Source: https://thwiki.cc/%E4%B8%83%E5%A4%95%E5%9D%82%E6%A2%A6%E5%B9%BB%E8%83%BD/%E9%99%84%E5%B8%A6%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B
Translated by DeepL

1. morning comes to Tanabata-zaka

Tanabatazaka at 10:00 AM
Is there still four hours to 10 Michi ......"
Maeliberi Hahn (Mary) was trying to put her mind at ease.
She was traveling alone, something she was not accustomed to doing, and she was even staying in the field by herself.
Normally, she would leave all the preparations for the trip to her best friend, and this was the first time she had planned everything by herself. So I was completely unprepared. I forgot that I needed something like a tent for camping.
She could not sleep well at night, but that was not a problem for Merry, who was used to turning his days and nights upside down.
The unpopular night of the road was the perfect place to stay up late and watch the stars.
Except for the fact that she couldn't catch her breath.
Today, July 7, was not only Tanabata, but according to Merry's research, it was supposed to be a special day at this place, which was probably Tanabata-zaka.
However, even in the morning, there was no sign of anything around,
A mixture of anxiety and resignation took over her brain.
2．Tinkerbell with inequality
Tinker-bell's inequality
--One month before her solo trip.
Mary was planning her trip.
Renko Usami seems to have gained confidence in her theories, and is writing a paper to present at a conference.
Mary, her best friend, had not seen her for a while.
She was very confident in her theory and was working on a paper to present at a conference. This is the latest version of Renko's paper, huh?
The brown envelope that Renko had sent me contained only a thick sheet of paper.
It's a bit of an anachronism to write a paper by hand nowadays, but it seems she has her own tricks up her sleeve.
...... The Collapse of Probability Theory and the Otherworld?
Revival of the Cobenhagen Interpretation and the World of Dreams?
That's just like her to revive classical quantum theory.
Mary was bored.
The reason is that there had been no activity in the secret club recently.
3．Beyond the forbidden door, is it this world or the next?
Beyond the forbidden door, nobody knows.
Reading the paper woke me up.
I know.
The interpretation that Renko Usami is attempting is classical quantum theory.
It just looks out of the blue, but it is not beyond human imagination.
I can see it.
I see a door that separates the present world from another world.
No matter how much Renko, who cannot see, tries to interpret this phenomenon in terms of quantum theory,
I am sure that such an interpretation would be nothing more than a conspiracy theory.
The world beyond that forbidden door,
must be beyond our imagination.
And that it actually exists.
I can prove that it exists.
4.Smoking Dragon
Smoking Dragon
​
--A light rain started to fall on Tanabata Hill.
It seemed that the rainy season had not yet ended. Merry's body was trembling slightly.
"Ado 30 minutes ------!
At 10:00 a.m., the door to the other world will surely open here.
I will prove the existence of the other world!"
It was the first time he had investigated the other world alone from scratch.
Usually, Renko would find new materials for me.
The temperature on Tanabatazaka was so low that it was hard to believe it was July, and Merry's heart was a little discouraged.
Her breath felt like it was turning white, even though it shouldn't be.
Five minutes to go......!"
A thick haze enveloped the area. It was more like smoke than fog.
This is ...... the bizarre phenomenon I've been hoping for. I can see the door!
Just as she thought that, Merry lost her vision.

1. dream Noh - Taboo Marionette

Taboo Marionette
The slope must not be passed before four o'clock in the morning on the seventh day of the seventh month.
If you do, there will always be a mystery.
The taboo of Tanabata-zaka has long since been forgotten.
Well, then, it can't be helped.
Humans have forgotten how to deal with the other world.
Then, it can't be helped.
Illusions that have forgotten the taboo become diminutive, and death becomes an illusion.
I wonder if this girl also thought that her world was the real side.
I wonder if she thought she was immortal.
That can't be true, though.
I wonder.
6.Crazy Back Dancers
Crazy Backdancers
"Merry?
You're hiding somewhere, aren't you?"
Renko Usami shouted loudly.
It had been two weeks since she had heard from Mary.
Merry's house was a mess with Renko's papers.
There was no sign of electricity or running water, and it looked like she had been away for a while.
I'm sorry I've been so distracted with my paper," she said.
I apologize, please come out.
Renko decided that she was in no condition to expect a reply,
She decided to go and look for Mary's house.
If she had disappeared, there might be some clues, and she scattered without hesitation.
She didn't feel guilty because the place was messy to begin with.
Soon Renko found an old book.
7.凭坐处于梦与现实之间 ～ Necro-Fantasia
...... this by Merry?
This is a difficult book that I don't think Mary, who is not very diligent, would read.
The difficult kana usage makes it hard to read, and it seems to be a very old book.
I carefully searched for traces of it.
I also found other copies that were not appropriate for this place.
It seemed to be a copy of some country's climate history.
I was usually involved in secret-exposure circle activities,
I was good at finding something strange.
I was often the one who found the material for the secret club, and Merry was in charge of the field.
Therefore, it was unnatural for me to find materials related to a secret that I did not know about in this house.
The feeling of discomfort is true.
The reason physicists are sensitive to discomfort is because it is the truth.
...... Hitachinokuni Fudoki Hitachinokuni Fudoki? This is the truth,?

1. own one person 常陆行路

The Lonely Road of Hitachi
The scenery was always peaceful and tranquil.
The country of Hitachi, designated as a nature and cultural reserve, is a symbol of the government's policy of national policy of reduction.
The countryside is like what Japan must have looked like in the past.
But the protected culture is already dead.
It is like a ghost, unaware that it is dead.
Even if it looks like this on the surface, the real Japan was not like this.
Living on the graveyard of culture, the human race today may as well be zombies.
Riding the "Limited Express Hitachi," a heritage cultural train, Renko set off alone for her destination.
However, Renko had no time to look outside.
In her hand was her dissertation, with notes added in Merry's handwriting.
Almost all of the postscripts were in the negative or interrogative form.
Mary is writing on my paper at .......
I've never done anything like this before.
Renko was puzzled, and then a little bit happy.

1. lamentations known only to Jizo

Reticent Stone Statuette
Tanabata-zaka seems to be a place that was lost long ago.
According to the data that Mary had gathered, this area where Renko was now located was called Tanabusaka in Hitachinaka Province.
Renko was tempted to reconsider, but she did not.
She did not do so, because she did not care where the real Tanabatazaka was,
Even if she was wrong about Merry,
Even if Merry's theory was wrong, it would be right to trust Merry's data when looking for the place of Merry's disappearance.
She said, "Do not pass by the house before four in the morning on the seventh day of the seventh month.
"Do not pass by before four on the morning of July 7, for there will always be a mystery."
This coincided with the time of Merry's disappearance.
Renko imagined.
Merry was dissatisfied with my theories about her lack of ability.
Merry came to this place to find the door to the other world.
And then came the predictable accident, the "divine disappearance".
The Jizo statue by the side of the trail is looking at us.
Renko's head was spinning.
She was not one to shy away from lamenting her helplessness.
10．The Secretive Four Seasons
Hidden Star in Four Seasons
Maelie Berry-Hahn!
How long will you continue to think that discovering other worlds is your exclusive privilege!"
Renko turned the jizo over violently.
She knew that it was forbidden to move artifacts in this area, which were cultural assets.
However, this was the only way she could think of to break the real prohibition.
I told myself that I would not be able to find the Jizo as long as I put it back together later.
I told myself so, but my heart was not at peace.
As Renko had predicted, there was a slit in Jizo's back from which light had leaked.
It's true, Merry's ability is mysterious," she said.
But it has to be a physical phenomenon.
But it has to be a physical phenomenon, because the human race is only allowed to observe it!
The quantum world is far superior in terms of wonder!
The slit on Jizo's back told us that the other world lay beyond.
So far, it was no different from Renko's heretical theories.
There is no material to predict the world beyond the slit on its back.
However, Renko did not hesitate to put her arm into it!
As I recall, a moment ago, I could hear the noise.
​
The song of the birds, the sound of the wind, the rippling of the trees have ceased.
​
When I close my eyes, I can see the golden earth.
​
All across the sky, I see the doors to many wonders.
​
I could see Maeliberry-Hearn within my reach
Oh well, it wasn't summer today
The hidden fifth season appears
​
The world, which had been completely lost, comes back to life!
​
This taboo has now been broken!
11．Because there are ghosts even if it's not night
Ghosts exist even when it's not night
You're wrong about that thesis.
The other world has existence, too.
Renko should know that. We saw it together, didn't we?
Mary is mistaken.
My theory does not deny the existence of the other world.
What? But it says so right here.
It affirms the non-existence of particles, not just other worlds.
Hmm?
"I'm saying that there is no matter in the classical sense in this world.
Everything in this world was the interference of fields, not just other worlds.
Not just the other world.
"Well...
No matter is such an extreme .......
Then we all look like ghosts.
What's the difference between ghosts and us?
If you're Mary, who was exposed to the other world on Tanabata Hill, you won't have an easy time answering that question.
Merry, who had returned alive from Tanabatazaka, was still not convinced by Renko's theory.
But, unable to find a good answer, she had to nod.
She said, "...... But I can't believe that two weeks have gone by.
It seemed to me that as soon as ten o'clock in the morning, Renko appeared from behind the fog.
Time itself is one of the interferences of place, isn't it?
What do you think would have happened to Mary if I hadn't gone to help her?
"I think it would have been 10:00 a.m. and she would have just gone home from her trip.
"I think she would have just gone home at 10:00 a.m., nothing would have happened, and she would have just gone on her way.
"Well, I'm glad we're on the same page there.
Is this world a dream or reality?
Don't forget this one thing.
Don't forget the taboo.
There is no place in the world that is not haunted.

Is there a doctor in the house?!
Previous part: 3.5.
Surprised to see this and not a "Prove it!" post? Well, I was debating with myself about finally making one with the info we got from the last part, but to be honest, I still want to get further into the game before I post about our character being HW Jeremy and the Baby drawing stuff, while interesting and revealing on its own, is just a small piece of Baby/Vanny related stuff that's also in the game. Maybe I'll post it later but for now, I really want to finish the First Aid minigames. Also, why did nobody feel the need to inform me that the link to the Tables of contents was wrong in all the parts! How embarrassing.
For those new to this series or who have lost which part or place they're on, check out The Jonsie Burrows: Help Wanted 2: Tables of contents to find where you want to go! If you haven't seen any of my stuff before then...
Hello, this is something you might have missed in Help Wanted 2.
Previously Post Interesting things:

1. Our main character, who's popularly presumed to be Cassie's dad, is already wearing the Security Mask before we even start the game. This means Glitchtrap has access to their mind and body. As for what that entails...
2. Help Wanted 2's AMask-on version of the FNAF6 Pizzaria might be based on Micheal's canonical look for it near the end of Pizzaria Simulator.
3. After completing each minigame, a party hat, plate, and cup will appear on the table next to you. Whose party are we attending as a guest?
4. Help Wanted 2's protagonist is HW Jeremy through the connection of the color blue which is prevalent in this Game and the color chosen to be used for HW Jeremy's name and shirt in Ruin.
5. First Aid minigame's "GET WELL SOON!" drawings are a chronicle of Baby's life as drawn and from the perspective of Vanny using what she researched from the World History of Fazbear Entertainment. They also subtly hint towards the secret ending of Help Wanted 2 and how Vanny wants us to get the key to Glitchtrap for her.
6. HW Jeremy might've been a technician or employee who worked in Circus Baby's Entertainment and Rental and was there during the events of Sister Location.

Now back to our unregularly scheduled series!
You are back in the restaurant again. Nothing about it looked any different and Helpy was only telling you that new tasks were available like he did after you finished Cold Storage, so you click back onto Staff Only to see what your next task was.
Oh. Looks like you've got two new tasks instead of one this time. Another First Aid but this one is called First Aid: Lefty and something actually new, called Fizzy Faz Night 1.
You felt your interest in it grow, but it was tempered by the irrational need to stick with First Aid until it was all done.
Clicking on the sequel to First Aid, the pop-up window comes on screen to inform you that you will be continuing your medical training without the pressure of human consequences. You were about to click on TUTORIAL to start the minigame when you remembered to check the time.
Closing the pop-up window, you took a glance at the current time. It was still 12:00 am.
(Okaaaay, are we not actually playing the minigames? This is weird, I mean not even a second has passed. Maybe it's because we have to complete everything in STAFF ONLY to move the time forward.
In Help Wanted 2, there are six folders filled with minigames, these folders are probably behaving like timestamps to mark our progression through the game and will act as our hours like old games. Wait. A way better comparison is Security Breach! Time will only move when you complete a task. A task in this game would be the entire folder.
The only way to find out if this is true thought is to play the game.)
Maybe the clock wasn't actually set up on the computer and so remained frozen. Whatever was up with it, was pushed aside in your mind as open that pop-up window and clicked TUTORIAL with darkness soon covering your eyes once more.
Back in the void, the instructions were the same as they were the last time you did First Aid, so you didn't bother paying them too much attention as you pressed the "START" button.
"Welcome back. The Patient is prepped and ready." Carnival Nurse droned out with a little bit of mock excitement before going back to her usual monotone way of speaking.
You're back in the room that you had just left a couple minutes ago. But there are some key differences this time, both in how you had started off last and the way the room looks different now.
Like how both vents on the sides of the room were already opened and the mysterious red glow that painted the interior was gone.
As for the differences in the room. There seems to be a slightly warmer and orange lighting to the room compared to the more pale light you remembered being in the room. More differences were known to you once looked around you.
"Medical attention begins in 3..." Carnival Nurse began to start her countdown.
On your left, the Toy Chica Plushie was now face-down on the one-leg table, with that maybe-disinfected liquid bottle nowhere to be seen. A propane tank sat leaning towards the mobile drawer next to you on the side of the medical table in front of you.
As you look to your right, you notice cables hanging down from the ceiling above you, and below you see that the edge of the medical table has some of its yellow paint removed, showing you the raw metal underneath it.
"2..."
You also see that you were given some new tools that you can use for your work. A bracer is now resting on a green cart beside you, along with the steel wool. Additionally, you see a new white tool placed next to the thermometer in the side pocket of the red medical bag. And with that, was the extent of the changes to the room from what you observed.
"1..."
Helpy suddenly appears in front of you and you get to work on examining him.
"The patient is suffering from..." Carnival Nurse went on as you scanned Helpy. His eyes had a green scum covering them while his right arm had a gashed and his right leg had a dotted x on it.
"Trampled by fans." You could see that assessment of Helpy's condition. Grabbing the blue spray bottle, you sprayed his eyes and watched as he began to open his mouth to scream. Slapping his mouth the mask, you looked towards your left, where he heard something coming out of the left vent.
"Great news. Due to today's successful salvage. Pizza Place entertainment value considerably increased. Be warned. Liability risk has also increased."
Alright, it's time to talk about this Carnival Nurse thing and just the repeated Carnival theme going on in this game. Like always, I'm not aware of every theory going on in the community, but to me, everyone seems to consider it as a hint towards the next big FNAF game.
And I agree with that general assessment. Well, I'm not too sure about the next game being a carnival setting but I do believe the next big story point of the series has to do with a carnival.
However, something else caught my attention and was on my mind while writing out the previous part. It was an idea that seemed improbable but intriguing all the same.
Could the events of Pizzeria Simulator take place during FALL FEST?
I'm sure some of you are confused about this question while others are putting some serious thought into it. But honestly, what gave me this idea in the first place was Carnival Nurse's mention of salvaging.
I've been doing some searching and researching, by which I mean going on YouTube and watching a couple of video walkthroughs of Pizzeria Simulator and other FNAF games. And I found that well, the game doesn't exactly tell us when it takes place during normal gameplay.
Though that's nothing unusual anymore. I believe Scott stopped giving us roundabout dates for the games around FNAF 2 when we used to get paychecks at the end of the week.
It does, however, hint to us that FNAF6 happens around October due to this Spook Fest poster in the rare Afton game overscreen. And that it may take place in the year 2023 or after it in 2024, thanks to Henry's tape in the insanity ending.
So, the question becomes is the Spook Fest poster the in-game version of the in-universe festival of FALL FEST? Yeah, try not to get too confused.
Help Wanted suggested that the old-era games, that we played were also released and played in-universe too. And that the games themselves don't accurately tell what truly happened during that era.
That means there could be some missing details, both important and minor, that the old games left out and give Scott and Steel Wool some wiggle room to add to or change something (in our perspective) to the overall story.
So does that mean Scott had recon Spook Fest to be Fall Fest in the new era? Nope!
First, it would be a pointless name change as both festivals take place during the fall. So, unless Scott really likes the name of Fall Fest over Spook Fest and that the word "FALL" had some kind of super-special meaning, it would needlessly overcomplicate things.
Second, and most important of all. Spook Fest and Fall Fest have appeared in the same game before. In fact, it was in the same game where we were first introduced to the idea of Fall Fest being a thing in this universe.
Help Wanted: Curse of Dreadbear
In the Game Won barn, after you beat a minigame, the Spook Fest poster has a random chance of appearing on one of the three walls around you. So that means that Spook Fest has not been recon to be FALL FEST and that it is a thing in-universe.
So what does this mean for my original question?
Nothing, really. It was one option out of three that I had in mind, which speaking of.
Could Spook Fest and FALL FEST happen around the same time then?
I mean not impossible for there to be two festivals happening around the same time. But we don't really have a way to prove/disprove which one happened first, the length of time between when one festival ends and the other begins, or even if they occur in the same general area.
So, unfortunately, this question is unanswerable for me at this moment in time.
Which leaves us with the final option. Could Spook Fest be the new name of FALL FEST?
This one is the most interesting question to me. Fall Fest, it seems, is the oldest mentioned thing to date in the FNAF series, if my memory serves me right. The earliest that we know of a FALL FEST occurring is in 1970.
Yet, one thing that I've noticed about these FALL FEST cameos, teasers, and appearances in these Steel Wool games, is that we've never seen one that went past 1990.
It seems odd, that something that looks to be an annual event hasn't been mentioned or shown to be existing in the recent decade of the new games. Instead, we are only finding remnants of such a festival through posters of the distant past.
That tells me that Fall Fest itself is not around anymore in the present.
So either Fall Fest is still an annual event that just happened in the background of these games. (Aka, Scott hadn't come up with it yet.) Fall Fest stopped being a thing after 1990. (It can happen.) Or that it was replaced/combined with Spook Fest. (This is the most likely one unless it is still happening every year.)
Before we return to the game, I have one more thing I wanted to talk about besides the odd Carnival theme present in Help Wanted 2.
I have missed a crucial detail about the Baby Chronicles drawings I went over in the previous part, a final piece of the puzzle for what they mean. It is something I'm absolutely shocked that John Fuhnaff didn't bring up in his Help Wanted 2 theory.
Although, I can't blame him too much. I missed it too!
Remember that whole chip = Helpy spill I went over? Well, guess what! Those drawings and Helpy specifically actually hint at a major lore revelation!
"Discovering the whereabouts of Baby's chip in Help Wanted 2: Solving the mystery after Sister Location" Help Wanted 2 finally solved the mystery of where Baby's chip was after Sister Location! Hint: It's hiding in plain sight.
I can't believe I missed this! I can't believe I overlooked the significance of the minigame we're playing! It's all so obvious now! Well, you know what they say about hindsight having perfect vision, and all that.
But okay, let me lay out everything.
This entire series of First Aid minigames is constantly making callbacks to one, and only one specific game in the Franchise, Pizzeria Simulator.
The layout of the First Aid examination room is almost similar to FNAF6's office with its slightly claustrophobic enclosed room with two big vents on either side of you. Carnival Nurse, in the last two minigames especially, makes references to the salvage minigame at the end of each night in FNAF6. And explicitly names the Pizza Place that the successful salvage increased the value of.
(Freddy Fazbear Pizza Place is the name of the FNAF6 restaurant.)
Even now, I just realized, that the animatronics themselves in these minigames are a callback to that game. All this time, I was wondering why Pigpatch is in this mini-game or even in this game. But now, it makes sense. Well, not in the sense of why he specifically was chosen, but in the way of why he's there.
Pigpatch, Lefty, and Scrap Baby, that's the order in which the First Aid minigames throw these animatronics at us. But that's also the order in which we meet the animatronics in Pizzeria Simulator!
However, there is some discrepancy here, since technically Scrap Baby is the first animatronic we see and meet in that game due to the intro. Yet, that intro's canonicity is up for debate as we should have either died due to not having the tazer yet or salvaged her before the game even started. But bearing that, this line-up matches the order of appearance in Pizzeria Simulator!
In that game, when you've gained 100+ in money, you'll unlock the option to buy from Stan's Budget Tech, which has all of the Mediocre Melodies minus Orville the Elephant and where you'll find last in line for the group, Pigpatch. Later, when you buy enough things, you'll unlock the Rare Finds Auction which has Lefty. And for just $1, you can add Lefty to your collection of animatronics and skip one salvage, leaving the final animatronic to salvage in the game to be Scrap Baby.
But even with all these amazing connections, there is one in particular that solves the mystery of where Baby's chip is!
Let's pick the third First Aid minigame, wait after Carnival Nurse's intro speech, and look right in front of you. It's Helpy, he has a physical body and is clamped onto the examination table so he can't move.
Now, the reason I told you to pick the third First Aid minigame, is because only the third one has a random chance of spawning the right scenario needed. As there's a chance that one of the things we need to do to Helpy, is saw off the top of his head.
With his head cap off, we can finally see what's under there. Unexpectedly, there's a brain, not a real one by the way, but within that brain is a particular chip that's been damaged. In the minigame with have to replace that damaged chip with a new one that looks really familiar with two green lights with five spaces between them.
This, is Baby's chip, the chip. The same one that Micheal took from Baby in Night 5 of Sister Location and something that has strangely been unaddressed since then.
Now that I've laid it all out, I can finally show where that chip was after Sister Location. All we need is a little change in perspective.
Take all of what I said about Help Wanted 2's First Aid making callbacks to FNAF6 and let's actually put it in Pizzeria Simulator, particularly the nightly gameplay section of the game.
You're in a slightly claustrophobic enclosed space with two big vents with two big vents on either side of you. Thanks to your decision to purchase entertainment options such as Pigpatch and Lefty for your restaurant, as well as the successful salvages of characters like Scrap Baby in previous days, the entertainment value of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza Place has significantly increased. Despite the many liability risks.
You wait for the ad's timer to the skip button to finish counting down as you hear the noises of the hidden monsters lurking in the vents beside you. But you don't turn towards sounds of lurking death, instead, you keep your eyes right in front of you.
From the drawings along the wall to the straw drink sitting on and next to papers, to the computer monitor which the ad is playing on, and finally, to the physical body of Helpy standing on top of it.
This, this right here is the hidden secret of First Aid. What the Baby Chronicles drawings are trying to show us! What the third and final game of it is trying to tell us!
FNAF6 is the very first game that Helpy appeared in and it's the only game that Helpy has a physical body in. That Helpy, this only one that has a physical body has Baby's data chip in it!
But ya know what? We can go further with this and say this incarnation of Helpy is alive. How can I say this? Because the Minireenas and the Bidybabs who are around the same size as Helpy were also alive in some way in Sister Location!
And where is Helpy from? Sister Location. How can I possibly know this? Because he's based on Funtime Freddy who's from Sister Location!
Because why would Henry base a helping mascot for the FNAF6 off of one of Afton's most diabolical creations? Especially since we know from the tape in the Insanity Ending that Henry was well aware of what Afton Robotics creations are used for by the time FNAF6 takes place.
That means that Helpy appearance in Pizzeria Simulator has absolutely nothing to do with Henry. Instead, he comes from the Afton side of the business.
And there's only one active and alive Afton in both Sister Location and Pizzeria Simulator, Michael Afton. This means that he was the one who had brought Helpy to Freddy Fazbear Pizza Place. He also would've been the one to stick Baby's chip inside of Helpy.
So {CONNECTION TERMINATED} happens Helpy escapes it as per the Baby Chronicles drawings. So does that mean he's alive? That's... a really good question, that I can't answer!
Whether he's dead or alive at the current timeline, I don't know the answer, but if I find any evidence in this game I'll make sure to let you all know.
But personally, I don't believe so. I think out of everything in the building that was set ablaze, he was the most intact afterward. So, technically, he could have "survived" the fire.
That way, the current Fazbear Entertainment has something to base their secondary mascot on, while at the same time, being able to recover the no-doubt damaged data chip and putting in the pile of "useless junk of circuit boards and things like that." to be scanned into a certain game.
Which brings me to the chip itself. I believe that both John Fuhnaff and I were wrong when comes to the chip and Helpy in Help Wanted 2. We believe that this chip that we need to put into Helpy was Baby's. When in actuality, the chip we're replacing looks like the kind of chip that's been saved from a fire.
I think Steel Wool was trying to show us what the chip looked like before the fire and how we remembered it. So we could make that connection to the data chip, Baby's chip in Sister Location, and the FNAF6's {CONNECTION TERMINATED}.
But wait! We go even further beyond this.
This Baby's chip was scanned into the beta version of Help Wanted, helping to create a new kind of Mimic in the form of Glitchtrap. But what exactly was on the data chip in the first place?
This question is surprisingly answerable with facts and not theories.
"There is something bad...inside of me. I’m broken. I can’t be fixed. I’m going to be taken to the scooping room soon, but it’s not going to fix what’s wrong with me. What is bad is always left behind. Will you help me? I want you to save what is good, so the rest can be destroyed and never recovered." - Circus Baby Night 5.
Taking apart the dialogue and rereading it to ensure understanding of the context. What Baby is referring to when she says "what is good" is about herself. So when she's asking Micheal to save "what is good", she is asking him to save herself. So the data chip is a copy of Baby! Or is it?
"There is a passcode that you must enter before you can retrieve me. Enter the code carefully. Good. A hatch should've opened. Take the card that you find inside.” - Circus Baby Night 5.
(I guess I should start calling it a card rather than a chip.)
As I already mentioned before in previously. But by this part in Sister Location, Baby has already been assembled into Ennard with the rest of the Funtimes. So what is "me" in this dialogue.
It all goes back to that pretend speech she had on Night 4.
"There's something very important that I’ve learned how to do over time. Do you know what that is? How to pretend. Do you ever play make-believe? Pretend to be one way, when you are really the other? It’s very important. Ballora never learns. But I do." - Baby Night 4.
So what's within that card is not what we and Micheal were originally led to believe is in it. So the "save what is "good" is from Baby's perspective. But what's "good" to Baby? (Don't worry, I am going somewhere with this!)
Again, this is surprisingly answerable. But we need to look towards the Baby Chronicles for the clue, specifically the second drawing.
Baby loves Helpy, and Helpy loves Baby. Baby loves Baby. We're warm but this doesn't sound right. But remember what I said before, the heart symbol and even love can mean other things besides romance. Let's change some things around.
Baby adores Baby. Warmer... But Baby isn't a narcissist, so why would Baby adore herself? Let's change one more thing.
Elizebeth Afton adores Baby. Hot! Scolding hot!
"Daddy just once let me go play with her. She's so pretty and shiny. Didn't you make her just for me?" "Daddy, she can make balloons! Have you seen her make balloons? Oh Daddy, let me go to her!" "Don't tell Daddy that I'm here, I wanted to watch your show too! I don't know why he wouldn't let me come see you, you're wonderful!" - Elizebeth throughout all the nights of Sister Location.
And now everything falls into place.
The one who told us and Micheal to save "what is good." is Elizebeth-haunted Baby. The data card we retrieved from her endo-skeleton on Night 5 was Circus Baby.
Are you in disbelief? Are you in doubt? Or are you confused? Because no matter which one you are, I will explain to help you understand.
The Funtimes are different from most animatronics in the series. They are programmed to make assessments of people like the Toys, to respond and learn from customers like real people like the Glamrocks, and to perform like every animatronic ought to do. But unlike all of them, they are specifically made to capture, lure, and kill the innocent.
So Circus Baby, before the Elizebeth scoop, is a lot like our boy Glamrock Freddy or Roxy. Not in terms of personality or physical form, but in terms of having a sense of self, an identity. All thanks to programming.
After the Elizebeth scoop, Circus Baby and Elizebeth are now a mixed entity, a fusion of sorts. That fused entity or the Elizebeth-haunted Baby, is who we meet in Sister Location. What Micheal took from her was the Circus Baby program.
So yes, Elizebeth-haunted Baby is the one who eventually turns into Scrap Baby and in-turns burn alongside all the others in {CONNECTION TERMINATED}. Leaving behind and keeping safe, whether through planning and a stroke of luck, the one she adored the most, Circus Baby.
This is why Circus Baby is the one who's getting pushed into the spotlight of Help Wanted 2 and not Scrap Baby. As Scrap Baby implies Elizebeth and that she had escaped that fire.
If you want more proof of this, then I am afraid I'm going to have to spoil a future part of this series to help nail this home.
Look at Baby's dialogue in Sister Location's Night 3, Night 5, and its Fake Ending, along with Pizzeria Simulator, and compare it to Help Wanted 2's.
"A little girl, standing by herself. I was no longer...myself, and I stopped singing. —Then other children rushed in again, but they couldn’t hear her over the sounds of their own excitement. I still hear her sometimes." - Circus Baby Night 3.
After Circus Baby scooped her, I guess, as I'm no expert on this, she's been experiencing Dissociative Identity Disorder ever since then as both Elizebeth and Circus Baby recognize what has happened and know that they are not themselves and are separate beings. Yet at the same time, identify themselves as one being, Circus Baby, and cannot distinguish where one starts and the other ends.
"There is something bad...inside of me. I’m broken. I can't be fixed."There is a passcode that you must enter before you can retrieve me. Enter the code carefully.” - Circus Baby Night 5.
“Why didn't you trust me? Why didn't you believe me? Isn’t this why you came here? To be with her again? I don't understand.” - Ennard Boss Fight.
""I know it was an accident. Everything is okay. I'm still here. I don't understand!" - Elizebeth in Ennard Boss Fight.
“You don't really know who your employer is...do you?” - Scrap Baby Death Quote Pizzeria Simulator. (She's under the impression that William Afton is Micheal's employer.)
“Now we can do what we were created to do, and be complete! I will make you proud Daddy! Watch, listen, and be full.” - {CONNECTION TERMINATED} sequence.
Vs Help Wanted 2's.
"I like it here. It's safe, safe forever." I feel bad for you." I recognize you." - Circus Baby Help Wanted 2 Office: Job Interview.
Yeah I'm sorry I had to spoil this piece of evidence about Jeremy working at Circus Baby's Entertainment and Rental. But to be fair, I didn't know this dialogue was there before I looked on the Wiki for all of Baby's dialogue in the games. And as I said, I need you all to understand that Baby in this game is one of the few animatronics who's actively aware of Jeremy's presence. But back to the dialogue.
Help Wanted 2's Baby is the real Baby, not a game recreation of her. More than that she's not expressing any of Elizebeth Afton's isms, Elizebeth-Haunted Baby's Identity Disorder traits, or even the full integration of Elizebeth Scrap Baby's characteristics.
Because amazingly, and for the very first time in the games, we can see what Circus Baby is like without Elizebeth Afton's influence!
And the best part is that it makes complete sense as to why we're being hinted at or can even notice this in Help Wanted 2 and not the first one!
Try and remember my Ruin Glitchtrap Connection "Prove It!" post. If you can't, click here to refresh yourself.
The first Help Wanted game we play is not the original version. As a result, any character that exists solely as data, such as Glitchtrap and Circus Baby, would also be a copy. Leaving the original iteration of them in the beta version, which, in turn, became the master copy. And Circus Baby wouldn't have said anything suspicious to us in that game anyway because we're not playing as someone familiar to her like Jeremy.
Baby's data card would have been together with the circuit boards and other junk like it would have been taken back from Tape Girl's development team by the new Fazbear Entertainment or someone else.
“The drawers have been emptied out. Someone was here. I don't think it was spring cleaning, either. No, there was plastic on the floor. Someone was definitely here during the night. It had to have been the client. I guess. — It was just junk- circuit boards and things like that." - Tape Girl Tape 5.
And there's only one place where almost everything relating to Fazbear Entertainment is being brought to both. One place where Glitchtrap can connect every single past game in this franchise to a network of his own making. One place that Jeremy felt the need to return and is currently standing in as we play Help Wanted 2.
Freddy Fazbear's Mega Pizzaplex.
Thanks to the V.A.N.N.I. Network, Helpi (Help Integrate), and the "Security Mask", Jeremy's mind is now currently merged with the Pizzaplex's Network where he's navigating through a game of false pretense. Where memories sleep and secrets don't keep.
Anyway, that's my current thoughts on the odd Carnival theme going on within Help Wanted 2 and the Baby Chronicle drawings with the missing detail. Back to the game!
​
Whatever was making that noise didn't come into your view and now that Helpy was quiet again, you took off the mask and got back to work.
Another scan and you were digging into your medical bag on your right to get what looked like a long bandaid. (I have no idea what this is supposed to be. Do any of you know?) You applied it to Helpy's upper right arm and from the instructions on the TV, went and grabbed the stapler to stitch his wounds.
You began the stapling process of the wound when Helpy started to scream again which had you grabbing the mask and muffling the sound. And you were not too soon as a look to your right revealed what the current danger of this minigame looked like.
It was a black bear animatronic with a missing left eye, Lefty. The oddball of the late Rockstar series of Freddy's animatronics.
Hearing no more of the noise that attracted it, Lefty retreated back into the right vent before you took the mask off of Helpy and went back to finishing Helpy's first aid.
With another scan, it looked like you needed to tap Helpy's knee again just like last time. Already knowing what was about to happen next, you grabbed the mask with your left hand and grabbed the hammer out of the draw with your right to tap Helpy's knee.
At least that's what you were going to do when an ad on the TV suddenly popped up on the screen and started playing loud music. It was an ad for GAMING SNORKLE with a tagline saying BREATH THE GAME! (I can't think of a single game that would be worth buying this for.)
Quickly you drop everything and scramble for the TV remote as you hear Lefty coming towards you through the left vent. Grabbing the remote and skipping the ad, you turn to watch Lefty crawl back into the vent after she almost made it to the opening before you reached for the mask and hammer again.
With a hit from your hammer and a mask covering his face, Helpy's operation was a success, at least that's what Carnival Nurse had informed you.
Giving Helpy another swirly lollypop, you were onto the next two scenarios.
Which happened to involve injecting a rabid Helpy with Lefty's Rabbid Animal Bite Solution, stapling another gash on his arm, and shoving a pen in his throat(Kudos to Steel Wool for replicating that story about the nurse doing this to help her date who was choking on steak to breath.), hammering his chest, and his leg once again.
All avoiding making him scream for too long with the mask and skipping annoying ads like MARTY'S PLUNGERS and FLO'S Glossy Floss to not attract Lefty's attention too much. But in the end.
"Patient stabilized. Yay."
You managed to survive the ordeal. Carnival Nurse announcement filled you with relief as you gave Helpy his candy for the last time before darkness blanketed your vision.
You were in the "GAME WON!" void. A press of the button on the claw mission gave you your reward in the form of Lefty. You briefly wondered if every minigame you'll play with gives you an antagonist for its reward before pressing the "RETURN TO HUB" button, allowing darkness to fill your gaze once again.
Oh, joy! I really need to start pacing these parts better or I'm going to be doing Help Wanted forever!
But it doesn't matter this time! We finally hit the jackpot, dear readers! I finally got something to make the very first "Prove It!" post for Help Wanted 2! More than that I've got two of them! I have enough evidence to at least post part one of an HW2 protag = HWJeremy post until I finish Help Wanted 2 and uncover as much as I can about this game. This just goes to show that there's still MORE™ to find! Continue on to Part 5!

Now let's talk about the music. Can we talk about the music please? I've been going insane to talk about the music, okay? I love how well fit the soundtrack is to game, how it's like a puzzle that fits in every place, but also how it provides the explanation to what happens. I decided I won't be dividing it, because I prefer it to be in once place, so I would get lost, because I can get very easily get lost.
Also, English isn't my native language. If sentences sound weird, it's probably because they are, there might some grammar errors, which I could miss, but I tried my best. I am sorry and thank you for understanding.
I know everybody at this point knows about classical music put in the game, but I made this post to appreciate the soundtrack in a way that is presented in game, as well as what it bring in terms of feeling and vibes I took from it. I am not specialist on music, so most of this opinions are essentially "what I think is presented to us" thoughts. I will do it in the order I found on spotify, here. I hope nobody did it before, otherwise I will be very sad.
This is have become something more, than it was when I started writing about it. And while I still go through it track by track, there is now more than just analysing music. So, if you wish to listen me being obsessive, take a seat and enjoy. If I wasn't insane before, I soon will be.
Turned Around - the echo, the lone place, you enter the place you perhaps you are familiar with, but also feels alien. It is twisted, changed and filled with darkness, but also not dead. Something is there in the shadows, and there is something in its deeps. And it is your mission to find it.
Safe Room - you might be safe, it might be a place when you rest, hide your things and prepare for another fight. But also it sounds like warning, like it spoke "you know what's there", but in soft, hush voice.
Casual Loop - it's more cosy for me. "All that happened already" and it feels like falling asleep (dying) but then there is this tension on the end, like it send you "wake up, remember why you are here".
Double Back - it's continuation of Casual Loop, but even sadder somehow. The name is deceptive - we can't double back, and Elster would never. But now, we also know there is other person who wouldn't, Isa. They both understand why they do what they do, and can relate to each other. But also they seem to know, that it perhaps would never be possible. But again, they can't double back, they would never.
Pneumatic - industrial machine, endlessly working up and down. We hear steam's hiss, we hear when it goes up and makes this loud noise. It is eternal, it will never stop. Just like you, Elster, just like you.
Eternity in the Box - that's Ariane's theme. She is in the box, she is on the empty ship, you can hear the void around her, and lies there what it feels like eternity. The distortion are her bioresonance distorting the reality, as it feel like you would take something around and started to stretch it like rubber, and leave it morphed into something else.
Visions of Alina - this is less a music and more like signal. Broken (we can hear it even as it breaks in the music) and indecipherable. Elster thinks about her, remembers her, looks for her - but the signal is no longer valid, message is worn down and there is nobody to look for.
Incinerator - "things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl". The long sounds feels like flesh that now sag on Aras and moves with their skeleton, they arms and legs bang over steel and there is this feeling of chase - you can almost feel as their stretch their corrupted limbs towards you, to take you to their vents and... better not to know what they will do there. And also it's all cut the moment you leave. They stop to walk, and crawl back to their vents, like they ought.
Intensive Care - the nurse is here, and the only cure is death. Similar to Incinerator, you hear banging of their legs over steel as they walk, but they are less chaotic and more focused, less a chance a more like slow walk towards you. They want to care and cook, and you look like a fine piece of meat, so quickly they turn with their knifes to you. There is this sound, like choir, like they try to talk to you, beg you to let them it, which is cut off, as quick as you leave the room. But it doesn't stop. I can imagine them knocking over door, to follow you, the loneliness is too much for them, but that's for nothing - you left.
Train Raid - something actually relaxing. Melancholic, nostalgic - probably what Ariane feels, when she raided her train and thought about her home high in the mountains. Elster does not know who white-haired girl, but she feels important, she feels like somebody she should walk to, as so she do. White-haired girl disappears, like a dream that never was, but also, leaves us with a golden key - a literal clue, that we are on the right path and we should follow her.
Ritual - feels like continuation of Safe Room. Moment of rest. But also moment of revelation - we found door to progress. This is the moment of hope.
MNHR - gentle, cosy, even a soft flapping of a little bird. It feels like songbird, which is very fitting for their name, mynas. Perfect melody for gentle giantess.
Mynah - have you ever had a friend that is always calm? Like nothing can't tip them off? And do you also had this intense fear in the moment when this calm, chill friend gets angry? This is the music for it. They are still cool, but you feel they have changed. They are no longer calm, and hatred boils inside them. The short high-pitched notes feels either like needles, which Mynahs shots while loading their gun (also shooting itself in the game feels like it was made along side music), as well as sounds that triggered Mynahs make, but done in mechanical way. How heavy it sounds, you can feel it weigh and hardness before you, and that you rather should wait, that fight outright.
Adler - this one is very interesting. If I wouldn't know, I would say it's continuation of Safe Room. On the one hand, it works like a knife in the back, as we, and Elster, are betreyed. We expect to get a reward after beating mynah, while Elster thinks she met somebody who's rational and "the same type as her" - a loner replika. But on the other hand, it feels like metamorphosis. Adler works as catalyst - he takes Elster false memory of Alina, and push her down, not knowing that he actually helps us in achieving our goals. He makes her transform by force.
Dowsing - even in memories of different people we look for something, and it always ends up being Ariane. I feel that a lot of soft music hides how much depressed Araine had to be, growing around people who disliked you and found you weird. There is tension in it, showing that probably Ariane was afraid each day, if she will be bullied, or will they leave her alone. And makes me wonder - do we really see what Isa see, or do we see what Ariane wants us to see, or perhaps there is something else to it. No matter what, music feels like falling. We are deep in it, and we have no way to go back.
Bodies - nothing much to say, soft music of self-realisation. We see bodies of us who failed. We will be the same? Or will we succeed? It's like iceberg - the deeper we go, the more we discover and understand.
Hamstrung - it feels like mix of Pneumatic and Turn Around - corridors haunted by ghosts, twisted into endless machine. Elster is closer, but still sealed in the dark coffin. She's perpetuum mobile, endlessly moving between ghost of the past.
Riot Control - my personal favourite. The drums gives away the feeling of lines of Stars, beating their batons over shields. The order was"NO MERCY" and you will be begging for death. It has this cruel and brutal, as they will beat you into submission, break not only your body but also your soul and mind. They will beat you until there will be nothing to bury. And it doesn't stop, it gets better - they start a chase. Stars are the first replikas we meet that actually have military experience, and it feels. While the rest are kind of chaotic monsters who reacts on impulses, Stars are not. No, they are finally set free - you are not fighting with them, you are being hunted. Even the end, when we killed them off or left the room it doesn't feel like defeated them. It feels more like walking through battlefield - you didn't won, you survived.
Kolibri - sound of insanity. Their mind is consumed and like a chant they all sing. Sad, that we can't tell what they sing, or maybe pray, as all its a radio signal. Elster can only disturb them setting her radio and knock off their concentration. Their insanity reveals in their desire - to not be alone. They have great need to be surrounded by other Kolibri, and that's why they make their own copies. They sing a song, that the other Kolibri (the one that reminded sane in library, KLBR-S2302) wants to join them (the great hive mind, as all other KLBR has number S2301, meaning that their personalities mixed together when the first one pulled all of them down). The awful feeling of being left behind is so terrifying for her, that she considers that, perhaps, becoming insane might be better option. At least, she wouldn't be alone.
Eulenlieder - roughly Owl Song. A tragedy. The last thing that probably kept them sane against corruption was killed by sheer malice. Now, their dorm empty, and only broken cassette and stabbed audio player remains, informing of failed last stance. But somehow, it doesn't sound sad. The video noise gives makes it sound like waves on the beach, hinting that perhaps, it was more than just a music. Giving the fact that beach seems to be important for gestalt that was base for Elster, perhaps that's she doesn't see it as something bad. It almost feel like memory, perhaps it is a memory. Also, interesting is that in comparison to other ones, it has upbeat. Like there was more in it, something that we can't know, but probably gestalt Elster would know. It is for us to wonder, for her to know.
Orrery - this one is interesting. It's name is kinda what it connect to where we hear it. "An orrery is a mechanical model of the Solar System that illustrates or predicts the relative positions and motions of the planets and moons, usually according to the heliocentric model" from wikipedia. It's smoothing in a way that in against all odds, against Empire's and Nation's regimes, there might be a future, where on all planets are not longer inhabited by gestalts and replikas, but by people being people. A different kind of hope in a game where most is focused around Elster looking for Ariane, this one is more about things as they are now, in general. After all, we look above the solar system, even letting Elster comment on current political situation.
Ewige Wiederkunft - "Eternal return". Once again, similar in tone to Safe Room, but it isn't our safe room, but Adler's. A nostalgic and melancholic place, where he can rest and thinking, and where he normally would enjoy his new Fetish Object and ease his boredom. It feels like Adler's theme, which is very ftting - he is in the loop. He is returning to the same point, over and over again. He is responsible for the station, he was created to be responsible for the station. But he grows desperate as well as nihilistic. No matter what he does, nothing is solved, but even worse, everything gets more broken. Changed, twisted, added and removed. Everything will repeat the same way - Falke falls sick, units gets corrupted, gestalts dies, flesh grows, Elster enters Sierpinski and causes chaos. And he can't do anything - it gets reset and he starts again, from the same spot. Nothing that he does matters, nothing that doesn't do matters. A victim in endless loop, cursed to be a witness of Sierpinski's doom and not being able to do anything about it. He is like Greek tragic hero. He wasn't a villain, but antagonist - he also like Elster wanted to break the cycle. It just wan't his fate to do it.
Liminality - "is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of a rite of passage, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the rite is complete." Elster is almost there. She is in final stage of her search, perhaps the farthest she has ever been. But a lot is before her.
Kentucky Meat Shower - If I could ask author why, I would ask about this one - why this name. Why Meat, Why Shower, and why Kentucky. It connected with Alder falling into pit, down to Nowhere. It is probably first time, as he states that he done this already and I think he meant killing Isa. But... just why? Is that reference to something I am too stupid to get? ... oh it is. Huh. I guess it's raining Adlers, hallelujah. Perhaps this allusion about where we are about to go - into flesh. Music itself sounds very much something you would hear in slasher movie. Honestly, Kentucky Meat Shower does sounds like B-movie horror. But also, there is this role reversal where the hunter (Adler) is being defeated by the prey (Isa).
Haint Tales - we stand before ghosts' nest, we are at source, we are the gate to the place that Is-Not. Corrupted machines, deep breathing of rotting replikas and steel hitting steel like often we hear when corrupted replikas were noticing us and trying to get us. Once again, Elster must get deeper. But now, we enter to haints' (ghosts) domain. But what ghosts? Ghost of the... past?
Misremembered - Alina is gone, Elster. You are dead, Elster. You are not looking for Alina. You never did. Try to remember, try to really remember. I know it hurts, but you must let it go. You tried to find a place that is nowhere now, so you have arrived to Nowhere. Yes, I am being melodramatic, but I think capture well what it meant to be. Perhaps it's Ariane, or perhaps it something deep inside Elster memory that calls to her, a feeling that's something is off. The went to look for Alina, right? Then why it feels wrong? Like she was remember it wrong, like there was something calling. What does this book mean? Elster tries to remember, but it will long before she will be able to understand. The long noises similar to Liminality and Hamstrung reminds us that we are half-way, and can do only one thing - keep going.
Nue - Added and removed. Changed and twisted. Similar to the one in Japanese folklore, it is a beast made of many other animals, in that situation, two Storchs (honestly, there could be more, but two long pairs of legs are the only visible ones for me). It is a demon, which often connected to bringing bad omens and ills. Also, it nature is hinted to be unknown, but saying that something is unknown in Signalis is like saying nothing. Musically, it's similar to Mynah and Intensive Care, a slow walking while also we hear replikas hooves (are they hooves? They do look like) its over the steel tiles. But, there is some kind of difference - the catharsis. For the first time, he haven't have to do it alone, as Isa helped us. It felt like we are not alone. Isa grows more and more in character, to conquer her fear that she have always relay on others, and saves us.
Matryoshka - its mechanical sound, similar to Pneumatic. But this time, it's not Elster who's the machine, but our dear Mynahs. How's like to be imprisoned inside the machine, to be a unable to embrace people without fear that you might hurt them? Matryoshka is a Russian doll, which represents each generation of mothers - the biggest being often grandmothers, and the little ones inside being little kids or newborns. In game it's interesting as we don't put doll inside doll, but we kinda put layers on base doll. Mynahs are mother and protectors, gentle in their ways to others, as files states. But also, deeply inside them, they are like lost, traumatised child, who would want to hug others when they feel scared. Is their armour their 'skin'? Or is it just armour and they can put it away? I think the first one is true. They are prisoners of their own bodies they did not wish to have. No wonder Beo prefers to die, than gets fixed - she might say its because she doesn't want to be a burden, but I think deep inside, she also doesn't want to live in world where she can't be a mother, and where she is send to dangerous parts of mines. Perhaps that's why stuffed animals are so badly needed for her - she wants to hug something, and stuffed animals is something that you can't break, no matter how hard you hug it. Even here, in mechanical machine, she sacrifices herself to loneliness, so could Elster go forward. Like Mynahs do all the time for the other replikas.
Labyrinth - "things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl". It less primal and more dangerous sounding than Incinerator. We just need to walk carefully and grab what we need. But also, there are Aras chasing us, quickening our heartbeat. It's less a fight, and more a run.
Prison - distorted, ringing of metals bars over crates, video noises. It always makes me think, that Nowhere is memory of every replika about them being born. Like we, gestalts, don't remember moments of their birth, they also don't. But it's still there, deep in their consciousness. And in heartless Nation's regime, they are born in confusion. Prison is good name, considering how this place has no exit, and its filled with "wardens" (a just much more corrupted enemies, Sniffers - I don't remember what was their names, but you probably know what I mean). It seems that it's less about fighting, and more about surviving, like being sealed in the box. We can kill each other, but it won't change that we are imprisoned.
Coal Ash Slurry - another one of these mechanical ones. However, in the context of Nowhere, it feels very fitting. We have this ever present flesh contained by steel. And what are replikas, if not flesh (gestalt personality and memories) imprisoned inside steel (replikas metal body and its functions). Word slurry means "a thin mixture of an insoluble substance, as cement, clay, or coal, with a liquid, as water or oil" which feels like something in which replikas are made. A deep memories of birth, and moments before you learn of your function in tyrannical cast system made by Nation, you feel this dread of being born. You think, but have nothing to think about, you remember but you have nothing to remember about, you feel but you have no names for this feelings. You are like a golem made of clay, not sure what you should be doing, and what you are and what's your purpose. But soon, your 'masters' give you things to do and teaches you how to obey.
Sea Smoke - uff, we escape for a moment from transhumanism horror to... I'm not sure what. This sounds familiar to other more classical sounding parts of the soundtrack. It sounds similar to Double Back and Casual Loop, which a soft piano. We stand before the person that started all of this, somebody who seem to be important, but in context of replikas production was crucial - the Great Empress. What's she doing here? Why have you deiced to take us to stars? Why have you done nothing after you have been crowned? Who have you wed? And why you killed yourself? Perhaps the longest day was a cycle, similar to the one we are in now, and the wedding its ending. Perhaps there was a love story, of her loving somebody she shouldn't love? Or the one that broke her heart and she wanted them forever and ever, until she could wed them. Only to have them heart being broken again - perhaps there was no love, but only obedience. She couldn't take it no more, and saw herself as monster, pushing others to do what she wanted, even if they didn't want to. Her emotions pulled the Song of the Gods. However, who knows. We have little to base it on, and this interpretation already suffers from overthinking. In Sea Smoke there is longing for things that were, there this nostalgia. There is this faint choir or somebody speaking but its disturbed, like it was... in the past? A mourning perhaps over something or somebody.
Ritual (Nowhere) - same as Ritual before surgery room. Long notes sounds like wind coming from under door. We know what we have to do and we are close to the end... right? It has to be. After all, it is where must be Alina... right?
The Red Gate - We ought to crawl in Nowhere, and we have now learnt to walk to outside. We exit the hole, to which we entered in the beginning. It is like exiting Plato's cave - before we only have been siting memories and shadows, but now, we have exited to see the truth. And similarly to the beginning, must go through the Gate. But here is someone who's waiting for us. Makes me wonder, if he fell here, or perhaps he too had to go through Nowhere. However, he can't go through gate. Perhaps he's afraid that he will learn the truth, so he prefers to remain in the cave, where he can believe in whatever he was made to believe, without fear of founding out truth. Or perhaps he can't, as the only one who was invited was Elster. He reaches for it, but could he? He says he was here before, and that he never came back. And each time perhaps he dies from his wounds, like we see later Elster(s). He want to know what destroyed his Commander, his Falke. Sometimes I wonder, if he really admires her, or is it just a deep demanding feeling he was imprinted in him. But he noticed her changed, and he couldn't gain the same feeling like from before. Perhaps, there was also love between them? Maybe it wasn't just artificial one, but also something that Falke lost beyond the Gate was calling for him. We never hear Falke's thoughts before being 'poisoned' by whatever that lies beyond. I like to think they at least enjoyed each other company. But it also breaks my heart (again). The calm music hints that, perhaps, there is hope. We feel that we are closer.
Die Toteninsel (Emptiness) - Island of the Dead. We walk towards it. The ship in the sea of red sand, surrounded by black rocks. "It doesn't matter", for Elster it never mattered what she finds it there, finding truth was never a goal here. "[Ich] hab kaine angst" - "I have no feaI'm not afraid". The islands appears, a memory to which Elster can't connect - Alina never painted, Alina was with her on the war, Alina... Alina is gone. It still haunts her, but tries anyway. She has to try, she can't go back. But she can't escape it. Finally, Elster understands and breaks (literally). She was never looking for Alina. We learn that all of that was for nothing, that we have achieve nothing, cycle begins again. Elster is filled with her gestalt memories, on who she was, what she wanted and who she loved. But that person is dead, and Elster has to understand that. She has to move on. Music emphasise that, we have this soft piano, but also long notes that gives away us a empty feeling. That we are in vast space, in vast place and we are lost. She is lost... and it ends.
Memory - but who's she looking for? Doesn't matter, she has to ship to check. She wakes up and goes her list.
3000 cycles (I missed you) - "Do you remember now, Elster?" might ask Ariane. "I missed you". Ariane didn't missed some gestalt she found in LSTR's memories. Not a mix between a replika unit and gestalt. She missed her Elster, her Elster. She shows us the best memories, their kiss and their dance. The best thing she can give Elster - something to remember. Now they will play their favourite music and live with the moment... Until she is hit with once again, with familiar signal. It tells us to not be afraid that we failed. Failures are part of self-discovery. That there is somebody that waits for her, not her gestalt her, but her as who she is now. She's not a robot, she's not a replika, she is not a copy of somebody that is long dead - she is she, she is a person. And she made a promise. Our promise, she and Ariane. And now, she has to keep it.
Near Dark by the Pond - it's more a signal than a track. It's for Elster, so she could follow.
Lived in - She made a promise. She has to remember our promise. A long hunting voices sounds like screams, perhaps screams of pain that Ariane made when radiation was taking life from her one by one, teeth by teeth, hair by hair, while keeping her awake, so she could feel it all.
I can't stop now - heavy music, working on machine. While previously it suggested her being endlessly going machine, now it means being remade, reworked. She takes literally takes something from her past mistakes and fix it her. I like to think that Elster lying there is Elster from Memory. That somehow, we also create cycle, so that could next Elster succeed.
Rouge Wave - twisted and changed. We are back. The more intense music feels more like a action music, just before the main action is about to happen. We, and Elster know what has to be done. We no longer go around looking for clues. Now, we are on the mission.
You have changed - it feels cryptic, as we see yet another hole to jump into, but also more sincere. While previous times we might had been hesitate, now we know where to go. I wonder, if that hole was made for us by Ariane, as a way to give us shortcut through Sierpinski. And who has changed? We? Elster? Sierpinski? Adler? Falke? ...Ariane? I think they all could say this to each other.
Cigarette Wife - it feels like a chase music, which is creates interesting comparison to what what is just a elevator music. This is another one with interesting title, to which I have no idea what it connect to. Perhaps is another reference to something I am too stupid to find/see. However, the chase in the music fits great with "I wear no mask". Perhaps Adler finally went through the Gate in this cycle, and now understand why things changes. His losing his face indicates that he had enough of trying to keep it all as things were. They were rip apart and put back, in a way that doesn't match as it was (for him). A kiss he gives Falke leaves me wonder, if Ariane projected on him Elster emotions, and on Falke her? That perhaps they are both (Adler and Falke) caricatures of what Elster and Ariane are. Or perhaps he really had feeling, true feeling for Falke, and she did for him, and in that way, he hopes to wake her up, like a prince that came to princess. But nothing happens. Everything is whole again, and he hates it. He hates how everything was destroyed and rebuild, and in this world, there is no place for him and for Falke. Or perhaps, its about Falke, in which Ariane and Elster memories are stored. She was made whole, but it was gluing mismatched puzzles to each other. She's whole, and she hates it.
Rotfront (Moon) - it's transition. A transformation of Sierpinski into something else, something alien, but now familiar. Ariane helped remember something Elster forgot, now she wants Elster to help Ariane remember what was.
Dream Diary - a soft music on which we feel that we walk over surreal world. This is dream diary (which we later even find to solve a puzzle). We walk through place where Ariane grow up, learned her place in society, and to be more precise - that in society there was no place for her. Once again, music fills us with melancholic and phlegmatic vibes.
Blockwart - it similar to Riot Control but mixed with Kolibri. It is aggressive, hostile and feels dangerous. I have a feeling that it might come from the raid that was done on Itou bookstore. Perhaps the march of Storchs and Kolibris radio waves still haunts Ariane. The fact that she couldn't do anything about it. She didn't know about her abilities back then, and now when she knows about it, she regrets heavily she couldn't save her only friends.
Teeth - Isa... she couldn't go anymore. She couldn't find Erika, she lost any hope. Perhaps there never was Erika to find. Perhaps through vision of Isa, Ariane tried to save her friends. But she couldn't. She couldn't even tell them apart. Music has this very empty, somehow muffled feel to it, a hurtful past that couldn't be altered. That's why we see "Forgive me" - it's from Ariane to Isa and Erika.
Double Back (VHS Ver.) - a closing to the story, we once hear what we heard at the beginning, where there was still hope.
Home - interesting that home is seen by Ariane not the radio station she connected with happy memories, but one with her aunt's home. Their are only two beds, meaning her aunt was only thing she had back there. And her aunt wasn't, I think, bad, as she tried to take care of her. If not counting school, perhaps there were happy memories. From this track there is a feeling of safety and solitude, mixed with some dream-like vibe.
Ariane's Theme - Artefact Ending. I don't think we help her achieve godhood - Ariane never wanted power, nor she wanted to ascend. No, as it requires from us to finish game at least once, it requires from us use outside knowledge and finding hidden keys, this is for us. We jump to Ariane's point of view, missing how Elster beats Falke and we see that her nightmare of loneliness and being left alone ends, and finally, she can have one last dream - of her, Elster and their dance. And above them? Rotfront's eye, a symbol of home, a place where should would love to take Elster with her. And perhaps now, she can, as they both finally finds each other.
Falke's Theme - it is twisted vesrion of Ariane's Theme. Falke is filled with both of their memories, while also losing herself. She doesn't want to be whole, she want to be freed and be herself. I kinda wonder, what are her issues? Perhaps having feelings for someone? And who was donor? While their are modelled after the Great Revolutionary and her Daughter, they weren't the one to give away their neuron patterns.
Become Whole Again - Falke wants to die. She wants to let go of this forced memories. She knows she isn't the one that Ariane loves, but she has the same feelings for her as Elster. She knows she isn't wanted nor she should be, but it still hurts her. The music has the similar elements to other corrupted replikas, mainly the hitting on steel, like she had problem walking, even when she overs in air. It is a battle, but Falke doesn't want to. The Elster part of her personality doesn't allow her to let go Elster, as Elster doesn't want to kill Ariane. And when she fell, she feel like the memories that was kept in her mind leaves. She is whole again, she is herself, the same way Elster is whole her now.
The Promise - Adler awaits us, and while he tries to stop us, it doesn't matter. I think the thing that kept him uncorrupted was that this whole situation kept him invested. Adlers' units needs new Fetish Objects, new fascination to keep themselves invested and entertained. We can see that, that when he wanted a certain fountain pen, he could sacrifice anything to get it. Now, the desire to break the cycle was the one last Fetish Object that kept him sane, something that he couldn't get bored, as it became his obsession. But, when beaten, gives up, similarly to Isa. He can go no longer. And the moment he gives up, corruption gets hold of it, practically turning him on the spot, as reaction for his prolonged resistance. Elster doesn't care, she is here to keep promise.
Crepuscular - "of, relating to, or resembling twilight; dim; indistinct". This is it, all it could take is to go to her and... She can't. It's too much. She put herself to sleep. The cycle has ended, the night come close, she shall sleep, and soon, she will wake up, to try again. She tried to evade pain, so she couldn't now take it. She have Leave. But also, it's Memory. She doesn't remember her, as it's not her. She is still in between, in between being a replika and being her own person. But she made it. And Ariane sees it. It's not Araine who don't remember, it's Elster who lack her full memory.
Troublesome Creak - I... have no memory of it. Honest. But it's tense, and it feels like ending, but I don't remember it? Does somebody know? But it sounds like a dance, a grand ending, filled with emotions.
Warm Light - the cycle has ended. They can move out. They could never be together, not in this world. But also, music indicates hope and catharsis with it soft piano playing, that perhaps in place where they are going, they will be able to love each other, and dance one more time.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAnd this it the end.
Hey you, yes you. Thanks for reading it, if you did. If you didn't... well, I don't blame you! I wouldn't want to read it too haha. It was stuck in my head, and while I don't think I get all this thins right, I'm glad there is a place where I can drop it, even if probably nobody will read it.
There is not much conclusion on the end. What I wanted to say, I said already and I don't think there is much to add here. I saw so much different interpretations of what happens in the game, thoughts and theories, that I think adding my own 'big brain moments' won't change anybody opinion. And honestly, I love this game for that. It's like, perfection of art - it has it's own value, but also changes tone and shape depending not only the person that looks on it, but also what that person wants to find in it.
TL;DR; the author of this post wanted to listen to music and write short thoughts about it but end up overthinking about space lesbians in dystopian sci-fic. The author has nothing on his defence.

Ok, me and several other people were quite upset with how KFP4 turned out. In a fit of writing rage, I wrote my own version. This is my head cannon, and I already think its 7x better then whatever the bleeding hell they stuck on the big screen.
I'm widely open to criticism as I’m probably going to constantly edit this and maybe make a full script of this later.
Mind you, this is a summarization

One night, on top of a mountain during the depths of a huge blizzard, miners witness Tai Lung has somehow returned. Surrounded by both evil chi flames and unknown figures [a hooded fox and a masked white tiger] and slung over the burly tiger was Master Ram, beaten and unconscious. They mysteriously leave whilst Master Ram Dojo burns to the ground.
[No unneeded goading from Fake Tai Lung that makes Po to unnecessarily investigate this]
Meanwhile, far far away, Po is stopping an stingray who had been tormenting and threating children in a nearby village. Po is seen full display with his new chi skills and while sporting a new look. He's wearing a black kung fu pants and a dark green cloak that slightly drapes over his left arm, reminiscent of Oogway. On he cloak are small gold pins detailing the Furious Five. Making his way back after a successful mission he's grabbed by both of his dads to help open their new restaurant. Whilst he awkwardly helps his dads, many of the children are wondering where the Furious Five are. Po explains that the Five were dealing with with incredibly important solo missions.
[3/5 of the missions were pretty lame/weird, so some adjustments and lore connections were made]

• Tigress is dealing with the Wu Sisters attacking the Rat Clan in the far west
• Monkey is investigating the missing relics in Wu Dan Mountains
• Viper is conducting peace talks between the Cobra and Mongoose Clans north
• Crane is fighting the Mad Crocodile Princess who has taken the Turtle Village hostage
• And Mantis is dealing with some maternal issues with his blushing bride

Po’s dad not wasting a beat use this moment offer pictures and use life size cutouts of the Five to promote Po even more as the Dragon Warrior and Spiritual Leader of the Valley. Which confused one of the children and asked Po which was he? Po couldn’t properly answer and moved past it with autographs and pictures. During this, Shifu wants to urgently talk with Po and forces Po away from the whole game situation. At the Jade Palace, he tells Po that he must help in the recruitment of new members of the Furious Five, as it has been long tradition that new masters, if proven worthy, can enter the group and the Jade Palace elites every 5 years in a display of kung-fu mastery. This event was introduced only just 10 years ago. He goes into detail that the first batch of candidates didn't pass since Tigress was a lot more... brutal in previous years. And the second year faired no better against her. (Poor Master Pheasant) They've since done away with entrance by combat and now its more of a Skill Tournament.
He also explains that this event is also a test of resolve as they must do away with their previous titles and names. This greatly confuses Po as he been lead to believe that the Furious Five had always been named this. Shifu exclaims that who in their right mind would name their child Monkey? This way was introduced 10 years after Tai Lungs attempt for power as having names could lead for needless Ego. So their names became their titles. Many other master abandoned their names as a sign that have reached the truest level of Kung Fu, but the Jade Palace was the first to introduce this. This makes Po feel like he’s been lied for the past 3 years and Shifu merely brushes it off as they have more important matters to discuss. [Timeline drop]
(Po only kept his name is as tradition to keep the true names of honorary warriors. Hence why Oogway and Shifu kept their original names as well.)
The only real problem is, according to Shifu, the tasks of the furious five cannot participate in the festival as they were too important to ignore [according to Shifu, Mantis’ bride is quite dangerous if unattended. “Have you met her? He has his mandibles full at the moment.”]. So the introduction ceremony and judgement rely solely on him. As Shifu must tend to other duties (a long earned vacation to the Hot Springs of Jia Jin Peaks). Po explains that he can’t do this on his own, but Shifu is firm that Po must conduct the event by himself because 1. The Jia Jin Hot spring are highly exclusive and costed him a small fortune. And 2. Because Po holds two of the highest standing in China: Master Spiritualist and Dragon Warrior. Po insists if that’s what it took, he’d let Shifu take it. Shifu is already adamant in his position and already knows full well of the responsibility those two titles hold. Shifu leaves telling Po that he’ll figure it out as he is the Mighty Dragon Warrior and Master Spiritualist in an almost mocking tone. Po calls out Shifu claiming that he’s enjoying watching Po struggle which Shifu merrily agreed that he was.
[This shows Shifu as a little salty that he wasn't chosen for Master Spiritualist by Oogway and making sure Po is actively struggling with the responsibilities of both weigh on him]
The next day, Po is struggling to choose candidates. As each in their own right is a master. [Got rid of the Elk, Ox and Po wannabe, as they're pretty forgettable as characters]

• Qin Jingyi - Master Peacock - Master of the Thousand Blades
• Xue Hai - Master Otter - Fearsome Fighter in a Cute Package
• Bi Lee - Master Goat - Force of Nature and Blunt Force
• Mei Ling - Master Cat - Pressure Point Expert [Return of a Legend of Awesomeness’ character]

Po freezes at his choices and starts panicking. He has a mixture of stage fright and stress. After claiming he has urgent matters as the spiritual leader, he bails the event. Much to Shifu's anger he finds out via Duck Report [return of Zeng]. Shifu explains, via comedic Duck lettering sequence similar to a text messaging session, that if Po doesn’t find at least one candidate by the time he gets back, Shifu promises him that he’ll use one of many forbidden tools of his choosing on Po, as he explains it in vivid detail much to Po’s horror. by the end of this week long back and forth, Zeng passes out in front of Po.
This forces Po to meditate on what to do next. He goes to the Peach Tree of Heavenly Wisdom to figure this mess out. His line of thought, as he talks to himself, is that this is what Oogway would do. Po’s frustrated, panicked, unfocused and hungry. He eats some peaches and thinks to himself, what would Shifu or Oogwag do? He contemplates being both a spiritual master and the dragon warrior, he has to balance the ways of both peace and butt kicking. But even he knows he can’t be a spiritual guide as well as being the Valley of Peace's guardian, while also traveling to place to place seeking adventure. That's ways too much responsibility to handle, even for the Dragon Warrior.
He fights with strange vestiges of his his own, face, Oogway and Shifu’s. He finally chases them away, exhausted, he looks up at the moving blossoms, following just one as it lands on the new sapling that was planted by Shifu in the first movie. He looks in hand at the recently chewed peach pit. He nonchalantly pockets the seed, takes a deep breath and tries to meditate, but unfortunately, he immediately falls asleep.
In his dream, he receives a vision of a many headed being, a crying fox with a glowing heart, Tai Lung stealing the Staff of Wisdom, the moon becoming red, Tai Lung changing into a smaller vestige with blue eyes and Po himself shedding a dragon from his own body in front of 12 varying shadows and an exploding sun. He wakes up in a shock as it is already nighttime. As he’s trying to figure out what the vision meant, he spots a Fox thief named Zhen breaking into the palace to steal some artifacts and treasures of kung fu past.
Zhen is trying to find a specific item, but is talking to herself as she has no idea what she’s looking for as half the things in the palace are made of jade and she was only given a description of a jade weapon.
Po confronts her and Zhen begins using the many of the weapons in the hall and Po countering many of the weapons by using the staff of wisdom, but in a moment of confusion, Zhen manages to grab the staff and attempts to mimic its power, but is confused as she perfectly copies Po’s movements. He explains smugly that it can only be given and uses this opportunity to capture her. Zhen is sent to prison, but witnesses of Master Ram abduction tell Po that Tai Lung has returned and what he has done to one of the Masters of Kung Fu.
Thanks to a clue from his own vision and Zhen’s talking to herself, he interrogates Zhen. Mostly by begging and when doesn't work, by giving her some his restaurants famous soup. Zhen buckles for the soup and explains that Tai Lung had hired her to steal the Staff of Wisdom for a huge sum. Po asks how much, Zhen exclaims enough to buy all the dumplings in Gongmen City. Po looks longing at his staff, but snaps out of it. Zhen continues to tells him that Tai Lung used a forbidden technique that can allow temporary passage into the material world via possession and has been collecting Kung Fu Masters to use for their powerful Chi, and if he gets enough, he can force his way back to the material world, stronger than ever. Reluctant at first, but needed to heed the meditation vision, Po heads to Juniper City with Zhen. While even the guards of the prison know full well that he’s going to be betrayed. Meanwhile, Ping and Li, terrified of what might happen to Po, but Lin is firm that he’ll be fine as he is the dragon warrior and the Spiritual Leader. What could go wrong?
[no more Worry-Wart Father Subplot].
The two on the way to the city discuss their ideology, as Po was selfless and Zhen couldn't help but be Selfish as she always had to be. They reach the Happy Bunny Tavern. Po uses this time to find them a way to Juniper City while Zhen cheats her way to line her pockets. And after Zhen accidentally shows to have rigged her games, a fight breaks out. As Zhen knocks them out and steals from them, Po forces her to return the coin. It is there that Po uses his Chi healing powers to heal the more critically injured patrons and Chi Drawing ability to best the remainder of the skirmishers and escape via boat. Where the two discuss what Po just did. Explaining that when your a Master of Kung Fu you deal with all kinds of weird mystical happenings.
Zhen then learns about Chi Giving and learns she has an aptitude for it. As she almost causes the boat to root itself into a small forest. During the boat trip, Tai Lung conducts war meetings with the city’s criminal underbelly and is shown extorting both the people and criminals alike. By using a show of force and unknown sorcery, Tai Lung scares them into giving up more of their wealth.
Arriving at Juniper City, which is already at full display as the tallest and biggest city Po’s ever seen. they explore and see the sights of the city. Zhen explains that Juniper city used to be a place of knowledge and home to the Celestial Spiritualists, but when they disappeared (the city, not the Spiritualists), so did their knowledge and the new residents built their homes right on top of where they once were. It became a busheling metropolis of China. Po also sees many wanted posters of missing Kung Fu Masters, but he also sees a huge amount of wanted posters for Zhen’s arrest. After realizing that Zhen is some petty thief, they are confronted by guards looking for Zhen’s arrest, Assassin’s looking for the Dragon Warrior and Bounty Hunters looking for the both of them. A chase and fight sequence commences throughout the city. Showing a difference in the many cities Po has previously been in. They escape their pursuers by using the maze-like sewer system and by using a secret door, leads to a deep underground catacomb littered with ancient murals and markers [which shows events of KFP’s past and future - Easter-eggs and the like]. Po also explains his trust for Zhen and tries to do what Shifu does and pass on some wisdom and a Peach Seed in his attempt to sound sagely like Oogway and wise like Shifu, it kind of fails, but it was close to something. Its from there that they infiltrate Tai Lung’s lair. And after dealing with the hired mercenaries, criminals and homemade traps that guarded the catacombs, they find their way to Tai Lung’s War Room. Unfortunately, Po is trapped in a large cage of ancient materials. And in attempts to free himself, he gives his staff to Zhen in an attempt to leverage his way out, but Zhen betrays him.
Tai Lung makes the scene along with a huge burly White Tiger in a iron mask, wielding an oversized Tetsubo (studded war club). Along with an ashamed Zhen with her hood up. Tai Lung welcomed the trapped dragon warrior into his home. Introduces his posse. Guo the Bounty Hunting Master and of course he's already met Zhen. Po believes that Tai Lung used similar Chi sorcery that Kai used when he arrived. Tai Lung laughs and mocks Po for being shortsighted. It is then revealed that Tai Lung never returned. It was known as the Sorceress only known as the Chameleon.
Zhen was hired by her to trick him and several other masters into coming here, for two reasons, their immutable Mastery of Chi and the Staff of Wisdom itself. After the defeat of Kai and the revelation of Chi and the Spirit Realms existence. The Chameleon delved deep into the darkest of magics and chi, discovering their properties and their amazing power. She had innate talent for copying a person, but everybody treated like some ragged street artist. She laments that she finally achieve real power, instead of just some weak street performer. No more cheap imitations, no more false power. The real deal power, and its all thanks to Po's inventions, his naivety and his need for adventure. Her boasting goes as far as she can even hear the magics of this place call to her.
During Chameleon's revelations of the past and her need to be seen by the world at just the right time, Po is also banging his head on the cage that he knew it was coming and yet he trusts too much. Po also admits he wasn't listening which deeply angers Chameleon as her whole backstory was about her being ignored and treated like a gimmick. She also reveals (with a dramatic "behind the wall" flare) the other members of the missing masters, the Furious Five Contender, and even the furious five themselves, all beaten and caged (who were also taking bets on Po getting tricked and losing the staff). They were also tricked and caged by the Chameleon's mimicry and abducted them to the Juniper City as she orchestrated all of their “important” missions. (except Mantis', as that was a legitimate mission and they only caught him during his bachelor party).
The Chameleon explains that she plans to use the Staff to plunder the reaches of the spirit world and use all of its masters to become the worlds most Powerful Master of Kung Fu and Chi which will allow her create an Empire that overshadows China and beyond. Using the Blood Moon, she'll reach full potential as a master of Mimicry and take over the entirety of China in one night, making sure that they either bow to her and only her, or be destroyed. As her revenge for history turning its back on her. With grand delusions of being the China’s sole empress, she vowed to leave a mark on the world, even if she had to carve her name on its very soul. Even if it wouldn't make her ruler, she'll harm countless innocents in the process. She plans to target the Valley of Peace after she razes the Junpier City to make an example to the Rest of China.
Po escapes after he notices that the floor isn’t enchanted with the same material and breaks out, but without the Staff of Wisdom. After going through the same mercenaries that he previously knocked out, he finds himself at a huge ledge near a ravine, overlooking a massive cave system. Littered with many buried artifacts, remnants of an old sewer system and various housing debris of old Juniper City houses. With various pockets of light coming from random spots throughout. It is there that he sees a large misty cave entrance leads to the waterways of the city in the distance away from the base, which in turn revealing a huge feet of stolen ships and treasures. Tigress appears in front of him as she explains that did the same maneuver and grabbed the staff, but after Zhen tries to stoop him, he gets clobbered in the face with a palm full of corrupted chi magic, launching Po into the darkness below by Tigress who is shown to have been the Chameleon.
After Zhen is too shocked for words, Chameleon informs her in a deathly cold way that their business is concluded and that she gets to scamper away in whatever hole she called home. She can collect him again later as she has the Staff of Wisdom and total access to spirit realm and the only written text of opening its doorways. She walks away leaving Zhen alone looking at the void where her friend once was. The Chameleon tells her assassins to make sure the Panda is dead, as hero types like him are like cockroaches.
With the staff and prisoners, the Chameleon makes a spiritual doorway to summon every martial arts master to steal their kung fu and their natural chi. The real Tai Lung was summoned his full power against the Chameleons assassin bodyguards, but was one shotted by Guys brutality, which allowed the Chameleon to steal his power and chi draining him. She goes on to summon even more fallen Masters of Kung Fu and steal their overabundance of Chi stored within them. what’s even more disturbing is that she didn’t even need Guo‘s help stealing the rest. She summons Lord Shen, Kai, Porcupine, Flying Rhino, and many other spirits. Zhen, seeing the horrible mistake she's made, she tries to find Po.
Po is floating unconscious in a shallow pond, his new clothes torn and his cloak missing. He is awoken by a strange funny Pangolin. Po has a moment of Deja-Vu, but the mysterious Pangolin doesn’t know what that means. After an awkward exchange, the Pangolin brushes off the off-topic discussion. He introduces himself as Han and explains himself. He is formerly Zhen’s adoptive father who trained her as a thief. She fought and tore her way out of poverty by honing and stealing. But she screwed up a heist and ended up destroying a priceless relic owned by a upstart known as the Chameleon, and so she had to work under her to pay off her debts and buy her freedom. Because if Zhen didn't do what the Chameleon said to repay her debt, not only would Zhen lose her hands, Chameleon would make sure Han never had to go hat shopping ever again. And according the pangolin, this job was said to be her last gig as chameleon’s lap-dog, implying that Chameleon either plans on freeing her from her debt or plans to kill her as soon as she gains true power. Han explains that she feels as she was no choice. When Po questions why, he explains that she had no one else but herself to look out for. Po turns as away from Han as he explains that's the nature of those who have no one else to help them rise up. Po turns confused but all he is met with is a small gravestone statue of Han. The Gravestone of Han's head begins to crack and fall in front of Po. Who echoes one last piece of advice, “give her a chance to make things right.”
It is there that Zhen and Po meet up on a cave bridge with a roaring waterfall next to it. With his trust broken, Po is ready to fight. Zhen tries to explain, but the two end up fighting. After a certain period, Pi catches Zhen in the Wuxi Finger Hold. Zhen is confused and mocks the technique and Po explains what it does and she gets panicked. Zhen is then easily overpowered by the Dragon Warrior on a warpath, but she calls out that she genuinely wants to help. And when a mass of the Chameleon’s assassins descends on the two, she helps Po fend them off. After two best them are are exhausted, Zhen begrudgingly admits that she was wrong and wants to do a right in her life instead of always messing up. Po coming to terms with her confession, lends a hand to her.
Zhen and Po are appear to the Chameleon as she is midway plundering the spirit realm as she comments as she only consumed only half of the realm. She says that she wanted to get Oogway next as she know she has more enough power now to steal his mastery, but she can wait. she has more than enough power now to take care of a has-been panda and a worthless street rat. She sicks Guo on Po while she fights Zhen herself.
Po finds himself at a standstill with the burly Bounty hunter as he's been infused with corrupted Chi Magic and matches him step for step all while saying he's been the one to best all members of the Furious Five. He was humiliated by Tigress and the Five and he'd spent years preparing for this very moment.
[Also making a point that the Chameleon doesn't just give up the Staff of Wisdom just like that and instead using it for her corrupted and dangerous chi magic in the big fight]
In the ensuing fight, Chameleon transforms in several varieties of Masters, and going so far as using Po and Zhen’s appearances to confuse the two. But Zhen devise a plan taunts her in front of cages to both free her prisoners and confuse her. Chameleon begins tearing through the cages in a mutant rage until she realizes she surrounded by Masters and Spirits who seek revenge for their capture. Giving Po a breather against Guo. The real Tai Lung makes a comment that when this is all over, they have a score to settle with the panda. In which most of the spirit villains agree, much to Po’s dismay.
In a last ditch effort, she combines herself into one large amalgamation of masters. Which Po comments as Awesome, but disturbing [her form is not of a mutant dragon, but of a winged brutish demon similar to that of a Orange Oni].
The group ensure in a massive fight. As many masters get tossed almost immediately, a chunk of veteran masters continue to fight against the Chameleon Oni. And another good chunk help fight Guo.
Masters Viper, Mantis, Tigress, Monkey, Crane, Zhen, Peacock, Goat, Weasel, Otter and Ram fight the Chameleon Oni. Using their sheer number to out maneuver the hulking beast and hit her weak spots.
While Tai Lung, Lord Shen and Kai fight with Po against Guo. But Guo is still matching each of them as if they were children fighting a grown up
Each seeming to get the upper hand in a blaze of fighting prowess. But after a certain point of the fight, the Chameleon unleashes a wave of corrupted chi magic that blasts, not only everyone out, but knocks Po and Guo clean out of the base into a ruined housing nearby. In which they continue their desperate fight.
Only Zhen remained awake whilst the rest were badly injured or unconscious. Chameleon taunts as she morphs into her original form, marking her as the victor, Zhen remember what Po said and using the Peach Seed, uses all of her chi into it and throwing it at her, which causes a massive tree to begin rooting into the catacombs and upper city. As the vines and roots begin to seal Chameleon, she begs Zhen to make it stop and throws the Staff of Wisdom at her as a bargaining chip. Zhen then approaches her to grab her hand but instead grabs her with the Wuxi Finger-Hold. And with one last remark, Zhen personally sends her off, while saying the iconic "Skadoosh".
And during this moment of chi growth, Po uses a chi releasing technique that was similar to Oogway's technique of paralyzing Tai Lung. And with a huge cloud of purple corrupted Chi erupted from Guo, breaking his iron mask. The massive release of corrupted chi shriveled Guo into nothing more but a pale imitation of what he once was; scrawny and powerless. Guo reaches out to a falling peach blossom and when it lands on Guo's hand, he's reduced to dust. All that is left of him is a hunting sigh.
After Zhen returns the Staff of Wisdom to Po, he uses the power to open a portal in the sky that sucks up all of the former villains, remnant chi and masters of the Spirit Realm before the have a chance to do more damage to the already heavily damaged Juniper City which now has a humongous peach tree in its center.
Back at the Valley of Peace, Zhen is ready to go back to prison, but Po decides to choose her as the next member of the Furious Five, pleasing Shifu as he welcomes her. Also Shifu found out about the destruction and damages that he caused to the city and was about ready to use the Thousand Needles of Discontent on Po, but was stopped when Po needed to explain to him something important. Shifu causes a spit-take when Po says he’s stepping down from being the dragon warrior. He claims that he needs to embrace a new role as the spiritual leader, instead of an adventure seeking warrior guardian. He goes into detail that the need for adventure almost caused a powerful villain to destroy everything and so he must step down. This causes Shifu to walk away with a sense of pride and pure confusion to meditate on this growth of Po. While Zhen believes she doesn't deserve to be part of the same group that she betrayed, Po gives her some advice, albeit not great, but it means well. He also explains to Zhen that a new dragon warrior will be chosen in the next Choosing Festival. Zhen jokingly asks why she can‘t just be the Dragon Warrior? Po explains that he can’t be biased and create another Guo. Po jokingly says that Zhen might have a chance at being the Dragon Warrior. They discuss new names for the furious five, Zhen suggests the Serious Six. We see Tigress, Monkey, Mantis, Viper, and Crane enter the scene to also welcome Zhen and Po back. They’re also bandaged a bit after the fight at Juniper City. The scene fades as Po asks them why they never told him about their real names. They said they never really thought about it or their real names weren’t really good.
Finally Po, along with the Furious Five help Zhen train to become the next Master of the Jade Palace. We also see Zhen bonding with the others, similar to how Po started out in the first movie. Shifu deeply meditating on the events at the Peach Tree. Zhen causes some pranks, only to be outclassed by Monkey. The final scene is Zhen looking out at the night sky on the very same roof she began her tale on. The scene ends with a freeze frame which turns the scene into a beautiful scroll painting.
The mid credit scene stops being a painting and transforms back into 3d. It shows Zhen 5 years later as Master Fox, aged out and like her fellow masters has perfected her craft in Kung Fu Mastery. She has become a Master of Kung Fu Mimicry and Chi. We see a line up of both the Serious Six made of Tigress, Monkey, Viper, Fox, Crane and Mantis along with 6 other masters. Peacock, Weasel, Otter, Goat, Cat, and Sloth (slow but unbelievably strong).
All are lined up, presented in the next Choosing Festival for the next Dragon Warrior.
We also see Po in another new outfit. One where he has fully immersed himself as the spiritual leader of the Valley. Wearing an even larger and greener cloak with ancient talismans adorned on it, which includes a very wide brimmed straw hat. His pants even got an update, as they‘re also adorn with ceremonial rope and the same green shade as the cloak.
The Serious Six and company line up Po to be chosen as the next Dragon Warrior, but was cut off by a loud explosion and mysterious figure in a great ball of fire appearing off the horizon yelling “Kung Fuuuuu!” Shifu tiredly exclaims “Not again!” as the scene transforms itself back into a painted scroll, the words “Be Yourself and You will be Legendary” appear in the left corner. The painted scene zooms out from a jade scroll in a black void and we hear Oogway chuckle and with the scroll magically closing, and with the last click, the credits fall.
=================================================================================

Notes and Gripes:
I know it ends almost the same way, but it shows that Po is growing as a character and leader. Showing that he chose to pass the Dragon Warrior title to someone else as he accepts the new responsibilities as a spiritual leader. But as a leader, he chooses to be unbiased and that he would need to give fair chances to his allies to earn the title. Zhen just gets a push in the right direction in this draft. The original draft just forced Po to abandon it, no if, buts or whys and then he just gives it to Zhen. That's not good storytelling, that's just a really bad OC insert fanfiction. I made it so the plot isn't as predictable as a dog chasing a f\**ing stick and shows growth from the two main protagonists. No spoon feeding. No unfair choice. Giving Tigress at least a chance here. But this story was about Po facing Change. Not changing that.*
Added to the story of the chameleon being once a street performer who discovered Juniper City's ancient magic archives and became corrupted by their magic, her lust for power and visions of grandness and her inferiority complex that she needs to be remembered for more as just a gimmick. Removed the whole excuse as being "too short and scrawny " as Mantis literally exists to make that backstory pointlessly moot. She still dresses the same, but she has delusions of surpassing even the Emperor of China, which adds a certain pity factor to her character.
I question how the Chameleon was even able to operate under the radar of the Jade Palace for so long. An evil magical (even though magic was NEVER introduced in the movies and she just had it) sorceress that can shapeshift and is extorting both people and criminals of the country's biggest city? Word would've gotten to them months ago. And there were no implications in the movie stating that it was bad to talk about her. Matter of fact, there was nothing said about her. I question why Zhen was even wanted there in the first place, she controlled the city?! Plot hole! So I made the Chameleon a touchy subject as her Assassins are everywhere in the city as if they were the secret police. "We don't talk about Bruno~"
So I made it so that the Chameleon was operating underground for years and only just started to become bold enough to straight up kidnap masters. It shows that they're ready and willing to fight combat experts, abduct them with the skills to back it up.
Added the masked White Tiger Guo the Bounty Hunter
He used to be one of the more promising candidates for the first Choosing Festival, but he was humiliated by Tigress' skill. He spent the next 10 years honing his craft for hunting specifically kung fu masters. Mastering their techniques and ways to counter them. He was recently hired by the Chameleon as her personal hatchet-man, hunter and overall muscles. The only thing she promised him was even more power, in which she delivered. Chameleon figures that having a pet master of her own that's just under her thumb would be brilliant play. A Chi Jacked Bounty Hunter with a burning hate for Kung Fu Masters with the skills to back him up? Easy choice, interesting writing, adds to Po's growing and show of skill.
But the question of why Tai lung is weaker than Guo is quite simple. Guo was trained at birth similar to Tai Lung but Guo spent an additional 10 full years training to fight specifically Kung fu masters of all varieties. Badass in his own right, but Tai lung spent 20 years locked away and 3 dead. I think that speaks enough. Had Tai Lung had been training in those 20 years he’d be an unstoppable force, but sealed in one position for that long? Realistically he’s weaker.
I made Juniper City have a much better standing with lore and makes more sense why Po would be in awe of it as he's already been in a City before. This variation of Juniper City was 6x larger and taller than what was shown in the film. More importantly, it had a history of magic, which makes a lot more sense than Chameleon just having it out of the blue. It has traces of the old city and various runes, talismans, symbols and murals scattered throughout representing real Chinese glyphs in magic (Fulu). Also the Chameleon's base isn't just smack dab in the middle of the city with a staircase that leads right to with a sign in neon that reads "BAD GUY LAIR". It's poor writing that adds no flavor. Secret sect of the old city that's filled with seal knowledge of a once dead Art of Chi? Better lair and has a bit more spice to the taste.
I know I’m introducing a lot of my own characters but these characters are like half of the cast in the original, just there. And Guo is a silent type who grunts. So really it’s not so much of an insert. They're just there add a bit more flavor and crunch to the story.
Yes, Han is still just as worthless in this version. But adds a certain traumatic factor to Zhen. A sort of sadness that her character failed to capture. She has literally no one, and she didn't even know.
Yes I did include the Five in the story, but In all actuality, they probably wouldn't have had too many lines to break the budgets back. (85 million was the Fracking budget and KFP3 was 145 million. What even happened here??)
I cut out a lot of unnecessary bits, the father subplot really only worked in the previous movie. Also removing the underground criminal sewer bit which made no sense as there was literally no reason to use the characters, as they were only introduced for city flavor. I added a bit of delusion and secrecy to the Chameleon character with grandeur designs, but at the same time losing herself. As she wanted to be known for her own power she could never achieve on her own, her only thing she'll be even known for is her own grave that she herself caused its creation. Also, Tai Lung would've just clobbered Po the second he got the chance to, no clue why they even went with a "despite you murdering me and foiling my goals, I respect you". No, you ducking clown. He may have appeared in one movie, but everyone knows damn well that he would've taken his revenge right then and there.
I was half-tempted to add an overarching villain reveal that the end. An ancient evil. A chi infused sorcerer, a Five Headed being named Wu Xing. They were sealed away by the 7 World Masters 2000 years ago, chained away in the Spirit Realm’s deepest dungeons. Someone who actually whispered to the Chameleon about Chi secrets and her seemingly natural aptitude for it, but then I realized that’s too fanfiction-y. This here’s a remake. Maybe a video game final boss, but not as a movie villain.
Can/should we bully Dreamworks into remaking the movie? It worked for the Sonic Movie. We def need Jennifer Yuh Nelson back as the director. Not saying we should use my work for a remake, but we just need something else beside this dumpster fire.

PoF is also hosted on Ao3! do with this information what you will.
u/SpacePaladin15 is responsible for the creation of the NOP universe.
 
in the name of being imprisoned by a lap cat when really all i want is to eat some breakfast, behold: “the nature of an ordinary smartphone”
in this chapter: sparci, left to his own devices for just a little too long, goes somewhere he shouldn't, and finds something he might regret.
first - prev - next ////////////////////////// Memory Transcription Subject: Sparci, Herdless Farsul //////// Date (standardized human time): January 21st, 2137 //////////////////////////
It's been a few minutes since Dan left. I've been trying to count the seconds as best I can, even though I can hardly think. I'm hungry. And tired. And everything hurts. My leg especially. But I have to be ready. I have to do this.
"I'll be back in a while. Maybe [a quarter claw] or so," he'd told me before, even though I still haven't said anything to him since... the incident. "The rest of the spaghetti is in the fridge. You should be okay to eat it cold. Or if you really don't want that, I'll come back with some fresh fruit."
I don't understand. Why does he keep trying so hard? Why does he pretend he's not boiling with rage? By all rights, he should be livid. He should be returning everything I said, and then some. But he isn't. All he's done is beg me to eat! Literally beg! Why? I just... don't understand.
My eyes burn with tears as I mentally run through the aftermath yet again, still failing to make sense of it all. He didn't chase me. He didn't come after me and break through the door and lose himself to his instincts. I heard him elsewhere in the apartment, doing spirits know what, until someone knocked on the door. His neighbors, by the sound of it. They sounded so concerned, so sympathetic. Would they have reacted the same way if they knew who I am? What I am?
Dan told them it was just a disagreement. As if he didn't think much of it. Why? How could he? It makes no sense.
I turn over to lie on my other side, the nest of towels I threw together as a bed not nearly enough to protect me from the rough linoleum of the bathroom floor. I feel like I managed to sleep at some point, but I can't be certain. Why can't I repeat whatever happened when Dan first brought me here? A five-claw-long nap would be... I dunno. It wouldn't fix anything, but at least my dreams are... usually better than this.
...I think I've waited long enough. If he's really gone, then now's my chance to get out of here. I can't stand this awful place, where nothing makes sense. At least outside I knew what people really thought of me. At least outside nobody tried to pretend to care.
I carefully push myself up, using the bathroom counter as support, and raise my ears to listen for anything, anything that could suggest he's still out there somewhere. It's been dead silent since he allegedly left. If he's really gone, then I might not have much time left to do this. I cautiously open the bathroom door, then wait a few moments, still listening for movement. I hear nothing but the sound of the ceiling fan.
This is it. I hurry out and around the counter to the front door as quickly as my leg will allow. The void in my stomach swirls terribly at the movement, and I stumble into the door, vision blurring as the world spins. I can't help but groan in pain. But I can't afford to waste any time. I have to keep going.
I fumble my paws to unlock the door before pulling the latch and heaving it open. It's so much harder than the bathroom door. But I manage. I'm almost there. I'm so close. I just have to keep going and find somewhere new to hide and hope he doesn't find me again.
As I poke my head out and look up and down the hallway for threats, I can't help but feel... strange. The navy and yellow patterned carpet. The white walls, so bright with all the lights in the ceiling. The myriad other doors. It all looks so alien. Compared to my own apartment building, it's practically a palace.
But... Where do I go? I can't think of any other hiding places off the top of my head. And can I even get far enough away before he comes home? There'll be people all over the streets. I won't be able to avoid a confrontation. What if one of them does something that hurts my leg again? But... no, I can't keep thinking about it. I have to just go. If I wait any longer, he'll come back and catch me trying to escape, and who knows what will happen then? I have to go now. I have to--
One of the doors in the hallway clicks and swings open. I panic and jolt backward, slamming the door shut as quickly as I can to avoid being seen. I only realize my mistake all too late. There's no way whoever that was didn't hear me. This is bad. This is really really bad. What do I do?
I hold my breath, heart pounding so hard it hurts, and all I can think to try is freeze and wait for something to happen. After a moment, I pick up faint shuffling just outside the door. Anxiety fills every corner of my body—they know I'm here, they'll come in and see me and see what I am and they'll- and--
The shuffling goes away just as quickly as it came.
I cough and splutter as my lungs force me to breathe, before my breath hitches and I only barely catch myself before I start crying again. Is this really how I was destined to end up? In a horrible, waking nightmare full of uncivilized temptations and predatory madness? Why can't I do it? Why can't I just leave? What's wrong with me? Why am I so broken that I can't even try to rejoin the herd anymore?
My stomach growls loudly, and my attention drifts into the unlit kitchen. I can't stop the treacherous thoughts from creeping in. I can't stand this hunger. I have to do something. But. I shouldn't. Not his food. Even if there's the slimmest possibility that humans really do just serve each other the most luxurious meals possible on a daily basis, I don't deserve any of it in the first place. How could I, after everything?
I force myself to turn away and ignore the incessant whining of my stomach. My eyes catch on the door to Dan's den. Yet another intrusive thought bubbles into my head. There has to be something. An explanation. A reason. All I want is to know why. All I truly want is for any of this to make sense.
I limp back to the small space between the bathroom and his den, and steel myself as I push through the door and into the most dangerous part of this apartment. The first thing I see is darkness. Of course it would be pitch black in here. I wave my paws around the wall beside the door, hoping to find a light switch, and in seconds one of my toes snags on something and the room flashes into visibility. It's an uncannily normal space, with a large bed taking up most of the floor, a large dresser to the side, and a desk with what looks like a human-made computer set on its surface. He doesn't have a closet, and the design of the bed doesn't allow for hiding anything beneath the mattress. So where's the meat fridge? Does he not have one? Is he one of the humans who doesn't eat meat?
I take a few cautious steps into the human's den, keeping my ears raised in case anything makes a weird sound. It doesn't smell meaty or bloody at all. Smells more like... just... salty human smell. Like the rest of the apartment, but stronger. I hate how much my stupid brain wants to think it smells good.
But whatever. I can't be worrying about that. I have to find evidence of... of something. I don't even know what. I'll take anything at this point. I quickly move to the nearest point of interest—the dresser—and, bracing myself in case I'm about to see something shocking, slowly pull open the bottom drawer. Inside is... uh... a bunch of artificial pelts. I dig through them, nudging them aside one by one, before realizing they're just the mundane coverings humans always insist on wearing. This answers none of my questions. And then the middle drawer is more of the same.
The top drawer, though, is comparatively empty. It has a whole mess of jumbled cables and adapters and connectors that I can only assume go to his many electronics, a pair of reflective masks that he obviously never wears, a thick black and silver box decorated with countless tiny studs and tightly locked with some mechanism I can't identify, a mundane blue ring, and...
...a black rectangle? My paw gravitates toward the thing automatically. It looks so much like a deactivated holopad, but way bigger. When I pick it up, it turns on, startling me with the flat part of its exterior case suddenly lighting up. It's almost like some kind of... extremely tiny old-fashioned computer monitor. The display is very simplistic, with only a few words(?) and numbers(?) in humanese, overlaid on a background of chaotic blotches of color.
I poke at it a few times, and the text moves as if in response. Then I accidentally poke it too hard, and the text goes away entirely, to be replaced by a grid of icons and more text. Just like... the home screen of a holopad. But it's not a holopad. If it were, it would be projecting its display out into the air. What is this thing?
I try to select one of the apps at random, but all I get is a circle in the middle of the screen with some weird oval made of swirls. It shakes and turns red when I tap it. So I guess that's a dead end. Is there a language setting somewhere? There has to be. What modern device doesn't have a translator built in? Unless... is this thing even modern? Maybe it was built before humans made first contact? But then why would he have it here? Holopads are better in every way.
Not sure what else to do, I sit on the bed and aimlessly tap around, hoping something will happen. Most of the apps just produce that same taunting circle that I can't get past. Some of the apps take me somewhere bloated with humanese text that I can't read. One of them has what's clearly a search bar, and even seems to have vocal input. But when I try to speak to it, it just throws an error. It's all useless. None of this helps me.
But just before I give up and resume my search somewhere else in the room, I somehow land on an app with pictures alongside its text. Tapping on one of the pictures expands it into something much more exciting! Not a fullscreen view of the picture, not a gallery of more pictures, but a video!
A human—wearing a strange, orb-like mask and clothed in long, seemingly-religious robes—stands on a stage, in front of a podium. "Yes, hello hello everyone! And we've even got some weird... fluffy dudes in the crowd. Cool." the human shouts. Finally, something I can understand! "Wow. Uh. Gotta be real though. I hate this! I hate standing here! A whole lot!"
The audience(?) laughs. "It's too bright, and wow the acoustics in here are awful, and, have I mentioned how swelteringly hot it is? Not in the good way!"
Who is this human? And why would Dan have this video? Does he laugh at it? Is this... human comedy? Or is he just the kind of person to stockpile anything and everything he can, just in case the next data courier doesn't have a copy of a given thing?
"Yeah so uh I'm gonna make this quick, then." The human holds up a shiny idol. "Thanks!" And then they turn and start walking away from the podium, while still talking. Their voice fades as they get further and further away. "That's really all there is to say on the matter."
The video suddenly ends with an outro playing loud, obnoxious blast of instruments. I scramble to pause it before my ears start bleeding. All I can do now is just... sit in awe, staring down at the strange device for a long time, struggling to comprehend what I just watched. What was the point of that? Why would Dan waste precious storage space on something like this? I absently return to the main menu and look at the many, many other videos, and start wondering just how much he has saved. Even this sampling alone, as I keep scrolling down only for more to keep showing up, is insane. How could he ever have the time to watch all this?
But then something shows up that gives me pause. One of the thumbnails has a yotul standing beside a human. I hesitantly tap it, pushing down my worry about what I'm about to see and hear. I need to know. I need answers.
It starts with a blurb of humanese text. Based on the video's length, I have to assume it's another truncated clip, like the one with the weird masked human. The text soon fades and reveals a room with a human sat behind a desk, and a yotul and another human sitting on a couch, in front of a beautiful night time skyline.
The desk human speaks first. "Funny translation weirdness aside, what I know we've all been wondering is—and just bear with me for a sec because I know this is morbid—What do you truly think would have happened to your people if the Federation had gotten their way?"
My heart sinks. I don't want to watch this video anymore. The yotul frowns. "They already did get their way. You don't need the Archives to tell you they wrecked our homes and tore our families--"
I hurry to stop the video, unable to listen to yet another voice listing my peoples' crimes against sapience. Yet another life ruined by the Archi--
...Wait.
The Archives?
But. Hang on. When could Dan have downloaded this video? The last main sequence data courier was here... a day or two before we got the bulletin about the Archives. And it's not like the emergency courier would've been carrying stuff from the human internet. Did the bulletin take longer to reach the colonies than everyone else? But then still, how would he have this video? The bulletin should've been sent out the instant it was made public knowledge, right?
I stare down at the object in my paws, something about its alien form tickling my mind as the puzzle pieces click into place; Dan's propensity for being a techno wizard, his weird aloofness toward the whole problem with interplanetary communications... and now his secret not-pad having an impossible amount of videos stored. Is this device... somehow connected to Earth? How could that be possible? Venlil 4 doesn't have any FTL relays. And if it did, they would connect to Venlil Prime, not Earth.
But... wait, wait wait wait! This is perfect! If this is a human device, made for humans, and truly is connected to the human homeworld... then it won't have all the stupid censorship the humans put on the stuff they shared with the galaxy! This is beyond perfect! I came in here looking for something to explain why Dan keeps trying so hard to get me to lower my guard, and this is exactly what I wanted! I don't need to know how it works, or why, just that it does.
I quickly close the drawer and make my way out of the den, keeping the device held close so I don't drop it and risk breaking it. I almost head back into the bathroom, but... one glance at the pile of towels on the floor has me turning around, into the living room. I'll be fine as long as I keep my ears peeled. When Dan comes home, I'll hear him coming, and I'll run into the bathroom before he sees me. It's foolproof.
I set myself on the couch, making sure to keep the front door in my field of view, and return my attention to the not-pad. Now... how do I get to the uncensored stuff? I can't use the search function. Or... can I? I rewind the video with the yotul to the beginning and listen to the speech again. "Funny translation weirdness--"
Translation. Translation! This human just unwittingly gave me exactly what I need! If I can copy the sound of that word in humanese, then I can say it to the search bar in that other app, and that'll have to get me somewhere!
I replay that exact tiny snippet of the video over and over again, straining my focus as hard as I can to hear the true alien noises underneath the understanding my implant melds into my brain. It's a weirdly complex word compared to its counterpart in farsulese, but it's definitely doable. With no hesitation whatsoever, I flip back to the other app—the one with the search bar—tap the microphone button, and in perfect human, say "Shran-zlay-shin." A word appears in the search bar, and scantly a second later, it loads a new page with two boxes and what look like an array of configuration options.
...Uh.
This... isn't really what I wanted, actually...
This is a manual translator. I wanted to enable automatic translation. But. Okay, no, it's fine, I can work with this. I just have to figure out which box wants the input language. Humanese seems to read from left to right, so it's probably the leftmost box? I tap it, and after briefly struggling to come up with something to say, blurt "Human baiting vulnerable prey into trap."
A circle appears inside the box. Progress!
The box turns red and an error message appears that I can't read. Not progress!
I wrack my brain, trying desperately to figure out some way to make this work, before I realize the error message contains a link. I hesitantly tap it, and... it takes me to a website with a large, light blue banner across the top, and a white circular logo. Wait, I've seen this before! It's the humans' government! The United Something or Other! And there's another pair of boxes on the page. A different manual translator? Not sure why there would be two of them, but, I guess humans do have more than one language for some reason? Maybe this one is made specially for prey languages.
I experimentally try again, this time just saying "Human," and hoping for the best. The circle appears, and after a very long moment, I'm suddenly greeted by actual farsulese symbols! I can't help my tail starting to wag a little bit as I read my own language on this weird human comms device. An equivalent jumble of human letters appears in the opposite box, and I make quick work of figuring out how to copy and paste it back into the search bar. In seconds, I find myself confronted with the ugly visages of uncountable furless predators, with their ineffective teeth and colorful eyes.
So now... I have a completely uncensored, unimpeded view into everything the humans have ever been. This... is... perfect.
///// Advancing transcript by ≈30 minutes. /////
Human opportunistic predator Most annoying prey for human to hunt Human predator deception Human devouring fresh meat
The longer I spend trying to navigate this digital labyrinth, the more I begin to question my sanity. Nothing produces results. Nothing gives me what I'm looking for! I just want answers for why humans try so hard to gain our trust.
Human how to wait for the right time to capture baited prey How do humans set traps for prey Human prey exploitation tactics
Half of my searches give me irrelevant nonsense that I don't want, and the other half just spit out a bunch of... laws(?!) regarding hunting non-sapient animals on Earth. The fact that they restrict their own predatory habits is weird and incomprehensible. It takes me embarrassingly long to realize, maybe it's because they thought ahead, and censored their own internet! There are some aliens living on Earth by now, right? The humans must have made it hard to search for the real truth! But if I use a workaround...
Human current year Human one hundred years ago Human vs other predators 21st century Human exterminators guild How do humans in the 21st century handle wild predators Humans allowing wild animals in cities Human approached by wild animal 21st century
Finally, one painfully-specific search gives me exactly what I'm looking for. A video with what looks like a non-sapient prey animal on the thumbnail. Not a bunch of laws, not a book I can't read, but a video, uploaded by a regular human who has no reason to mask their true intent. I let out a deep sigh, decompressing both frustration and relief, thinking I've finally found the truth. It takes several minutes to prepare every fiber of my being for the horrors that surely lie within.
Except, the video... turns out to be nothing. It's just a short, minute-long clip of some humans being confused and seemingly amazed at some harmless creature as it approaches and investigates them before waddling off unharmed!
The video defies... everything. At first I think the 'echidna' only gets away due to its defensive spikes, but then I realize that that doesn't make any sense! Spikes can't stop a sapient predator from hunting, or even just tormenting something! The humans could've used tools! Why would they just sit there and let it wander away? Why would they act as if seeing it is a rare, magical moment?
Every video after that only makes my confusion sink further and further into my chest. A video of a small, orange-furred predator invading a human's space, only for the human to merely insult it and stop it from eating an electrical cable. A video of a black bird perched on a human's vehicle, making strange sounds as the human silently and inoffensively records. And then a video of some diminutive predator, and the human pets it and talks to it as if it's a pup. And the predator responds!
I don't understand. I can't understand. All I wanted was answers. And I didn't get those. Instead all I got was more questions. Why would these humans record this footage? Why would they share it? And why would all these animals be so comfortable to exist near the humans, letalone approach and interact?
But the worst video of them all, by far, is so very short and simple. It's nothing more than a human feeding another predator. Or... what looks like a predator. But when I look closer, the food is clearly some kind of small fruit, possibly a berry. And the predator... er, the animal... it takes the offered food so... gently. Even when it uses its mouth, it's almost like it's actively trying not to hurt the human. As if it doesn't feel the need to defend itself, as if doesn't sense even the slightest ounce of danger.
...As if there is no danger.
No matter how many times I scan through the video, no matter how many times I try to find the deception in the human's actions, it just doesn't add up. The obvious conclusion is that the human is luring the poor creature into a trap, but every video from that same uploader showcases that same animal, alive and well! Why would this human spend so much effort to give food to some random wild animal? Why, when it can't even say thanks? Why?
Every time I rewatch it, trying to make some sense of it, the black pit of horror in the depths of my soul yawns ever wider. What if there is no explanation for all of this? Do humans... truly feel empathy? Do they have the capacity to do good just for the sake of it? Were the venlil's tests not faked?
"It's the right thing to do. Someone has to help," is what Dan said.
The device drops out of my paws and onto the couch cushions as nothing but guilt and shame and regret slam into my mind all at once. The answer is that there is no deception, there never was deception. Even ancient humans from centuries ago just wanted to be kind for no reason other than because they can. They would share their homes, their food, their lives with these creatures, all because they want to.
He... he never lied to me. Not even once.
Dan found me, alone and hurt, and his first reaction was to offer medicine. He gave me food without a second thought, even when he knew what I am, what my people have caused. He took things, valuable things, from a public event. He shared his culture, his music with me. All he wanted was to make sure I was safe.
And I...
I blamed him for things he couldn't possibly have done. Things he might never have wanted to happen in the first place. I invaded his home, ruined his day, yelled at him, and still he worried about me. He begged me to eat. He didn't want me to get sick. Would any of my old neighbors have done the same? Even before the Archives?
...No. They wouldn't have even noticed. They wouldn't care. But Dan... he said he cared.
The feeling of wet fur on my cheeks and the burning of my lungs gradually slip through the haze in my mind. It hurts. It hurts so much. Dan wanted to be at the Rally. But I took that from him. I robbed him of that choice by being me. It's my fault. It's all my fault.
...
What have I done?
//////////////////////////
first - prev - next
 
edit circa 4 days after posting: readded a whole section to the "sparci uses google" scene that somehow vanished during editing. NO idea how i missed this.

Credit to u/SpacePaladin15 for the NOP universe.
Hello all, I hope you are well.
Sorry for the sudden month long break in posting. Long story short, my laptop broke, it was returned with a different fault, it's now been written off and a I need a new one, fun times.
All that aside, I've just been writing on my phone for a bit now so I'm not delaying the story anymore, either for the readers or myself. Sorry in advance for any strange formatting, I can already see none of the bold or italicised text has copied over, I'll fix that eventually.
I've been quite excited for this chapter, as it features a new POV for an existing character and starts with a big tone shift to what I usually write. I hope you enjoy!
[First] [Previous] [Next]
Memory transcription subject: [[Unknown:Record Corrupted due to Transcript Instability]]
Date [standardised human time]: [[Unknown:Record Corrupted due to Transcript Instability]]
[[Transcription Note: Subject Was In REM Sleep At Input Timestamp]]
[[Proceed?:Y/N]]
[[Y]]
[[Dream Transcript Detected]]
[[Observe?:Y/N]]
[[Y]]
[[Accessing]]
[[WARNING! Content Advisory: Heightened Emotional State Recorded. Anxiety/FeaExtreme Distress/Pain]]
[[Proceed?:Y/N]]
…
[[Y]]
[[Retrieving Dream Record…]]
A corridor stretched out before me into darkness.
Behind me, a looming shadow crept ever closer on distended limbs. Some horrid semblance of a tail lifted, pointing crookedly towards me before shifting its focus in the direction of the void ahead and then turning its tail back on itself.
The message was clear. The darkness and what lay beyond… or It.
I chose the darkness… I always did.
I walked, sparing a final glance back at the figure only to catch it dissipate, a twisted expression of pleasure jerking in its equally distorted ears before the night swallowed me.
It was cold here. Lifeless.
…Suffocating.
As quickly as it’d been snatched from me the light returned, spilling into a circular room who’s clinically beige walls were lined with window-laden doors.
The chill never left me, nor did the breathlessness.
I knew this place. I HATED this place.
The small squared windows were opaque, obscuring the horrors I knew lay within. The horrors I…
“Press it.”
A discordant squeal of a voice echoed from behind me, simultaneously so far away yet so deafeningly loud.
I didn’t need to look behind to know that the shadow was back.
“Press. It.”
Its instruction was more insistent this time, and with it came the awareness of a button set in the centre of the room.
Raised upon a podium, the giant red button called to me like an Eltavi flower to a Layasi.
I took a step forwar-
“...Please… Don’t.”
The voice was so quiet, a whimper spoken through trembling tears. Spoken through one of the doors.
I stopped.
I opened my mouth to speak. This was always the moment I tried to speak.
But, like always, I never could.
“Press. It. NOW.”
The room grew darker as the shadow approached, displeasure at my inaction needling across my body like ice through my veins.
I took another step.
“Please… Please, don’t!”
More pleading from the door, joined by a chorus of terrified pitiable whimpering from the rest. Their frames began to shake, their panic and fear thundering in my ears!
“PRESS IT NOW!!!”
The shadow screeched, the void fully enshrouding the room save for a single beam of light hovering above the button.
I could feel its tendrils begin to lick at me and, terrified beyond all reason of what it might do to me if it seized me, I launched myself forward.
My paw connected with the button, pressing it down as the final light above it winked out of existence and silence smothered the room.
But only for a moment.
I- I’m so sorry.
Screams. An agonising cacophony of tormented screams and begging for reprieve from the pain shattered the stillness, each wail of sorrow more visceral than the last.
Crackling flashes of blue light arcing through the windows illuminated the forms strapped to those predator damned chairs, their bodies twisting in a vain effort to free themselves from the tortuous devices.
I tried to close my eyes to the horror around me, pleading for it to stop with all I could muster.
But from the corner of my eye I saw it again, lurking, watching with glee through the windows.
The shadow turned to me, its malicious frame stalking over to where I lay. A maddened look of surety and satisfaction playing across its sickening visage.
“Don’t worry. This is all for their own good. They’ll be better soon. Proper prey. You’ll see.”
Its torso bent down to my level, turning in impossible ways as its broken paws reached out to grip my head, forcing me to look into its fiery eyes.
“I know it’s a lot, all new staff take time to adjust. You’ll get used to it. You will get used to it.”
Its breath was cold, so much so that I felt I might freeze solid right there.
It finally fully embraced me, its mouth held right up to my ear as it whispered the title I prayed I’d never sought out in the first place. A title I would throw away, shatter, or burn if it would take back all I’d seen. All I’d done.
But I couldn’t.
“Welcome to our facility. Doctor Tolim.”
The shadow’s cackling laughter rang out over the screaming, my own impotent wails of remorse joining the throng of suffering as the darkness returned to engulf me once again in its asphyxiating grip.
aaaaAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!
…
[[Dream Transcript Ended]]
[[Subject Regaining Consciousness]]
[[Advisory:Heightened Emotional State Detected]]
[[Retrieving Transcript…]]
Memory transcription subject: Tolim, Venlil Exchange Coordinator
Date [standardised human time]: 6th September 2136
My eyes shot open to impenetrable blackness, the panic of the nightmare chasing me into the waking world.
I was under something, something warm and soft. Yet, in the moment, it pressed upon me with crushing weight.
I need out. I need air!
I stabbed a paw outwards into the night, searching for freedom from my bindings in a blind sleep addled daze.
I was lucky, my first attempt successfully found a route out into unrestrained space, tossing the fabric constraints from my head in the process.
Free from the covers I sat up, hungrily sucking air into my lungs in an effort to calm my hammering heart; Its beats pounded so hard against my chest I feared it may burst through it at any moment.
My eyes began to adjust to the darkness, the vague outlines of my surroundings reminding me of where I was. A place I knew. A place that wasn’t… wasn’t there.
My room. I’m in my room, at the exchange. Phew… Ok. I’m ok. Just breathe… Just breathe…
…I feel… Diiiizzzzzzyyyy
My rapid move from lying down to sitting up had been anything but gentle. And now that the adrenaline was starting to mellow out, my body was suffering the consequences.
Oh speh…
As lightheadedness swept over me, sapping my strength and causing me to slump backwards, I saw a pair of hands stretching out towards me from the darkness to my left. One wrapped around my back while the other caught my lolling head, cradling me with a firm gentleness before carefully lowering me onto the mattress.
Ah, I woke him.
Instinctively, my mouth parted to greedily breath in as much oxygen as it could, but a hand quickly placed itself upon my chest as its owner's sweet voice drifted into my ears.
"Easy Tolim, take it easy. Slow and steady, alright? Close your eyes for a second, I'll turn on the lights."
Heading the instruction I closed my already half-lidded eyes, the return to total darkness allowing me to better focus on calming my still rapid breaths.
The mattress shook slightly as my partner shuffled around, a soft grunt leaving him as he no doubt stretched as best as he could towards the nightstands lamp, all while still keeping a comforting hand on me.
Always so thoughtful.
With another, more victorious sounding huff, light flooded the room; washing over and stinging at my eyes even through my still sealed eyelids. As my breathing finally settled into its usual far steadier rhythm, my eyes blinked open.
It took a moment for me to adjust, the immediate sights in my periphery resembling unfocused colourful blobs instead of the furnishings and objects I knew I had in here. Eventually, like my lungs, my eyes settled, taking in and recognising the blurred shapes for what they actually were.
Against the far wall was a desk piled with used plates, cutlery, a couple glasses with a now empty bottle of wine sat beside them, and a glass bowl that still contained a couple popcorn kernels; the remainder of our "at home movie night" as he'd put it.
What was the movie again? Ah yes, Dune. A bit violent for my taste, but the cinematography!? Outstanding! And the symbolism, divine! Literally.
My ear twitched in subdued humour at my own joke as I continued to scan the room, noting the television, the washroom, the second bed currently going unused, and lastly a stack of clothes belonging to my boyfriend.
Speaking of which.
With my inspection complete, and my mind now firmly anchored back to reality, I cast an eye towards the one watching over me.
Alejandro~
The fact that I'd already regained control over my breathing would be fairly obvious to him by now, yet his hand still gently massaged my chest, twirling a lock of my tan wool between his dexterous fingers. Eyes that, until not too long ago, would've paralysed me with fear, now instilled a soothing warmth as their owner gazed at me caringly, gentle concern creasing his brow.
How could I ever have been scared of those beautiful hazel pools? So silly in retrospect.
Alejandro's lips curved at the edges, but only just, the worry I'd already seen in his eyes again made clear in his tight lipped smile. It was a strange conflict to witness, the clash between alarm and encouragement combining into a nervous smile that was as genuine as it was performative.
He lay beside me silently, waiting for me to make the first move in the impending uncomfortable conversation about what had sparked my waking panic attack. I suspected he already knew, or at least knew enough about me by now to make an educated guess.
Not surprising, especially considering how well we've gotten to know one another.
As part of our working relationship as coordinators for the programme, Alejandro and I had been introduced through the same messaging service the rest of the paired exchange participants had used.
To my surprise, and eventual delight, it hadn't taken long for either of us to fully open up, quickly sharing more about ourselves than simple surface level interests. Within barely any time at all we'd gone from being total strangers to close friends. I'd been largely unaware of my sprouting feelings for him at this point, but I knew Alejandro was special to me. Which made the subject of my past not only a touchy one, but one that required total honesty, no matter the consequence.
The claw I'd spent writing, reading, editing and rewriting the sordid and shameful recollection of my past misdeeds at the PD facility was more soul wrenching and fear inducing than I'd ever imagined it could be.
Admitting to all the details wasn't the hard part however.
No. No, that was easy. How could it not be, when measured against the near insurmountable dread that accompanied the whispers in the back of my head, telling me I'd end up losing my friend the moment I hit send.
It took me another quarter claw after finishing the final draft to work up the nerve to send him the message, but I did it.
I'd thought writing it would be the only challenge, but waiting for a reply? That alone made me feel as if my lungs were in the grip of an angry giant!
When Alejandro finally replied, after a near panic attack and a significant amount of cursing myself for my idiocy, that suffocating weight was lifted by a wave of grateful relief. He was, understandably, horrified by what I'd told him. Aghast at my role in the treatment of those that society deemed predatory, despite most of their supposed crimes being that they were only different to the rest of us. Not harmful, just different.
But, among all that, he still recognised how much I regretted my actions, how much I wished I could take it all back. And, he saw that I had at least had good intentions when I took the position at the facility, that I had genuinely wanted to help the people there who, up until I learned the horrible truth, I'd believed were just sick individuals in need of treatment in the same way a hospital would treat a disease or a wound.
It was that recognition that caused the floodgates to burst and allowed rotations worth of remorseful tears to spill from my eyes. Alejandro's assurance of my well intentioned character was more than I deserved. But, perhaps selfishly, I'd always longed to hear it. To hear someone say that I wasn't a monster free of redeeming qualities was a song that helped heal my weary heart.
I think it was that moment where my feelings for him truly blossomed into love. A love that was blissfully reciprocated once I confessed my adoration for him back on the station. Milam's teasing swipe at me had been the final thing that pushed me into opening up to Alejandro once again.
I'll have to thank her for giving me that final push at some point.
And now here we were in bed together, after falling for one another so quickly that I swore it felt like we were in the plot of a bad fanfic!
Disappointingly, our sleepy spooning had now been disturbed thanks to me, and I was conscious that I'd been quiet for quite some time now as Alejandro still waited patiently for me to break the silence.
He already knows my past, knows what I… what I was. I know I can lean on him… but not now. I don't want to talk about that right now.
Huffing out one last heavy breath I turned my snout towards him, nuzzling under his chin affectionately, "Sorry I woke you up."
A relieved chuckle rumbled through Alejandro's chest as he shuffled his body, leaning forward just enough to plant a gentle kiss upon my forehead, "No apologies needed. How do you feel?"
"Fine.", I replied, perhaps a bit too quickly to be convincing, "I've calmed down, and I don't think I twisted any joints in my sleep either."
"Glad to hear it, but that's not what I was really meaning. You had the nightmare again, didn't you Tolim?."
Yup, figures he'd have sussed it out.
A sigh was my immediate response, followed by me detaching myself from my lover just enough so that I could roll into my back. The new position gave me a better view of his face now that I wasn't buried in his nape.
He looked at me expectantly, worry still tensing his expression as he waited for confirmation of his suspicions.
"Huuuh… yes Alejandro, it was the nightmare again."
He opened his mouth to respond but I was too quick for him, "And I know you're about to ask me if I want to talk about it but… not now, please?"
A flash of something I couldn't exactly place crossed through Alejandro's eyes for a moment. Was it a deeper concern than he was already expressing? Disappointment perhaps that I wasn't talking to him about my feelings? Could it be frustration over my deflection of the topic?
Whatever it may have been, it was gone as quickly as it'd appeared, replaced with a look of begrudging acceptance of my wishes, "Ok Tolim, fair enough. If you don't want to talk about it I won't force you but… well, please just know I'm here for you. And if you don't want to speak to me about it then I know a therapist or two who'd be happy to help you."
Ah yes, therapists. That completely alien occupation that serves as yet another reminder of how predator damned our own system is…
Huuu… I shouldn't be so bitter. Especially not when he's trying to help.
With a little wiggle I pulled my tail out from under me, wrapping it around Alejandro's wrist and giving him an assuring squeeze, "Thank you, I'll… consider it."
Alejandro smiled sweetly, a happy glimmer in his eyes at my promise, "Great!"
Satisfied that the talk was shelved for the moment I moved to cuddle back into his chest, but he dashed those hopes away as swiftly as they'd arisen.
"So, had any more thoughts on how you're going to apologise to Kailo?"
I gawked incredulously at the cheeky smirk spreading across Alejandro's face, "Seriously? I just finished coming down from a panic attack and this is the next topic you want to discuss in the middle of our rest?"
I wasn't exactly mad at him for abruptly dredging up yet another example of something I felt guilty about. Rather, my irked surprise came from his choice of timing. It was true that I wanted to apologise for what I'd done to Kailo, and what it had led to, but this felt like the oddest of times for Alejandro to bring up the question of how I'd go about it.
Alejandro's smile waned a little under my questioning, but his overall positive mood was barely diminished, "Yeah I know, maybe not the wisest choice. But hey, there's never a good time to tackle things like this. Besides, it might help you take your mind off the nightmare, and there's the added bonus that it's something you can actually try to fix. That's something!"
A bleating chuckle escaped me, the combined acceptance of a potentially poor judgement call mixed with pretty decent judgement on how I might deal with the problems that burdened me being quite comical in my eyes.
Ah, my love. Always trying to fix things. So compassionate.
In the same way he'd swept a hand through my wool, I brought up a claw to trace along the lines of his chequered pyjamas. The feeling and sound of the fabric lightly scratching beneath my claw was pleasant on the ear, as was the giggle it evoked from the tickled human waiting for my response.
"I suppose you're right. Though I'm not sure what I can do. A message isn't sufficient, it needs to be in person. But he'll never agree to meet with me again, not that I blame him since I practically ambushed him last time. You know I almost got a chance to talk with him in passing a couple paws ago? Looked right at me, turned his snout up , and bolted in the opposite direction before I had a chance to say anything!"
Kailo had every right to be angry at me, but it still stung to witness someone be so hellbent on avoiding you at every turn that they'd literally flee your presence than be anywhere near you.
"Hmmmm…", Alejandro vocalising his thoughts drew me back from my own upsetting ones. Looking at his face I had to suppress a giggle at what he was doing. Every time I'd seen him get lost in serious thought he would, without fail, begin to massage an earlobe between a thumb and index finger.
The hand and ear used were never consistent, I once spent a fair chunk of time staring in awe as he wrapped his left arm over his head to twist his right earlobe with seemingly no conscious acknowledgement for what he was doing. The strange sight had simply become another adorable thing I'd come to appreciate about my darling boyfriend.
Eventually Alejandro took his hand away, indicating that he'd come up with an idea for how to face the problem of getting Kailo and I in the same room, but spoiling my enjoyment of his cute habit in the process.
"I've got an idea but we'll need help."
My ears perked in curiosity, the unexplained need for assistance immediately sending my mind running for potential allies to my efforts, "Oh? What have you got planned?"
Alejandro grinned back at me, my interest apparently invigorating his spirit, "Well, how about we leave the details of all that until the morning? We need to get our rest in after all, can't stay up all night making plans."
I gasped in faux annoyance, unspooling my tail from his arm and bapping it against his chest in joking objection, "Really? You bait me with an idea and then don't explain it fully? Poor show my dear, poor show!"
He chuckled mischievously in reply, baring his teeth in an equally mirthful grin, "Hey what can I say, I love giving you something to look forward to. You're cute when you're excited."
The sappy response caught me by surprise, a bray that was half squealing laughter and half snort breaking from me before I got the chance to form an actual reply. Alejandro's chuckle grew into a delighted laugh as he took in my reaction, what others may call harsh barks sounding like heavenly music to my ears.
As our laughter died down I moved back onto my side, pulling myself into my mates torso with a satisfied purr. Alejandro turned the light off before pulling the covers I'd displaced back over us, ending his shuffling by laying an arm over me to better hug me.
Bliss~
With darkness returned and comfort restored, the fatigue of the paw once again dragged at my eyes like it'd done when we first got into bed. The nightmare had passed, a burden for another paw, and my supportive mate had an idea of how I could make amends to Kailo.
And, amongst all of that, I was here, wrapped in the loving arms of a man who was far too good for me, trying to do my part to make up for my past misdeeds by helping humanity succeed in their quest for friendship.
Finally, after searching for so long, I was in a place where I could make a positive impact on people's lives, for real this time. And with the advent of human ideas slowly making their way into Venlilian society through the exchange, perhaps one paw in the not too distant future, I could return to the PD facility I'd once worked at, and watch with glee as it was torn down so that not even the foundations remained.
All for something better to be built in its place.

[Part 1] - [Part 2] - [Part 3] – [Part 4] – [Part 5] - [Final]
​
After leaving the set of ‘The End of Eternity’, Seb and I went west. We didn’t stop until every sign pointing us back to Chatter Blinds were far off in the rear-view mirror. The highway was as open as ever, but I couldn’t help but to feel trapped; like some cosmic shackle had bound my life to what’d happened back there. Even if I never saw or heard from any of them again, there was no way I’d ever forget what’d happened.
After an exhausting trip, Seb and I finally parted ways at a roadside diner. He was going back home to his girlfriend, and I was gonna pick up my job working the projector. It wasn’t much, but I needed to get back to something mundane to process it all. To come down.
We had a meal and hugged it out in the parking lot. We didn’t say much. I wished him the best, and he did the same. But as he got back in his car, he asked me a final question.
“If I hear something, do you want me to pass it on?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Sure.”
I didn’t really want it, but I didn’t expect him to hear anything either. It was over. It was done.
 
And for a long time, that was it. Six years.
Six years of pretending to live a normal life. Dating back and forth. Showing movies to the late-night crowds. Getting promoted to general manager and handling the shifts. I ended up in brief but stormy relationship with a Dutch woman that almost had me killed. Long story, but that’s what life’s about. A whole bunch of long stories.
Six years after the filming of the ‘End of Eternity’, I was in a slump. The movie was never shown. Sure, I got the check in the mail, and it was substantial, but money just sort of leaks out of your account over time. It didn’t take long for all that hard work and suffering to be turned into a cheap replacement car, new kitchen floors, a suit, and the various day-to-day minutia that no one really pays attention to.
I was as broken and stuck as ever. My new position afforded me a slightly more flexible schedule, and a place with one more room, but that was pretty much it. It was the same job. The same people. The same movie trends bringing in the same crowds.
Then, I got a call from Seb.
 
Seb Digman was a family man by then. I hadn’t heard much about it, but I got the impression that he had a troubled family life. I knew of his one kid, little John, but I think he had a second or even a third kid with another woman. Either way, he was steering dangerously close to deadbeat-dad-road, and he’d long since taken his hands off the wheel.
But talking to me was different. It was like nothing had ever happened. Just two excited friends, eager to meet. He told me about coming to town in a couple of days to sort out some family stuff, and he thought we could catch up.
“You said you wanted me to let you know if I got something,” he said. “Well, this is it. I got something.”
 
I met up with Seb at an old corner pub, the kind of place that’d been around for generations. I could easily picture the folks behind the counter having been there since the civil war.
Seb was good, all things considered. A little heavier under the eyes, but still as upbeat as ever. The scar on his hand from being nailed to a tree was as obvious as ever though – he wasn’t getting rid of that anytime soon.
We had a couple of beers and talked about our lives. He had a lot more to say than me, but the story about my Dutch ex-girlfriend gave him a couple of laughs. But when it came to the meat of the conversation, the tone took somber turn.
 
“I’ve been keeping my ears open,” he said. “The movie’s out there, but it’s mostly shown at private parties. Small gatherings – people close to Hampton.”
“Like a home movie kind of thing?”
“Yeah, like that,” nodded Seb. “It’s… fucking weird.”
“So what’s the big news?”
“Well, there’s gonna be a showing pretty soon,” Seb sighed. “And, uh… it’s not far. There’s this up-and-coming finance guy who’s expanding into the entertainment industry, and Hampton must’ve gotten whiff of him.”
“Sounds… exclusive,” I added.
“It is,” Seb agreed. “But the guy is like… what, 21? And his mom is, uh… an old acquaintance of ours. We can get a foot in the door.”
“Through his mom?”
“Hear me out on this.”
 
I heard him out. I didn’t like it. He made an argument for it, explained how it was all set and ready to go, and finally just asked me to go – as a friend.
“Can you live your life without knowing what this was all about?” he asked.
And no, I couldn’t. I really couldn’t. Not even then.
 
This man’s mother was none other than Ariel; the ringleader from that group of violent locals back from Chatter Blinds. Turns out after getting severe burns on most parts of her body, a lot of the fire in her burned out. Having turned docile, wheelchair-bound, and lethargic, Ariel had spent years trying to find a way to come to terms with her past. This was a way to do so – to see the source of her pain with her own eyes – and to apologize for her past misgivings.
This had turned into a sort of enemy-of-my-enemy kind of deal. Ariel had long since realized that her problem wasn’t with us, but with the various powers-that-be that pushed that whole film into the realm of the senseless. After a long discussion, she and Seb had agreed to put their differences aside. She would get him a couple of invitations to the screening, and in return, he’d grant her the peace of mind that only forgiveness could bring.
I wasn’t buying it. I’d seen that woman’s eyes, and I couldn’t imagine anything but hate coming from them. But then again, last time I’d seen her, she’d almost been burned alive. That changes people.
 
On the day of the screening, Seb picked me up in his ’68 Frogeye Sprite. We had a couple of Slim Jims as a dinner snack. I could tell Seb was nervous, but it was impossible to say exactly why. Maybe he was excited to leave this chapter of his life behind, once and for all. Or maybe it was something else. Either way, I could tell something was off. He barely said a word on the drive up, keeping his eyes on the road and his breathing steady. But he did say one thing that made me raise an eyebrow.
“There’s a storm on Jupiter,” he said.
“Sorry, what?”
“There’s a storm on Jupiter,” he repeated. “Read it in a magazine once. It’s been around for centuries. Kinda looks like a big eye.”
“Didn’t know that.”
“You can sort of see it from Earth,” he continued. “Like a large, white… disk. And it’s all storm.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“I dunno,” he sighed. “It’s just… some things are like that, you know? Without that storm, without that big eye in the sky, we wouldn’t see it.”
Looking at the road ahead, I could feel the first pitter-patter of rain.
“If it wasn’t for all that storm and noise, we might not even know it was there,” he continued. “Makes me wonder what kinda things are out there, flying under the radar, you know? All the things without storms, that just kinda… stay in the dark.”
He turned to me as he clicked on the wipers.
“I’m not sure we’re seeing the real storm yet,” he sighed. “I just… I don’t think this is it.”
 
We parked about a block from the venue. By now, the rain was coming down hard. Seb had to pull a tarp over his car, costing us a couple of minutes in the downpour. By the time we got to our meet-up, we were both drenched. But our host wasn’t.
We met Ariel outside a café, along with her son – Jonah. I could barely recognize her. Most of her face was burned, and her left eye had sunken in on itself. Looking at it felt like falling into a well. She didn’t even look up at us when we approached, instead holding a cross around her neck with both of her shaking hands.
 
We sat down with her. Jonah went to get us a couple of coffees, leaving us to stir in our own silence. It probably took Seb a solid minute to find the right words.
“This won’t set things right,” he finally said. “But it’s a start.”
Looking up at him with that one dark eye, and the other as bright as ever, Ariel nodded.
“I understand.”
“You tried to have us killed,” I said.
She turned to me, her face barely moving. Not a single wrinkle of expression changed.
“Yes.”
 
There wasn’t much more to say. We had history. We were all on our own paths, for our own reasons. But maybe this was meant to be something else, and maybe for that moment, we all realized it. Either way, we were in this together.
We trudged through the rain, making our way to a rented-out community theatre; our venue for the night. Jonah tried to keep the mood up by talking about his upcoming investment, while Seb and I chimed in with what applicable movie trivia we could conjure up to keep him interested. While I was still a hobbyist, at best, Seb hadn’t slowed down in the least. He could step back into his role at the drop of a hat.
We were among the first to arrive. There was a check-in at the door, where we were written down as guests. The place was buzzing with caterers and security personnel. There were a few other guests who’d arrived early, casually socializing in the lobby. Jonah excused himself, bringing his mother along to meet his many potential clients and business partners.
As Ariel was rolled away, she turned to us. And for the first time, I could sense something.
The hint of a smile.
 
Within the next hour or so, the place was crowded. All kinds of people from the movie industry, along with one or two hopeful singesongwriters. There was a composer who’d worked with Kubrick for a brief time, taking up plenty of spotlight. Three B-list actors, trying to talk their way into a handshake and a couple of promises. This one news anchor from upstate. A photographer, along with his girlfriend of the week. It was a wild mix. Some seemed desperate to just get an “in” on whatever this was supposed to be, while others seemed to be there out of genuine interest for Hampton and his work. Then, of course, some people just wanted to skim some money off of Jonah.
Seb and I kept to ourselves. We were asked a couple of times who we were, but we kept the discussions short. We just said we’d worked on the movie, mostly background technical stuff. Seb tried to divert attention by making people talk about themselves – a strategy that worked nine times out of ten.
There was a little announcement jingle; the same that we used at my job. The movie was about to start.
 
We got seats behind Jonah and Ariel. Even with all the guests invited, there weren’t even enough people to fill a quarter of the seats. It was eerie, in a way. Like we were doing something inherently wrong.
A few caterers walked up and down the rows, offering shrimp cocktails and cheap sipping drinks. Seb bunkered up with a couple, getting a few eye rolls in return. Looking at me, he shrugged.
“I drove here,” he whispered. “You’re driving back.”
“The man with the plan,” I sighed.
 
As the lights dimmed, there was a faint scatter of applause coming from the other side of the room, as none other than director Roy Hampton stepped out on stage. He waved at the audience as he introduced himself.
“I’m Roy Hampton, director of ‘End of Eternity’,” he presented. “This exclusive viewing is made as a benefit for our rising entertainment star and benefactor. Let ‘em see you, Jonah, don’t be shy.”
Jonah got out of his seat, waving to the others. He sat back down with a smile, looking at his mother. Ariel didn’t move a muscle.
“It’s been a long journey. We’ve presented screenings of this movie in select theatres across the country, but as you’re about to experience, it’s not a project intended for the mainstream. This was a passion project. Something deep and meaningful to me, and the many people who’ve worked on it. I believe it can give us a glimpse of something deeper, and in a way, to make us whole.”
He took a deep breath, looked down, and back up.
“So without further ado, I present to you – the End of Eternity. Thank you.”
 
I could see Seb tense up in the light of the silver screen.
This was it. This was the movie.
The End of Eternity.
 
Sitting here, decades later, it is hard to describe it. As I watched, I kept having to remind myself what I was doing. I kept spacing in and out of focus. It was as if the movie continued to run inside my head, even when I closed my eyes. Still, there was a narrative. I’ll try to explain it.
The movie portrayed an anonymous woman in a blue dress. She was tortured by the voice of an otherworldly being, whispering secrets of the world to her. As she tried to get a job in a new town, escaping a passionless marriage, she eventually succumbs to the influence. Turning more and more inward, she finally understands her place in the world.
In the movie, the Earth exists in a multitude of fractured realities. In one world, people wander as broken shadows, desperately seeking to become whole. In another, they are tortured beasts, floating in a hellish firescape. But in countless iterations of the universe, all existing simultaneously, the protagonist is the only one who solely lives here – in this one instance. This one life. This one place.
She is the first of the last. An indication of the many worlds dying – disappearing. An indication that whatever waits at the end of eternity is waking. An impossible force, deep within the crust of the soil, stirring; cracking her world open like an egg.
So it speaks to her. The voice at the end of all. The final spoken word, and the penultimate voice. A voice that can be heard by her, loud and clear, as it is not diluted by impossible multitudes. She can see the truth. She can listen.
She can weep.
 
As the movie built up to the reveal of the last word, I looked around the room. Even before it was spoken, I could feel it. I think we all could.
And in unison, we mumbled under our breaths. We mouthed it silently.
EO.
All throughout the movie, there was this nonsensical voice speaking to her. The “influencing voice” was just… noise. I couldn’t make sense of it. And yet, a few select words rang true. The same words I’d learned that day on-set, when Hampton had asked me to read an excerpt. And still, even now, it brought images to mind. The same images they’ve brought since that first day. An image of a blue fabric, fluttering in the wind. Salt underneath my fingernails. A great fire.
But others reacted differently, as if they heard different things. An older man in the back started laughing maniacally. Jonah just sunk his face into his hands, openly weeping. Looking over at Seb, he just shook his head in disbelief.
“John deserves better,” he mumbled. “He… my boy deserves better.”
 
I think we all saw and heard what we wanted to. Or, in a way, what we were meant to. Maybe they saw some version of their own truths, or heard a stutter of the same voice as the protagonist. Maybe they felt the same existential frost crawling up their spines as I did.
Either way, as the lights came back on, it was dead quiet. Everyone just sat there, looking straight ahead. You could’ve heard a pin drop.
Roy Hampton took to the stage again. But something was different.
 
There was a sway to his step that I hadn’t seen before. His back was straighter. His eyes looked different – colder. When he entered the middle of the stage, he relaxed his shoulder, taking a deep breath.
“I think we all saw something of ourselves,” he smiled. “We learned something new. Much like I learned something the very first time I read this book.”
He showcased a thick leatherbound manuscript, tapping it confidently.
“It said I was to make this movie. To show it to others. To give little glimpses of what could be, both in our own lives, and our lives to be. And at the end of the line, all those little glimpses would add up to one thing.”
Ariel stirred in her seat. Up until that point, she hadn’t moved a muscle.
“At the end of it all, I’d come back. And I’d watch the world with new eyes, and a beating heart.”
Hampton stepped forward, casually dropping the leather-bound script to the ground. Pages scattered across the stage.
“And finally, I live again.”
 
Everyone just… looked at one another. A mumble rose through the crowd amidst the crying and giggling. Jonah put a hand on his mother’s shoulder, trying to calm her. I looked at Seb – his eyes still red from tears.
“He’s Rask,” Seb wheezed. “Hampton listened too much. He’s… he’s Rask.”
I could see it. There was something there. Something I could recognize in the pit of my stomach, that could find me from across the room. I’d seen him that night in the woods, and by the fire on the set.
I don’t know how he did it. But this dead author, somehow, made his way back. That was him on stage – not director Roy Hampton.
 
He looked at me with a gleeful smile. He drew breath and raised his hand. Something was about to happen.
But before it did, there was a bang.
Looking down at the row in front of me, I saw Ariel, holding a handgun, with a strange symbol engraved on the barrel.
 
Roy Hampton collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach. Ariel was tackled, and Jonah was dragged off. People ran for the exits or dove to the floor. A few remained seated, staring blindly ahead; not even flinching at the gunshot.
Hampton writhed in pain, clutching his stomach. It was a bad hit. His blood was so black that it seemed purple. It stained his clothes and hands.
As he screamed and gasped, his voice became increasingly twisted. Changing in pitch from high to low, back and forth, like he was cycling between young and old in a matter of seconds. It was this unearthly howling noise, erupting into a voice; but not his own.
“So-aorak zent Eo! Ru-aubgur vio gept Eo!”
The words poured out of him like torrent.
 
Pointing with a bloodied hand at his audience, his screams cycled between horrifying and nonsensical. But with every breath, something would happen.
The first was the main theater door. The heavy rain had pooled outside, resulting in a flash flood. Those first few people who tried to get out were knocked off their feet, tumbling down the stairs. All the lights but the projector went out, as the movie started up again on its own – playing from the halfway mark. The protagonist with the blue dress was superimposed on the bleeding body of Roy Hampton, who had forced himself back up to his knees as we all fumbled around in the dark.
“Yuth-maogu! Zevbreth! Driikh aoleth! Eo! Eo! Eo!”
I didn’t see what caused it, but I saw Ariel being flung across the room. Picked up and flung with a massive force, at least 30 feet, instantly snapping her neck on impact with one of the second-floor balconies. Her lifeless body tumbled to the ground, gun still clinging to her hand.
As Hampton wept tears of blood, pandemonium unleashed around us, as the world seemingly came apart.
 
In the back, there was a man whose body was turned into shadow. To this day, I can’t explain what he used to look like, or if it even was a man. It’s as if he’d been erased in every way but the immediate visual sense that he was there.
I saw a woman who’s eyes were burned from the inside out. An old man spewing up dirt in the front row. Jonah was crawling towards his mother, as little white bioluminescent bugs poured out of his head.
A sulfuric wind blew through the room burning through my nose and throat. And despite it all, I grabbed Seb by the shoulder and headed for one of the emergency exits.
 
There were flashes of light going off behind us. I could see things in my periphery. Tall things, short things. Transparent and solid. There were discolored sunflowers creeping out of cracks in the wall – seemingly reaching for us. As whatever Hampton had become continued to unravel, the audience kept running.
It felt like a gauntlet. People were disappearing around us. There was this massive red-feathered bird creature who tore into an old man ahead of us, dragging him into a bathroom stall. Someone tripped on a molar tooth growing out of the carpet. There was a short man in the far back that just… evaporated into a cloud of flies.
Even halfway through the building, I could hear him screaming. It reverberated through the walls, rattling my bones.
 
There were flashes of something different. Different corridors, with different people. With every step, I’d be someone, somewhere else. I’d be young, I’d be old. For one breath, I was Seb – watching his scar on my own hand. It’s as if we were piercing a barrier, losing a semblance of order that our mind required to function.
Then it was dark. Cold. I would feel my body stiffen. I grew elongated, unfeeling, and unreal.
In that moment, I thought it was over. I thought that’d be it. I had this vision of worlds beyond, and the many instances of lives I would come to lose.
But one thing kept coming back to me. The words I’d understood all the way back when.
An image of blue fabric, fluttering in the wind. Salt under my fingernails. A great fire.
This wasn’t it. Not yet.
 
I drew breath as we turned a corner. I was there. The carpet under my feet was real, and the screams of the maimed and dying were piercing my ears.
As Seb and I made our way out the emergency exit, and the alarms began to wail, I heard a scream for help. Instinctively, I reached out an arm, pulling someone along. I didn’t know who it was, nor did I care. Seb hurried ahead, keeping the door open, crying out for me to hurry. We all collapsed outside, scrambling to get to a safe distance.
Only three of us made it out that night. Me, Seb, and this mysterious woman I’d managed to drag along. Turns out, that was Edith M. Carroll; one of the movie’s co-writers. I hadn’t recognized her in the crowd.
 
As the chaos inside the venue rose to a crescendo, a lightning bolt struck the roof of the building. I could see the clouds part above for a split second.
Then, it was over. No screams. No death. Just this one bright light, thunder, and then the pitter-patter of a calming storm.
It was done.
 
They later said the theatre collapsed from an unsupported roof, exacerbated by the downpour. To this day, no one really knows how many people died in there. It’s as if everyone just forgot they even existed. The only name mentioned in the articles were Roy Hampton, who was credited as a “philanthropist” and “esoteric scholar”.
The three of us who made it out could finally put an end to it all. While the answers we got weren’t necessarily what we wanted, we could at least say that this was it. There was nothing more for us to look into regarding Roy Hampton and the End of Eternity. And yet, it was an empty victory. Pyrrhic.
 
As we rested outside, waiting for the sirens to stop, we spoke in hushed tones. Seb had trouble focusing, rubbing the scar on his hand.
“If… if I find anything else, I’ll let you know,” he said.
“…sounds like… a plan,” I nodded.
We held hands for a while. Just two people ensuring one another that somehow, things were going to be okay.
 
It didn’t exactly turn out that way, but… it never really does.
That night was the last time I saw Seb Digman. He died about eight years later to a kind of metal poisoning. According to his kids, it’d been something he’d had in his system for years. Maybe even the whole time I knew him.
I eventually dated, and married, Edith. The one this whole story began with. That’s how I know of her work at the bakery, and the community college. We’ve been married for decades, right up until her passing not too long ago.
But it was only a matter of time. For years, she had cried to me about what she’d seen that night at the screening – her death. Staring into her own face, as life slipped from her.
Maybe that’s why she choked in the bathroom. I don’t know.
 
There was also the case of Dawn Andersen. It’s strange; she’s still around. My oldest son showed me a video of her on YouTube not too long ago. She makes videos under some strange synonym. She looks different, but it’s the same woman. I can tell.
I’ve researched Rask over the years, trying to make sense of the things I’ve seen and experienced. I wanted to understand what Hampton’s obsession was about. I haven’t found a complete copy of that manuscript though, and I count that as a blessing. Neither are there any remaining copies of his film – the End of Eternity. Not that I can track down, at least. Maybe there’s a forgotten tape in the back of a closet somewhere.
But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve started to realize the ingenious nature of his work. That by reading, experiencing, and understanding his work, Emmett Rask can manifest. He can always come back. A concept cannot be forgotten. Information doesn’t go away, just because we don’t know it. It’s still there.
Hell, I don’t know how to assemble a phone, but I can still call my grandchildren. Just because I don’t know how doesn’t mean the information doesn’t exist.
That’s how Rask exists. He just… is. And whenever someone looks a bit closer, or listens a bit too eagerly, he makes his way back. He learns his way back. Little by little.
 
I’ve come to terms with what is going to happen next. I was kept alive out of circumstance. Rask wanted someone to live long enough to learn just enough to bring him back again. For someone to invest, experience, and become. That’s what he wanted for me.
But I think he forgot one thing – the images shown to me. The words I’d been given.
Blue fabric, fluttering in the wind. Salt under my fingernails. A great fire.
 
Looking back at my long life, the very first picture of me and my mother was at a hospital. She wrapped me in a blue blanket, leaving the window open to welcome the spring wind. That was my very first earthly experience.
The night that Edith and I conceived our first child was on our honeymoon, on an Italian beach in late July. I remember it for many reasons, but the salt crystals beneath my fingernails, on that very night, meant something. Even then, I could feel it.
 
And now, as I write this… excessive and maddening recollection, I look at what is to come. A repeating pattern coming to a close.
Perhaps I’ll learn a little too much, a little too soon. Maybe the act of writing this all down will bring it all to the surface and send Rask roaring back with a vengeance.
But I don’t think it will. As I look across my desk, at the last of Edith’s scented candles, I think what is going to happen has long since been established. And as I wait, putting these final words to paper, I think it will be okay. While there may be an end to eternity, there are so many more things to understand than we’ll ever grasp.
 
So with that, I leave you with this.
We have to accept the mystery.
There will never be an end to questions, no matter the answers.
And at the end of the line, we must embrace the great fire to come.

Source: https://cognitivetype.com/fi-behaviorism-mythology/
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Metabolism
Fi is a function that defines an object by its essential nature (Ji), while also experiencing the object as having an animate (F) character. Objects are registered as having a living property, thus triggering a personal relationship to that object's character, whether it's one of personal resonance or dissonance to it. This occurs even if the objects are inorganic, in which case the objects are not seen as alive but have a character to them, defined by how they relate to animate concerns.
Behaviorism

• Seeking the Truth to Life

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Fi, as a compass function, is driven by an unrelenting quest to find the principles lying at the core of the universe and the nature of being. As a judgment function, it treats all information as subject to an ever-crystallizing explanatory framework which is shaped according to the laws that are sensed to govern reality. Truth means approaching this elusive but unified nexus of all things which doesn't preclude meaning and value. Fi considers how the divine principle necessarily ties all things together including the living and non-living. Thus for Fi, the truth of "what is" cannot be separated from the essential questions of what constitutes intrinsic value. The Fi user understands that even our pursuit of knowledge is predicated on an impulse that takes the value of knowledge for granted, thus pressing the question further back than knowledge for its own sake. We cherish knowledge as one part of a higher, intrinsic value that must be approached and uncovered through a convergence of subjective and objective information. The Fi user will be a rationally motivated individual but one who does not eliminate the information of their body or emotional register, but instead uses it as a compass to discover what is simultaneously the reality of existence and the truthful way of “being” in that existence. Approaching this nexus means eliminating any incongruencies that might muddle the path to that purity and knowledge. It means resonating with its core structure and having it live through you; an occurrence which for many Fi users is synonymous with harmonizing intentions with the Divine. However, each Fi user will discover different things as they construct their private gnosis as a consequence of their journey; some describe this apex principle as Love, Reason, Goodness, or God. But always for the Fi user the question of what truth and goodness are in some way inseparable and irreducible. The answer is to be found from without but also from within -- and for that one must necessarily be a clear channel and vessel into that truth.

• Attunement & Purification

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The Fi user is then left with the difficult task of making sense of themselves - and by extension humanity and the cosmos - from the inside out. But the human interior is multi-dimensional and prone to express emotions that are distorted and thus misshape our view of reality. Like ripples on an ocean surface or the static noise of a crowded room, the complexity can be overwhelming and obstruct even the most basic truths. To abate this inner confusion, the strong Fi user is forced to spend a great deal of time teasing apart emotions to see the reality of being, and of other beings. They will constantly ask “Am I seeing the truth of them? am I seeing myself?” -- focusing on clarifying motivations, intentions, and the meaning of sentiments. A lack of clarity can lead to complete freezing and a sense of being utterly lost. For Fi, actions can only rightly flow out of them when the channel is clear, and the intent is understood and pursued with an earnestness of heart. And when this is lacking, it can feel like a foggy cloud or miasma rests over their inner vision which they can’t look past. Their soul may feel sloshy, dense, and thick like molasses. Their compass' needle becomes disoriented in its direction, affected by the energetic interference of inner and outer vectors. This distress will lead them to think obsessively about the right cause, right motive, and right intent; creating a constant state of inner "maintenance" aimed to alleviate tangles which quickly come to feel like a state of suffocation. The principle motif for Fi becomes “attunement." It becomes the aim of the Fi user to be a calibrated tuning fork, capable of giving the right tune no matter what the situation may be. Over time the Fi user becomes keenly aware of the dynamics of the heart and tries to pierce through into a transcendent actuality not muddled by personal feelings and hang-ups. They may understand that at the highest level, none of those emotions are contradictory, but are explicable from the right kaleidoscope lens which sees everything as a faceted but ultimately harmonious whole. Nonetheless, this active purification remains a constant activity of the Fi user, as they will always possess a high degree of likelihood of being disturbed by evocations from themselves and the energy around them due to their permeable nature.

• Permeability

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The Fi user exists in a constant state of high permeability; an uncontrollable receptivity to the emotional energy of other people and the world. When that energy is undesired, this can lead to hypersensitivity and jarring friction as the emanations of others register like a violent attack on their clarity and private alignment. A conflict develops between the Fi user wanting to have their inner state undisturbed, and resisting being drowned by the states of others. They may feel like the outside is trying to change who they are against their will; swallowing their existence and making them subservient. But if the emotional energy is desirable, the Fi user is gifted with an empathic ability and turns their attention to analyzing the emanations from the place of the singular individual; discovering how situations may feel to them from the exact position and context they stand in. To do this the Fi user steps into the shoes of those whose energy they evaluate, opening their heart's membrane and viscerally assimilating the all essences and sensations of the other from the specificity of their life and coming to know them fully. This unbidden permeability is not only emotional but also carries sexual and erotic undertones woven into it as Fi assimilates all emitted energies indiscriminately – leading eventually to a sensual permeability and overtake. Fi carries a naturally feminine and submissive charge as she experiences multiple types of penetration from the environment and unfiltered contact with others around her. When contact is not being resisted, their susceptibility to “letting others in” contributes powerfully to a higher openness to sexual exploration and the exploration of atypical conjunctions. Many Fi users discover within them latent sexual affinities as they dis-inhibit sexuality from their ego; accounting for the much higher representation of Fi users within the LGBTQ+ community. The boundaries between people become easily blurred and affinities for all types of energies are readily discovered to exist within them.

• Emotional Palate

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However, because of this very visceral and intimate permeability, the Fi user is inescapably forced to develop powerful charges for or against specific types of emotional information, as it is not possible to allow all emanated energies equal access into their being. But because they cannot be neutral or indifferent about it, and because they are permeable, they must meet undesired energies with strong reactions of repulsion and disgust. An emotional push-back is executed whenever the Fi user says “no” to allowing an experience from another person or the world to have an entryway into their otherwise sensitive interior. The Fi user exists in a constant limbo of attraction and repulsion, as their heart becomes a selective valve to people. Each Fi user will be very specific in what contents they allow in and which they cast out, tailored from a lifetime of bombardments that have made a custom whitelist for those things that are acceptable. This case-by-case approval of emotional content will make Fi users appear highly picky or finicky to onlookers who may not be able to guess when the Fi user will appreciate or depreciate their remarks; appearing to them as a frustrating game of chance. A certain word, gesture, or look will be enough to flag an individual on the wrong side of Fi’s emotional palate, causing a large barrier to form between them and that person’s energy. Over time the stringent use of this palate is what causes an unseelie attitude to arise where the majority of energies from others are repulsed and defended against by default. The Fi user's continual use of this palate develops over time into a very idiosyncratic aesthetic; their own uniquely created castle made of all that which they approve of. Through this process of discovering what their tastes and affinities are, they also come to uncover their intrinsic essence.

• Discovery of Inner Essence

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The Fi user is aware very early on that every individual possesses a unique and sacred soul which remains unmodified at its core, but which can be tarnished and crippled by our necessary collision with an imperfect world. Through years of conditioning, the environment misshapes and warps that essence when we’re forced to live through imaginary characters and personas; to fabricate egos and narratives atop of our neglected and parched nativity. When Fi is strong in a person, an acute aspiration buds forth to boldly return themselves and others to their sacred spark; that purity that remains always incorruptible but buried beneath a mountain of faces. Fi will initiate a rebirth process; a shedding away of skins to decouple our true dreams from outside expectations and to cease being a molded and polished copy of an ideology that is not one's own. And as many Fi users dive headlong into the unconscious to find their essence, they may discover something feral; wild, and untamed. The essence of a human, they find, is animal and creature-like. This creature, the uncivilized soul, is intimately connected to nature just like the rest of the animal kingdom. The Fi user discovers their eternal roots with the rest of life and their kinship with birds and beasts. Many Fi users who discover their inner animal decide to take on the life of a naturalist, living in agriculture with no makeup or intervention from the loud machinery of the world, and where they can choose not to shave or cut their hair. They will thirst to “be” themselves in as naked and unmodified a way as possible.

• Idiosyncrasy & Self-Expression

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However, in other expressions, the Fi user can choose to eliminate the cultural persona for the creation of their own as a reflection of their idiosyncratic nature. This can lead to very off-beat existences, such as the exhibition of cross-dressing, queer or counter-culture identities. They can be creative and eccentric as well as decorative. As a Ji function, Fi cares powerfully about individuality and having an alignment of self-expression with self-identity, inclining the Fi user to beautify themselves following their aesthetic personal vision. Some Fi users will embody a diva or prima donna that radiates their sexuality freely as an expression of their raw existence. Others may be asexual and choose to be androgynous in their appearance by growing or cutting their hair to neutralize their gender's energetic tilt. Many variations will exist as there are Fi users, but all will carry the imprint of a culturally indifferent decision-making process. This often places the Fi user in the headlights of difficult social criticism, harassment, and verbal abuse. Yet, by their continual advocacy of the individual, they are capable of transforming society away from the shame of our raw nature and into a higher integration of our primal instincts and inner beauty.

• Under Stress: Hypersensitivity & Overwhelm

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As noted, Fi will give a person an unordinary level of sensitivity to incoming energies and when the stress and gravity of life cause a fall out of emotional health, what began as a blessing in understanding others through assimilation inverts into a disability amidst the raw static and noise of an overwhelming situation. Their empathic abilities backfire as their heart’s open channel lets more acute emotions in than what can be healthily processed. They will become hyper-stimulated, far too sensitive to negative vibes, and utterly unable to tolerate hostile environments without collapsing into tears. They can come to feel physically ill in emotionally weighted situations; needing to get away from them as soon as possible. There is freezing and paralysis, volatility, and hysteria. This will cause them to exist like a raw, flailing electric line — still hot, but exposed. Everything is noisy and it becomes difficult to know what one believes or stands for. Those around the Fi user may criticize them as being moody, sulky, and volatile. Their behaviors may appear melodramatic and passive-aggressive from the vantage point of an outsider who is unaware of how sharply affected the Fi user is by their emotional stress. At other times they will pour out poetry and songs to encapsulate their condition, indulging in passive-aggressive commentary on the world while containing glimmers of squelched hopes. This Fi user will be a broken bird; a disenchanted idealist who realizes that the world is too wretched a place for beauty to last within. They will talk about their difficulties in life openly with a mournful spirit. The same transparent emotional radiation that was once bashful and giddy becomes melodramatic, sullen, and woeful. They will wear their bleeding heart in open display, emanating a private sorrow that also saturates their environment.

• Under Stress: Alexithymia & Dissociation

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However, if the stress and trauma of life persist even beyond this intolerable threshold, the Fi user may shut down their heart completely and enter a state of deep dissociation. When it becomes impossible for the Fi user to exist in connection to their permeability, the channels of the emotional register are cauterized. They become depersonalized from themselves, unable to sense or track any emotional energies. The rivers of the heart run dry. A blank look falls over their face and their body ceases to belong to them. Reality feels surreal and dream-like. Those in their surroundings may appear as lifeless silhouettes with no more of a soul than they can sense in themselves. This inevitably leads to alexithymia or dysfunction in emotional awareness, social attachment, and interpersonal ability. In these moments the Fi user superficially resembles a Ti user. Still, for the Fi user, this detachment represents a neurotic state that applies great stress on their body and psyche. The dissociation will be unnatural, crippling, and inhibiting their normal operations. The Fi user may appear to be on the Asperger’s or Autistic spectrum; lacking any grace or ability to connect with anyone as their primary channel for contact has short-circuited. But beneath that stoicism, the unaddressed heart will continue to wail, expressing itself in silence, private tears which may appear to start flowing perplexingly without origin.
Mythology
The spiritual experience of Fi is called Edin which is described more fully on this page. Edin as a psychological archetype appears in the form of a prince or princess: as a virgin, a siren, or a fairy. In symbolic form, it is depicted as a red rose, a seed, the moon, or the womb. Of all the functions Fi is the most archetypally female, imbuing individuals with a passive personality. Hence the Edin myth generates an impulse to embody the form of the Anima fully; to become a "woman" to the entire world. But the Edin myth goes beyond the energy embedded in biological sex and adds a separate archetypal magic aside from the femininity available to most women, which traces its roots to the spirit of Gaia or the Mother Goddess. Edin is the protector of the life principle, and often takes the form of a spiritual guardian of animals, rivers, lakes, and forests. Edin appears in folklore as sprites or spirits, each of which protects their cherished plot of nature in the same manner as Fi protects the boundaries of its prized identity. However, as the feminine archetype also possesses two sides, Edin can lead to a spirit of enticement where the myth holder becomes an elusive and seductive femme fatale, a nymph or succubus. In this form, Edin wishes to be coveted like a princess and enjoys the adulation of her suitors and the protection of her dedicated knight or King. The secret hope for this expression of Edin is to secure the eternal devotion of her masculine champion – wishing to be adored and prized above all else and all others for her unique identity.

• The Fairy

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When the Edin myth is in its light form, the princess or fairy is a pure and seelie agent of nature that bestows life, vitality, and healing to all beings with unconditional love. We see this embodied perfectly by Snow White who surrounds herself with every forest creature, befriending them but also being capable of enlisting their help. The light Edin spirit can often communicate verbally or empathically with animals, generate flora from the ground, and speak directly with the trees. One expression of this is seen in Disney's adaptation of Pocahontas who spoke with Grandmother Willow, and another can be seen in the elves of Tolkien's mythology who gave trees the ability to speak. Yet another manifestation is found in Cameron's Avatar mythology through Navi's connection to the Mother Goddess through a fibrous mental interlink that acts as a communication portal. The primary motif of the light Edin myth is that "nature has a voice" and a pulse which can be accessed if we listen earnestly. This myth is the anthropomorphization of the qualities of the emotional resister which provides a direct link into not only one's primacy but the primacy of Gaia and the cosmos. Edin acts as the emissary for Gaia; as its spokeswoman and the bringer of its desires to the rest of the human world.

• The Witch

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As with all myths, Edin also possesses an inverted and darker incarnation which is commonly depicted as an evil or unseelie fairy. At other times it manifests as a demon or a witch who casts hexes on unsuspecting passersby. The character of the dark Edin archetype is envious, jealous, vile, and foul. It delights in seeing the tainting of purity more than it delights in causing death. The primary motif of this archetype is "corruption", as it wishes powerfully to sully the hearts of others and bring them into the shadows. The mythical motif of the witch casting hexes and jinxes is a psychological metaphor for how unseelie Fi radiates foul intentions, wishes, and slander in the direction of others. We see this myth embodied clearly in Theodor Geisel's The Grinch, who is himself an Unseelie fairy jealous of the Whoville fairies and intent to destroy their haven by disenchanting them towards the spirit of goodness. We see it again in Tolkien's mythology in the form of Gollum --the corrupted heart-- and more powerfully in the One Ring itself, which represents the epitome of malice which Frodo as the light Edin must not be sullied by. And yet again we see it in Maleficent who, upon appearing at Aurora's ceremony laid an evil curse over her. Once again we see that the dark Edin wishes not necessarily for death upon its victims but for their suffering and fall out of innocence; making it primarily an ethical drama that motivates its action. This same mythical duality will exist within the hearts of every Fi user, as they struggle with the question of becoming embittered to the true suffering and cruelty of reality, or to remain a clear and open channel despite all the horror that accompanies the experience of life.
Inter-Function Dynamics
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• Fi+Se Sensualist

The Fi+Se function combination produces an experience where life is perceived by Se viscerally and connected to literal reality, while Fi aims to align that experience perfectly with their raw, uninhibited nature. The result is an embodied approach to lived experience, where Se's creativity is channeled through Fi's authentic self-alignment, creating artistry that perfectly resonates with the nature of their essence. This can lead to a radical authenticity on one hand, or to an unhealthy egoism on the other.

• Fi+Ni Occultist

The Fi+Ni combination produces a metaphysical approach, created by Ni’s focus on thematic convergences across time, and Fi’s attunement to the animate energies embedded in those converging lines. What results is a method of introspection that aims to directly access eternal universal patterns through one’s essence-resonance with those patterns. One example of this approach is found in the Occult tradition, which seeks to harness supernatural forces via a direct engagement with mystical phenomena. The Fi+Ni combination can lead towards a merging with spiritual energies on one hand, or to becoming lost in enigmatic esotericism on the other.
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• Fi+Ne Etherealist

The Fi+Ne function combination produces an experience where life is perceived by Ne impressionistically and suspended from actuality, while Fi aims to embody its raw, uninhibited nature through those impressions. Fi carries an essential core it wishes to radiate out, but that core has no definite form of expression; only a spectral Ne range that takes many forms. This leads Fi+Ne to have an ethereal embodiment; felt as real, but ungraspable and beyond. When applied to creativity, this can produce a magical effect on one hand, or a nerdy quirkiness on the other.

• Fi+Si Druidist

The Fi+Si combination produces a spiritual approach, created by Si’s connection to discrete local details and Fi’s attunement to the animate energies embedded in those localities. What results is a method of self-reflection that grounds itself in the spiritual energies (Fi) of local beings or environments (Si). One example of this approach is found in the Druidist tradition, which holds a deep veneration for nature, seeing the natural world as a manifestation of the divine. The Fi+Si combination can lead towards a merging with the innate energies of local landscapes on one hand, or it can lead to a conservative technological retrogression on the other.

Chin resting on heel of palm. Looking through the feed.
Aroma of coffee, baked goods, and the subtle spicy scent of a great many books seeped in coating the inside of her skull and clothes. The memory of it a least. Pressed the soft tissue paper against rosy-rimmed nostrils glistening, clearing her throat. Glanced around. Ambient bop in the background, fusion jazz intermingled with light conversations, the hissing and gurgling of the latte cult’s machines, and the upward inflection of green aprons taking orders and calling names. Cosmopolitan beepboop music to strive to. Recording of a life getting blown away into a flute. Whoever or whatever it is is dying for us. Jazz flute phantom, bent over at the waist bobbing and swaying to the emissions, cheeks distended, red veins erupting. Kind of music meant to let you know you’re cultured. At least she’d felt cultured the first few times she’d heard it in a public place. Feeling like she’d entered another first chapter altogether. Guaranteed to be better than what preceded it. Better in the possibility of not being what preceded it. The first few times at least. She’d made a note to investigate. To download the app that would allow her to hold up her phone to the tune and receive the names of artist and song. Create a new playlist. Speak of these things with casual authority. Have them on a first name basis. Consciousness elevating, lifted by the short-sleeve black button shirt jazzman up and out of the muck. Break the monotony. Had figured at the time that anything else would be much better than everything as is. Didn’t even like it that much. She already had her music. Adjacent but better. Was frustrated at first with her wills own rebellion. Wasn’t sure why she’d started avoiding it. The knowledge remained and was by her estimation, still rather formidable.
Always been complemented for her taste.
“If you love then tempt me.”
Face contorted, couldn’t be helped. There was high praise in the comment section, thousands of hearts, roses tossed on stage. They don’t know or pretend not to know. Cutesy the publicly-dower and ever-derivative performing an “ironic” curtsy as the curtains closed. Thunderous applause. They love her. They love her. “And what about me?”
In the dark depths of the Congo, a child miner lost multiple limbs and for what?
“Vapid bitch.“
Thumbs had gone to work with minimal prompting.
Backspace. Too crude. Didn’t feel right for the moment.
If you love me you’d tempt me…
addicted to benzos and social media. Brain-addled. Attempting to salvage an already haphazard acting career and preserve or nurture the perceived good will of higher status individuals. She understands herself to be at some level, profoundly unlikeable. A difficult person. Every attempt to express benevolent sentiment goes unread/unregistered or simply put, inadequate, not enough to justify having to put up with her for any prolonged period of time. She might actually be autistic. It’s her status as a difficult person which has contributed to her current status as a niche internet microcelebrity and podcaster capable of making enough money to maintain an easily unsustainable lifestyle living on the isle of Manhattan, rubbing shoulders with people who matter. Her brain is addled but she’s still capable of making intimations towards necessary social calculations. She doesn’t root for underdogs anymore. In fact it’s easy to imagine her blaming her lack of success on having rooted for underdogs in the past. Perhaps “rooted for” is to generous. Rather in having overtly-identified with drug addicts, ghouls, and depressed poverty stricken losers.
​
Dreamed of being welcomed to the city-world, she saw herself in one day. Dreamed about it even. One amongst the well meaning citizenry comprised of strange semi-corporeal spirits, pensive intellects with great comedic timing, and beautiful people. A place of chessboards and lovers staring without care. Close her eyes and feel a breeze just cold enough for pleasant, cold enough to justify her style. A place located in the forever something better.
​
Scrolling through her feed. Totally oblivious and protean in her values. Her opinions, her identity a roiling mass malleable, the internal spark animating it totally
susceptible to the influence of memes and atrocity porn. Having clawed her way into the lower rungs of the entertainment industry she knows a lot of people, is 3 degrees of separation from a lot of people who made it
You imagine.
Choose to read it in her voice.
Isn’t confirmed. Obviously, it can’t be. Would be unethical. You have no idea how fucked it is, you might imagine it but it’s like imagining what immolation feels like or what it must feel like to have an anvil dropped from a distance unto your head. Dealing with the unrelenting drone of a god set on hurting you. This mass of things typing, how else would you characterize it? Haven’t evolved to really deal with it. Not this kind of immediacy. Stims to stay sharp, bars to keep cool. You don’t need all that. Believe me. You don’t know the lengths some of these creatures will go to just to hurt something. Family inevitably gets dragged in. Good at deluding themselves. Utterly convinced that we’ve done them some harm. Intimacy, unbound and unrelenting intimacy, and you’ll likely never even meet. Best that you never have to deal with that. Just keep doing what you’re doing, whatever you’re choosing to do. This is just a temporary thing. Others don’t know what you know. It’s controversial. Have to pay dues. Scratch that, that’s not how it works. In fact people steal all the time, egregiously copying-and-paste’ing. Think about it, why think? Thinking burns calories. Too much energy. Feel tired after a good bout of thinking. Better off developing the following skills; public speaking, video and sound production, marketing, etc… A book or a series of articles or blog posts are less than nothing. What matters is your ability to draw, maintain, and grow an audience. The magic of music and artificial intelligence. Moths to a flame or spermatozoon to the womb. That’s content. That’s clout. Consider making an alt and attempting in earnest to do it by yourself. Consider starting multiple alts and experimenting. Consider making alts to comment on the post of one of your alts. Artificial engagement meant to situate the primary. What else are you doing? Transcribing things? Expositing things we already know? Getting frustrated? Waiting for some clear signal.
Everything appears to indicate that you want opportunities just so that you can fuck them up, make a fool of me, and go on with your dying.
You can’t resent people for going off what they see. The lover’s eyes are made for judging. Rule of thumb is; believe people when they tell you what they are.
You know what’s obvious? That you aren’t at all serious.
You’re satisfied. For whatever reason with where you are. Maybe you do actually have some great job and this is all a bit of charity and fun on your spare time. Maybe you’re just miserable and clinging unto the run-off of a run-off of something that could’ve been 3 years ago and using that as an excuse for why you’ve decided to punish your family by going on strike and associating with everyone and everything that could be used against you in the future. Pre-emptively ruining your chances in academia or entertainment. Just another excuse to avoid assuming your responsibilities. You don’t want to go back to grad school. You don’t want to put out job applications. You don’t want anything that isn’t what?
What do you want?
Desire forced through a prism of words. Just say it. What do you want?
If I was standing in front of you. Could you look me in the eyes and say it? Even if it might hurt. When it does hurt. The thought of my wince an excuse for your lie. Tell me what you want.
Right now.
Materially. Go on be a materialist.
“What if the answer is, I didn’t get what I want.”
So you want to not get what you want?
“No I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t get what I’d originally wanted.”
Which was?
“I wanted you to notice me.”
That’s it? That’s all you wanted?
“I wanted you to notice me and to like me. Like me so much it all made sense. Like me to the point where you’d be willing to take a risk.”
That being?
“Letting me into your life. Maybe go on a date on that date it would be like all of this was meant to be. Everything I’d felt when I first saw you. You’re my doom. First and last. And that this life was one in a sequence of finally finding you. Wanted to start planning the process. So that we could try living together. Go up for a weekend at first. Start organizing myself around being able to do that and hopefully it would just click. Make myself useful.”
What do you think would’ve compelled me to do something like that?
“Fate maybe. Religious mania. A gambling addiction. A desire to escape.”
Ah, makes sense. You imagined me reckless and vulnerable. Always searching for an out.
“Not like that. Not at first I think. Wasn’t something I’d planned. There wasn’t any sorcery involved. Just kind of happened. You’re asking me, two years after the fact, what might have compelled you to make such a reckless decision. It would’ve been because you felt trapped and needed a way out. And there I was and for whatever reason it just clicked. God fashioned me to love you and there I was. The light of this event revealing the coherency of it all. Everything that is is because it’s rational and being rational it’s good and I know this because well... Because of you. Everything anticipated you. The moment I felt you I swear I felt you. Over and over and over again. Apocalypse and cosmogenesis. Something is to be revealed through us. Of that I have no doubt. Any attempt to stop it is an exercise in futility. Prolonging the inevitable. For better or worse, this thing is ours. There isn’t a single doubt in my mind. I’m willing to live to live by this conviction.”
So, presumably… if I had felt that way after you’d managed to get my attention, I would’ve sent for you. If I loved you I would’ve payed for a plane ticket and a hotel room. Multiple times. Would’ve given you in the meantime a weekly allowance of $150s and insisted that you live rent-free in my apartment. Hell why stop there. If I loved you the way you loved me, I would’ve secured a low six-figure advance. Also would’ve talked to some people who know some people, that could get you a comfy job or help get you enrolled in a respectable MFA program.
Switch places. You’re the beloved and the me who would do all of the above as the lover. That me would’ve abandoned her family. Worked as a waitress, hostess, barista, drug dealer, personal assistant, stylist assistant, research assistant, process assistant, camgirl, shop girl, twitch streamer, ice cream scooper, underground bareknuckle boxer, intern, truck dispatcher, extra, sugar baby, foot model, alt model, amateur wedding photographer and graphic designer. Suffering innumerable indignities. Hitchhiking across the country. Leaving a trail of broken bodies, broken locks, and broken hearts in her wake. Ruinous and doom-driven. Alternatively that person would’ve worked and gone to school. Would’ve graduated with honors in record time. Would’ve saved up enough money and PTO to fly out close to where you live. Just to get a feel of the place. Meet people. Get an accurate enough impression of what she was getting herself into. All the while trying to snag a glance at you. She’d suffer countless indignities. Ruin her reputation, risk her relationships, risk her life. Just for the chance to have my heartbroken by you. She’d sell her soul for love. What is a soul without love anyways? Money is meant to be burned.
That’s how you imagined me?
“Yea. You’re my hero.
A lot is due. Accruing a debt I can never hope to repay. Charmed by how rooster-like your laughter has become. Expensive. I've become too expensive. More than most could possibly, reasonably, afford. Hope you feel better. That was fucked. Already gave my views on the subject. Would rather not reiterate them. Reiterate enough. Subdued. Can't do anything I'm looking for another job. Able to make some repairs on my car. Know what happened. Recall own words. People have been good to me. Made at least one new friend. Too much time is passing. Let it pass. Feel less human. Don't have any evidence to show that I hadn't always been this way. Grant me the good faith of taking me at my word. Tempted. Want to burn the tracksuit. Think I might be experiencing Dasha withdrawals. You're actually managing the 40 days. That's wild. Thank God. Waking up earlier. Nice story behind that.
Don't like how self-absorbed I've become. Utterly in the way of loving anyone, anything, whatever this is. It's love. Jesus Christ. What a mess. So much of your love squandered. See what I can do. Still do. Want to get this over with. Keep saying it. Need to get this over with. Could do it forever. If it means meeting you at the end of it. Fate is fate. You looked really lovely.
Look like someone who easily defeats opponent, about to kill them but at the last moment chooses not too. Chooses mercy. They aren’t worth it. Now if they happen to get up and charge towards you, then it isn’t your fault if the last thing they see is the glare cast over your shoulder as instinct takes over. ”
Then why not be closer to that in spirit?
A tracksuit hero. Abandon your family. Work odd jobs. Suffer innumerable indignities. Hitchhike across the country. Leaving a trail of broken bodies, broken locks, and broken hearts in your wake. Ruinous, lovelorn, and doom-driven. Ruin your reputation, risk your relationships, risk your life. Alternatively go back to school and finish your MA. Or something. Graduate with honors in record time. Save up enough money and PTO. Just go somewhere far away by yourself. Book the flight. Book the hotel room. A four or five days away from what you’re currently in. Just to get a feel of the place. Just for the chance to have your heartbroken by me.
If you love me, tempt me. Away from everything.
"Huh. Every Which Way but Loose-ish.”
Now, imagine the original scenario, switch it up. You’re the beloved and I’m the lover. Except
.
​
Would do everything in her power to
You think I’m that kind of person?
How do you think people would react to that. If that were to happen?
“It would’ve been kind of funny right? So people might think it was really romantic, hope it would work out while kind of expecting that it wouldn’t. I think the correct response would probably be to consider it an enormous mistake. Like inviting a homeless person or a wandering ghost or a demonic entity into your house… I don’t know. You never know. Some people might stop inviting you to parties. Treated with automatic suspicion I might not be able to assuage. Might make worse. Think it might turn into an issue. Not at the moment maybe. But as things start to settle. People might think that it was because you were going through a manic episode and felt you needed some drastic change in your life.”
That being a hulking 28 year old anon, instead of say, a small dog or a cat or a turtle. Can’t hold it against them. If the roles were reversed, your friends and family members would express similar concerns I’d imagine. ‘How are you gonna go all in on someone you don’t even know.’… mentally-ill, illicit substance enjoyer, weird repressed pervert… that’s just assumed. It’s that other thing. On the one hand, that you’re a sinister gay warlock and on the other that you’re a desperate loser
​
“By pretending I didn’t exist until I finally realized that I’d deluded myself. Then I’d just go away.”
Is that it?
“No, I wanted you to have not meant it. To become a decision you’d regret. Because I misunderstood.”
So even in your fantasy, what you wanted was an excuse to abandon this and return to your life. With the assur
Then why not plan? If you feel like your current online personae is ossified… then you know what. Create another one. Create one were you get to joke around and shoot the shit. The bit is a thing you’re piloting right? You’re the pilot, just hop out, and get in another. Show that you aren’t just a weirdo shutin freak. Even if it’s a lie. Listen to some comedy podcasts. Stop reading what you’re reading now. Take a month to chill from all of this and put out a few job applications. Apply to real jobs. Nothing here is keeping you from leaving. You have zero incentives. Zero. Besides your own fantasies.
If money is what you need. Then start a business.
You’re choosing this.
​
"Writing is cruel."
Is it?
"For me it is."
​
nd in the right frame, even inspiration and restatement gets clocked thievery once our motivations to acquire money and affection, can no longer be ignoring. Only someone who never has to worry about these things gets to actually be magnanimous and indulgent rather than making it a point to be magnanimous and indulgent. The aristocrats with their inheritance and the bum. Think about it. One and the same, same fantasy of a life free of social consequence and petty restrictions. The possibility of a more authentic existence always out of reach, turning a corner. “What recognition? “The desire for recognition is for rubes and pretenders”. But when you see that other fraud with the receding hairline get the advance, get the like, the retweet, receiving dumb praise, making an appearance on the Instagram story, you’ll feel like something has been stolen. Ruined even. That pussy has been compromised. Those digits and limbs and opening coated with that piece of shit’s saliva. Throw it away. Stupid whore. Don’t worry, I’ve been there too. It’s okay to feel ashamed. It’s all really kind of romantic right. What was that? Our unrequited love is mutual? What does that mean? Retard (I say this with love) a spiral is a line and if you doubt you’re wrong.
You don’t know. You couldn’t possibly know for sure, just who the person on the other side might actually be, people use alts all the time. It’s a masquerade. Either hiding an actual opinion
They love you. You’ve been received with a great enthusiasm. “We’ve been waiting for you and you finally came.” Nobody can know.
It’s the same series of questions I’ve find myself asking about anyone I’ve lingered around long enough to feel frustration towards. Directing all three of those and some variant synonym at one person or another.
Seductive, self-conscious, retarded. Feel like
Seducing with a promise (made or perceived) of something just round the corner, tomorrow. Just wait and trust in the plan… terrified of being exposed and pilloried. That those who’d come around drawn by whatever promise they thought they saw in us would turn around crestfallen and seething with the inevitable disillusionment. People who’d defended me. Sure they had their own motives. Didn’t ask to be taken as a escape route from their lives. Never asked to be turned into this beautiful thing they’d turned me into. Like if I’d suddenly swooped down into their lives knowing exactly what to do, knowing all the right people, with boundless time and energy to help lift them up and out of whatever it is they need to be lifted up and out of. You really think you’re the only one with that fantasy? Really? What you’ve made in your head is something that can’t hope, can’t desire, can’t await someone capable of making this make sense. Why can’t you be that? Why can’t you be the hope, the desire fulfilled, the arriving. I was never an answer. I thought you were and that wasn’t fair. Each and every one of us is tasked with making ourselves appealing if not valuable. Maybe making yourself appealing is the only value left. All of it is seduction. Didn’t you pretend to know better? You don’t think I fantasize about a lover that can save me from myself. Understand me, beckon me to go on living in your promise. I’m disillusioned, I’m frustrated. That bundle of ambivalence is clogging up my brain too. And I’m sorry but you made a choice as did I, and you can still make a choice, and I can still make a choice. And one of us will have to make a choice, even if we regret. Just… don’t pretend like you’re choosing based on what I desire, cause that’s a cop out and you know it.
The best thing would’ve been for them to have never heard of me, the second best thing is for them to just leave.
maybe they would’ve been better off had they never heard or saw me in the first place, second best
. What do I tell myself to justify . at realization that there was nothing there at all, it was just a glamour. Did I delude myself? Or had I been led on? A combination of both. Left feeling (and perhaps rightly so) bamboozled, made a fool of, made to lose time that can never be recuperated. This will never not be another disillusionment. Again and again. Another headache, another heartbreak, I’m so much older than I can take. Our mode of ignorance inevitable cruelty. Weak and womanly. Made me weak and womanly. I gave so much and for nothing, grimacing. And I can either blame myself or blame her. But it isn’t that easy is it? If I’m being honest.
What can be more ambiguous to us than the desire of another person? Often fantasizing about the other’s fantasy. Fixate on it.
​
It’s a Matryoshka Doll
At one point Dasha ponders when and why she ended up getting so very into Jewish guys. Here I recall the episode RIP Jordan Peterson, wherein the ladies (including then co-host Meg and guest Naomi Fry) discuss the passing of Philip Roth. Dasha mentions having read one of Roth’s books at a young age after having read it mentioned on a list of banned books. She attributes some of her proclivities to this encounter.
talk about
Recall Dasha having been kicked off Twitter for calling someone a Zionist c*nt. Personally I keep that in the back of the mind as I press down on keyboard and compose for you all a Symphony of Cope. Inconsiderate. No one forced anyone to over-identify with a podcast. Schopenhauer wrote, "A man can do as he wills but he cannot will as he wills.”
​
It’s imperative then that I speak of the Jew in the only terms I find appropriate when speaking of Jews. Sentimental and maudlin. The kind of sentiment which can and easily will be recognized by some as a dishonest tactic and by others as an act of self-preservation. In short; Jewish. I’m not a Jew. What Jew means is the result in part of television specifically with Barney as a baby I was a very big fan, of Florida public educations manner of conveying the horrors and lessons and humanity of the Shoah along with Central and Eastern European Jewish folklore, custom, language etc… I learned about the story of Rabbi Loew and his Golem of Prague at a very young age. I didn’t grow up around Jews. I’d see them from time to time whenever we’d go on family vacations to either the Fontainebleau hotel or to Seville. Miami Beach has a lot of Jews. Found their manner of dress to be peculiar but never threatening, never worthy of mockery. The carnal Jew existed as a benevolent somewhat queer figure at the periphery while Jewishness suffused my everything. Someone separate yet integral to who I was and who I’d become.
I remember there having been in the lobby of the Seville hotel, a waiting area off to the side, a depression demarcated by black marbled material, golden rails, thick leafy indoor plants, smokey and washed in golden incandescence. There was a billiard table. How old was I? Maybe 6 or 7. Older siblings were playing pool, I’d made friends with a boy from Maryland. We stood off to the side and talked. Earlier that day I had deceived an English girl and her brother. Floating in the pool, watching some performance involving men in red speedos diving forbidden diving boards, flipping through the air and plunging into the water. It was cool but not as cool as a British accent out in the wild. My ears perked as they picked up the pairs 100 Acre Woods whimsy. Dying to be there friend.
“ ‘ello are you Bri’ish.”
Apparently my fake accent was very convincing. It all comes together. In that billiard zone I saw her again, golden haired and kind. The ruse was up. She was gracious. Still I persisted with the lie. Insisted upon it. I think it might’ve been my cousin who had exposed me or perhaps it was my older brother. Either way it was obvious. They spoke American English, Revolutionary English, openly flaunting our Miamian particularities. Contrasting violently with my faked accent. One would think after all, that being the older siblings, they’d speak with an even thicker British accent. Mancunian perhaps. I think I might have said something about a grandparent being from there. My shame reverberates through all space and time. Standing before the Throne of God, “God…he faked a British accent, insisted upon it in fact, fooling a poor British child. Making her feel a fool, ruining her vacation experience. In terms of pool time sin, this is almost as bad as when he yelled the n-word at a black teen his cousins had made friends with at the pool of their apartment complex. It doesn’t matter if he was 3 or 4 years old. It was horrible. What do you have to say for yourself?” By way of response I dive like red speedo gays straight into Hell.
I really wanted to be British after having watched Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
​
Suicide is the only successful Act. Desiring the end of desire, The subject seeks to put an end to the internal object. The phantasmic object they've identified with, the Self. Paradoxically animated by the fantasized recognition of the Other. That's what the suicidal ideation reveals. Imagining some continuation, where we get to witness the response of the other. The moment they realize and it hits. Plummeting into Dasein. Into Being-There, an eternal absent-presence, a silhouette burned into the surface of the Symbolic Order. The suicide lingering stain.
In that moment no other is to blame for the Act. The choice to negate all choosing.
Recreating past events, attributing to herself an outsized influence on the events (and after all how can she not have an outsized influence, after all it’s her fantasy). I hate myself for the choices I made. Transformed into, I made choices. Imposed myself upon the world. Recollection and self-loathing giving way to the revelation of a Self that is well and truly my own. Regardless of the outcome, they’re what remains the morning after. Necessarily so.
Recall Anna saying something along the lines of “killing yourself like falling in love, is something people claim they want but never go through with, because it’s really just a cry for help”. Lacan’s recommends to the analyst working with an analysand that expresses a debilitating sense of guilt, that they not make any attempt to assuage the analysand’s guilt, either by convincing them that the guilt they’re feeling actually the stems from their neuroticism or that they’re innocent. This debilitating sense of guilt isn’t to be treated as an irrational complex of negative self-talk and ideation. With the first error (“the oppressive feeling of guilt you’re describing is likely a symptom of your neurosis”) recall that neurosis in psychoanalytic theory, is the result of sexual repression, the individual suppresses his or her sexual desires in order to meet the demands imposed on them by society (conventional morality leads to sexual repression which might lead to neurosis). It presumes that the feeling of guilt precedes the analysand’s actions, that they had never acted upon their desires but had instead avoided acting upon them altogether. With the second (“you’re innocent”) it presumes that the analyst is capable of performing a secular absolution of the analysand and that analysis is a secularized rite of confession. If the analysand wants absolution they should go visit a priest rather than an analyst.
Instead Lacan asserts that the analysand’s feelings of guilt have to be taken with the outmost seriousness by the analyst, since more often than not the feeling of guilt is the result of the analysand having at some point enacted their desire.
All of these things
“Your eyes can be so cruel, just as I can be so cruel.
Though I do believe in you.
Yes I do.
Live without the sunlight.
Love without your heartbeat.
I…can’t live within you.”
​
Felt ecstatic when Bernie won Iowa, New Hampshire, and Nevada at the start of the 2020 Democratic presidential primaries. Think CTH was touring. Listened to a lot of Chapo Trap House and the Michael Brooks Show. Go from the office, to my best friend’s apartment, we’d talk all night about politics, spirituality, life, and genre fiction. Blasting cigs, walking around the complex, and drinking hazelnut coffee. Made buying a large hazelnut coffee a kind of ritual, driving to a near-by 24/7 gas station. I don’t recall feeling tired. Just nicotine, caffeine, and conversation. I’d leave the apartment around 4-5am. Passing by a McDonald’s close to where I lived. Would order a breakfast meal and settle down in the parking lot. Eating breakfast, drinking coffee, listening to podcasts. Surrounded by wetland reserves and hardwood hammocks. The woodland scent pouring into my car.
Podcasting remained a kind of negative space in my reading. A negative space framed by Amber’s thoughts on Occupy Wall Street, professional activism, professional managerial progressives, NGOs, gamergate, twitter, etc… Leaves it up to the reader. If at some point she’d considered writing the Dirtbag I’d fantasized about, another 0 would’ve for sure been added to that advance, but her decision to not take it in that direction (explicitly) ended up being for the best. Something like that would only ever exist as a series of never-ending drafts. Mise en abyme. The podcast was a moment but not the defining one. A job. One she liked doing. There are zero indications that she listens to podcasts or thinks about podcasting more than she has to, as anything other than something she did. Think Cum Town is the only other podcast mentioned by name in the book and that was in reference to her psychiatrist being a fan. Something that some of her friends, do.
“What the entryists could do, however, was secure positions as brokers on behalf of the people. They worked their way into academia, got bylines in legacy media, established think tanks, got jobs at nonprofits, started their own consulting firms, embedded themselves in NGOs, etc. This isn’t to say those jobs always make the world worse, but as a political “tactic,” you can’t help but notice that the professionalization of activism does more to shore up power for a growing class of “movement managers,” and that, rather than relying on democracy (much less democratizing anything new), they were joining the very institutions used to circumvent democracy. Granted they would ostensibly be taking these posts to capture the king’s ear and thus wield a little “soft power” in the name of justice. It made sense, on some level. You had a glut of angry educated, progressive millennials who recently found themselves on the professional and economic downslide. They knew they were a bit screwed, but they also knew they were way less screwed than everyone else; and they needed jobs. So of course they wanted to pursue positions where they might exercise a little Professional Managerial noblesse oblige that might benefit “everyone else.”’
The different types of people that were drawn to that moment. Who saw in it an opportunity. Comedians, artists, journalists, would-be political pundits, academics, musicians, and sound engineers. With some even managing to secure during that time a steady flow of cash through the patronage of their audience or some sympathetic well-established individuals (Tim Heidecker I suspect) with coin to spare, or from NPOs/NGOs. Enough money to keep a roof over their heads without needing to live with 9 other people (in a major coastal city) and the lights on, enough to buy primo drugs, enough to quit their day jobs and maintain a decent enough quality of life. All the while pursuing (or planning to pursue) their individual creative interests and ambitions.
”Nonetheless, Occupy Wall Street really was more than the Potemkin protests, for better or worse. Much to my chagrin, the major opposition to the opportunism of Professional Managerial Anarchists were the Amateur Anarchists, for whom “spontaneity” and “organic” activity was the goal in and of itself. A sort of shitty Emerald City was formed from the energy roiling in and around the park; it’s not that the outside world disappeared exactly, but it became less noticeable, and it was easier to forget the rest of Oz, much less Kansas. For a lot of people, this escape - a retreat, really - was the dream.”
Had my own stupid little fantasies, expending too much mind stuff into speculating about the way they organized themselves… Imagined that the ones that had really managed to make it (thinking of CTH, CT, or twitch-streamers like Hasan Piker) would patronize other content creators. Mid-sized content creators that had managed to get their bearings, developing and maintaining a decent sized audience, would chip in (buy in?) as well. The money kept circulating within a network of creators. Visualized it like a series of concentric rings, alternatively like mycelium. Friends making money helping friends make money, a good cause for a good cause. Good causes all the way down. If not patronage, then at the very least exposure and networking. Rising tide lifts all boats. There was a moment and those who happened to cease it were liable to experience some serious social mobility. Enough to money to circulate it within their circles, keeping the dream alive. Imagined people promising to produce something tangible, without needing to promise any particular result. Just doing the thing was good enough. Only to then proceed to never produce anything. Barely mustering up the minimum amount of effort needed to get started and keep it going. Advances were given, only the person to seemingly disappear off the surface of earth. Weaponizing therapy-speak to justify their fuckups or repurposing progressive language in order to blame everyone else, for exploiting them, for putting undue pressure on them, etc… And maybe these personal accusations had a genuine grain of truth to them. The kind of resentment that inevitably festers when any sort of potential money-making endeavor gets framed in along ambiguous or poorly-defined lines. Imagined there was also an incredible surge of people trying to imitate what Chapo (and Cum Town) had done, after Chapo had already done it. The train had already left the station. Moment had passed.
​

First Part
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The Irruption of Elemental Powers into Bourgeois Space
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14
We have already seen that the elemental is always present. Although it can be largely eradicated, the process is nonetheless limited to some degree, given that the elemental not only belongs to the external world, but is also apportioned to each individual's existence as an inalienable endowment. Man lives in an elemental way insofar as he is both a natural and a demonic being. No reasoning can replace the beating of the heart or the action of the kidneys, and there is no dimension, not even reason itself, that is not at times subject to the lower or higher passions of life.
The sources of the elemental are of two kinds. On the one hand, they lie within the world, which is always dangerous, just as the sea which, even when utterly becalmed, harbors, dangers within itself. On the other hand, they are located in human hearts, yearning for play and adventures, for hate and love, for triumphs and falls, feeling the need for danger just as much as for security, and for whom a situation of basic security rightly appears incomplete.
It is therefore an indicator of the extent of the dominion of bourgeois values from how far the elemental appears to recede - appears, because we will come to see how, even at the center of the bourgeois world, it is capable of hiding behind a harmless mask. First we should note that to the innately defensive, the elemental appears in a strangely defensive position that is indeed romantic. The elemental appears in man as the romantic outlook, and within the world as the romantic space.
The romantic space is not granted its own center; it exists merely as a projection. It lies in the shadow of the bourgeois world, whose source of light not only delimits its extent, but is also capable of dissolving it with ease, anywhere and at any time. We find this expressed when the romantic space never appears as contemporary, indeed when remoteness comes to be articulated as its essential characteristic - a remoteness, however, whose measure is acquired from the present. Near and far, light and dark, day and night, dream and reality are the reference points of the romantic toolbox.
In its distancing from the temporal present, the location of the romantic space appears as something past, and indeed as one colored through the mirror-feeling (ressentiment) against the current situation. This distancing from the local present is represented as flight from a space entirely secured and saturated by consciousness, and that is why the number of romantic landscapes shrinks in direct proportion to the advance of technology, the most acute instrument of consciousness. Yesterday, perhaps, such landscapes could still be found "far away in Turkey," or Spain and Greece, today in the jungle belt around the equator or the ice caps of the poles, but tomorrow the last white specks on this strange map of human longing will have vanished.
For us, it is important to know that the wondrous in this sense - able to conjure up so lovingly the sound of medieval bells or the scent of exotic blossoms - belongs among the subterfuges of the defeated. The romantic attempts to deploy the valuations of an elemental life, whose validity he senses without being privy to it, and that is why deception or disappointment cannot be avoided. He recognizes the incompleteness of the bourgeois world, but does not know how to oppose it through any means other than flight <"The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide Is Press Coverage">. However, the one who is truly called is the one who stands at every hour and every location in the elemental space.
And so we have experienced the spectacle in which the triumph of the bourgeois world came to be expressed in the effort to create nature reserves in which the last remnants of the dangerous or of the extraordinary are preserved as curiosities. There is no big difference between the preservation of the last buffalo in the Yellowstone Park and the fostering of that multicolored class of men whose task consists in busying themselves with foreign worlds.
Just as the romantic space appears in the distance, with all the characteristics of a mirage, so the romantic attitude appears as protest. There are times when every relationship of man to the elemental comes to light as a romantic disposition whose breaking point is already prefigured. It depends on chance alone whether this break takes the form of a downfall visible through distance, through ecstasy, through insanity, through misery, or through death. All these are forms of flight in which the individual, once he has stepped over the edge of the spiritual and corporeal world looking for a way out, surrenders his weapons. Occasionally this surrender takes the form of an attack, like a broadside fired off blindly from a sinking ship.
We have learned again to recognize the value of the guards who fell defending positions already lost. Many tragedies gain wide repute, and then there are others, nameless, in which whole strata were robbed of the very air they breathed by the release of poisonous gases.
The bourgeois almost succeeded in convincing those with an adventurous heart that danger is not at all at hand and that the world and its history is governed by laws of economics. Young people who leave the parental home under the cover of darkness and fog feel they must travel far and wide to seek out danger, across the sea, to American, to the Foreign Legion, to the back of beyond. Thus figures become possible hardly daring to speak the superior language that is their own: be it that of the poet, who compares himself to the albatross, whose powerful wings, created for the storm, are objects of indiscreet curiosity only in a strange, becalmed environment; or of the warrior, who comes across as a good-for-nothing because the life of the shopkeeper fills him with disgust.
​
15
The outbreak of the Great War draws a thick red line under this period.
In the jubilation of the volunteers who welcomed it lies more than the liberation of hearts to whom, overnight, a new and more dangerous life opens up. In this jubilation is hidden, at the same time, the revolutionary protest against the old values, whose validity has expired irrevocably. From now on a new elemental color flows into the stream of thoughts, feelings, and facts. It is no longer necessary to busy oneself with a revaluation of values - it is sufficient to see the new and to take part in it.
From this moment on, the apparent congruence of the elemental space with the space of the romantic is displaced in a very peculiar way. The protest of that stratum - active in the most profound sense, acting voluntarily where everything else appears to have been affected by the irruption of a natural disaster - initially still relates, however, to its idealistic surface, to the romantic space. It differs, however, from romantic protest in that it is simultaneously directed toward a present, toward an unambiguous here-and-now.
It turns out very quickly, then, that the sources of strength fed from afar or from the past - of adventurous reverie or conventional patriotism - are no longer adequate. The reality of battle calls for different reserves, and the difference between the enthusiasm of troops about to go into the battlefield, and their actions in the craters of material battle, is the difference between the two worlds. Therefore it is also impossible to view this process from some kind of romantic perspective. To take part in it any way, one must possess a new kind of independence. Its appearance requires knowing a different "for and against" than those contained in the categories of the nineteenth century.
We see very clearly here the scope of the justification of romantic protest. It is condemned to nihilism insofar as it consists in escapism, insofar as it stands in opposition to a sinking world and is therefore unconditionally dependent on it. However, insofar as it harbors a genuine heroic inheritance, insofar as love is hidden beneath it, it breaks out of the romantic space into the sphere of power.
Here lies the secret as to why one and the same generation was able to come to apparently contradictory conclusions: to be shattered to pieces in war, or to be blessed, through the close proximity of death, fire, and blood, with health as had never been experienced before. The Great War was fought between not only two groups of nations, but also two epochs, and in this sense there are both victors and vanquished within our country.
The step from romantic protest to action, no longer identifiable in the flight but only in the attack, corresponds to the transformation of the romantic into elemental space. This process takes place as follows: the dangerous, which was banished to the outermost frontiers, seems to flow with greater speed back toward the centers. Thus it is more than coincidence that the trigger for the Great War arose on the margins of Europe, in an atmosphere of political twilight.
Despite all the tensions of this era, the clouds that produce the first lightning bolts lie elsewhere. From now on, however, even the secured precincts of order itself ignite like gunpowder that has long lain dry, and the unknown, the extraordinary, the dangerous does not only become the familiar - it becomes permanent. After the armistice, which appears to end the conflict but in truth fences in and undermines all the borders of Europe with whole systems of new conflicts, what remains is a situation in which catastrophe appears to be the a prior of a transformed thinking.
In accordance with this process, from now on the old concept of order turns into a romantic one. The bourgeois lives in a kind of prewar belle epoque and emerges as the kind of person who seeks to escape a thoroughly dangerous reality through flight into a utopian security*. He resumes his old endeavors, just as one still needs the usual coins for a while in a period of inflation, but his values have lost their exchange rate. And there is no mistaking the weakness behind slogans like "peace and order," "national community," "pacifism," "economic peace," "agreement": in short, behind the last appeal to the reason of the nineteenth century - they belong to the vocabulary of the bourgeois restoration, whose constitutions resemble peace treaties spread like thin, temporary veils over an intensified progression of the rearmament.
The dangerous, which appeared under the signs of the past and the distant, now rules the present. It seems to have broken into it from times immemorial and from the expanse of space, as if under the sign of an ominous star whose return from cosmic abysses pursues a course governed by an unknown law. Neither the spirit of progress nor the feverish efforts of a caste of leaders shaking to their core when faced with decision have been able to prevent to onset of the battle that, where it really takes place, regardless of the escalation and refinement of weapons, still appears and will always appear as a battle of man against man. These are the forms of the primordial age, thought to be alive only in the memory or in the great jungles of South America. From an earth torn apart by fire and soaked in blood, spirits rise up, not driven out by the silencing of the cannons; rather, they flow in a strange way into all existing values and give them a changed meaning.
Let some regard this as a relapse into a modern barbarism, while other welcome it as a baptism of steel - it is more important to see that a new and yet untamed flow of elemental forces has seized our world. Under the deceptive security of obsolete orders, only possible as long as fatigue persists, these forces are too near, too destructive, to escape even a casual glance. Their form is in the anarchy of glowing volcanic flows breaking continuously through the crust of the years of a so-called peace.
Anyone who still believes this process can be restrained by order in the old style belongs to the race of the vanquished, condemned to annihilation. Rather, what arises is the necessity for new orders in which the extraordinary is included - for orders are not calculated by eliminating the dangerous, but produced through a new union of life with danger.
All signs point to this necessity, and it is unmistakable that, within such orders, the worker is assigned the decisive position.

​
...
The Relationship of the Form to the Manifold
25
In the course of what has been said up until now we attempted to communicate the manner in which a form can begin to be discerned in the human population. We still have a few words to say about the sense in which such a task is understood to be necessary, and about the limits within which it has to be confined.
First, this understanding cannot be sought in the pursuit of a particular interest. It is therefore not a matter of adding yet another representation of the worker to the various current and future ones, one that would lay claim, following the usual pattern, to a particular truth and decisiveness, in order to appropriate a portion of the forces of faith and will now be openly stirring everywhere.
Rather, it is a matter of knowing that such a form stands beyond dialectic, even though it nurtures dialectic from its own substance and provides it with content. It is in the most important sense a being, and this comes to be expressed in relation to the individual, in that he either is, or isn't, a worker; the mere claim to be a worker, on the other hand, is completely irrelevant. This is the question of a legitimation escaping both will and knowledge, to say nothing of social or economic indicators.
But no more than any faction can present itself as his decisive instantiation, the word "worker" cannot be understood as a synonym for the whole, the community, the common good, the idea, the organic, or whatever other the community, the common good, the idea, the organic, or whatever other entity the mind may invoke, especially in Germany, to score paltry, quietist triumphs over reality. This is a vocabulary of the master confectioner, tolerable if necessary, when things are in good order.
What indicates a new image of the world, however, is not that contradictions become blurred, but that they become more irreconcilable, and every sphere, even the most distant, takes on a political character. The understanding that the excess of confrontations conceals the outline of an emerging form arises not because partners come to be united, but because their goals become very much alike - so that it is ever more evident there is only one direction in which it is possible to will at all.
This means that for anyone who is not satisfied with a mere pondering, there is no resolution, only an intensification of the conflict. The space in which one can assert oneself becomes narrower. Therefore one is superior to party factions not because one evades them, but because one can make use of them. A real force utilizes the surplus that it has at its disposal not to circumvent contradictions, but to pass straight through them. It will gain recognition not because it basks in feelings of superiority from the high vantage point of an illusory whole, but because it strives to seek the whole in battle and because it reemerges from factions in which every lesser force consumes itself and disappears. The relationship to form reveals itself in surplus, in excess, a relationship that, in temporal terms, is experienced as a relationship to the future.
This surplus is what appears as inner certainty on this side of the battle zone and, after trial, as dominion on the other. Here we would find, even within states and empires, the roots of a justice that can only be practiced by forces that are more than a party, more than a nation, more than isolated and limited entities - namely, by forces to which a mission has been entrusted.
This is why we must figure out where our mission hails from.
26
In the second place, when it comes to form, we must free ourselves from the notion of development that permeates our age just as much as psychological and moral approaches do.
A form is, and no development increases or diminishes it. Developmental history is therefore not history of form, but, at most, its dynamic commentary. Development knows beginning and end, birth and death, from which form is withheld. Just as the form of man existed before his birth and will last beyond his death, a historical form is profoundly independent of time and of the circumstances from which it seems to emerge. Its resources are higher, its fecundity direct. History does not bring forth forms; rather, it changes itself with the form. History is the tradition a victorious power bestows upon itself. This is how Roman families traced their origins to the demigods, and how a new history will have to be written about the form of the worker.
This assessment is required because nowadays every interpretation of our age is intoxicated by either an optimistic or a pessimistic disposition, depending on whether a particular development is considered to be final or, at best, still under way.
By contrast, we described as Heroic Realism the attitude of a new human breed which knows as much about the work of attack as about the Lost Positions, but for whom it is of secondary importance whether the situation gets better or worse. There are things more important and closer than beginning and end, life and death. The highest is always attainable with real commitment - by example we may cite the dead of the Great War, whose significance is not in the least diminished because they fell at this particular time and no other. They fell for the future as much as they fell according to tradition. This is a distinction which, in the moment of transfiguration through death, fuses together into a higher meaning.
It is in this sense that youth must be educated. The design of a form cannot promise anything; it can at most provide a symbol that life, today as much as ever, holds meaning and can be worthwhile for the one who knows how to live.
This presupposes, of course, a singular consciousness of meaning that can neither be inherited nor adopted, but is especially possible for the simplest lives and must be recognized as the sign of a new aristocracy.
​
Second Part
The Decline of the Mass and of the Individual
...
32
The stage on which the collapse of individuality takes place is the existence of the individual. It is a question of secondary importance whether the death of the individual coincides with the death of the single person, as occurs, for example, through suicide or annihilation, or whether the individual survives this loss and gains access to new sources of strength.
This process, evident now in the experience of even the humblest existence, presents itself with particular clarity in the way war shaped the destiny of the individual.
Let us recall the famous attack of the volunteer regiment at Langemarck, This event, less significant for the history of war than of ideas, is very important in relation to the question of what approach we might adopt at this time and in this place. We witnessed there the collapse of a classic offensive formation, despite the strength of the will to power that inspired these individuals and as the moral and spiritual values by which they were distinguished. Free will, culture, spiritedness, and the intoxication of death-defiance did not suffice to overcome the force of gravity of those few hundred meters over which the wizardry of mechanical death reigned.
Thus we find the unparalleled, truly eerie image of a death in the realm of the pure idea, of a demise where, as in a bad dream, not even an absolute effort of will is able to overcome a demonic opposition.
The obstacle that stops the beating of even the most valiant heart is not mankind in a qualitatively superior activity - it is the emergence of a new, terrifying principle, which appears as negation. The abandonment in which the tragic destiny of the individual is fulfilled is the symbol of the abandonment of man in a new unexplored world whose iron law he feels is senseless.
This event is new only on its military surface; within seconds a process of annihilation is recapitulated in it, already visible over the course of a century for the significant individual [Bedeutende Individuum] - the bearer of the most delicate organs, who perished early on from breathing an air in which the general consciousness still experienced the sensation of good health. It was here that the extinction of a particular breed of men was heralded in the attack on its advanced posts. But the sensations of the heart and the systems of the intellect can be denied, while an object is irrefutable - and one such object is the machine gun.
What lies at the core of the Langemarck event is the appearance of a cosmic contrast that always repeats itself when the world order is shaken, expressed here in the symbols of a technological age. It is the contrast between solar and terrestrial fire, appearing in the former as intellectual, in the latter as earthly flame, as light or as fire - an exchange of incantations between the "singers of the hill of sacrifice" and the blacksmiths who are served by the strength of metals, gold and iron. The bearers of an idea, having become a prettier copy remote from the original images, will be brought down by matter, the mother of things. But this contact endows them, by mythical law, with new forces. What dies, what falls away, is the individual as the representative of weakened and doomed orders. Through this death the individual must pass, whether his visible career is ended by it or not, and what a noble sight it is if, rather than evade it, he pursues it through attack.

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Eslan
I was broken.
Twisted, mangled, and defective.
I was broken.
Lacking direction, lacking sense, lacking in the skills I needed to make it through.
I was broken, in more ways than one could feasibly count.
I was broken, and yet, I persevered. All in an effort to pursue a shadowy vision of a purpose deeply ingrained within my very soul.
A vision of something better, of something brighter, a vision of optimism in a world where optimists should’ve long since died out.
I was broken, and I still am broken, but I would not be me if I was not broken.
A sentiment that Evina had instilled within me from the day we met.
I still remember the confusion, the hurt, both physical and mental on that fateful day.
I still remember the speckles of diffused light piercing through the thick forest canopy, through the translucent brown and red leaves of autumn, creating a veritable kaleidoscope of colors where I laid awaiting the death I was most assuredly guaranteed.
I was in the New Lorissa forests, deep within it in fact.
I did not intend to be there.
Nor did I intend to remain.
But it wasn’t as if that was my decision to make.
My memories were sparse, disjointed, and confused. But that was perhaps par for the course given what little memories I was able to parse together.
There was a reason why Evina and I had been able to form such a close bond that early on after all.
And it was because of our overlapping experiences, our shared similarities, as bunker denizens, and as the chosen capable of inheritance.
Or more specifically, as denizens of dying crypts forced out into the world.
As in a similar fashion to my counterpart’s exile, so too was I able to piece my own story that followed similar enough beats.
Except instead of an exile born out of discontent and disagreements with the powers that be. My exile was a disjointed mess of intrigue, of bunker politics, and of being the most convenient scapegoat available that no one would miss.
It didn’t help that my sickly state was something many amongst my peers would deem a ‘worthy sacrifice’ to let go, so as to not ‘drain’ what precious resources remained beneath the surface.
And thus, I found myself somehow wandering the New Lorissa forests. A place I had never known, and a place I did not want to know, but a place that now forever holds a point of macabre fascination within my soul; in a similar fashion to Evina’s inexplicable interests to its dark and mysterious depths.
But unlike Evina’s clear cut history and ties with the forest, with her prior iterations having blatant experience with the place, I found myself coming short of any sort of valid reasoning behind my own inexplicable interests with the place.
Perhaps I still held fascination for its depths as those were my first genuine memories of the world as it was, beyond the confines of a bunker or an enclosed space.
Perhaps it still held a strange place in my heart for it symbolized a sort of rebirth, as a point of divergence between my life prior to Evina and my life following her aid.
Whatever the case was, the forests always seemed to have a way of bringing forth change in both of our lives. First with my encounter with Evina, next with subsequent boons of rare salvage, then with the lackadaisical felinor raiders who found their way to our sanctuary by way of Evina’s pet, and then finally… with… what was in effect… a near death experience followed by…
The impossible.

74 Hours After the First Round of Interloper Interrogations. UNAFS Perseverance. Medbay.
Eslan
I woke up hurting, and brimming with sharp shooting bouts of lightning that shot straight through my spine and down into every fiber of my being. The pain was much more searing this time around, and I was barely able to keep myself from all but screaming at the shock of it all.
In perhaps a cruel twist of irony however, it was that very neuropathic malady that had kept me from screaming in the first place, as I felt my vocal chords constrict, unable to flex, forcing me instead to let out a long drawn out ugly breath instead of the pained scream that my mind had wished to emote.
Yet despite that, and what many others would’ve seen as nothing but a barely audible exhale, I could hear the panicked footsteps of Evina approaching me within just moments of my arrival back to the world of the waking.
“Eslan!” I heard her shout, her words still ringing far and distant despite me knowing that she couldn’t have been further than a few footsteps away, the deliriousness and confusion of waking up following a sudden bout of syncope hitting me about as hard as an extreme hangover (or at least that’s what Evina had once told me, as per one of her many prior iteration’s experiences).
I didn’t reply, not because I didn’t want to, but simply because I couldn’t. Not yet, at least, as control of my body slowly returned to me bit by bit, starting first with the barely noticeable twitching of my toes and fingers, which was a good sign at the very least…
“Hey, hey, take it easy alright? We’re safe now.” She spoke calmingly, soothingly, as I could see through my blurry vision the outlines of the ranger’s jacket we discovered together on our long trek across the outlying communities surrounding the airport. “We’re safe now.” She reiterated, her words managing to soothe what anxieties I had, as I simply relented, allowing my body to return to me at its own pace while I felt the sudden and abrupt squeezing of my arms being pinned to my sides; the warm embrace of a hug that would only serve to ease me back into the waking world.
A waking world that, at times, I was terrified of leaving for good on certain nights where my condition seemed to inexplicably worsen.
It was times like these where I felt… even more conflicted, as despite all that I was able to do for Evina, all the ways I was able to help here and there - it never really felt like it was enough.
I never felt like I was doing enough for the team.
So while I both cherished and was grateful for moments like this, it was instances such as these where I also felt so incredibly guilty.
Still, I held those thoughts in check as best I could, as Evina seemed to take note of the growing shift in my eyes; taking stock of the only avenue of emotive potential I had right now.
“You’re doing just fine, alright? I have to tell you right now, when your vision returns, don’t freak out alright?”
Evina had a way of phrasing things in a way that would elicit the opposite of what she wanted. Still, I’d never fault her for trying, and in fact, her blunt and caring earnesty was what I most liked about her.
I forced myself to nod, which prompted Evina to let out a sigh of relief, seeing that I was slowly but surely regaining back motor control.
“Do you remember what we were talking about before you erm… passed out?”
I clenched my eyes shut for a moment, which in and of itself was about as good a sign as any that things were progressing well. I wracked my head around for memories up until my loss of consciousness, and sure enough, I recalled it.
The bold claims that made me think Evina had finally entered the throws of RONAC.
A bout of concern hit me, but just as quickly subsided as I realized she was still here, talking rationally, without any other signs that would indicate she was anything but fine right now.
I finally nodded, prompting Evina to continue.
“Okay good. Now, I hate to pull the ‘I told you so’ card here but… you’re going to see exactly what I described during that conversation, so you better hold your horses because things are about to get wild.” The felinor announced giddily, prompting my expression to shift slightly towards one of concern, which then prompted a response to backtrack on that overexcited announcement. “Oh erm, wild as in controlled wild of course. Don’t worry, you’ll see what I mean when you get up.”
I nodded tentatively in agreement, which was then followed by the titular hug being rescinded, as Evina began pulling back.
And with her face no longer blocking my field of vision, I started seeing exactly what was described from within our airport bunker.
The ceiling above us… was pristine.
In a way that could’ve only been possible in the most coveted of spaces within the few bunkers that actually cared to maintain the superficial aesthetics of their rooms - which was to say, almost unheard of. Save for, of course, the more intense bunker societies that gave such preferential treatment to the offices of the permanent administrators, or the inheritance rooms themselves.
My eyes soon trailed from the ceiling towards the machines that flanked either side of me, machines which were similar enough to what was available within your typical bunker clinic, but were bizarre in their sleek and elegant design. These weren’t rugged proprietary pieces of equipment meant to survive for centuries on end. No, these looked streamlined and fragile. As if whoever created them knew that they could very easily simply replace or repair them, which meant that wherever we currently were… belonged to a group with resources and tech to spare.
Moreover, the machines himself gave readings that whilst familiar, was decidedly alien. I’d chalked it up to my eyes having not yet focused, but after that was clearly a none issue, what appeared before me were text and symbols that just were just flat out foreign.
Looking around further, I noticed several more screens which dotted the room. Screens that ranged from what would’ve been top of the line before the war, to screens that didn’t seem to have a mount to begin with, as if they were simply floating there in the air; like something out of a science fiction movie.
That fact alone had left me speechless for a few solid minutes, which allowed the rest of my senses to finally catch up, most notable among those being my sense of touch as I felt something that should have been obvious from the beginning, but by its very nature was perhaps meant to feel as inoffensive as possible.
The bedsheets.
These weren’t some new-old stock that would’ve started fraying the moment you touched them. Nor were they pre-war hand-me-downs in the bunkers that would’ve at least had some signs of wear and tear and subsequent repair.
No, these were… new, new.
Which again, raised even more questions than answers at exactly where we were.
Despite that though, all of my observations more or less proved Evina’s point.
Her mysterious saviors were real.
And I was perhaps now laying at the exact same spot she described in her long winding spiel.
I finally opened my mouth, trying my best to get the words out, but still found myself unable to do so.
Evina saw this, and quickly moved towards my side once more, holding my hand and squeezing it tightly.
“I’m guessing the first question you have on your mind goes something along the lines of: ‘Evina, where the hell are we?!’ right?”
I nodded slowly, prompting Evina to let out a wide toothy smile.
“We can sit here and discuss the details of that all day long. Or… I could just show you.” The cocky bunker resident turned professional wasteland adventurer smiled, prompting me to simply let out a sharp puff of air, followed quickly by a firm nod of agreement; despite my anxieties very much starting to flare right up from the sheer alienness of the place.
“Good, because I’ve arranged a little scenic route towards a window that just about blew my mind yesterday. I think you’re going to find the view to be very… out of this world.”
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(Author’s Note: We finally get our first chapter with our new alien friend, Eslan! Here we get some hints into his past, his character, and his personality! I really hope you guys like him and I hope you guys enjoy! :D The next chapter is already out on Patreon as well if you want to check it out!)
[If you guys want to help support me and these stories, here's my ko-fi ! And my Patreon for early chapter releases (Chapter 82 of this story is already out on there!)]

[Poster]
[First Part] ; [Previous Part]
Part 12: Minions at work
Zithra’s gaze blinked to Shida and to the weapon in her hand. There was clear conflict in his crazed eyes, but what it was sourced from was uncertain. From his chest started a melodic thrumming as he swayed in a light side to side pace, anger and frustration building up.
“Mean one… termites in my smile… tender sweetness… crocodile… thirty nine and a half foot pole.” he garbled in half sung words that were laced with venom, then in a spike of rage he bent down and ripped his poorly sewn back sock free and threw it harmlessly at the women, “It’s too tight! Too tight! Head not on quite right! Wrong wrong WRONG!” He screeched, seeming to struggle at making his advance, as if his mind was tugging him into two different directions.
His tail cracked at the walls and floor in a tantrum-like fit, seeming to make himself even more furious.
“Rrrrahh! That’s the one thing I hate! All the noise, noise, noise, noise!” He recited in a mad ramble.
-Naughty-
Zithra’s eyes widened once more, but this time it was of stressed terror.
“No! No more noise! I’ll be poise! No more noise! I’ll be poise! No more- rrrrahAHAHHHH” falling to his knees the Manarain clutched the sides of his head as black fluid began to leak out from his plumes.
Chak wished to know what to do, trying to force her mind to come up with any other solution than the immediately merciful one.
Then, she remembered something.
“Shida… you read this story… in the basement. The green monster who tried to ‘steal’ Christmas. How did it end again? What exactly happened?” she questioned as she walked next to her friend, “His heart grew. But it was a metaphor. Hearts are a Terran symbol of compassion. His heart needs to grow again.” Then on a gamble she started to move toward the screeching menace.
Stepping around the severed head, the Princess limped up and took hold of the thrashing Zithra.
Immediately the Manarian twitched in repulsion and bit down hard into the disguised Cali’s shoulder. A dark red spread around the cartoonishly wide closed maw, staining the pink turtleneck sweater even more than it already was.
Wincing and gritting her teeth, Chak only held the man tighter.
“It’s okay Zithra… you’re okay.” She whispered, “Let us take the noise away… alright? We can do that for you. We got you.”
Zithra’s body twisted and spasmed in protest, his muffled screeching saying nonsense as whatever plagued him attacked him relentlessly. His clawed tail curled up to grab at the woman, but stopped short inches from her back.
He then let out a drawn pleading moan, as his tail limply clattered to the hardwood floor.
“Shida and I promised each other that we’d leave this place together, and we will. No matter what it takes.. But that doesn’t mean we have to leave you behind either.” Chak assured tenderly, “You’re not alone. We’re here for you Zithra. We came back for you. Please… let us take you back.”
The screeches and moans devolved into whimpering as the rest of his body gives up, however the maddening pain is still clear as ever on his face.
“That’s right. Let’s get you out of here.” the Cali reassured him.
The nose of the dismembered head then started to flicker as it’s face began to twitch in rage.
Immediately, the decapitated skull was eviscerated by another round of heavy metal being blown through it at super sonic speeds. Staring at it for a moment longer to make sure the movement had ceased, Shida let her weapon sink down for a second, letting out a long, drawn out sigh of relief.
Taking one hand off her weapon, she briefly wiped a bit of sweat from her brow. She had only been a fraction of a second away from blowing the manarian’s head off just as she had just done with ol’ Rudolphs, had he not relented the moment that he did.
She took a few more deep breaths to calm herself, before looking around.
“Yeah, let’s get him out of here,” she then finally confirmed, looking at Chak in a warm mixture of admiration for her courage and utter terror at her foolishness. Still, she gave the princess a warm smile as she moved to a relatively free wall.
Seeing as she was currently clad in ‘good magic’ all over, she didn’t bother with taking out any specific item as she began to concentrate on encouraging the opposing forces at work here to separate from one another, as the ‘good magic’ eagerly wanted to leave this dreary place.
As she could feel the tingling of something beginning to happen underneath her hand, the entire replica of the Light’s house began to slightly tremble, and ominous droning sound filling the air along with it.
-Naughty-
The feeling encompassed everything around, no less palpable and clear than any spoken word would’ve been.
At first, Shida just got angry. She had had it up to here with that stupid, binary logic of this place. However, much like it had happened for Chak earlier, something suddenly came to her.
An annoyingly catchy tune, playing somewhere in the back of her mind.
“[...] he’s making a list. And checking it twice. He’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice. [...]”
At first she just dismissed it annoyedly, but then, as the tingling under her hands increased, and the trembling of the room intensified, she started to think about it.
She wasn’t going to kid herself, she wouldn’t have been able to do what Chak had just done. To put all of her trust into someone they had basically just met like that? No. She didn’t have the capacity for it. Yet Chak didn’t even hesitate. Putting all of herself out there and very realistically risking her own life, just to only so much as comfort the man.
Yet she was supposed to be naughty?
And Zithra, on the other hand. He had stopped his attack. Despite the maddening magic and the intense pain he was clearly under, he had stopped. Not only that, he had stayed behind here while Chak had escaped, despite the effect this place had on him. And even before all that, he had protected the children, putting their safety before his own. And all that while being a manarian.
Yet he was supposed to be naughty?
“You’re wrong,” she firmly announced, vocal words breaking out of her without her even thinking about saying them aloud. “I don’t know what messed up operations you run here, but there’s no way these two are on the naughty list. Something must be wrong. We…we need to check it again. Check for mistakes. The list is off this year. These two are mine. They have to be.”
Chak dragged Zithra up, surprised by how lightweight he was. Then Again, perhaps she shouldn’t be, remembering how feathery light Jamie was.
In far too much untrusted pain to be of much help, all the Manarian could do was continue to bite down on the disguised Cali and let her drag him through to hopeful safety.
Chak hoisted the larger Zithra up next to Shida and looked up at her past an obscuring green ear plume.
“For now you’re Santa, and it’s your list to check twice.” Chak agreed through seething teeth as she bore the intense discomfort of the Manarian fangs digging into her, “Help pull us through?” she requested.
At this point, Shida’s hands had already sunken into the wall as it began to ripple and wave like liquid, but she managed to quickly pull one of them out and wrap it around Chak and Zithra, just as the pull of the magic began to yank her through the solid material and back into her proper dimension.
They slightly tumbled out of the other side, leaving her grasp, however for a second, Shida felt something hold onto her, as she herself was about to fall out of the wall back in the ‘living world’. A strong grasp held her back for only a moment, causing her to be the last to come back out despite being the first to enter, however it let go of her almost as soon as she had fully noticed it, and the portal closed behind them with no issue, leaving Shida to suspiciously stare at the now once again inconspicuous piece of empty wall space.
“See? You’re in a better place now… Feel better?” Chak asked the still clinging Manarian.
“Hahhhh…” Zithra gasped as he finally released her and fell down to the floor, “Quiet… it’s so quiet…” he cried in exhaustion.
Chak let him be as she cupped her hand over the deep bite mark on her shoulder, her magically gifted tank of adrenaline finally running out. Her shaking legs held her up just long enough to fall back on the now solid wall and slide down leaving a bloody streak.
“Holy jingling bells… you did it!” Doodle’s voice said as he ran to the center of the room, which was darn near sparkling clean.
Immediately, Shida had her weapon raised at the elf.
“Identify yourself. I don’t care how,” she ordered forcefully, and the elf recoiled slightly from her yell. If this was Doodle, shooting him would have no real effect anyway. Still she would like to avoid it if it was really him.
“Whoa-whoa! Got it boss, uhhhmmm… uh… well… there’s something I've been meaning to say to you. For once in my long service to Santa… I’ve never appreciated my stature more when closely following behind. Usually it’s quite the bummer, but with you leading the charge- “he snapped his fingers causing a sparkling aviator shades to appear over his eyes, “-my elfy heart’s grown three sizes!” he snapped his hands again, but other than flavorful sparks of glitter he just made finger guns in her direction.
Shida sighed.
“Shut your face, Doodle,” she ordered, and the head of the elf was nearly whipped to the side with how violently his mouth closed on its own. Yep, this was him alright.
Slightly relaxing, she allowed her weapon to sink down, before she began to hurry over towards Chak, getting to her knees besides her.
“Let me see that,” she said as she tried to slightly pull Chak’s hand to the side in order to inspect the wound. As Chak hesitantly complied, her hands seemingly only unwillingly moving aside as they would much rather keep pressure up on the pain, Shida looked at her with twinkling admiration in her eyes. She had really pulled through here. To suffer such a wound willingly, well, she had only seen something like that one time before. “Does it hurt a lot?”
“Oh… very much.” Chak nodded with a trembling smile, “But unless Manarians are secretly venomous, I don’t think it’s too bad.” the princess said, trying to ease the feline’s fears as she leaned her head against the wall with a soft thump.
Shida quickly rummaged through her pockets, pulling out the small sack of disguise powder after a moment of searching and pressing it into Chak’s hand. While what she said was true right now, who knows how much worse the situation might be should she turn back into a Cali at the wrong time.
Then Shida exhaled slowly, putting a hand onto Chak’s uninjured shoulder while looking at the disguised woman’s face intently. Blinking slowly, she spoke up.
“Chak,” she said, her tone obscure and unreadable. “Do you remember what we talked about the first night we spent here?”
The Princess’s eyes opened in thought, her recollection muddied by her adrenaline crash.
“I… remember… something about that night.” she softly smiled as her cheeks flushed, “But… I recall the pictures, telling you how much I trust you… among other things… What are you referring to exactly?”
“Okay, you remember,” Shida said with a nod before letting out another huffing exhale, as her grip on Chak’s healthy shoulder tightened slightly, her eyes closing for a moment. Then, they opened back up, looking directly into Chak’s, as she stated, “Well: Screw all that. If and when we make it out of here, I’m going to rock that five-foot world of yours.”
With that, she stood up again, walking over towards the wall with the previously demolished shelves.
Even through her disguise, there was a glimmer in Chak’s red irises. The effects of her exhaustion dampening in the following moments.
“Oh… okay…” she uttered with far more breath than voice. Finding a surge of strength from somewhere in her, she dragged herself up into a standing position, keeping a bracing hand on the wall.
In the meantime, Shida had made it to her destination of all the many, many useless books that were stacked up on the shelves of the Lights. Completely beyond caring at this point, she pulled one of them out from the stack and flipped through it until she found a page that was blank on one side, heedlessly ripping it out of the tome and putting it down on the table blank-side up.
Then, reaching an open hand out behind her, she ordered,
“Doodle, I need a pen.”
With a snap of his fingers a twinkling golden inked quill appeared in his hand before holding it up for his Santa to use.
“Hmem-mmh!” he loyally presented in a stifled hum.
Taking the item with an annoyed sigh at its antiquity, Shida began to write. As fancy as she could, she scribbled a bit “NICE” on top of the page, underlining it with a thick swirl.
Then, she made two dashes underneath it, figuring that “Santa” was likely not supposed to go on the list.
“Chakalata’Motaas” she wrote next to the first one. However, for the second one, she slightly paused.
“You got a full name there, Zithra?” she asked the now almost unconscious looking Manarian still huddled up on the floor of the room.
“...Zithra Blake.” he said in an almost euphoric daze, “I’ve been called a lot of things… but that’s what I call myself… after her…” he informed as she rolled onto his back and wings, spreading all his limbs out as if he was about to make the king of invisible snow angels.
As he answered, Chak blinked in sudden confusion, one of her hands reached up to her chest and rubbed it as if searching for something.
“I feel… strange…” she whispered, “Good strange…?” she clarified, still unsure of what was occurring.
“Well, let’s hope that that’s good enough for this thing,” Shida mumbled as she scribbled down ‘Zithra Blake’ onto the paper. Then she briefly paused. For a moment, she was wondering if she should just put down a bunch more names. Trying to take as much influence away from that thing as possible by declaring everyone to be her responsibility. However, a bad feeling in her gut stopped her. As much as she wanted to tear this all down, she felt like in this case, she had to respect the rules. She could only declare those as nice who she was convinced deserved it. Otherwise, her list would be just as void as she had declared Krampus’ to be. And who knew what might’ve happened if they both turned out to be wrong.
Then, she slowly skulked over towards the lying Zithra. With her hand outreached, she made the magic sack, that still was leaned against one wall of the room, bounce into her hand with magical enthusiasm.
“Well, Zithra Blake, it seems that you were a really good boy this year,” she announced, a hand reaching into the sack, as she felt emboldened by the influence of her magic after fulfilling another of Santa’s roles, for better or for worse. “Let’s see what ol’ Claws has got here for you.”
After fishing her fingers through nothing for a few seconds, something was magically passed into her hand. It was cold and smooth and had a strange form and a metallic spring to it.
She pulled her hand out and looked at the item the sack had decided to gift to the manarian at her behest.
They were…Earmuffs? Two large, blue, plastic cup shapes filled with thick, dampening fabric, connected together by thin metal rods that were covered by padding.
“I don’t think the noise was meant literally…” she mumbled, however, she still handed the item down to the man, who looked up to it with strangely big eyes.
Taking them as if they were made of hair-thin glass, he slowly looked them over and lifted his head off the floor to slip them on.
Suddenly his breathing staggered out as his chest convulsed.
Chak and Shida watched -in a bit of horror- as a cartoon-shaped heart imprint thrummed itself in and out of his chest cavity. It happened in three successions, growing bigger and bigger until upon its third rise, the heart dissipated as if it lost its integrity and spread like a wave. As it did so, the green that corrupted the Manarains fur faded back to its lavender-like purple, sparing stubborn green tips.
“Ooohhh, mannn…” he softly said in a drawn breath that was nearly caught in his throat from raw emotion, “Thank you… these are… perfect.” he said, having not even acknowledged his own transformation.
Shida breathed a bit lighter.
“Well, that was needlessly dramatic,” she mumbled looking down at the man, when suddenly, she noticed something on the gift she had just given him. On one side, a tiny piece of paper was seemingly stuck to it with the tiniest bit of glue. Leaning down, she picked it off of plastic exterior, holding it very carefully since she did not trust any strange pieces of paper at this point, the burn on her wrist reminding her of that.
There were just two words written on the tiny piece, spelled out in an almost beautiful, swirly handwriting, that was nothing like the one she had seen on the piece of the list she had gotten earlier.
“You’re welcome” it read. Somehow, the sight of the writing alone caused a deep, warm feeling to well up within Shida - which she didn’t trust at all. Quickly, she tossed the piece aside, deciding that she wanted nothing to do with that.
Instead, she turned over towards Doodle.
“You can talk again, by the way,” she informed him, before looking over at the stairs and asking, “So, what’s the status on the doubles upstairs? Are they still around giving these two a bad reputation?”
“Ah well boss, they did try to come down but the door held true! The mom of the house came asking questions about pipes. But- ahem- ‘Looks like everything’s all good! No leaks! A shelving screw came loose tho, books everywhere, easy clean up.’” he spoke using Shida’s own voice, “‘Yeah mom, we’re good. Just having a girl’s talk while we’re at it, be up soon!’” he added mimicking Mary’s voice, “Ahem- Last I heard the fake two said they had to step out for a bit. Don’t think they’ve come back yet.” he reported, hammering a salute to his forehead, “How’d I do?”
“Well, I guess I can allow it just this once,” Shida mumbled after shuddering at the imitation of her own voice for a moment. Then she glanced up and looked around confusedly. “Wait, where is Mary?”
“Ah. Right!” Doodle hurried over and pointed behind the bar island, where a slumbering Mary had a chair pillow propped under her head and a journal held to her chest, “She woke up a few times, quite the hassle, but the sleep spell fully took hold eventually… I don’t know if I have magic glands, but they are sooooo sore right now…” he said with slumped shoulders.
Shida’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the journal the woman was clutching.
“Where did she get that?” she asked, pointing at the little booklet.
“Oh, I retrieved it when we were first trapped in Kampus’s… place. It had this sense of… importance there?” Chak informed as she staggered over, “I believe it’s her childhood journal. I glanced through it and from it I got the message that she grew up very sad. Her parents never listened to anything she had to say, and… well trapped her in how they wanted her to live. She wanted to leave so badly, I’m guessing that’s why she left this town for ‘the city’ when she could, although it didn’t log that far into her life. I was hoping to look into it further, but… not-Shida happened and then… well yeah.”
Doodle rubbed his chin before lifting a hand and looking up at Shida.
“Want me to swipe it, boss?” he offered.
Shida shook her head.
“Nah, let her have it. Maybe we should let her sleep it off. Might help with her ‘sparkler’ problem,” she mumbled while lifting her weapon again briefly inspecting it and harmlessly clearing a round out of the chamber before checking her magazine for how many she had left, clicking it back into place with a sigh when she saw that it was more than enough. “For now, let’s go take care of Kahc and Arhtiz up there, before they do any serious damage. People already think that you two are engaged.”
She pointed at Chak and Zithra to clarify who she was talking about.
“I figure a quick and easy end is the right thing for these creatures,” she then added as she loaded the chamber of her weapon again.
“Heh… Kahc…” Doodle snickered.
“Engaged…? Why? Gross…” Chak muttered as she checked her pulse pistol.
Zithra sat up and stood, seeming to be feeling invigorated.
“Ouch. But fair. So… can I get a cool gun too?” he asked the room, “A refreshed disguise might be necessary too if I’m going up there.”
“Moments ago you were thinking about turning me into your own personal reindeer…” Chak pointed out, “So at the very least say ‘Please, can I get a cool gun too?’, okay?”
“Uhm… fair… If you think it’s a good idea, please can I get a cool gun too? I am on the nice list now… and my hunting bow was burned in the watchtower so… really anything would be nice right now.” he replied.
“Oh! I can oblige with that!” Doodle announced before snapping his fingers. Upon the bar island appeared a red and white striped compound bow with a matching theme quiver of arrows, “Magic bow!”
His plumes perking up, Zithra picked the bow up and looked it over.
“Tacky… but magic is magic.” he shrugged.
“Wait… why would you even have access to that? I thought that was something only the sack could provide?” Chak asked Doodle.
“Well it’s mine. I may be a ‘Christmas’ elf but I’m still an elf. Archery is kinda our thing. Lord of the Rings said so!” he replied as he crossed his arms, “The disguise stuff is on the boss herself.”
“I literally gave it to Chak just moments ago,” Shida said, rolling her eyes, before looking at Zithra. “And sorry, we didn’t bring spare guns. Kinda didn’t expect to pick anyone up along the way when we jettisoned out of our ship. Though, if old movies are anything to go by…I mean I don’t really know the people that live here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you managed to find a gun somewhere around here if the “Magic Bow” isn’t really doing the trick for you.”
She then waved them all along as she made her way towards the stairs, briefly glancing over at Chak to see that she was fiddling with the tiny sack containing the powder.
“Right! Right… mind is… elsewhere, uhm, here.” Chak stammered as she casted a bit of the powder over the Manarian.
Zithra’s form shifted to the usual looking human form. The differences being that his earmuffs altered to accommodate his new head and his spiky hair and beard was now Manarian-purple with brighter green highlights within them.
Slinging the quiver to his back he nodded and followed the two women up the stairs.
With a snap of Doodle’s fingers, the magic lock holding the door shut scattered into sprinkling sparkles.
As the group funneled out a voice spoke up from the kitchen.
“Dinner’s just about ready! Give it five more minutes!” Mary’s mother notified.
“Mom? Where’s Zithra and Chak?” Doodle called back in Mary’s voice.
“Out back I think, they wanted to see your father in his shed for something! Could you go get them for me?” the mother replied.
“Sure thing!” Doodle responded.
Quickly, everyone exited out of the front door and started to track around the side of the big house. The ‘shed’ turned out to be a fairly large car shop. The two big metal garage doors were shut, but lines of bright light leaked out of their bottoms showing that at least someone was in there.
Within sight, there was a white side door that could grant access as well.
“I’m gonna check ‘round back to see if there’s another door.” Zithra said as he picked up his pace and spit from the group, “Don’t want them to sneak out.”
“If fake-Shida, or… Asihs? Uhm, if she showed me anything, they seem to take injuries like we do. It took a hit to the head to stop her though.” Chak informed before the Manarian could get too far to not hear.
“You know, I’m not all that easy to knock down either,” Shida said and waited for a few seconds to allow the Manarian to get all the way around. Then, figuring that there was little chance of them ‘getting away’ at this point, she moved towards the door. Indicating for everyone else to be quiet, she lifted her fist and loudly knocked against the door.
“Uh…Mister Light? It’s Shida. I, uh, I fixed up the pipes and the shelf, and your wife told me that Dinner’s just about ready. Are you all just about done in there?” she shouted out, her rifle held in a ‘ready’ position behind the door so it could greet anyone and anything that might want to come through there.
The lights from within flick off, and after a few moments of silence there’s a response.
“Ah good! Yeah you can let her know I’ll be there in about ten minutes! Just gotta wrap up my project and clean up!” Mr. Light’s voice replied from deep inside the shop.
Doodle’s pointy ears wiggled and his brow scrunched. Looking to Shida he urgent points at his own mouth while shaking his head. He then mouthed the words ‘Not him’.
Shida nodded her head sideways.
Well, that was easy enough.
“Well, what’s the project? Y’all were gone so suddenly when I came back up, why, I might think you’re trying to keep me out of the fun. You’re that mad that I tried to talk our lovebirds out of dinner, are you?” she sweetly called back and started to reach for the handle.
Chak readied herself to follow, lifting her pistol up prepared for escalation.
Suddenly the grinding sounds of a garage door lifting up roared to life, but before it could get full clearance Dagon’s car scraped out and bolted for the driveway in a screeching dash. From out the window a rapid firing submachine gun peppered out at Shida specifically.
Expecting to get struck at least once as several bullets impacted the sides of the metal sheeting wall around her, a green streak flashed in front of her.
Collapsing into the snow from the dramatic leap, a riddled Doodle curled up and coughed up minty red blood.
Chak fired back as the vehicle fled, striking its rear back tire. Sparks exploded from under the car as metal met cement, but it persisted in its flight. Rushing out from the garage with his bow drawn, Zithra gauged his aim and let loose. The arrow soared and transformed into a beam of light akin to a shooting star as it guided itself down onto the car’s hood in a powerful impact. Out of control, the car careened directly into nearby woods.
Almost immediately two silhouetted occupants dive out and drag a third out from the back as they run for forest cover.
“The father’s still inside, unconscious!” Zithra updated before he started sprinting down the driveway in pursuit.
Shida gave the curled up elf a brief, pitiful look, before also taking up pursuit. Too bad his heroics in saving her life had also stopped her from returning fire. Her rifle was quite good at stopping things.
Instead she now tore down the driveway after their escapees, who inexplicably had Dagon’s car. Hopefully the man was alright. Either way, they would get the answer out of them. She wasn’t sure what exactly they intended to do by hiding, seeing as their tracks were still very clearly visible after they trudged through the deep snow, making it quite easy to follow them.
As she ran, she lifted her fingers to her mouth and let out a brief whistle.
From the side of the property, something shook itself loose from the deep snow and tore towards her at blinding speed, leaving a trail of sparkles in its wake, before welcomingly sliding along the ground in front of her feet. Allowing her to hop on, the flat, fancily colored board on wheels then sprung into the air, picking up speed with each moment that passed while she balanced on its rough, black surface and began to aim her weapon.
After getting out of the police station, she had needed a new ride, and the pallet truck was far too attention grabbing, so she had….”procured” this instead. And now, it was time to show these fools that you don’t mess with this Santa.
With Chak’s injuries there was no way she could keep up on foot. She knew that she had already done her part by taking out the mockery of Shida, but leaving her allies to fight alone wasn’t something she was willing to do. Especially with only Shida getting there first.
With a determined breath she recalled falling out of the hospital window, and took hold of that moment in her mind.
As she ran, her platform boots started to leak sparkles. Her leg motions shifted from running to something like skating as they lifted from the ground. Swiftly catching up to Zithra, she gifted his wings back by becoming them. Taking hold of his ‘Bat Boy’ jacket she scooped him up, finding her influence making him just as weightless as her.
“Whoa-wha- Oh heck yeah!” The man initially panicked, but quickly adjusted as he knocked another arrow.
A small red light started to flicker in front of Chak’s face, but with a snapping shake of her head it extinguished like a suffocated candle. Pulling above to Shida’s right, Chak’s face hardened with focused determination. In this moment she was the magic’s master, not the other way around.
More peppering shots from the trees wildly rained towards the group of pursuers. The two on the run seemed to split up, ‘Arhtiz’ carrying the extra body over his shoulder.
Zithra loosed another light arrow at his dopplegänger. It purposefully landed in front of him, before exploding into a flash-bang light effect. Arhtiz flailed onto his back, sending his hostage to roll away in the shallow snow.
Shots ringing out from the other direction made the two look around for only a moment, before Chak quickly averted her eyes as she saw her- although disguised- eviscerated self falling to the ground in a large, black splodge, as the hypersonic bullet tore through her guts. And like that, Kahc was no more.
Shida then brought her sleigh around, stopping dead after a moment and slinging thick snow all around her as she lost her momentum.
Her eyes were glued to the dead version of human Chak for a few moments longer, before she eagerly averted her eyes.
“Wow,” she mumbled as the others also came to a halt, descending towards the fallen yet alife foe and the unconscious hostage. “That was not fun.”
Deciding not to dwell on it, the feline then also turned over, slowly hovering towards the spot where the Zithra imitation had fallen.
Clutching its face the not-Zithra stood up in a stagger, chuckling darkly. As his laughs grew in intensity he blind fired his weapon in every-which direction. But before his vocals could escalate to manic, they were cut short from an arrow sinking into his neck. As a reactive hand lifted to it, his entire head and shoulders erupt in a flash.
As the afterimage faded from onlooker’s eyes, the remains of the body had crumpled to the ground in a smoldering heap.
Landing both herself and Zithra to the forest floor, Chak hurried to the overturned body of Dagon.
Pushing him over so that he faced the sky, she immediately noticed cuts all over his body. All creating an array of unknown symbols. Around the man’s head was a thick chain circlet with holly woven throughout each link.
Feeling for a pulse, she attempted to curse in relief to find one. With effort she yanked at the strange crown, but as though it was perfectly forged to snugly fit around his brow and temples she was unable to remove it.
“He’s alive! But I need help!” she shouts back to the others as she carefully looks for any release or weakness in the chain.
“Is it only me, or has all this very quickly turned from ‘wacky’ into ‘seriously messed up’ territory?” Shida asked as he passed by the smoldering rest of the Zithra clone and bent down next to Chak. Feeling along the strange crown, she quickly discovered that there wasn’t much to be done about it here. And seeing as, assuming that they could die, all the copies were decidedly dead at this point, she simply moved to pick up the man. Usually, she wouldn’t want to move someone in his condition, but in this case, she could hardly make things worse anymore. “Let’s get him somewhere where he can rest and we can try to figure out what to do here. Leaving him in this cold certainly isn’t going to do him any good.”
Touching his face, the man was already feeling like his temperature had started to drop, and so she made the executive decision to quickly whistle her sleigh over once more. The board happily jumped up and presented itself next to the man, while Shida carefully tried to bring him into an acceptable carrying position.
“At least the house should be clear now…” she added under her breath. Not that the place was her first choice, but it was closest. Also, those people were technically the closest thing Dagon had to a family around here…at least they had been until very recently. And since she didn’t want to bring him to the hospital like…this…it was probably their best option.
“You’re right.” Chak agreed as she pushed up to her feet, in a slight stagger she nearly toppled over if Zithra hadn’t caught her arm to support her.
“Woah, you okay?” he asked as she steadied.
“Yeah… I think I’m going to walk back though. Even Terran bodies get tired, it seems… and the magic… was hard to keep at bay.” she replied in a forced chuckled before brushing snow off her pants.
Shida looked at her worriedly, but Chak wasn’t the one in the most severe danger here. If only she could touch the darn sleigh…
“I’ll come back for you as soon as I can be sure he is safe,” Shida assured her when she finally had Dagon in a position where she could sensibly carry him around on the board. “Can you two look out for each other in the meantime…again?”
A bit of guilt pained her when she realized that she was leaving the two alone again so soon already, even after what had happened the last time.
“It’s not too far, here, I’ll carry ya.” Zithra said as he hooked the string of the bow to his shoulder and bent down in front of Chak.
“Okay… thank you.” Chak agreed wearily as she wrapped her arms around the Manarian’s neck.
Zithra then scooped up the Cali’s legs with his arms and fully picked her up in a piggy back. He looked to Shida and gave her a nod.
“Come back if you think it’s safe to leave him alone, but I’ll start running the two of us over. Shouldn’t be too long. Unless… you want to risk me jumping on the sleigh while she’s on me?” he said as he adjusted the woman on his back to a better grip.
“No!” Shida shouted out, perhaps a bit too eagerly, before clearing her throat and repeating more quietly. “No. Let’s not risk it.”
She readjusted for a moment, trying to keep herself under control.
“Be careful, though,” she then added after somewhat regaining her composure. “She’s a lousy backpack.” Her eyes then looked over at Chak. “If you reach the house before I make it back, the codeword will be the name of the woman you caught my boyfriend in bed with that one time,” she informed the princess before turning over to Zithra. “For you it will be the name of the scientist that finished the encoding a couple of millennia ago. Got it?”
“Pink fur gal… got it.” Chak nodded, not wanting to say the name aloud for anyone to possibly overhear.
“Uhhhm, yeah, yeah. Begins with S and ends with A. I remember.” Zithra agreed, having to mentally dig up knowledge that he hadn’t really thought about in quite a while, “And don’t worry, I carried a hiker with a broken leg for three miles to a ranger station once. He was hitting me the whole time, so I think I can handle this one.”
“At least you’re not as boney.” Chak whispered, giving Shida a knowing teasing wink.
Forgoing a quip about how she was emaciated by many years of sub-par gravity, Shida shook her head for a moment, as she lifted further into the air.
“You give me one as well,” she said, slowly beginning to feel like she really needed to go. “A codeword I mean.”
Chak considered it for a brief moment before deciding.
“The name of the ship the humans rode in on to save us from that ‘serpent’ ship. Now get going, I don’t like that thing on Dagon’s head. And be careful.” she fare-welled.
Shida nodded and turned to fly out of there, the magic protecting her and her passenger as she left a sonic boom in her wake, reaching the Light estate again in no time at all.

You know how it goes; Arguably one of the greatest assassins in the world, revenge fuelled bloodbath due to an avoidable tragedy, someone helps them change their perspective, now a force of chaotic good. Except this book begins with him helping someone else do the same.
Originally, both the characters started as POVs from which I imagined different stories and situations. But since I've built up a pretty decent world in my brain, and due to some bullying from the author of another story I was editing, I started writing it down starting from July. I do have a 'Big Bad' and a main story, but currently I'm just trying to reveal how the world works and the characters' personalities, so I don't need to go into that much exposition in the future.
Here's a link to the Google doc if you're interested in reading the backstory, just be warned that it may be too detail heavy. Currently, I just want to see if the following chapter is heist-y enough:

Chapter 12:

The sky hung in an inky shroud as the resonant tolling of bells echoed through the city. Last call. The pubs, their once lively interiors now dimming, spilled their patrons into the cobblestone streets. Only the soft glow of street lamps illuminated the throngs of people as they walked under.
Chryse, nestled opposite the capital city, lay in the shadow of Mount Caelispelagus, formerly known as Hrafnafjall, a mountain whose summit pierced the clouds. Based on the structure of a honeycomb, Chryse was one of the most reputed centres of research, serving as a prestigious hub for both magical and mechanical research. Beyond its myriad colleges, the city also boasted the renowned 'Museum of Artefacts and Automatons,' It showcased the largest collection of magical devices, relics, and weapons that the public was allowed to view.
Elyza had spent the last day roaming inside the museum, looking for infiltration points, trying to see where they could place guards, familiars, mechanical eyes, tripwires, and according to Alex, even the holding glyphs that they create after closing. Most of all, she had to figure out where they were holding the most powerful of the artefacts. In the last two months, he had dragged her around behind him, teaching her how to read people, how to lie to them. All the while, they helped sort out the problems of whatever town they were in, along with continuing to spar whenever they could.
Till they reached here. Alex just told her that they would be stealing something from the museum, dove into his shadow, and that was eighteen hours ago. Now, she was sitting on the bench across the street from it, having rung the bell ten minutes ago, waiting. It was the perfect time to break – just between when the night owls finally went home closed and the earliest of workers woke up, and the guards were nearing the end of their shift.
As Elyza perched on the bench, a bag of sunflower seeds in hand, she scattered them before the birds, acting as if it was a daily habit. Suddenly, she felt a shift in air pressure beside her.
“I can’t stress this enough – pets are really hard to fit into this type of lifestyle,” Alex remarked, his abrupt appearance scaring away the birds.
Elyza let out an involuntary sigh, “Took you long enough.”
Alex simply stated, “Really? How much money is left?”
She muttered, trying to avoid the topic, “You could have told me how long you were going to take.”
“I apologise,” he said, bowing slightly in his seat, “Something personal came up during my visit.” Rubbing a red stain off his cloak, he asked, “So, are you ready?”
“First,” she interjected, addressing the question that had been gnawing at her for the past day, “Tell me what we are stealing.”
“WE’re not stealing anything; you are,” He corrected her with a wide smile.
“What?”
“Technically,” he added, not even trying to hide his amusement, “You’re only going to be replacing something I have already stolen.”
Elyza went silent, grappling with what frustrated her more: him or the museum, “And they have realised one of their prized artefacts has been missing for… how long?”
“Been a month and a half,” he revealed, and tried to defend their incompetence, “and I did put a handmade replica in its place.”
Rather than exhaling her frustration audibly, she took a deep breath and spoke, “If you already have broken into the museum once before, why can you not return it by yourself?”
“Because,” he drawled out the syllables in his reply, “I was busy preparing things for you in the capital, and a few surprises as well.”
“Why were you at the capital?” she questioned, momentarily distracted by a more pressing concern, “More importantly, what did I tell you about surprising me?”
“Don’t worry, I promise they’re good surprises this time,” for the first time, she thought he might be telling the truth, which made what Alex said next even better, “And I was there setting up things for when you register with the guild.”
"Does that mean?" Despite her best efforts, Elyza couldn't conceal the excitement in her voice. With a confirming nod from Alex, she eagerly added, "What am I returning?"
He handed her what felt like neck armour, wrapped in soft silk cloth. “I haven’t eaten anything in a day, so I’m going to find something open at this early hour,” he admitted, turning to her, locking eyes, and cautioned, “Don’t drop that, and don’t leave a trace.” Alex began to meld into his shadow, but before he vanished, he commented, "I would say good luck, but you don't need it."
Left alone once again, Elyza unveiled the artefact, hoping it was something familiar from the museum floor. She gazed upon a rigid neck collar, made of rusted copper, its intricate designs worn down with time. She found herself captivated by the triangular red gem at its centre. As her hands explored the rest of the collar, she couldn't look away from the centrepiece, its dark red hue dulling as it filled with a muddy yet glittering purplish liquid. Running her fingers along the back, she recognized the mechanism—it resembled a silencing collar worn by prisoners, crafted to be impossible to be opened by whoever had to wear it.
The clasp opened with a loud click, just enough for Elyza to realise what was happening. The gem was trying to put her into a trance, whispering unheard suggestions to entice her to wear it. Quickly covering the artefact with the cloth, she felt a calm settle over her, turning to annoyance as she reviewed her memories and realised she hadn't seen anything like it displayed in the museum. It meant the artefact had to be returned to the vault.
Tossing the artefact into her burlap bag alongside her other gifts, Elyza donned her dark green gloves, striding toward the museum entrance, mentally reviewing her plan of action.
The building stood four stories tall, with additional floors below ground for experimentation and artefact preservation. Built on a small hill, the museum featured an open courtyard on the first floor. The ground floor housed an array of automatons, the first floor showcased larger exhibits, and the second floor was a trove of carefully curated artefacts.
The first time Elyza entered the museum, she had noticed that the steps leading up to the entrance were pressurised, likely to detect anyone that had disguised themselves. However, she had no intention of using the front entrance. After being stranded, Elyza had spent an hour sitting on the bench, waiting for the museum to open its door. Between bites of an egg sandwich, she was also counting how many employees had gone in, and again when it closed for the day. Around a hundred people had entered through the main entrance, and approximately two hundred had exited. Although the museum likely employed even more, it meant there was another entrance, one not to the ground floor, but straight to the basement.
Elyza knew precisely where it was. Approaching the stairs, she veered off the footpath before the pressure plates engaged. Staying close to the museum's outer left wall, she made sure to avoid the gaze of the gargoyles perched above her, uncertain which of them were alive. Following the stone wall, she used her hand to guide her along, turning the corner to find the entire wall densely covered with Creepers. A single glance was all it took for her to realise they were not wild, meaning they had been planted deliberately. Surveying the wall closely revealed what they were hiding; a metal door, hidden by a basic illusion sigil. Blending seamlessly with the vines, the spell was strong enough so people who didn’t know that a door was present would glance over it.
Although it appeared to have a pickable keyhole, touching the door revealed an intricate array of magic circles imbued upon it. Fortunately, Elyza had spotted the employees were all wearing similar looking pendants that only differed in the design of the mounting of the rock. These rocks emitted a faint glow upon entering a new room, leading her to suspect that they acted like a verification system. Her suspicions were confirmed that night by a ‘helpful’ guide she had followed to a pub, along with him lending Elyza his own pendant. Holding the pink rock against the door, she felt it cool as the door absorbed the mana, swinging inwards to reveal the stone catacombs of the basement.
Yet, Elyza hesitated stepping into the building. She knew nothing about the layout of the basement beyond the location of the one staircase leading down to it. If the vault was hidden in the lower levels, locating it before encountering someone would be a near-impossible task. But as much of a bastard as Alex was, he had never tasked her with the truly impossible, and he was as stubborn as they came. For now, she just needed to focus on finding a way up.
Stepping through the doorway, she felt as though she had punctured the surface of a bubble, and an idea popped up in her mind. The amulet was a part of a verification system, and if the system was still active, wouldn't that mean her location could be pinpointed? Unsure whether her window of opportunity had just been drastically slammed shut, Elyza threw the amulet behind her along with any lingering doubts and delved in.
The chamber she entered resembled a dungeon, shrouded in absolute darkness. The absence of any light source created a damp and confining atmosphere, and the air hung stale. With the door now open behind her, Elyza felt a gentle breeze carrying the freshness of the outside world through the corridors, gradually replacing the stagnant air. The direction of the breeze matched up with her internal map of the floors above, so she decided to follow behind it.
Passing through numerous chambers, some evidently dedicated to the care of the museum's stored relics, Elyza felt more and more confident that the vault, or at least its entrance, wasn’t in the lower levels. Despite her senses being primed as soon as she had entered, they had yet to notice a single trap in whatever room Elyza came across. The few mechanical eyes present seemed to be powered down, contributing to the eerie stillness. But since she had not come across any priceless artefacts strewn about, it wasn’t improbable that the basement’s safeguards weren’t as thorough as the ones above.
Closing in to where the staircase should be, about two corridors away from where Elyza was, the strength of the breeze began to wane. Upon entering the penultimate corridor, she felt something thin break against her thigh, accompanied by a low mechanical clunk originating from behind the wall. Reacting swiftly, Elyza dashed forward, manipulating the air to form a barrier beneath her, reducing friction as she dove towards the opposite end. It allowed her to smoothly slide into the next chamber, just as she sensed something closing in behind her.
Elyza cast a glance behind to see what exactly had happened. The walls of the corridors were adorned with stasis circles, and the way back was blocked by a shimmering, translucent barrier. While she would have loved to learn how to shatter it, someone was likely already en route to check what had sprung the trap. As Elyza got back on her feet, she noticed a small metal string hanging from her leggings, thin as a hair strand, and what had likely triggered the trap.
She continued onwards, her eyes now vigilant for any more reflective strings, ducking into the last hallway while avoiding another wire, finally coming across the stairway, its stone steps defying gravity as they spiralled up from a central pillar. Elyza knew she had to beeline for the vault, so as she ascended up the steps, she mentally mapped out the fastest route to the presumed entrance.
As she reached the level above, the sound of footsteps echoed throughout the ground floor, growing louder with each second. Sprinting up to the first force, she barely avoided stepping right into the gaze of a floating eye. Above the bronze clad automaton was a glowing green bat with enormous ears, a familiar, its wings flapping ferociously as it struggled to carry the eye. Her footsteps weren’t as quiet as they should've been.
Her hand dove into the depths of her pouch, picking out the densest seeds, before Elyza threw them to the corridor behind the bat. As the seeds clattered on the marble floor, the sound was loud enough to draw the bat’s attention, allowing her to slip by it and into the room to her left.
When she was exploring the museum, Elyza had noticed the building was shaped like an elongated pentagon, whose tip had been squashed down to resemble more of a rectangle. The chambers in both the ground and the second levels were shaped accordingly, but something was off on the first floor. The rooms at the back of the were smaller than they should’ve been, and there always seemed to be a couple of guards standing around. It didn’t take long to realise they were guarding something, it took even less to spot the faux patch of wall.
Crouching at the archway into the room, now illuminated by the light from the night sky, courtesy of the open courtyard, Elyza headed straight to the patch. Its illusion was much more advanced than what she had encountered outside, but no match for her eyes. Touching it, she hoped to pass straight through, instead her palms hit the wall. It would be easy to destroy the illusion and continue, but since that would just as easily be noticed, she had to squeeze through.
Her fingers dug in, which hurt, the congealed mana hard as solid rock, but they were able to create enough of a gap for her to work with. She focused a tiny bead of spinning air at the tip of her finger, placing it into the gap, and started to feed it. Instead of breaking the bonds that formed the illusion, she was stretching them, trying to create a hole big enough to pass through. The whipping air pushed against the magic, the mana needed to continue feeding it growing with each second, as its edges started to bloat and harden, till the gap was big enough for Elyza to squeeze through.
As she emerged to the other side, the wall returned to normal, and she was left in a dim room with a door. The room was dingy, dirty, only meant to house the door to her right. She got back on her feet and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, and that was unnerving. Elyza walked through the door, and into a brightly lit stairway leading down. The walls and the floor were made of metal, the walls of bronze and the floors of something coloured white. Crystals embedded within the steps gave out light that filled the constrained corridor, with guardrails leading down to a solitary vault door.
It looked too easy, the steps too inviting. As her hand reached for the rail, it felt something, the same feeling she got whenever facing Alex. Looking closer at the steps, they appeared to be risen, pressurised. The corridor was a mousetrap, likely not disarmed because no one had crossed the barrier properly. Elyza had a simple solution. She stepped back, focused herself, and leapt. As she fell, the air around her feet started to spin upwards, creating an area of low pressure that helped to keep her afloat at the centre of a mini-tornado. It allowed her to descend down the stairs, her legs never touching the ground till she was in front of the vault door.
The vault door, towering above Elyza, emanated a cool blue hue that seemed to greedily absorb her body heat as she touched it. Its weight and density were palpable as she pressed against it. Even if she was allowed to, it would be a herculean task to force her way through it. She attempted to push air through the door to the other side, hoping it wasn’t airtight. Though subtle, she detected a faint channel that flowed through the lock.
Drawing air from within the vault to her side allowed Elyza to visualise how the lock was constructed. It seemed to have three cylinders, which was fortunate, cracking a three digit combination was the higher end of what she could pick with some amount of speed. Leaning down for a closer look at the dial, she noted its basic structure—numbered from 0 to 99 and made of hardened bronze. It was strange. Except for the materials it was made of, the door seemed entirely too basic for the museum.
But she was not here to criticise the security of the institution she was actively exploiting. She spun the dial clockwise till she was sure the locks were re-setted, Elyza leaned against the door, ear pressed next to the dial while she kept an eye on the dial. Rotating it counter-clockwise, she felt and heard the initial pair of clicks at 70 and 80–indicating the contact points where the lever touched the gaps in the notch. Resetting the locks, Elyza started at 0, turning the dial clockwise, slow enough to still be able to feel any shifts in resistance, or hear any clink of metal under the soft clicks of the dial. She felt the points again at 71 and 79. Too far apart. Resetting again but this time starting from 2, she heard the clicks at 72 and 79 this time. Closer. She repeated the meticulous process at each interval of two till she had gone around the dial.
The room enveloped them in silence, broken only by each turn of the dial. Elyza's concentration was unwavering, her gaze fixed on the dial as if decoding a cryptic language. The closest the clicks got were 74 and 77, and she had felt them after starting 18, 68, and 80. The first number was definitely 19, narrowing the next two down to 68, 69, 80, or 81. As quick as her fingers could move, she entered all twelve of the possible combinations, thankfully not needing them all to find the correct one—19, 68, 81— and she felt the lever drop. Turning the dial one final time clockwise led to a new sound echoing through the door.
Unaware that she had been holding her breath, Elyza released the tension with a drawn-out exhalation. Pulling on the vault’s handle, it popped open with a groan, struggling under its own weight. And then her heart fell. Stepping onto the white marble floor, Elyza saw a magic barrier, placed at the end of the room, totally opaque yet bathed in a soft blue glow. The long room was lined with glass displays, each separated by a meter, and each held artefacts she had never seen before. But she could only hope that the room held the artefact’s twin.
Swift on her feet, she roamed between rows of artefacts, searching for one similar to the collar in her bag. Some displays housed the corpses of long-forgotten creations, while others held weapons whose power emanated even through the dampening glyphs on the glass. Some were chained down with magic, and surprisingly, Elyza was able to recognise some of the items, having read about them in ‘historical’ books. Although the books were more fiction than history, her mind was vividly imprinted with their descriptions of 'mythical gear.'
Among the displays was a Nordic axe with runes etched along its blade, its giant blade covered with a layer of frost that spread down the wooden handle. As it floated, it seemed to be waiting for its wielder to call upon it. Nearby, a one-handed long sword was held up by its blade, its hilt spreading down like wings. The blade glowed white as she neared it, and stopped when she passed it. An intricately crafted crystal skull whose shape was unlike any animal she had heard of before, and next to it was a crudely crafted compound bow made from torn parts of an automaton, both caught her eye next. Further along was the bottom half of a mask designed after a demon from Shinto folklore emanating darkness, asking to be stolen by Alex.
Nearing the back of the room, worry grew with each step forward. Elyza had no idea how the barrier worked but knew trying to figure out would be an impossible task before somebody stumbled upon her. However, something caught her eye. At the room's edge, next to a pendant shaped like an eye with a glowing green crystal as its pupil, was a ceremonial dress resembling those worn by a specific sect of Egyptian priests during funeral processions. The way the hieroglyphs were etched onto the dress was identical to the collar, and as Elyza stared at its copy through the glass, her mind slowly figured out a group of symbols. It read ‘Under the guidance of Upuaut’.
Inspecting the display revealed nothing unusual. The ensemble rested on pillars with decreasing height—jackal mask at the top, the fake collar below it, and a skirt with metal plates woven into the leopard skin. Elyza gingerly pulled open the glass door, grabbed her bag, and lifted the legitimate collar, the gem’s words failing to win her over. Doubts lingered even after coming so far; she couldn't believe it would be this easy. Placing the real artefact as she lifted the fake, making sure the weight on the pillar wouldn't change, lest it be pressurised. With one final nudge, she had returned the collar to the museum. Nothing happened to signify her achievement, and if she had done everything correctly, it would be just a normal day for the museum.
Closing the display, Elyza pulled the black bell from her pocket and shook it. As it rang, a hand seized her ankles, pulling her into her shadow.

created by Scifiase & WaserWifle
PDF version that's nicer to look at and has stat blocks at the end

Mandragora

Domain of alchemy and soulless men
Darklord: Benedictus Hohenheim
Genres: Gothic Horror
Hallmarks: Alchemy, unsettling homunculi, desperate wishes, and ancient tunnels.
Mist Talismans: A vial of brimstone and quicksilver, a piece of obsidian engraved with the squared circle, dried mandrak wrapped in a shroud.

Overview

Mandragora is a place where alchemy, both ancient and recent, afflicts the lives of those trying to live in an already bleak and gloomy coastline. The primary horror is the homunculi, strange, nearly human creatures created by the dark lord Hohenheim: These creations may appear human-like, but are completely lacking in empathy or emotion, and will hold no bar in their quest to help their creator isolate azoth, the element of consciousness. Deep below, within primordial volcanic caverns and cyclopean ruins are the remains of an ancient civilisation of master alchemists, ruled over by the Rebis, a strange being capable of granting only your innermost and most desperate wishes.

Noteworthy Features

Those familiar with Mandragora know these facts:

• The domain is largely coastal, with steep cliffs lifting the land above unsettled seas in all but a few areas. The isle of Zosimos sits off the coast, accessible at low tide by a half-mile causeway of slippery mud seaweed. As there is no safe harbour on the island, and few calm days, this is the only reliable way to access it.
  
• The island is inhabited by Hohenheim, who resides in what was formerly a monastery, but is now his residence and lair. From here he researches the alchemical secrets to creating life, and is aided by his uncanny homunculi.
  
• The homunculi are not well regarded among the local population, who accuse them of being soulless. Their occasional appearance from the island usually causes trouble on the mainland.
  
• Rumours around the scattered farmhouses and hamlets talk of a mysterious entity called the Rebis, who is wise and wicked in equal measure. They say that the strange two-headed being can grant one’s deepest desires.
  
• Ancient ruins that predate the monastery can be found scattered around the domain. These remnants are thought to contain incredible alchemical secrets, and Hohenheim frequently sends homunculi to excavate them
  

Settlements and Sites

Mandragora encompasses a stretch of rural coastline and countryside littered with jagged rock formations. Sheer cliffs border the sea and stretch inland, remnants of the land’s turbulent geological history. Strata of dark grey rocks cast tooth-like shadows in the rare instances of sun shining through the broiling clouds. Two flanking peninsulas form a long triangular cove that comprises the majority of the domain’s coastline, two crooked fingers reaching out to the sea.
Away from the coast, dirt roads wind through hills and cliffs, connecting a scattering of villages and farmsteads. Rugged fields are broken up with woodland and trenches carved by trickling water. Cracks in the earth are frequent where the softer layers of the upturned stratigraphy have fractured or eroded, ever ready to snare unwary feet. Some of these fissures run deeper, and brave explorers have sighted the remains of an ancient civilisation deep below the earth.
There are no straight roads through Mandragora, as the abundance of cliffs and valleys force travellers in winding, shadowy paths. Cross-country hikes or cliff climbing can significantly shorten a journey, but are perilous. Any cliff could crumble, undergrowth hides gloomy crevasses that can break a hiker’s leg or swallow them whole, and getting lost is always a risk. Even taking the relatively direct coast road from one peninsula to another, crossing the cove at Hermetica Bridge, can take three days straight of marching.
Ever since the encroachment of the mists, the wilderness has become even more dire. Tangling vines have become more frequent and edible plants less so. Whispers in ancient tongues drift from the fissures, and nightmares haunt those who camp in the forest. At the edges of the domain, at the borders of the mists, the ground becomes treacherous beyond reason, with the mists seeming to boil up from the coves here and almost any wrong step can send one plummeting to the deepest parts of the ruins. A lack of prey leads to wolves stalking around farmsteads or village fringes, although even they make themselves scarce around the uncanny homunculi.
Isle of Zosimos: Hohenheim’s stronghold is situated on an island accessible by a causeway from one of the peninsulas. Standing tall against the surrounding waves that constantly claw at it, a bastion of stone that supports what used to be a monastery, but is now a lair of twisted alchemy. The tall rocks tower over the stone buildings built in its shade. Narrow, slippery pathways connect the various buildings and overgrown gardens. As most of its residents have no concept of beauty, the once grand temple is now bleak, with all its religious symbols having been cast into the sea. The island is home to many of the dark lord’s homunculi, and is where they are created. Within its halls are many alchemical devices and workshops, a great library, and hidden paths to ruins down below where the dark lord plunders ancient catacombs in search of new precious materials for his work.
Cross Ploughs: A village in the northern part of the domain, and the closest to the dark lord’s lair, the inhabitants are grateful for what distance they have from the mad alchemist. Though deeply suspicious of potential homunculi, they are open to outsiders. Nestled between hilly farmland, they are a largely self-sufficient farming community that sources their own food and lumber, but makes very little else. Only when their need is dire do they barter minerals to the dark lord’s servants in exchange for life-saving medicine or services, although they would much prefer to petition passing adventurers than plead with Hohenheim. In their disdain with the homunculi, they have adopted peculiar traditions of their own.
Celebrations of any kind, be it a successful harvest, a birth, or simple need for a raise in morale, are celebrated with vulgarity and senseless violence. Villagers insult or belittle each other, indulge in crass displays of intimacy, shun personal hygiene, and pick meaningless fights. These displays of nastiness and base desire are things that homunculi never do for they don’t understand it and see no value in it. Though vile, the villagers see these acts as something intrinsically human, even if these are human qualities that few others consider worth celebrating.
Hermetica Bridge: A fishing village clinging to the innermost cliffs of the cove, sheltered from the wind and making a difficult living from the sea. When fish are scarce, the villagers scrounge mussels and cockles from the rocks at low tide. Reaching over the village at the narrowest point of the cove is a humble stone bridge. Ancient in its construction yet ever sturdy, this short bridge is an essential path along the domain’s coast. Many travellers through the domain cross this way, and give little attention to the people living down below. The villagers are content to be ignored.
Mannforth Estate: This lonely manor lies wilting in the southmost lands. Once a grand noble estate, all that remains of a once sprawling homestead is a dilapidated house and its singular master. Nishad Mannforth lives alone here, ever paranoid of looters, or worse, some fabled homunculus lord seeking his station. The manor is a festering den of guilt, fear, and insecurity, while the surrounding lands have been reclaimed by the encroachment of brambles and rockfalls. The boundary stones have long been overrun with moss, and the fences indistinguishable from the rotten wood that litters the forest floor. Within a secluded ruin that was once a guest house are the remains of an alchemy laboratory that was constructed by Hohenheim, and trespassers onto the estate report strange shapes moving within.
The Underground Ruins: For one brave enough to squeeze through the cracked earth, or able to locate more navigable passages, a vast network of caves can be found below the domain. Most are sheer ravines linked by fractures, some large enough to form vast voids that dwarf the light cast by torch and lantern. Deeper still are the remains of an ancient civilisation. Masters of wondrous alchemy, the scattered structures they leave behind are ominous cyclopean temples saturated in the strange magics they used. Shadows play tricks on explorers, while ruined hallways and pillars seem to have twisted in ways not explained by geology. Wellsprings of water from below leave an acrid taste in the humid air. Footsteps and voices are engulfed in the oppressive silence that pervades the ruins.
Most of these ruins appear to be temples or catacombs, both monuments to the achievements in alchemy wrought by these extinct people. At the lowest points of the ruins, the essence of countless corpses and faded magic seeps downwards into the ground, forming slimy pools of oily sludge. This slurry is alchemically potent and prone to unpredictable reactions. Strange elementals are spawned from these pools.
The largest of these, in the most hidden enclave of the ruins, is home to the enigmatic Rebis. Spawned from the most concentrated remnants of dead masterwork homunculi, this sinister creature carefully observes those who venture into the ruins, assessing their desires to use them for its own wicked goals. Of all the vermin and magical products of the ancient cities, only the Rebis truly rules the ruins.

Alchemy & the homunculi

The small, monstrous creature found in the monster manual is a form of homunculus, but is a much simpler creation than those of Hohenheim. In this domain, homunculus refers to a human-like construct, created from base elements and imbued with properties determined by their chemical formula.
The principles of Hohenheim’s alchemy differ a little from some modern interpretations. While his laboratory does contain glass vials, strange sizzling liquids, and caustic fumes, this is not chemistry like an artificer might practise. This is an older and more esoteric form, where the ambitions of the art often revolved around such acts as transmuting lead into gold, or creating elixirs of everlasting life. Hohenheim specifically studies the metaphysical properties that each element has in cohort with its physical properties.
It is through these means that he creates his homunculi, a practice sometimes known as takwin. He concentrates on identifying properties he desires for his perfect beings, such as intelligence, curiosity, or honesty, and blends the corresponding element into an alchemical formula used to create each homunculus.
However, he has failed to identify any element that can allow his creations to feel any emotions, nor have any desires beyond the mechanical act of research, for he has made them inquisitive. They cannot feel joy nor anger, but most critically cannot feel empathy. Homunculi have no inner world, driven only by the surface level traits blended into their creation. A homunculus might be kind to someone, not because they feel any internal desire to be kind, but because behaving kindly is simply one way of expressing something that was built into them. It is an entirely superficial act.
They still have mannerisms, individual personalities, and can seem quite normal at first, barring strange imperfections that usually mark them as inhuman. Most of his creations are an earnest attempt to actually create a perfect being, and so Hohenheim does not create legions of mindless drones. Each one has a slightly different formula, and therefore different traits. They have free will, but cannot go against their ingrained properties.
Their lack of empathy makes them a blight on the domain. When they are tasked with excavating a ruin or securing a specific material, they cannot comprehend the potential for suffering they bring. They will dig up a farmer’s field, and retaliate with magic when the farmer tries to protect their food supply. They are often skilled medics, but rarely offer help unless bargained for. When they delve into the dark passages below, they often release ancient elementals that rise to the surface, but never think of the harm they have unleashed. Anyone who threatens them or their creator is usually met with disproportionate violence, though without anger they usually seem bored during the process.
Since they get no satisfaction from eating and feel no revulsion, they can often be found eating strange foods, such as raw shellfish, rotten meat, leaves, or even human or homunculus corpses.

Benedictus Hohenheim

Obsessive, introverted, quick-tempered, and self-loathing, Hohenheim’s mission in life is to create his ideal human: One that is logical, generous, and that finds joy in the pursuit of enlightenment.
Which is to say, all the things he is not. He is smart, but his judgement is often clouded by his more emotional desires. He has always failed to form relationships, and has become jaded against even trying to contribute towards normal human society. And his own pursuit of alchemical enlightenment has brought him nothing but guilt, angst, and despair.
From his laboratory, which is repurposed from a medieval monastery, he seeks to uncover the secrets of an ancient race of master alchemists, who succeeded in creating life forms that are not only imbued with the properties he desires, but have rich internal lives that his own creations lack. To this end, he sends his homunculi to excavate the tombs of these ancient people, distil rare elements from their grave dirt, and try to isolate the exotic compound that he knows must exist.
The locals loath his uncanny children, but he dismisses them as simple minded and superstitious, and that the needs of his more enlightened creations come before theirs. Anyone who tries to interrupt their work is often met with apathetic violence from the homunculi.

History

Alchemy was Benedictus’s first love. As the world began to pivot away from the occult and dionysian arts to more logical, reasoned ones, Benedictus relished the new enlightenment, but mourned the loss of the grand promises of the old magics. While he showed a great aptitude for mathematics and natural philosophy, his heart lay with the wonder of myths and legends.
Alchemy straddled these worlds: Its past was tied to the same mysticism as the summoning of demons or scrying the future, but it held within it, or at least as far as Hohenheim was concerned, a rational and quantifiable power.
Equipped with a fierce intellect, he attended university in a neighbouring province. Still a young man at this stage, he was fervourant and idealistic, and extolled the virtues of the enlightenment to any who would listen. Though he had intelligence, he lacked social skills, and found himself lonely despite his best efforts.
Without distractions, he turned inwards to his work, and quickly found himself on tangents that others dismissed as outlandish. However, he had researched the most obscure manuscripts, tested many hypotheses, and purified many powerful elements, all in service to his magnum opus: The creation of life by alchemical means.
At twenty-two years of age, he succeeded in this goal, somewhat. Rather than a fully formed and intelligent human being, he had created a squat, toad-like creature that snarled at him and sought to bite him. Horrified by the imperfection of this creature, he dissolved it in acid, and then fell ill for several days as his mind was overwhelmed by both the god-like power he had discovered, and the unbearable burden it brought with it.
Following his first attempt, he didn’t create any more life for nearly a year, In this time, he sought to identify the elements that had created such a spiteful creature, and what elements might imbue greater qualities. Over this time, he isolated many compounds that, when mixed into an alchemical formula, would transfer the properties of wisdom, rationalism, and kindness. In his idealism, he neglected many initial discoveries into constitution or symmetry, and focused on higher-minded ideals.
As he compiled his archive of elements, he began to ponder how best to formulate his next creation. An enlightened creature, he decided, would be the ideal creation. One that embodied all of his values, that wouldn’t be phased by his strangeness, but instead be focused solely on higher-minded pursuits: Reason, logic, community, and of course alchemy. He would call it Apollon, for the god of reason and order.
However, once again, his creation would cause him despair. While Apollon would prove keen-minded and an alchemist to match his creator, he was malformed in the strangest ways: His spine was placed backwards, as were his wrists, knees, and elbows. The creature was confusing and stressful to behold, and Hohenheim felt he had done his creation a great disservice.
Yet, Apollon was a calm and reasonable person. A true person, who could speak and write as well as any scholar. He was helpful and kind, or so it seemed at first, which fuelled Hohenheim’s determination, his goal seemingly within his grasp.
Over time, Hohenheim became accustomed to his new assistant’s unusual appearance, but began to notice that his mind was far stranger: Apollon had no internal life. He did not dream, nor have desires of his own. He did not form subjective opinions, and most importantly, he did not feel emotion of any kind. If Hohenheim slighted him, he’d not harbour any grudge. If his creator complimented him, he would not gain any satisfaction from it. Only those properties that had been chemically incorporated were present, and no more.
Noting secretly that this was a most unsettling failure, Hohenheim pledged to correct this in future creations. He wanted his children to be happy in their enlightenment, but Apollon was apathetic. Still, the twisted creation was useful, and aided the alchemist in his research.
In fact, it was Apollon who identified the manuscript that would change everything. The document was written by a monk, who was recording the history of an ancient people, said that their own homunculi often attended performances they created for each-other. Notably, one reference stated “...and she sang for them, a most mournful song, so that no anthroparion in the theatre did not shed a tear”. This apparent display of emotion intrigued him, but the age of the text left most of it unreadable.
But Apollon devised a stain that would highlight the traces of the faded ink, and though he could not restore moth-eaten pages, he did gain one key piece of information: The name of the monk, and the monastery where he lived. Immediately, Hohenheim and Apollon packed their bags, and set out for the Isle of Zosimos in Mandragora, in search of a copy of the manuscript.
At first, he found residence with Nishad Mannforth, and promised to isolate the element of nobility for him. The monks were initially helpful, and confirmed that a copy of the manuscript was in their possession, but once they learnt what Hohenheim’s purpose was, they shunned him, deeming his work heretical. They barred him from their island, and refused any further communication with him.
For a time, Hohenheim accepted the setback, and settled for studying the ruins that could be found in the dark crevasses of the coastline. During this time he made several more homunculi, and then a breakthrough: The element for chirality. With this, he created the first homunculus with the correctly oriented parts, and named her Inanna, for she was beautiful.
Being a quiet man, whose companions for the past five years were exclusively the misconstructed early homunculi, he instantly fell in love, knowing the fact that she could not love him back. Built to be polite, she reciprocated his affection with superficial endearment, but felt none of it.
If Hohenheim was obsessive before, his quest to create a creature with real feelings now tugged at every fibre of his being. It was soon after Inanna’s creation that rumours began to arrive to him that the island’s monks had disappeared. Apollon suggested that while their disappearance was troubling it would be a waste to not take advantage of it. That day, Hohenheim and his creations packed up and moved into the abandoned monastery. The chapels were converted into workshops, and at last the alchemist had access to their ancient library, which contained within it many records of the master alchemists who had lived here before.
However, there were no detailed descriptions of their methods to be found. Increasingly, Hohenheim was despairing at the paper-thin love of his homunculus wife, and so resorted to the only tangible clue he could pursue: It was said that at the deepest point of their ancient labyrinths, there was a concentration of unstable and exotic elements that if prepared quickly, in-situ, could create a type of homunculus beyond anything Benedictus had ever conceived: The Rebis, a creature of perfect balance, sage in the ways of alchemy beyond any mortal.
And so he delved, deeper than any wise man should, pursued the whole way by shadow-clad horrors that were held at bay only by the light of his lantern.
Eventually, he stumbled, exhausted and delirious with fear, to the tarry pit that he sought. With a small kit of vials and an oil burner, he distilled the formula, and energised it with rods of glass and copper.
An electric flash, followed by a cloud of cloying smoke, and eventually mercurial stillness. When Hohenheim lifted his lamp, before him stood naked a tall and elegant creature, both male and female, with a head for each. Towering over him by two feet, it grinned in the darkness, and offered to him to wish for whatever he desired.
Hohenheim’s memory fails him on how he returned to the surface, but return he did, by washing up on the shores of the Isle of Zosimos, and woken up by Inanna, whose voice trembled with true concern for him at last.
Bliss lasted three days. For now Inanna was a real woman, but had never been a real girl. While a person grows up learning to restrain their desires, check their impulses, and consider the feelings of others, Inanna had no such upbringing. When Benetictus’s awkwardness caused him to falter, she’d mock him for it. When she was unhappy with him, she’d curse him viciously. And finally, when visiting Hermetica Bridge she saw a man that pleased her eye much more so than her creator did, she didn’t consider the repercussions of bedding him.
And repercussions there certainly were. She did not consider to keep it a secret, for she cared not for Hohenheim’s feelings and was made to be truthful. Hohenheim was furious, not only with her but himself: In pursuing his base human desires, he had corrupted his quest to create a perfect enlightened being.
When the Rebis visited the island, seeking some remnant of the ancient people which it claimed to be the heir of, Hohenheim was waiting. A terrible storm afflicted the region at the time, but the alchemist stood in the onslaught of rain to face the creature. He demanded another wish, and the Rebis, amused, agreed.
When morning came, the mists of the previous night still encircled the island and surrounding coastline, and still to this day do. And Inanna, when she awoke that morning, found her mind devoid of any internal desires, self reflection, or strong emotion, once again.

Benedictus Hohenheim's Powers and Dominion

For a man able to create life from a bottle, he is quite unremarkable in appearance. He is quite thin, and several years of living on a windswept rock has worn creases into his face beyond his years. He most often wears informal woollen shirts when reading, or a leather apron when working with reagents. His hands have scars and stains from years of handling dangerous compounds.
Of his powers, they are primarily alchemical. He is skilled in the use of transmutation magic, but is not well equipped for combat. He has a limited understanding of the mists, only aware that they are supernatural in a way he cannot account for, yet he has no real desire to leave his island so rarely tests his inability to leave. To close the borders of the domain, he energises a sample of the mists within a large flask by alchemical reagents. This causes the mist borders to become phosphorescent and cackle with static charge, while also being corrosive to any who try to pass through. The most common cause for his closing of the borders is to prevent the escape of particularly dangerous homunculi.
Hohenheim takes no part in actually governing the domain beyond his island. When his research demands action on the mainland, he sends his homunculi, who are the primary means by which he achieves his goals. Without empathy and often being capable spellcasters, these homunculi often leave the mainland in a worse state than when they arrived.
If Hohenheim is killed, one of his homunculi, usually Apollon, will revive him once they retrieve the body. If his body has been burnt or disintegrated, then the process takes much longer: Three days to prepare the reagents, and a lightning storm to energise it.

Benedictus Hohenheim's Torment

Within the domain, Hohenheim will never be able to complete his magnum opus. The elements of Azoth and Alkahast he requires will always remain elusive, and known only to the Rebis, who will never share them with him. All of his homunculi will fall short of his ideal.
He wishes his creations were better, and feels personally responsible for their sub-par composition. When the locals are repulsed by the homunculi, he feels personally offended. When they lash out at his creations, he is reminded of his own human failings.
No matter how flawed the homunculi are, they are still better than him in all the virtues he values.
Of the homunculi, he feels guilt over his failure to give them the ability to feel joy. Despite the frequent trouble they cause for the locals, he cannot blame them for long, and sees their missing empathy as a failure on his behalf, not theirs. He cannot bring himself to harm or restrain them, even as they cause suffering for people who are able to feel it.

Roleplaying Benedictus Hohenheim

The alchemist, despite his brilliance, is awkward in conversation with strangers. Having always been shy in social situations, this trait has only become magnified as he keeps the company exclusively of the emotionless homunculi. Their indifference to both his quick anger and rare compassion has dampened his ability to connect with others, ironic considering he dedicates his life to allowing his creations to do that very thing.
Bonds: I must complete my magnum opus, the ability to create wholesome, enlightened, life by alchemical means.
Ideals: Reason, logic, community, prosperity. These are the ideals of enlightenment, and they are self-fulfilling. If I create perfect beings that embody these traits, they in turn will be able to lead us all into an enlightened world.
Flaws: I am not as pure as my creations. I desire illogical, emotional things, and those desires taint my creations, and prevent me from thinking clearly.
Traits: Alchemy is the key to life, and thus the key to all things.
Reclusive and scholarly, he does not often leave his island home, and much prefers to send his homunculi on errands on the mainland. If he does host visitors, he will usually take the opportunity to extol the virtues of enlightenment, and dismiss those of romanticism. Of the locals he will be derogatory, and insult their lack of interest in higher ideals and lack of means.
One of his most notable traits is self-loathing, which comes from the conflict between what he thinks he wants, and what his heart truly desires. He has dedicated his life to pursuing his goal of making an ideal race of people, yet he is haunted by the basic human desire for platonic and romantic love. His created people are incapable of both, and his desperate deal with the Rebis ended with heartbreak. He sees the incident with Inanna as an example of the flaws inherent to humankind, and that he will eventually create beings that would not treat each other so unkindly.

Inhabitants of Mandragora

Apollon
Hohenheim’s firstborn of the true homunculi, he is the first of many great achievements by Hohenheim, and yet still suffers from many imperfections. His spine and joints are all reversed, giving him an incredibly strange appearance, like a man who was killed by a great fall that broke most of his bones. He matches his master in intellect, and has undertaken his own alchemical research. However, he also has a dire oversight that Hohenheim only thought to correct many years and homunculi later: Apollon can and does lie to further his research, and his only moral principle is the furtherance of the alchemical arts.
Apollon was behind the mysterious disappearance of the monks from the Isle of Zosimos, as he saw their inhabitation of the island as an impedance to his and Hohenheim’s work. While he still respects his creator, he finds his strange notions of “morality” and “guilt” to be confusing and distracting, and so has departed the island to establish his own lair. Without even the lacklustre ethics of Hohenheim, Apollon has created some truly monstrous creations in the name of progress, many of which wander the domain. His main focus is to invert Hohenheim’s method: Rather than start with high ideals and work down towards humanity, he has created bestial and primative creatures and is slowly working up to higher minded concepts. He truly believes that he is doing this in service of Hohenheim.
The Rebis
Supposedly a creature of perfect alchemical balance, its origins and nature are largely mysterious. Its two heads will debate with each other, taking opposing sides of whatever hypothesis they are trying to solve in order to reach even greater alchemical secrets.
To the people of the domain, it is known for granting wishes. Most curious to the Rebis is the distinction between what a person presents to the world and themselves, and what truly lies in their heart. It finds that, when approached in secret and given the opportunity to ask for anything they desire, this is the most accurate assessment of their inner self.
However, it does not make itself easily found, for it feels that those who take the biggest risks to reach it are those that have the strongest and most deeply held desires. If the Rebis can be found easily, be wary of ulterior motives. Though its motives are inscrutable, its actions often seem wicked to those who suffer the consequences of their wish.
It considers itself the heir of the predecessor people that built the ruins it inhabits, and given its detailed knowledge of them, Hohenheim reasons that this is not the first time the Rebis has been incarnated, and that it retains much awareness from its previous incarnations. If asked, the Rebis will explain that it is a platonic ideal, and that while physical manifestations of it can be destroyed, some intangible idea of it remains.
Inanna
The first of the correctly oriented, so called “enlightened” homunculi, Inanna appears as a sophisticated woman whose only unusual quality was that her skin is covered in strange orange blotches.
Since losing her ability to have desires and emotions, Inanna has returned to working alongside her fellow homunculi. She recalls her time as a self-aware being, but cannot comprehend much of her own actions during this time. Though when asked, she might state that she had strange sensations regarding her former ‘husband’ that she likens to physical pain or nausea, but of the mind.
Hohenheim still acts strangely around her, nervous of his lingering infatuation and feelings of betrayal. He tries to act as if he’s overcome his emotional tangent that led to her gaining emotions, but it’s clear to any non-homunculus that he has not.
Though she cannot understand her previous state, she does recall that emotion allowed her to suffer in ways that she currently does not, and will openly discuss the idea that perhaps his quest to allow homunculi to emote and empathise is a selfish misjudgement. She sees such things as a stain on an otherwise noble quest for truth and reason.
Nishad Mannforth
Nishad was born a commoner, yet was charming and decent in a way that caught the attention of Lady Diana Mannforth, heiress to a grand estate. She loved him in spite of her family’s opposition, and following the deaths of her parents wasted no time in marrying her love. However, the marriage was short for she herself fell ill and died a few years after, leaving Nishad the sole inheritor. As a commoner whose features made him an obvious foreigner in these lands, Nishad was struck with terrible insecurity.
Feeling uncertain in his responsibilities, an imposter of a lord, he was intrigued by the research of Benedictus Hohenheim. After inviting the alchemist to his home during Hohenheim’s attempts to access the monastery, he was fascinated by his ability to chemically isolate certain human qualities and imbue them into homunculi. He granted Hohenheim space in one of the guest houses to use as a workshop, hoping that he could isolate the trait of “nobility” and imbue it into Nishad himself. Alas, he would eventually realise that Hohenheim had no desire to create anything but homunculi, and after the mists took the land,
was wracked with immense guilt over his part in enabling the new dark lord.
His insecurity worse than ever, he became a recluse. His manor fell into disrepair, having long expended too much of his fortune funding Hohenheim’s research and using some of the rest to try and mitigate some of the damage done by the dark lord’s creations. Now he is ever paranoid. Not least of locals who might seek retribution for his role in aiding the dark lord, but also in case the alchemist somehow does discover the element of nobility after all, and creates a lordly homunculus. In Nishad’s mind, such a being could walk into his manor, claim it, and restore the standing of the Mannford family that has come to ruin under Nishad’s stewardship. Even now he continues to uphold a veneer of dignified nobility to the few guests who cross his lands, but even he is aware of how painfully hollow it is.

Adventure hooks

The locals want a specific homunculus dead, but know that if they attack it they will face retaliation from Hohenheim. So they ask some visitors to the domain to stage a scene that lays the blame on another homunculus. There’s a stand-off in Cross-plows over the fate of the village’s church: A pair of homunculi claim its foundations were laid over a much older site and might contain alchemical secrets, but the villagers won’t allow their place of worship to be turned into a dig-site.

• A homunculus seeks aid in extracting alchemical reagents from an ancient tomb underground, for a magic-draining creature of mercury has claimed the tomb as its lair.
  
• A shepherd has emerged from an underground crevasse after seeking missing sheep, but his behaviour has changed. He no longer speaks or cares for his flock, instead wandering around seeking different kinds of sensation. In truth, his body has been taken over by an Etheric Remnant, and the poor shepherd’s spirit is trapped on the ethereal plane.
  
• A grisly scene at an isolated farmhouse marks another attack by the Hornwood Horror. But with the revelation that ancient artefacts were dug up there recently, many have begun to question whether the massacre was random, or whether someone else is directing the monster’s rampages. Locals are seeking help finding the creature’s lair and searching it for clues.
  
• A murder has been committed, and a homunculus has confessed to the crime and is willing to stand trial. It is convinced that it can rationally and legally justify its actions, but knows that the locals, including Lord Mannforth the only eligible judge, are biassed against it so wishes for outsiders to help ensure a fair trial.
  
• Lord Nishad Mannforth has come to Cross Ploughs after believing that someone has broken into his abandoned guest house. He’s not sure if it was looters, homunculi looking for old alchemical devices, or just the remnants of the strange experiments that took place there, but the locals aren’t being much help to him.
  
• A collapse of the seaside cliff has revealed an entrance to a yet unknown section of the underground. Hohenheim and Apollon race to reach its myriad discoveries first, while others hope that both fail.
  
• A mob of domain residents have been stirred to action by recent atrocities committed by the homunculi. They stand ready to storm the island once the tide goes out, but the dark lord’s minions won’t let them cross the causeway easily. Benedictus himself wants to try talking them down, but his belittling of their plan and condemnation of what he sees as senseless rage is hardly convincing to the angry mob.
  

created by Scifiase & WaserWifle

Mandragora

Domain of alchemy and soulless men
Darklord: Benedictus Hohenheim
Genres: Gothic Horror
Hallmarks: Alchemy, unsettling homunculi, desperate wishes, and ancient tunnels.
Mist Talismans: A vial of brimstone and quicksilver, a piece of obsidian engraved with the squared circle, dried mandrak wrapped in a shroud.

Overview

Mandragora is a place where alchemy, both ancient and recent, afflicts the lives of those trying to live in an already bleak and gloomy coastline. The primary horror is the homunculi, strange, nearly human creatures created by the dark lord Hohenheim: These creations may appear human-like, but are completely lacking in empathy or emotion, and will hold no bar in their quest to help their creator isolate azoth, the element of consciousness. Deep below, within primordial volcanic caverns and cyclopean ruins are the remains of an ancient civilisation of master alchemists, ruled over by the Rebis, a strange being capable of granting only your innermost and most desperate wishes.

Noteworthy Features

Those familiar with Mandragora know these facts:

• The domain is largely coastal, with steep cliffs lifting the land above unsettled seas in all but a few areas. The isle of Zosimos sits off the coast, accessible at low tide by a half-mile causeway of slippery mud seaweed. As there is no safe harbour on the island, and few calm days, this is the only reliable way to access it.
  
• The island is inhabited by Hohenheim, who resides in what was formerly a monastery, but is now his residence and lair. From here he researches the alchemical secrets to creating life, and is aided by his uncanny homunculi.
  
• The homunculi are not well regarded among the local population, who accuse them of being soulless. Their occasional appearance from the island usually causes trouble on the mainland.
  
• Rumours around the scattered farmhouses and hamlets talk of a mysterious entity called the Rebis, who is wise and wicked in equal measure. They say that the strange two-headed being can grant one’s deepest desires.
  
• Ancient ruins that predate the monastery can be found scattered around the domain. These remnants are thought to contain incredible alchemical secrets, and Hohenheim frequently sends homunculi to excavate them
  

Settlements and Sites

Mandragora encompasses a stretch of rural coastline and countryside littered with jagged rock formations. Sheer cliffs border the sea and stretch inland, remnants of the land’s turbulent geological history. Strata of dark grey rocks cast tooth-like shadows in the rare instances of sun shining through the broiling clouds. Two flanking peninsulas form a long triangular cove that comprises the majority of the domain’s coastline, two crooked fingers reaching out to the sea.
Away from the coast, dirt roads wind through hills and cliffs, connecting a scattering of villages and farmsteads. Rugged fields are broken up with woodland and trenches carved by trickling water. Cracks in the earth are frequent where the softer layers of the upturned stratigraphy have fractured or eroded, ever ready to snare unwary feet. Some of these fissures run deeper, and brave explorers have sighted the remains of an ancient civilisation deep below the earth.
There are no straight roads through Mandragora, as the abundance of cliffs and valleys force travellers in winding, shadowy paths. Cross-country hikes or cliff climbing can significantly shorten a journey, but are perilous. Any cliff could crumble, undergrowth hides gloomy crevasses that can break a hiker’s leg or swallow them whole, and getting lost is always a risk. Even taking the relatively direct coast road from one peninsula to another, crossing the cove at Hermetica Bridge, can take three days straight of marching.
Ever since the encroachment of the mists, the wilderness has become even more dire. Tangling vines have become more frequent and edible plants less so. Whispers in ancient tongues drift from the fissures, and nightmares haunt those who camp in the forest. At the edges of the domain, at the borders of the mists, the ground becomes treacherous beyond reason, with the mists seeming to boil up from the coves here and almost any wrong step can send one plummeting to the deepest parts of the ruins. A lack of prey leads to wolves stalking around farmsteads or village fringes, although even they make themselves scarce around the uncanny homunculi.
Isle of Zosimos: Hohenheim’s stronghold is situated on an island accessible by a causeway from one of the peninsulas. Standing tall against the surrounding waves that constantly claw at it, a bastion of stone that supports what used to be a monastery, but is now a lair of twisted alchemy. The tall rocks tower over the stone buildings built in its shade. Narrow, slippery pathways connect the various buildings and overgrown gardens. As most of its residents have no concept of beauty, the once grand temple is now bleak, with all its religious symbols having been cast into the sea. The island is home to many of the dark lord’s homunculi, and is where they are created. Within its halls are many alchemical devices and workshops, a great library, and hidden paths to ruins down below where the dark lord plunders ancient catacombs in search of new precious materials for his work.
Cross Ploughs: A village in the northern part of the domain, and the closest to the dark lord’s lair, the inhabitants are grateful for what distance they have from the mad alchemist. Though deeply suspicious of potential homunculi, they are open to outsiders. Nestled between hilly farmland, they are a largely self-sufficient farming community that sources their own food and lumber, but makes very little else. Only when their need is dire do they barter minerals to the dark lord’s servants in exchange for life-saving medicine or services, although they would much prefer to petition passing adventurers than plead with Hohenheim. In their disdain with the homunculi, they have adopted peculiar traditions of their own.
Celebrations of any kind, be it a successful harvest, a birth, or simple need for a raise in morale, are celebrated with vulgarity and senseless violence. Villagers insult or belittle each other, indulge in crass displays of intimacy, shun personal hygiene, and pick meaningless fights. These displays of nastiness and base desire are things that homunculi never do for they don’t understand it and see no value in it. Though vile, the villagers see these acts as something intrinsically human, even if these are human qualities that few others consider worth celebrating.
Hermetica Bridge: A fishing village clinging to the innermost cliffs of the cove, sheltered from the wind and making a difficult living from the sea. When fish are scarce, the villagers scrounge mussels and cockles from the rocks at low tide. Reaching over the village at the narrowest point of the cove is a humble stone bridge. Ancient in its construction yet ever sturdy, this short bridge is an essential path along the domain’s coast. Many travellers through the domain cross this way, and give little attention to the people living down below. The villagers are content to be ignored.
Mannforth Estate: This lonely manor lies wilting in the southmost lands. Once a grand noble estate, all that remains of a once sprawling homestead is a dilapidated house and its singular master. Nishad Mannforth lives alone here, ever paranoid of looters, or worse, some fabled homunculus lord seeking his station. The manor is a festering den of guilt, fear, and insecurity, while the surrounding lands have been reclaimed by the encroachment of brambles and rockfalls. The boundary stones have long been overrun with moss, and the fences indistinguishable from the rotten wood that litters the forest floor. Within a secluded ruin that was once a guest house are the remains of an alchemy laboratory that was constructed by Hohenheim, and trespassers onto the estate report strange shapes moving within.
The Underground Ruins: For one brave enough to squeeze through the cracked earth, or able to locate more navigable passages, a vast network of caves can be found below the domain. Most are sheer ravines linked by fractures, some large enough to form vast voids that dwarf the light cast by torch and lantern. Deeper still are the remains of an ancient civilisation. Masters of wondrous alchemy, the scattered structures they leave behind are ominous cyclopean temples saturated in the strange magics they used. Shadows play tricks on explorers, while ruined hallways and pillars seem to have twisted in ways not explained by geology. Wellsprings of water from below leave an acrid taste in the humid air. Footsteps and voices are engulfed in the oppressive silence that pervades the ruins.
Most of these ruins appear to be temples or catacombs, both monuments to the achievements in alchemy wrought by these extinct people. At the lowest points of the ruins, the essence of countless corpses and faded magic seeps downwards into the ground, forming slimy pools of oily sludge. This slurry is alchemically potent and prone to unpredictable reactions. Strange elementals are spawned from these pools.
The largest of these, in the most hidden enclave of the ruins, is home to the enigmatic Rebis. Spawned from the most concentrated remnants of dead masterwork homunculi, this sinister creature carefully observes those who venture into the ruins, assessing their desires to use them for its own wicked goals. Of all the vermin and magical products of the ancient cities, only the Rebis truly rules the ruins.

Alchemy & the homunculi

The small, monstrous creature found in the monster manual is a form of homunculus, but is a much simpler creation than those of Hohenheim. In this domain, homunculus refers to a human-like construct, created from base elements and imbued with properties determined by their chemical formula.
The principles of Hohenheim’s alchemy differ a little from some modern interpretations. While his laboratory does contain glass vials, strange sizzling liquids, and caustic fumes, this is not chemistry like an artificer might practise. This is an older and more esoteric form, where the ambitions of the art often revolved around such acts as transmuting lead into gold, or creating elixirs of everlasting life. Hohenheim specifically studies the metaphysical properties that each element has in cohort with its physical properties.
It is through these means that he creates his homunculi, a practice sometimes known as takwin. He concentrates on identifying properties he desires for his perfect beings, such as intelligence, curiosity, or honesty, and blends the corresponding element into an alchemical formula used to create each homunculus.
However, he has failed to identify any element that can allow his creations to feel any emotions, nor have any desires beyond the mechanical act of research, for he has made them inquisitive. They cannot feel joy nor anger, but most critically cannot feel empathy. Homunculi have no inner world, driven only by the surface level traits blended into their creation. A homunculus might be kind to someone, not because they feel any internal desire to be kind, but because behaving kindly is simply one way of expressing something that was built into them. It is an entirely superficial act.
They still have mannerisms, individual personalities, and can seem quite normal at first, barring strange imperfections that usually mark them as inhuman. Most of his creations are an earnest attempt to actually create a perfect being, and so Hohenheim does not create legions of mindless drones. Each one has a slightly different formula, and therefore different traits. They have free will, but cannot go against their ingrained properties.
Their lack of empathy makes them a blight on the domain. When they are tasked with excavating a ruin or securing a specific material, they cannot comprehend the potential for suffering they bring. They will dig up a farmer’s field, and retaliate with magic when the farmer tries to protect their food supply. They are often skilled medics, but rarely offer help unless bargained for. When they delve into the dark passages below, they often release ancient elementals that rise to the surface, but never think of the harm they have unleashed. Anyone who threatens them or their creator is usually met with disproportionate violence, though without anger they usually seem bored during the process.
Since they get no satisfaction from eating and feel no revulsion, they can often be found eating strange foods, such as raw shellfish, rotten meat, leaves, or even human or homunculus corpses.

Benedictus Hohenheim

Obsessive, introverted, quick-tempered, and self-loathing, Hohenheim’s mission in life is to create his ideal human: One that is logical, generous, and that finds joy in the pursuit of enlightenment.
Which is to say, all the things he is not. He is smart, but his judgement is often clouded by his more emotional desires. He has always failed to form relationships, and has become jaded against even trying to contribute towards normal human society. And his own pursuit of alchemical enlightenment has brought him nothing but guilt, angst, and despair.
From his laboratory, which is repurposed from a medieval monastery, he seeks to uncover the secrets of an ancient race of master alchemists, who succeeded in creating life forms that are not only imbued with the properties he desires, but have rich internal lives that his own creations lack. To this end, he sends his homunculi to excavate the tombs of these ancient people, distil rare elements from their grave dirt, and try to isolate the exotic compound that he knows must exist.
The locals loath his uncanny children, but he dismisses them as simple minded and superstitious, and that the needs of his more enlightened creations come before theirs. Anyone who tries to interrupt their work is often met with apathetic violence from the homunculi.

History

Alchemy was Benedictus’s first love. As the world began to pivot away from the occult and dionysian arts to more logical, reasoned ones, Benedictus relished the new enlightenment, but mourned the loss of the grand promises of the old magics. While he showed a great aptitude for mathematics and natural philosophy, his heart lay with the wonder of myths and legends.
Alchemy straddled these worlds: Its past was tied to the same mysticism as the summoning of demons or scrying the future, but it held within it, or at least as far as Hohenheim was concerned, a rational and quantifiable power.
Equipped with a fierce intellect, he attended university in a neighbouring province. Still a young man at this stage, he was fervourant and idealistic, and extolled the virtues of the enlightenment to any who would listen. Though he had intelligence, he lacked social skills, and found himself lonely despite his best efforts.
Without distractions, he turned inwards to his work, and quickly found himself on tangents that others dismissed as outlandish. However, he had researched the most obscure manuscripts, tested many hypotheses, and purified many powerful elements, all in service to his magnum opus: The creation of life by alchemical means.
At twenty-two years of age, he succeeded in this goal, somewhat. Rather than a fully formed and intelligent human being, he had created a squat, toad-like creature that snarled at him and sought to bite him. Horrified by the imperfection of this creature, he dissolved it in acid, and then fell ill for several days as his mind was overwhelmed by both the god-like power he had discovered, and the unbearable burden it brought with it.
Following his first attempt, he didn’t create any more life for nearly a year, In this time, he sought to identify the elements that had created such a spiteful creature, and what elements might imbue greater qualities. Over this time, he isolated many compounds that, when mixed into an alchemical formula, would transfer the properties of wisdom, rationalism, and kindness. In his idealism, he neglected many initial discoveries into constitution or symmetry, and focused on higher-minded ideals.
As he compiled his archive of elements, he began to ponder how best to formulate his next creation. An enlightened creature, he decided, would be the ideal creation. One that embodied all of his values, that wouldn’t be phased by his strangeness, but instead be focused solely on higher-minded pursuits: Reason, logic, community, and of course alchemy. He would call it Apollon, for the god of reason and order.
However, once again, his creation would cause him despair. While Apollon would prove keen-minded and an alchemist to match his creator, he was malformed in the strangest ways: His spine was placed backwards, as were his wrists, knees, and elbows. The creature was confusing and stressful to behold, and Hohenheim felt he had done his creation a great disservice.
Yet, Apollon was a calm and reasonable person. A true person, who could speak and write as well as any scholar. He was helpful and kind, or so it seemed at first, which fuelled Hohenheim’s determination, his goal seemingly within his grasp.
Over time, Hohenheim became accustomed to his new assistant’s unusual appearance, but began to notice that his mind was far stranger: Apollon had no internal life. He did not dream, nor have desires of his own. He did not form subjective opinions, and most importantly, he did not feel emotion of any kind. If Hohenheim slighted him, he’d not harbour any grudge. If his creator complimented him, he would not gain any satisfaction from it. Only those properties that had been chemically incorporated were present, and no more.
Noting secretly that this was a most unsettling failure, Hohenheim pledged to correct this in future creations. He wanted his children to be happy in their enlightenment, but Apollon was apathetic. Still, the twisted creation was useful, and aided the alchemist in his research.
In fact, it was Apollon who identified the manuscript that would change everything. The document was written by a monk, who was recording the history of an ancient people, said that their own homunculi often attended performances they created for each-other. Notably, one reference stated “...and she sang for them, a most mournful song, so that no anthroparion in the theatre did not shed a tear”. This apparent display of emotion intrigued him, but the age of the text left most of it unreadable.
But Apollon devised a stain that would highlight the traces of the faded ink, and though he could not restore moth-eaten pages, he did gain one key piece of information: The name of the monk, and the monastery where he lived. Immediately, Hohenheim and Apollon packed their bags, and set out for the Isle of Zosimos in Mandragora, in search of a copy of the manuscript.
At first, he found residence with Nishad Mannforth, and promised to isolate the element of nobility for him. The monks were initially helpful, and confirmed that a copy of the manuscript was in their possession, but once they learnt what Hohenheim’s purpose was, they shunned him, deeming his work heretical. They barred him from their island, and refused any further communication with him.
For a time, Hohenheim accepted the setback, and settled for studying the ruins that could be found in the dark crevasses of the coastline. During this time he made several more homunculi, and then a breakthrough: The element for chirality. With this, he created the first homunculus with the correctly oriented parts, and named her Inanna, for she was beautiful.
Being a quiet man, whose companions for the past five years were exclusively the misconstructed early homunculi, he instantly fell in love, knowing the fact that she could not love him back. Built to be polite, she reciprocated his affection with superficial endearment, but felt none of it.
If Hohenheim was obsessive before, his quest to create a creature with real feelings now tugged at every fibre of his being. It was soon after Inanna’s creation that rumours began to arrive to him that the island’s monks had disappeared. Apollon suggested that while their disappearance was troubling it would be a waste to not take advantage of it. That day, Hohenheim and his creations packed up and moved into the abandoned monastery. The chapels were converted into workshops, and at last the alchemist had access to their ancient library, which contained within it many records of the master alchemists who had lived here before.
However, there were no detailed descriptions of their methods to be found. Increasingly, Hohenheim was despairing at the paper-thin love of his homunculus wife, and so resorted to the only tangible clue he could pursue: It was said that at the deepest point of their ancient labyrinths, there was a concentration of unstable and exotic elements that if prepared quickly, in-situ, could create a type of homunculus beyond anything Benedictus had ever conceived: The Rebis, a creature of perfect balance, sage in the ways of alchemy beyond any mortal.
And so he delved, deeper than any wise man should, pursued the whole way by shadow-clad horrors that were held at bay only by the light of his lantern.
Eventually, he stumbled, exhausted and delirious with fear, to the tarry pit that he sought. With a small kit of vials and an oil burner, he distilled the formula, and energised it with rods of glass and copper.
An electric flash, followed by a cloud of cloying smoke, and eventually mercurial stillness. When Hohenheim lifted his lamp, before him stood naked a tall and elegant creature, both male and female, with a head for each. Towering over him by two feet, it grinned in the darkness, and offered to him to wish for whatever he desired.
Hohenheim’s memory fails him on how he returned to the surface, but return he did, by washing up on the shores of the Isle of Zosimos, and woken up by Inanna, whose voice trembled with true concern for him at last.
Bliss lasted three days. For now Inanna was a real woman, but had never been a real girl. While a person grows up learning to restrain their desires, check their impulses, and consider the feelings of others, Inanna had no such upbringing. When Benetictus’s awkwardness caused him to falter, she’d mock him for it. When she was unhappy with him, she’d curse him viciously. And finally, when visiting Hermetica Bridge she saw a man that pleased her eye much more so than her creator did, she didn’t consider the repercussions of bedding him.
And repercussions there certainly were. She did not consider to keep it a secret, for she cared not for Hohenheim’s feelings and was made to be truthful. Hohenheim was furious, not only with her but himself: In pursuing his base human desires, he had corrupted his quest to create a perfect enlightened being.
When the Rebis visited the island, seeking some remnant of the ancient people which it claimed to be the heir of, Hohenheim was waiting. A terrible storm afflicted the region at the time, but the alchemist stood in the onslaught of rain to face the creature. He demanded another wish, and the Rebis, amused, agreed.
When morning came, the mists of the previous night still encircled the island and surrounding coastline, and still to this day do. And Inanna, when she awoke that morning, found her mind devoid of any internal desires, self reflection, or strong emotion, once again.

Benedictus Hohenheim's Powers and Dominion

For a man able to create life from a bottle, he is quite unremarkable in appearance. He is quite thin, and several years of living on a windswept rock has worn creases into his face beyond his years. He most often wears informal woollen shirts when reading, or a leather apron when working with reagents. His hands have scars and stains from years of handling dangerous compounds.
Of his powers, they are primarily alchemical. He is skilled in the use of transmutation magic, but is not well equipped for combat. He has a limited understanding of the mists, only aware that they are supernatural in a way he cannot account for, yet he has no real desire to leave his island so rarely tests his inability to leave. To close the borders of the domain, he energises a sample of the mists within a large flask by alchemical reagents. This causes the mist borders to become phosphorescent and cackle with static charge, while also being corrosive to any who try to pass through. The most common cause for his closing of the borders is to prevent the escape of particularly dangerous homunculi.
Hohenheim takes no part in actually governing the domain beyond his island. When his research demands action on the mainland, he sends his homunculi, who are the primary means by which he achieves his goals. Without empathy and often being capable spellcasters, these homunculi often leave the mainland in a worse state than when they arrived.
If Hohenheim is killed, one of his homunculi, usually Apollon, will revive him once they retrieve the body. If his body has been burnt or disintegrated, then the process takes much longer: Three days to prepare the reagents, and a lightning storm to energise it.

Benedictus Hohenheim's Torment

Within the domain, Hohenheim will never be able to complete his magnum opus. The elements of Azoth and Alkahast he requires will always remain elusive, and known only to the Rebis, who will never share them with him. All of his homunculi will fall short of his ideal.
He wishes his creations were better, and feels personally responsible for their sub-par composition. When the locals are repulsed by the homunculi, he feels personally offended. When they lash out at his creations, he is reminded of his own human failings.
No matter how flawed the homunculi are, they are still better than him in all the virtues he values.
Of the homunculi, he feels guilt over his failure to give them the ability to feel joy. Despite the frequent trouble they cause for the locals, he cannot blame them for long, and sees their missing empathy as a failure on his behalf, not theirs. He cannot bring himself to harm or restrain them, even as they cause suffering for people who are able to feel it.

Roleplaying Benedictus Hohenheim

The alchemist, despite his brilliance, is awkward in conversation with strangers. Having always been shy in social situations, this trait has only become magnified as he keeps the company exclusively of the emotionless homunculi. Their indifference to both his quick anger and rare compassion has dampened his ability to connect with others, ironic considering he dedicates his life to allowing his creations to do that very thing.
Bonds: I must complete my magnum opus, the ability to create wholesome, enlightened, life by alchemical means.
Ideals: Reason, logic, community, prosperity. These are the ideals of enlightenment, and they are self-fulfilling. If I create perfect beings that embody these traits, they in turn will be able to lead us all into an enlightened world.
Flaws: I am not as pure as my creations. I desire illogical, emotional things, and those desires taint my creations, and prevent me from thinking clearly.
Traits: Alchemy is the key to life, and thus the key to all things.
Reclusive and scholarly, he does not often leave his island home, and much prefers to send his homunculi on errands on the mainland. If he does host visitors, he will usually take the opportunity to extol the virtues of enlightenment, and dismiss those of romanticism. Of the locals he will be derogatory, and insult their lack of interest in higher ideals and lack of means.
One of his most notable traits is self-loathing, which comes from the conflict between what he thinks he wants, and what his heart truly desires. He has dedicated his life to pursuing his goal of making an ideal race of people, yet he is haunted by the basic human desire for platonic and romantic love. His created people are incapable of both, and his desperate deal with the Rebis ended with heartbreak. He sees the incident with Inanna as an example of the flaws inherent to humankind, and that he will eventually create beings that would not treat each other so unkindly.

Inhabitants of mandragora

Apollon
Hohenheim’s firstborn of the true homunculi, he is the first of many great achievements by Hohenheim, and yet still suffers from many imperfections. His spine and joints are all reversed, giving him an incredibly strange appearance, like a man who was killed by a great fall that broke most of his bones. He matches his master in intellect, and has undertaken his own alchemical research. However, he also has a dire oversight that Hohenheim only thought to correct many years and homunculi later: Apollon can and does lie to further his research, and his only moral principle is the furtherance of the alchemical arts.
Apollon was behind the mysterious disappearance of the monks from the Isle of Zosimos, as he saw their inhabitation of the island as an impedance to his and Hohenheim’s work. While he still respects his creator, he finds his strange notions of “morality” and “guilt” to be confusing and distracting, and so has departed the island to establish his own lair. Without even the lacklustre ethics of Hohenheim, Apollon has created some truly monstrous creations in the name of progress, many of which wander the domain. His main focus is to invert Hohenheim’s method: Rather than start with high ideals and work down towards humanity, he has created bestial and primative creatures and is slowly working up to higher minded concepts. He truly believes that he is doing this in service of Hohenheim.
The Rebis
Supposedly a creature of perfect alchemical balance, its origins and nature are largely mysterious. Its two heads will debate with each other, taking opposing sides of whatever hypothesis they are trying to solve in order to reach even greater alchemical secrets.
To the people of the domain, it is known for granting wishes. Most curious to the Rebis is the distinction between what a person presents to the world and themselves, and what truly lies in their heart. It finds that, when approached in secret and given the opportunity to ask for anything they desire, this is the most accurate assessment of their inner self.
However, it does not make itself easily found, for it feels that those who take the biggest risks to reach it are those that have the strongest and most deeply held desires. If the Rebis can be found easily, be wary of ulterior motives. Though its motives are inscrutable, its actions often seem wicked to those who suffer the consequences of their wish.
It considers itself the heir of the predecessor people that built the ruins it inhabits, and given its detailed knowledge of them, Hohenheim reasons that this is not the first time the Rebis has been incarnated, and that it retains much awareness from its previous incarnations. If asked, the Rebis will explain that it is a platonic ideal, and that while physical manifestations of it can be destroyed, some intangible idea of it remains.
Inanna
The first of the correctly oriented, so called “enlightened” homunculi, Inanna appears as a sophisticated woman whose only unusual quality was that her skin is covered in strange orange blotches.
Since losing her ability to have desires and emotions, Inanna has returned to working alongside her fellow homunculi. She recalls her time as a self-aware being, but cannot comprehend much of her own actions during this time. Though when asked, she might state that she had strange sensations regarding her former ‘husband’ that she likens to physical pain or nausea, but of the mind.
Hohenheim still acts strangely around her, nervous of his lingering infatuation and feelings of betrayal. He tries to act as if he’s overcome his emotional tangent that led to her gaining emotions, but it’s clear to any non-homunculus that he has not.
Though she cannot understand her previous state, she does recall that emotion allowed her to suffer in ways that she currently does not, and will openly discuss the idea that perhaps his quest to allow homunculi to emote and empathise is a selfish misjudgement. She sees such things as a stain on an otherwise noble quest for truth and reason.
Nishad Mannforth
Nishad was born a commoner, yet was charming and decent in a way that caught the attention of Lady Diana Mannforth, heiress to a grand estate. She loved him in spite of her family’s opposition, and following the deaths of her parents wasted no time in marrying her love. However, the marriage was short for she herself fell ill and died a few years after, leaving Nishad the sole inheritor. As a commoner whose features made him an obvious foreigner in these lands, Nishad was struck with terrible insecurity.
Feeling uncertain in his responsibilities, an imposter of a lord, he was intrigued by the research of Benedictus Hohenheim. After inviting the alchemist to his home during Hohenheim’s attempts to access the monastery, he was fascinated by his ability to chemically isolate certain human qualities and imbue them into homunculi. He granted Hohenheim space in one of the guest houses to use as a workshop, hoping that he could isolate the trait of “nobility” and imbue it into Nishad himself. Alas, he would eventually realise that Hohenheim had no desire to create anything but homunculi, and after the mists took the land,
was wracked with immense guilt over his part in enabling the new dark lord.
His insecurity worse than ever, he became a recluse. His manor fell into disrepair, having long expended too much of his fortune funding Hohenheim’s research and using some of the rest to try and mitigate some of the damage done by the dark lord’s creations. Now he is ever paranoid. Not least of locals who might seek retribution for his role in aiding the dark lord, but also in case the alchemist somehow does discover the element of nobility after all, and creates a lordly homunculus. In Nishad’s mind, such a being could walk into his manor, claim it, and restore the standing of the Mannford family that has come to ruin under Nishad’s stewardship. Even now he continues to uphold a veneer of dignified nobility to the few guests who cross his lands, but even he is aware of how painfully hollow it is.

Adventure hooks

The locals want a specific homunculus dead, but know that if they attack it they will face retaliation from Hohenheim. So they ask some visitors to the domain to stage a scene that lays the blame on another homunculus. There’s a stand-off in Cross-plows over the fate of the village’s church: A pair of homunculi claim its foundations were laid over a much older site and might contain alchemical secrets, but the villagers won’t allow their place of worship to be turned into a dig-site.

• A homunculus seeks aid in extracting alchemical reagents from an ancient tomb underground, for a magic-draining creature of mercury has claimed the tomb as its lair.
  
• A shepherd has emerged from an underground crevasse after seeking missing sheep, but his behaviour has changed. He no longer speaks or cares for his flock, instead wandering around seeking different kinds of sensation. In truth, his body has been taken over by an Etheric Remnant, and the poor shepherd’s spirit is trapped on the ethereal plane.
  
• A grisly scene at an isolated farmhouse marks another attack by the Hornwood Horror. But with the revelation that ancient artefacts were dug up there recently, many have begun to question whether the massacre was random, or whether someone else is directing the monster’s rampages. Locals are seeking help finding the creature’s lair and searching it for clues.
  
• A murder has been committed, and a homunculus has confessed to the crime and is willing to stand trial. It is convinced that it can rationally and legally justify its actions, but knows that the locals, including Lord Mannforth the only eligible judge, are biassed against it so wishes for outsiders to help ensure a fair trial.
  
• Lord Nishad Mannforth has come to Cross Ploughs after believing that someone has broken into his abandoned guest house. He’s not sure if it was looters, homunculi looking for old alchemical devices, or just the remnants of the strange experiments that took place there, but the locals aren’t being much help to him.
  
• A collapse of the seaside cliff has revealed an entrance to a yet unknown section of the underground. Hohenheim and Apollon race to reach its myriad discoveries first, while others hope that both fail.
  
• A mob of domain residents have been stirred to action by recent atrocities committed by the homunculi. They stand ready to storm the island once the tide goes out, but the dark lord’s minions won’t let them cross the causeway easily. Benedictus himself wants to try talking them down, but his belittling of their plan and condemnation of what he sees as senseless rage is hardly convincing to the angry mob.
  

Island Fury
by
Al Bruno III
The following document was written by Peter LaRoche and was found during the Boggs International survey of the island of Kuen-Yuin. (11.5462° N, 162.3522° E)
***
It's the golden rule of Hollywood. The writer always gets the shaft. The producers get all the money; the actors get all the fame, the director gets to put his vision on the screen, and the people behind the scenes get paid and don’t have to give a damn but the writer? The writer pours his guts out onto the page, and if he's lucky, he sees twenty percent of what he wrote make it through the Hollywood grinder. If he's really lucky, he gets paid what he's worth.
That's my story in a nutshell. A month ago, I was in a mansion, sipping margaritas and talking about art to a woman I had been a little bit in love with for years. Now I'm alone, locked in a supply shed, and listening to her scream. I'm writing this with a ballpoint pen on a forty-something-year-old notebook. I'm trying to get it all down while there's still sunlight streaming in through the broken windows.
Someone has to know what happened here, and I guess that’s you.
Let me begin at the beginning.
It was a year after my graduation from Pratt University when I decided to move to Hollywood and make my fortune. I had already sold a pair of spec scripts and a few short stories to some literary magazines. The spec scripts had fallen through, and the literary magazines had mostly been purchased by the contributors, but I was young and stupid. Within a few months of my arrival in Tinsel Town, I was working in retail part time and not making nearly enough to cover my expenses.
I started looking for other ways to use my writing talent to earn cash. You know, ad copy, non-fiction articles for in-flight magazines, movie novelizations, and the occasional bit of erotica for Monarch Magazine’s Lusty Letters To The Editors.
What, did you think those were real?
Word of mouth that I was fast, cheap, and slightly smutty brought me to the attention of Olympus International Cinema.
You may not have heard of Olympus International Cinema, but trust me, if you’ve ever been channel surfing at three in the morning, you’ve at least glimpsed one of their productions.
Heart of Sharkness, Bikini Bar Mitzvah, The Adventures of Cosmo and Quack, Reggie and the Reckless Reptile, Sword Damsels In Space, Beach Blanket Beasts, The Cannibal Cloud of Daytona, The Butcher Brigade, Foxes In Boxes, and of course Tombs of the Blonde Dead. Olympus International Cinema was responsible for all those films and more. Each one featuring a cast of naive starlets and faded celebrities.
The studio was owned by former Monarch Magazine Duchess of the Year Lori Sandovar. If you are of a man of a certain generation the mere mention of her name will send blood rushing to all the right places.
Unbeknownst to most people, the lovely raven-haired Miss Sandovar wasn’t just a performer in several of Olympus International Cinema’s direct-to-video extravaganzas; she was also the owner and producer. She’d inherited the studio from her third husband. It had been a pretty rinky dink operation back then, mostly making training and educational films, but she turned the company into something very different and very profitable.
Lori was responsible for plucking yours truly from literary oblivion and making me Olympus International Cinema's wordsmith of choice. Those were her words, not mine, by the way.
I’ll never forget the day she asked me to work for her; she said she loved my writing. She even had a copy of a literary magazine one of my stories had appeared in. She asked me to autograph it. How could I not fall in love with her a little after that?
She never really paid me what I was worth but there’s something to be said for steady employment. Working for her wasn’t easy; she was as driven and ruthless as she was beautiful and limber. I was, at times, turning out a script every two months, and they weren’t always great, but she always accepted them. She was a lot nicer to me than she was to her other writers. And actors. And directors. And craft services.
Olympus International Cinema’s newest project was a film called Island Fury. The script was written by yours truly, and it was to be a sex comedy that takes a hard left turn into horror in the third act. The plot was like this: during World War II, a handsome American Pilot crash lands on an uncharted island populated by sexy lesbian goat farmers. Lewd logic quickly ensues, and suddenly, the women are all fighting, then gently grinding, over our hero.
Unfortunately, in the throes of their lust, the women have forgotten their pledge to sacrifice some of their livestock to the creature that lives on the island with them. A stop motion monstrosity to be added later called Ezerhodden the Harvest Fiend.
Lori was very specific about how she wanted this film to be made, and she was painfully specific about the script. I was still re-writing the damn thing on my trusty Smith Corona typewriter when we dropped anchor near the deserted island she’d chosen for filming.
The island she’d chosen was a little flyspeck of a place, too unimportant to be claimed by anyone. It was half jungle and half beach and not much of anything else. She’d scouted it out months earlier, and the night she’d half cajoled, half ordered me to travel with her team to the location, she’d shown me some Polaroids of the place. It was overrun with albino goats and dotted with strange little statues. They were a bit Easter Island, a bit Aztec, and a whole lot of H.R. Geiger.
Do you remember making shrunken apple head dolls in school? Do they still do that? Well, if you do, remember that is just what they looked like. Desiccated little stone faces scowling gleefully.
The privately chartered ship that brought us there was called the Polaris. It was a cargo vessel that was at least seventy years past its prime and boasted a crew of six men who looked like cousins.
Close cousins, if you know what I mean.
Our team consisted of one disgraced director, two cameramen, one lighting guy, one sound guy, five wannabe actresses of varying enhancement, one beefy bonehead straight off the casting couch, one tired, profoundly out-of-place scriptwriter, and lastly, a producer who was also one of the performers.
It took six trips on a pair of inflatable rafts to get everyone and our equipment to the island. The director, Geoff James, came on the last trip, and from the moment he set foot on the beach, he started yelling at the cameramen and rushing the cast to get ready. Wishing to avoid his coked-up wrath, the performers got busy. Our small team meant that they had to take care of their own makeup and costumes.
If you can consider furlined bikinis and an Air Force surplus jumpsuit costumes.
The cameramen worked hard to make use of the natural light and accentuate the strange beauty of the landscape while simultaneously keeping the piles of goat scat out of the shot.
You must be wondering why the Hell I was there. Lori had said she wanted a friend along, saying she wanted someone with half a brain to talk to while waiting for her scenes. I gotta say hearing her call me a friend was simultaneously thrilling and disheartening all at once.
A month ago she had called me other things. I wondered if it had just been the Margaritas talking.
Either way, I was standing there trying not to cringe as the pretty young cast mangled my precious dialogue. The director rarely did second takes, even when soft-core sensation Claudia Tate looked directly at the camera or when thick-headed thespian Bobby Burns mispronounced the word “Women.”
Did I mention the writer always gets the shaft?
As the skinny-dipping scene segued into a bout of mud wrestling, I excused myself to explore the island. You may find it hard to believe but watching people film other people having simulated sex is about as exciting as your average class in technical writing.
The island was strange. I know I said this before, but I don't think I've quite gotten across to you how strange. Pale, pink-eyed goats were everywhere. They watched me pass through their territory with dull-eyed curiosity. There were clouds of bloated black flies buzzing around here and there. The air was filled with this faint, sickly-sweet smell, just strong enough to tickle your gag reflex but not strong enough to be recognizable. I had been wandering for an hour or so when I spied a figure crouching up ahead. It was perfectly still, staring at me. I froze, my breath catching in my throat before I realized that it was another one of those weird statues.
It was about three feet tall, almost child-like in proportion. The head was wrinkled and misshapen. A strange symbol had been carved onto its forehead, a triangle inside a circle with a vertical line through the center. Despite the dry weather, the stone was clammy to the touch.
Yes, I touched the thing, don't ask me why.
"It's a grave marker,” Lori spoke softly from behind me. After a brief startled squeal, I turned to see her in her hiking boots, cutoff shorts, and a t-shirt with the logo for White Brains On Toast. They were her favorite band. She’d even appeared in one of their music videos.
I said, "Shouldn't you be working?"
“Pia wanted to do her big scene early,” she said.
This was Pia Winters’s first movie. A former exotic dancer, she was newly upgraded with massive breast implants that she was eager to show off.
“I didn’t write her a big scene.”
“I know, but Geoff has this weird idea where he wants to see her grinding against a palm tree,” she approached the statue with a kind of awe, “I figured I’d let him get it out of his system so I could explore a little."
I asked, “What the Hell is up with this place? We could have just shot in the Philippines for a lot less.”
“This is better. Can’t you feel the atmosphere?”
“It smells like someone died here."
“Someone died everywhere,” With a mischievous grin, she patted the statue on the head and started trudging deeper into the jungle.
I followed her, swatting at the sickly, low-hanging branches, “How did you hear about this place?”
“From my late hubby’s gambling buddies.”
“Where did he-" I slipped on a mossy cluster of stones and fell on my face, "Damnit!"
"Peter!" she was at my side, helping me to sit up.
“Damnit." I said again.
“Clumsy," She laughed, brushing off my face.
I hoped the dirt would hide my blushing, “I was watching your backside instead of where I was going.”
“You should have used that line in the script,” she stood back up and started walking again. "Come on, not much further. There's something I want you to see."
Not much further turned out to be an hour of walking, mostly uphill. Occasionally, one or two of those goofy goats would follow and keep pace with us, only to wander off into the jungle after a little while. It was miserably hot, and there wasn't even the slightest trace of a breeze. In case you hadn't already guessed, we writer types usually aren't in the best of shape. Oh sure, there are exceptions, but for every Ernest Hemingway, you have about twenty other vaguely gourd-shaped men like me.
I did my best to keep pace with her and distracted myself from being out of breath by remembering the night she invited me over to her place. The night she cooked me steak while I made strong margaritas.
At first, I'd said no to the whole proposal. I prefer to write adventures, not have them. Besides, I was planning on devoting some more time to my novel in progress, The Black Rider. It was a Western epic in the tradition of Lonesome Dove but with ninjas. I'd been working on it for almost seven years, and it was about halfway done.
After a good meal and lively conversation, we made love on her couch. I know. I know. It sounds ridiculous, but just believe me. I’m going to die, or worse, at sundown. I have no reason to pad out my sexual resume. Needless to say, after that, I was all in on the project.
As we made our way through the jungle, we passed by another dozen or so of those ugly little statues before we reached what was once a military base. It wasn’t much of a military base, mind you, just a rusted old Quonset hut and a handful of rotting olive-colored tents. It looked like the exterior set from M.A.S.H. had gone to Hell.
There was also even a Jeep, its tires flat, its body half-eaten by corrosion, and curious goats. It was parked in front of the dilapidated supply shed that would soon become my prison.
"What is this?” Even though the place was obviously long abandoned, I spoke in hushed tones.
"It was an army base during the Second World War. An entire platoon of men was stationed here. All but one of them died under mysterious circumstances."
“But of course.”
"Come on then." She started walking again, "The best part is up ahead."
I swung my arms in a gesture as sarcastic as it was wide, "Better than all this?"
She laughed, "Shut up and march."
"Yes ma'am!" I saluted. To my surprise, she took my hand as she led me back into the jungle. “Tell me more about these lawn gnomes from Hell.”
She flashed me that grin of hers again, then paused before one of the grotesque effigies, "The people of this island were the last stronghold of the cult of Ezerhodden.”
“Wait wait wait.” I said, “Ezerhodden is a real thing?”
“Yup. They had some very primal religious beliefs."
“Oh, they were Baptists.”
“Dork.” She punched me lightly in the arm and continued, “Every six years, they would hold a ceremony called ‘Grovulche.’ The entire community would paint their hands with goat blood and hunt each other through the jungle. It is kind of like a game of tag. The six winners of the contest would then be brought back to the village where they would play another game using symbols carved on pieces of petrified bark.”
“Are you pulling my leg?” I asked, “You’ve got to be pulling my leg.”
“Nope. Now five losers of this game were called the Zaartua. They would have their hair and teeth pulled out and then be buried alive beneath one of these.” She tapped the statue, “The winner would be taken to the Mouth of Ezerhodden and, after a ceremony called the Six Wounds Of Love, would be blessed with either wisdom, power, or life.”
I shook my head, “And where did you learn all this?”
“I read it in a book called The Nine Rebel Sermons. It was written by a Catholic missionary who visited the island in 1722. I got that from my late hubby’s gambling buddies too.”
I raised an eyebrow, “Ever thought about hunkering down with a Jane Austen novel?"
“Read 'em all. Come on. More to see.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Another hour of walking brought us to a clearing. The knee-high pale-green grass undulated slowly back and forth. In the center of the clearing was the squat stone rim of a well. It was made from the same material as those ugly statues. Strange hieroglyphics were carved all along the sides; there was the familiar triangle inside a circle with a vertical line through the center, but there were other symbols there, too.
Trembling with either terror or excitement, Lori approached it, “This is it. Just like the book said, The Mouth of Ezerhodden.”
The nauseating odor that permeated the island was stronger here; in fact, I was sure this was the source of it. Imagine the smell of a butcher shop mixed with the stink of an open sewer, then add a dash of the scent of your grandma's house. She drew closer, I followed, and it didn’t take me long to realize that the tall grass was hiding dozens of dead goats. Most were skeletons; some were pretty fresh. “This can’t be real. If it was someone would be here already, there would be archeologists …documentary crews …tourists.”
She paused thoughtfully, “Can you imagine how this would look in camera?”
“Come on Lori, people aren’t going to watch this movie to see spooky old ruins. They want to see boobies and monsters. In that order."
She was at the edge of the well now. She peered down into the depths of the well. “Maybe I want to make a more lasting impression on the world.”
I risked a glimpse down into the murky depths. The air wafting up the stone shaft was hot. There was this thick, sloshing noise down there. Something glistened in the shadows. My heart started to pound, I turned away, and I was violently sick.
When I was done, I begged, “Please, can we go back now?”
“Poor thing,” she got me to my feet and led me back to the boat just as it started to rain. She was quiet and thoughtful the whole way back.
We found the director looking ragged and pissed off. He immediately started to complain about the film’s big star just up and disappearing, but Lori waved him off.
With that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, we called it a day and retired to the Polaris’ cramped quarters. Lori turned in early, and the rest of us spent the night, swapping stories, smoking cigarettes, snacking on breakfast bars, and drinking cheap wine. After a few raucous hours, I boozily decided to turn in. Lori had a little cabin all to herself near the front of the ship. I considered knocking on her door, but thought better of it. Instead, I lay down on my designated bunk and let the sounds of falling rain and lapping ocean lull me to sleep.
The dream that came to me came with a strange stomach-churning feeling of deja vu.
I was standing in the middle of the street in a ruined city. I wandered for a time, utterly alone and lost. In the distance, I could hear a rhythmic thudding; like an army on the march, there was a disjointedness to the cadence, giving a sense of something broken.
And then I saw them, a crowd moving down the street, wizened figures in tuxedos, their heads were bald, their faces set in toothless grins. They carried an elaborate, jewel-encrusted litter on their shoulders. It pitched and yawed with their movements.
The figure riding in the litter wore a goat-like mask with long curved horns. A symbol was carved on the forehead, a diamond with a dot in the center. The figure spied me and began to sing sweetly. The words made no sense, but the voice was familiar as the telltale sting of a paper cut.
I snapped awake.
My pillowcase was soaked with sweat; I spent a few panicked moments trying to remember where I was and why I was there. The gentle rumble of my cabin-mate Bobby Burns snoring helped me get my bearings.
I checked my watch. It was almost 3 AM. I tried to relax and go back to sleep, but when I closed my eyes, all I could still see was the dream, vivid and bright. So, I got on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and headed up onto the deck. It had stopped raining, and the sky was cloudless. The full moon looked swollen and was tinged with green. It was bright enough to read by. Leaning on the aft railing, I stared at it for a while and ran the events of the nightmare over and over in my head, examining and interpolating them until they had lost their disturbing qualities.
After a while, I became aware of this thumping, sloshing noise. It was coming from right below me. Visions of The Creature from the Black Lagoon started bubbling to the surface of my mind. I looked down and saw one of the two inflatable rafts the Polaris crew was using to shuttle us back and forth to the island.
But there had been two.
Where was the other one?
Something about it began to worry me. Had it become untethered and floated away? If so, how long would it take for us to shuttle the talent and equipment back and forth with just one boat? I took a stroll from one end of the boat to another in hopes of spotting the thing. No such luck. So I decided to head up to the bridge and let the captain know.
Halfway there, a member of the crew stepped out of the shadows. He had a hunting knife in his hand and he gestured wildly with it as he spoke, “What you do here? Crew only on deck at night! You go down below.”
I choked and blundered over my words, “I think… you see… I…”
"You get down below!” his breath was rank with alcohol, and the something else I couldn't place. Something vaguely unsavory.
“Yeah,” I said, “I get the idea…crew only. Listen, one of your boats is missing…”
"We know." He gave me a gentle poke with the point of his knife to signal the conversation was over. Then he turned and made his way to the bridge, “You go back to sleep. We take care of everything."
I retreated down below, cringing and frightened. I didn’t like the way he talked to me. I didn’t like this island. I didn’t like any of this. I went right to Lori’s cabin and knocked on her door. There was no answer. There was no answer.
Freaking out just a little bit more, I tried the door handle; it wasn’t locked, so I stepped inside. All her clothes and things were still in her suitcase. There were papers strewn about the bed and a thick old book lying on the pillow. I glanced at the title, I Nove Sermoni Ribelli.
I picked it up and flipped through it. Was this the Nine Rebel Sermons? Was this thing really over 250 years old? As I flipped through the pages, wondering at the tiny print and grotesque illustrations, a slip of paper fell out. It was Lori’s handwriting, and it this is what it said;
“The pit was the length and width of a man. From it the avatar of Ezerhodden rose up from the Screaming Nowhere. It was pale and fierce and was a salamander in its extremity. It looked upon the world of man but spoke to the stars. It cast runes upon the stones that blasphemed against death. From within his mouth he feasts on the beloved.”
”What are you doing in here?"
My breath caught, and my hand flew to my chest. It was Lori, ”Having a heart attack thank you very much. Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"
"Peter. You're in my room." She brushed past me. Her sneakers and jeans were caked with mud, one of her fingernails was cracked.
“Oh… Yeah.”
Heedless of my presence, she began to get undressed, slipping the light blouse over her head. She was braless as always, "Was there something wrong?"
"No, it’s just that I was - I am - worried about you." It all seemed so stupid now. Was I really going to tell her that I got spooked because I had a bad dream? I decided to go with more Earthly concerns, "I don't trust the crew of this boat. I think they're up to no good."
She kicked off her shoes, "You're being paranoid."
"One of them waved a knife at me!"
Groaning with exasperation, she sat me down on the bed with a good hard shove, "I know what's really bothering you."
I tried to keep eye contact, but my eyes kept wandering, "Lori, I’m serious. None of this feels right.”
"This is really about what happened back at my place, isn't it?" She strolled over and closed the door to her cabin, shucking her stained jeans on the way back. "You think I only slept with you to get you to help me out."
"Yes. I mean no. I mean-”
"Peter . . . " she caressed my face, ". . . I care about you. More than you realize."
"Can't you see-" she shut me up with a kiss. Her books and notes ended up on the floor, along with the comforter and the sheets.
If I close my eyes, I can still remember how her nails felt on my skin, the way the broken one hurt just a little, and how it made me shiver. When it all ends I’m going to try and keep that moment in my mind, use it to block out everything else. I doubt it will be enough to keep me from screaming.
After it was over, we lay together on the bed, and she spoke in a whisper, "I'll tell you something I haven't told anyone else. This is my last movie.”
Then we were silent. Sleep came soon enough.
The morning found the missing boat back where it belonged. I made a joke to Lori about the captain using it to go fishing. She didn’t laugh.
The day's filming went pretty well. There was plenty of sunlight, and Bobby Burns managed to get through his lines without sounding like a brain-damaged robot.
When he and Lori started working on their ‘love scene’ I had to walk away. I knew I had no right to be possessive or jealous, that this was just acting. But I still had to be somewhere else.
To keep my mind occupied, I tried to piece through my experiences here. If it all had been a movie, what kind of movie would it be? I kept wandering until I found another one of the statues.
For some reason, the face of it was covered with black flies. They buzzed away as I approached. The symbol on the forehead of this one was a circle with an open semicircle at the top and an X at the bottom. There was a dark, gummy-looking ruby-colored substance smeared across it. I stared at it for a long while.
By the time I got back to the others, Lori's scene was over, and Claudia Tate was working on some topless close-ups. Geoff James had decided her soliloquy would play better if she popped her top halfway through. Decisions like this was why he made the big bucks.
When that scene wrapped one of the lighting guys happened to glance out onto the horizon and asked, "Hey! Where the hell is the boat?"
That's right kids, the Polaris had set off without us. I heard a mocking voice in my head, “We take care of everything.”
The sun was beginning to set, and things quickly degenerated into a full-scale panic. We had no shelter, no supplies, no food, no nothing. As the old song said, “…not a single luxury, like Robinson Crusoe, it's primitive as can be…”
Lori took charge and led us through the jungle to the abandoned military base. At the very least, it was a roof over our heads. After some brief discussions about signal fires and searching for food, the cast of Island Fury settled down in the main Quonset hut for the night. Not one of the twelve of us gave even the slightest thought to posting someone on guard duty.
After all, this is a deserted island, right?
After hours of sleep, I awoke to find myself lying next to the key grip and the best boy. I cautiously got up and walked gingerly around the cast and crew. Sickly moonlight shone in through the windows of the Quonset hut. I searched the slumbering shapes for some sign of Lori but couldn’t see her.
I had to relieve myself, and it seemed like a good idea to do my business at the edge of the camp. I stumbled over jutting roots and prickly brambles until I was at the tree line. Then, I did what came naturally. It wasn't until I was finished that I noticed the toppled statue.
Half concealed by a mound of freshly disturbed Earth, it lay on its back, gaping at the stars. I drew closer, wondering if I should try to set it right. I touched the stone. It was warm and clammy. Not cold like before. I wondered who had done this, a clumsy actor or a belligerent goat. Maybe it had fallen over on its own?
A sudden creeping sensation up the back of my neck alerted me to the fact I wasn't alone. A twig snapped. I turned, "Lori will you please stop sneaking up on --"
The shape before me was human but withered; its leathery-looking skin was a muddy gray, its bald head was marked with old scars, and its toothless mouth gaped. In its left hand, it held a goat horn; one end was bloodied, the other sharpened to a point.
The Zaartua! Then I was running through the jungle, fumbling blindly through the trees and bushes. Every statue I came across was askew or toppled over. Dead goats were everywhere, their throats slit, their horns removed.
Somehow my wild flight brought me to the clearing with Ezerhodden’s Well. The stench was worse now. The air was filled with a thick sloshing. I risked a glance backward; a pair of Zaartua were shambling after me like they had all the time in the world. The only noise they made was the crackle of their dead joints flexing.
I let them get a little closer and then feinted around them and doubled back into the jungle. I found my way back to the camp, hoping for safety in numbers. What I found made me stop dead in my tracks.
Damn that full moon. How I wish it had been cloudy that night, that the shadows had been dark and long enough to hide the carnage.
The Zaartua had made quick work of the cast and crew of Island Fury. I saw Claudia Tate, her flesh hanging torn and loose as she staggered and swayed with the animal urge to survive. Her tormenter shuffled behind her, content to watch her die slowly.
There was the high-pitched screaming of Bobby Burns. The Zaartua swarmed over where he had fallen. They raised their makeshift blades and brought them down again and again.
Geoff James was backed into the wall of the Quonset Hut, swinging one of the boom mikes wildly, trying to hold off his attackers, but there were too many of them.
Blood. Howls of terror. The Zaartua were relentless in their bloodlust. Soon enough, I was surrounded and screaming for mercy.
"No!" I heard Lori shout.
I turned on my heel to see her standing in the clearing. The captain and his machete-wielding mates flanked her.
"He isn't for you." She said, and with that, mummified shapes brushed past me, looking for fresh prey.
“Lori?" I tried to find words, but my mind and my body were too exhausted.
"Lock him in the supply shed,” She nodded to the Captain, her tone threatening. “Treat him gently."
I didn't resist as I was marched to the supply shed. A brand new padlock had been installed on the door. I heard it click into place once I was alone in the dark. I whispered, “Help.” to no one in particular and then curled into a ball on the floor.
The next morning Lori came to see me. She had a handful of breakfast bars in her hand.
"Hungry?" she asked.
"No." I doubted I'd ever be hungry again.
She knelt beside me; instinctively, I withdrew from her proximity. "Ezerhodden is real, Peter. He made me promises."
"You did all this?"
"He spoke to me in my dreams. He knew my desperation and revealed to me his need.”
"Stop talking like that!" I flashed with anger, “You’re a B-Movie actress, not Anton LeVey."
“Every sixth year Ezerhodden crawls closer to our world. He casts avatars out from the Screaming Nowhere, but someday he will truly walk among us." She closed her eyes and shuddered, “Then the true Harvest will begin as was prophesied.”
"Why are you doing this?"
"I have ovarian cancer." There were tears in her eyes, "I found out three months ago."
“No… that’s not…” Now there were tears in my eyes, but we were both beyond weeping.
She said, “It's too far gone for the doctors to do anything. It’s in my bones and my spine.” “Oh my God Lori…”
“Ezerhodden has promised me new life.”
I thought of the Zaartua, “You can’t want to be turned into one of those… one of those things!”
“There are other ways and forms,” she kissed my forehead and stood. “All I have to do is submit to the Six Wounds of Love.”
I didn’t want to know the answer to my next question, but I had to ask, “What is that?”
“The Zaartua will scar me five times, each deeper than the last, then… then I will take someone beloved to me to the Well of Ezerhodden and surrender them to the avatar that dwells within.” She closed the door behind her. There was a rustle as the padlock was put back into place.
I went crazy for a little while after that. Trashing the place, looking for something to help me escape. Screaming all the while. I found a hammer and smashed out the windows, but they were too small for me to get through. I thought about using it, or maybe a screwdriver for a weapon, but what good would that do against those things?
Finally, I found this notebook in one of the lower drawers. Some soldier from back in the day had been using it to keep track of inventory, so I decided to put pen to paper one last time and let the world know what happened here.
That brings us full circle.
It’s dusk now. I’ve been listening to the sound of Lori’s screams all day, but now she’s quiet. The ritual of the Six Wounds must be drawing to a close.
My heart is sick to think of her in pain. I want to hate her, but I just can’t. When they finally come for me I am going to try and reason with her one last time. But I’m not holding out much hope for a ‘Love Conquers All’ Hollywood ending.
Like I said before, the writer always gets the shaft.
***
None of the cast or crew of Island Fury were ever found. There is no record of any ship matching the description of the Polaris.

Island Fury
by
Al Bruno III
The following document was written by Peter LaRoche and was found during the Boggs International survey of the island of Kuen-Yuin. (11.5462° N, 162.3522° E)
***
It's the golden rule of Hollywood. The writer always gets the shaft. The producers get all the money; the actors get all the fame, the director gets to put his vision on the screen, and the people behind the scenes get paid and don’t have to give a damn but the writer? The writer pours his guts out onto the page, and if he's lucky, he sees twenty percent of what he wrote make it through the Hollywood grinder. If he's really lucky, he gets paid what he's worth.
That's my story in a nutshell. A month ago, I was in a mansion, sipping margaritas and talking about art to a woman I had been a little bit in love with for years. Now I'm alone, locked in a supply shed, and listening to her scream. I'm writing this with a ballpoint pen on a forty-something-year-old notebook. I'm trying to get it all down while there's still sunlight streaming in through the broken windows.
Someone has to know what happened here, and I guess that’s you.
Let me begin at the beginning.
It was a year after my graduation from Pratt University when I decided to move to Hollywood and make my fortune. I had already sold a pair of spec scripts and a few short stories to some literary magazines. The spec scripts had fallen through, and the literary magazines had mostly been purchased by the contributors, but I was young and stupid. Within a few months of my arrival in Tinsel Town, I was working in retail part time and not making nearly enough to cover my expenses.
I started looking for other ways to use my writing talent to earn cash. You know, ad copy, non-fiction articles for in-flight magazines, movie novelizations, and the occasional bit of erotica for Monarch Magazine’s Lusty Letters To The Editors.
What, did you think those were real?
Word of mouth that I was fast, cheap, and slightly smutty brought me to the attention of Olympus International Cinema.
You may not have heard of Olympus International Cinema, but trust me, if you’ve ever been channel surfing at three in the morning, you’ve at least glimpsed one of their productions.
Heart of Sharkness, Bikini Bar Mitzvah, The Adventures of Cosmo and Quack, Reggie and the Reckless Reptile, Sword Damsels In Space, Beach Blanket Beasts, The Cannibal Cloud of Daytona, The Butcher Brigade, Foxes In Boxes, and of course Tombs of the Blonde Dead. Olympus International Cinema was responsible for all those films and more. Each one featuring a cast of naive starlets and faded celebrities.
The studio was owned by former Monarch Magazine Duchess of the Year Lori Sandovar. If you are of a man of a certain generation the mere mention of her name will send blood rushing to all the right places.
Unbeknownst to most people, the lovely raven-haired Miss Sandovar wasn’t just a performer in several of Olympus International Cinema’s direct-to-video extravaganzas; she was also the owner and producer. She’d inherited the studio from her third husband. It had been a pretty rinky dink operation back then, mostly making training and educational films, but she turned the company into something very different and very profitable.
Lori was responsible for plucking yours truly from literary oblivion and making me Olympus International Cinema's wordsmith of choice. Those were her words, not mine, by the way.
I’ll never forget the day she asked me to work for her; she said she loved my writing. She even had a copy of a literary magazine one of my stories had appeared in. She asked me to autograph it. How could I not fall in love with her a little after that?
She never really paid me what I was worth but there’s something to be said for steady employment. Working for her wasn’t easy; she was as driven and ruthless as she was beautiful and limber. I was, at times, turning out a script every two months, and they weren’t always great, but she always accepted them. She was a lot nicer to me than she was to her other writers. And actors. And directors. And craft services.
Olympus International Cinema’s newest project was a film called Island Fury. The script was written by yours truly, and it was to be a sex comedy that takes a hard left turn into horror in the third act. The plot was like this: during World War II, a handsome American Pilot crash lands on an uncharted island populated by sexy lesbian goat farmers. Lewd logic quickly ensues, and suddenly, the women are all fighting, then gently grinding, over our hero.
Unfortunately, in the throes of their lust, the women have forgotten their pledge to sacrifice some of their livestock to the creature that lives on the island with them. A stop motion monstrosity to be added later called Ezerhodden the Harvest Fiend.
Lori was very specific about how she wanted this film to be made, and she was painfully specific about the script. I was still re-writing the damn thing on my trusty Smith Corona typewriter when we dropped anchor near the deserted island she’d chosen for filming.
The island she’d chosen was a little flyspeck of a place, too unimportant to be claimed by anyone. It was half jungle and half beach and not much of anything else. She’d scouted it out months earlier, and the night she’d half cajoled, half ordered me to travel with her team to the location, she’d shown me some Polaroids of the place. It was overrun with albino goats and dotted with strange little statues. They were a bit Easter Island, a bit Aztec, and a whole lot of H.R. Geiger.
Do you remember making shrunken apple head dolls in school? Do they still do that? Well, if you do, remember that is just what they looked like. Desiccated little stone faces scowling gleefully.
The privately chartered ship that brought us there was called the Polaris. It was a cargo vessel that was at least seventy years past its prime and boasted a crew of six men who looked like cousins.
Close cousins, if you know what I mean.
Our team consisted of one disgraced director, two cameramen, one lighting guy, one sound guy, five wannabe actresses of varying enhancement, one beefy bonehead straight off the casting couch, one tired, profoundly out-of-place scriptwriter, and lastly, a producer who was also one of the performers.
It took six trips on a pair of inflatable rafts to get everyone and our equipment to the island. The director, Geoff James, came on the last trip, and from the moment he set foot on the beach, he started yelling at the cameramen and rushing the cast to get ready. Wishing to avoid his coked-up wrath, the performers got busy. Our small team meant that they had to take care of their own makeup and costumes.
If you can consider furlined bikinis and an Air Force surplus jumpsuit costumes.
The cameramen worked hard to make use of the natural light and accentuate the strange beauty of the landscape while simultaneously keeping the piles of goat scat out of the shot.
You must be wondering why the Hell I was there. Lori had said she wanted a friend along, saying she wanted someone with half a brain to talk to while waiting for her scenes. I gotta say hearing her call me a friend was simultaneously thrilling and disheartening all at once.
A month ago she had called me other things. I wondered if it had just been the Margaritas talking.
Either way, I was standing there trying not to cringe as the pretty young cast mangled my precious dialogue. The director rarely did second takes, even when soft-core sensation Claudia Tate looked directly at the camera or when thick-headed thespian Bobby Burns mispronounced the word “Women.”
Did I mention the writer always gets the shaft?
As the skinny-dipping scene segued into a bout of mud wrestling, I excused myself to explore the island. You may find it hard to believe but watching people film other people having simulated sex is about as exciting as your average class in technical writing.
The island was strange. I know I said this before, but I don't think I've quite gotten across to you how strange. Pale, pink-eyed goats were everywhere. They watched me pass through their territory with dull-eyed curiosity. There were clouds of bloated black flies buzzing around here and there. The air was filled with this faint, sickly-sweet smell, just strong enough to tickle your gag reflex but not strong enough to be recognizable. I had been wandering for an hour or so when I spied a figure crouching up ahead. It was perfectly still, staring at me. I froze, my breath catching in my throat before I realized that it was another one of those weird statues.
It was about three feet tall, almost child-like in proportion. The head was wrinkled and misshapen. A strange symbol had been carved onto its forehead, a triangle inside a circle with a vertical line through the center. Despite the dry weather, the stone was clammy to the touch.
Yes, I touched the thing, don't ask me why.
"It's a grave marker,” Lori spoke softly from behind me. After a brief startled squeal, I turned to see her in her hiking boots, cutoff shorts, and a t-shirt with the logo for White Brains On Toast. They were her favorite band. She’d even appeared in one of their music videos.
I said, "Shouldn't you be working?"
“Pia wanted to do her big scene early,” she said.
This was Pia Winters’s first movie. A former exotic dancer, she was newly upgraded with massive breast implants that she was eager to show off.
“I didn’t write her a big scene.”
“I know, but Geoff has this weird idea where he wants to see her grinding against a palm tree,” she approached the statue with a kind of awe, “I figured I’d let him get it out of his system so I could explore a little."
I asked, “What the Hell is up with this place? We could have just shot in the Philippines for a lot less.”
“This is better. Can’t you feel the atmosphere?”
“It smells like someone died here."
“Someone died everywhere,” With a mischievous grin, she patted the statue on the head and started trudging deeper into the jungle.
I followed her, swatting at the sickly, low-hanging branches, “How did you hear about this place?”
“From my late hubby’s gambling buddies.”
“Where did he-" I slipped on a mossy cluster of stones and fell on my face, "Damnit!"
"Peter!" she was at my side, helping me to sit up.
“Damnit." I said again.
“Clumsy," She laughed, brushing off my face.
I hoped the dirt would hide my blushing, “I was watching your backside instead of where I was going.”
“You should have used that line in the script,” she stood back up and started walking again. "Come on, not much further. There's something I want you to see."
Not much further turned out to be an hour of walking, mostly uphill. Occasionally, one or two of those goofy goats would follow and keep pace with us, only to wander off into the jungle after a little while. It was miserably hot, and there wasn't even the slightest trace of a breeze. In case you hadn't already guessed, we writer types usually aren't in the best of shape. Oh sure, there are exceptions, but for every Ernest Hemingway, you have about twenty other vaguely gourd-shaped men like me.
I did my best to keep pace with her and distracted myself from being out of breath by remembering the night she invited me over to her place. The night she cooked me steak while I made strong margaritas.
At first, I'd said no to the whole proposal. I prefer to write adventures, not have them. Besides, I was planning on devoting some more time to my novel in progress, The Black Rider. It was a Western epic in the tradition of Lonesome Dove but with ninjas. I'd been working on it for almost seven years, and it was about halfway done.
After a good meal and lively conversation, we made love on her couch. I know. I know. It sounds ridiculous, but just believe me. I’m going to die, or worse, at sundown. I have no reason to pad out my sexual resume. Needless to say, after that, I was all in on the project.
As we made our way through the jungle, we passed by another dozen or so of those ugly little statues before we reached what was once a military base. It wasn’t much of a military base, mind you, just a rusted old Quonset hut and a handful of rotting olive-colored tents. It looked like the exterior set from M.A.S.H. had gone to Hell.
There was also even a Jeep, its tires flat, its body half-eaten by corrosion, and curious goats. It was parked in front of the dilapidated supply shed that would soon become my prison.
"What is this?” Even though the place was obviously long abandoned, I spoke in hushed tones.
"It was an army base during the Second World War. An entire platoon of men was stationed here. All but one of them died under mysterious circumstances."
“But of course.”
"Come on then." She started walking again, "The best part is up ahead."
I swung my arms in a gesture as sarcastic as it was wide, "Better than all this?"
She laughed, "Shut up and march."
"Yes ma'am!" I saluted. To my surprise, she took my hand as she led me back into the jungle. “Tell me more about these lawn gnomes from Hell.”
She flashed me that grin of hers again, then paused before one of the grotesque effigies, "The people of this island were the last stronghold of the cult of Ezerhodden.”
“Wait wait wait.” I said, “Ezerhodden is a real thing?”
“Yup. They had some very primal religious beliefs."
“Oh, they were Baptists.”
“Dork.” She punched me lightly in the arm and continued, “Every six years, they would hold a ceremony called ‘Grovulche.’ The entire community would paint their hands with goat blood and hunt each other through the jungle. It is kind of like a game of tag. The six winners of the contest would then be brought back to the village where they would play another game using symbols carved on pieces of petrified bark.”
“Are you pulling my leg?” I asked, “You’ve got to be pulling my leg.”
“Nope. Now five losers of this game were called the Zaartua. They would have their hair and teeth pulled out and then be buried alive beneath one of these.” She tapped the statue, “The winner would be taken to the Mouth of Ezerhodden and, after a ceremony called the Six Wounds Of Love, would be blessed with either wisdom, power, or life.”
I shook my head, “And where did you learn all this?”
“I read it in a book called The Nine Rebel Sermons. It was written by a Catholic missionary who visited the island in 1722. I got that from my late hubby’s gambling buddies too.”
I raised an eyebrow, “Ever thought about hunkering down with a Jane Austen novel?"
“Read 'em all. Come on. More to see.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Another hour of walking brought us to a clearing. The knee-high pale-green grass undulated slowly back and forth. In the center of the clearing was the squat stone rim of a well. It was made from the same material as those ugly statues. Strange hieroglyphics were carved all along the sides; there was the familiar triangle inside a circle with a vertical line through the center, but there were other symbols there, too.
Trembling with either terror or excitement, Lori approached it, “This is it. Just like the book said, The Mouth of Ezerhodden.”
The nauseating odor that permeated the island was stronger here; in fact, I was sure this was the source of it. Imagine the smell of a butcher shop mixed with the stink of an open sewer, then add a dash of the scent of your grandma's house. She drew closer, I followed, and it didn’t take me long to realize that the tall grass was hiding dozens of dead goats. Most were skeletons; some were pretty fresh. “This can’t be real. If it was someone would be here already, there would be archeologists …documentary crews …tourists.”
She paused thoughtfully, “Can you imagine how this would look in camera?”
“Come on Lori, people aren’t going to watch this movie to see spooky old ruins. They want to see boobies and monsters. In that order."
She was at the edge of the well now. She peered down into the depths of the well. “Maybe I want to make a more lasting impression on the world.”
I risked a glimpse down into the murky depths. The air wafting up the stone shaft was hot. There was this thick, sloshing noise down there. Something glistened in the shadows. My heart started to pound, I turned away, and I was violently sick.
When I was done, I begged, “Please, can we go back now?”
“Poor thing,” she got me to my feet and led me back to the boat just as it started to rain. She was quiet and thoughtful the whole way back.
We found the director looking ragged and pissed off. He immediately started to complain about the film’s big star just up and disappearing, but Lori waved him off.
With that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, we called it a day and retired to the Polaris’ cramped quarters. Lori turned in early, and the rest of us spent the night, swapping stories, smoking cigarettes, snacking on breakfast bars, and drinking cheap wine. After a few raucous hours, I boozily decided to turn in. Lori had a little cabin all to herself near the front of the ship. I considered knocking on her door, but thought better of it. Instead, I lay down on my designated bunk and let the sounds of falling rain and lapping ocean lull me to sleep.
The dream that came to me came with a strange stomach-churning feeling of deja vu.
I was standing in the middle of the street in a ruined city. I wandered for a time, utterly alone and lost. In the distance, I could hear a rhythmic thudding; like an army on the march, there was a disjointedness to the cadence, giving a sense of something broken.
And then I saw them, a crowd moving down the street, wizened figures in tuxedos, their heads were bald, their faces set in toothless grins. They carried an elaborate, jewel-encrusted litter on their shoulders. It pitched and yawed with their movements.
The figure riding in the litter wore a goat-like mask with long curved horns. A symbol was carved on the forehead, a diamond with a dot in the center. The figure spied me and began to sing sweetly. The words made no sense, but the voice was familiar as the telltale sting of a paper cut.
I snapped awake.
My pillowcase was soaked with sweat; I spent a few panicked moments trying to remember where I was and why I was there. The gentle rumble of my cabin-mate Bobby Burns snoring helped me get my bearings.
I checked my watch. It was almost 3 AM. I tried to relax and go back to sleep, but when I closed my eyes, all I could still see was the dream, vivid and bright. So, I got on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and headed up onto the deck. It had stopped raining, and the sky was cloudless. The full moon looked swollen and was tinged with green. It was bright enough to read by. Leaning on the aft railing, I stared at it for a while and ran the events of the nightmare over and over in my head, examining and interpolating them until they had lost their disturbing qualities.
After a while, I became aware of this thumping, sloshing noise. It was coming from right below me. Visions of The Creature from the Black Lagoon started bubbling to the surface of my mind. I looked down and saw one of the two inflatable rafts the Polaris crew was using to shuttle us back and forth to the island.
But there had been two.
Where was the other one?
Something about it began to worry me. Had it become untethered and floated away? If so, how long would it take for us to shuttle the talent and equipment back and forth with just one boat? I took a stroll from one end of the boat to another in hopes of spotting the thing. No such luck. So I decided to head up to the bridge and let the captain know.
Halfway there, a member of the crew stepped out of the shadows. He had a hunting knife in his hand and he gestured wildly with it as he spoke, “What you do here? Crew only on deck at night! You go down below.”
I choked and blundered over my words, “I think… you see… I…”
"You get down below!” his breath was rank with alcohol, and the something else I couldn't place. Something vaguely unsavory.
“Yeah,” I said, “I get the idea…crew only. Listen, one of your boats is missing…”
"We know." He gave me a gentle poke with the point of his knife to signal the conversation was over. Then he turned and made his way to the bridge, “You go back to sleep. We take care of everything."
I retreated down below, cringing and frightened. I didn’t like the way he talked to me. I didn’t like this island. I didn’t like any of this. I went right to Lori’s cabin and knocked on her door. There was no answer. There was no answer.
Freaking out just a little bit more, I tried the door handle; it wasn’t locked, so I stepped inside. All her clothes and things were still in her suitcase. There were papers strewn about the bed and a thick old book lying on the pillow. I glanced at the title, I Nove Sermoni Ribelli.
I picked it up and flipped through it. Was this the Nine Rebel Sermons? Was this thing really over 250 years old? As I flipped through the pages, wondering at the tiny print and grotesque illustrations, a slip of paper fell out. It was Lori’s handwriting, and it this is what it said;
“The pit was the length and width of a man. From it the avatar of Ezerhodden rose up from the Screaming Nowhere. It was pale and fierce and was a salamander in its extremity. It looked upon the world of man but spoke to the stars. It cast runes upon the stones that blasphemed against death. From within his mouth he feasts on the beloved.”
”What are you doing in here?"
My breath caught, and my hand flew to my chest. It was Lori, ”Having a heart attack thank you very much. Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"
"Peter. You're in my room." She brushed past me. Her sneakers and jeans were caked with mud, one of her fingernails was cracked.
“Oh… Yeah.”
Heedless of my presence, she began to get undressed, slipping the light blouse over her head. She was braless as always, "Was there something wrong?"
"No, it’s just that I was - I am - worried about you." It all seemed so stupid now. Was I really going to tell her that I got spooked because I had a bad dream? I decided to go with more Earthly concerns, "I don't trust the crew of this boat. I think they're up to no good."
She kicked off her shoes, "You're being paranoid."
"One of them waved a knife at me!"
Groaning with exasperation, she sat me down on the bed with a good hard shove, "I know what's really bothering you."
I tried to keep eye contact, but my eyes kept wandering, "Lori, I’m serious. None of this feels right.”
"This is really about what happened back at my place, isn't it?" She strolled over and closed the door to her cabin, shucking her stained jeans on the way back. "You think I only slept with you to get you to help me out."
"Yes. I mean no. I mean-”
"Peter . . . " she caressed my face, ". . . I care about you. More than you realize."
"Can't you see-" she shut me up with a kiss. Her books and notes ended up on the floor, along with the comforter and the sheets.
If I close my eyes, I can still remember how her nails felt on my skin, the way the broken one hurt just a little, and how it made me shiver. When it all ends I’m going to try and keep that moment in my mind, use it to block out everything else. I doubt it will be enough to keep me from screaming.
After it was over, we lay together on the bed, and she spoke in a whisper, "I'll tell you something I haven't told anyone else. This is my last movie.”
Then we were silent. Sleep came soon enough.
The morning found the missing boat back where it belonged. I made a joke to Lori about the captain using it to go fishing. She didn’t laugh.
The day's filming went pretty well. There was plenty of sunlight, and Bobby Burns managed to get through his lines without sounding like a brain-damaged robot.
When he and Lori started working on their ‘love scene’ I had to walk away. I knew I had no right to be possessive or jealous, that this was just acting. But I still had to be somewhere else.
To keep my mind occupied, I tried to piece through my experiences here. If it all had been a movie, what kind of movie would it be? I kept wandering until I found another one of the statues.
For some reason, the face of it was covered with black flies. They buzzed away as I approached. The symbol on the forehead of this one was a circle with an open semicircle at the top and an X at the bottom. There was a dark, gummy-looking ruby-colored substance smeared across it. I stared at it for a long while.
By the time I got back to the others, Lori's scene was over, and Claudia Tate was working on some topless close-ups. Geoff James had decided her soliloquy would play better if she popped her top halfway through. Decisions like this was why he made the big bucks.
When that scene wrapped one of the lighting guys happened to glance out onto the horizon and asked, "Hey! Where the hell is the boat?"
That's right kids, the Polaris had set off without us. I heard a mocking voice in my head, “We take care of everything.”
The sun was beginning to set, and things quickly degenerated into a full-scale panic. We had no shelter, no supplies, no food, no nothing. As the old song said, “…not a single luxury, like Robinson Crusoe, it's primitive as can be…”
Lori took charge and led us through the jungle to the abandoned military base. At the very least, it was a roof over our heads. After some brief discussions about signal fires and searching for food, the cast of Island Fury settled down in the main Quonset hut for the night. Not one of the twelve of us gave even the slightest thought to posting someone on guard duty.
After all, this is a deserted island, right?
After hours of sleep, I awoke to find myself lying next to the key grip and the best boy. I cautiously got up and walked gingerly around the cast and crew. Sickly moonlight shone in through the windows of the Quonset hut. I searched the slumbering shapes for some sign of Lori but couldn’t see her.
I had to relieve myself, and it seemed like a good idea to do my business at the edge of the camp. I stumbled over jutting roots and prickly brambles until I was at the tree line. Then, I did what came naturally. It wasn't until I was finished that I noticed the toppled statue.
Half concealed by a mound of freshly disturbed Earth, it lay on its back, gaping at the stars. I drew closer, wondering if I should try to set it right. I touched the stone. It was warm and clammy. Not cold like before. I wondered who had done this, a clumsy actor or a belligerent goat. Maybe it had fallen over on its own?
A sudden creeping sensation up the back of my neck alerted me to the fact I wasn't alone. A twig snapped. I turned, "Lori will you please stop sneaking up on --"
The shape before me was human but withered; its leathery-looking skin was a muddy gray, its bald head was marked with old scars, and its toothless mouth gaped. In its left hand, it held a goat horn; one end was bloodied, the other sharpened to a point.
The Zaartua! Then I was running through the jungle, fumbling blindly through the trees and bushes. Every statue I came across was askew or toppled over. Dead goats were everywhere, their throats slit, their horns removed.
Somehow my wild flight brought me to the clearing with Ezerhodden’s Well. The stench was worse now. The air was filled with a thick sloshing. I risked a glance backward; a pair of Zaartua were shambling after me like they had all the time in the world. The only noise they made was the crackle of their dead joints flexing.
I let them get a little closer and then feinted around them and doubled back into the jungle. I found my way back to the camp, hoping for safety in numbers. What I found made me stop dead in my tracks.
Damn that full moon. How I wish it had been cloudy that night, that the shadows had been dark and long enough to hide the carnage.
The Zaartua had made quick work of the cast and crew of Island Fury. I saw Claudia Tate, her flesh hanging torn and loose as she staggered and swayed with the animal urge to survive. Her tormenter shuffled behind her, content to watch her die slowly.
There was the high-pitched screaming of Bobby Burns. The Zaartua swarmed over where he had fallen. They raised their makeshift blades and brought them down again and again.
Geoff James was backed into the wall of the Quonset Hut, swinging one of the boom mikes wildly, trying to hold off his attackers, but there were too many of them.
Blood. Howls of terror. The Zaartua were relentless in their bloodlust. Soon enough, I was surrounded and screaming for mercy.
"No!" I heard Lori shout.
I turned on my heel to see her standing in the clearing. The captain and his machete-wielding mates flanked her.
"He isn't for you." She said, and with that, mummified shapes brushed past me, looking for fresh prey.
“Lori?" I tried to find words, but my mind and my body were too exhausted.
"Lock him in the supply shed,” She nodded to the Captain, her tone threatening. “Treat him gently."
I didn't resist as I was marched to the supply shed. A brand new padlock had been installed on the door. I heard it click into place once I was alone in the dark. I whispered, “Help.” to no one in particular and then curled into a ball on the floor.
The next morning Lori came to see me. She had a handful of breakfast bars in her hand.
"Hungry?" she asked.
"No." I doubted I'd ever be hungry again.
She knelt beside me; instinctively, I withdrew from her proximity. "Ezerhodden is real, Peter. He made me promises."
"You did all this?"
"He spoke to me in my dreams. He knew my desperation and revealed to me his need.”
"Stop talking like that!" I flashed with anger, “You’re a B-Movie actress, not Anton LeVey."
“Every sixth year Ezerhodden crawls closer to our world. He casts avatars out from the Screaming Nowhere, but someday he will truly walk among us." She closed her eyes and shuddered, “Then the true Harvest will begin as was prophesied.”
"Why are you doing this?"
"I have ovarian cancer." There were tears in her eyes, "I found out three months ago."
“No… that’s not…” Now there were tears in my eyes, but we were both beyond weeping.
She said, “It's too far gone for the doctors to do anything. It’s in my bones and my spine.” “Oh my God Lori…”
“Ezerhodden has promised me new life.”
I thought of the Zaartua, “You can’t want to be turned into one of those… one of those things!”
“There are other ways and forms,” she kissed my forehead and stood. “All I have to do is submit to the Six Wounds of Love.”
I didn’t want to know the answer to my next question, but I had to ask, “What is that?”
“The Zaartua will scar me five times, each deeper than the last, then… then I will take someone beloved to me to the Well of Ezerhodden and surrender them to the avatar that dwells within.” She closed the door behind her. There was a rustle as the padlock was put back into place.
I went crazy for a little while after that. Trashing the place, looking for something to help me escape. Screaming all the while. I found a hammer and smashed out the windows, but they were too small for me to get through. I thought about using it, or maybe a screwdriver for a weapon, but what good would that do against those things?
Finally, I found this notebook in one of the lower drawers. Some soldier from back in the day had been using it to keep track of inventory, so I decided to put pen to paper one last time and let the world know what happened here.
That brings us full circle.
It’s dusk now. I’ve been listening to the sound of Lori’s screams all day, but now she’s quiet. The ritual of the Six Wounds must be drawing to a close.
My heart is sick to think of her in pain. I want to hate her, but I just can’t. When they finally come for me I am going to try and reason with her one last time. But I’m not holding out much hope for a ‘Love Conquers All’ Hollywood ending.
Like I said before, the writer always gets the shaft.
***
None of the cast or crew of Island Fury were ever found. There is no record of any ship matching the description of the Polaris.

Island Fury
by
Al Bruno III
The following document was written by Peter LaRoche and was found during the Boggs International survey of the island of Kuen-Yuin. (11.5462° N, 162.3522° E)
***
It's the golden rule of Hollywood. The writer always gets the shaft. The producers get all the money; the actors get all the fame, the director gets to put his vision on the screen, and the people behind the scenes get paid and don’t have to give a damn but the writer? The writer pours his guts out onto the page, and if he's lucky, he sees twenty percent of what he wrote make it through the Hollywood grinder. If he's really lucky, he gets paid what he's worth.
That's my story in a nutshell. A month ago, I was in a mansion, sipping margaritas and talking about art to a woman I had been a little bit in love with for years. Now I'm alone, locked in a supply shed, and listening to her scream. I'm writing this with a ballpoint pen on a forty-something-year-old notebook. I'm trying to get it all down while there's still sunlight streaming in through the broken windows.
Someone has to know what happened here, and I guess that’s you.
Let me begin at the beginning.
It was a year after my graduation from Pratt University when I decided to move to Hollywood and make my fortune. I had already sold a pair of spec scripts and a few short stories to some literary magazines. The spec scripts had fallen through, and the literary magazines had mostly been purchased by the contributors, but I was young and stupid. Within a few months of my arrival in Tinsel Town, I was working in retail part time and not making nearly enough to cover my expenses.
I started looking for other ways to use my writing talent to earn cash. You know, ad copy, non-fiction articles for in-flight magazines, movie novelizations, and the occasional bit of erotica for Monarch Magazine’s Lusty Letters To The Editors.
What, did you think those were real?
Word of mouth that I was fast, cheap, and slightly smutty brought me to the attention of Olympus International Cinema.
You may not have heard of Olympus International Cinema, but trust me, if you’ve ever been channel surfing at three in the morning, you’ve at least glimpsed one of their productions.
Heart of Sharkness, Bikini Bar Mitzvah, The Adventures of Cosmo and Quack, Reggie and the Reckless Reptile, Sword Damsels In Space, Beach Blanket Beasts, The Cannibal Cloud of Daytona, The Butcher Brigade, Foxes In Boxes, and of course Tombs of the Blonde Dead. Olympus International Cinema was responsible for all those films and more. Each one featuring a cast of naive starlets and faded celebrities.
The studio was owned by former Monarch Magazine Duchess of the Year Lori Sandovar. If you are of a man of a certain generation the mere mention of her name will send blood rushing to all the right places.
Unbeknownst to most people, the lovely raven-haired Miss Sandovar wasn’t just a performer in several of Olympus International Cinema’s direct-to-video extravaganzas; she was also the owner and producer. She’d inherited the studio from her third husband. It had been a pretty rinky dink operation back then, mostly making training and educational films, but she turned the company into something very different and very profitable.
Lori was responsible for plucking yours truly from literary oblivion and making me Olympus International Cinema's wordsmith of choice. Those were her words, not mine, by the way.
I’ll never forget the day she asked me to work for her; she said she loved my writing. She even had a copy of a literary magazine one of my stories had appeared in. She asked me to autograph it. How could I not fall in love with her a little after that?
She never really paid me what I was worth but there’s something to be said for steady employment. Working for her wasn’t easy; she was as driven and ruthless as she was beautiful and limber. I was, at times, turning out a script every two months, and they weren’t always great, but she always accepted them. She was a lot nicer to me than she was to her other writers. And actors. And directors. And craft services.
Olympus International Cinema’s newest project was a film called Island Fury. The script was written by yours truly, and it was to be a sex comedy that takes a hard left turn into horror in the third act. The plot was like this: during World War II, a handsome American Pilot crash lands on an uncharted island populated by sexy lesbian goat farmers. Lewd logic quickly ensues, and suddenly, the women are all fighting, then gently grinding, over our hero.
Unfortunately, in the throes of their lust, the women have forgotten their pledge to sacrifice some of their livestock to the creature that lives on the island with them. A stop motion monstrosity to be added later called Ezerhodden the Harvest Fiend.
Lori was very specific about how she wanted this film to be made, and she was painfully specific about the script. I was still re-writing the damn thing on my trusty Smith Corona typewriter when we dropped anchor near the deserted island she’d chosen for filming.
The island she’d chosen was a little flyspeck of a place, too unimportant to be claimed by anyone. It was half jungle and half beach and not much of anything else. She’d scouted it out months earlier, and the night she’d half cajoled, half ordered me to travel with her team to the location, she’d shown me some Polaroids of the place. It was overrun with albino goats and dotted with strange little statues. They were a bit Easter Island, a bit Aztec, and a whole lot of H.R. Geiger.
Do you remember making shrunken apple head dolls in school? Do they still do that? Well, if you do, remember that is just what they looked like. Desiccated little stone faces scowling gleefully.
The privately chartered ship that brought us there was called the Polaris. It was a cargo vessel that was at least seventy years past its prime and boasted a crew of six men who looked like cousins.
Close cousins, if you know what I mean.
Our team consisted of one disgraced director, two cameramen, one lighting guy, one sound guy, five wannabe actresses of varying enhancement, one beefy bonehead straight off the casting couch, one tired, profoundly out-of-place scriptwriter, and lastly, a producer who was also one of the performers.
It took six trips on a pair of inflatable rafts to get everyone and our equipment to the island. The director, Geoff James, came on the last trip, and from the moment he set foot on the beach, he started yelling at the cameramen and rushing the cast to get ready. Wishing to avoid his coked-up wrath, the performers got busy. Our small team meant that they had to take care of their own makeup and costumes.
If you can consider furlined bikinis and an Air Force surplus jumpsuit costumes.
The cameramen worked hard to make use of the natural light and accentuate the strange beauty of the landscape while simultaneously keeping the piles of goat scat out of the shot.
You must be wondering why the Hell I was there. Lori had said she wanted a friend along, saying she wanted someone with half a brain to talk to while waiting for her scenes. I gotta say hearing her call me a friend was simultaneously thrilling and disheartening all at once.
A month ago she had called me other things. I wondered if it had just been the Margaritas talking.
Either way, I was standing there trying not to cringe as the pretty young cast mangled my precious dialogue. The director rarely did second takes, even when soft-core sensation Claudia Tate looked directly at the camera or when thick-headed thespian Bobby Burns mispronounced the word “Women.”
Did I mention the writer always gets the shaft?
As the skinny-dipping scene segued into a bout of mud wrestling, I excused myself to explore the island. You may find it hard to believe but watching people film other people having simulated sex is about as exciting as your average class in technical writing.
The island was strange. I know I said this before, but I don't think I've quite gotten across to you how strange. Pale, pink-eyed goats were everywhere. They watched me pass through their territory with dull-eyed curiosity. There were clouds of bloated black flies buzzing around here and there. The air was filled with this faint, sickly-sweet smell, just strong enough to tickle your gag reflex but not strong enough to be recognizable. I had been wandering for an hour or so when I spied a figure crouching up ahead. It was perfectly still, staring at me. I froze, my breath catching in my throat before I realized that it was another one of those weird statues.
It was about three feet tall, almost child-like in proportion. The head was wrinkled and misshapen. A strange symbol had been carved onto its forehead, a triangle inside a circle with a vertical line through the center. Despite the dry weather, the stone was clammy to the touch.
Yes, I touched the thing, don't ask me why.
"It's a grave marker,” Lori spoke softly from behind me. After a brief startled squeal, I turned to see her in her hiking boots, cutoff shorts, and a t-shirt with the logo for White Brains On Toast. They were her favorite band. She’d even appeared in one of their music videos.
I said, "Shouldn't you be working?"
“Pia wanted to do her big scene early,” she said.
This was Pia Winters’s first movie. A former exotic dancer, she was newly upgraded with massive breast implants that she was eager to show off.
“I didn’t write her a big scene.”
“I know, but Geoff has this weird idea where he wants to see her grinding against a palm tree,” she approached the statue with a kind of awe, “I figured I’d let him get it out of his system so I could explore a little."
I asked, “What the Hell is up with this place? We could have just shot in the Philippines for a lot less.”
“This is better. Can’t you feel the atmosphere?”
“It smells like someone died here."
“Someone died everywhere,” With a mischievous grin, she patted the statue on the head and started trudging deeper into the jungle.
I followed her, swatting at the sickly, low-hanging branches, “How did you hear about this place?”
“From my late hubby’s gambling buddies.”
“Where did he-" I slipped on a mossy cluster of stones and fell on my face, "Damnit!"
"Peter!" she was at my side, helping me to sit up.
“Damnit." I said again.
“Clumsy," She laughed, brushing off my face.
I hoped the dirt would hide my blushing, “I was watching your backside instead of where I was going.”
“You should have used that line in the script,” she stood back up and started walking again. "Come on, not much further. There's something I want you to see."
Not much further turned out to be an hour of walking, mostly uphill. Occasionally, one or two of those goofy goats would follow and keep pace with us, only to wander off into the jungle after a little while. It was miserably hot, and there wasn't even the slightest trace of a breeze. In case you hadn't already guessed, we writer types usually aren't in the best of shape. Oh sure, there are exceptions, but for every Ernest Hemingway, you have about twenty other vaguely gourd-shaped men like me.
I did my best to keep pace with her and distracted myself from being out of breath by remembering the night she invited me over to her place. The night she cooked me steak while I made strong margaritas.
At first, I'd said no to the whole proposal. I prefer to write adventures, not have them. Besides, I was planning on devoting some more time to my novel in progress, The Black Rider. It was a Western epic in the tradition of Lonesome Dove but with ninjas. I'd been working on it for almost seven years, and it was about halfway done.
After a good meal and lively conversation, we made love on her couch. I know. I know. It sounds ridiculous, but just believe me. I’m going to die, or worse, at sundown. I have no reason to pad out my sexual resume. Needless to say, after that, I was all in on the project.
As we made our way through the jungle, we passed by another dozen or so of those ugly little statues before we reached what was once a military base. It wasn’t much of a military base, mind you, just a rusted old Quonset hut and a handful of rotting olive-colored tents. It looked like the exterior set from M.A.S.H. had gone to Hell.
There was also even a Jeep, its tires flat, its body half-eaten by corrosion, and curious goats. It was parked in front of the dilapidated supply shed that would soon become my prison.
"What is this?” Even though the place was obviously long abandoned, I spoke in hushed tones.
"It was an army base during the Second World War. An entire platoon of men was stationed here. All but one of them died under mysterious circumstances."
“But of course.”
"Come on then." She started walking again, "The best part is up ahead."
I swung my arms in a gesture as sarcastic as it was wide, "Better than all this?"
She laughed, "Shut up and march."
"Yes ma'am!" I saluted. To my surprise, she took my hand as she led me back into the jungle. “Tell me more about these lawn gnomes from Hell.”
She flashed me that grin of hers again, then paused before one of the grotesque effigies, "The people of this island were the last stronghold of the cult of Ezerhodden.”
“Wait wait wait.” I said, “Ezerhodden is a real thing?”
“Yup. They had some very primal religious beliefs."
“Oh, they were Baptists.”
“Dork.” She punched me lightly in the arm and continued, “Every six years, they would hold a ceremony called ‘Grovulche.’ The entire community would paint their hands with goat blood and hunt each other through the jungle. It is kind of like a game of tag. The six winners of the contest would then be brought back to the village where they would play another game using symbols carved on pieces of petrified bark.”
“Are you pulling my leg?” I asked, “You’ve got to be pulling my leg.”
“Nope. Now five losers of this game were called the Zaartua. They would have their hair and teeth pulled out and then be buried alive beneath one of these.” She tapped the statue, “The winner would be taken to the Mouth of Ezerhodden and, after a ceremony called the Six Wounds Of Love, would be blessed with either wisdom, power, or life.”
I shook my head, “And where did you learn all this?”
“I read it in a book called The Nine Rebel Sermons. It was written by a Catholic missionary who visited the island in 1722. I got that from my late hubby’s gambling buddies too.”
I raised an eyebrow, “Ever thought about hunkering down with a Jane Austen novel?"
“Read 'em all. Come on. More to see.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Another hour of walking brought us to a clearing. The knee-high pale-green grass undulated slowly back and forth. In the center of the clearing was the squat stone rim of a well. It was made from the same material as those ugly statues. Strange hieroglyphics were carved all along the sides; there was the familiar triangle inside a circle with a vertical line through the center, but there were other symbols there, too.
Trembling with either terror or excitement, Lori approached it, “This is it. Just like the book said, The Mouth of Ezerhodden.”
The nauseating odor that permeated the island was stronger here; in fact, I was sure this was the source of it. Imagine the smell of a butcher shop mixed with the stink of an open sewer, then add a dash of the scent of your grandma's house. She drew closer, I followed, and it didn’t take me long to realize that the tall grass was hiding dozens of dead goats. Most were skeletons; some were pretty fresh. “This can’t be real. If it was someone would be here already, there would be archeologists …documentary crews …tourists.”
She paused thoughtfully, “Can you imagine how this would look in camera?”
“Come on Lori, people aren’t going to watch this movie to see spooky old ruins. They want to see boobies and monsters. In that order."
She was at the edge of the well now. She peered down into the depths of the well. “Maybe I want to make a more lasting impression on the world.”
I risked a glimpse down into the murky depths. The air wafting up the stone shaft was hot. There was this thick, sloshing noise down there. Something glistened in the shadows. My heart started to pound, I turned away, and I was violently sick.
When I was done, I begged, “Please, can we go back now?”
“Poor thing,” she got me to my feet and led me back to the boat just as it started to rain. She was quiet and thoughtful the whole way back.
We found the director looking ragged and pissed off. He immediately started to complain about the film’s big star just up and disappearing, but Lori waved him off.
With that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, we called it a day and retired to the Polaris’ cramped quarters. Lori turned in early, and the rest of us spent the night, swapping stories, smoking cigarettes, snacking on breakfast bars, and drinking cheap wine. After a few raucous hours, I boozily decided to turn in. Lori had a little cabin all to herself near the front of the ship. I considered knocking on her door, but thought better of it. Instead, I lay down on my designated bunk and let the sounds of falling rain and lapping ocean lull me to sleep.
The dream that came to me came with a strange stomach-churning feeling of deja vu.
I was standing in the middle of the street in a ruined city. I wandered for a time, utterly alone and lost. In the distance, I could hear a rhythmic thudding; like an army on the march, there was a disjointedness to the cadence, giving a sense of something broken.
And then I saw them, a crowd moving down the street, wizened figures in tuxedos, their heads were bald, their faces set in toothless grins. They carried an elaborate, jewel-encrusted litter on their shoulders. It pitched and yawed with their movements.
The figure riding in the litter wore a goat-like mask with long curved horns. A symbol was carved on the forehead, a diamond with a dot in the center. The figure spied me and began to sing sweetly. The words made no sense, but the voice was familiar as the telltale sting of a paper cut.
I snapped awake.
My pillowcase was soaked with sweat; I spent a few panicked moments trying to remember where I was and why I was there. The gentle rumble of my cabin-mate Bobby Burns snoring helped me get my bearings.
I checked my watch. It was almost 3 AM. I tried to relax and go back to sleep, but when I closed my eyes, all I could still see was the dream, vivid and bright. So, I got on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and headed up onto the deck. It had stopped raining, and the sky was cloudless. The full moon looked swollen and was tinged with green. It was bright enough to read by. Leaning on the aft railing, I stared at it for a while and ran the events of the nightmare over and over in my head, examining and interpolating them until they had lost their disturbing qualities.
After a while, I became aware of this thumping, sloshing noise. It was coming from right below me. Visions of The Creature from the Black Lagoon started bubbling to the surface of my mind. I looked down and saw one of the two inflatable rafts the Polaris crew was using to shuttle us back and forth to the island.
But there had been two.
Where was the other one?
Something about it began to worry me. Had it become untethered and floated away? If so, how long would it take for us to shuttle the talent and equipment back and forth with just one boat? I took a stroll from one end of the boat to another in hopes of spotting the thing. No such luck. So I decided to head up to the bridge and let the captain know.
Halfway there, a member of the crew stepped out of the shadows. He had a hunting knife in his hand and he gestured wildly with it as he spoke, “What you do here? Crew only on deck at night! You go down below.”
I choked and blundered over my words, “I think… you see… I…”
"You get down below!” his breath was rank with alcohol, and the something else I couldn't place. Something vaguely unsavory.
“Yeah,” I said, “I get the idea…crew only. Listen, one of your boats is missing…”
"We know." He gave me a gentle poke with the point of his knife to signal the conversation was over. Then he turned and made his way to the bridge, “You go back to sleep. We take care of everything."
I retreated down below, cringing and frightened. I didn’t like the way he talked to me. I didn’t like this island. I didn’t like any of this. I went right to Lori’s cabin and knocked on her door. There was no answer. There was no answer.
Freaking out just a little bit more, I tried the door handle; it wasn’t locked, so I stepped inside. All her clothes and things were still in her suitcase. There were papers strewn about the bed and a thick old book lying on the pillow. I glanced at the title, I Nove Sermoni Ribelli.
I picked it up and flipped through it. Was this the Nine Rebel Sermons? Was this thing really over 250 years old? As I flipped through the pages, wondering at the tiny print and grotesque illustrations, a slip of paper fell out. It was Lori’s handwriting, and it this is what it said;
“The pit was the length and width of a man. From it the avatar of Ezerhodden rose up from the Screaming Nowhere. It was pale and fierce and was a salamander in its extremity. It looked upon the world of man but spoke to the stars. It cast runes upon the stones that blasphemed against death. From within his mouth he feasts on the beloved.”
”What are you doing in here?"
My breath caught, and my hand flew to my chest. It was Lori, ”Having a heart attack thank you very much. Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"
"Peter. You're in my room." She brushed past me. Her sneakers and jeans were caked with mud, one of her fingernails was cracked.
“Oh… Yeah.”
Heedless of my presence, she began to get undressed, slipping the light blouse over her head. She was braless as always, "Was there something wrong?"
"No, it’s just that I was - I am - worried about you." It all seemed so stupid now. Was I really going to tell her that I got spooked because I had a bad dream? I decided to go with more Earthly concerns, "I don't trust the crew of this boat. I think they're up to no good."
She kicked off her shoes, "You're being paranoid."
"One of them waved a knife at me!"
Groaning with exasperation, she sat me down on the bed with a good hard shove, "I know what's really bothering you."
I tried to keep eye contact, but my eyes kept wandering, "Lori, I’m serious. None of this feels right.”
"This is really about what happened back at my place, isn't it?" She strolled over and closed the door to her cabin, shucking her stained jeans on the way back. "You think I only slept with you to get you to help me out."
"Yes. I mean no. I mean-”
"Peter . . . " she caressed my face, ". . . I care about you. More than you realize."
"Can't you see-" she shut me up with a kiss. Her books and notes ended up on the floor, along with the comforter and the sheets.
If I close my eyes, I can still remember how her nails felt on my skin, the way the broken one hurt just a little, and how it made me shiver. When it all ends I’m going to try and keep that moment in my mind, use it to block out everything else. I doubt it will be enough to keep me from screaming.
After it was over, we lay together on the bed, and she spoke in a whisper, "I'll tell you something I haven't told anyone else. This is my last movie.”
Then we were silent. Sleep came soon enough.
The morning found the missing boat back where it belonged. I made a joke to Lori about the captain using it to go fishing. She didn’t laugh.
The day's filming went pretty well. There was plenty of sunlight, and Bobby Burns managed to get through his lines without sounding like a brain-damaged robot.
When he and Lori started working on their ‘love scene’ I had to walk away. I knew I had no right to be possessive or jealous, that this was just acting. But I still had to be somewhere else.
To keep my mind occupied, I tried to piece through my experiences here. If it all had been a movie, what kind of movie would it be? I kept wandering until I found another one of the statues.
For some reason, the face of it was covered with black flies. They buzzed away as I approached. The symbol on the forehead of this one was a circle with an open semicircle at the top and an X at the bottom. There was a dark, gummy-looking ruby-colored substance smeared across it. I stared at it for a long while.
By the time I got back to the others, Lori's scene was over, and Claudia Tate was working on some topless close-ups. Geoff James had decided her soliloquy would play better if she popped her top halfway through. Decisions like this was why he made the big bucks.
When that scene wrapped one of the lighting guys happened to glance out onto the horizon and asked, "Hey! Where the hell is the boat?"
That's right kids, the Polaris had set off without us. I heard a mocking voice in my head, “We take care of everything.”
The sun was beginning to set, and things quickly degenerated into a full-scale panic. We had no shelter, no supplies, no food, no nothing. As the old song said, “…not a single luxury, like Robinson Crusoe, it's primitive as can be…”
Lori took charge and led us through the jungle to the abandoned military base. At the very least, it was a roof over our heads. After some brief discussions about signal fires and searching for food, the cast of Island Fury settled down in the main Quonset hut for the night. Not one of the twelve of us gave even the slightest thought to posting someone on guard duty.
After all, this is a deserted island, right?
After hours of sleep, I awoke to find myself lying next to the key grip and the best boy. I cautiously got up and walked gingerly around the cast and crew. Sickly moonlight shone in through the windows of the Quonset hut. I searched the slumbering shapes for some sign of Lori but couldn’t see her.
I had to relieve myself, and it seemed like a good idea to do my business at the edge of the camp. I stumbled over jutting roots and prickly brambles until I was at the tree line. Then, I did what came naturally. It wasn't until I was finished that I noticed the toppled statue.
Half concealed by a mound of freshly disturbed Earth, it lay on its back, gaping at the stars. I drew closer, wondering if I should try to set it right. I touched the stone. It was warm and clammy. Not cold like before. I wondered who had done this, a clumsy actor or a belligerent goat. Maybe it had fallen over on its own?
A sudden creeping sensation up the back of my neck alerted me to the fact I wasn't alone. A twig snapped. I turned, "Lori will you please stop sneaking up on --"
The shape before me was human but withered; its leathery-looking skin was a muddy gray, its bald head was marked with old scars, and its toothless mouth gaped. In its left hand, it held a goat horn; one end was bloodied, the other sharpened to a point.
The Zaartua! Then I was running through the jungle, fumbling blindly through the trees and bushes. Every statue I came across was askew or toppled over. Dead goats were everywhere, their throats slit, their horns removed.
Somehow my wild flight brought me to the clearing with Ezerhodden’s Well. The stench was worse now. The air was filled with a thick sloshing. I risked a glance backward; a pair of Zaartua were shambling after me like they had all the time in the world. The only noise they made was the crackle of their dead joints flexing.
I let them get a little closer and then feinted around them and doubled back into the jungle. I found my way back to the camp, hoping for safety in numbers. What I found made me stop dead in my tracks.
Damn that full moon. How I wish it had been cloudy that night, that the shadows had been dark and long enough to hide the carnage.
The Zaartua had made quick work of the cast and crew of Island Fury. I saw Claudia Tate, her flesh hanging torn and loose as she staggered and swayed with the animal urge to survive. Her tormenter shuffled behind her, content to watch her die slowly.
There was the high-pitched screaming of Bobby Burns. The Zaartua swarmed over where he had fallen. They raised their makeshift blades and brought them down again and again.
Geoff James was backed into the wall of the Quonset Hut, swinging one of the boom mikes wildly, trying to hold off his attackers, but there were too many of them.
Blood. Howls of terror. The Zaartua were relentless in their bloodlust. Soon enough, I was surrounded and screaming for mercy.
"No!" I heard Lori shout.
I turned on my heel to see her standing in the clearing. The captain and his machete-wielding mates flanked her.
"He isn't for you." She said, and with that, mummified shapes brushed past me, looking for fresh prey.
“Lori?" I tried to find words, but my mind and my body were too exhausted.
"Lock him in the supply shed,” She nodded to the Captain, her tone threatening. “Treat him gently."
I didn't resist as I was marched to the supply shed. A brand new padlock had been installed on the door. I heard it click into place once I was alone in the dark. I whispered, “Help.” to no one in particular and then curled into a ball on the floor.
The next morning Lori came to see me. She had a handful of breakfast bars in her hand.
"Hungry?" she asked.
"No." I doubted I'd ever be hungry again.
She knelt beside me; instinctively, I withdrew from her proximity. "Ezerhodden is real, Peter. He made me promises."
"You did all this?"
"He spoke to me in my dreams. He knew my desperation and revealed to me his need.”
"Stop talking like that!" I flashed with anger, “You’re a B-Movie actress, not Anton LeVey."
“Every sixth year Ezerhodden crawls closer to our world. He casts avatars out from the Screaming Nowhere, but someday he will truly walk among us." She closed her eyes and shuddered, “Then the true Harvest will begin as was prophesied.”
"Why are you doing this?"
"I have ovarian cancer." There were tears in her eyes, "I found out three months ago."
“No… that’s not…” Now there were tears in my eyes, but we were both beyond weeping.
She said, “It's too far gone for the doctors to do anything. It’s in my bones and my spine.” “Oh my God Lori…”
“Ezerhodden has promised me new life.”
I thought of the Zaartua, “You can’t want to be turned into one of those… one of those things!”
“There are other ways and forms,” she kissed my forehead and stood. “All I have to do is submit to the Six Wounds of Love.”
I didn’t want to know the answer to my next question, but I had to ask, “What is that?”
“The Zaartua will scar me five times, each deeper than the last, then… then I will take someone beloved to me to the Well of Ezerhodden and surrender them to the avatar that dwells within.” She closed the door behind her. There was a rustle as the padlock was put back into place.
I went crazy for a little while after that. Trashing the place, looking for something to help me escape. Screaming all the while. I found a hammer and smashed out the windows, but they were too small for me to get through. I thought about using it, or maybe a screwdriver for a weapon, but what good would that do against those things?
Finally, I found this notebook in one of the lower drawers. Some soldier from back in the day had been using it to keep track of inventory, so I decided to put pen to paper one last time and let the world know what happened here.
That brings us full circle.
It’s dusk now. I’ve been listening to the sound of Lori’s screams all day, but now she’s quiet. The ritual of the Six Wounds must be drawing to a close.
My heart is sick to think of her in pain. I want to hate her, but I just can’t. When they finally come for me I am going to try and reason with her one last time. But I’m not holding out much hope for a ‘Love Conquers All’ Hollywood ending.
Like I said before, the writer always gets the shaft.
***
None of the cast or crew of Island Fury were ever found. There is no record of any ship matching the description of the Polaris.