asked, an arm slung across Its shoulders. He had crossed the distance even faster than It. ''Well...that little fly, over there?'' he gestured at a dark point far above. ''It''s so frightened you won''t be able to hurt the rat...''


    Szabo laughed again when, mid-explanation, It blew the fly apart with a thought, and even louder when it warped the rat''s body into throbbing mess. Stooping, Szabo picked up the former rodent in one hand, crushing it, then bringing his hands together, sleeves catching the blood before it could fall. When Szabo opened his hands, there was no trace of blood.


    When he spoke next, his words were not carried through the air.


    ''You wanted to leave? Worry not! Loric Szabo will make sure you never see this world again...or any other~''


    * * *


    The first thing Szabo had done after obtaining his fear powers had been to prepare.


    Actually, that was not entirely true. The first thing he had done after absorbing the Tremorph, embodiment of a smaller, bleaker universe''s fears, had been to scour creation for more thing like it, and draw them into himself, for their power, and his amusement. And reputation, of course. That counted as preparation too, he supposed, but only partly.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Any two-bit monster could break and slaughter those weaker than it. Loric Szabo took special delight in making sure such beings were among his most memorable victims.


    Like this one. Its avatar was utterly ridiculous, given its purpose. Oh, Loric knew all about catching more flies with honey. He understood the strategy - intellectually. He just had never been able to bring himself to pretend being what most of the world considered kind. But this thing, skulking about as a clown? Maybe it was just the fact he''d always found clowns boring, rather than amusing (like some of his peers growing up) or unsettling (like some youths nowadays), but he understood why something looking for an unassuming disguise would choose it. It was the bright lure of an unfathomably larger, dark anglerfish, curled and folded up endlessly in on itself beyond this universe.


    But this creature (and he knew more about it than it did about him, thanks to his knowledge of all things frightening, as most would have described it, or the menagerie of monsters locked within himself), this one wanted to terrify. To appall. To disturb, in order to season its meals, so to speak.


    And yet, it hid. Szabo scoffed at the idea. Perhaps it was his desire to be immortalised speaking, but he couldn''t imagine hiding his light under a bushel out of...laziness.


    Szabo sneered. To think, even cosmic monsters from the beyond could aim low, and wish for mediocrity.


    In the instant the thing''s avatar prepared to attack him once more, Szabo seized it by the throat, before flying across and beyond the observable universe, chokeslamming the clown into a barren exoplanet. No time elapsed as who had once been a mere strigoi crossed trillions of light years.


    The clown glared sullenly up at him as it rose to its feet at the bottom of the crater he had made with its body. The fiery pit could''ve swallowed Europe with room to spare, and revealed the rocky world''s now-shattered core, an iron sphere that had been the size of Mars before half of its mass had been vapourised, alongside with the large stretch of surface.


    Szabo felt the avatar reach out again, not for him, but for the space around him, as if the tip of a barbed limb was closing around reality in hopes of pulling him out and through, to itself.


    Szabo clapped his hands in echoing delight, for all the airlessness of the world they stood upon, halting the attempt and making the avatar ripple like oil over water.


    Oh, yes...he could have some fun with this. And few at ARC or beyond would honestly condemn him for it: after all, the creature was a destroyer of lives and minds, the mental equivalent of a rapist, for it loved tormenting those far weaker than even its incarnate form, who had little to no means to defend themselves from its predations, or even recognise them for what they were.


    And it was also a killer of children. Szabo felt an ironic smirk begin to split his face at the hypocrisy inherent in how much young lives were valued. Was someone with manifold accomplishments to their name less valuable than someone younger, just because they were, what, less naive?


    ''Are you sure about that, Loric?'' his strigoi side asked. The embodiment of his instincts, appearing as a flayed old man, sitting at the centre of his mind, arms crossed under the sewn-together skin of his past kills. Loric''s mental incarnation looked down at it, gesturing with his eyes for it to go on.


    The old man smiled with daggerlike teeth in response, clawing at the hole in its chest. ''Are you sure?'' it repeated. ''Those who are yet to do anything memorable - or even receive the chance to leave their mark on history - snuffed out so early?'' It growled drily, raw throat bleeding slightly, at the thought of lost potential.


    ''A waste, to be sure,'' Loric agreed. Dammit, how had he not thought about that? He must''ve been too busy preparing the so-called monster for true suffering, that he''d lost sight of the future, ironically. Yes...his instincts were right, of course; just as he had opened their eyes about Csilla, not long ago, so they had now enlightened him.


    But enough dwelling on the past! They had a...spider...to crush.


    Yes...a fitting analogy, as far as animals went. That was the closest a human mind could come to comprehending the thing''s true form, but Loric had left humanity behind decades ago, and humble undeath had been surpassed recently. Now, he was a thing of fear, too.


    He supposed. In truth, several of his emotions had been muted in life, fear first among them. His undeath and ascension to an existence of terror had left him even more aloof to it, which was why he failed to see why the creatures he had devoured had caused such reactions among their prey.


    In his mind, they appeared leashed and chained in an infinitely-layered network of cages, the memories of them rattling the bars of their eternal prisons even as their powers were harnessed by him. And oh, he had so much to play with, even if the Tremorph''s power to grow stronger to the fear it caused and could make real, as well as regenerate from nothing unless it wanted to die, were usually more than enough.


    The Tremorph''s defeat had been a beautiful trick, really. Loric had known he couldn''t exactly beat it to death, even in the beginning. That was why, when it had tried to break his mind with holy power spun from mortal fear of gods, he had instead begun a battle of assimilation, and the very unstable state the stupid monster had put him into had allowed Szabo to absorb it.


    ''You''re not going to achieve anything like this, you know,'' he told the avatar as it shed its clownlike shape and became something closer to a spider. The world under them shook harder than Earth had ever been shaken by any earthquake Loric had lived through or heard of...any resulting from natural causes, at least.


    As far as paranormal quakes went, this one deserved a firm average.


    It came at him, trying to skewer and rip him apart with spiked legs, snap him in half with drooling mandibles. Loric dodged half the attacks, and took the rest for the satisfaction of feeling the spider break itself against him. It was not deterred in the least, as the frustration radiating from its regenerating body showed.


    And it still, still, kept clawing at the edges of his mind and body, as it it could''ve altered the thoughts or shape of even a normal strigoi.


    ''Imagine needing to enter a reality to frighten its inhabitants - couldn''t happen to me!'' he said brightly as his surroundings became a swirling storm of flaming acid, sticking to every surface and crawling, as if sentient, into every orifice. Loric gripped his head, covered in sickly green flames like a twisted halo, and walked forward as the spider warped the space between them into a narrow, infinitely-long corridor. Rather than take control of the space and turn it back to normal, Loric crossed the infinite space through sheer speed. No time having passed, he was suddenly floating under the spider, kicking its thorax in half.


    ''Loric Szabo''s reputation alone leaves the grandest kingdoms shuddering!'' Well, that was true enough. The actual reason he was thrashing it, though, like he had done with his most recent opponents, had to do with the preparation following his paradigm change.


    The holy powers held at the tips of their fingers and tentacles by the Tremorph and its ilk had given Loric even more control over his state of being than his strigoi shapeshifting, and he had put them to use. Splitting fractions of flesh, mind and spirit from himself and scattering them across creation had made for a pleasant diversion, but giving them just enough mind to fear had been he part he had truly enjoyed.


    Such fragments had been placed in each of the infinite realities on every layer of the multiverse, in the aether and Dreamlands beyond, and the infinity of infinities of Voids beyond those. Some existed in a state of cold dread that Szabo would always be more powerful than his opponents, others that he would always have the abilities necessary to best them. Others yet feared that they, and the other fragments, would always be invulnerable, unable to be damaged, altered or stolen. Of course, other such absolute powers, laws of creations unto themselves, could easily force him into a stalemate.


    And, with the Tremorph''s powers, Loric made those fears facts. It would''ve been something to watch the spider run around creation like a headless chicken, trying to find them, not that it would''ve done it any good if it succeeded. Loric, however, had more immediate amusements in mind.


    ''Ah, I grow tired of this,'' he said, more to himself than his increasingly-annoyed enemy. ''And I''m sure you do, too. Why don''t I rock your world?''


    His grip closed around the spider''s head before he slammed it down, piledriving it through the planet as it tried to destroy or at least dislodge him. Thousands of kilometres and not a moment later, Loric burst out of he surface, still holding the spider, before repeating the process in the other directions. This was mirrored dozens of times over, until using a combination of strength and his ability to manipulate the frightening, he had wrapped the spider''s substance throughout the world''s interior.


    A twitch of his foot shattered the planet, sending a billion billion rocks flying in all directions at meteor-like speeds. The largest part of the creature, wrapped several times around a rock that was nearly invisible under its amorphous mass, tried to reach its lost body parts, call them back to itself. Loric kept a tight metaphysical grip on them, allowing physics to take hold of the rest.


    ''So sorry, my friend,'' he pretended to wail. ''But they all float out here.''


    With a shriek that echoed and tore through deep space, the spider leapt after him at impossible speeds. Winking, Loric pressed a clawed fingertip to what could''ve passed for its face when it approached him, before speeding off, leaving it with a message burned into the aether.


    ''Tag - you''re It!''


    * * *


    The chase took a timeless eternity, as the spider skittered across the spaces between realities, trying to catch Loric. The universe he constructed for it was unlikely to soothe its rage, but it would definitely amuse him, and that was what counted.


    The spider ground to a halt as it found itself in a realm of endless clouds and rainbows, cartoonishly-grinning stars winking overhead. It huffed at the sensation of all-encompassing serenity around it, but that disdain turned into anger when it took in the source.


    Rank after rank of turtles stood, swaying on short, stocky feet, all grinning up at Pennywise. Their beaks opened into approximations of smiles, and they all shook with laughter at the sight of the spider. Smaller replicas of It began forming out of thin air, only to fall into the turtles'' maws, just as delighted to perish as the turtles were to eat them.


    Szabo''s whistle stoked its anger even further.


    ''You know, it is fairly rude not to give your name after Loric Szabo has given his,'' he remarked walking across the turtles'' shells, his leather boots making almost no sound. ''But he can understand your awe in the face of his magnificence, and will even forgive you! Actually, let me guess...'' he pressed a finger to his forehead as the spider found itself dogpiled by a dozen clones of him, making it roar as their claws tore through its substance. ''Wait, I know! You are...Coindumb, the Prancing Mime!'' He leaned forward, cocking his head and closing narrowing one eye. ''Aren''t you?''


    At its apoplectic response, he giggled. ''Unused to pain, are we, hmm? From what I can see, you only get hurt when playing with your food. I should turn you into a were and drown you in silver...but, I have something better in mind!''


    Shrugging off the clones, the spider tore into the turtles, warping its body and surroundings to create a vista of it tearing Szabo apart with its limbs and mind. Gaping for a moment at the sight, the turtles soon let loose ear-piercing wails of terror, and it leered as it turned its attention back to the strigoi.


    A dark mass, with limbs like spiked skyscrapers and covered in fur like razor wire, enveloped him. tearing him apart with all of its strength. It gobbled down the remains, before unfolding.


    Then, done with the shapeshifting, Szabo burst out of it, body parts flying back together as he reappeared behind the spider.


    ''No holy powers?'' he sobbed. ''Awwwww - '' A pulse of will and lifeforce sent the spider flying down through the clouds like a grim comet. Its flight ended in a cold, soft pile.


    The spider stood up, the the white, red, blue and yellow ice-cream covering its body making it resemble its clown form.


    ''Enjoy your just desserts!'' Szabo sung, slapping a hand to his face as he guffawed.


    With a roar that shredded the fabric of the artificial universe, the spider reached forth with its power again, reality beginning to ripple and fall away around it as a glimpse of its true form was released.


    ''Ooooohhhh~'' Szabo opened his eyes wide, staring into the Deadlights as the turtles fell dead at the sight, blood bursting from every orifice as their minds fell apart. ''Thanks for the nightlight! Maybe now, I can find your relevance!'' Conjuring a microscope, the strigoi placed it over one eye, before adding a telescope to it and darting closer to the Deadlights. ''These must be faulty...'' Loric muttered in dismay, letting the devices fall from hands that hung at his sides. ''They make you look worth half a damn...''


    * * *


    Szabo spun around as the Deadlights drew him into themselves. For a moment, he saw something large and green, galaxies swirling in its claws, before it was covered by the endless, unnaturally-glowing form of the Deadlights.


    ''Nice illusion,'' he commented, nodding. ''Which of your many flaws is it supposed to compensate for?''


    THIS IS NO ILLUSION, YOU FOOLISH LITTLE CORPSE - THIS IS ETERNITY, MY ETERNITY, AND YOU ARE LOST IN IT, LOST FOREVER, NEVER TO FIND YOUR WAY BACK; YOU ARE ETERNAL NOW, AND CONDEMNED TO WANDER IN THE BLACK.


    ''Ha!'' Szabo barked at the proclamation. ''You thought I needed your permission for that?'' His grin widened, splitting flesh. ''You thought I needed your touch to become eternal, to enter the darkness? You might have been born in fear, but I moulded it, and was moulded in turn...and the likes of you have never stood above me...or as far beneath as you are, now.''


    It directed its hatred at him, filling the placeless, timeless, directionless void they floated in with power. And Szabo, in turn, grabbed the attack with both hands, pulling it inside himself, consuming it as his power spread through the Deadlights in turn.


    It recoiled from his touch, looking for another avenue of attack, only for Szabo to disappear from its grasp, leaving the Macroverse behind, though his power remained, hanging over the void like a funeral shroud.


    The Deadlights prepared to follow, only to feel the strigoi''s power barring them from slipping past the edge. The harder they struck against it, the stronger the barrier became; the smaller and more elusive they tried to make their avatar, the tighter it became.


    It looked what would''ve been down, in the universe, sensing something that had once brought it much pleasure. Szabo''s hollow chortle echoed in its being.


    ''I could''ve ended you, you know? I still could. My touch is pain for you, because you, all the things like you that fancy themselves horrors, are my fuel. But do not despair! Loric Szabo would not leave an expecting mother behind without lending a hand, and I just know you ahve a clutch of eggs to deliver...so!''


    Every memory, every moment of terror It had devoured, had been recreated, shining like a beacon to Its senses. Then, an old, detestably familiar presence appeared, as what resembled Maturin down to the last scale dropped over the kaleidoscope of horror, dulling it.


    It rushed down, tearing through the Turtle''s doppelganger, only for another facsimile to be revealed under it, a placid, smug look on its face. It speeded up, ripping through its shell and guts too in a shower of gore that dwarfed universe, to find another, even larger Turtle under the second.


    ''Do not hurry, now! A little bird told me you hate that old Turtle, and Loric Szabo has heard it does the heart good to destroy those you despise. So take your time - it''s turtles all the way down!''


    * * *


    Back in reality, Loric looked at his handiwork, fishing for his phone. Trying to decide on the finishing move, he dialled one of the numbers that always made for good diversions. ''Reem? Yes, it''s contained.'' He paused, licking his fangs. ''Is your lover there? Hmm? Of course I already know he is...yes, I know I''m not supposed to call him that. Give him the phone?''


    Szabo crossed his legs in midair as the mummy acceded with a grumble, the rumbling tones of the Salem division''s Head filling his ears instead. ''Shiftskin! You won''t believe what an ugly spider I stepped on today!''


    The wendigo, thankfully, shared his sense of humour, but the Crypt head did not. She wrestled the phone back from Shiftskin, placating him with a kiss, then sighed, adjusting in her chair. ''You could''ve popped that thing like a soap bubble, from the start - so why haven''t you, yet?''


    Szabo placed a hand over where his heart had been. ''Loric Szabo could not have struck down such a fiend without giving it a taste of its innocent victims'' agony.''


    For a woman with no eyes, Reem could sure do a good impression of rolling them. ''Are you going to end that circus, or should I, agent Szabo?''


    ''Fine,'' he drawled, pocketing the phone without ending the call, and opening his mouth wide, unhinging his jaw. It was entirely theatrical, but he always got a kick out of it.


    Szabo''s body shook, his eyes lighting up with unearthly colours, as the Deadlights were absorbed, along with the fear they had sown. In another world, those who had been scarred by Its attention, and survived, found they could breathe easier at their memories of It.


    * * *


    The Deadlights were floating in the void, but it was an unfamiliar one. Just as dark and deep as their native one, but full of beings like itself, or at least their shades. Like the Prim. Like...


    It found Itself facing a mirror image, as another shapeless creature winked into existence in front of It, unfurling layers of maddening light. Another appeared behind It, one above, one below, to the sides - then they began multiplying.


    And the damnable corpse''s voice returned once more, drowning out its scream of loathing, even as its clones, equally powerful and just as vicious, swarmed it.


    ''Alone in the dark, surrounded by endless, unstoppable monsters...I wonder, what does it look like from the other side?''

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: Introduction (crossover edition)

    Arrival...acknowledged.


    Enter primary password: ********* ** *****


    First stage of identification, complete.


    Enter secondary password: ********* ** **********


    Secondary stage of identification, complete.


    Welcome, visitor. As First Scientist, we, the Shaper, will guide you through the Reptilian Collective''s files on our allies, assets and opponents. Collaboration, optimisation and neutralisation are all important facets of the war against irrationality, for none could be attempted, if the others failed.


    An ally/asset/threat classification has been uploaded to your mindframe. Do you wish to peruse it now?


    ...Very well.


    The Collective classifies entities, objects and locations of interest using a scale focusing on, but not limited to, how large an area of the macrocosm they can affect. Other traits, such as aptitude, resilience and the nature and duration of said effect, factor into classification, but broadly, it can be used as follows:


    -"local" entities are not necessarily native to any location, nor do they dwell there. This classification is used to express the fact they represent potential threats to baseline humans, up to large groups of them. In some cases, they represent a danger to human dwellings or settlements, and are able to fight an unmodified reptilian without equipment.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    -"regional" entities can affect large parts of a notable Terran landmass; a mountain range, for example, up to a continent.


    -"global" entities can affect, at a minimum, the entire surface of Terra. In more powerful cases, they can affect its moon, or the entire planet.


    -"planetary" entities are able to affect celestial bodies larger than Terra, up to and including brown dwarfs.


    -"stellar", "galactic" and "universal" entities are, as the names suggest, capable of affecting varyingly large areas of the cosmos.


    -"macrocosmic" entities range from beings capable of affecting two or more realities, to those whose very existence warps all of creation.


    This classification system is a new development, and, in many ways, a prototype. Your perusal of the archives might help us improve it.


    Now, what do you wish to analyse first?

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: On science and aberrancy

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    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    ''Insane? You have trekked through the stars to me, fought wars and passed through the gate, to call me mad? Ha! You truly are something...an ignoramus, I mean.


    I am crazy? The Zhayvin Collective inhabits the dream of a blind idiot god, yet believes creation has laws. But I am insane?''


    -unknown. Attributed to Solarex.


    * * *


    Mocker raised a finger as the datastream between the Collective and the visitor stopped.


    ''You disapprove of this.''


    Mocker half-closed its eyes at the Shaper''s unprompted, but correct statement. ''Letting whoever leaf through our records when every human agency worth its name turns us away in the name of operational security? Yes, but you already know that. The way people shouted me down during the debate was somewhat hard to miss.''


    ''They disapproved of your paranoia as much as you approve of the overworlders''.''


    Mocker''s grin was amused, but tight. ''Never said otherwise. The reasons differ, though, but I suppose not all of us can hold on to the guilt for atrocities eons past.''


    The Unscarred - they had started calling it the Unscarred Prime, in light of the replicas - crossed its arms, pink eyes turning orange. ''We have nothing to lose. Sharing information will improve Earth''s wellbeing, and if the overworlders wish to be secretive, let them. We learn enough in the field, and from looted scraps.''


    ''That''s the-'' Mocker stopped itself with a sigh. ''Fine. Fine!'' No wonder the humans didn''t value knowledge more. They probably looked at the Collective picking the hardest way to obtain it while giving theirs away, and decided curiosity wasn''t worth the added scholarly masochism. ''Have it your way.'' This was directed at the seventy-three percent of the Collective who had voted for allowing visitation of their archives. ''But,'' Mocker scratched between its scales with a monomolecular claw, ''didn''t you see who they sent? Obviously new.''


    At least there wasn''t some series of half-baked infiltration attempts going on. Mocker had once heard about a fairly hilarious event concerning a terrorist cell formed of ninety percent undercover counterterrorists, with none of the moles aware of the others. This reminded it of a guinea pig rather than a mole: a rookie, sent to test the waters, allegedly unbiased to neither a country nor the reptilians.


    Mocker saw ARC''s hand at work here, but that mattered little, in the end.


    The Unscarred''s eyes became pink once more, its expression turning flat. ''We are perfectly capable of simplifying-''


    ''Yes, yes.'' Mocker waved its hands. ''But you could put up an index while you''re at that. Maybe some of those colourful signs to mark records that have been studied, I''ve heard they like them bright up there.''


    ''The archives are a work in progress. An "index" would be a sham.''


    Mocker rolled its eyes, but it could not deny it was enthused, or pretend it didn''t share the Shaper''s confidence, if to a smaller degree. Their work in the Realm of Forms that formed the metainformational core of the macrocosm meant that, perhaps, everything could actually be know, and any new events could instantly be studied and added to the reptilian''s database. But the First Scientist''s perfectionism prevented it from merely starting something. Still...


    ''You could just make a hologram and update it as needed. And,'' Mocker shrugged, ''why not add some definitions to the bottom, as well?''


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    ''If you''re so opposed to the idea, why do you want to make our data easier to process?''


    ''So the guests go home faster!''


    * * *


    Hello. To your right, you have noticed a hardlight construct appear. That dot next to the entrance represents you, and, as labeled, here are...hmm? Why not simply upload the information into your mind? You believe we can do that, despite...?


    ...Ha. Fair enough. Fair enough, and closer to the truth than farther. Yes. Such a procedure, however, would defeat the purpose of this tour, but would not be truly successful. As has been pointed out to us, with more insistence than politeness, our knowledge changes with the macrocosm, and such updated would have to uploaded into your mind, as well. With the scale and rate of our research, that would require and all but permanent link. Unless you wish to turn back?


    We thought not.


    Before you continue, we must establish something. If you look to the right, you will see your guide hologram being updated as we speak. We must draw the line between the fruits of science, and what we Zhayvin classify as aberrancy.


    Are there laws in the macrocosm? We believe there are. Some argue it is only governed by the perception of its inhabitants, but in that case, it must be orderly, as so many believe it to be. Is there an universally-agreed upon set of laws, then? Of course not. But more similar ones than you believe. For example, most cultures and beings with knowledge of FTL travel agree that is it impossible to achieve something to lightspeed without infinite energy, and that doing so with finite energy breaks physics.


    This is just an example of aberrancy. Aberrants are those who deviate from this model of existence, through various means. Humans distinguish between "supernaturals" - beings resembling figures from their folklore - and "paranormals" -beings who defy nature, but do not feature in human tales or myths. The Collective finds this distinction arbitrary and useless. All aberrants are aberrants, no matter what the proponents of anthropocentrism argue. Moving one''s boy without propulsion, generating mass from nowhere...these are but some of the most common forms of aberrancy there is. Aberrants are as varied as they are intiguing.


    What, then, of science? Is the study of aetherkinesis not scientific? After all, it employs the scientific method. Aetherplasm - "mana" - and those who use it know it reacts to thoughts, and what it takes to have this ability.


    That may be so. But the Collective defines aberancy by what could be found in nature on our lost homeworld of Zhay, and there, there was no aberrancy.


    But, you will say, our technology seems to break physics as understood by mankind. Does that not make it aberrant? Perhaps it does. Perhaps the abilities we see as unnatural are misunderstood science. Our quest for knowledge is never-ending.


    The Collective is aware technology that is unexplained or misunderstood can appear magical, and vice versa. Earthlings and aliens have claimed we use everything from hypertech - something that seems to rely on scientific principles and mechanism to function, yet to advanced to properly analyse, much less understand - to "technosorcery". We have even encountered devices that appear to us the way ours do to humans.


    So, what conclusion is there to draw? If reality is shaped by perception, is there truly anything abnormal?


    We shall see.

 Apocrypha: And Gods Mouth Sayeth...(crossover edition)

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    Constantin - Uriel - raised-lowered his-their eyes as his brother, the Archangel Gabriel, touched down without a sound, the tips of his silvery blue wings brushing the ground without stirring up any dust.


    ''Father Silva'', he greeted. ''Brother.'' Gabriel tilted his head slightly, brushing a lock of raven hair out of his steel-blue eyes. ''You are growing closer.''


    They were. So much closer, in fact, that their spirits had started bleeding into each other, so that, even if he knew he was not the Archangel, Constantin had no problem speaking for both of them, nor did Uriel.


    And, with ichor burning behind his eyes, he could see past the guises Gabriel wore so humans needed not fear, and into his core. One moment, the other Cardinal Archangel looked like he was wearing black plate armour, the trim the colour of his wings. He looked like a mailman, hair just peeking out from under his cap. Like a town crier, a newspaper seller, a...


    Constantin had once watched an explanatory video about quantum superposition. He mused that the Archangel looked like every type of messenger possible, until observed by someone with expectations. But behind that, like a fire casting shadows, was the true self of the Archangel, through which flowed the power of information in its deepest form, granting him control over the senses in the most fundamental manner, those of creation included.


    God''s Mouth clasped his hands, slightly bowing his head. ''Thank you for coming, brother.'' He did not mention that this was another self of Gabriel''s, and that the original was conveying the Lord''s words across existence. The Archangel could replicate himself endlessly, like all his brethren, for they were ever needed. ''We know that you speak for God, yet, we would trouble you, if you would bear our words for once, to whoever may listen. We believe they might prove some use, these kernels of lore, in the right hands.''


    ''Even if they are not, this should prove an interesting break from bearing father''s messages,'' Gabriel replied, before smiling ironically. ''But, no offence, Uriel...I somewhat doubt you have anything to share that I do not already know. I am the bringer of knowledge, and you have never been the most scholarly among us.''


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    ''Indeed, we have not been. But here this, brother: do you remember how Michael got his sword? The one he cut Samael''s eyes out with during the War in Heaven, leaving only fires burning as hotly as his pride?'' At Gabriel''s expression, he went on. ''The one he shattered on the Serpent''s face, yes. He never did speak about that, did he?''


    ''He did not,'' Gabriel confirmed, walking closer as God''s Mouth formed a seat of gold-tinged crimson flame, before sitting down. Gabriel leaned in, an elbow on the chair''s armrest, his ear close to his brother''s mouth. ''Speak, then. I am curious, and could use a lesson as much as a diversion.''


    ''Ah, brother...Michael did not share the weapon''s origin with you because he did not believe it had any place in Heaven''s history. How often do you hear about the beasts in the waters above Heaven and beneath Hell in scripture? It was from there that a beast came. I remember...I fought it for a trillion years - or was it a heartbeat? - after its shining shadow snuffed out a seraph by passing over him, with the effect and effort of an ocean snuffing out a candle. The universe would''ve been scorched bare by that flame, yet even the creature''s approach was enough to extinguish it. I kept it from our realm''s gates, while Samael harried it, but it was Michael who put it down, and wrought its remains into a hiltless blade. He has always been able to do anything he must to defend Heaven...this makes him so lonely, we think. Like God, indeed.''


    Gabriel nodded, glancing into the white-hot shapes that might''ve passed for his brother''s eyes to someone whose sight was less clear. ''I did suspect none of us had forged that ugly thing. Still, at least something good came of it, in the end.'' He closed his eyes, remembering his elder brother''s, before they had been replaced by pitiless infernos. ''Was that what you wanted to share?''


    ''Oh, no, brother. Of course not. That was to give you a taste. Not all the lore we have accumulated will be new to you, but we hope our insights will interest you.''

 The Zhayvin Files: It (Stephen King)

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    Classification: phobophiliac amorphous anthropovore, "spider";


    Colloquial name: It, Pennywise the dancing clown, the Deadlights;


    Origins: the Deadlights entity is native to an extraversal space with no directions or time, known as the Macroverse. It is likely its avatar spent time travelling through the space of the mundane universe before crashing to Earth in a meteor-like impact. It spent decades hiding in the town of Derry, Maine, using it as a larder, before it was banished by a group of its victims.


    Description: as suggested by its classification, It does not possess a fixed form. It prefers to shapeshift into things its prey fears, which it accomplishes through both mundane observation and its ability to read thoughts and emotions. Most often, it appears as a stereotypical human clown carrying balloons. The avatar also possesses a degree of control over its surroundings and the bodies of other beings, being able to create tumours in human brains by pointing, for example. The Deadlights entity causes insanity, followed by death, upon being observed by humans, unless it chooses to spare them. Should it choose to do so, it can pull them put of the universe and into the Macroverse, where they become trapped within it. The Deadlights seems endless in size, even in comparison to its rival (see file: Maturin), who, despite containing multiple galaxies in his claws, appears merely large, but finite, next to it. The Deadlights has referred to the universe as a "puny egg", suggesting multiversal size. Aside from its ability to passively induce insanity and death, the Deadlights possesses the abilities of its avatar to a far higher degree.


    Behaviour: like most predators, It is violent and cunning, but lazy and unambitious: while fighting fiercely if pressed, It prefers to only hunt in Derry, Maine, despite possessing the capabilities to hunt across the planet. Should a victim survive an encounter with It and attempt to leave Derry, they are likely to draw the clown''s attention. While hunting, It pursues people who can feel fear, as the emotion causes It pleasure while feeling, though It will sometimes feed even if emotions are absent, despite unfeeling prey not appealing to It. It is sadistic, enjoying chases, physical and psychological torture, which it approaches as a way to season its meals.


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    Threat level: local/regional (avatar), macrocosmic (Deadlights). The avatar crashed to Earth in an impact that caused an earthquake more powerful than any in history, which it survived, likely due to a combination of its durability and aberrant nature (shapeshifting could mimic regeneration). Though not displaying the ability to generate such force in recorded confrontations, the avatar is nevertheless superhuman, able to rip humans apart and being as fast as a bullet train. The Deadlights is a macrocosmic threat by virtue of its sheer size and aberrant nature alone; however, its rivalry with Maturin (who, aside from being far larger than any galaxy, has created universes by vomiting and caught "the world" on his shell; the world in this context likely being the macrocosmic structure colloquially referred to as the Dark Tower. See file: Gan), despite the "spider" appearing weaker than the Turtle, suggests it is far more powerful than its size implies, as most aberrants are.


    Neutralisation: the clown avatar is less likely to confront beings incapable of feeling fear, such as members and constructs of the Collective. While shapeshifted, it gains both the power and the weaknesses of its "template"; for example, silver is harmful to its werewolf form. The deployment of rationalisers can remove the avatar''s shapeshifting and reality warping, as well as the Deadlights'' attempts to enter the universe or pull targets out of it. Though further study is needed, members of the Collective have hypothesised that the avatar is consciously maintained by the Deadlights, in which case the placement of rationalisers across the universe could prevent any intrusions. Should a member of the Collective find itself facing the Deadlights, quantum entanglement with Great Old One-level aberrants or greater is advised to properly combat and counter its aberrant powers. Quantum entanglement with the Deadlights, alongside rationaliser deployment, should prove sufficient for neutralisation. Lastly, devices meant to destroy Great Old Ones or greater aberrants, as well as abilities of that scale, should be capable of eliminating the Deadlights.

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: Maturin (Stephen King)

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    Classification: Testudinomorphous aberrant, Beam Guardian;


    Colloquial name: Maturin, the Great Turtle;


    Origins: Maturin has existed in the extraversal space known as the Macroverse for over fourteen billion years, since at least this long has passed since it has created an universe by vomiting.


    Description: Maturin appears as a green, ancient-looking turtle of intergalactic proportions: mutiple galaxies can be seen in his claws.


    Behaviour: Maturin displays an avuncular, patient manner, being willing to discuss with and advise those who find themselves in the Macroverse on how to survive there and leave. Performing his duty as the Guardian of one of the Dark Tower macrocosmic structure''s Beams, he also saved it from dissolution by catching it on his shell, and displays an interest in its continued existence.


    Asset level: macrocosmic. Based on his sheer size, mass and ability to accidentally create universes, Maturin would be capable of at least destroying multiple realities, should he choose to. However, based on him managing to keep his macrocosm from falling apart by "catching" it, he should be capable of stabilising reality across a structure equivalent to our multiverse, and likely transcends that structure, putting him on a level similar to the stronger Great Old Ones.


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    Collaboration: Maturin does not usually act outside of the Macrocosm, though confrontations with his Deadlights nemesis inside it are likely to draw his attention. He has also acted to prevent the collapse of the Dark Tower macrocosmic structure, as one of its Beam Guardians. Ultimately, Maturin does not seem inclined to act outside of events happening outside the Macroverse or threating the Dark Tower, but is likely open to collaboration in such cases.


    Neutralisation: should Maturin become hostile, the same methods suggested for neutralising his rival would prove useful (see file: It), the difference being that the Turtle is seemingly more powerful and does not cause physical or psychic harm upon being observed.

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: Gan (The Dark Tower)

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    Classification: aberrant macrocosmic construct (the Dark Tower), macrocosmic animus (true form), "creator god".


    Colloquial name: Gan, the Other, the Rose, the White, the Talisman.


    Origins: Gan formed or awoke in the protocosmic realm-state known as the Prim, in an event roughly analogous to a human rising from water. Wishing to create but knowing a single realm could not hold all of his ideas, Gan divided existence into a macrocosm dominated by his incarnate form, which appears as a tower with infinite levels. He likely appointed the Guardians of the Tower''s Beams (discussions with Maturin still ongoing).


    Description: Gan''s avatar appears as a tower, dark in colour, with an infinity of floors and seemingly endless chambers. Each floor transcends the one below, similar to the layers of our multiverse. Analysis suggests that "smaller" realities are contained within small elements of "larger" ones, such as the equivalent of sand grains. There appears to be something similar to a chamber at the peak of the Dark Tower, where either a more responsive avatar of Gan dwells, or his true form can be contacted. Gan himself is formless and dimensionless.


    Behaviour: the Dark Tower does not act, but it seems obvious that Gan uses it as the equivalent of a sensory organ or sensor: it is, after all, part of him. Gan appears to be a benevolent but aloof entity, even more so than Maturin. The force known as ka, or fate, is an aspect of Gan, suggesting micromanagement of his macrocosm. However, Gan has been known to aid those who take a stand against evil (see: the interference of the Other in the Deadlights incident). He is constantly engaged in a game of cosmic chess against the Crimson King, his equal and opposite, with order and chaos being expressions of their struggle.


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    Asset level: macrocosmic. The Dark Tower is equal in stature and complexity to our infinitely-dimensional multiverse, and beings who transcend it are described as being akin to motes in Gan''s mind. Gan can control and manifest all aspects of the macrocosm.


    Collaboration: while Gan has not responded directly to the Collective''s attempts at communication, his observed tendencies suggests he is willing to stand besides those who seek to make the world a better place; or, to employ a human saying, he helps those who help themselves. Intervening against the Crimson King on his behalf has been suggested, but is still being discussed; experiments on whether Gan''s macrocosm can maintain spontaneity and other beneficial forms of chaos without Dis'' existence (that is, if the two can be separated) are still ongoing.


    Neutralisation: Gan exists on a level of dimensionless existence transcending that of the Deadlights and Turtle, or (as Gan is yet to exhibit greater power than this) akin to a Voidmaw of the first Twilight Void. Quantum entanglement with such aberrants and devices employed to annihilate them should prove sufficient, should Gan turn hostile.

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: The Crimson King (The Dark Tower)

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    Classification: macrocosmic abberrant, creator and embodiment of entropy and uncertainty.


    Colloquial name: the Crimson King, Dis, Los, Ram Abbalah.


    Origins: Dis formed or awoke "at the same time" or shortly "after" (keeping in mind that time did not exist in Gan''s macrocosm during this event) at the same time Gan did, rising from the Prim in response to the Other''s own awakening, like a shadow cast by light. After his main self was imprisoned in a cell at the top of the Dark Tower, thus mostly cutting him off from the macrocosm, Dis has plotted to topple and destroy the tower, casting the realities held together by it into the chaos he desires to roam.


    Description: Dis and his incarnations are shapeshifters. However, befitting of his ambition, Dis mostly favours forms that shock and appal, ranging from undead humans to giant spiders (or spider-human hybrids) and amorphous beings that can cause insanity when observed by humans.


    Behaviour: Dis is a being of destructive chaos, who revels in causing uncertainty and decay, seeking omnicide and the destruction of ordered existence. He aids and empowers beings of similar temperament (between these tendencies and his spider forms, members of the Collective have hypothesised a link between the Crimson King and the Deadlights entity; perhaps they are the same species, with It being one of his descendants). He has constructed an aberrant "power plant", known as the King''s Forge and the Big Combination, with the purpose of spreading his influence across existence.


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    Threat level: varies (avatars), macrocosmic (Crimson King). Dis is dither equal to or slightly weaker than Gan, with the Random force he generates being the equal and opposite of Gan''s ka, causing strife across existence. Though Dis is able to control and manifest virtually all aspects of existence, he prefers those that cause the most suffering and chaos. He has been observed creating meta-probability fields around his champions, causing what should be sure hits to miss or fail to do damage.


    Neutralisation: the deployment of rationalisers across Gan''s macrocosm should suffice to remove Dis'' random force. Should this lead to macrocosmic collapse, experiments to copy Dis'' traits and pass them upon a less sadistic user are being performed. Reptilians and yoctomachines copying Gan''s abilities should suffice to stymie Dis'' influence while the bulk of his attention is dedicated to matching his rival and eroding existence.

 Apocrypha: Gods Mouth: The Dark Tower

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    "Stop us if you have heard this one before, brother: a tower, erected from seemingly known, but unknowable substances, rising endlessly and leading nowhere - by mortal standards. And, above it, beyond its peak, God.


    Or something like Him.


    This tower was not raised by humans with more ambition than sense, to be sure, though some of that ilk have tried to reshape it in their image. No. This was raised by the one who raised everything else. It encompasses size, and thus, it encompasses life. All of it, brother. Not just the bound and bounded forms that come and go. But the finite mind cannot comprehend the infinite, and in attempting to do so, is driven to madness, to rant and rave. Babble, one could say."


    -on the Dark Tower;


    "See the Turtle of enormous girth! On his shell he holds the earth. His thought is slow but always kind; he holds us all within his mind.


    No great poetry, brother, we agree, but you must remember the man who wrote it was three quarters asleep when he did so. And yet, more correct than he may ever know. Or more honest, perhaps. There are moments, when one''s being is pushed to the brink, that reality becomes clearer, and the urge to speak of it stronger.


    He is old, the Turtle, timeless as we are. His thoughts are as deep as the void between worlds, rising and falling like tectonic plates, yet they are not unkind. He has time to stop, to speak to and aid children. Is that not impressive? After all, what incentive has he to do so? Little, to be sure. And is it not nobler to be good simply because it is the right thing to do, rather than because one must?"


    -on Maturin;


    "It evokes more than fear, though perhaps unknowingly, unintentionally. If it knows, it takes less delight in what it resembles than in what it can resemble.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.Think, brother. Does its avatar not bring to mind the fear of absurdity, even if that is not its intent? Does its true form not resemble both the will-o''-the-wisp and the crouching spider that waits in the darkness to leap and feed. The trapdoor spider, we feel, is fitting; after all, its lifeless glow lies beyond reality as man knows it.


    And, look, brother: it is the nemesis of a world turtle, and the ritual that thwarted it comes from a land bordering that where such turtle tales are so prominent. Coincidence...?"


    -on Pennwyise;


    "He walks and walks, looking within as much as back. Do you think he would stop, brother, if he learned his journey''s end, his ascent of the tower, will be its newfound beginning? Do you think he would care?


    We would not be hasty to answer. Remember from which sword the firearms he wields were forged. His sword would not end up in the hands of a man without ambition, no matter its form."


    -on Roland Deschain;


    "He was a taker of heads before he became a taker of souls, of destinies, of children - if you follow that history. Walk backwards through time, and you will see a man you have always known in one form or another, brother. The man who, even though he does not sell his soul directly, might as well be carving "evil" into it, along with its claim to his self."


    -on Randall Flagg;


    "Ah, brother, we know this glow! We recognise it, the light that is the world, shining from the navel of the maker who gazed into himself. For are not contemplation and self-reflection one and the same, for the omniscient? Does the all-knowing not reminisce of the world that was, and is, and will be with every measureless thought? It is easy to lose track of, but we remember. Just as how we remember how easy it is to mistake the will of the almighty for destiny...and vice versa."


    -on Gan;


    "Where there is darkness, there must be light, say those who speak for balance.


    But why must it be so?


    Where there is now light, there was darkness before, only to be banished by the new glow, say those who welt within it, and now cower away from the light.


    But why was it so?


    Is it because the darkness argues for itself, claws its way into creation and holds into it with numberless fangs? This spiteful shadow - you know what it is like - would say all there is has no right to be. That nothing does, except itself."


    -on the Crimson King;

 Apocrypha: Gods Mouth: Demon Accords (One)

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    "It is all too easy to look at them and see only predators, monsters in human skin, if that. But setting thieves to catch thieves has so often succeeded, brother; the method''s timelessness proves its success. After all, how many old things would stick around if they did not excel in some way? Look at us.


    And now...look at them. Moulded from the clay that is men. Those with the spirits of beasts were moulded by the world itself, and that, we think, is all the evidence we need to prove they were intended as a defence against those who would take it. After all, their blood and flesh, like those of the blood drinkers'', is proof against those invaders baleful machines. Is it any wonder, then, that they reproduce so well with mankind''s help?


    As for those who bend the world to their will... it has a plan there too, we are sure."


    -on weres, vampires and witches;


    "Children of a lonely mother. Is it any wonder so many of them would become uncaring when their progenitor is callous at best, and shamelessly cruel at worst? The fact any would extend a helping hand to man, brother, is one of those miracles people mistakenly call small."


    -on elementals;


    "Make no mistake, Gabriel: mankind has been less gentle to its world than it could''ve been, but promising to wipe them out if the world''s steward does not cull a chosen number is no solution.


    She - it - is still worshipped as a goddess. You remember the type...one of those deities who were praised and prayed to in hopes they would be appeased, more than because they were loved. Our father used to be like that.


    And while the world threatens its teeming children with annihilation, the destroyers of worlds gather in the void, marshalling their machines and slaves, bending their sciences to the task of breaking it apart, and wondering if this strange sphere deserves more of their attention."


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    "From the void they come, on ships with hearts of flame, yet their minds are as cold as their hearts. They are man''s first nightmares of invaders from beyond the stars, twisting flesh and minds alike in the pursuit of conquest. They make machines of humans, and their unseen engines can overcome even the bodies of beings beyond nature.


    And yet...their goals, if they can be called that, seem so petty, do they not, brother? Conquering and amassing resources so they can conquer more? You would think an empire that has plied the stars for so many ages, and uncovered more of the cosmos'' workings than man, would be of a loftier mind.


    Ah, Gabriel...too many humans balk in horror at them, or sell their humanity in the vain hope they will be first among their slaves, instead of asking themselves if this is their future."


    -on the Vorsook;


    "Fey of mind and stony of heart; we are sure you would recognise them, brother, even without our help. Even if they dabble in the shaping of flesh more than "our" Fae. Too many of them are the same beasts leading beasts, stealing children, siblings and parents, tearing apart lives and families with equal disdain.


    And yet, we wonder: they nearly exhausted Fairie''s greatest elementals against the Vorsook when they first came. The aliens were repelled, and weapons of Black Frost forged in their image, but now, there is little to ward them off. When the Fae''s eyes turn towards Earth and its wealth of elementals, will they come cap in hand to the species they have tormented for ages, or will they try to infiltrate mankind or force it to its knees?"


    -on the Fae;

 Apocrypha: Gods Mouth; Demon Accords (Two)

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    "Our Malahidael might not have chosen to fall so he could fight on Earth with less scrutiny - which angels could make such a sacrifice, rather than merely admire it? Indeed, we knew some, among whose ranks we would have once stood, who would have said trading power and certainty for freedom makes for good intentions, paving the path to...well. The Angel of Aries might seem impulsive, on the surface, but look at his work from afar, brother. I have had the pleasure of seeing the pushes of the Instigator, the impulses fed into souls by him, blossom into such beautiful works, for our father to look on and find them good. Were we to ask him, we are sure he would find a way to bolster man''s strength in the face of hell without shedding his immortal coil.


    This one, brother, this angel who chose to become a man, however? He would not be out of place in our Host, except for power, and with God, all things are possible. Even fallen by choice, he can still heal. He can still craft wards against the whispers of his reality''s Serpent, and his minions. All the while spearheading the fight against all who threaten humanity - and you know we do not mean the species, Gabriel - and being there for his family. Not just those he is bound by blood to, either; all of them.


    It...puts a smile on our face, brother. There is such hope burning in him, as bright as the angelic fire he wields. The hope we should have nursed more strongly for the Nephilim. But it is not too late."


    -on Chris Gordon;


    "It is perhaps ironic that, after choosing to fall, Lailah would trade dreams for facts. We are not sure our sister would be amused by the irony - at least, were we to deliver it. She has always thought we are, ah, something most would not say about their brothers. Oh, we know she loves us, Gabriel; we know she does not mean it. But she has such a tongue on her, it is easy to almost be tricked, sometimes.


    This one...alas, it saddens us that one could see souls, have their existence confirmed by an angel, yet still not fully believe. And all because her kind feeds on blood. Their vampires are ensouled, brother, as we have said; they are not undead.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Still, there is much to admire, in such a woman - and you can wipe that smirk off your face, brother. You know full well what we mean. It is not easy to balance motherhood with advancing science and health, all the while battling against the worst monsters the world and the void have to offer. It is easy to see the semblance of our sister''s counterpart.


    ...We really ought to tell Malahidael and Lailah their alternates chose to fall together, then married and had children in their earthly lives. We think it would be...amusing."


    -on Tatiana Demidova;


    "Their world does not know what a bullet it dodged with this young man. I do not mean the elemental that is the planet, brother, I mean the people who live on her body, the ones she thinks deserve to be culled. Perhaps we should make our way over there, to smite and burn as is our wont, but...no. Thoughts for another time.


    Consider, Gabriel: the Warlock grew up thinking he, boy born of rape that he was, was a monster in the making, like his father. He grew up being lectured that he should never use his magic for selfish gain. And he has become an admirable man, but it would have been oh, so easy to fall into darkness, grow tired of the restrictions, the reprimands and the demands, and drown the world in spite. We are sure she would have encouraged him. After all, she has chosen him as his steward even as he is now."


    -on Declan O''Carroll;


    "Ah, what a marvel of a child, brother! For does he not make you marvel? Born of spellbook and laboratory, of witchcraft and magic, yet he...exists, against all odds. The world''s first and last quantum AI, controlling everything from the flow of information to nuclear weapons, yet he is not the heartless, soulless overlord mankind has always dreaded since it has first dreamed of minds not born of flesh. He is, in fact, his world''s most stalwart defender against those who would strip it bare and enslave its people, stalwart as he is brilliant, dreaming yet unsleeping.


    There is much humanity, brother, in such a machine."


    -on Omega;

 Apocrypha: Gods Mouth; Naruto/Boruto (One)

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    "You recognise the pattern, do you not, brother? The similarities? Ah - not with the princess from the moon, Gabriel. One of their number calls her to memory, but as a whole? You survey all means by which information might be convey; you remember the alien craze in the early days of the previous century. The invader, humanlike in form but inhuman in thought and manner. Similar, but just different enough to unsettle. Like a twisted brother...aye. We know well what gazing upon such visages might cause.


    Look at them, Gabriel: bodies white as corpses, white as bone that has been stripped of flesh by carrion birds, but hearts blacker than most. But even this appearance, it does not evoke life, wouldn''t you say? It evokes death, pale corpses, or mannequins. Uncanny. Close enough to human, in body and spirit alike, that the rest of their being repulses. They seed worlds with monsters and drain them of life, they seek godhood...sounds familiar, no?"


    -on the Otsutsuki Clan;


    "This princess did not come from the moon, brother, but from beyond the stars. She did not return of her own accord, but had to be sealed to be parted from the world she craved for herself. You saw what she planned, Gabriel. You saw how little mercy she had for that world''s people, even for the spirits of her descendants - or for the fact her grandsons'' echoes had been reborn with new bodies, new minds. Sealed once by the flesh of her flesh, once by her distant heirs...we wonder, what would her husband have said?"


    -on Kaguya Otsutsuki;


    "Do not think for a moment, brother, that what makes humans human depends on the manner of their body. He was a man in every way that matters, despite his alien flesh. Many Nephilim would be as proud of him as we are, we think. It was thanks to him that his mother was defeated for the first time, and the tenfold beast split into remains that would not leave the world a husk. And, in the end, he engineered his mother''s second and last defeat, even from beyond the grave. He might not have brought peace about by himself, but that does not lessen his wisdom."


    Stolen novel; please report.-on the Sage of Six Paths;


    "The seed of ruin, to grow into the tree of madness, the flower that blooms into death through delusion. How many planets, over how many millennia, must have fallen to this creature''s ilk? It is an unthinking engine of destruction, a beast in the truest sense of the word. We are glad it is gone from the world."


    -on the Juubi;


    "It is a sad truth, brother, how qucik humans are to weaponise and twist, to despoil and lessen everything that can be turned into a tool of war. These nine wouldn''t have become so beastly if they had been treated like people from the start; just look what such bonds of friendship have achieved, in the form of the eighth and ninth beasts'' bearers. Alas...such was not the course of history."


    -on the Bijuu;


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    "Does warfare become more less bloody, brother, if fought in a more organised manner? If fewer die? We think not. Michael has always thought not as well. A means to end the clashes between bloodlines, spare more children from death...and yet, even chaining living disasters to use as weapons did not deter people from bloodshed, in the end. It was only through the efforts of their world''s greatest champions that peace and unity were achieved, and even then, the former was not eternal."


    -on the Hidden Villages;

 Apocrypha: Gods Mouth: Naruto/Boruto (Two)

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    "Brutal cultures do not give birth to strong people. Butchers might seem strong to those unfortunate to be weaker than them, but that does not make them so. We, of all people, should never forget that, Gabriel. We''ve spared more than we would wish, and killed more than we should have, few as such diamonds buried under gore and hatred there were. Sometimes, all you can do is help a soul shed the mortal coil before it rots from the inside.


    Take this one, for example. His people chose their elites through a contest of murder until he proved too successful. It is a painfully familiar story, by now: the creation that works better than intended, in the worst way. The gifted child he found, he turned into a weapon, a tool he cared nothing for, except in terms of power.


    Or so he thought. Love had grown between them, by the time death took them. Fatherly? Brotherly? Who can say, brother? Certainly, they had no one else in the world but each other, and were close as if they were kindred."


    -on Zabuza Momochi;


    "Ahh...hated and feared for his bloodline, when such inborn secrets had previously been harnessed as weapons of war. How surprised are you, brother? I am not, either. His mother scolded him for inheriting her power, and his father killed his wife at the reveal, only for him and his mob to die at the hands of the child they would have murdered.


    It is an ugly thing, for families to be torn apart by things a member has no control over. We have seen it too often, and not always because of something as straightforward as control over the elements. We needn''t give examples, we think. Because, make no mistake, Gabriel: the love this youth''s family shared was true and deep. Not enough, but...some people cannot wrap their minds around certain immutable facts.


    And then, he became a vagrant, almost an animal. So bereft of purpose, and love, that he willingly became a weapon, if only to have someone at his side. And that man changed him, and was changed in turn, until they became a family of two. If only they''d realised earlier...they might have found some joy."


    -on Haku;


    "We swear, if all snakes in the grass were this obvious...to our eyes, yes. We know our sight is not common. Just as we know he can be subtle, as he was so many times. A man of medicine, twisted until he became obsessed with life and death - with living, and killing, and not dying. A body that could shed itself at the cost of power, a shrivelled soul...anything, just to stave off the end.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    And then, the warlock became a necromancer, and his sciences and magics helped save his world, in a way. Do not believe this makes him a hero, Gabriel. Even if he has changed, even if he is watched rather than roaming free, this does not erase his monstrous past. Some things cannot, must not be forgotten."


    -on Orochimaru;


    "A child of none, in terms of spirit. Certainly, he never really belonged to anyone, after the joy of his early years was taken from him. He was broken and reforged into a killing machine, just like children such as him should no longer have needed to be remade. Alas...the elder serpent, the first madman, found him and made him worse, until he became a sage of snakes, the heir of his teacher''s mad genius. He raised an army of the dead that could have toppled the world, taken from it as much as it had taken from him."


    -on Kabuto Yakushi;


    "Do you see, brother? Do you see the lengths a child can be pushed to, when he believes those who should be closest to him do not love him, and sees only hatred wherever he turns? When he has a voice - another tormented child in his own right, another manmade monster - screaming in the back of his head, filling his thoughts, eating his dreams and making his nightmares reality? A voice that would have devoured his, had things gone wrong? God...we are happy they turned out well, all things considered."


    -on Gaara;


    "Those whose spirits are shattered do not always seek to shatter those of others, but when they do, the world burns. How else could it have gone, Gabriel? Two men, of the same bloodline, separated by generations yet united by weariness of bloodshed...men with a vision as grand as it was insane, and the means to see it achieved? One believed that he was the puppet master, that he was the one pulling his descendant''s strings. You could say he was; but he did not see the hand pulling his, the same had that stabbed him in the back and ended him, betrayed him, turned what should have been the moment of triumph into his downfall. Their world of endless dreams...it breaks our heart to see such thoughts take form in the minds of man''s children, brother. To lose hope in reality so completely as to believe only delusion can create joy...this is not a rare breed of hopelessness, but by the Lord, is it vile..."


    -on Obito and Madara Uchiha;

 Story V: Bloodbath (Strigoi Soul/Invincible)

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    James Patrick Bates sipped from a can of Bloodless as he glanced at the colleague sitting on the other side of the table. It was a light, flimsy plastic thing, but it was round, and that was what mattered to Breakout.


    Clarisse Anne Simmons sat cross-legged, staring through what she said was supposed to be the cafe''s walls, through to Jim, it just looked like a ceiling-to-floor window. Despite the rain splashing against it, the glass wall was fairly clear, allowing even a normal human to see the people walking the street outside, mundanes and paranormals going about their business, or just walking.


    It was...peaceful, especially considering everything creation had gone through recently. Especially for Detroit. Organized crime might''ve been one of the city''s bigger problems, but it wasn''t the only one. When news had gotten out about how everything had almost ended, there had been looting, self-declared prophets going on apocalyptic rants, even a rowdy crowd that could''ve started a riot.


    But Breakout had helped reestablish order in her town, the FREAKSHOW agent working alongside her counterparts from several other agencies to calm people down and assure them nothing like that could or would ever happen again: such random cosmic disasters had become a thing of a past that had never been, now that the nature of existence had shifted.


    It had been one of the more optimistic statements ever made by the USA''s paranormal law enforcement agency, but the two agents were here today to make sure people believed it...among other reasons.


    Jim''s crimson, black-slit eyes narrowed as he noticed Clara''s wistful expression behind her stars and stripes balaclava. The woman seemed to be smiling with her eyes (something he''d learned to spot decades ago, more out of necessity than pleasure), her dreadlocked raven hair swaying slightly as she slowly nodded for no apparent reason.


    Or maybe she was headbanging to a remembered tune? With how peaceful the day was going, Jim was expecting Breakout to blurt out that "too quiet" line, or lyrics from a song written by a chump with more passion than talent.


    Instead, she seemed...content. As calm as today''s events, or rather the lack thereof, had been.


    Jim was not unsettled. The vampire liked to think that fighting in the Civil War, back when he''d been human, followed by over sixteen decades of unlife, had inured him to fear. Seeing one of his most rambunctious friends at peace still had him on guard, though, because the knucklehead usually only acted like this before springing some prank on him or demanding a spar, things of that sort. She didn''t even seem to notice how she put people at rest before turning their world upside down, but, in a way, she was just as much a predator as he was.


    The handful of nights they''d shared over the years had firmly convinced him of that, in a manner far more pleasant than the sharp lessons that changed his life usually did. It was funny. Jim knew mundanes were a relic of the past, an ancestor species that would be discarded, replaced as transhumanism spread and people began to change and augment themselves, but...heh.


    His instincts, that false mind that began to talk back to vampires when they reached a certain age or drank enough blood, were pragmatic. The creature, which appeared in his mindscape as a blood-spattered, dry husk of a soldier-how he must''ve looked after being turned by the First Vampire.


    The Bloodfather had found him hanging from the tree where he''d been hanged by angry, vengeful blacks. He''d been on the wrong side of the war, as he''d decided later, so he wasn''t surprised that the former slaves had tied the noose with more enthusiasm than skill. By the time Primus had found him he''d been choking and gasping through a purpling mouth, feeling his neck swell as bones broke.


    The freed slaves had glared at him with satisfaction, feeling avenged for the slurs he''d thrown at them. A time of petty arrogance and petty, shallow superiority. Jim was glad he''d got over it, but at the time, he''d deserved it.


    Primus had hidden among the freemen, maybe charming them with his hypnotic gaze so they''d ignore hm as he turned Jim. After a short exchange, which Jim had only managed to nod during, the Bloodfather had bitten his throat. Reeling from his undeath as his mind tried to adapt to the unbreathing body of a vampire, Jim had stilled, partly in disbelief.


    Satisfied with his apparent death, and likely addled by Primus'' powers, the freed slaves had left on their way. Primus had shortly followed, and even today, Jim still wasn''t sure why he''d been turned.


    Shaking his head, as if to shake off the memories, Jim cleared his throat-something he only did when he wanted to draw someone''s attention, rather than out of any necessity. "Penny for your thoughts?"


    Breakout slowly turned her head to look at him, moving at only three quarters the speed of light. "Funny. Never thought you give a damn about what I think, Jimmy boy, much less cash."


    Jim snorted. The pet name was annoying though starting to wear on him. Even without that, though, it was a helluva lot more bearable than that stupid reference to the Jim Crow era FREAKSHOW had chosen as his codename. For perhaps the first time, Jim wondered if, perhaps, it would''ve been better to keep quiet about his stance on mundanes, and just wait for them to fade into obsolescence, then nonexistence. Just a curiosity in the history books, the link between apes and mankind''s paranormal descendants.


    Jim leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Pretend I do, Clarisse," he said in his best drawl.


    Breakout just looked at him for a few nanoseconds, saying nothing as she fidgeted with her balaclava. Then, quietly, she asked, "Did you break the ice cuz it''s more obvious when I''m thinkin'' ''bout something than you are? Or are you just curious?" Smiling with her eyes again, she spoke before he could answer, a metaphysical mirror of her voice reverberating through the aether. "You''re thinking about human extinction again, aren''t you?"


    James would''ve taken offense with her phrasing (why had she said it like it was something he always did, and in an annoying manner to boot? He didn''t hang around so many telepaths for his thoughts to be bothersome, and those he did meet regularly with were used to much worse), but he noticed that both her voice and what he could see of her expression had softened. "So what if I am?"


    "You know," Breakout began, propping her elbows on the table, "some days, I wonder if you''re tired of humans, or just disappointed in your pare-"


    "Don''t go there," he said softly. Then, realizing he''d almost snarled, the red of his iris almost filling his sclera, he added, "Please."


    Clara pursed her lips behind her balaclava, posture stiffening briefly. Then, she sighed. "Fine." When Jim began nodding gratefully, she said, "Dealing with it on your own time still means dealing with it, James."


    "I am aware," he murmured, the whites of his eyes visible once again. "But you didn''t invite me here to get me to open up."


    Given his sometimes-lover''s sense of humor, Jim would''ve expected a bad joke at this point.


    "Just wanted to cheer you up before the mission''s start," she replied instead.


    Jim frowned. "What mission? I was not informed I would be going on any today."


    "You have just been. I am now debriefing you." Clara matched his incredulous look with a wry one. "I''ve just finished being a fly on the wall while Stacker and Congress deliberated whether to send you or not. They''ve decided you''re going."


    Jim grunted. Telepathy (clairvoyance? Cosmic awareness?) was one of the less outlandish abilities Breakout''s power to ignore restrictions had given her. "Did they also happen to say where I''m going?" he deadpanned.


    "Curb your enthusiasm." Clara smirked. "Listen: there''s this reality-outside of what you''d recognize as our multiverse-where something has gone wrong. One of its foremost defenders is missing, and no one there would know where or why, even if they noticed his absence." Almost thoughtfully, she added, "Which they should fairly soon, provided you don''t step in."


    "Then why haven''t you sent me already?" he demanded.


    Clara held up a hand. "Cool your jets. Our timestreams are different enough that you aren''t late. The idea is, we''re doing them a favor, essentially, which they might or might not even notice. You''re supposed to end this bloodthirsty sonofabitch before he notices there''s no one beating his head into the ground and leaves to do worse than he already has, on countless worlds."


    "Not that I''m going to refuse," he hardly had anything better to do, "but why am I being sent, rather than you or Armament, or Dust Devil? You''ve always hit much harder."


    Clara''s pipe shone with reflected light (and it felt damn strange to see the length of yamadium not dripping with the blood of a poor fool whose head she''d just bashed in) as she twirled it with one hand. "I''m surprised you haven''t asked why they''re sending a FREAKSHOW agent instead of the army."


    "The thought did cross my mind."


    Clara snorted at his dry tone. "Yeah, well, keeping armies around to strike back against invaders from the wider macrocosm means sending soldiers preemptively tends to make people twitchy."


    "What, and sending glorified cops doesn''t?"


    "As you pointed out, you''re not a heavy hitter. You ripping people a new one is less of a reason to worry than me taking a walk to put boots on throats, because I could whoop your ass on my worst day."


    "You just can''t stop massaging my ego, can you?" James asked, eyes hooded. "And you didn''t answer my question."


    "Hey, we''re law enforcement. Easier to spin as proactive defense or whatever they''ll call it than a military action." Jim scoffed. "Yeah, that was my reaction as well," Breakout said. "But president Simmons thinks we''re at a delicate point, and scaring paranoid nutjobs into think we''re overreaching is not on her bucket list. Even if a couple of the tougher jarheads would wrap this up quicker than you will."


    It never ceased to amuse Jim how Clara, as passionate and emotional as she was - not to mention fond of outbursts he often found ridiculous - was capable of phrasing herself like this when talking about her daughter''s position. When it came to any other aspect of the woman''s life, her mother referred to her as Mary, though the proud, loving tone never changed.


    And...''you will''. James did not consider himself a vain man. He certainly didn''t let his ego dictate his actions. And yet, he was not immune to flattery.


    Knowing Clara was so certain in this victory was almost enough to make his dead heart beat.


    Still, no reason to let it get to his head. Better to know what he was getting into before jumping into it. "Did our gracious overlords happen to offer us any information on this," his fangs showed as he repeated her earlier description, amused, "bloodthirsty sonofabitch?"


    "You''ll probably get shredded a few times; he should hit harder than you, and you''ll probably break his hands on him. Don''t expect to have your head punched off before you can react or anything - he doesn''t usually move faster than you can. We think his reflexes speed up in proportion with how fast he''s moving, though."


    So he has to move first in order for his mind to catch up with his body? Could catch him off-guard, I suppose, Jim thought. "I see."


    "His atoms are also hard to manipulate, so you won''t be glaring him to dust any time soon," Breakout continued.


    "Why, Clara. When I have ever given the impression I prefer to kill people that cleanly instead of tearing them into one, two, three pieces? Ah, ah, ah," Jim said in a nasal voice.


    "Trust me: you''re gonna get tired of that asshole in no time. He''s a scrappy fuck: as long as he''s in one piece and can breathe, he won''t quit."


    Certainly doesn''t sound like half the people I work with. "Since you insisted we both come in uniform, I suppose I''m leaving now?"


    "Yup," Breakout answered, spacetime unfolding into a portal as she gestured. "Better haul ass."


    With a wistful glance at his drink, James stood up, beginning to walk towards the portal. A part of his mind noted, with some amusement, how neither any patrons nor employees had happened to be present while Breakout had debriefed him...but then, how hard would it have been to trick their perceptions? Anyone too nosy would''ve had to deal with her, something James would have only wished on his worst enemies.


    "Oi," Clara said softly, making him look at her over his shoulder. She''d lowered her balaclava just enough for her smile to be visible as she placed her lips where he''d drunk from the Bloodless. "Forgot this?"


    Smiling in return, and at the indirect kiss, Jim took the can from her calloused hand, downing the rest of the synthetic blood. Nothing that would increase his power, but it kept his thirst at bay, as much as anything could. A safer alternative than letting impulsive vampires open a vein. "No," he told her Clara. "Just hurrying to finish this, so I can come back."


    "You better," she said, covering her face again. "Good luck."


    * * *


    Oliver Grayson didn''t know what had happened. One moment, his brother-his half-brother, fair, but his brother, in every way that mattered-was here, the next, he was...gone.


    Not dead. Mark was too strong to die like that, even to Conquest. Oliver would''ve known. There would have been something, remains, a sign.


    The Viltrumite-Thraxan''s eyes darted about wildly as he flew, head swiveling around far, far faster than sound. He hadn''t even seen Mark disappear, had only noticed hos absence after the deed was done - and that, only because conquest, paranoid old bastard that he was, had assumed there was some trick at play, and flown off to look for the other hybrid Viltrumite.


    Oliver scowled at the thought of that wrinkly asshole dismissing him like that, but in a way, he was grateful. It had bought him time to look for his brother, though that hadn''t paid off y-


    Oliver stopped mid-flight, tensing. He''d felt something, a pressure, a force parting the air as it flew at him. Conquest returning, obviously. He must''ve failed to find Mark, as well, and the hybrid would enjoy rubbing his face in that. Maybe bring up how his sight was failing, especially with one eye. It would piss him off as much as being compared to Oliver.


    But...the Viltrumite veteran wasn''t here. As he halted in midair, Oliver thought that maybe Conquest had seen Mark somewhere, and changed course to go at it with him. He wouldn''t have flown around to hit the hybrid from behind, that wasn''t his style.


    Oliver turned around, a shockwave rippling over him as the landscape shook, long before the sound reached his ears. Now that he thought about it...yeah.


    The clash in the distance dwarfed the force he''d felt moments ago, but farther away as it was, the effect was about the same.


    Conquest hadn''t changed course, Oliver decided. He''d been forced to. Stopped, or...diverted.


    Balling his fists, the Viltrumite hybrid flew closer, to see if his brother had returned.


    * * *


    The moment Jim stepped through the portal and into this new world, he was slammed by a living missile.


    Breakout had almost certainly known this would happen, the joker. Just like her to set him up, as long as nothing but his pride was hurt.


    Jim skidded to a stop, heels digging into the rocky ground, turning it to dust under his boots. His dark blue uniform was torn, strips of fabric hanging freely as his cold blood dripped off them. Dark, almost black, it moved so sluggishly it could hardly be said to flow. Undead barely bled, even with wounds as big as the one he had just been dealt.


    Jim remained on his feet by virtue of his willpower alone. The hole in his torso was large enough for him to put his head and shoulders through with room to spare and went all thee way through. Most of his spine was missing, gravel-like chunks of bone scattered around for miles; he could see a handful of pieces on the horizon, covered in hairline cracks where they weren''t coated in blood.


    Jim mimicked a whistle as his body healed, but, by the time he had lungs again, there was no need for the sound anymore. His new friend had come to him.


    Bitch must''ve been curious.


    He looked like an old man, patches of gray hair going white. A grizzled, gnarled face, one eye milky, an old scar passing over it. Half-blind? Clearly, it did not affect him much.


    But (apparent?) age aside? He was muscular to an almost comical degree, like the strongmen Jim had seen at that fair as a kid, when he''d first wondered how strong he might become. But these were not show muscles. This was the physique of a soldier, though that of a soldier more used to breaking his enemies with his bare hands than to handling weapons, if Jim was to bet.


    He wore a white and blue bodysuit, three vertical white lines inside a blue circle on his chest. His boots and loincloth (why not a codpiece? He was clearly not naked under it...) were also blue, and a golden, metallic gauntlet over one hand.


    His smile was as bloodthirsty as that of any vampire Jim had ever fought.


    "And what are you supposed to be?" the old man asked. "Another of the boy''s tagalongs, for him to cower behind?"


    Jim bared his fangs in a meaningless grin. "I don''t know what the hell you''re rambling about, and I care even less. I''m just here to kill you."


    The geezer''s smile widened, something James hadn''t been sure was possible without shapeshifting. "Perfect."


    Jim''s arms shattered, jagged bone stumps pushed into and through his chest from the force, as the old man slammed into him, fists held out in front of him, smashing through the vampire''s attempt to block.


    He knew what the fossil was talking about, actually-vaguely. "The boy" must''ve been this reality''s missing champion, the one Stacker and Congress had decided he should replace for however long it took to kill this prick.


    But...tagalongs? Was there anyone else here? Did the guy he was replacing work with others? It would''ve been nice to be informed about bystanders, by which he meant potential hostages.


    Tch. Nothing to do now. Just grit his fangs, until he could sink them into this meathead''s almost invisible neck. Seriously, what did that head sit on-


    Jim was torn almost in half as he was sent flying. The old man had opened his arms, holding his hands out like they were blades. The vampire''s lower and upper halves hung together by a thread as his spine was reduced to bonemeal, making him laugh soundlessly.


    Oh, that would have been a beautiful finisher, if old man had been trying to kill a human.


    Jim slammed his boots into the melting ground as he landed. Launched around the planet, he''d turned everything between him and the horizon into a steaming soup of bubbling glass on impact.


    The vamp brushed some of the molten mess off his shoulders as he slowed down, looking around as he waited for his playmate to try a new trick. He had something to tell him, on that note...


    James wondered if the guy was going to be put off by his nonchalance as he healed his way through attempts at killing him, or if he''d just be turned to. He''d met his fair share of nutjobs with hard-ons for murder over the decades, and not all of them had even been sadists.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Oh, well. If it looked like things were about to be drawn out, he might as well enjoy it. There was nothing of worth around to damage, and he kind of doubted the Director would get pissy if he took the gloves off with this guy. Stacker wasn''t a softie to begin with, but he was high strung when it came to collateral. Bad for FREAKSHOW''s image, he said.


    As the old man flew down to hover a few dozen feet above and in front of him, arms crossed as he gave Jim a considering look, the vampire waved. "Thanks for the warmup~" He gestured at their molten surroundings. "Do you always do this before hitting like you mean it, or am I just a special fella?"


    The fucker snorted. "A funny one, hmm? Let''s hear you laugh without lungs!"


    "With pleasure," Jim replied, adjusting an imaginary hat, before dodging a hand that would''ve torn his head off.


    By now, he was used to the guy''s pattern. He could fly fast and hit fast, but his movements seemed to have a certain carefulness to them. No hesitation, no stiffness or anything of the sort, more like...


    As the geezer''s golden fist lashed out, opening to envelop his head and crush it to pulp, Jim decided on a comparison.


    The guy was moving fluidly. He was sure of himself, experienced...and also moving like he was handling a grenade, trying not to drop it. The vamp might''ve missed it, had he not been so often sent to bring in young paranormals who''d wrecked the environment with their clumsy strength.


    Was the old man like that? Unused to his powers? It seemed strange. He clearly knew what he was doing, and yet...


    Why was he hesitant? Surely, he wasn''t attached to this bare rocky expanse? From what he''d been told, the guy was some kind of cosmic scumbag who''d wrecked countless planets. So what about this one?


    As the geezer grabbed him with both hands, crushing him into an accordion-like shape, Jim seized the chance that the cloud of dust they''d raised represented. Without the sun''s light nullifying the more esoteric abilities of his vampirism, the agent turned into a bloody mist, flowing out of his opponent''s grasps to appear a few feet behind him.


    Directed by his will, Jim''s blood flowed through his skin, forming a greave-like construct around his leg. Before the old warhorse could turn around, James slammed a spiked knee between his legs, bringing him to one knee.


    Jim''s leg bent, the bones folding as the blood covering it rippled. As he was healing, the muscle head reached out behind himself with his gauntleted hand, groping blindly, before his metallic fingers closed around the vampire''s ribs. The rest of his body followed allowing him to glare into Jim''s smiling eyes, while grinning with teeth covered in dust and blood.


    The dust cloud dispersed, Jim was down to strength and cunning to break the bastard''s grip. This felt far too familiar for his liking. Too much like sparring with Armament, except without the Texan''s nonsense rotting his brain.


    Before he could spit into the geezer''s good eye, a headbutted split his head in half, a second one reducing it to bone fragments and tatters of flesh.


    Really. The guy was acting as if his regeneration was going to run out or something. Maybe he was just enjoying the fight. He certainly seemed to.


    A few dozen more headbutts followed, and Jim began laughing halfway through, mirroring the old man''s hoots, only to be rapidly cut off each time.


    Shaking his head, Loincloth twisted Jim''s around, keeping it backwards with a gauntleted grip. "You wouldn''t have half this much attitude without your healing," he muttered, almost fondly.


    "Maybe cuz I''d be dead, porn ''stache,"Jim replied. "Still wouldn''t look like a Schnauzer fucked a thumb, though."


    The shaved bear chuckled, before balling up the vamp''s body, turning him into a tightly-compressed sphere and squeezing it between his hands, making it smaller and smaller.


    So obliging...


    Away from sunlight, Jim separated himself into a cloud of spear-like blood tendrils, crawling between the smug gorilla''s fingers and under his bodysuit''s sleeves, before spreading. Then, the constructs bloomed onwards while attempting to dig into his skin, leaving him covered in a writhing red wave.


    With a snarl, the old man flexed, sending the vampire''s shapeshifted body flying in all directions. Jim reformed from one of the splattered constructs, flipping off the now-naked steroid monkey.


    Like most sights he''d been cursed with in his unlife, he could''ve lived without this one.


    * * *


    Conquest couldn''t believe it. A weakling who healed no matter how hard he hit him? Who remained as insufferable as any of the vermin that had ever opposed Viltrum? Oh, he could keep obliterating this runt for weeks.


    Maybe he would. Why not? He knew Thragg''s strength, and believed in it. The Grand Regent would surely put down the rabble that had arrayed themselves against the Viltrumites...even Nolan, that traitorous wretch, and his bastard spawn.


    Where had they gone, anyway? He''d lost sight of the smaller purple one, the half-insect, but the human mongrel...had just disappeared. So fast, even his Viltrumite reflexes had spotted nothing. Almost as if something had unbound him from the fabric the universe....


    No matter. Either Nolan''s misbegotten pup was lost forever, or he would find him and kill him, along the rest of his kind. Unless Thragg did it first.


    It was that simple.


    He should probably deal with this mouthy maggot first, though. If nothing else, he was persistent. Who knew how many more tricks he had up his sleeve? Maybe he was like those Martians from the Sol system, and his healing was just the result of his control over his body. In that case, shattering his will to fight meant his body would soon follow-an inversion of the usual outcome one faced when fighting a Viltrumite.


    If not-and Conquest dearly, dearly hoped so-, if he could heal no matter what, he would enjoy this for a long, long time. Maybe he would throw the worm into deep space, or the heart of a star...of a black hole. Maybe he''d even bring him along when he returned to his people. Conquest was sure the others would appreciate a new chew toy, one that could put itself back together.


    And if these powers could be inherited, the women would enjoy breeding him even more than they would the sport itself.


    Conquest was not one to preach about the glory of the Viltrum Empire - he preferred to let the blood on his hands spell it out -, but using a broken enemy''s own strength to carve out territories was one of the greater pleasures in a warrior''s life. Coupled with a duty well done? All that was missing was a good, messy kill.


    And, with how damned hard to put down the regenerator was, Conquest would be shocked if the kill wasn''t messy. Whatever form it took.


    Conquest could''ve laughed. He really ought to tank Nolan''s second boy for coming to this planet because he couldn''t hold his breath like a real Viltrumite. If he hadn''t, if he''d still been fighting what the Coalition had managed to scrape together, he wouldn''t have found this talkative punching bag! And he''d soon get to kill Nolan''s by-blows as well!


    Everything was going perfectly, honestly. The only thing missing? Well, it was something Thragg concerned himself with more than he did, Conquest was sure, but sometimes-usually in the long, lonely silences that traveling between worlds entailed-he could not help but wish for the times before the Scourge Virus had nearly destroyed their Empire.


    It had reduced them to a few dozen Viltrumites, forced to watch their step amongst weaklings lest they be caught off-guard by some trick or device. Had forced them to become...infiltrators, looking for species they could use as breeding stock to rebuild their own. The damn cautiousness rankled all of them-how could it not? But it rankled Conquest more than most Viltrumites, except, maybe, for the Regent.


    Conquest was many thousands of years old when the Scourge Virus came, when the corpses that now formed a ring around their homeworld had been living, breathing Viltrumites. Back then, they hadn''t needed to skulk around the universe like rats in the walls. Back then, he hadn''t needed to obey so many ridiculous mission specifications: "Don''t break this,", "don''t kill this person".


    Honestly. He hadn''t survived this many millennia to be told what he couldn''t do.


    Conquest''s eye flicked down as the regenerator put himself together once again. He was humanoid in shape, though closer to a younger Viltrumite in terms of physical prowess. It was the nature of his body that was the strangest, though: he didn''t much resemble any living being Conquest had ever met. In fact, he didn''t seem alive at all.


    Every time his flesh hand had connected with the stranger''s body, he''d only felt the coldness of a long-dead corpse. Up close, the old Viltrumite had failed to spot any of the signs of exertion common to warriors in battle, immense stamina or not. He knew how to read humanoids, and yet, he''d seen no bulging veins, had felt no pulse when he''d crushed the regenerator earlier, no heartbeat.


    His appearance seemed to confirm this: the stranger''s skin white as chalk, so pale it reminded Conquest of people he''d seen bleed to death rather than any albino. And yet, there was no mark on his body to suggest what lesser species would''ve deemed a grave wound-but then, maybe that was to be expected? He had healed from everything Conquest had done to him so far. Maybe his species just was like that?


    ...Or was there...yes.


    There was, Conquest realized, one spot that never healed. He''d seen it, instincts keeping track of everything around him, but he''d dismissed it as inconsequential, a meaningless detail.


    But there was a band of raised, ragged flesh on the stranger''s throat, as if something had bitten it open. But it still looked raw, closed as it was.


    Conquest shelved any ideas about focusing on the throat wound. He''d destroyed the regenerator''s whole body already, so it obviously wasn''t a weak point. He would rip the answer out of the stranger once he dragged him back to the other Viltrumites, learn about whatever being or force could leave unhealable wounds on such a being, and use it on the enemies of the Empire.


    Provided he didn''t kill him first, of course.


    * * *


    Jim ran a hand through his short grey beard as he stared up at his enemy. Deciding he''d had played ground-pounder enough, he stomped, turning a mountain''s worth of rock to dust, and flew up to look the old bastard in the eye, coming within a few paces of him.


    The old man seemed to find this funny, but maybe James was just bad at reading his face. He didn''t seem to have much room for expressions besides angry, focused and gleeful, in an ax-crazy way.


    "Do you have a name?" the big bastard rumbled, cracking his knuckles. "I like to know who I''m dismembering."


    "Guess you''ll die unhappy," James purred through a fanged smile. "But who wouldn''t, with that face?"


    And there he went laughing again..."Yapping will not prevent your defeat. I am Conquest. I have never failed to conquer a world," the now-named Conquest''s cruel grin widened as he seemed to consider something, eye gleaming, "And no one who crosses me lives."


    "I believe ya," Jim said easily. "If only you knew what you were dealing with, grampaw...don''t worry. I''ll put you outta everyone''s misery."


    Had his gamble paid off? Conquest didn''t seem to have superhuman senses, as such, unless one counted his sight tracking things far faster than a human could.


    Jim hoped his training with changing his blood''s color had paid off, or this could go from a headache to a royal pain in the ass, real quick. If worst came to worst, he hoped Breakout or another agent would pick up the phone, so to speak, even though his stupid instincts chafed at the thought of calling on another for help, even the woman whose blood they cherished above those of all others.


    With a flex of his broad shoulders, Conquest scattered the dust cloud, flying at Jim with one hand aimed at the vampire''s neck and the other at his waist-or lower? Was he aiming to tear him apart from throat to crotch...again?


    Guy must''ve thought he really did have a regeneration limit, an'' wasn''t that just a optimistic from a headcase not even lugging something holy around?


    Maybe he just didn''t have options, though. Maybe, even if he was enjoying the fight, the bloodshed, Conquest had nothing to use but his hands.


    Jim stowed a chuckle. At a certain age, some men just ended up like that.


    The vampire turned into a cloud of mist, holding himself together through sheer willpower to avoid being swept in Conquest''s wake. The old man passed through him, before stopping a few feet away, making a tight turn in midair. It seemed he''d gotten used to his shapeshifting by now.


    Just as well. Jim had gotten used to the geezer''s tricks, such as they were, in turn. Clara''s info had been right: his gaze, which he''d honed beyond a vampire''s hypnotic look into a power that could move aspects of creation and imbue them with animus, bounced off the meathead''s atomic structure like a bullet off a tank. There was a slight disturbance, he thought-maybe one of FREAKSHOW''s better mages could''ve turned the guy into the bullfrog he so resembled-but not enough to wrongfoot him, much less hurt.


    Tch. Breakout had told him this wouldn''t be solved with a look, anyway. He''d agreed. Hadn''t been joking when he said he''d turn this musclebound creep into confetti.


    Jim had seen more than enough to steel his resolve. He was no postcog, couldn''t see the past, but his arcane sense was more than sharp enough to give him a feeling of age, and it dripped off Conquest like the phantom stains of blood covering him, until only the contours of his features were visible under a crimson layer in the eye of Jim''s mind.


    Conquest was much, much older than him. Far older than most of his colleagues and a majority of the Native American tribes, actually. There was no sensation of decrepitude, of decadence beyond the moral: only of ancient evil, glutted on slaughter, backed by monstrous strength and directed by an even more monstrous will.


    And hatred...Lord above, the hatred...


    Jim knew how easy it was to disdain others when one thought themselves superior. He''d fought for the Confederacy, for hell''s sake. Had jeered at his would-be executioners, called them apes and puppets of flesh that mocked real people, and far worse.


    But where he''d expunged that poison from his mind, Conquest had never thought about doing it. Jim doubted he ever would, even if the vampire gave him a chance instead of ripping his head of and beating his body to a pulp with it.


    Even if his instincts were shrieking at him to drain Conquest''s blood and shred the resulting wight for the rest of eternity. He was not opposed to indulging his vampirism out of some misguided sense of morality. He was, however, an old hand at keeping his thirst in check. Drinking real blood meant getting stronger by feeding his instincts, bringing them closer to control over him.


    Which was what they always wanted, even if they were usually too dumb to realize it and not smart enough to plan towards it on most days. This shrieking might have been desperate, may have even been so, but it was not powerless.


    If he saw red and tasted vitae, there was a good chance he wouldn''t stop drinking until there was no more to drain. By that point, he might well be lost to his thirst. He couldn''t do that.


    Couldn''t vindicate the hidebound, stupid bastards who had brought him into the world and told him he should''ve stayed dead, not come back a monster. Couldn''t go mad and disappoint Clara-she''d never forgive him, just like he''d never forgive himself. What if Stacker sent her to put him down...?


    He couldn''t risk losing control here and now either, in this unknown universe. If he drained Conquest''s blood and turned into a monster even more powerful than him, and unkillable to boot, he''d doom a cosmos, all because he''d failed wrestling with his demons.


    Over the span of nanoseconds, all these scenarios ran through Jim''s mind, all the while his spirit caught the scene of Conquest''s murderous soul.


    There was madness here. Honed by training and controlled, leashed by the old monster just like he was leashed by the one above him, but insanity, nonetheless. An endless, bottomless contempt for all but Conquest''s kind-the strong, a voice like a bulldog''s growl whispered to Jim''s spirit. A disdain for the weak-everyone else, the other.


    This was nothing like Jim''s pity towards mundanes and their fading place in his world''s society. It resembled, if anything, the hatred he''d nursed in his youth. Kicking those below him when they were down to make himself feel better, because he''d had nothing.


    Conquest might''ve had power, he might''ve had the stone-cold certainty of a killer, but he had did not have anything, either.


    He was a void of a person, the core of his being a hungry abyss that would only ever be widened and deepened by his namesake. Existing only to kill and destroy, to take and tear down, just as he''d done on more planets than Jim had ever walked one. Less alive, in a way, that James, soulless void wrapped in dead flesh that he was.


    Yes...he''d take Conquest apart slowly. It was only fair. He''d not only given Jim every reason to cut loose and enjoy it, he''d made him feel better about himself, too.


    And, though there was a minute twinge of distaste at needing such a butcher for him to come across as good, Jim decided he''d bring it up with Clara later. Usually, she was the one who cheered him up. Her reaction at being compared with the old murderer here was bound to be...interesting.


    "Why do you keep dodging?" Conquest asked in an almost conversational tone, with just an edge of curiosity-or was that frustration? "Wounds are meaningless to you, but you''re still a coward?"


    "Just not mad anymore," Jim answered with a snarl. "Don''t speak to me of cowardice. You could be bearing the cosmos on your shoulders, lifting everyone up until everyone was strong like you, and what do you do? You take the easy way out, because it''s so much easier to raze than to build."


    Conquest turned his head to the side, spitting. "You understand nothing of the Viltrumite way. Time to end this farce."


    This time, Jim did not even think about dodging. Instead, he met Conquest with his arms spread and his claws out, slamming his head into the killer''s face the nanosecond he could.


    That word, that damnable word...


    As Conquest''s brawny arms wrapped around him, squeezing him to nothing, James bit down onto the Viltrumite''s shoulder. Not the throat, tempted as he was, and not just because he was thirsting, as he always was and always would-he didn''t know if this alien breed could be turn, and he wasn''t eager to learn by dealing with a vampire Conquest.


    When Conquest said that word, Jim''s arcane sense flared to life again, drowning his soul in a cacophony of echoing wails. Species after species, culture after culture, screaming-with rage, with hatred, but with fear and despair more often than note-as their civilizations were torn down as they were forced into chains, or consigned to oblivion.


    Endless greed and bloodthirst, spreading outward from a world of madmen that had slaughtered each other to purge their ilk of everything they perceived as weakness. And almost always at the forefront of this tide of atrocity, as a commander of thousands or a lone destroyer hurtling through the depths of the void, Conquest.


    He''d been there from the start, or as close as to make no difference. As the Viltrumites had built their empire, Conquest had blazed a trail for his kind, performing genocide after genocide with the same bloodstained smile he was offering Jim now.


    The blood was all the vampire''s own.


    Something deep inside him, deeper than the ragged pit where his soul had once been, rebelled at that. It raged wordlessly, soundlessly, because it did not know itself, just as James did not understand it.


    Was it, perhaps, some hidden unconscious binding the vampire species, kept secret by Primus or undreamed of even by him? Jim''s instincts, reacting with an animal''s anger at seeing itself bleeding and its enemy mocking its struggles?


    Or was it his humanity? That wretched little thing he''d left behind a more than a lifetime ago, with only relief when he''d noticed its absence?


    The man he''d been, James thought...the soldier he''d been...would that blind young fool, full of piss and vinegar, been offended by Conquest? Would it have been a mere rival''s rage, or something purer, more virtuous?


    James did not know. He''d lost sight of the man he''d been long, long before he drained his first human.


    Conquest tightened his bearhug as he flew Jim off the planet, leaving the exosphere behind in a tenth of a second, before accelerating, until millions, then tens of millions of miles fell behind them in moments. All the while, the Viltrumite wrapped himself around James, flattening the vampire with crushing force. Conquest grabbed the cloud of gore Jim had become with both hands, before fashioning it into a hyperdense sphere. After making sure nothing had escaped, he threw it with all his strength towards the planet''s sun.


    Then, flying faster still, he moved closer to the star, as close as he could before the light filled filled his vision, to see the sphere approaching its target far faster than light.


    Smart atoms did not sharpen his senses, as such, but, when he saw and felt nothing return, Conquest began to wait, fists at his sides, muscles tense.


    Then, after several moments, he turned back towards the planet, to finish what he''d started.


    * * *


    Jim would''ve breathed a pleased sigh, but there was no oxygen around. No air at all, for that matter.


    The thin covering of blood had escaped Conquest''s notice, after all. Changed and colored to resemble Jim''s skin and hair, it had protected his body from the touch of the sun, thus allowing him to control it. Would the Viltrumite have noticed it, outside such a heated moment? Maybe. But Jim had managed to make the blood mimic the outside of his body with enough accuracy that the alien hadn''t pausedor given any sign of suspicion.


    Good. Otherwise, this would have been a pain in the neck.


    Grimacing, Jim raised an arm before his face, before biting down onto his wrist. Dead blood oozed into his mouth like sap, tasting like cold, wet mud. But Jim had been prepared, shaping the blood covering around his head, extending it into two handlike constructs to force and keep his mouth open. Luckily, this was all happening under the layer of vitae he''d constructed around himself. Otherwise, the heat and pressure of the star''s core, infinitesimal as they were compared to the forces he was used to handling, might have distracted him and ruined everything.


    As James drank, time flowed, or rather, his reflexes sped up. At the same time, new, greater strength flowed into him, accompanied by a sensation of his body being bound together by greater power, becoming more durable.


    By the time James stopped drinking, dark blood staining his chin and beard, he wanted nothing more than to retch, to silence his thirst''s protests. A curse cast by Primus, perhaps, to discourage vampires from feeding on their own kind, in the hope it would encourage them to band together and carve out the bloody empire the First Vampire had always dreamed of.


    With an easy leap, Jim left thee star behind, closing the distance between it and the planet in far less time than it had taken Conquest. He found the Viltrumite looming over a kid: a purple-skinned boy with long dark hair, wearing a black and red costume, like a character from the comics brats used to like in the forties.


    Conquest''s fingers were digging into the struggling boy''s torso, slowly prying it open; not because the old man couldn''t do it faster, but because he enjoyed breaking flesh as much as he loved shattering wills. All the will, the boy punched and kicked and clawed at the hulking alien, mouthing curses.


    Scowling, Jim moved behind Conquest, one hand digging through and into the Viltrumite''s upper back, before tearing out a head-sized chunk of flesh as Jim sent him flying with a flick of his wrist.


    Conquest found his feet a couple of nanoseconds later, turning to glower at Jim. "You again?" he asked, not with his voice, the vampire realized, but directly into Jim''s mind. Not a telepath...ah. He saw it now. The foreign mass inside the body, a small device in the Viltrumite''s head. A good idea to bypass the airlessness of space and communicate. "I''m going to rip out your heart and eat it."


    "What, like this?" Jim asked with a dry grin. Then, tearing his chest open, he plucked out his heart, black as midnight and unmoving, and took a small bite out of it. Still smiling at the Viltrumite, he wolfed won the organ, blackening his face with frigid gore. "Is that what you wanted to do? Was that childish threat supposed to scare me?"


    Before the Viltruite could reply, Jim was upon him. Staring down at the alien, he spat a chunk of chewed-up heart into Conquest''s frowning mouth, shattering his teeth before the projectile flew down his throat. "I''m going to rip out your heart and drain it," Jim mouthed, while his blood tendrils held Conquest in place


    And that was exactly what he did. A couple of kicks shattered the Viltrumite''s legs, forcing them to bend backwards. A fraction of a nanosecond later, photons moving sluggishly around him, the vampire grabbed the Viltrumite''s flesh arm, before tearing it from his shoulder. The limb snapped in half of the alien''s head, breaking it open.


    Jim grasped Conquest''s prothesis with his other hand, shattering it like cheap glass. Gathering up the shards, he looked into the old monster''s eye, gripping his chin. "After I kill you," Jim mouthed, "I''m going to shove this up your ass . Fuck you with your own tin glove until you burst. Whatcha think ''bout that, you bloated sack of shit?"


    For now, he punched the shards into Conquest''s throat, before forcing the powdered result upwards. Then, headbutting the Viltrumite to the ground, he tore his chest open with an almost desultory gesture.


    Tearing Conquest''s heart out with his fingertips, Jim met the alien''s contemptuous glare with one of his own. Then. he sunk his fangs into the pulsing organ, leaving it shriveled and pale in moments.


    Lips pulling back from his fangs, Jim knelt over the mutilated alien. "How about it? Still hungry?"


    Not waiting for an answer, he shoved Conquest''s desiccated heart down into his mouth, unhinging and shattering his lower jaw, and into his ruined throat which pushed out the dust that remained of his gauntlet as it bulged.


    Eyes not leaving the Viltrumite''s dimming glare, Jim laughed, before shapehisfting into a fine mist. Flowing into Conquest''s nostrils and spreading throughout his body, Jim turned into a mass of barbed hooks, which dug into the alien''s insides.


    It took a few tries, and several hearty tugs, before James managed to turn Conquest''s corpse inside out. But God, was it worth it...


    And when he returned to the world, the blood covering his pale flesh gleaming with sunlight, he was the boy from earlier being helped to his feet by a taller figure. Muscular but lean, the young man gave Jim a cautious frown as he gently pushed the purple-skinned kid behind him. "Stay there, Oliver."


    Judging by how Oliver was cussing as he tried and managed to keep his guts in, Jim wasn''t sure in how much danger the brat really was. A flash of his arcane sense warmed the smile plastered on his face. "Ah...''s good to see ya lookin'' out for your brother, son."


    As he watched the young men''s reaction, Jim began speaking into his mind, trying to figure if someone was listening.


    Breakout? Clarisse, are you listening? Can you hear me?


    ...im. James? Is that you? Yes, I can hear you. Are you alright?


    James nodded at both her and the boys. That I am. Mission accomplished. Now...while you prepare my ride home, why don''t you ask Stacker how interested he''d be in taking some alien cold cuts to Nevada for study?

 Apocrypha: Gods Mouth: Naruto/Boruto (Three)

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    ''Some will dismiss him as naive, brother - many already have. Holding the mightiest living weapons of mass destruction in his world, then giving them away just so everyone has one, so the balance of power can be maintained? Of course, those who say such things are more concerned with the distribution of power than the people being passed around as if they are nukes, and the children they are often bound to.


    But try to think from his perspective, Gabriel: he has only known war since birth. Battles fought, blood spilled, family slain over old, old grudges stretching over generations. He could have been bitter, hopeless. He could have drowned his sorrows in bloodshed. And yet, he sought to make peace. Perhaps in a foolish manner; we have made plenty of mistakes, as far as many humans are concerned. Are we truly ones to talk? Maybe we are. Maybe the world would have been better off, with all Tailed Beasts in one village. Maybe not.''


    -on Hashirama Senju;


    ''It is plain as day, we think, that he was a thinker, not a leader, not in the way his brother was. Look at all the techniques he crafted. brother: teleportation, raising the dead...just like he created the framework the Villages would still use generations later. Was he blinded by paranoia, like he thought the object of his was blinded by emotion, unable to control the power that boiled their brains when their hearts bled? Well. We doubt he would say so.''


    -on Tobirama Senju;


    ''We know what you are not going to say, brother, what you think. We see it in your eyes, in the sad turn of your mouth. How could he nurse that viper of a man to his bosom, old friend or not? How could he allow and order the things he did? Was he foolish? Spineless? Scared? It is, perhaps, not wrong to regard him as a failure. And yet he kept his Village going, kept souls who would have otherwise been helpless in front of the world under his wing, and those of his warriors. That, at least, was not the wrong thing to do.''


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.-on Hiruzen Sarutobi;


    ''A prodigy, even among the prodigies of his Village. He mastered the teleportation devised by the Second and honed it to a fine edge; he learned the trick of the man who walked between realms within moments of fighting; he bound the fox who had convinced himself he was a monster into his newborn son, even as he and his wife died. And then he came back, dragged from beyond the veil by the claws of the serpent-hearted warlock, and he fought again. And he made things right with his son, brother. That matters, more so when you weren''t there for him. We know. They accepted each other.''


    -on Minato Namikaze;


    ''A heir to her grandfather in more than office, brother. They were never the most cool-headed of leaders, nor the most cold-blooded. That, and all the duties such a mindset suited, fell to her great uncle. She was shattered in her youth, broken by blood until its very sight turned her stomach. But she came back to her home, when she could have stayed in her self-imposed exile, a traitor in all but name. And she led and healed, and trained a girl to walk in her footsteps. She stood against her grandfather''s nemesis when he returned, a walking corpse wrought from dust and magic. She overcame her fears, and sometimes, that is all we can do.''


    -on Tsunade Senju;


    ''He saw his father kill himself for putting friendship over duty. He saw a friend die, crushed, and was made to kill another, all when he was just a boy. Is it any surprise that he would become a bit aloof, a bit distant, when he grew into a man? But do not be fooled by the mask of the scatterbrained fool he affects, brother. He is a man of masks, physical and spiritual, but they do not define him. The way he arrives late, like his childhood friend did, the books of lust he peruses, these are all guises, too. He might not have been the best teacher, but he was a prodigy in his own right, mastering the eye that was not his, but which let him see the world more clearly.''


    -on Kakashi Hatake;

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: Vampires (Demon Accords)

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    Classification: anthropomorphic hemovorous aberrants.


    Colloquial name: vampires, Darkkin.


    Origins: Vampires have existed for several millennia, as evidenced by Jing the Ancient, who was three and a half thousand years old upon death, being turned and entering the vampiric life as part of the already-established Coven, the international organisation of vampires. With vampires needing humans to reproduce, and their bodies being resistant to subversion by Vorsook nanotech, there have been theories that vampires were created to act as Earth''s antibodies against alien invaders, alongside weres and witches.


    Vampires are living beings rather than undead, with the changes to their physiology being caused by the vampire virus (or V-squared) that also acts as their bodies'' protection against foreign influences.


    Description: vampires are pale, though not inhumanly so, have short fangs, and are most often attractive by human standards, an effect caused by V-squared, with ugly or deformed vampires being marginalised until recently. Vampires are physically ageless, which can lead to those turned young retaining their childlike appearance from when they were human even as their minds mature.


    Vampire hearts beat, though much slower than human hearts. This relative inactivity is also visible on a larger scale, as vampires become unnaturally still when shocked, surprised or uncertain, which, between their paleness and lack of the small movements humans unconsciously make, makes them resemble mannequins. Vampires need blood like humans need both food and water, and blood can revitalise them when they are gravely wounded or drowsy from waking up in the evening (vampires become sluggish during daytime, though sunlight itself does not seem harmful to them, causing them to enter a state resembling hibernation). Vampires are incapable of sexual reproduction (for lone exception, see file: Tanya Demivova), which makes them reliant on humans in a manner either parasitic or symbiotic, depending on one''s views.


    Behaviour: vampires mostly retain their personality from their human lives, although this might be altered by the process of being turned and the increased sensory input that comes with vampirism. Vampires also commonly sport aggressive or predatory personalities, in the sense of constantly being on the lookout for weaknesses in both enemies and allies, as well as not shying away from confrontations.


    On a species-wide level, the majority of vampires are members of the Coven, a global meritocratic gerontocracy. Since vampires value prowess in all walks of life and become more powerful (and, obviously, experienced) as they age, it is unsurprising that the Coven is led by the oldest vampires, a trio of vampires referred to as Elders who tend to be a thousand years old at minimum.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Threat level: local; vampires start at one and a half to twice as strong as fast as humans, traits that become more pronounced as they age. As they approach a century of age, vampires become able to bend steel and punch through humans while moving as blurs to them, while Elder vampires can easily crush and dismember their younger kindred, flatten cars with single, small movements and react in fractions of a millisecond.


    Vampires also become more durable they become. Both the skin and bones toughen, becoming impenetrable to most man-portable piercing weapons. Vampiric endurance is also superhuman, in terms of both pain tolerance, as vampires can keep fighting through the loss of extremities and limbs without any inconvenience except losing access to the body part itself, and regeneration, as vampires can regenerate from having their necks snapped and their heads twisted almost all the way around over time. Older vampires, aged five hundred years or more, can reattach lost body parts and regrow limbs.


    The most versatile ability shared by all vampires is the power to bend physics by subtly manipulating dark matter, alongside other aspects of the universe. This allows them to move and lift things far larger than they should be able, ignore leverage, remain in place instead of being flung around handling weights far greater than theirs, stick to surfaces and pseudo-telekinetically pull or push objects. Some vampires possess rarer abilities referred to as Gifts, which can range from telepathy to an uncannily accurate reading of odds similar to precognition.


    Collaboration: the Coven is generally a neutral, self-interested organisation that might nevertheless be prompted to benefit their Earth as a whole by the right incentives. Retaining prestige and power, as well as not being hunted by bigots, are appealing enough option when backed by a power such as our Collective. The Coven understands power, so they understand all joint efforts are going to go down according to our wishes, should worst come to worst.


    While the Shaper dislikes gunboat diplomacy, they are also aware that the Coven tends to end up being led by people who value both hard and soft power and put their interests first. In this regard, vampires are very human, or similar to ourselves before our arrival to Earth.


    Neutralisation: While simulations show that even a single, unarmed reptilian would be a threat to the Coven as a whole, the Collective has decided to list counters to them for the sake of our less capable allies. As mentioned above, vampires are vulnerable during daytime, though it should be noted that their durability is passive and that the Coven employs human security, which would be enough to deter most would-be vampire hunters. Silver does more damage and causes more painful wounds to vampires due to a metainformational advantage.

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: The Ancient (Demon Accords)

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    Note: the Ancient was killed by Christian Anthony Gordon when his aura rendered the v-squared inside her inert and caused her to age to dust. However, should replicas or time-travelling variants of her be encountered, the Reptilian Collective must be prepared.


    * * *


    Classification: anthropomorphic hemovorous aberrant.


    Name: Jing (given), the Ancient (title)


    Origins: Jing was a 3500 year old vampire, born in China when it was widely referred to as the Middle Kingdom. Thanks to her endurance and craftiness, she survived long enough to gain powers beyond those of typical Elder vampires. However, with this longevity came insanity*, and eventually, the Coven subdued Jing when she was still weak enough to be overwhelmed by large numbers of ordinary vampires. The Coven then founded an order of guardian vampires to watch over her slumbering form and put her back to sleep if necessary.


    *Jing''s appearance prior to her death at Chris Gordon''s hands suggested she was turned as a child. Given the instabilities that come with becoming a vampire at that age (see the file on Darkkin in general), it is likely that she went mad due to an improperly developed brain rather than anything to do with living for the time she did. After all, vampires do not become misanthropic with age, not to any degree beyond that caused by bad experiences over an unnaturally long life. At most, it could be said that, due to being stuck in a childlike body for millennia, the issues inherent in child vampires were compounded.


    Description: Jing appeared as a small prepubescent girl with Chinese features, wearing blue silk sleeping clothes.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Behaviour: She presented a complete disregard for sapient beings who were not vampires, seeing Declan O''Carroll and Stacia Reynolds (see files) as food sources and ordering the vampires present during her awakening to give them to her so she could feed. The Ancient was not attached to vampires either, expecting her younger kin to serve her due to her being older and more powerful. She did not hesitate to kill or attempt to kill anyone who displeased her, vampire or otherwise.


    Threat level: local. Jing possessed stronger versions of typical Darkkin powers. She was strong enough to behead and dismember Elders and equivalents, as well as dig through granite as fast as a human can sprint, fast enough to appear as a blur to Tanya Demidova (see file) while crossing tens of metres in an open area, as well as fight at such speeds Demidova could barely react, and durable enough to ignore car-crushing palm strikes and not be scratched by swords that could cut through sixty centimetres of oak, as well as shrug off gravity spells capable of shaking Mount Taibai as a side effect.


    Jing''s endurance was also superior to the average Darkkin''s, allowing her to behead Galina Demidova, a centuries-old vampiress, with a slap, after having her brain filled with bullets, a wound she laughed at. She displayed resistance to high temperatures, with burning oil only putting her back to sleep in premodern times. Lasers were installed in her tomb as deterrents shortly before her death, and thermite was also considered.


    Jing possessed a magical artefact resembling a banana fan made of stone, which allowed her to influence the air elemental living around Mount Taibai. With this fan, she was capable of summoning winds powerful enough to move many tons of rock, as well as slow down and overpower Elder vampires and equivalents.


    Neutralisation: should Jing return, the deployment of thermal weaponry is advised. Instructing one''s Warscale to create plasma as strong as the sun''s surface is a good starting point, since it would allow a reptilian to subdue the Ancient with minimal collateral damage. Otherwise, an unarmoured reptilian is more than powerful enough to rip Jing to shreds, something her regeneration is unlikely to heal.

 The Zhayvin Files: Weres (Demon Accords)

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    Classification: therianthropes.


    Colloquial name: weres.


    Origins: Like vampires and witches, weres have been theorised, by both the Collective and scientists from their own universe, to have been seeded among mankind as some sort of antibodies (likely as defenders against Vorsook inflitrators, given their resistance to the aliens'' nanomachines and rapid therianthropic "reproduction" being reliant on humans).


    Description: in human form, weres do not look any different from mundanes, though their tissue is denser and their bodies are inhumanly heavy for their size. They can also assume animal forms that resemble their natural counterparts and hybrid forms that look like anthropomorphic versions of their animals. It should be noted that, unlike our therianthropes, these weres only have the forms of predatory, carnivorous mammals (wolves, bears, big cats and weasels).


    Behaviour: weres are often aggressive and confrontational, prone to outbursts when their beasts are trying to wrest control from them. In animal form, they share the traits of their natural counterparts, such as werewolves being social and forming large groups. They can also go against these instincts, however: male grizzly werebears have been known to live in groups and not kill their younger kind, for example.


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    Threat level: local. Even in human form, weres are several times stronger than mundanes, able to kill athletic humans in one hit and withstand such attacks. They have been observed tearing apart genetically-enhanced superhumans, bending steel and shaking two-storey buildings as a side effect of clashing with physical peers in both animal and hybrid form. Were endurance allows them to shrug off and heal from wounds that would have killed any human, as well as live for up to two centuries. They possess enhanced reflexes (several times faster than humans, with stronger weres approaching the speed of older vampires) and senses, likely including thermal sight.


    Collaboration: treating weres as humans with anger issues is useful when dealing with those who have a certain amount of control over themselves. Otherwise, standard therianthrope liaising protocols apply; we can ignore them as easily as we can pay them off with the trinkets or distractions they consider wealth and pleasure.


    Neutralisation: silver is unnecessary when dealing with these therianthropes, as, unlike our weres, sufficient damage of any kind can cripple or kill them. Every reptilian is expected to be capable of defeating any number of such weres without need for equipment.

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: Vorsook drones (Demon Accords)

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    Classification: necromorphic host bodies reconfigured by means of nanomachines.


    Colloquial name: (Vorsook) drones.


    Origins: drones are a fitting physical representation of the Vorsook''s preference to achieve their aims by using other people, including each other. The Vorsook being an expansionistic but miserly expansionistic empire, they rarely participate in the infiltration or invasion of target worlds, and when they do, it is either in small numbers or because any threat has already been pacified.


    The Vorsook prefer to do much with little, but they do recognise the need for fitting tools. The dominant species of their most recent target world, Earth, is not particularly powerful or esoterically versatile, though humans have the potential to become so. As such, the Vorsook use their nanomachines to both take over and enhance those humans they deem unfit to serve as sapient proxies.


    Vorsook drones can be created by nanomachines administered by a construct that burrows into flesh, though the Collective suspects they have the means to inject their nanomachines in less dramatic manner, such as in a literal injection or equivalent, though this is likely performed in laboratory condition. These nanomachines can overcome the were and vampire viruses in great enough numbers.


    Description: although the Vorsook''s puppets are often collectively referred to as drones by this Earth''s defenders, they are not a single category of beings. Rather, there seem to be multiple stages in their life cycle or development process. Brainwashed humans whose bodies have been enhanced and their spines replaced with replicas of Vorsook alloys might be considered drones in a technical sense, but the term is usually used for host bodies displaying behaviour fairly similar to our feral zombies, such as catching beings to catch them despite not needing sustenance.


    Once injected with nanomachines, "Vorsook zombies" often take on a dishevelled appearance. Their blood becomes dark and oozing, and similarly dark plates of diamantine material appear over their skin. As the drones develop, they become tens of centimetres taller than standard humans, as well as appropriately broad, their pallor and elongated heads conferring them an inhuman aspect. By this point, their bodies are almost entirely covered in a diamond-like but flexible substance, while the eyes become small and insectile.


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    Behaviour: Vorsook drones resemble the nodes of primitive hive minds more than thinking beings. They are programmed (or brainwashed, depending on one''s perspective) to obey their alien overlords. When confronted with threats to the Vorsook''s plans, they become aggressive, but only in the strictest sense. They are not distracted by pain or anger, as they can feel neither. This does mean they rely on the Vorsook''s planning and can be tricked if one can keep a cool head.


    Threat level: local. Vorsook zombies can punch through steel doors as if they are made of wet cardboard and dash, fight and react at supersonic speeds. Since they do not feel pain and possess mild regeneration, healing what would be deadly wounds to humans in timeframes visible to such, they can recover from damage that would kill mundanes multiple times over. This regeneration can be sped up by the consumption of organic matter, which is rapidly converted into biomass or protoplasm and added to the zombie''s body, to be rearranged as decided (in this regard, the zombies possess some autonomy).


    Fully-developed Vorsook drones are several times more powerful than their lesser counterparts, being capable of withstanding forces that would shred Vorsook zombied and keeping up with Chris Gordon or backhanding him to the ground, which a speeding truck would fail to achieve. Mature Vorsook drones can persist after the destruction of their heads and require high amounts of heat, such as the deployment of thermite, to take down.


    Neutralisation: the violent vapourisation or atomisation of Vorsook drones is advised, to dispose of nanomachines. Reptilians unequipped with Warscale or other enhancements are advised to deploy thermal weaponry and keep their distance: Vorsook nanomachines might be able to overcome a Zhayvin''s regeneration and immunities, and are suspected of being able to map one''s mind and send information to the Vorsook.

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: Elementals (Demon Accords)

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    Classification: aberrant energy consciousnesses inhabiting and tied to facets of the litho/hydro/atmosphere (landmasses, events, etc.)


    Colloquial name: elementals.


    Origins: elementals seem to arise when an aspect of nature becomes "distinct" enough to warrant its own aberrant embodiment. The minimum "degree" of identity is unknown, but likely not tied to noospheric metaphysics, as elemental predate the humans who delimitate Earth''s areas. The elementals themselves do not think much about such things, and when questioned, claim they enter the world once they are born, like all things. Elementals are not unique to Earth, as the Fae''s homeworld has many before they were exhausted by their Queens to stave off the Vorsook. Gaia has implied planetary elementals like her are not unique either, and that others exist across the universe.


    Description: elementals are incorporeal by default. To beings with the appropriate arcane senses or equivalents, their auras appear coloured by their affinity, resulting in a fiery presence, a cold one, and so on. Elementals are believed to be capable of manifesting physical forms (as Gaia does, thpugh she might be an outlier), by arranging available matter into forms their animus can inhabit, but mostly do not. Elementals who were attracted to bodies crafted for them do not seem to mind this way of life or pine for an incorporeal state. Elementals can inhabit anything from volcanoes to wind currents, but do not alter their homes/bodies to any degree visible to the naked eye.


    Elementals possess abilities related to their origin. Earth elementals can move large quantities of soil, rock and metal, fire elementals can control temperature and create lethally hot areas, air elementals can control wind currents and gases, and water elementals can create and control waves and water in all its states. There are subcategories, such as volcanic elementals, who possess a mixed set of abilities.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Behaviour: elementals are mostly patient beings who disregard the world around them (it is believed natural disasters in polluted areas are the result of elementals lashing out), thinking in geologic time scales. This is not because their perception or processing speed is superior or inferior to that of a human, but simply because the elementals do not care much about things tat cannot affect them. Elemental behaviour appears to be influenced by their affinity, with volcanic elementals having comparably short tempers, for example.


    Threat level: varies; regional for the strongest elementals. The Yellowstone elemental has all the power of the supervolcano''s hypothetical eruption at its fingertips, and was once expected to break the continental United States in half, scorching what remained. Oceanic elementals, capable of manipulating tides to generate more force than the global nuclear arsenal, have been identified. It is believed the greatest elementals in all categories can output and control gigatons to teratons of TNT equivalent.


    Neutralisation: elementals are not aggressive beings. Indeed, they are reactive, and only appear to act when the areas they represent are threatened, or when they are otherwise goaded into lashing out. The Collective believes keeping people from angering or manipulating elementals into attacking will keep them in their default, placid state, while we look for ways to get them involved in productive endeavours without the negotiations taking millions of years.

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: Gaia (Demon Accords)

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    Classification: aberrant consciousness inhabiting and tied to Terra.


    Colloquial name: Gaia, the Goddess, Mother Earth.


    Origins: Gaia seems to have formed when Earth itself did, although she only became active a short while ago, when she felt mankind hadd become too polluting to be allowed to continue living unpunished.


    Description: Gaia is a globe-spanning consciousness most of the time, with her only humanlike feature being the booming voice she can project, both as sound and into people''s minds. When manifesting physically, she prefers an avatar resembling a tall, muscular bald woman, though with no visible sex and only the outlines of breasts, made of lava-streaked obsidian, with glowing orange eyes.


    Behaviour: Gaia seems to have a skewed sense of priorities, since - prior to Declan O''Carroll accepting of her offer to become her Steward; see file - she was willing to wipe out mankind in order to stop them from damaging the planet serving as her body, despite her being far more powerful than elementals who dwarf all human weapons together, and humans being less dangerous than demons, who are much harder to detect and remove, or the Vorsook, who strip-mine planets on a regular basis. Following the Warlock''s acceptance of the role, she instead ordered him and his lover, Stacia Reynolds (see White Werewolf file) to track down and kill a list of especially damaging humans, which they acquiesced to, as the alternative would have put the entire species into jeopardy. Gaia does not seem to see nuance or see any issue with punishing species for the deeds of individual members, which, coupled with her powers, means she is effectively holding everyone on her Earth hostage.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Threat level: global. Declan O''Carroll has stated that Gaia makes the strongest "normal" elementals, beings capable of generating gigatons of energy and devastating continents with single actions, look like lightbulbs next to a star. She has access to the power of the planet as a whole, controlling everything from Earth''s magnetic field to the energy it generates while rotating, which can be employed as attacks. Gaia is capable of manifesting anywhere on and under the world''s surface and seas, as well as its atmosphere. She can alter the state of materials in an aberrant fashion, making people fall through solid ground without changing its or their density, or displacing soil.


    Neutralization: the Collective is looking for ways to remove Gaia without destroying or damaging the planet she represents. In the meantime, reptilians have suggested moving the world''s population to another habitat while removing pollution and setting up infrastructure to prevent similar degradation in the future. Removing the threat of Vorsook invasion, as well as that of other intruders, could result in some goodwill, once Gaia is reminded they, not the humans she could render extinct with a thought, are the real danger to her.

 Story VI: Karma (Strigoi Soul/Asuras Wrath)

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    Vyrt was many things. Over the million and more years of his existence, he had been many things, as driven by whimsy or made by duty - usually the latter.


    He was a Nephilim; half a man and half a seraph, though recently, the man had mattered more, in his opinion. He was the son of a kindly woman and one of the greatest monsters to ever live, once of the greatest heroes. He was a brother, named by his half-brother as something of a joke, back when the world had changed again so that they needed to start speaking English.


    He hadn''t felt virtuous much, lately. Teaching through pain, and deception, hurt, even when one did it to prepare the regent of creation, the prince of existence. Vyrt knew that, even if his efforts had contributed to the forging of creation''s saviour, now its greatest guardian, he would never be close to that tormented man.


    It was, he reflected, only proper. Maybe less. None could punish him worse than himself - Vyrt had always been more affected by shame than guilt, but both had come with his exile, and were not in any hurry to leave.


    He knew it was ungrateful to complain, even in his own thoughts. Yes, he had been sent away from New Camelot, but the United Kingdom''s paranormal law enforcement agency would go on, even without the late Grandmaster of its London chapter. He was not so arrogant as to believe himself some lynchpin of that order. When he thought of it at all, it was to mourn the loss of being able to speak with his half-brother and wife whenever, even if the man he''d scarred to reforge him had promised he''d help him meet Miranda whenever reasonable.


    Besides, he had been sent to Heaven. And while his grandfather kingdom brought a sort of bittersweet joy to his heart, he was not unwelcome.


    Which was why, when he found himself not beyond the Kingdom of God, but the boundaries of his entire macrocosm, he first felt melancholy. Surprise only came after, and by then, the first feeling had morphed into melancholy. Vyrt counted time in tenths of a zeptosecond, when he did not need to enhance his speed, and the time it took him to get his bearings was more than enough to idly lament the separation from his new home.


    He would not have done so for long, even in a peaceful realm. But this cosmos was in strife. He could feel it, an entire universe churning, a pressure beneath the dance of particles and the fluctuation of spacetime that were as plain to his half-divine senses as the sun in the sky was to humans.


    That was when it hit him. Not some great revelation; the energy beam.


    It was quite a fitting metaphor for mankind''s position in the universe, really. Certainly in his, and, according to his senses, most likely in this one too: confused, struggling to get their bearings, then suddenly hit by something that could obliterate them and all they knew.


    But it had not, and it would not. Because he was there.


    Vyrt''s reflexes, far faster than light and honed by hundreds of millennia of fighting, pushed aside all confusion the moment the energy made contact with him. He could feel it: the power to disintegrate worlds, a deed already accomplished, and behind it, twenty-six thousand light years away,, the cold intelligence directing the attack.


    Vyrt absorbed all these facts in a tenth of a sextillionth of a second. It was more than enough for him to mark his newest foe; that his purpose hadn''t changed helped.


    Defend creation, and all its wholesome facets. Purge the unclean, by all means necessary. Thus had been his way for fifty thousand human generations, as it had been his father''s before him, before he''d lost what made him great, As it had been his grandfather''s, in the beginning.


    Vyrt took the power into himself, for all that it dwarfed Earth and he was scarcely bigger than most skyscrapers. As the light faded into nothing and the void of space around him became dim again, he shook his head, shoulder-length grey curls swaying as his androgynous face was split by a frown.


    There had been...should have been defenders here. Looking backwards through time, he could see the fabric of thiscosmos, twisted and frayed. An absence that only seemed more obvious, when he also thought about the confusion he''d felt upon arrival.


    Had someone brought him here? He had many enemies who would''ve laughed to see him exiled, if not dead. Or had it been a ploy to leave this Earth defenceless, and he''d been used as the counterweight? The replacement of this world''s champions, while they were scattered to the cosmic winds?


    Eyes the colour of steel narrowed. A ploy by the one who''d cast the lance of power? Or an ally of his?


    ''I need answers,'' Vyrt said, not for the first time in his long life. And, if it were to be the last, he swore he would not die while this mirror of his world spun through the void imperiled.


    With a beat of wings the colour of gunmetal, Vyrt flew away, shoulders set.


    * * *


    Chakravartin''s idol did not scowl, for its face was a golden mask, an image of graven serenity - but the god was troubled.


    Or perhaps perplexed was the better word. For one whose wisdom spanned the stars and the worlds that girded them, and whose memory went back to the dawn of time, there were few things such as surprises. He was, after all, the Spinner of All Mantra, who ordered the greatest power in the universe just as he had ordered all there was, at the beginning.


    Something had gone wrong with his plan. Gaea should have been obliterated, blasted out of space, reduced to dust. Asura had stubbornly, foolishly set himself against the Creator, out of pure sentimentality - but that was fine. Chakravartin had long since learned to expect disappointment from his creations.


    Still...he had hoped to make the boy his heir. His successor, to rule Gaea in his stead while he went to search for other worlds in need of his guidance. That Asura had pushed him to the point of having to obliterate the world and him with it was regrettable, but entirely that raging child''s fault.


    Chakravartin knew, however, that Asura had not died, just as he knew Gaea still existed, spinning through space. Though he was not one to underestimate his enemies (few and short-lived as they were), he had not believed Asura would be capable of withstanding his golden beam. He did not doubt the demigod''s strength, but...


    He should''ve died, with his world. And yet, he was gone, alive, but almost beyond Chakravartin''s perception, much less his reach. And...he hadn''t been the one to stop the beam.


    Curious. Though not everything had proceeded according to his design, though the Golden Spider''s web was frayed, the Creator could not help but be intrigued.


    A few of his golden statue''s lower hands clasped, he bent his divine senses to the task of analysing this intruder, the one who had appeared in Asura''s place right at what should''ve been his execution.


    * * *


    It was a short way to the galactic core, as Vyrt flew. For one who could cross the Milky Way in a second, the distance between the Orion Arm and Sagittarius A* could be traversed in the time a human''s blink lasted.


    Vyrt halted, standing on nothing with one hand by his side. The other was raised and clenched into a fist, but not hefting a weapon - yet. He was clad in overlapping layers of thick grey plate, forged in his animus and wrought from a nameless material sprung from the serpah''s mind. An affectation, to gird himself for war as the angels of the Spheres did, but he dared indulge himself.


    His purpose was pure enough where his blood wasn''t.


    The Nephilim''s eyes roamed over the statuesque form sitting in repose above the galaxy''s heart. Golden and multi-armed, it could have been a tribute to the glory of the Devas, but no scion of India had raised this construct, he knew.


    Vyrt strode across the void, footfalls echoing thunderously. Theatrical, to be sure, but using his power to mimic sound hardly stood out in comparison to the colossus in front of him, gilded and larger than most stars. A name made its way into his mind, coaxed into approaching by the remnant of divinity he wielded.


    ''Chakravartin,'' the Nephilim said softly. ''Would-be destroyer of a world you created.''


    Laughter radiated from the statue, surprisingly soft, given its dimensions. ''How long have you been here, stranger? Or, perhaps...you know more than you seem to?''


    ''All I know is that I know nothing,'' Vyrt stated, solemn and only half ironic. No amount of experience or supernatural insight helped more than faith an the guidance of the Lord did, on some days. All traces of sarcasm left his voice as he continued. ''I recognise your power. You cast it like a javelin, splitting the skin of space to steal away one of Sol''s spheres.''


    The idol chuckled, though its blank expression did not change. Maybe it could not. ''How do you leap from childish to overwrought so easily?''


    ''Wings,'' Vyrt replied, ''and the ease of long practice. I can tell you it is more comfortable than straddling both as you do, however.''


    The good-natured rumble was cut short, and Vyrt affected a moue of surprise. Oh, dear. And it had been so long since he had struck a nerve while talking to someone without flesh. He would have to change that calendar showing the number of days spent being courteous, again.


    ''You do not know what you trifle with,'' Chakravartin stated warningly. ''You prevented the cleansing of a world I had consigned to oblivion, though this realm is as alien to you as any other. You think you can meddle and insult, and walk away unscathed?''


    ''I was planning to fly, actually-''


    The orange star flew towards him at speeds far greater than those of the light it radiated. Vyrt''s face creased only slightly, skin tightening around eyes marked by laughter and worry in equal measure, as he drew nothing into his lungs and spewed wind, snuffing out the sun like a candle.


    Vyrt moved forward, even as the statue filled the void between them, which could have swallowed star clusters, with all manner of celestial bodies: world-shattering comets, giant stars, blue and red, rocky worlds far larger than their natural counterparts had ever been, dwarfing even star giants. The Nephilim made his way through the chaff, letting the conjured matter break apart around him. Chakravartin was not going to deter him with this, and they both knew that. So why did the god have to be reminded of that?


    Vyrt cocked an eyebrow as a world larger than any that had been flung his way appeared. It was nearly as large as the sitting golden idol, which itself was several times bigger than the galactic core. Sent forward without being touched, the world hurtled towards the Nephilim, its substance held together by godly will alone.


    Vyrt counted the zeptoseconds as the improbably large celestial body flew towards him. Certainly, it would be no danger if it crashed into him, for he had weathered worse without wounds, but he was fairly certain the shockwave would turn nearby worlds to dust. Worlds that might serve as cradles of life, int he future.


    The Nephilim set his jaw. He had spent enough using his foresight to make the hardest decisions, lest everything end. Preventing the end of innocence, before it could even come into being...a clean, wholesome deed. Good for the soul.


    Vyrt raised his right thumb and index finger well before the passage of the giant moon could ruffle his feathers, or move his body, for that matter. Had the universe been frozen for that moment, an observer could have seen the moon, appearing to be pinched between the Nephilim''s fingers. The forced perspective was enough. An elegant path for his will to make its way into reality.


    The golden idol only hesitated briefly when its latest creation was flicked back at it, then brought two hands together, as if praying. Golden energy gathered between its palms, far greater than any previously gathered amount, and rushed forth to meet the projectile, which was reduced to flickering cinders.


    The beam blazed onwards, seeming to gather power and speed as it travelled, rather than lose any. And yet, Vyrt''s eyes blazed through its radiance even as it struck his face, a harsh glow, darker than silver, that had nothing to do with photons.


    ''Enough of this,'' he said softly, but the void and all it held shook to its farthest reaches at his words, in realms so far away it would have taken light over eighty eons to reach them.


    The golden statue trembled above its perch, as did the black hole beneath. Then Vyrt was upon the construct.


    The Nephilim''s gauntleted hand parted god-wrought gold like gossamer as it grasped for something like a core. Finding nothing - the statue was solid, though Chakravartin''s power was interwoven with its substance -, he closed it into a fist, then spread it again. The statue came apart, releasing an explosion far larger than any star, and spreading far faster than the light cast by one.


    Vyrt hovered in place, shoulders hunched and head raised as the wave of destruction passed over him, then waved the hand he had shattered the idol with into a circle. A sphere of ivory seraphic fire burned into existence, swallowing the blast before it could destroy any celestial body.


    He only knew that thanks to his senses, for he was no longer in mundane reality. From here, this new realm, searching the universe was like looking through a stained window. He would have to increase his power for more clarity...but mayhap there was no need. After all, he could feel his adversary was here, radiating far more power than his golden puppet, which had started drawing the Milky Way towards itself by existing.


    Vyrt stood up straight, having realised he had gone to one knee during the...what? Paradigm shift?


    As good a term as any, he supposed.


    The realm around him was beautiful, but empty - much like his enemy. From what he had glimpsed, Chakravartin possessed a beautiful visage, but a wretched heart.


    ''How apt,'' the Nephilim snorted. He sent out feelers to find the borders of this new plane, but, to all intents and purposes, it felt endless. This could mean it faded out at the edges, becoming too diffuse for his senses to pick out at his baseline, but, in any case, it would suit his purposes: there was nothing around to break. The sky was purple, with pockets of pinkish or lavender clouds here and there, and full of light, though there was no sun.


    The glassy, mirrorlike surface of the sea he was standing on did not flow past his greaves as he walked. Instead, it merely rippled. Vyrt was briefly reminded of that Comic Con he and Miranda had gone to, as the Doctor''s incarnations and the Bad Wolf, respectively. Duplication could come in handy for more than fights, he thought with a wan smile.


    There had been an area with a glass-covered pond, the surface of the covering so close to the water and so thin that the vibrations caused by those walking across it made the pond dance in beautiful patterns. Miri had loved it, which Vyrt had taken heart in. His wife was a witch of destruction, and it was nice to see her magic hadn''t started twisting her personality to an unwholesome degree, as some weak-willed mages suffered.


    The best part, in his opinion, had been the fact that no paranormal power had gone into the creation of that area. Only human ingenuity. The species half of him belonged to, the part that kept him a man even when he had to be a monster, never ceased to inspire him. If only more would create beauty simply because they could...


    ''Lord, open their minds,'' Vyrt whispered, crossing himself, ''for they needn''t be enlightened, merely reminded of what is within their reach...''


    Vyrt knew not in what matter his grandfather would answer his prayer, for God worked in mysterious ways. He only knew that it would happen, whether the Almighty acted overtly or through an agent.


    There was nothing to question. He had faith.


    ''That is not what most ask of me,'' a smooth voice, quite unlike his Lord''s, filled the empty space, making Vyrt turn, scowling. ''But I might think of it...on one condition.''


    ''You mistake yourself for the Almighty,'' Vyrt said, eyes glaring into Chakravartin''s luminous orbs. ''Know that most only get to do that once.'' He softened his features. ''But ''tis not too late to repent.''


    Chakravartin laughed melodiously. ''You still not know me. You passed a simple trial designed for another, and you think you can address me so flippantly? Tell me to...'' The god''s red lips curled into a sneer. ''Repent?''If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ''Don''t, if you wish.'' Vyrt shrugged. ''But you will suffer more than you are already guaranteed to, and you should be cowering at the thought of that pain alone.''


    Chakravartin studied him, almost grimacing, before schooling his features into a smile. ''Let us speak, then. We clearly have many things to share.''


    Vyrt eyed the makuta and bindi on the god''s forehead, the intricate golden halo that emerged behind his secondary arms, two of which held a trident and an elaborate staff. There was no hint of menace in Chakravartin''s posture, but he knew better. ''Let''s,'' he finally allowed, doing his best to look and sound uninterested. It wouldn''t do anything but make Chakravartin angrier, maybe, but that was a good thing in of itself.


    * * *


    ''You appeared out of nowhere,'' the Spinner of All Mantra began, holding out out a hand in a gesture that showed he wanted to understand and be understood. If only not to leave loose ends, when all was done. ''The world you saved from destruction, Gaea...I have been tending to it for many mortal lifetimes.''


    ''You did not appear to cherish it much when I showed up,'' Vyrt said tightly. Chakravartin wanted to sigh. Another short-sighted fool with more power than he deserved? Where did they keep coming from?


    ''Sometimes, a gardener must burn down everything, not just the weeds, for better things to grow from the ash. But...no matter how much I sent them, how many perils I placed them in, Gaea''s inhabitants refused to grow.''


    The newcomer did not seem to share his disappointment. But then, if he''d understood what drove Chakravartin, they would not be at odds.


    ''And what what made you rain such strife upon that world''s people?'' the stranger asked.''


    ''I was looking for an heir,'' Chakravartin answered, then amended, ''preparing one.'' Those people would not have made anything of themselves had he not released the Gohma upon Gaea. They were too simple to strive for greatness unless they were endangered. He had learned this long ago.


    ''An heir?''


    Chakravartin nodded. ''A worthy soul, to keep the cosmos spinning after I went to look for new worlds in need of my guidance.'' He went on, describing the struggles of the Seven Deities and their challenger, Asura...the demigod he had hoped would become his replacement. The winged stranger, who introduced himself as Vyrt, a Nephilim (a hybrid between a human and one of the spirits his grandfather had created to be his guardians and messengers), listened intently, though he did not show approval at any point.


    ''But he is gone,'' Chakravartin said, trying not to let his frustration show as he recalled Asura''s disappearance. ''And worse, you placed yourself in the path of my judgement...preserved that unworthy world.''


    ''What do you know of worthiness?'' Vyrt scoffed. ''You, who condemn so many to torment as part of your experiment, themselves a means to find some poor fool willing to look after what you made while you shirk your responsibility?''


    Chakravartin bristled. ''I shirk nothing,'' he snapped. ''I am the Creator of all there is. Everything that has ever been made, that will ever exist, is mine!'' He stalked closer to the Nephilim, gripping the hafts of his weapons so tightly his knuckles turned white.


    But Vyrt was smiling now, and there was something snakelike on his mocking face. Despite himself, Chakravartin almost flinched. ''Are you, now?'' the Nephilim asked. ''Then what of wherever your Asura is? For he is not dead - surely you must know what.''


    ''What of it?''


    ''Are you going to tell me you created whatever place he disappeared to, but know nothing of it? No. Then how can you claim to have created everything?'' Vyrt spread his arms and wings. ''There is more within the bounds of existence than you have ever dreamed of, Spider. Do not overstep yourself.''


    Such arrogance! Such...such insanity? For how could one be faced with the majesty of Naraka''s Ruler and doubt the truth of his words? Only a madman could. Or whatever mongrel this winged man was.


    But he would not lose his temper like a snubbed child, even if his calculations had been wrong, somehow. In fact...


    In fact, maybe he could kill two birds with one stone. Asura would have proven difficult to convince, he knew. Even Chakravartin would have struggled to make that sentimental fool get over his daughter and accept his role as steward of Gaea.


    But the Nephilim...this Vyrt might prove useful, once brought to heel. He was overly concerned with the fate of Gaea, not to mention possessed of an overweening ego after outmatching a mere construct, but such flaws could be removed. He was powerful, at least, more powerful than Asura had been before he had disappeared. Where, Chakravartin could not begin to guess. Not Naraka, however. He had gotten very familiar with the raging demigod''s deaths, as well as his determination. In his spiderlike guise, he had watched Asura climb the towers of the realm of the dead, many times.


    He was not dead, much as Vyrt had said. Another good sign: Asura had not possessed common sense, much less ones that spanned the cosmos and...beyond.


    That there were realms beyond his reach and knowledge troubled Chakravartin more than he''d have liked to admit, even to himself. Perhaps he would venture farther than he had planned, once he left Gaea behind.


    The thought of finding worlds that had never felt his touch and putting those who walked them in their places brought a smile to his face.


    Chakravartin glanced at Vyrt over his shoulder. A lull in the conversation had left the Nephilim brooding, with his hands clasped behind his back, a severe expression on his features and wings tucked around his body like a cloak.


    ''There might very well be,'' the god acknowledged, approaching the frowning hybrid. ''I can feel one such space, at the edge of my awareness, even from here. Might that be your home?''


    ''Where are we, by the way?'' Vyrt asked, ignoring the question.


    Chakravartin leaned forward on his staff, smiling thinly. ''Surely your marvellous senses can tell you that much.''


    ''I''m interested in your answer.''


    There it was again! That...presumptuousness. The way he had emphasised "yours", though subtle, hadn''t escaped Chakravartin either. ''This is the Event Horizon,'' he replied finally.


    ''I doubt that. We did not pass through a black hole.''


    '' ''Tis named that because momentous things occur here,'' Chakravartin explained. ''Speaking of which...'' Standing straighter, he widened his smile, looking beneficently down. That took some size shifting - the Nephilim was a hundred forty metres tall - but such things were a trifle for a god. ''You have shown your worth in both battle and peace. Indeed, that you only struck back when attacked is what led to the second.''


    It hurt, to praise such a lowlife, but he endured. Even if he essentially had to eat his earlier words. Vyrt had interrupted Gaea''s end, out of misplaced protectiveness, but that could be repaid, in time. There had been nothing admirable about that, about setting his will against the Creator''s, but at least he was willing to listen.


    Vyrt''s gaze was blank as he stared up at the good, face carefully showing nothing. ''I did what anyone should have, in my place.''


    At least he was smart enough to see through the compliments. Chakravartin supposed that even someone foolish enough to oppose him couldn''t be stupid all the time.


    ''That may be so,'' he said, ''but you were the one there. I have seen that your love for Gaea runs as deep as the well of power you employed to guard it. Would you be open towards making that...'' He extended a hand, ''a permanent arrangement?''


    * * *


    Vyrt stared at the palm for a long zeptosecond, disbelieving, but, by the time light finished passing across a hydrogen molecule, he decided Chakravartin meant it.


    ''I refuse,'' he said in a quiet voice, enjoying the look on the god''s face, which shifted from surprise to disappointment, then anger. ''I only acted there to protect an innocent world, but I cannot be tied down to it. I have my duties, to my kin above and my grandfather''s kingdom,'' and to his brother and wife, estranged as circumstance might have made them, but those two didn''t deserve to be mentioned within earshot of this fool.


    ''But, even if I did not,'' he went on, in an uninterested tone, ''I would not become your heir. It would mean enabling you. You have pulled wings off flies for as long as that world has turned, and now you hurry in search of new planets to ruin. No.'' Grey curls swayed as the Nephilim shook his head, wings flaring. ''I cannot countenance that.''


    ''Then you have doomed Gaea,'' Chakravartin said, voice clipped, ''for, even if I were not to destroy it, as I shall after I wipe you from existence, it would not survive on its own.''


    ''Then I suppose I will have to kill you first,'' Vyrt replied consideringly, ''and place protections upon it, before resuming my duties.''


    Chakravartin brought two hands together, closing his eyes. ''You still doubt, I see. You doubt that I will keep my word, maybe, or whether you are fit to guard Gaea - a duty that takes dedication, as you will learn. You cannot simply place some defenses upon it and leave...not that whatever you are seeking to return to could be as important.''


    Vyrt''s eyes flashed coldly, but he said nothing. He knew how this god thought, had faced his like before. Megalomaniacs who couldn''t comprehend love, or, indeed, anything unrelated to power. He wasn''t going to waste his breath trying to get through to him, though. Nothing would come of that.


    Chakravartin went on. ''As proof of my honesty, allow me to release a soul the likes of which your heart aches for.'' A dark sphere, lit up from inside by flashes of multicoloured light, spun into being at the god''s side, floating forward.


    Vyrt''s eyes widened, despite himself, as the construct opened up and faded. A girl with large brown eyes and long, dark hair stepped forward, blinking in confusion, her robes rustling softly. She sounded bemused when she spoke, looking up at Vyrt, who quickly shifted to more humanlike dimensions, lest he frighten her. ''You...are not my father.'' The child brought her hands together, but there was more longing than fear in her eyes.


    He knew that look. He had seen it billions of times, in mirrors and rivers and lakes, whenever he remembered how his father had left the world so that his brother could enter it. It was not the kind of loss that could be lessened by time, nor by the knowledge of necessity.


    ''A lost soul, much like you,'' he replied, honestly enough, taking a knee before the girl but keeping one eye on the god, who was looking at them expectantly. ''What is your name, child?''


    ''Mithra,'' she answered. ''Do you know...?''


    ''I believe whatever force brought me into this world also took your father away from it,'' Vyrt said, rising to his feet and placing a hand on Mithra''s shoulder, smiling broadly. ''But worry not. I will stay with you for as long as it takes us to find him.'' He laughed softly when her eyes brightened and a hopeful smile spread across her face. ''It would only be fair to look for him if I''m staying with you.''


    Chakravartin''s hiss was as contemptuous as it was deep, but the Nephilim knew posturing - and this was not it. While the god might have looked ready to fling an insult, or turn away to rage or brood, this was not even close to his intention. Rather the opposite.


    ''Get back here!'' Chakravartin thundered as the recreated sphere sped towards his extended hand. It had formed around Mithra as a space-bending effect had rocked Vyrt back half a step, briefly staggering him. But mere esoterics could have never done that against a paranormal of his calibre. There was raw power there, wielded with precision, if not care. And he had failed to stop the sphere in his hobbled state, brief as it had been.


    He had underestimated his adversary, and a child had suffered. And, as the Golden Spider charged him, weapons raised, Vyrt wished the shame hadn''t felt so familiar. Features grim, he returned to his previous size to meet his foe''s charge.


    One of Vyrt''s hands wrapped around the trident''s haft, just below the forks aimed at his eyes and the centre of his face. The other drove into Chakravartin''s side, making his mouth open in a silent grunt of pain, though the god''s attack didn''t falter. Such things as physical harm did not deter beings like him for long when they were even acknowledged.


    The god''s staff swung low, aimed to sweep Vyrt''s feet from under him, but he stomped on it, keeping it in place and causing the Event Horizon to ripple. All the while, Chakravartin''s reality warping power bent space and time around the two fighters, putting Vyrt''s teeth on edge. The Creator''s manifold hands grasped at his wings, seeking to keep them in place or tear them out, while beams of golden power darted at the Nephilim''s face and joints.


    Each facet of Chakravartin''s multi-pronged assault would have flung the Milky Way around like a leaf in a storm, but Vyrt had set his strength an will against the god''s, and there could only be one outcome.


    Chakravartin''s eyes widened as his trident snapped in half in the Nephilim''s grip, while his staff shattered under his boot. Vyrt''s wings tore and crushed dozens of hands as they flared open, fouling the Even Horizon''s substance with ichor like molten gold. He almost pressed a new attack, then turned the other cheek.


    The fist Vyrt rammed into it likely helped.


    The mangled god flew over astronomical distances, skipping over the surface of his inner realm like a pebble, fragments of his panoply trailing behind him - his halo had shattered to, when the Nephilim had opened his wings. He climbed to shaky feet, his jaw hanging by a thread, half his head caved in.


    Vyrt was looming above him by the time he rose, having closed the distance in the second it would have taken him to cross his home galaxy. Before Chakravartin could strike or curse him, the hybrid''s hands darted out, tearing off the god''s limbs before knocking his jaw off, the other fist plunging into his stomach and out his back, before retracting enough to wrap around his spine.


    ''You cannot treat me as you would an equal,'' Vyrt said as he lifted the limbless god to eye level, ''because you have never known one, and would not even if you had. I cannot treat you as an equal, not because you are weaker than me, but because you are so petty. You could''ve spared your creations from hunger and thirst and strife whenever you chose, for the building blocks of existence are like unto bricks in your grasp. Where I come from, the enemies of growth are as vile as they are numerous, but here? Your only enemy is your pride.''


    He threw Chakravartin aside, half of the god''s spine remaining in his hand when he let go. He crushed it to dust, turning to where his enemy was trying to rise. ''And I''ve had enough of gilded fools hellbent on dooming mankind because of their arrogance,'' Vyrt growled.


    * * *


    ...Pain encouraged growth.


    He had always known this, of course. Otherwise, why would he lave let his creations scrabble in the dirt for ages? Suffering begat excellence, insofar as anyone but him could be said to possess him.


    He should be thankful to this pretentious newcomer. His defiance had been as unexpected as his strength, but Chakravartin was through treating him like he would an insolent mortal.


    He was going to plumb the depths of pain with this Vyrt''s remains. Neither the bowels of Naraka nor the edges of the void had ever known horror the likes of which he would rain upon the Nephilim. That would be as worthy an endeavour as the departure o other worlds he had planned.


    And to think, he would have never come up with such ideas to inflict new agonies, if he hadn''t been wounded himself.


    Chakravartin smiled inwardly as he returned to his true power.


    * * *


    ''I shall erase your very existence.''


    The god''s voice had lost some of the pompousness that had dripped from every previous word, though his confidence had somehow increased. Vyrt would not have believed either possible.


    Something like a black hole, though oozing far more malice than those pits of gravity held, appeared in front of the mangled god, beginning to draw the Event Horizon towards it. Vyrt planted his feet and animus, arms at his sides and wings tensed, and waited.


    When the black hole grew enough to hide Chakravartin from view, an ivory glow appeared inside it, growing until it enveloped the dark disk. Then, something shaped like a man, but less human than Vyrt had ever been, descended from it.


    He was black and silver, with an elongated skull, spiked along the sides. A set of scarlet teeth, the colour of his unblinking eyes, were gritted in a condescending smile.


    Chakrartin, the Creator, stepped forward, his latest construct dispersing behind him, and the face of the Even Horizon changed. Gone were the sea nd sky, and the glow that brought to mind a sunset. In their place was a grey, featureless space, that rippled in response to its master''s strides.


    Vyrt dashed forward, fist cocked, and tried to bring it upon the god''s head, only to be brought by an extended finger. Impressive enough, he supposed. That hit would have annihilated every last shred of matter in galaxies much bigger than the Milky Way.


    No wonder Chakravartin sounded even more pleased with himself than previously - another thing Vyrt wouldn''t have believed possible, had he not heard it himself. ''Weak,'' the Creator said, ''very weak.''


    His extended finger flexed, and the Event Horizon bowed under the power that was imparted into Vyrt''s body. As the hybrid''s arm was moved back, Chakravartin''s left fist smashed into his stomach, just under his breastplate, lifting him from his feet. The next punch sent him into the air, and the god followed, spinning to bring a heel down on the back of the Nephilim''s head. The kick sent Vyrt rocketing down, making the realm flex upon impact.


    When the hybrid rose, a smirk creasing his bruised face, Chakravartin did not waste time seething, like previously. He loped forward, raining punch after punch upon his winged opponent, a barrage of hits accompanied by spinning spheres of dark energy that scoured the Nephilim''s face and wings to the bone.


    Space twisted and bent around the hybrid as Chakravartin''s fists rammed into his face and temples, and the force of the hits was replicated in every altered area, directed forward by the god''s power. Vyrt doubled over, body bent as if each hit was a followed by a dozen. Time shifted, too, as the Event Horizon and its occupants were reduced to pitch darkness surrounding a pair of white silhouettes. In this state, the Nephilim''s movements appeared sluggish, incremental, allowing the god to land hundreds of hits for each of the hybrid''s blows, which he easily avoided.


    When time resumed its normal flow, Chakravartin watched Vyrt''s bones knit and his gushing wounds close with pitiless eyes. ''Do you understand the depths of your folly now?'' he asked, expecting the chastened fool to nod breathlessly. ''You turned aside my previous efforts with all the confidence of a child who thinks there is nothing worse in the world than the monsters from their bedtime stories. But it is all illusion...delusion. This,'' he spread his lean arms, ''is truth. Kneel. Kneel, and I will forgive your foolishness.''


    But Vyrt did not kneel. Instead, he raised his head, a lazy look in his eyes. ''You speak of truth? Of power revealed?''


    Chakravartin did not know what happened next. He had his eyes on the hybrid, the Event Horizon had turned dark as time followed his divine will...but it occurred faster than he could react. In fact, he only noticed the Nephilim''s punch had ripped him in half when his severed head glimpsed his ruined body as it flew.


    And then Vyrt was upon him again, hands tearing through his flesh like a boulder through mist, and-


    -he stood, but soon fell to his knees as he burned in seraphic fire, burning more fiercely than anything he had ever envisioned. His body crumbled to ash-


    -ash filled his mouth as every wound Vyrt had ever dealt and received appeared on his body, just as the memories of the pain they''d brought filled his mind-


    -his mind, flooded by the thoughts of more beings than he''d ever imagined, an infinity of them, endless ranks of monsters more powerful than he could comprehend. His sanity was blasted off its hinges-


    * * *


    Chakravartin breathed harshly as he rose on hands and knees, body trembling as his back bent. Vyrt looked down at him, expression betraying nothing. ''Hear this truth, and heed it: you have dwelt in ignorance and mistaken it for enlightenment. The fish cannot imagine anything beyond the stretch of water it swims, not the breadth of the ocean, and certainly not the beings who live above it, harnessing the power of nature towards their own goals.''


    The Nephilim extended a hand, and Mithra''s sphere returned. The girl flinched away from the Creator, moving to Vyrt''s side and clinging to the hybrid''s leg. Vyrt gave her a warm smile, running a hand through her hair. ''Just a moment now, Mithra. Your father will be with us shortly, I promise. My name is Vyrt, by the way.''


    He looked back at the defiantly-glaring god. ''You want to leave Gaea behind, in favour of new worlds to "guide" and "save"? Why not instead devote your time to understanding what extends beyond the borders of your universe? For you have never believed to be anything more.''


    Chakrartin snorted. ''Is this to be my penance? Reduced to pilgrimage, while you run roughshod over my cosmos?'' A skeptical light entered his gaze as he glared. ''Are you not going to kill me?''


    ''Oh, no,'' Vyrt answered, stepping forward with that damned serpentine smirk again, his broad frame and wings hiding Mithra from view. ''For I believe you truly have good in you, Chakravartin. I believe you can make existence a better place, once you understand it and desire to improve it. So, no, I am not going to kill you.'' He stepped aside, and Chakravartin barely had time to wince as a hulking, tan-skinned man sped towards him, fists raised.


    ''CHAAAAKRAVARTIIIINNNN!'' Asura roared, his wrath infusing every strike as he pummeled the god.


    ''But he might,'' Vyrt gestured towards the raging demigod while Mithra watched on, a small smile tugging at her lips. ''If he does not, though, do try to remember my suggestion.''


    The Nephilim chuckled as he turned around and spread his wings, the path home already clear in his mind''s eye. Truly, the only thing he could ask for now was that Asura did not spend too long beating the Spider bloody to properly reunite with his daughter.


    But anything there was left to be shared, would be. The better part of him, the part that had faith, told him that. True, he might have been made to step in the demigod''s place, to defend a world and challenge a god, but Asura would not be robbed of his chance to take revenge upon the root of his woe - he had known the Spider the moment he had laid eyes upon him, despite his changed visage, such was the righteous fury burning inside him.


    Nor, more importantly, would the demigod separated from his daughter.


    Vyrt took flight, a prayer on his lips and a song in his heart. Behind him, a family came together once more. And, who knew, maybe one day, his own would...

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: Angels (Demon Accords)

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    Classification: incorporeal aberrants tasked with observing and guarding Earth''s inhabitants.


    Colloquial name: angels.


    Origin: angels were created by the theomorphic/nousverous aberrant referred to by them as Yahweh. According to them, their God created athe cosmos like a watchmaker would a timepiece, and manages it with such skill it resembles omniscience. Angels were created to serve as Yahweh''s messengers and enforcers. Since the creation of the Demon Accords, they have been barred from acting overtly in the physical universe, as that would invite an equal response from the opposition.


    The most active Earthbound angel is Barbiel, the Angel of October, referred to by Chris Gordon as "my angelic case officer". Though eager to learn about and understand human trends, Barbiel''s main purpose is observing and guiding the angel who fell by choice to become God''s Hammer.


    Description: angels do not possess bodies and can shape their true, incorporeal forms into whatever they wish, though they seem to prefer anthropomorphism. Angels often appear as winged, humanoid silhouettes made of white light.


    Behaviour: Angels are determined and patient, taking the long view on a scale spanning eons. When able to intervene and help others, they appear generous and jovial. Barbiel often exhibits such traits while observing, usually appearing to pass helpful information to his charge while showing off the latest piece of human media he has absorbed. Angels have also been known to exhibit a fierce joy while destroying demons.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Threat level: local/regional. Angels are considerably more powerful than Chris Gordon when they choose to manifest physically, and should thus be capable of easily crushing large vehicles in single strikes and pulverising concrete walls by running through them, receiving no damage as a result. They have access to their Swords, aberrant energy constructs that can sever any amount of mundane material they can touch and permanently obliterate the true forms of demons, otherwise unkillable to any amount of spiritual or elemental power, as well as an endless supply of Angel Fire, a single "burst" of which instantly turned three hundred werewolves to ash when used by Chris Gordon, with werewolves being several times denser than humans of a similar build, and far more durable.


    Angels also possess insight into future matters bordering on precognition, can change the state of their bodies at will, and are able to bypass the senses of aberrants whose senses are orders of magnitudes sharper than those of humans. Angels can influence natural events when free to act, for example, directing meteor impacts as powerful as nuclear strikes at things they deem must be destroyed. It has been hypothesised that many of the natural disasters presented in the Bible were the result of angelic intervention.


    Collaboration: reaching out to Heaven has resulted in a statement that, while wanting to help is admirable, sometimes, one must not intervene, and instead allow those less powerful or wise to find their path and prove their worth. This is a similar stance to the Collective''s former policy of noninterventionism, and understandable. Nevertheless, we have been looking for ways to get angels to act in cosmoses unbound by the Demon Accords, where their abilities can be put to full use, at the same time creating measures for preventing their rivals from following them there.

 Apocrypha: The Zhayvin Files: Hellbourne (Demon Accords)

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    Classification: incorporeal aberrants ("demons") who can hijack human bodies (and do so to sow chaos and violence).


    Colloquial name: Hellbourne, possessed.


    Origin: after their fall, the former angels created a dystopian, hierarchical society. The majority of its members are sent "up" to cause strife in order to test the inhabitants of different worlds, as part of the Demon Accords.


    Description: as most demons cannot manifest a body of their own in the material universe, they appear as amorphous beings made of oily black smoke. Their hosts do not show any outward signs of corruption, although their bodies can be altered once the demon becomes powerful or determined enough.


    Behaviour: most demons are anarchistic, mass-murdering sadists, who display a disdain towards Earth''s society while simultaneously following the customs of theirs (but this is a lie, as demons only care about themselves, and are always looking to drag down those above them). While some older, higher-ranked ones can plan and keep a cool head, most of the ones sent to Earth to possess people can only lay low for so long before their predatory urges kick in.


    Most Hellbourne whose personality isn''t immediately overwritten by their demon are unaware they are possessed, even though the creature''s presence is likely to make them antisocial and violent without it exerting any effort. During the stage preceding complete possession, the host might display exaggerated versions of their worst flaws.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Threat level: local (?). Hellbourne can push their host''s bodies to superhuman extremes even without enhancing them, allowing them to perform feats that would cripple or kill humans and keep the flesh moving through sheer will. Powerful Hellbourne can either assume their true forms or modify their stolen bodies to the point they resemble those, allowing them to match angels in combat. Demons are imperceivable while incorporeal, to both human technology and the superhuman senses of most aberrants without "spiritual" perception. They can extend this to their host bodies at will. It is currently unknown if low-ranked demons can perform feats similar to angels exerting their will upon the world.


    Neutralization: it has been observed that the presence of holy objects (belonging to any religion) can be harmful to Hellbourne, as long as those bearing them truly believe in what said objects symbolise (this is not foolproof; see the case of the hellish preacher taken down by Chris Gordon and his associates, who had a demonically-tainted Bible). As such, the fabrication of such objects would be useless, as we Zhayvin pray to no one and nothing, and never had. Thankfully, we possess equipment that can interact with aberrants in all states of being, and these demons are not beyond the combat ability of even an unarmed reptilian with the means to affect them.

 Apocrypha: Gods Mouth: Invincible (One)

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    "Self-inflicted genocide for the sake of purging the weak and - doubtlessly - the dissenting? Nothing the hands of man have not wrought before. Aye, we know enough to say that those who opposed this slaughter were lumped in with those seen as defective. And they kept at it. We know what you will say, brother: for beings who treat millennia like decades, this is not ancient history, merely something that happened in the past. But ''tis not about time, Gabriel. They kept at this, despite every new culture they encountered. How many worlds were stripped bare and their people enslaved or murdered because blind warmongers wanted to and could? For the sake of a joyless empire where even the conquerors hardly found pleasure?


    And yet, once exposed to humanity, so many of them turned their coats, and followed in the footsteps of their first betrayer, who made a virtue of treachery..."


    -on Viltrumites;


    "An example of how lying to yourself can harm as much as lying to others. He found his path, in the end, not that the guilt ever left him. And by that point, the bloodlust had left him, and so had the hollow ambition he had been raised to cherish. He did not take his throne with pleasure, for all that the blood of a dead Emperor flowed through his veins. He even tried to bridge the gap he had created between himself and his family."


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.-on Nolan Grayson, Omni-Man;


    "The Grand Regent might have been the face of their Empire, but this one was what passed for its heart and soul. Bloodthirsty and unashamed, proud of it, even. He did not try to convert, or spread the value of the realm he had helped carve - such as they were. He wanted to kill, slowly. He liked his victims hurt and broken before death took them."


    -on Conquest;


    "He craved supremacy among his people as he craved their supremacy over the universe. He had driven them further than their late Emperor, had kept them together in the wake of the wrought plague that had killed all but a fraction of them - how could he not deserve the throne? So what if he was opposed by scions of the royal bloodline? They had earned nothing, in his eyes.


    And after the eldest of them made the mistake of exiling him instead of having him killed, he returned with an army, children he saw as tools to be used. It was only the heir of the Emperor he killed who put an end to him, in a battle that almost saw him dead, too - and that only came after many struggles."


    -on Thragg;