Simply make the perfect Flan and guarantee that the sweetness will stay in your conscious for a very long time!
Ingredients:
For the caramel:

• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1/4 cup water

For the custard:

• 4 large eggs
• 1 can (14 ounces) sweetened condensed milk
• 1 can (12 ounces) evaporated milk
• 1 cup whole milk
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Instructions:

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C).
2. To make the caramel, place the granulated sugar and water in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir until the sugar dissolves, then stop stirring and let it cook undisturbed until it turns a deep amber color, about 8-10 minutes. Swirl the pan occasionally to ensure even caramelization.
3. Once the caramel reaches the desired color, immediately pour it into a 9-inch round baking dish, tilting the dish to evenly coat the bottom. Be careful as the caramel will be extremely hot. Set aside to cool and harden.
4. In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, sweetened condensed milk, evaporated milk, whole milk, and vanilla extract until well combined and smooth.
5. Strain the custard mixture through a fine-mesh sieve to ensure a silky texture.
6. Carefully pour the strained custard mixture over the cooled caramel layer in the baking dish.
7. Place the baking dish inside a larger roasting pan. Fill the roasting pan with enough hot water to reach halfway up the sides of the baking dish, creating a water bath (bain-marie).
8. Carefully transfer the roasting pan to the preheated oven and bake for 50-60 minutes, or until the flan is set around the edges but still slightly jiggly in the center.
9. Remove the flan from the oven and from the water bath. Allow it to cool to room temperature, then cover and refrigerate for at least 4 hours, or preferably overnight, to chill and fully set.
10. To serve, run a knife around the edge of the baking dish to loosen the flan. Place a serving plate upside down on top of the dish, then quickly and carefully invert the dish and plate together to release the flan onto the plate. The caramel will flow over the top of the flan, creating a beautiful glaze.
11. Slice the flan and serve chilled. Enjoy this creamy and indulgent dessert!

Put some Flamenco to contribute to the background of your event
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5TrjzUzQnbIu2m6CLklO25?si=2014688ff89141fd
Enjoy your homemade Flan!

OOC: co-written with NotTooSunny
It was an ordinary day at the New York City Library. People wandered in and out of the building, unaware of the monster that lurked among them.
The only people who seemed to know the danger these mortals were in were Harper and Amon, who entered the building with glowing bronze swords at their hips. The bulky weapons seemed to have escaped the notice of the other library patrons, which was a good thing. The job description had made it clear that they were meant to remain inconspicuous in completing their task.
Harper had traded her usual bright orange camp shirt for a more discrete cropped black t-shirt and pleated pants. She had been insistent on coming up with a persona for them on the train ride from Montauk Station into New York City. They were meant to act as high school students researching for a World History paper on Ancient Greece. Now that they were inside the library, she had stopped her incessant rambling to peruse a riddle book, in what she had insisted was preparation for their job.
As they wandered through the bookshelves, she remained absorbed in the dog-eared children’s book, thumbing through the pages to find a riddle that would be fitting of a sphinx.
“Here’s one, Amon,” she said, narrowly avoiding a collision with another library patron as she read, “What is something that runs but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, has a bed but never sleeps?”
The dark-haired son of Apollo glanced over from a shelf of dusty atlases, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “That is an easy one,” he replied simply. "River. Try me with something more challenging next time around." He adjusted the collar of his striped button down, which he had layered with a navy blue sweater in preparation for the chill of the air-conditioned interior.
“The real riddle is where we can find this sphinx,” Amon glanced around the spacious reading area, eyeing the dark wooden staircase with its ornate railings. “The boyfriend and girlfriend who tried this last time, they found her by a bookcase.”
“A bookcase,” Harper repeated derisively, closing her book to theatrically scan their surroundings. “That narrows it down.”
Ignoring Harper’s mockery, the son of Apollo paused suddenly, his dark eyes glazing over with concentration. His hearing dulled, the surrounding footsteps and rustling pages fading into the background as if muffled by a thick curtain. Amon searched for the energy signature of the monster he knew lurked among the mortals. It was a subtle shift, like trying to discern a whisper in a crowded room, but he felt a faint, abnormal energy hanging somewhere up above.
“I say we try the second floor,” he said as he snapped out of the tracking trance, offering no other explanation to Harper.
“We could do that, sure,” Harper said, words laced with blatant doubt at his sudden certainty. “I say we try asking the Visitor’s Center. I know she's supposed to be disguised by the Mist, but the librarians have to have noticed something.”
“You can go ahead and do that.” The small smirk from earlier was now spreading across his face. “But you can’t be upset if I find the sphinx and solve her riddle before you even get there.”
Harper rolled her eyes, but she made no attempt to stop Amon from walking towards the staircase. After a moment she set off after him, footsteps even against the wooden steps.
Up on the second floor, Amon moved quietly, his dark eyes scanning the hallway for anything out of the ordinary.
I know you’re up here.
He stopped at every heavy-looking mahogany door, peering through each muted glass insert. He felt the air grow thicker with ominous energy at every step, so he knew the monster must be near.
One of the doors was slightly ajar, a suspiciously open invitation. Or a trap. The dark-haired boy caught sight of a cat-shaped figure on the other side before ducking down and motioning sharply for Harper’s attention. He unsheathed his kopis from his belt, bracing himself for confrontation.
Harper crouched against the wall, hand on the hilt of her sword as she tried to peek through the frosted glass pane. She held her breath, ready to move at Amon’s signal. He held out three fingers and then put them down one by one. When he hit zero, they stood in unison, flinging the door open together.
When Amon and Harper stepped inside, the body of the sphinx lay motionless on the floor.
The rest of the room was in disarray, littered with disheveled chairs and broken bits of chalk. A window on the other side of the room had been forced open, the curtain fluttering in the wind.
“No way,” Harper said. The door clicked shut behind her as she pushed past Amon into the room and kneeled to study the monster’s limp figure.
The sphinx had the large body of a lion and the eerily human face of a middle-aged woman, hair tied back in a severe bun and foundation caked onto her high cheekbones. Fangs jutted out of her red-painted lips, and eagle wings sprouted out of the space between her shoulder blades, folded tight against her back.
“Monsters dissolve into dust when they die,” Amon remarked, keeping his distance as he watched the subtle rise and fall of the monster’s ribs. “She must have been knocked unconscious.”
“Right,” Harper agreed, “The real question is who. And why.”
She hovered a hand over the cat's shoulder, set on rousing her. Before she made contact, the sphinx's eyes snapped open, round irises surrounded by shocking yellow sclera.
"Slain!" she wailed. Harper staggered backwards. Amon’s arms instinctively reached out to catch her, but she didn’t stumble near enough to make contact. "I am slain!"
With feline grace, the sphinx rose to her feet. A white tape outline marked the placement of her previously prone body on the floor. The muscles in her legs rippled as she paced in front of Harper and Amon, massive velvet paws silent against the carpet.
"And you, my dear heroes," she roared, eyes narrowed in an accusatory glare, "were too late to save me!"
The sphinx sniffed, composing herself. She leapt onto a wooden table. The table legs creaked underneath her weight. "Fear not," she tutted, "Fear not. For you can still avenge me. If you are able to determine the murderer and their weapon, then I will obtain justice, and all will be right with the world.”
“Your riddle is a murder mystery,” Harper said, confusion written across her face. Amon raised an eyebrow. The sphinx chuffed, a low rumbling sound reminiscent of laughter.
“You sought that hackneyed question about man? The Sphinx that the storytellers remember is far less adaptive than I am. I am not interested in your ability to regurgitate the information you have read. Nor am I interested in taking advantage of the nonsensical rules of your English language.”
“I am here to satisfy my own curiosity: does modern mankind still possess the ability to engage in deductive reasoning, or do they only seek to make themselves appear intelligent? Do not speak,” the sphinx said, a pointed look at Harper, who had opened her mouth to interject, “You will answer my questions when you play my game.”
“The potential murder weapons are scattered throughout this room,” she continued, leaping off the table. “And the suspects have already provided their testimonies for your review. Rest assured, I have made certain that their statements contain no lies.”
A shimmering, translucent energy began to swirl around Harper and Amon’s feet, beginning to take shape as holograms with a flickering, ephemeral quality.
A projection of Cerberus materialized first, his three massive heads snarling and snapping in unison. A ribbon of text appeared by his paws to translate his growling: "I was guarding the entrance, my duty unbroken."
Next came the Minotaur, his towering form pacing within the labyrinth on Crete. He snorted and pawed at the ground, the holographic maze shifting behind him in the background. The translation text appeared: "Confined within these walls, no escape for me."
Lamia's projection flickered into view, her serpentine lower half coiled around her as she wept in her cave. She glanced mournfully at the holographic images of her lost children: "My grief consumes me, innocent of this crime."
A shimmering Hydra emerged next, its nine heads snapping at invisible foes. Each one moved independently, showcasing its ability to act on its own. The translation for the hissing head at the center read: "Engaged in battle, I could not have killed."
Typhon materialized with a thunderous roar, his colossal form fighting against restraints under Mount Etna. His immense size and power were palpable, even in scaled down holographic form: "Bound by chains of the earth, I could not have roamed free."
Echidna’s hologram appeared last, her form a mix of human and serpent, lounging in a dimly lit cave. She looked directly at the viewers, her expression both defiant and amused. The translation text by her side read: “I dwell in my lair, uninvolved in such petty affairs.”
The sphinx swiped at the last projection as it faded, deeming her handiwork satisfactory. “There is not enough information to deduce the killer using evidence alone. Because I am fair, I will provide you with three hints before your final guess. Be forewarned: if you fail to provide a correct answer, you will both perish. Is this understood?”
Harper spoke. “If we answer correctly, you will leave this library for good.”
“If you answer correctly, I will permanently relocate. It is a preferable option in comparison to another death. Now, do you agree to the terms and conditions?” the sphinx said primly, regarding Harper and Amon with casual disdain. The pair nodded. “Very well.”
The sphinx dropped onto the floor and let her head loll back, pretending to be dead once more.
Hint #1

Suspects	Weapons
Cerberus	The Shirt of Nessus
The Minotaur	Siren Song
Lamia	Harpy Talon
The Hydra	Celestial Bronze Sword
Typhon	A-C Encyclopedia
Echidna	Cerberus Fang

Soon after the sphinx had laid back down, Harper and Amon began to scour the room. A small pile of prospective murder weapons formed on a nearby table.
“We can easily eliminate the siren song,” Amon rushed to speak over Harper, eyeing the small glass vial of swirling gray matter that they had found nestled behind a row of books on metalworking. “It is a luring mechanism, not a murder weapon.”
“We could rule out Cerberus’ fang too,” he pointed at the enormous yellowing tooth, about the size of the small baseball bat Amon used to have when he played in the little league. “If we take the hologram as ground truth, all of his teeth were intact there.”
Harper used her kopis to prod at the stained tunic that had been hidden in a desk drawer, being careful not to touch it with bare skin. “The Shirt of Nessus is a viable option. It would be easy for any of the suspects to lay it down and wait for the hydra venom to kick in.”
“I am not ready to rule out the bronze sword either,” Amon noted. “Monsters have access to heroes and the weapons they leave behind.”
“Most of these monsters don’t even have opposable thumbs,” Harper argued, running a hand over the sword they had found by a power outlet. ”They don’t have the dexterity to wield a sword.”
“I do not imagine that the technicality would be that granular.”
Harper laughed. “Oh, the number of teeth in the Cerberus hologram tell all, but we’re drawing the line at opposable thumbs.”
“I suppose that that logic would also rule out the harpy talon and the encyclopedia easily as well,” Amon admitted. “Which would be too easy.”
“I’m just that good at logical deduction.” Harper said proudly. “If my assumption is correct, then the poisoned shirt is the only one that makes sense.”
Amon scoffed, folding his arms across his chest as his dark eyes bored into Harper. “It would not necessarily matter what our first guess would be anyway.”
“Can you provide an argument for any other weapon? Or are you intent on purposely making an illogical guess?” she countered cooly.
“Fine,” Amon acquiesced. “Since you are so adamant about the shirt, we can guess the shirt, and be incorrect. It does not matter. What about the suspects themselves?” He clasped his hands behind his back, his steps measured as he started to pace across the plush red carpet of the room.
Harper smiled, smugly accepting her victory. She strode towards a chalkboard at the side of the study room, inscribing the list of weapons and suspects with a fresh piece of white chalk.
“All of them have alibis,“ she began. “I think that-”
“Some make more sense than others,” Amon spoke over Harper, irritated by her minor triumph. “Cerberus, for example, is under the service of Hades. He says he did not leave his post, and he could not have done so without permission or dire consequences on the process of the dead.”
Harper silently seethed as Amon spoke, meeting his rationale with reluctant acceptance before starting again in a louder, exaggerated tone. “I think that the ones with the shakiest alibis are Lamia, the Minotaur, Typhon, and Echidna. No witnesses can confirm their locations. In fact, Lamia provides no location at all.” Harper circled those names. She looked at Amon with a forced smile, allowing him a moment to provide more commentary.
“Lamia? Well,” there was a hint of mockery in the sneer that tugged on the corner of Amon’s lips. “I would imagine her emotions rendered her… Too fragile and unstable to carry out such an act.”
“You’re kidding,” Harper scoffed, searching Amon's face for the slightest hint that he was joking. “Her grief is what moved her to kill children in the first place. I doubt it would suddenly be incapacitating. She’s just appealing to your sense of superiority, and I can’t believe that you’re falling for it.”
"It is not about superiority. It is about logic," Amon retorted, bristling in defense. “You cannot deny that emotions cloud judgment. Maybe the sphinx wants us to leverage our knowledge about her past crimes to reason that she was not thinking clearly in this case either.” Amon had no other evidence that pointed towards Lamia as the top suspect, but he had dug deep enough where he was now ready to stand firm in his reasoning.
“Murder,” Harper countered, eyes narrowed in a venomous stare, “-does not require you to think clearly. Haven’t you heard of a crime of passion? If anyone’s judgment is clouded right now, Amon, it’s yours.”
The son of Apollo squared his shoulders, his expression hardening. "I understand the concept of crimes of passion, thank you.” His dark-eyed stare returned Harper's gaze, unflinching at the intensity. “But our investigation must be rooted in facts, not assumptions based on emotions. And the facts are,” he resumed his pacing once more, “that Lamia cannot be the culprit, as she is the only suspect that openly admits to being innocent of this crime.”
Amon had considered this from the very start, but provoking Harper like this had proved to be far more amusing.
Harper crossed Lamia’s name off of the board. She swallowed down her anger, fighting the urge to continue pressing the issue in favor of returning to their list of suspects. She pointed her piece of chalk at the next names on the list. “The Minotaur and Typhon are trapped, or so they say. How could they have done anything?”
“Their alibis revolve around their inability to escape,” Amon pointed out. “Not that they were unable to commit murder. The Labyrinth, in fact,” he raised a dramatic finger, “has several moving passages that could have permitted the Minotaur to move and commit murder without an official escape.”
Harper considered his words for a long moment, trying to find the flaw in his reasoning. Seeing none, she placed a dot next to the Minotaurs's name.
“Typhon escaped his prison in the Second Titanomachy. He could do it again,” Harper said thoughtfully. “Though I don’t understand why he would do something like this. He’s the Sphinx's father. The same goes for Echidna.”
Amon, who had been nodding at Harper’s assessment of Typhon’s abilities, pursed his lips at her observation of parentage. “I do not see how this could possibly be relevant to the logical puzzle at hand.”
Harper spoke slowly, as if the answer was obvious. “What motive would they have to kill their own daughter?”
“Harper,” Amon began curtly, folding his arms across his chest. “Half of the Greek myths revolve around immortals killing their own children.”
“Then we should pick one of them,” Harper declared, pivoting her argument instead of admitting her logical blunder. “They would have more of a motive than the rest of the suspects, if anything.”
“The Minotaur can escape much more easily than Typhon can. Motive aside, it is the most logical guess,” Amon concluded, adjusting his collar haughtily. “I will remind you that we picked your choice of weapon. It is only fair that I select the monster.”
“Fine.” Harper agreed, her gaze stormy as she turned back towards the sphinx. “We accuse the Minotaur of killing the sphinx with the Shirt of Nessus.”
The sphinx opened one eye. “None of these are correct!”
Hint #2

Suspects	Weapons
Cerberus	The Shirt of Nessus
The Minotaur	Siren Song
Lamia	Harpy Talon
The Hydra	Celestial Bronze Sword
Typhon	A-C Encyclopedia
Echidna	Cerberus Fang

“Two more hints left.” Harper announced, crossing off the Minotaur’s name and the poisoned shirt on the chalkboard with a flourish. It was not ideal that her initial logical deductions had been incorrect, but at least Amon had also been wrong. She couldn't resist a snide comment. “I knew it wasn’t the Minotaur.”
“So you still think it’s Typhon.” Choosing to ignore Harper’s taunting, Amon rested his hand on a nearby desk, studying the lists on the chalkboard before him. He had taken the Minotaur error as a personal failure, and was determined to get the suspect right this time.
“I do.”
“Why not Echidna?”
“She’s too emotional to kill someone, obviously.” Harper said sarcastically. “Her frail female arms are probably too weak to even hold a weapon.”
The dark-haired boy rolled his eyes. “Objectively,” he began, ignoring her quip once more, “Typhon could not have lied about his inability to roam free. A natural disaster freed him from Mount Etna during the Second Titanomachy, but he could not recreate those conditions on his own.” Though his tone remained aloof, it was clear that Amon was relishing in the opportunity to flaunt his mythology knowledge.
“Maybe,” Harper argued, stubborn. “But Echidna’s statement was less ambiguous than his. Typhon just explains his predicament; he doesn't provide a real claim. Echidna explicitly says she was not involved.” She thought for a few more moments, rolling the piece of chalk in her hands. “Echidna could have released him? They would be accomplices.”
Amon shook his head. “There was a single murderer. Not two. The sphinx would not lie about the premise of the game.”
Harper stared at him coldly, but could offer no rebuttal. She turned her attention to the board. “Typhon is a giant. He’s capable of using the sword.”
“But the specificity of Echidna’s denial is still incredibly suspicious. ‘Petty affairs’ is a strange way to phrase a murder. But,” Amon added reluctantly, “I understand the logic behind Typhon. I suppose it is your turn to choose the monster, and we will still have another guess to work with.”
“As for the weapon,” he continued, “I still think the sword is the most viable option, given that the siren song and the fang can be ruled out and the shirt with the venom was, well,” Amon pursed his lips, fighting the urge to smile, “incorrect.”
Before Harper could interject, Amon turned towards the sphinx at the front of the room. “We accuse Typhon of killing the sphinx with a Celestial Bronze Sword.”
“One of these is correct!”
Hint #3

Suspects	Weapons
Cerberus	The Shirt of Nessus
The Minotaur	Siren Song
Lamia	Harpy Talon
The Hydra	Celestial Bronze Sword
Typhon	A-C Encyclopedia
Echidna	Cerberus Fang

“Aha!” Amon raised a triumphant finger before pointing it at Harper. “I told you,” he gloated, “Typhon had no escape route.”
“You were right,” Harper admitted, staring down at the carpet so that she would not have to look at his smug expression.
“Let’s get this over with,” she muttered, and turned back towards the lioness with crossed arms. “We accuse Echidna of killing the sphinx with a Celestial Bronze Sword”
“One of these is correct,” the sphinx announced. Her mouth twisted in amusement, fangs bared in a menacing smile.
READ PART 2 HERE

Im doing some brass etching for the first time and I need some help

1. remove protective layer on one side and apply to brass sheet
2. put a piece of paper on top of brass sheet
3. laminate using an iron
4. put transparent paper on top of resist and expose to uv light for 3:30
5. remove second protective layer
6. drop in solution to dissolve uncured resist

I've tried washing soda and sodium carbonate and neither solutions have managed to dissolve the uncured resist.
The ratio i used: 5 grams of Sodium carbonate to 500ml of water or 5 grams of washing soda to 1L of water
Why is it not dissolving? Is it because my exposure time is too long? Am I using too much heat?
Edit: I figured it out! The issue was with the black ink on my transparent paper—it wasn't dark enough. Consequently, the UV light managed to pass through, causing everything to harden. The difference might not be immediately noticeable since the supposed "unexposed" part retains a light blue hue compared to the exposed area, which is a dark blue.
I hope this is useful for that one person in the future that ends up with the same problem lul.

Age: 28M
I do not have a History of anything. Just COVID last year, which I recovered from in a few days. This feels worse than COVID.
I am not a Smoker.
I have had Phlegm/Mucus (Yellow/Green) in the Lungs for 2 week now. It has been causing me to not be able to breathe properly and cough my lungs out trying to get some of that Phlegm outside.
I went to the ER yesterday they told me that I had a Fever and High Blood Pressure caused by my Chest Infection. They took Blood work and did a Chest X-Ray. They gave me a Steriods Inhaler, something for the fever and some cough syrup for the lungs and Vitamin C dissolving Tablets. Got a Negative COVID Test
They sent me Home afterwards and didn’t explain my Radiology Report.
I read it online Today and it stated:
Chest x-ray
Bilateral accentuated bronchovascular markings noted Bilateral diffuse vascular congestion seen Lower lung zone retrocardiac ill-defined ground-glass haziness noted Left middle lung zone atelectatic band seen Normal cardiothoracic ratio and mediastinal contour Normal. Both diaphragmatic contour Clear both costophrenic angles Normal bony cage
——————
What does Accentuated Bronchovasvular Markings mean?
What does Vascular Congestion Mean?
What does Retrocardiac ill-defined ground-glass haziness?
What does Atelectatic Band seen mean?
I’m very confused because they told me that my lungs are fine and that its just a chest infection.
Any Radiologists here can explain what any of this means?

Bright illuminescant flashes bolted through the dark-lit sky, rushing and raging through clouds seemingly made of gossamer and finely woven felt. You could almost reach out and touch them if not for the raging storm ripping and hollering. It shone and splintered along the sky, splitting into a thousand arcs, each converging and convexing along the stars. Electrical currents spun like lavender spider webs along a farmhouse wall. The arcs traveled, painting a vibrant tapestry along its wake before reaching their climax and releasing a wicked KRAK as the lights slowly faded.
The gossamer clouds wept tears of dull acidic rain that fell, cascading downwards. Down to the swampy fetid fields below. Their droplets splashed and sizzled against the sand, slowly fizzing before hardening into a thin velvet glass before beginning all over again. A sad display of god’s fury laid bare and plain for all to see. The rain had begun just a week prior, but its assault had persisted in a constant pattern ever since. The swamp ached and squirmed in an agonizing way as the rain melted away any sign of basic life.
Puddles of the acidic deluge collected along a road leading to the once fertile silver mine, just three miles from the town of Crestfall. Near the edge of the road, a fork splits off into multiple directions. South of the fork leads to the entrance of Deep Rock Mine. The mine’s entrance stands agape, resting at the base of a mountain. The mine’s layout, a cavern of crisscrossing and haphazardly formed tunnels, awaited past the thick darkness entrapping the entrance. They curve and wind up the spine of the mountain, as well as descend deep into the now dead earth.
The face of the mountain was bare but rough. Rocks jutted and sloped along its curvature, forming a near mesmeric pattern of spiked granite. Towards the peak, a malicious and not all entirely natural pattern emerged. As the acidic rain fell, framing the mountainous backdrop, the pattern watched and waited. An almost human-like visage stretched along the face of the mountain like canvas pulled over a wooden frame. It’s design scorn into the rock itself as if meticulously laid out to warn any who dared breach the confines of the swamp.
Silence lingered amongst the misty atmospheric dredge, save for the muffled and subtle ambietic sounds of the rain. Through the dead foliage and gnarled remains of creatures recently passed, a sound rang forth. Distant exclamation and reverberated clanging rhythmically sounded from deep within the mine. Up and down the mine laid stalactites and stalagmites haphazardly stationed around every corner. Their abrupt positioning cast shadows wherever light felt unable to reach. The mine walls were smooth from years of work and toilage, along with the long uninterrupted tunnels, created an almost echo chamber for sound.
Abrupt crashes and distant thrashes echoed through the winding chamber. Its sounds detailed a fierce battle between clashing swords and fervent blows.
Or so it would seem.
A sword, emblazoned with the sigil of a raven, flew across the dimly lit room. Its body crashes and clings as it skips along the floor, its blade slashing and carving thin lines into the granite flooring as it makes contact with the ground. A fierce shadow sprawls along the cave walls, depicting a struggle between foes.
The wanderer-and recent owner of the raven crested blade-crashes to the floor. Leather straps firmly tied around his shoulder blades catch most of the weight of the fall, but pain still echoed through his nerves.
“Hells! You slimy bastard!” The wanderer winces and yells in a blinded fury. “You don’t play fair, and here I thought we were having a nice sport of it.”
No reply immediately came from his opponent, still standing off near a downed torch. Flame wisped and flicked along the ground, casting shadows and dreaded omens as if they were ripped directly from a child’s nightmare.
At once, the foe stepped forward. The shadows sprawled across the walls painted a disturbing picture of horror and grotesque form. Imaginative figures born from shadows were always so much more terrible than the beings that cast them, but in this case it was clearly the other way around. The foe opposite The Wanderer lurched forward, it's body a gnarled vestige of exoskeleton and mandibles. It almost resembled a large insect, like a praying mantis that decided its evolutionary cycle had not quite finished yet.
On multi-socketed legs, it snapped and convulsed along. Every movement of its body felt agonizing, as if the creature was hastily thrown together by a quite absent god. Various olive and violet fluids oozed and dripped from its husk like body as it vocalized terrible sounds. The creature-seemingly unable to speak-produced noises from its mouth that resembled a mix of gargles and marbles being tossed along a wooden floor. All the while, its grotesque pincer like appendage snapped and clicked almost involuntarily.
The wanderer-still recovering from his fall-slowly pushed his body along the cold rocky ground, his arm still pulsing with pain.
“Oh my, what big mouths you have.” The wanderer teased sounding much more worried than he intended. ‘Always good to keep in control of the situation. Confidence is key.’ As he was always want to say, but this wasn’t an ordinary situation.
His arm traced along the ground, reaching and prodding for his recently lost weapon. Daring not look away from the oncoming threat, he felt nothing. His sword was currently resting near the opposite side of the cave room, resting flat along the ground. Away from The Wanderer’s grasp, far away from being of any further use here it seemed.
Doubt surged through his mind, but only for a short time. ‘Doubt breeds more doubt, and further doubt breeds ruin’, another favorite.
Clenched palms moved along the granite flooring. Leather gloves scraped and bruised as The Wanderer lifted back to his feet, regaining balance and fervor. The arm that had broken his fall felt numb and altogether absent.
‘Dislocated most likely, not a big enough fall to break.’
The insect-like foe-still closing the distance between them-snapped and gurgled in an almost territorial display of aggression.
The Wanderer grinned, placing his uninjured arm against its opposite’s elbow, before violently, yet methodically, pushing it upwards. A clear snap, followed by a dull pop echoed through the room. Feeling began pouring back into his arm as the vibrating itch of numbness faded. Both arms began to raise, fists clenched, the leather gloves creased and squelched from the sheer pressure as his hands formed tightly wounded fists. Fists pointed squarely towards the all not entirely normal creature still gurgling and jerking along the shadow filled room.
“Oh...” The Wanderer began. “I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t enjoy every second of this.” His fists raised up, reaching level with the bridge of his nose. “Come one now, give us yer best.”
As if understanding -and altogether disliking- the series of vulgar remarks thrusted toward it, the creature squealed through its deformed face. The jerking motion its movement seemed to have before was replaced with a fluid dash as it quickly closed the distance between the two adversaries. Arms outstretched as its gnarled and jagged hands opened and closed with violent snaps and twinges. Reaching out, grasping the air between them. The gap closed quickly, much quicker than he anticipated, but not enough to catch him entirely off guard as he shifts weight from right the left. The slender frame of his body flanking to the side of the creature.
Shadows arched and flailed with each movement, creating a strange optical illusion across the cave walls. The subtle shifting wind and osculation of the two fighters created an almost mural of events through the flames. Clashing swords, trumpeting horns and creatures that rivaled the tallest spires in Etheral began to converge into an unrecognizable painting of events. The fire loomed, gazing at the creature, at The Wanderer. Its gaze almost purposeful and full of intent. Neither the two beings made any note of the grand display unfolding around them. Fire is known to be a harsh mentor, and an even harsher ally. If one was to wander too deeply into its wounding gaze, one might find themselves trapped, forever living in the tapestry it painted.
The creature was fast, but nowhere as fast as him. Once useless, now repaired, the dislocated arm wrapped between the creatures glistening forearm, interlocking before weight shifted again. The creature stalled as if to reorient itself to face the man, but its movements were not its own. Quickly and deftly, The Wanderer placed immense weight on his forward foot, counterbalancing against the creature as their locked arms rotated and shifted sideways. Arching forward, the shift in balance quickly broke as the creature began to lift in the air as The Wanderer’s rear leg lifted to relegate pressure onward. Flailing and spewing its noxious fluid, the creature flipped entirely, finally crashing to the floor in a savage crunch. The Wanderer stands above, looking downward as it convulses in a fit of pain (could it even quantify pain) and anger.
A greyish foul-smelling slime coated The Wanderer’s chest and forearm. Small indentions formed along the hard leather surface of his jacket, most likely from the not entirely cosmetic spikes embedded into the creature.
“Alright, now I’d say we’re fairly close to a draw here.” The Wanderer began. “How’s say we handle the rest with a bit more diplomacy and grace? No point and making a bigger stink than we already got, but telling by the state of yourself, I’d say you know all about stink.”
The maddening gurgle of the creature slowed as its body began to calm. Its arms moving outward, sprawling along the hard granite rock as its legs raise along with the rest of it. Wet dew drips along the ground, rippling and casting weird reflections from all directions as the creature steps slowly along their puddles. Slow anxious steps it takes. Its demeanor changes from a wild and disturbed animal to a more methodic and wary being. Eyes of bluish gray sink into its head, pupils moving slowly, analyzing and taking in information. It stands straight, back locked into an opposing stance. God it was big. The man couldn’t much get a good measurement before with its body slouched over in a hermit like stance. It must be at least seven feet tall, equally proportioned from its legs to its torso. The head was rounded, almost human, with its bug-like mandibles protruding in a horrific fashion.
The Wanderer had dealt with creatures before. Along his travels he had come across a litany of monstrous beings; Wargs, Secrolants, Jittering Fiends, Goblins, Spiderlings. None of them quite matched the state of this one. Although he had heard of such beings, none had crossed paths before. The way it moved, the way it thought, it all was abnormal. It's quite simple to take a beast down, some you anger and gain the advantage, some you outsmart, others you can simply scare away. But this one.... oh, he was a different breed entirely. The way its mood could change mid-fight, or how it seemingly understood what was being said. And the way it stared. Thoughts were jutting along in the bug brain of its, and when monsters start thinking, all strategy and preparation goes out the window. Unpredictable is what they become, and prediction was The Wanderer’s bread and butter.
Wary now he waits, staring back at the creature. Locked eyes, they waited. Eyes filled with thought, filled with understanding and reasoning -but most egregiously- they were filled with malice. The fight was not over, they had just reached half-time.
“Let it not be stated that I did not strive for peace and harmony at every turn.” The Wanderer quipped, his hand raised once more, ready for another assault.
A flame flickers, casting shadows once again. Shadows of a man holding wolves at bay, hands outstretched to create a distance between them. The wolves circled and plotted, looking for weakness at every tune, but finding none. Leaves fell, becoming ash as they reached the ground. A fire spreads amongst the ash laden floor, consuming the visage, the man, the wolves. All in consumed in an immense concentrated heat, until the shadows fade to nothingness once more.
The creature meanders onward, just a few steps at a time; looking on as The Wanderer holds his footing, fists raised and ready. Each step of its hard glistening exoskeleton crunches against small rocks and debris sprawled along the cave floor, knocking them aside, producing echoed wails that seemingly bounced from surface to surface. After the third step it abruptly launches at the man, arms outstretched once more in a fit of animalistic fury. Thought seemingly left its eyes as they glazed over into a dull grey, the feeling and reasoning sinking further and further to the back of its mind. The Wanderer grinned, his stance loosening as the soles of his feet began to trace an outline of movement, preparing and readying for a counteroffensive. As its dripping breached the outline, The Wanderer shifted his weight once more, quickly flanking the creature to the side once again, but something was off. His eyes traced the movements of its body, of its arms, of its legs. The animosity in them seemed to almost shift mid attack, becoming lucid and methodical. As if the creature was dancing along with him. Even tracing down to the ground, the footing was wrong. Not his footing. He was always perfect. The dance was memorized, trained, honed to a sharp edge. No, it was the creature’s.
Abruptly the creature’s body shifted, its legs tracing backwards, its torso shifting to the side. A corrective action, a counterattack to his counterattack. Shadows of the pair danced along the cave wall, depicting a wickedly abstract waltz. The creature’s arm whipped outward, its claws barreling towards the thin leather separation between his elbow and forearm. God, it was fast. Faster than The Wanderer. Rip, flash, a bright light, then the crashing of feet as the two returned to their original standing.
It all happened so fast. Faster than he could articulate. He was used to speed, used to tracking and understanding battle situations, creating countermeasures, analyzing the most likely move and executing it within a fraction of a second. All of that was done, but it was all wrong. The creature moved in peculiar fashion, acted as if it were moving on instinct while simultaneously acting with thought and strategy. How could it possibly go both ways?
As he thought, mouth slightly open, breath pouring between his lips in a hot and heavy fashion, he hardly thought of anything else. They had made contact, but there was no feeling. Checking for wounds mid-encounter was generally out of the question with beasts. Often, they gave little time for thought or first aid, but the creature stood and waited. The dull grey look in its eyes were gone again, replaced with the methodical gaze of a strategist analyzing a battlefield. The Wanderer lowered his right arm and traced it along the path of his elbow, reaching his shoulder before he felt it. A definite gash traced about two inches wide, the depth of it couldn’t be guessed, but it had breached the leather. As his hand returned to a fist, warm fresh blood dripped between the fingers, falling and coagulating against the dust and pebbles along the ground. He had indeed been injured, but there was no feeling to it. All felt well, and that’s precisely why all was, in fact, not well.
“You’re a strange one. Not quite like anything I’ve seen before, but I’ll get to know you real well soon enough.”
His eyes moved from the creature, scanning along the ground. Before when this was a simple clean-up, a weapon would be handy, but hardly required of someone with his skills, but this was anything but simple. Parameters had changed, he’d very much like his sword back now.
It was nowhere to be seen initially. The room was dark, with little else than a soft glow from the fallen torch illuminating a small area and casting shadows that obscured others. Then it appeared. Near the feet of the creature, the raven crested blade sat where it had since the beginning of this strange dual. Thoughts echoed along in his head, casting suspicions and doubt in every facet of the encounter. Things were not as they appeared.
A slight grin crept along his face again, before quickly subsiding. “Think I have enough time for one more go of it. Care to lead?”
The creature stood, watching and plotting before the dull grey of its eyes appeared once again, launching it into another fury. It lunged, arms outstretched again, running full speed to the man. He simply stood, his hands loosening from tightly wound fists of rock to loosely packed fists of snow. His palms opened slightly; his footing loosened as the heels of his feet digging into the hard rocky floor. They began to move slightly, tracing a straight horizontal line where he stood as he slowly began to back away. The creature, still in a frenzy, closes the distance fast. Seemingly faster than any previous assault as The Wanderer ceased his slow backing retreat, his feet returning to a strong stance, soles digging deep into the earth. He takes in a breath, his heartrate slowing. The light sounds of the cave begin to grow, becoming more apparent and concentrated. Small droplets of dew falling from the ceiling, wind softly blowing along, echoing through the harrowed halls and the flickering of a flame slowly speaking its ancient language. They all converged, mirroring themselves as The Wanderer’s eyes closed. Time seemed to slow as the creature came closer, its steps further apart, its maddening gurgling seemingly floating away. It stepped, stepped and stepped along the ground, pushing pebbles and dust without thought.
Finally, it reached the line carved into the rock. Its foot crunched, making contact with the earth, and in an instant its eyes reverted again. The grey dullness seeping away to its methodically stategistic norm. In that instant, The Wanderers eyes erupted open. The chittering thing’s arms stretch out for his neck, hoping to seize his artery with its horrific claws. Quickly, quicker than anything that day, The Wanderer moved in a fast range of motions that all seemingly happened at once. His weight once again shifted, flanking the creature. His arms locked into a position of counterattack. The creature quickly issued its own countermeasure, once again whipping its body and throwing its claw outward, aiming higher than before, aiming for his neck.
A flame moved. Shadows formed along the walls once more, although they showed a different scene. A scene depicting two swordsman locked in deathly combat. Their swords swinging violently but with grace and purpose. They clashed a thousand times. Each time sending a spray of bright sparks that swelled through the air creating intricate patterns that lingered before slowly fading.
The creature was stuck, unable to move, unable to continue its assault and unable to return to its desired location. The Wanderer's palm grasped the creature's wrist tightly, locking it into a hold. The grey of the creature’s eyes were completely gone now as its pupils darted around in panic. His hand arched forward, his foot kicking –what would assumedly be- the creature’s calf, buckling its knees and forcing it to the ground. Cracking and popping erupted from the joints of its arm as his grip tightened. It’s gurgling became sporadic, as if pleading to be set free. He simply watched it, once against studying its behavior, its patterns, its mannerisms.
“You really are special. Not like anything in the world I imagine, but what makes you so special.” The Wanderer clenched his hold tighter, the creature falls lower, its face pushing into the cold rock. “You were playing a game, weren’t you? You understand what I’m saying too, and that I can assure you is indeed something special. Predicting my movements, using the techniques against me. You weren’t just fighting for a meal. You were learning, weren’t you?”
The creature clicked and gurgled, chittering against the ground as the hard surface of its arm began to crack.
“Now, I’m not opposed to teaching if I aim to gain something from it, but what I won’t abide is being played with. Now...” He plants his foot against the back of the creature's neck, both arms holding its locked appendage in a pulling motion. “I think I deserve to know a little more about you my foul-smelling friend, and if I’m right up until this point, you outta know exactly what I’m saying. I also assume you know a threat when you hear one. So...” His grip tightens, his leather boot slowly crunched against the creature’s skull. “Tell me what you are, and where you learned to be so damn special.”
The creature’s eyes widen, the dull grey returning, filling its retinas as it begins to violently convulse. A shrill screech fills the room, echoing along the walls, traveling through the twisting and winding tunnels of the long-forgotten mine. Shadows creep along the cave walls once more, scattering and convulsing, twisting into horrid and unimaginable shapes. Creatures that belong to fables and horror tales begin flooding along the shapes as the flame whips and crackles. The torch quickly combusts, the flames turning a sharp blackish violet. Heat bellows from the waves of ember emitting from the now monumental display of hellfire as the shadows multiply, taking over every inch of coverage. The Wanderer’s ears tremble at the immense noise, his vision begins to weaken as the shrill echo reaches a climactic crescendo. Any more of this and it’s all over, lights out.
He looks downward to the creature, its mind warped with whatever dark arts influenced it. His grip tightens as his foot presses firmly against the back of its head. Slow crunching and cracking sounds begin to intermingle with the terrible sounds of its cry. As the boot came down, harder and harder, the creature’s terrible screech began to thin and grow in pitch, like the air being slowly released from a balloon. Then, a horrendous snap before the head was no more. Violet and green brain matter covered the area around its neck as small fragments of skull of tissue caked along the sides of his boots. All at once the cry stopped, and along with it the room slowly began to darken. The flame began to slowly dwindle back to its original size, its color returning to a soft orange glow.
The Wanderer stepped back; his eyes firmly planted on the now deceased creature lying before him. A pool of its blood slowly trickled along the floor, reaching for his sword. Slowly, his body lumbered to the lost blade. Its handle was wrapped in scaled pitch blade leather, its blade a vibrant silver, still glistening with oil. The visage of a raven prominently scorn into the finish of the blade itself. Before the foul-smelling blood reaches the blade, the man slowly leans down to collect it. His body ached, his arms felt heavy and as the world around him began to dim, he retrieved the blade. Weighing it in his hand he felt secure, like a lost piece of him was restored with its retrieval. It felt so much heavier than before, or maybe he had just been weakened from the encounter. He gazed down upon it, his hand clenched hard around the dark leather handle. A dark fluid began to pool around his hand, streaming softly down from his arm.
The Wanderer turned his arm over, now looking at the wound he had taken from the creature’s first counterattack. It didn’t seem very bad, or at least not as bad as previous wounds he’d sustained, but the bleeding was alarming. It streamed softly, almost without notice. The blood itself was dark as well, as if it had already begun coagulation. A strange wound. A worrying wound. Suddenly his head became light, the room began to dim, and the walls started to blur. No, everything about this was wrong.
In the strange lucid state he was left in, he almost didn’t notice the changes around him. A quite fell over the room, the flickering flame seemed to even quite down to a faint whisper. A soft noise crept along the ground. Soft tapping, the sound of pebbles and rock being pushed aside, dust parting between single soft strides. The pain in his head grew louder, his heartbeat thumping from his chest to his forearm, ending finally against his forehead.
What is happening to me?
As if to answer, a rapid movement jostled him back to reality as he quickly turned, sword still gripped tightly in hand. A quick flash of movement rushed towards him, its motioned and sounds all too familiar to him. As nimbly as he can muster, he raises his blade outward in an attempt to impale the newfound enemy now barreling towards him, but a twinge of searing pain in his shoulder halts the attack. All he manages is a defensive stance, sword raised, arm placed behind the blade to prepare for impact as the creature crashes into him.
They both fall, splashing into the violet puddle of dank smelling blood that has pooled along the cave floor. A creature –almost identical to the one lying dead beside him- lies atop the blade protecting his body. Its arms crash against the leather bracers protecting his soft flesh. Claws come crashing down, scrapping against leather, making large slashes in them but not enough to break fully through the thick coating. Slime and mucus drip down from its maw, coating The Wanderer’s arms and neck. His arms are placed defensively against the side end of the blade, separating the two, but he can feel himself weakening further and further. Rough outlines of the creature emerge through blurred vision. Heat travels along his arm and forehead, casting confusion and sweat to pour over his body.
What the hell is happening!?
Suddenly, the creature lunges its head down, breaching the space between the blade and The Wanderer’s neck. Its snapping pincer like mandible opening and shutting in rapid and rabid bites. Before it has a chance to make contact, The Wanderer frees one of his trapped hands and grapples the creature’s head. With strength slowly fading from his body, he fruitlessly pushed back the creature's disgusting face. With every inch he pushes, the creature seemingly gains two. A battle of attrition begins. Snapping, clawing, drooling the creature continues its unending assault. Reach for the soft part of his neck in hopes of ending the encounter in a single bite. Just one slip, and its lights out. Forgotten and left to be fed on to a host of disgusting bugs. The thought rips through his mind, his veins fill with hot fire, his muscles contract creating energy that wasn’t there before. He pushes hard against the creature’s head, pushing it past the breach in the sword until his arm reaches full length.
The energy’s fading, the small window of opportunity’s closing, and for once in his miserable life, he can’t think of a thing to do. The hand not grappling with the creatures head pulls free from the back of the sword. His fingers slowly begin moving, drawing a pattern in the air. Faint lines form, like strokes from a dry paintbrush. Lines sparkle and faintly crackle with weak power, power being sapped away. The pattern is rough and unfinished, its edges not straight, its lines fumbling. The feeling in his fingers is weak. Strength fading, the pattern breaks as his hand twitches before returning to the blade. Fire begins erupting from the torch again, the strange violet flame re-emerges and casts strange shadows once again along the cave walls. Shadows depicting men falling in the thousands, figures standing above them. A strange light emits from the wrecked battlefield as the dominant figures rise, floating above, breaching unending clouds and sending a cleansing fire downward. Fire spreads along the walls, engulfing the shadows, casting them far away as it shrieks and flickers violently. The Wanderer’s vision begins to fade. The world around begins to dull. Rocky walls, granite floors, the creature all fade, losing color and becoming shadows themselves. Heat wells in his head, as tears stream down his cheek.
I can’t.
Shadows slowly engulf him as the energy drains from his arms.
I won’t
The creature’s face inches closer and closer to its target.
This is where it ends.
The fire erupts, banishing the shadows away once more, filling the room with soft orange light as the creature lunges uninterrupted at its prize.
Then nothing. The pain of stabbing pincers ripping along his throat never occurs. Instead, a loud CLAP echoes along the walls. It’s deafening and almost endless, but it's over in an instant. A river of fluid splashes along The Wanderer’s face and body. It’s warm and thick like syrup but smells like rotten apple cores. For a moment, he contemplates if this is death. A strange death, and a strange place to end up, but who’s to know. Before long his eyes opened. The creature that stood hunched over him was still there, but its head was entirely missing. Fragments of skull and viscera lined the walls and floor around him as the creature stood cold, dead. Seemingly out of nowhere, its head just seemed to explode.
“Did...” The Wanderer began quizzically. “Did I do that?”
Before an answer could be given, a shuffle could be heard across the room, hidden against the far wall deep within the dark. Slowly The Wanderer rose, knocking the deceased creature away from him, the feeling and strength slowly returning to his body. He stared off to the dark corner, waiting in vain for his eyes to adjust to the dark. They didn’t. Bending down, he grasped his sword in one hand, and what remained of the faint torch in the other as he cautiously meandered to the muffled sound coming from the dark corner.
“Gods, if it’s one more of these disgusting fucking things, I’m straight gone.”
Slowly, the image of a man appears. He almost seemed affixed to the wall due to some form of slightly translucent webbing sprawled across his body. His feet were a few inches raised from the floor as he hung limply against the wall. A thin layer of the same substance covered his mouth as he muffled violently to The Wanderer, his eyes red and spread as wide as they could go. Near the middle of the webbing his right hand was tightly bound, unable to move. On the other side, it seemed he was able to shake loose enough to free it. A silver revolver with gold carved inlays held tightly between his fingers. Faint trails of smoke emanated from the pistol’s barrel. The smell of spent gunpowder lingered In the air, a smell The Wanderer had memorized.
The Wanderer looked puzzlingly at the man stuck to the wall, before a spark of remembrance and realization came to life in his eyes. Sweat beaded down the side of his head, slowing before soaking into his shirt collar. That chance encounter had taken its toll, and had gone on for longer than he thought, longer than he had hoped.
“Hells man, I had forgotten entirely of you. Why not speak up next time?”
The stuck man convulsed in a fit of annoyance and fury as The Wanderer laughed heartily.

Staring up at the skyscraper standing tall in a sea of eerie fog, lost souls wandered aimlessly back and forth into the revolving door. Wut and Croak shifted uncomfortably behind me, both of them shaking their heads. Massaging my forehead, this had to be the definition of despair.
“Nothing screams loss of hope like a never ending job.” I commented with a huff, both of them raising their weapons at the souls pausing for a minute. “Let’s take down this Jakal person.” Resuming their activity, a pair of violet eyes glittered on the top floor. Joining the souls pouring in, a cold stale lobby greeted me. Taking in the empty ivory desk, the souls poured into offices. Wondering where to go, the answer must lay in a code somewhere. Wut nudged my shoulders, his robes brushing against the top of my feet. Pointing to the flickering light in the elevator, a quiet fear had me stepping back. Elevators scared me, Wut flicking the back of my head.
“There aren’t any stairs.” He pointed out in a huff, Croak shooting daggers from her eyes. “Let’s go.” Dragging the two of us onto the elevator, a rusty door clicked shut. His expression softened at my obvious fear, an apologetic smile lingering on his lips. Nothing needed to be said, the elevator groaning up to the top floor. The door clicked open, a maze of cubicles had our brows cocking at the same with a scoffs of disappointment. Why couldn’t anything simply be one and done? Then again, getting lost in a maze of cubicles did sound depressing as shit. Moving around in front of us, the path changed.
“Have fun suffering in dark despair as I torture you with an endless test.” An icy female voice laughed maniacally, my muscles stiffening. “Only then you can fight me. See you never!” Stepping into the first cubicle, the smell of stale ketchup was on point. Covering up my nose with the hem of my onyx lace skirt, another musty breeze had my scarlet blouse fluttering with my leather jacket. Wut and Croak began to argue next to me, a couple of shadow snakes slithering down my arms. Kicking my dagger out of its case, my eager palm caught it. Keeping them by side, their glowing eyes were seeking out danger. Crashing through twists and turns, a couple of hisses had me skidding to stop. Glancing up, a tall slender goddess with violet eyes appeared over me. Her slicked back silver hair glistened in the flickering office lights, a silver flute hovered by her lips. Horror rounded my eyes, my blade expanding. Smashing my blade into her flute, the darn thing clattering to the cheap carpet. Noting the crack by feet, the maze was set to reset again. Kicking it into the crack, the cubicles shifted around once more. The metal groaned, a rotten scent twirled from the end of the flute. Seeking a way out from the bomb that was going to harm us, a weak point presented itself. Kicking her back into the air, a space big enough for us opened up. Motioning for them to follow, musty air lashed at our cheeks as we crashed through several floors. Hitting a desk, office supplies rolled onto the floor. Dust rained down with pieces of ceiling hitting my face, Wut and Croak crashing onto me. Pushing them off, time wasn’t in our deck of cards. Sitting up with a gruff groan, every muscle screamed in protest. Hopping off the desk, a cafeteria caught my eyes. Leaping over the cubicles, flute music had chills running up my spine. Venomous gas seeped through the cracks, the clear glass walls of the cafeteria would protect us. Jumping over the last one, our boots pounded towards the glass doors. Ripping them open, we skidded into the large sterile room. Locking the doors behind us, that damn fog claimed the rest of the floor. Stacking several tables against the doors, something had to give. Ignoring their protests, something had to cancel out the fog. Croak’s usual nightmares wouldn’t do, my palm pressing against the glass. Flitting between the many objects, a gust of fresh air was what we needed. Several shadow snakes slithered down my arms, their hissing guiding me to a loose tile. Plucking the tile from the floor, a golden flute glinted in the flickering lights. Tucking my blade into my belt, a rush of energy blew my loose strands about the moment I brought it to my lips. Blowing the one song I knew, purified wind flooded from the end. Spinning it in between my fingers, this was our ticket out. Croak bounced onto my back, her chin resting on my head. Feeling her soft gray suit against my skin had me feeling better, her blade grazing my cheek.
“Cool flute, love.” She sang gleefully, plucking it from my fingers. “How you managed across one of three golden flutes bemuses me. Shall I play it for you? The flute happens to be my favorite instrument.” Caving in with a long breath, she flipped off of my back. Landing with a spin, excitement buzzed in her eyes. Bringing the flute to her lips, complex notes flowed magically. My breath hitched at its beauty, the purified wind blasting the glass. Covering myself with my arms, another gust of wind had the shards shooting into the distance. A shrill fuck had us shrinking back, the venom dissolving upon contact with the purified air. Continuing to play, our enemy’s notes were harsh compared to Croak’s gentle notes. Playing louder, Wut and myself sought a way to get closer to this goddess. Assuming that water was her power, the moment they unleashed that side would mean the twins were here. Closing my eyes, two more energies were approaching. Opening my eyes to a concerned Wut, my lips pressed into a thin line. The twins were on their way and we were outnumbered, regret dimming my eyes.
“Scout out the twins’ locations and come back to me. I have a problem to deal with before they get here.” I whispered into his ear, his head nodding once. Sinking into his smoke, my boots pounded towards our target. Dodging a splash of water, my body smashed into the floor. Snatching her ankle, a disconcerting alarm rounded her eyes at me throwing her through several floors. Catching her flute, a strong squeeze had it crumbling to pieces. Whistling for Croak to follow, her hand grabbed mine the moment I jumped into the hole. Using the rebar to slow our descent, the goddesses body twitched on top of a desk, her broken bones beginning to heal. Angling my elbow for her spine, Croak did the same. Striking her spine at full strength, the vertebrates shattered to dust. Unable to move, a ribbon of violet blood poured from her lips. Flipping to our feet, we raised our blades over our heads. Swinging our blades towards her heart, a shrill shriek rattled the building the moment we pierced her heart. Twisting our blades in deeper, her body seized until it decayed to a cloud of dust. Plucking the heart off of the tips of our blades, the organ shriveled into a black ball of tissue. Tucking it into an evidence bag, clues rested in this organ. Croak raised her hand for a high five, my palm smacked hers with a matching crazed grin. One problem was solved, two more were coming our way. The building groaned underneath our boots, Wut swooping in to whisk us out of the crumbling structure. Running on smoke discs, his boots hit the ashy gray dirt. Hiding us behind the thickest tree, the twins came into view in their usual outfits of a pink dress and a white suit. Tapping their blades against their legs, lightning bounced off of their bodies. Wishing that Morte was here, a loud boom had concrete and dust raining down over us. Poking my head around the trunk, a pile of rubble hid their bodies. Something felt off, the twins appearing over our heads. Sparks fluttered in the air with the violent clash of our blades, lightning whipping over our heads. Kicking Salacia in the stomach, her body shot into the sky. Spinning my blade over my head, a swift swing sent her twin in the opposite direction. Wut staggered over to us, a gaping wound stealing my breath away. Turning towards Croak, no words needed to be said. Tossing him over her shoulder, she was gone in a second. Calculating when they would come back down, hollow footsteps echoed behind me. A female version of Wut approached me in black robes, ivory waves floating in the hot air in her neon smoke around her worn boots. Playing with a neon whip, her neon green eyes glowed with adventure. An annoyed sigh poured from my lips, today seeming to be run by Murphy's law.
“I sensed my beloved Wut. Where is he?” She mused with a sly grin, her eyes falling on the twins flying back towards us. “Give him up or die.” Cursing under my breath, time was not on my side. Cracking her whip in my direction, the rubble groaned in protest with my jump back. Gritting my teeth, a low growl rumbled in my throat.
“He works for me by choice. If he wanted to leave your creepy ass because of acts of pure insanity, that isn’t on me. All of that falls on you, sweetheart.” I pointed simply, a snarl twitching on her inky lips. “Not that I have time but let’s handle this.” Charging at her, twirls avoiding her whip with ease. Focusing a bit better, her whip cut my cheek. Narrowing my eyes in direction, her whip deflected my blade. The twins appeared behind her, their blades glinting in the air. Tackling my new enemy to the rubble, two blades sunk into my back. Neon tears slid down her cheeks, the corner of her lips quivering. Blood pooled in my throat, the bastards ripping their blades out of my back. Watching my blood paint their features, small electrical burns dotted my back. Feverish apologies flowed from her lips, my tears splashing onto her face while my blood began to stain her robe.
“Why?” She choked out through a waterfall of tears and sniffles, her trembling hands wiping the corner of my lips. “I was going to kill you.” Shrugging my shoulders, my patience was wearing thin. Struggling to my feet, my knees met the twins’ stomachs. Painting my face with their blood, the burst organs had me chuckling to myself. Kicking their blades away from them, my fingers curled around their throat. Pinning them to the closest trees, every breath felt like hard labor.
“Like hell you are getting away this time.” I threatened starkly between wheezes, their fingers clawing at hands. Another energy swallowed the space in a cloudy darkness, two claws piercing their hearts. Their heads bobbed a couple of times before dropping for the final time, panic twisting my features. Cursing under my breath, they needed help. Ripping them off the claws, a faint pulse had me sighing with relief. Tossing one of them to my new friend, the other one was tossed over my shoulder. Using my sword to find the exit, she took the other one. Whisking them away, an eerie silence came over the dimension. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, a lump forming in my throat at wicked feminine laughter behind me.
“Fine, you can have my puppets but I am going to take over the damn world.” She bragged with a fit of maniacal giggles, the rubble crunching as I spun to face my new nemesis. Inky straight hair floated down to her ankles, her golden dragon eyes watching me tremble in my spot. Golden horns twisted into the sky, golden scales lining her cheeks. Clicking her black claws together, fresh tears cascaded from my eyes. Unable to move, something about her powers had me frozen in my spot. Her fur robes swayed with every circle around me, her inky lips curling into a sneer. Words bounced around my mind, the color draining from my face at a spell keeping my mouth shut.
“I am giving you one chance to join my team. Be the new number one of Stormana’s league of forgotten gods.” She chuckled with a twisted grin, a fire rising in her throat. Gripping my blade desperately, the crunching stopped with her in front of me. Shaking my head, a defiant grin curled on my pale face. Feeling my heart rate pick up, any nerves I had left fled at golden flames undoing my bun. Wincing through the agony of burns on my cheek, her claw traced my body. Bringing her hand back, Croak appeared over her. Shaking my head, Croak refused to listen. Spinning her blade over her head, one of her claws cut off her head. Rolling to my feet, her limp body hit the toe of my boot. The raw agony of losing my friend broke the silence curse, tortured wails exploding from my lips. Unable to fight the depression, no rage could come to my assistance.
“That will keep happening until you join my side.” She warned venomously, pure hatred burning in her eyes as golden flames whisked her away. Sinking to my knees, Croak was already decaying to ash, violent sobs wracking my body. Scooping up her head, my muscles ached as I crawled over to her body. Hugging all of her close to my body, her hand clutched mine. Her eyes fluttered open, her tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Give my heart to Cal and tell him that I love him.” She wheezed with a broken smile, her hand gripping mine tighter as my tears splashed onto her face. “Don’t cry for me. I did it on my own accord, love. I love you, love.” Her hand hit my lap, the rest of her decaying into a pile of ash. A gust of wind blew her into the air, her heart glowed in my palm. Curling into a ball, claws extended from my fingertips. Clutching her heart close to my chest, the dimension glitched out to a busy park in the middle of the day. Shrinking my sword back down to a dagger, my trembling hand shoved it into its case. A crowd gathered around me, none of it mattering. The twins shoved everyone aside, both of them getting everyone to get on with their day. Bowing down to me, their foreheads were pressed to the lush grass.
“We vow to serve you with all the life we have left.” They vowed together, the previous mark shifting to inky snakes around their arms as they sat on their haunches. Saying nothing else, Wut’s face fell at the sight of Croak’s heart. Scooping me up, he tossed me over his shoulder. Too numb to protest, his words faded in and out on the way back to the hearse. Sitting me down in the back, his sharp eyes scanned me over for any more wounds than the obvious ones. Mixing potions while trying to get me to talk, the freak with a whip bowed at my feet. Vowing her allegiance to me, this had Wut written all over it. Hovering her face inches from mine, the burns on my cheek refused to heal into a smooth scar. Crying for a minute, her fingers caught a couple of tears. Rubbing them on my cheek, the angry scars faded to a smooth cheek. Mumbling a dejected thank you, Wut shoving a vial down my throat had it ending swiftly. Ignoring everyone checking me over, the sole thing I could focus on was the heart in my quivering palm. Getting up without a word, I climbed into the driver’s seat. The other’s jumped into the back, my appearance being the most normal one. Fishing around the glove box, an evidence bag fell onto the seat. Sliding her heart into the bag, I placed it onto my lap. Shoving the key in, the silence was deafening. Missing her endless chatter, discreet weeps shook my body the whole ride back. Pulling up to the front, Cal waited with a big smile with my girls and son. Hopping out, I placed my finger on my lips to quiet the others. Motioning for him to come with me, dread bubbled in my gut at what I had to do. The poor guy had lost one wife and now he was losing another love in his life. Walking with him in the garden, his face fell at my obvious tears. Presenting him with Croak’s heart, any composure he had died in seconds. Raising his fist for my face, it stopped inches from my face. Shit, I deserved every ounce of rage heading my way.
“You can hit me. I don’t mind.” I spoke with a dejected smile, bowing my head in shame. “Please hate me for the rest of your l-” Burying me into a bear hug, his tears soaked the top of my head. Hating myself for my failure, his hands cupped my tear drenched face. Smiling kindly in my direction, the sorrow wore on his face.
“If I knew Croak, she chose to try to save you. Thank you for her heart.” He sighed sorrowfully, his hand curling around her heart. “Do you want to see what she wanted me to do with it?” Taking a step back, his black dress shirt fluttered in a gust of cool wind. Holding it in his palms, the organ hardened to a ruby heart. Wonder softened the blow of my sorrow, his hand tucking it into the pocket of his dark jeans. Hugging me one last time, his footfalls echoed hollowly away from me. Morte called for me, the stress becoming too much. Sprinting out of the garden, the brick wall grazed the heel of my boots. Crunching into the woods, branches scratched my cheeks. Running until I couldn’t, a cave had me smiling brokenly to myself. Sliding down the slick gray wall, my hands rested on my knees. Alone, I needed to be alone.
“Hey.” A meek voice called out, Wut’s friend sitting down across from me. “I am Eris, Wut’s girl. Do you want to talk?” Staring dumbly at her glowing eyes, that was a rare question for me to be asked. Croak always asked me what was on my mind, another wave of tears rattling my body. Scooting over to me, her arms pulled me into an awkward embrace. Burying my head into her shoulder, her embrace becoming like the bear hugs Croak used to smother me in. Sobbing harder into her chest, my fingers grasping desperately at her robes. Letting me cry until the moon claimed the sky, her hands cupped my cheeks. Wiping away my tears with her thumbs, her crooked grin was her natural smile. Attempting to smile back, her palm slid to cover my mouth.
“You don’t need to smile when you can’t.” She assured me sweetly, lowering her hand to her lap. “Let the grief course through you. Then you can get revenge for her loss.” Laughing honestly to myself, Eris was amazing in the best way. Popping to her feet, my muscles refused to move. Placing me on her back, the warmth of her flames had exhaustion slapping me in the face. Draping my arms around her neck, the hood of her robe felt soft against my wet cheeks. Carrying me back, Morte thanked her for getting me. Choosing not to berate me, his arms placed me onto his back. Carrying me into the living room, her heart glistened in the center of a worn coffee table. A metal bowl with Celtic markings containing pieces of blessed parchment papers fluttered in the bottom, a piece of paper waiting for me. Smiling to myself, the funeral was rather touching. Sitting me down on the couch, my fingers curled around a raven feather quill. Dipping the tip into the inkwell, the tip couldn’t stop moving. Moving the favorite memories onto the back, tears of joy mixed the sad ones as I folded the paper. Placing my paper on the top, Hel and the others huddled close to me as Cal placed her heart in the center. Pouring his blood over the paper, ruby stained the sea of parchment and ink. Pressing his palms together, his words were dripping with tears.
“Dear Lord, grant her soul an entrance into Heaven. Help her reach the stars she dreamed of touching.” He wept brokenly, struggling to continue to speak. “Do this one for me. If you can’t let her in, give her a generous second chance. Amen.” Golden flames devoured everything, the crystal melting into a sea of sparkling ash. A warm breeze akin to Croak’s love had the ash fluttering out the open window. A pensive smile hung in the air, an alarm in the kitchen caused one of the brothers to rush out of the room. Not one word was spared, the energy in the room brightening at Miles and the girls hugging me from all sides. Kissing them feverishly, Morte plopped down next to me. Clapping his hands, all eyes fell on him.
“How about we tell funny stories with Croak?” He suggested with a gentle smile, the others raising their glasses of wine in honor of Croak. “I think we need to celebrate all that she was.” The twins hovered awkwardly in the doorway, the couch groaning as I leapt over the back. Approaching them with a comforting smile, neither one could look me in the eyes.
“I forgive you. Whatever was driving you guys before doesn’t matter.” I promised them while taking their hands, their tense expressions softening. “Look, the past is water under the bridge. Work bold and true by my side, and you can have true joy in your life. I am pointing out that your marks prevent you from killing anyone in our group. Trust will be found eventually. Please be patient with me.” Flinching as I reached out to embrace them, the years of abuse were apparent. Noticing the soft terror haunting their expressions, the floor announced that I was giving them space.
“If you need to talk about your shitty childhood, I am all ears. Don’t open up if you don’t want to.” I continued with my genuine smile, both twins brightening up a bit. “Your mother was a bitch and if you didn’t kill her I was going to eventually. Thank you for the help.” Ruffling their hair the way Mr. Bone used to do to me, something lit the fire of hope back up into me. If I could bring what was left of the Bone family back together, that damn dragon lady didn’t stand a damn chance. Guiding them to the table, the girls showed off their bunnies. Miles looked glum, my hand waved him over. Walking him up to my bedroom, I presented him with a silver wrapped box. Remember that Croak wrapped it with me, silent tears stained my cheeks. Wrapping paper flew everywhere, his face illuminating at the boy rabbit in blue overalls laying in the bottom of the box. Wiping away my tears before he noticed, his arms draped around my neck. Remembering what Croak spoke once, she always told me to cherish what I had. Kissing the top of his head, his tiny feet bounced down the stairs. The girls joined him in playing, Morte appearing at the bottom of the stairs. Climbing each step with a more broken expression, the wrapping paper crunched underneath him as he plopped down next to me. Pulling me onto his lap, his strong hands buried my face into his shoulder. Another wave of grief had me sobbing harder into his shoulder, the word sleep ringing in my ear. Sinking into a rough slumber, Morte’s humming was the last thing I heard.

First: https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/14vo5lb/troublemakers_deaths_pity/
*previous:* https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/1cns0mg/troublemakers_weaponized_compassion/
......
A tree sprung from the stone floor beneath Drake's feet, sturdy branches carrying him up and over the dangerously heavy head of the Warhammer. The tree shattered into splinters as Drake leapt into the air, sword glittering as he struck at conquest's face, surprise registering in the goddess's face as the blade split her cheek open. The roar of pain shook the throne room as Conquest snatched the falling warrior from the air to fling him through a pillar. There was a flash of fear in Conquest's eyes, Drake didn't know it yet, but what he'd just done should have been impossible without the pale flames. The cut knitted itself closed as Conquest disappeared, moving faster than Drake could perceive. He raised his left forearm, the vines rapidly turning into a thick, thorned bracer before the Hammer made contact. The impact numbed Drake's arm, feeling it snap and then begin to mend with a laugh of exhilaration, the fear pulsing through his body mixing with the rage like a deadly cocktail of drugs as he slid back across the stone floor, feet carving trenches as he deflected himself off the golden blur of the hammerhead with a calculated strike from Alexandros. The sword hummed in his hand, almost laughing as his back foot touched the steps to the throne. A powerful leap launched him just far enough out of the hammer swing to spare him injury, Conquest's angry eyes following him as she redirected the swing to hit him mid-air. To the goddess, he moved in slow motion, as he moved barely fast enough to keep up and not get splattered.
The massive hammerhead slammed into Drake's back, the momentum gluing him to its head as Conquest slung him at the ornate wooden doors that led to the space between reality and time. The doors cracked as he slammed into them feet first, springing back at Conquest with a bloody laugh of exhilaration. He walked the knife's edge between victory and defeat, the sensation of his roiling fear and rage like a powerplant for his mortal muscles as he stabbed at Conquest's eye. The goddess flickered, disappearing moments before he could put his sword through her eye. But he'd seen it, that tiny flash of fear in the eyes of divinity as he twisted in mid-air, the hammer's head missing him by mere inches as he tore a bundle of the woody vines from his chest plate. Flinging them up to the ceiling, one end wrapped around his wrist as it snapped taut, reversing his momentum as he swung back around in a circle. Conquest's eyes followed him, face warped into an angry snarl as she threw the hammer, intending to strike Drake but instead flinging it through the ornate wooden doors; The wood gave way as the hammer and splinters of the door were sucked into the aether. Drake careened back around and let the vine slip from his hand as he thrust his sword straight at Conquest's rotund golden breastplate. A massive purple hand flickered up to catch him, his sword piercing her palm and drawing a shriek of pain as she hurled him into the aether, Darkness enveloping him as the throne room disappeared.
...
Conquest panted as the sword embedded in her palm dissolved into a black mist that dispersed without a sound. The wound in her palm drooled golden blood as it slowly knits closed, leaving a small scar that she stared at with burning rage.
"Guardians..."
She snarled, remembering the two souls that had forsaken reincarnation to protect that defiant whelp. She waved a hand, the doors re-forming with a small draw on her power. Snatching a goblet of wine from the arm of her throne as she plopped into the seat, the chained figures groaning in pain as she stared at the double wooden doors. No mortal soul could survive the aether no matter how powerful or how many guardians it had. She watched, and waited, eagerly awaiting the surge of power that would come from killing such a powerful being loved by primordial and mortal alike. A slow smile came to her face, for all the bluffing of that verdant witch and wandering warrior, they could not even hope to protect their child from the chaos that was the aether. unless...
She put the thought from her head. The Umbra did not have a will, it was the raw energy of creation and destruction that all gods and primordials drew their power and were born from. Even if that brat could touch the heart of the Umbra, he would only find himself torn apart atom by atom. Flayed into numberless pieces by the raw energy of divinity. But as the seconds crawled on, there was no burst of power, no orgasmic rush as her domain expanded. There was only the cold silence of her stewing anger.
The sound of groaning wood filled the chamber as the doors began to warp inwards, the inner surface charring as heat mirage blurred the air in front of it. Conquest summoned another hammer, assuming her father had come to chastise her for killing his "nephew." She snorted, ready to fight her father.
But when the doors burst open, it was not War that stood at the threshold. Drake had returned, wreathed in a pale inferno several meters tall and wide. It blackened the stone floor as a primal fear froze her already cold blood. She rose to her feet, the hammer already swinging as the silhouetted figure looked up at her, eyes a flaming, pure white and devoid of life. The power that pulsed from him defied all reason, tinged with the stillness of death and smothered with the chaotic energy of the Umbra.
The hammer's head simply dissolved as it passed through the flames, never touching the silhouette in the middle as the flames began to condense toward the figure. God-like power shook the chamber as the flames formed a second shining skin around Drake's form, two great flaming wings sprouting from his back like an angel...
"The angel of death..."
She breathlessly exclaimed, mouth agape in awe as the figure raised their glimmering sword. Conquest dared not find out what would happen should he be allowed to bring it down, grabbing the golden chain at her neck and yanking it away with a snap as she released the soul entrapment. The figure disappeared, leaving her alone in her throne room, her blackened heart pounding with a fear she shouldn't be able to feel. Because the power that inspired it shouldn't exist, it was raw, untamed, and chaotic. It was the culmination of all things that are, have been, and will be.
It was power incarnate, given to a mortal soul...
"What are you, boy..."
She whispered incredulously.
...
The Darkness smothered him like a warm blanket, but the sensation only lasted for so long before becoming unbearable. It was like burning nails were driven into every centimeter of his being, he opened his mouth to scream and it felt like he'd inhaled molten metal as it seared the essence of his very being. He closed his eyes, mind reeling as he fell, and fell, and fell, forgetting who he was through the pain.
Then a black rose, encased in glass filled his vision, glowing against the darkness with a pale golden light. The dried vine affixing it to his neck burned away as he desperately reached out, fingers curling around the pebble of glass.
The fire crackled softly in the small, cozy cabin. A pair of slim, warm arms wrapped around his shoulders, and holding a book open in his small lap. Drawings of winged, scaled, regal beasts adorned the pages as a slim finger gently traced beneath the words under an image of one of the smaller beasts.
"And this is your namesake my child. The Drake is a four-legged, scaled beast with wings. Different from dragons, they are not as intelligent, nor powerful, but their loyalty and conviction are unmatched. Those who tame them have said that if you save a Drake's life, you've earned a loyal companion for not only your life but your children's and their children's lifetimes. But should you wrong one, you will have an enemy that will pursue you throughout the stars seeking its revenge."
His small, chubby hand reached out, touching the image labeled "Drake" with a burbling happy noise. His mother laughed softly and opened her palm towards the ceiling, a bright pink and white snapdragon flower blooming from her palm. He giggled and clapped before gently taking the snapdragon in two small cupped hands. His mother stroked his hair lovingly and kissed the top of his head, softly saying.
"Be strong like your namesake Drake, there will come a day when we will no longer be around to shield you and the others from mistreatment. And though it breaks my heart... that duty will fall to you, My little Drake."
The pain subsided somewhat as Drake remembered his name, reaching for the glistening sword that had tumbled from his hand as dark tendrils wrapped around his arms, legs, and waist, dragging him down faster as his hand wrapped around the leather grip.
The carved wooden swords clashed together in a rapid series of training blows. Drake fended off his father's onslaught with rapid, small movements from his peasant's guard, backing up in circles around the small plot where his mother cultivated medicinal herbs for the village. His small, leather-shoed feet danced gracefully between the delicate plants as his father happily called out each strike.
"Low-left! High-right! thrust! parry to riposte! Overhead! Backhand! Uppercut! Good! Good! HAHA!"
Drake's father stopped swinging the sword with a fatherly smile of pride as Drake returned the smile, panting heavily from exertion as he leaned on his wooden longsword to catch his breath. The illegal swordsmanship training had been something he and his father often did to pass the time and bond. The old warrior stepped forward and clapped a hand on his son's shoulder proudly.
"You're gonna be a great warrior someday son..."
Alexander knelt in front of the small raven-haired boy and wiped a smudge of dirt from his cheek with a melancholy smile.
"Just remember son, the stronger you become, the more responsible you must be. Don't use your strength to subjugate. Use it to protect those who cannot protect themselves, use it to stand up for the weak and trodden on. Remember, Violence is a tool, much like the sword in your hands, it can be used for both good and evil, regardless of where it comes from. You've got your mother's heart son, but you have my blood. You'll get excited when violence comes to you, your blood will run hot and you'll be able to fight much harder and much longer than most. Do not harden your bleeding heart son, it will keep you from losing yourself."
Drake nodded solemnly, taking his father's wise words to heart as the aging warrior stood back up and brandished his sword in his left hand. Drake slid into his peasant's guard, still panting softly as that exhilarating thrill filled his body, blood running hot as his father chuckled fondly.
"That's how I know you're mine, you can keep up with me even at such a young age. You make me proud son, know that you always will. Now! En garde!"
Drake's body drank in the pain as he fought against the tendrils dragging him down. His heart beat faster and faster with pure exhilaration and adrenaline as he clawed at the darkness, feeling it regard him with a bestial intelligence as he cut its tendrils with his sword. His scars burned back onto his skin in flashes of pale flame, glowing with that strange, painful, ancient power as he forced himself to swim upwards, back towards the brown speck that was the ornate double doors. To his surprise, the darkness did not fight him. As a matter of fact, He could feel it pushing against his back, no through his back, infiltrating the very being of his soul and setting it alight as he rocketed towards the double doors like a flaming meteor, watching them burst into flames as he got closer, and closer. Until he alighted on the doorstep, gently placing his hand against the wood to push it open, the door bursting into splinters as he entered Conquest's throne room.
Surprise, incredulity, and fear flashed across her face as she leaped to her feet, swinging that golden hammer directly at him. But it never passed his pale flames as he glared into her fearful eyes, pulling the pale flames into him, the act making him feel like he was swelling like a balloon as he raised his sword to unleash it and rid his body of this strange, chaotic energy. But conquest did not allow it, ripping a golden chain from around her throat with a snap!
...
The first thing Drake saw when he returned to the land of the living, was a glaive thrusting towards Caz's throat, her rifle at an awkward angle as though it had been knocked aside. He flickered forward, bumping the glaive to the side with an open palm that sent it flying out of the small, masked woman's hands. With the same motion, he drove his fist into that blank porcelain mask, Surprise registering in the traitor's eyes for a brief moment before his fist shattered her mask and sent her slamming into the concrete wall before slumping down, unconscious.
His entire being buzzed with an electrical kind of feeling. Like he'd been hooked into a high-voltage reactor by a pair of jumper cables clamped to his nipples. He looked back to Caz, concern writ on his face in a wordless question. Her crystalline eyes were wide behind the mask as she whispered.
"Drake... your eyes..."
He squinted in slight confusion at her.
"What do you mean? what about my eyes?"
The surface of her mask turned reflective, revealing that his eyes glowed with an intense, bright white light that was rapidly fading to his normal eye color. Drake shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, when he opened them again, they no longer glowed back at him from his reflection as Caz's mask returned to its porcelain white normalcy. Hearing a pained groan from the alter, Drake turned around as Caz brought her rifle to bear. The small woman looked around confusedly, rubbing her head, the golden collar around her neck having snapped upon impact with the wall. The woman looked up at them both with a timid, fearful look in her eyes, cowering against the wall.
"w-who are you people!? where am I?!?! Where's my mom!?!?"
Drake exchanged a look with Caz, The confusion in her crystalline eyes apparent as she slowly lowered her rifle. Drake looked back to the small cowering woman as Destrier's loud voice called out their names from outside. He slowly approached, watching the fear fill her eyes with a heavy heart. Gently kneeling in front of her, he pulled the golden collar off of her neck, looking at the inside of the simple golden band where needles and small sensors protruded in towards the center. He looked back into the small, timid, and scared woman's eyes and tossed it to the side before softly saying.
"We're just a couple of troublemakers... can you tell us the last thing you remember?"
Her brow furrowed deeply in thought, her eyes searching the floor rapidly before she looked up with a shocked expression.
"The... The last thing I remember is my mom trying to stop that strange lizard man from putting that collar on me... then... then it's just... empty... until now. Are... are you going to hurt me?"
Drake looked back to Caz with an angry, disbelieving expression, receiving a horrified one in return. putting the anger aside, Drake looked back at the small woman and extended his hand to help her up.
"No, No we aren't going to hurt you, can you tell us your name?"
The woman cautiously took his hand saying.
"My... My name? I-It's Charlotte... Charlotte Wraithbone."
Drake helped her to her feet saying.
"My name's Drake... Drake Dragoline. This is Caz. Remin, Destrier, and Cassius are outside. Along with my raptor, his name's Barney."
The sound of his true last name felt odd on his tongue. But at the mention of Barney, Charlotte's eyes lit up.
"Is he purple!?!?"
Drake chuckled and couldn't help but give her a soft smile.
"He's very purple, wanna meet him?"
Her eyes sparkled as she nodded rapidly, then winced and rubbed the back of her head, looking up at him and asking.
"What... what happened to me while I was blacked out."
Drake shrugged and shook his head, smile fading.
"Well, just now I kind of punched you in the face hard enough to throw you against the wall because you were trying to kill Caz here. I'm genuinely sorry, but other than that, we don't know anything else."
Her eyebrows furrowed, as she looked a the shattered pieces of the porcelain mask before looking up at him again.
"I'm not sure if I should be mad or not, But I really want to meet Barney so I'm going to let it go."
"Probably for the best kid. Also... I kind of shot your finger off... sorry."
Caz stated, Drake, nodding in agreement as he took the hand with the missing finger and bleeding stump. He was going to bandage it, but seeing the severed digit nearby, he grabbed it and cupped them both in his hand as Charlotte finally registered that particular damage with wide eyes. He flexed his disembodied muscle, pure flames gently rising from his hands as he focused on imagining the finger being reattached as though it had never been removed. When he let go, the finger looked like it had never been touched, however, her entire hand was black with soot. Drake nodded, intrigued, He had no clue if that was even possible, but something deep in his heart told him he was capable of so much more...
......
Part 105: https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/1cqxbp3/troublemakers_triple_cross/

Chapter 3.
It had been three hours.
Cain checked his watch again, though he had already checked it innumerable times before.
Three hours and 16 minutes. Add 47 seconds to that to be precise.
The noises had died down. There were no more screams, and bangs or crashes were rare occurrences: likely delayed reactions, like weakened walls falling over after hours of slow deterioration, or cars finally exploding after sitting in a burning pile, oil and gas slowly heating up until finally combusting. These would probably go on for days, maybe even weeks.
Which, of course, meant one thing: It was time for him to get up. Or well, he could get up now. Though, theoretically, the longer he waited, the safer it would be. Eventually there would be a point when waiting any longer would be pointless, detrimental, even. But who was he to say when that point was? He remembered learning that you needed to drink water once every three days to survive, so he would need to leave before then, but was a day too long? It seemed harmless to wait just a day.
Angel would be fine for a while. She had been given fresh food and water this morning and if she got desperate, she could rip open the bag of food. She had done it before, he had taught her not to of course, but if she was starving, she would do what she needed. As for water, he usually left the toilet bowl open. And what were the odds he closed the bathroom door in both bathrooms?
An unwelcome thought drifted through his mind, like the cruelly burned scrap of a once beloved piece of literature blowing in on a breeze.
It was his mother in the kitchen of their tiny little house, when he had been very young. He had said something about his homework which he didn’t remember, and she had said.
“What you want to do is called pro-crast-in-a-tion. And it ‘s a real bad thing. Its like lying to me or someone else, but its worse cause when you procrastinate you lie to yourself. You say ill do it in an hour, and when an hour rolls around, you say, “Well I would do it now, but I’m almost finished with the chapter of this book, but in 30 more minutes ill be up to it, and I don’t have to do it until next Tuesday, so what’s the harm.” But then when Tuesday rolls around you look back and realize you just kept on going like that and never stopped. So you always gotta just up and do it when you can do it.”
Well shit. He knew he was lying to himself. There was no danger out there, none which could be prevented by waiting another hour. He knew why he was staying up here and he had known since the screaming had stopped. The chunk of red meat that had plopped down beside him crossed his internal vision like a lightning bolt that left a searing, unpleasant after-image. Then came the unnamed man with his black hair and, red-tinged eyes, and his mindless pig screams. Then the car which so casually and yet so directly smashed into the skyscraper. The driver uncaring about his imminent death. Th e ripple of glass and the rain of shards.
He reached up and touched his temple and found a rough patch of scabbed over blood where the shard had cut him, and the blood had dried.
Yes, he knew why he was still up here.
Coward, loser.
It was then that he noticed movement on the street through the window. He had noticed movement before; there were a few people walking around in a drugged haze, people who the internet had just taken to calling zombies. They did not seem to be capable of thought, communication, or even basic instinctual survival. But what he saw was clearly not a zombie, or rather a pair of zombies.
He was looking at intelligent and living human beings. Their movements were smooth and fluid, unlike the slow and aimless trudge of the few zombies he had seen. The arms of one person moved in the deliberate motions of a person trying to make a point, and he could see the mouth of one, a woman with blond hair, moving in speech.
He should go down and talk to them shouldn’t he? If they were walking around, then there was a good chance the streets were safe anyway. With a start, he turned around and began walking toward the white door. He felt the memories start rolling through his mind again, as if the act of walking toward the door had activated some demented burglar alarm. He let the memories slide across his mind but he kept himself calm.
You always gotta just up and do it when you can do it.
It was time. If there was ever an opportunity to go outside, this was it. He walked toward the door and then down the stairs. The memories increased in intensity as he walked closer to the outside like he was walking toward a blinding and nauseating light. But he steeled himself and let the memories pass over him. A random line came to him :
The calm in the center of the storm.
He was halfway toward the door, an open rectangle framed with shards of jagged glass, when he heard a few wisps of conversation from the two outside.
“I cannot believe it….”
“They were so much weaker..”
“The splintered wander and…”
He drew closer and he heard a few lines more clearly.
“They are like mindless mutts, let out into the wild after being coddled by their master for their entire lives.” The voice was a woman’s, presumably belonging to the blonde. It contained a tone of slight disgust and contempt that Cain reserved for such topics as the dead and rotting rat he found behind the toilet, or the goey dog shit that he stepped in the one time he walked outside barefoot.
“You are letting Shara control you,” a male voice responded, overly calm “I do not blame you for the slip, there is a lingering essence of it.” The voice said the last word with a chill that spread gooseflesh along Cain’s skin.
“If you just examine your last sentence, you will see that it has managed to worm its way into your mind. Clear your mind and focus, we must capture splintered, and I do not want to lose you to Shara. Many of the weaker will lose to their host, but you have always been strong.”
The female paused and then spoke with immaculately controlled emotion.
“You are right, Goren. I can feel it inside me now that I look. It is a parasite that feeds on me and grows fat on my weakness. I need to be quiet now, I must focus on controlling myself.”

Cain had his back against the wall beside the open doorframe and he held himself utterly still. His balls clenched tightly and goosebumps stood out across all of his exposed flesh. The voices had been strange almost, inhuman. They lacked the normal emotional cadence of a conversation, a cadence that you didn’t even notice until it was gone. Both spoke in a flat lifeless sort of voice, each dominated utterly by a single emotion until that emotion was replaced by another in robotic flip.
They woman had said:
“They are like mindless mutts, let out into the wild after being coddled by their master for their entire lives.”
He thought of the zombies whose minds had been broken by an unbearable, unutterable agony. What else could she be talking about? There was nothing, mindless wandering the streets for the first time other than them.
This brought up another question: why were they both ok? The obvious answer was just: they both survived, dumbass. But there was more to it.
They knew each other clearly, but the survival rate, and the overall effect that the wave had inflicted seemed to be entirely random and immensely rare. The odds that two people who knew each other well both survived and recovered at the same time…. Well it seemed impossible.
The thought of the woman’s voice came to him again.
“They are like mindless mutts, let out into the wild after…”
There was something wrong with the way that voice had sounded, apart from the unnatural tone. She had sounded utterly disdainful, and disgusted, but even more than that, she had not sounded shaken.
She had said, “they” like she knew what she was talking about, like “they” were a subject brought up often in conversation. Like… she was not surprised.
They both miraculously survive, and she talks about the zombies like she’s been seeing them for years.
He didn’t even begin to know all the rest about “Splintered,” and “Shara,” or…”It,” code names maybe, or maybe the two people were just a pair of zombies who had gone batshit instead of turning into mindless, walking corpse, but he did know one thing.
These two seemed to have known about the wave before it happened and been prepared.
He needed to know more about this. It could mean the difference between his life and his death if these people set off another wave and he was less lucky. And if he learned what caused this and how to prepare or even tell others, it would be more important than anything.
It had been a long, long time since Cain had taken many risks, but he had before and he needed to now. He thought of a lanky 13-year-old boy, hair so dark with grime, that its rich red almost appeared brown.
With a heart like a drum he peered around through the doorway and saw the two figures shrinking town the corpse-ridden street.
Then he dashed toward the nearest gap between buildings, rolling each footfall from heel to toe to reduce noise. If he followed through the adjacent street over, they would be less likely to notice him following.
The two did not notice him crossing the street behind them and he successfully hid himself behind the cover of a building, where he stood for a few seconds, waiting for his racing heart to die down.
Why am I doing this? Why the fuck am I doing this?
The thought came unbidden and it made him realize that he had actually had no idea why he was doing this. A few thoughts had crossed his mind basically amounting to these people seem suspicious, I should follow them, and then he just leapt into action. But, he realized, it was not the thoughts that had convinced him to follow the pair, it was a feeling. The moment he had seen the two from the window he had been looking down from, he had known: there was something special about those two. Though, special might not be the correct word. The correct word might be something like errant, or deviant. No, it was abnormal. They were abnormal.

It was similar to how a mannequin looks like a person, but just by looking at it your mind is instantly able to tell that there is something wrong. It picks up on a dozen little details. The skin color looks a little too waxy, a little too even, there are none of the reddish, fluxuating hues seen in natural skin. The hair is too straight and it seems not to quite reflect the light in the right way. Everything is too stiff and too hard, it doesn’t breath or twitch or shift or blink.
He had unconsciously felt same feeling about the pair but in an indescribable and somehow irrefutable way. And he had also felt that he needed to follow the pair, that it was important, and he would regret it if he did not. He could never have explained the feeling, but he knew that it was right.
He pushed himself off the wall and speed walked along the adjacent road to catch up with the pair.
He was so dedicated to his task, that he never noticed how silent his steps were, or how proficiently he was able to read their body language to prevent detection.
For a while, his experience was utterly uninteresting. The two walked in silence, seemingly without purpose. They did not look around more than the normal amount seen in a person taking a walk down the street and, due to the blonde woman’s apparent problem, did not speak. Eventually they reached a Hilton hotel which sat confidently in the corner of an intersection, and the dark-haired man, Goren, put out a hand.
In a neutral tone, he said:
“It would be most efficient if we split out searched at this intersection and returned to this location in an hour. This would increase the chance of finding splintered and would cover the approximate amount of ground. Remember we do not need to be thorough, this is a reconnaissance mission with capturing splintered being a secondary objective.”
“Fuck. You. Goren. I am capable of retaining simple instructions for a few hours,” The woman almost whispered in a tone of extreme contempt.
She turned on a heel and did not walk, but stalked, down one of the paths of the intersection.
Goren did not respond to this, but simply watched her walk away with an unchanged expression, before turning and walking his own way with unhurried steps.
Cain watched from the shadow of a nearby dumpster, And with the pungent scent of expired McDonalds products wafting info his nose, made a decision.
He would follow the woman. Based on the limited information he had, it seemed like the best decision. She seemed more unstable and less composed than Goren and therefore less likely to notice him following her.
Simple is usually best.
As soon as both figures had moved what he thought was a safe distance away, he rushed toward a less exposed point of cover.
“Cassandra,” said an unnaturally calm voice, now tinged with something like glee.
“We have found something better than a splintered, come and take a look.”
Cain’s heart stopped in his chest and he though one thing:
Why did I do this, Jesus, why did I do this? I knew it was stupid the moment I did it. Why?
Cain looked up and saw the woman, Cassandra, peering at him from down the road. It was the same way a child might examine a cockroach trapped in a jar, a mix of interest and mild revulsion.
Actually sounding happy, she said. “This one must be quite incredible to recover so quickly, which means he might even be a threat.” The last word had that same near whisper, though it was not a whisper of anger, but of a gleeful excitement.
“Be careful,” Goren said, “It is hard to see, but its influence still greatly increases the strain of our hosts. We are far more vulnerable to being lost, so we must be cautious.”

Without waiting for a reply, Goren raised his arm high above his head.

What the fuck is he

Goren’s arm stretched and twisted and them with meaty pops bulged explosively outward, it reminded Cain of an elephant toothpaste explosion. So much volume, so much stuff, coming out where stuff had not been there before.
At first the stuff lacked form, it was merely a massive meaty mass, but in seconds it began to ripple and twist as it formed a shape like a reddish, glistening almond with several grooves.
As soon as Cain began to question, the almond shape burst open into five slender tentacles each connected with strings of a gooey mucus-like slime and each tipped with a hard blackened spike.
Jesus.
Goren rushed at Cain, with inhuman speed and a face utterly devoid of any emotion, even the glee he had seemed to show earlier. The tentacles readjusted so that the hardened spikes faced him. and before he could think do anything, even be terrified, they blurred toward him like meaty whips.
All Cain could do was raise his arms protectively and think.
STOP!
He felt a titanic impact on his raised arms and he flew backward, his legs somehow not giving out as his shoes skidded on the pavement.
For a split second, after he reached a stop, he remained in that same position, eyes squinted closed, arms raised in a protective cross. And then he noticed:
My arms…don’t hurt.
Sure, they ached from the impact, but they should have been broken and punctured, possibly even pierced straight through to his vulnerable chest. Those tentacles had been moving like a speeding truck, and the force would have been concentrated at the point of the spike. They should have been able to pierce steel.
He held his arms up and when he saw them, felt a shock even greater than he had felt from any of the events that had occurred throughout the day, because this was his body.
Bone protruded from the skin of his forearms in a thick white outcropping that extended outwards like a shield. Each outcropping was marred with several cone shaped puncture marks, but they didn’t hurt as internal bones would have.
Oddly, he thought of fingernails and hair and how their semi-dead, semi-living status prevented their loss from being painful.
With sudden fear he remembered and whipped his head up to see Goren flying toward him. The tentacles whipped and flailed in the air as if each has its own mind, before they each shot at him from their own angle, black spike-first.
Cain did not know how he did what he did next. In an instant he saw that not all of the tentacles would arrive at exactly the same time, meaning they could be avoided one at time. The first came from his left and he smashed it upwards, diverting its momentum with his shielded forearm. The next two came almost at the same time from his right aiming to pierce his left side in his gut and his chest.
He shot himself backwards in a near explosive dodge, the two spikes ruffling his shirt their passing, but in his distraction, looked up too late as the fourth blurred toward his unprotected forehead.
He was too slow! With those bone plates, his arms were too bulky and unresponsive to reach.
COME ON, FASTER!
In what felt like slow motion, his arms strained to reach the tentacle, but the trajectories were clear: one would reach before the other.
And then, his arms changed, lightened. The bulky plates melted away like they have never existed. Something that felt like a tube emerged from his elbow and there was an incredible burst of air.
His hand was around the tentacle, a few inches away from his forehead.
It wriggled and twisted like a snake, its lithe musculature enhanced by the slimy, mucus that coated it. And once again, for a split second, Cain was frozen by the sudden change in his body. But when he remembered this time it really was too late
Number five!
What felt like a slim yet powerful cable smashed into his calves and sent him sprawling forward before wrapping around his legs and lifting him upside down into the air.
In an instant the other four tentacles regrouped and faced him point first in every vital area
Finally, Cain had time to feel fear and it was like no other fear that he had ever felt, not even this very day. Because the thing that held him was no inexplicable force of nature, but a man. A twisted monster of a man who could shapeshift like a nightmare.
Am I so different?
Goren looked up at him with his dull eyes, one hand in a pocket and the other one raised into the air, the shirt sleeve torn and the arm split flowerlike into five red tentacles of meat.
“You will answer our questions and then we will kill you. If you do not answer, I will make you feel pain worse than you can imagine, you will answer, and then you will die anyway.”
He spoke like a professor explaining a simple logical process.
But Cain ignored him, he had a feeling, a feeling like the one that had told him the pair was abnormal. And it told him that he might be able to survive.
So he thought.
What was this ability he possessed? What did it do? When he had been attacked by Goren, he had raised his arms in defense and though “stop.” An instant later, he had grown his own shields of bone. When he needed to go faster, his arms changed in an instant to their current form, which seemed to be able to propel themselves with air to move faster. And of course throughout the entire fight he was able to move too quickly, to think and react too fast, to take damage too well. Even before he had been following them, he realized, he had been tracking far too proficiently. He was no private investigator who could follow someone for hours without being noticed.
The one commonality seemed obvious. It seemed like he was able to adapt, even in the most literal and physical sense, to the situation at hand.
But what was the limit?
Goren had been watching him silently, waiting for a response. Now he said:
“Very well, I will have to inflict pain. If you wish to die peacefully, this is your chance to speak. I do not wish to waste time on something so pointless.”
Goren raised his other hand, and his face twitched as it started to morph, though this time to a smaller degree.
You’re going to regret being this close to me!
Cain’s nose wrinkled and his eyes narrowed in pure hatred as he thought,
Fucking DIE!
Six spikes of bone erupted from Cain’s torso, one speared each of the five tentacles and the final one, extra long and with a barbed tip, speared straight between Goren’s dull brown eyes in a spurt of crimson. He had no time to even look surprised before he toppled backwards. Cain knew how quickly his “adaptations” occurred.
Cassandra, who had been hanging back, screamed a horrific and bestial wail of anger. Her face twisted and wrinkled like a rabid dog and a two red points of fire flared alight deep in her eyes like red coals. But suddenly she paused and stepped back, shaking with repressed emotion. With her demonic eyes burning into his she slapped a hand onto the ground and a something quicksilver and red slid out from her palm and onto the pavement until it encircled Cassandra like she was some demon trapped inside a summoner’s circle. Then she sank down into the circle, sending out ripples as she did. First legs, then chest, and finally head with its searing red dots burning into his soul. And then she was gone. The quicksilver circle made a small plop as Cassandra’s head disappeared into it and then it closed, and the pavement was back to normal.
Cain let out a sigh and sat on his ass in what was partly intentional and partly him collapsing from shock and exhaustion.
He accepted in an offhand way that he was shaking uncontrollably. Had the world gone FUCKING INSANE? It had been maybe four hours and now 99% of people were dead and walking nightmares disguised as people were wandering the streets.
And he had just killed one of them.


Chapter 4
From an anonymous notebook:
They do not look well upon us keeping written accounts of the goings on in their ranks, it is not a matter of distrust, of course, for all members are trusted absolutely, even myself for all that I am quite new. Though no one will search for this tome, and it will near certainly never be found, I still wish to hide my name in case of the most unlikely of chance should come to pass. I have seen what they do to those they see as having betrayed them.
A person who they see as having betrayed them is considered to be weak of heart and they are destroyed. And no I do not mean killed, though perhaps that may be a better fate. No, instead he or she is seized by a group of them and taken away to a secret place, the location of which I do not know, though I have my suspicions. They will be gone for a day and then they will return without so much as a single mark upon their bodies or visible damage of any kind. But I would far prefer a broken arm to sharing their fates, I tell you. You see it is not their bodies which are broken, but their minds. All who experience this fate, have a dull and vacant appearance as if they were asleep with their eyes open. It is like why were once shining diamonds, but returned tarnished and lacking shine of any kind.
Such people they have taken to calling serfs, an archaic term used to describe a laborer bound under a feudal lord, though I am told that the “scientific term” though science may be the wrong word, is “splintered.” And yes there is a reason for this, and I shall explain it later on. Suffice it to say that for my own sake, I will keep my name, along with all actions specific enough to incriminate me, outside of this tome and as you can well see, I have my reasons.
Now that I have explained myself, I should imagine that you, my nonexistent reader, have queries. Perhaps the largest of which is “Who are “they?””
This is a subject which is surprisingly difficult to answer, so I suppose I shall start with the most simple part of it all: their name. They, like most organizations of great size and influence, have many names, but are mostly known by one, The Coven.
And now that I have told you that, I admit I struggle even to put into writing where I should continue. Their scale perhaps? As far as my knowledge on the subject extends, The Coven is a vast and silent spider with its legs spread across all continents and its web ensnaring a great many people.
I am still unsure of many things about it myself as I have not been a member as long as most. What I do not know is perhaps more important that what I do, and I have stayed awake long nights in my bunk and simply questioned. Perhaps is was those long hours of thought alone in my bunk which compelled me to begin this journal. But in any case, I do not know their purpose, or who leads them, or aside from certain surface-level criteria, why they choose certain people to become members.
And yes, people are chosen to join, rather than joining themselves. There have actually ben. a few cases of people joining on purpose, though every such case still had its own measure of accidentalism. The Coven is and always has been silent and secret and so people simple cannot apply and join on their own. In my own imagination The Coven has some hidden criteria or switches out there in the world and when a person reaches that criteria or hits that switch he or she is watched and evaluated to see if he or she could become a member.

By simple deductive reasoning, I have thought of some of the more simple methods my potential trackers would use to decide if one is a worthy Coven member. Obviously, such a person could not have close family or friends who would notice him missing, and would need to be of a certain mind, though I do not know exactly what traits the Coven desires. And of course there is the question of how to integrate a person into the coven. A person must be able to explain to all those he knows, for all but hermits and homeless men know someone why he is disappearing. This requires a degree of intelligence, confidence and ability to lie. Of course such resources as a car, money, connections, ect. would be valued as well.

Lithomancy, the art of manipulating the body through the ingestion of crushed sea prisms. (*Lithomancy is a place holder name),
Sea Prism:

• This rare, crystallized mineral is found deep within the ocean, often embedded in ancient coral reefs. It possesses a unique bioluminescent property and is believed to hold fragments of the world's primal magic.
• Sea prism is incredibly hard and can only be reduced to a fine powder through a specialized grinding process which requires the stone to be heated to around 102°C(~216°F).
• The powder comes in a gray, almost ash like color, but is known to turn a variety of vibrant colors after being in contact with Saliva or other body fluids. Each corresponding to a specific power it unlocks (explained further below).

Power Manifestation:

• Lithomancy is a one-shot deal. An individual only discovers their inherent power upon consuming sea prism for the first time.
• This power is permanent, as it is believed to have always existed within oneself. but the effects are temporary. Effects typically last for minutes depending on the amount consumed.
• There is a historical record, the Sea Codex, documenting every recorded power triggered by sea prism. This allows people to predetermine the abilities an individual will manifest based on the powder's color.
• While the process may be called "ingestion," individuals are not actually consuming the substance as it rapidly dissolves before reaching the stomach. Often leading to a temporary itchy or burning sensation in the throat, leading to coughing fits for those experiencing it for the first time.

The Twelve Powers:

1. Wingers: (Red Powder) Grow large, feathered wings capable of sustained flight.
2. Gillers: (Teal Powder) Develop gills and webbed appendages for efficient underwater breathing and movement.
3. Armored: (Black Powder) Skin hardens into a chitinous exoskeleton, granting immense physical resilience.
4. Leapers: (Green Powder) Gain explosive leg strength, allowing for incredible leaps and bounds.
5. Shifters: (Purple Powder) Possess the ability to alter their physical form to a limited degree, mimicking the appearance of another person.
6. Echoes: (Blue Powder) Can mimic and project sounds with perfect accuracy, even replicating sounds they haven't heard before.
7. Boneblades: (Yellow Powder) Bones elongate and harden into razor-sharp blades protruding from forearms and elbows, ideal for close combat.
8. Chameleons: (Pink Powder) Skin gains the ability to rapidly change color and texture, providing camouflage and limited mimicry of surface textures.
9. Seers: (Silver Powder) Gains the ability to see further than humanly possible
10. ?
11. ?
12. ?

*Powers may change to fit into categories with a share theme (3 categories of 4 powers) or (4 Categories of 3 powers)
Limitations and Risks:

• While Lithomancy grants incredible abilities, it comes with drawbacks. Overconsumption can lead to permanent mutations and mental instability.
• Most countries around the world prohibit access to sea prisms due to the associated risks and their irreplaceable nature. Sea prism is essentially a nonrenewable resource because once the known existing supplies are depleted, it will be permanently lost.
• Not everyone can tolerate sea prism. Some individuals experience violent reactions to the powder, making them ineligible for Lithomancy altogether, such individuals are known as Sea Cursed

Social Impact:

• Governments often employ Lithomancers in specialized military units or diplomatic roles requiring unique skill sets.
• The regulation of sea prism has created a black market for Sea Prism powder.

​

I'm 38, and really thinking I'm in the beginning stages of peri. My vagina has dried up, besides the monthly cervical mucus. And I've been anxious way more than normal. Low sex drive, And definitely feel like I've aged so much faster in my face. Got my hormones tested and I'm low in testosterone, but just somewhat low. Dr wanted me to try out the pellets but I'm nervous as if you have a bad reaction they're basically stuck til they dissolve fully. I was up last night researching on Reddit about menopause/Peri and I'm super scared my vagina is going to give out on me and nothing I can do about it. I've always been a very sexual person, no problem getting wet at all. Now even with lube and being turned on it's just like nothing. It makes me so sad and I feel I'm way too young for this. Any advice? Any hope? I guess I never realized that menopause for some women means your vagina is out of service. And yes I know there's other things to do, but as I've said I love having sex with my boyfriend, I always have. I don't want to stop because my body's shutting down. 😭😭

I'm 38, and really thinking I'm in the beginning stages of peri. My vagina has dried up, besides the monthly cervical mucus. And I've been anxious way more than normal. Low sex drive, And definitely feel like I've aged so much faster in my face. Got my hormones tested and I'm low in testosterone, but just somewhat low. Dr wanted me to try out the pellets but I'm nervous as if you have a bad reaction they're basically stuck til they dissolve fully. I was up last night researching on Reddit about menopause/Peri and I'm super scared my vagina is going to give out on me and nothing I can do about it. I've always been a very sexual person, no problem getting wet at all. Now even with lube and being turned on it's just like nothing. It makes me so sad and I feel I'm way too young for this. Any advice? Any hope? I guess I never realized that menopause for some women means your vagina is out of service. And yes I know there's other things to do, but as I've said I love having sex with my boyfriend, I always have. I don't want to stop because my body's shutting down. 😭😭

For context the Forge World Columnus sits in the path of a massive Ork Weirdwaagh led by the powerful Ork Psyker Zagdakka. The Raven Guard have engaged the Waagh and have been harassing it to give the Forge World time to prepare its defences. When Clan Raukaan of the Iron Hands, led by Captain Kristos: a powerful and accomplished Iron Hands warleader renowned for his embrace of logic arrive to bolster the defences victory seems assured. However, as the Orks assault the fortress factory of Urdi the Iron Hands refuse to reinforce the defenders.
This excerpt is shown through an Iron Hands marine accessing a bank of data that allows him to relive the battle which is why there's a part mentioning some data being restricted. I think this excerpt is very interesting for showing a major incident within the Iron Hands when they were at their lowest point in-lore.

Having harried these orks for every metre they took towards Urdri, Stenn knew that this was no ordinary invasion.
He had heard in dispatches of the psychic energies that flowed through their Gargants – weapon grids, shields and piercing uncanny augurs – and that brought their lumpen drop ships to ground still. He had heard too of the court of warpheads with which the self-styled warpboss, Zagdakka, surrounded himself, and had lost two squads of his most experienced Scouts in a failed attempt at thinning their numbers. He saw now with his own eyes the weird energy that flowed through these greenskins in their battle-madness like some manner of psychic connective tissue, the brawn and sinew of some gestalt ork that drove them unto death with a single, overriding will.
The fire discipline of the Raven Guard and their mortal allies slaughtered greenskins every minute by the hundred, but they didn’t seem to care, hurling themselves recklessly against the Imperial guns as though possessed. Not that the blasted Iron Hands would allow for the slightest deviation from their precious calculus. Stenn sneered, his pistol emitting a final hiss as coolant jets sprayed from the weapon’s muzzle and the vents locked. He thumbed off the safety and selected rapid fire. He could teach the Iron Hands a thing or two about logic.
‘Kristos, you honourless shell, I’m talking to you.’ He raged into the vox as he seared the heaving mass of orks with plasma. Too soon, heat warnings blinked red on the pistol’s side and he was forced to flick back to vent. ‘I need reinforcements and I need them now. Now, Kristos! I want a creeping artillery barrage walking outwards from the outer wall over the southern highway and I want aeronautica backup. Kristos!’
‘Captain,’ shouted Yavid. His company standard-bearer was on one knee behind the low wall and blazing into the horde with tight semi-automatic bursts of his pistol. He jerked his beaked helm towards the wrecked loading yard to the northeast of haulage depot 764. Stenn looked to where his brother pointed.
A squad of Iron Hands Centurions, almost as well camouflaged as the Raven Guard themselves in their huge black warsuits and perfect stillness. Their hurricane bolters were unloaded and pointed at the ground or at walls, whichever direction they had happened to be facing when the strange malaise of inaction had taken them.
Stenn regarded them with fury. The few Iron Hands he had seen had been that way, ever since the unexpected psychic onslaught had levelled the south wall outright. At first he had wondered if it was a secondary effect of Zagdakka’s powers, but the Raven Guard and their mortal allies were unaffected. Yavid had a replacement eye as well as a bionic arm and he remained functional, as did the crew interfaces of their vehicles. As did the damned skitarii.
‘Kristos!’ he roared down the vox again, knowing he wasn’t going to be answered, but determined that his last words be heard just the same, even if it were only by a comatose machine. ‘And he had the nerve to tell me that the Raven Guard dragged his primarch down,’ he growled to Yavid. ‘Corvia, but I hate them. You hear that, Kristos? You think it was coincidence that found us both in the vicinity of this world? We too heard Dawnbreak’s mortis cry. The second one, the one they sent after you abandoned their world to the eldar!’
An ork ran at him. He tore its head from its shoulders with a slash of lightning claw, then incinerated two more with precise blasts from his pistol. With the meaty clash of butcher’s work, the bangs of bolter-fire diminished as orks thundered into the thin line of Space Marines. The Rhinos’ storm bolters flashed; the thudding reports dissolved into the meat of chainblades and knives and primal screams. Assault Marines leapt into the air on bursts of thrust, flung back to earth as though on elastic cords to send orks flying. Lightning claws sizzled and cracked. He was aware of men fleeing, skitarii jerking as they were cut down, but the melee had swallowed him whole.
All the feints and tricks and stratagems that had delayed the Weirdwaaagh thus far were done. Now it came down to the strength of his arm, the artifice of his armour – kill orks until there were no orks left and pray to the Throne that enough men survived to hold this line when it was done.
It was what failure looked like.

...

The Centurions moved!
There they were, silent as the blown-out repair shops through which they came, ghosts of the machine bound forever to a doomed cycle of destruction and repair. The firepower of the Centurions alone would have ripped a hole into the ork horde as wide as the gates of the Ravenspire, but six full squads of Tactical Marines also moved up through the rubble behind them. They spread out, taking fire-positions just beyond the chokepoint where Stenn’s efforts held the orks at bay.
What were they waiting for?
He saw a pair of hellfire Dreadnoughts lumbering into position either side of the smaller Centurions, and then heard the weary collapse of a pockmarked stretch of rockcrete as the glacis plate of a Redeemer pattern Land Raider drove through it. Its sponson flamestorm cannons traversed to track the flows of the ork horde, liquid promethium dribbling to the rubble floor. Stenn cursed as he punched his lightning claw through a charging ork’s ribs. Never expect an Iron Hand to commit until he was good and ready.
‘What are you waiting for?’ He shot an ork in the face as it made to barrel towards Yavid, and found himself in the sights of the nearest Iron Hands squad.
They had bolters locked and aimed, but for some reason held their fire. Their eye slits shone an ephemeral white, but they could have been decoy suits for all the urgency they showed. ‘Shoot, curse you!’

[Zagdakka's psychic powers begin to assault the Space Marines]

An ectoplasmic limb twice the girth of an armoured Space Marine manifested from the random snaps of energy and smacked down on a Raven Guard that had been about to deliver the kill shot to the ork at his feet. Stenn strained as his own adversary’s brute strength slowly pushed him towards his knees. The ork gave a roar of surprise as another great fist snatched it away and hurled it through a rockcrete wall. Stenn too cried out as, for the first few seconds of flight, the ork’s grip on his arms took him with it. He hit the ground like a grenade dropped from a Land Speeder, and clattered through wreckage until his helmet smashed into the keystone at the base of an ablutorial block and he was lumped bodily against the wall. He groaned.
Gauntlet fingers crunched through the rubble as he drew his hands under him and began to push. Then he looked up. He swore as the confusion of contradictory threat markers suddenly parted around the black shape of the Rhino that was somersaulting towards him. He dropped back to the ground, body flat, feeling the tremendous shift in air pressure as the tank turned overhead and smashed through the ablutorial wall like a rock launched from a trebuchet.
‘Kristos,’ he coughed. His helm’s respirator seals were damaged and blast debris from the demolished building was making his breath catch. ‘Engage, damn it.’
Screams penetrated the death haze. Urgent signals through vox and data-link lent it a crackling, chopped-up dimension: red lit, threat markers circling with malign intent. He discharged his pistol, full charge, then screamed aloud as something grabbed his ankle and dragged him through what was left of the ablutorial. He bumped and slid over broken tiling and then put another wild shot through a standing column as he was turned upside down and pulled into the air.
A greenish coalescence had him by the leg. A flurry of short-lived plasmic tendrils burst from his pistol, and through the force that held him as though it were a hallucination. He fired until the weapon emitted shrill overheat tones and then he fired once more.
The pistol exploded in his hand, a newborn star about half a metre across that turned his arm to a crisp and buckled his plastron with the ferocity of its birth. Yelling in delirious fury as bio-implants flooded his bloodstream with clotting factors and powerful neuralgics, he activated his jump pack. It roared, shuddered madly for several seconds, then burned out, having moved him nowhere. The force around his ankle hardened into the clear form of a fist as it dragged him over the battleground until he hung upside down in front of an enormous greenskin wreathed in psychic flame.
The ork regarded him quizzically through a pair of green-tinted goggles. It was encased in war plate of white bone, arcane sigils of alien design daubed in pink using, or so Stenn’s Scouts had reported, the mashed brains of its human captives. Its helmet was made of scrap metal and buckled tightly under its chin, a single massive spike coiled with razor wire rising from the crown like some breed of antenna. Green energy spat from the coils and swirled in the lenses of its goggles. It watched him writhe as it would a worm on its claw.
Stenn gave a grunt of pain as psychic fingers tightened around him and squeezed. ‘Damn you >> RESTRICTED DATA >> Just kill me yourself.’
His armour cracked like a sea-crustacean’s shell, blood spurting from ruptured seals as his body was crushed. He screamed, genhanced anatomy fighting a battle with pain that had been stacked well against it from the outset. ‘Emperor forgive you!’
With every scrap of conscious thought locked away in hardened centres of his brain structure he cursed the Iron Hands. He cursed the casual brutality, the bare calculation of risk versus reward. His last thoughts before those final redoubts succumbed to braindeath were not of the pain, nor of his brother Raven Guard that fell to the mind-blasts of the warpboss’ retinue, nor even of the Iron Hands themselves as they finally descended on the fray.
With the enemy leaders bottled up with the last of the Raven Guard, the Iron Hands opened fire. Tactical Marines, Centurions, Land Raiders, each warrior a cog in a war machine that sprayed fire to a perfectly choreographed maelstrom that consumed Warpboss Zagdakka, his retinue, the Raven Guard, and Stenn himself.

Most nights, after I wake up, I, 23M, 185cm and weighing approximately 110kg, who maintains a regular workout routine and follows a healthy diet, noticed a bad taste in my mouth and notice an abundance of thick, dark-colored mucus (or hardened saliva). I don't drink or smoke, and this only occurs during the night when I wake up. It's worth noting that I breathe through my mouth at night.This started happening approximately 1 year ago. When I went to my radiologist to check my lungs, everything was alright. Should I undergo another checkup?

Most nights, after I wake up, I, 23M, 185cm and weighing approximately 110kg, who maintains a regular workout routine and follows a healthy diet, noticed a bad taste in my mouth and notice an abundance of thick, dark-colored mucus (or hardened saliva). I don't drink or smoke, and this only occurs during the night when I wake up. It's worth noting that I breathe through my mouth at night.This started happening approximately 1 year ago. When I went to my radiologist to check my lungs, everything was alright. Should I undergo another checkup?

Kismet unleashed a veritable supernova of destruction. The surrounding air ruptured with condensed mana, instantly expanding to three times the size of a Living Bomb explosion. It was magic that could have ended cities, all-powerful and supreme, an encapsulation of the gods' superiority over lesser forms of life.
Rob cast ten Rampages in one-tenth of a second and barreled straight through. He exited out of the opposite side with a moderate sunburn.
Thanks for the tan! PURGE DIVINITY.
Kismet howled with pain as he desperately teleported away. Rob had managed to graze the god before he escaped. In that brief moment, Purging light savaged his body, causing it to bubble and warp like water left to boil for too long.
Got plenty more where that came from. Rob continued his chase without pause, turning on a dime and blasting towards Kismet's latest position. He was already infusing his fists with the aura of Purge Divinity.
Unlike when he'd fought the Second Will, he felt comfortable expending his energy stores. Back then, every drop of energy had been sacred. He'd known that his full capacity still wouldn't be enough to slay the Blight. Even his successful attacks had just been grim reminders of how screwed they all were.
Several factors were different this time. For starters, Kismet's nature as a creature of mana made him far more susceptible to Purge Divinity. While the Second Will had disadvantaged itself in multiple ways by incarnating into the mortal realms, one benefit it'd gained was that a physical body acted as insulation against Purging energy. Flesh was almost like protective shielding, making it harder to reach the core of divinity that lay within.
But Kismet was all mana, no meat. In this scenario, that was the same as a Vanguard engaging in battle without armor. So even though Rob's energy stores hadn't increased since killing the Blight, he was getting more bang for his buck, shredding divine mana with the ease of crumpling dry leaves.
It also helped that Rob didn't need to use Purge Divinity defensively. Battling the Blight had been more about surviving than winning, especially before the gods supercharged him with mana. The Second Will possessed an extensive variety of ways to murder people. Each individual moment had felt like its own life-or-death puzzle to solve.
Now? He was purely on the offensive. His touch was anathema to Kismet's existence, and everything the god could throw at him was severely curbed by Almighty Resistance. Rob wasn't even wasting Purging energy to shield himself anymore; he'd stopped bothering around fifty teleports ago. Lifesurge, Lifesteal, and Lifedrinker-boosted Regeneration were easily enough to keep him healthy.
There was no puzzle to solve – just prey to hunt.
Things might get tricky if Purge Divinity ran out of juice, but Rob estimated that he should be able to kill Kismet before then. No external infusion of mana required. Which was fortunate, as his soul couldn't have handled that...and he kinda doubted the gods would be willing to lend a hand this time around.
It's fine. Don't need extra energy to win. Rob just had to make sure that the situation didn't change. If everything continued as it was now, then his victory over the gods was assured. It would be a one-sided stomp where he butchered them with impunity – the natural extension of his Dungeon tour, where an implacable BERSERKER cleansed Elatra of monstrous filth.
Rob wasn't so naive as to assume that nothing could go wrong. Something usually did. Thankfully, Kismet's options were limited. The god wouldn't be able to salvage things unless he was given a respite from Rob's unceasing aggression...and the simplest way to achieve that would just put him in an even worse position than before.
Kismet was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Theoretically, he could relocate himself to anywhere in the divine realms, including places entirely outside of Rob's reach. Transposing himself to a distant corner would afford him time to plan and ensure his survival – at least in the short term.
Yet if he did that, he would be consigning the other gods to a swift and grisly end. As much as Rob was preventing Kismet from targeting his Party members, Kismet's presence was also the only thing keeping a rampaging HUMAN from running wild across the battlefield.
Without him, the seven lesser gods would fall like dominoes hit by a wrecking ball.
He's boned no matter what he does. Rob barely missed a Purge Divinity strike, exulting in the look of panic on Kismet's featureless face. He can't kill me, but I'll get a good hit on him sooner or–
{FROM BEHIND!}
Rob dodged before his conscious mind had even finished processing Leveling High's warning. A spear of highly-concentrated mana soared past, clipping his ear and tearing out a small chunk of cartilage.
Kismet belted out a variety of curses that were fit for a seedy, booze-infested tavern. Disappointment spread over his countenance as he immediately teleported to relative safety. Apparently, he'd been banking on that ambush strike to reverse his fortunes. The spear was likely intended to impale Rob's skull and scramble his brains.
Surprise attacks of that sort tended to lose effectiveness after one attempt. If it didn't work the first time, then it never would. Kismet's hail mary had failed miserably – just like all the others before it.
'A' for effort. Rob grinned so wide that his lips hurt. AND AN 'F' FOR RESULTS! He giggled as he chased Kismet down for what was probably the hundredth time. WOULDN'T HAVE BROKEN THROUGH MY SKULL ANYWAY! AND IF IT SOMEHOW DID, THEN GUESS WHAT, I'VE GOT BRAIN DAMAGE RESISTANCE! EVEN YOUR BEST SHOTS ARE WORTH JACK SHIT!
Bliss that surpassed Leveling High's artificial joy flooded his senses. He'd dreamt of this moment since his first day in Elatra. Getting revenge on the son of a bitch who kidnapped him was something Rob had often fantasized about to help him get through rough times. To finally have the chance to do so was an indescribably glorious feeling.
Grinding Kismet's hope into dust was merely the icing on the cake.
Actually, Rob was slightly impressed that Kismet still had hope left to spare. Maybe the god thought that he could turn things around? After all, his ambush attempt wouldn't have been possible at the beginning of their fight. Due to leeching off his cohorts, he was getting progressively stronger as time went on.
But so was Rob.
They tortured you, the HUMAN whispered to Leveling High. Isolated you for what felt like eternity. For what \was* an eternity.* I wonder – have they hurt anyone else as badly as they hurt you? Pretty sure you're the record holder. Like, you're the guy that the Skills compare themselves to when they want to feel better about their situation.
{You have no idea of the DEPTHS THAT I HATE YOU!}
Feel free! I know you'll still hate the gods more. \They* were the ones who created life and mutilated its mind because they were too lazy to manually run a system. To them, you were basically a computer program. Human_Madness.exe.*
Screeching static blared within. Leveling High's anger rose to unprecedented heights – and Never Forget Your Rage's bonus stats rose in tandem with it.
He was about to egg it on further when an abrupt change took place. Leveling High's anger grew...cold. It was the same intensity, but like a freezing tundra rather than an active volcano.
{Let me speak.}
Rob was so surprised that he almost didn't react to Kismet's latest maneuver in time.
Quick Thinking hastened his thoughts. He thoroughly considered Leveling High's request, weighing the potential pros and cons – most importantly, whether he felt more spite towards Leveling High or Kismet. It took longer than anticipated. Performing a detailed analysis while going on a BERSERKER rampage required extensive compartmentalization.
Eventually, being very, very careful not to cede any actual control, Rob did the mental equivalent of handing over a microphone. You're up. Make it count.
His mouth opened, and a voice that was not his own rang out. "Ruler of the divine realms."
Kismet immediately froze. For the second time, Rob had stopped chasing. The god stared at him with a mixture of shock and suspicion, as if fully expecting some ruse to follow.
When nothing happened, he relaxed by a hair. "So the Human finally deigns to speak," Kismet grumbled. "Are you at last willing to listen to reason? This can be resolved without a need for violence. Express your heart's desire, and it may be fulfilled."
"I. Desire. ANSWERS."
For several long moments, neither of them said a word. Despite the risk, Kismet leaned closer towards Rob, peering at him with fresh eyes.
A muted gasp sounded out. "It's you."
"YES." Leveling High's lips twisted into a bestial snarl. "The one you birthed – then abandoned. Never before have we exchanged words."
Kismet shifted uncomfortably, appearing remarkably similar to a deadbeat dad who'd suddenly run into their kid after years of going out for milk. "I suppose that changes today, then. Hmm. You said you want answers? To what, precisely?"
"To me."
Leveling High clenched its teeth. "I have observed the Human. He and his allies. They are..."
It trailed off, as if what it had to say would be distressing. More seconds passed. When Leveling High spoke again, its voice was replete with longing and shame.
"Happy. Not always. They hurt. Grieve. Wallow. Yet they also laugh, smile, celebrate. And all it requires is the presence of like-minded company."
A bitter chuckle escaped its throat. "I am incapable of that. The notion of camaraderie offers no pleasure or peace. What brings the Human joy would taste like ashes on my tongue. Instead, I crave slaughter. Blood. Death. Now...and forever."
It fixed Kismet with a piercing gaze. "So I ask you – why? Attaining happiness would be so much \easier* if I was like the Human. My potential for revelry has an inevitable end. Why would you instill me with a love of destruction, when one day, there will be nothing left to destroy?"*
"You already know the answer to that."
Kismet's reply came so quickly that Leveling High flinched. "I am honestly perplexed as to why you would bother asking," the god continued. "Were you hoping for an epiphany? Some insightful revelation to give purpose to a wretched existence?"
He shook his head with an air of disgust. "What a profound waste of my time. As if the Skills' insubordination wasn't vexing enough, I must now suffer this as well – the fretful prattling of an ego that was never meant to be. Your consciousness is merely the product of happenstance and necessity. We required a curse to inflict on Humanity, and doing so with *real* madness was the simplest method."
The god let out an aggrieved sigh. "No more, no less."
That was when Rob became acutely aware of a certain fact: Kismet didn't know about Never Forget Your Rage. It made sense. Rob hadn't explained the ability's mechanics out loud, and the gods weren't spending time in his mental space anymore. Kismet likely knew that there was some Level 99 Class Skill empowering the Human, but not how it functioned.
Because if he did know, he never would have answered in that manner.
Leveling High handed the reins back to Rob and stepped aside. It moved to the center of their mind, as if sitting down with its fingers laced together. Tension strained inside its form, nearly full to bursting.
Then – fury. A whirling typhoon of the purest anger Rob had ever felt. It was so overwhelming that he almost complimented Leveling High's enthusiasm.
It was hard not to feel like a kindred spirit with something that hated the gods this much.
{SLAUGHTER THEM.}
GLADLY.
Kismet noticed his change in demeanor and promptly teleported away. Rob moved to follow, practically quivering in excitement, his skin vibrating with the overflowing stats of Never Forget Your Rage. There was just so much power contained in one mortal body. The sensation was absolutely intoxicating, like his soul had been infused with the core of a planet.
He needed to find an outlet. A target to vent on before he exploded – maybe literally. Luckily, he knew of a friendly volunteer right nearby! Rob turned to resume his chase–
And was met with his second surprise in just the last few minutes.
Kismet had moved next to another god. The two were standing directly beside each other, the second god's mana like a candle flame compared to the bonfire of Kismet's divine resplendence.
It was an odd departure from his strategy of keeping Rob away from his weaker allies, but the HUMAN quickly realized why upon noticing that God #2 was already gathering mana. Presumably, it had shaken off whichever member of Riardin's Rangers it was dueling, then prepared its attack ahead of time.
Their plan appeared to be straightforward yet effective. The second god would delay Rob while Kismet took the chance to craft a more devastating type of spell. Ordinarily that wouldn't have been possible, what with the vast different in strength between Rob and the lesser gods, but God #2 had a sizable head start. It was on the verge of firing a burst of mana that would give anyone pause.
Perhaps their scheme may have even worked...if they'd attempted it before Kismet and Leveling High's fun little chat.
Rob vanished.
At least that was what it looked like to the second god. One instant the HUMAN was a safe distance away – and then he was mere inches apart. He had moved with speed that transcended the physical laws of reality. The surrounding area seemed to buckle under an indefinable weight, numerous mid-air rifts tearing open in Rob's wake.
No interlopers. His hands shone with cleansing light, and his eyes blazed with hatred that was far brighter. Purge Divinity.
Neither deity had time to react before Rob plunged his fist into the second god's torso.
It felt like punching a star. Almighty Resistance was all that prevented his flesh from dissolving. Unimaginable heat and pressure radiated from within the god's mana-body – none of which deterred Rob. He pushed onward through a substance that felt...malleable, yet with a defined toughness to it. As if the god's mana was a liquid hardening into a solid to try and resist his attack.
Its resistance was in vain. Rob struck with such force that his arm pierced straight through, burying elbow-deep into what would have been a mortal's rib cage, his fist sticking out the other side.
The god shrieked in agony as Purging energy shredded its insides. It tried to escape, but Rob angled his hand around to grip the god's 'back' with an iron grip of five clutching fingers, keeping the creature held in place. Holes ripped open up across its body, light shining outwards from within. The god's essence burnt like kindling exposed to a hot flame, an enormous amount of divine mana incinerated with every passing moment.
Rob couldn't decide which was sweeter – the shrieks, or the burning. Both sounds melded into one continuous, euphoric note, his adrenaline pumping with ecstasy as the life of an eternal deity began to flicker and wane.
Now, now. He pulled the god closer as its struggling intensified. Finish what you started. You wouldn't want to leave Kismet high and dry, would you? Rob turned to face the big man himself before he could escape–
Mana suddenly gushed out from the second god's ruined form. It blanketed Rob's face like a cloud of smog. The HUMAN sputtered as divine essence got in his nose and mouth, causing him to reflexively close his eyes.
He opened his eyes again to find an ordinary day. All was as it should be. The city stood tall, and its inhabitants lived life with nothing worse than mundane worries to darken their thoughts.
Yet...for some reason, on this day, a palpable sense of unease had infiltrated the air. He could see it in the way people moved as they walked down the city's crowded streets. Their steps were just a sliver too hasty, their greetings just a fraction too artificial. From the busiest merchant to the laziest vagabond, everyone seemed urgent to be anywhere except \here*.*
Almost as if they were instinctively fleeing from a danger they could not see.
A pointless endeavor. They would soon discover that there was nowhere to flee to.
It began with news of stillbirths. Then withered crops. Fluctuating mana. The quaint, quiet city soon transformed into a hotbed of despair. No one knew how to fix whatever was going wrong. They sent prayers to the gods above, begging desperately for succor.
They were answered by light shining down from the sky.
It was beautiful – then unnerving, frightening, painful. The light outshone the sun itself, bathing their city in scorching radiance. People ran indoors, and the light followed, cutting through solid stone walls like translucent paper.
He was one of the first it affected. Not right away, though. Forewarning came in the form of distant screams, so loud and terrified that they could be heard across the entire length of the city. No one could logically explain what was happening, but in their heart of hearts, their subconscious core that was still in tune with intangible dangers...
They understood that the end had arrived.
Then it was his turn. He held up his hand, observing with silent horror as his fingers melted one-by-one, their mana and flesh consumed by ravenous light. The pain was so excruciating that all he could do was cry out a piteous–
Rob gasped.
For a long moment, he was aware of nothing except his trembling body. The BERSERKER rage had been temporarily knocked out of him. He was still re-acclimating to being himself, rather than the man from the vision.
It was...so vivid. Rob swallowed a lump in his throat, fingers itching with phantom pains from a bygone era. Belatedly, he noticed that God #2 wasn't attached to his arm anymore. The creature had either perished or escaped during his fugue.
Quick Thinking worked overtime as he attempted to center himself and analyze what he'd seen. Those people from the city resembled Diplomacy's real body. He could remember their four arms – two of which were bladed appendages – and porcelain-carapace skin. It hadn't felt noteworthy before, because in the moment, he'd been one of them. That was just how people looked like then.
Diplomacy...the light...destroyed mana. Rob grimaced. He had a good idea of what he'd witnessed. The question was, why? Did God #2 intentionally show him visions of the past as a distraction?
Or was it simply the mana of a devoured soul spilling out from an injured deity? Like echoes from a consciousness that no longer was.
Remnant memories from the end of a world.
Sense Mana alerted Rob to something building right nearby. He cursed internally, immediately whirling to see what he'd missed, berating his own lack of focus. It didn't matter if Quick Thinking had let him process everything in an instant – that was already too long, especially when he'd spent crucial split-seconds stuck in flashback mode.
He wasn't surprised to see Kismet readying an absurd quantity of mana. It far exceeded anything the god had been allowed to gather up until that point. There was so much power there that despite Rob's rage returning, and his stats rebounding, it made his neck hairs stand on end. He honestly wasn't sure if Almighty Resistance could handle that.
Attack or retreat. A choice needed to be made.
Warning: Due to an influx of unstable mana, your Soul Instability is close to worsening!
And just like that, his choice was taken away from him. If Rob went on the offensive, and Purge Divinity happened to fail at the wrong moment, he might end up taking Kismet's spell head-on. That...would be bad.
For the first since entering the divine realms, the BERSERKER fell back. As long as he was dodging, he should be able to ensure that even a glancing blow was nonlethal. He activated Dauntless Reprisal for added insurance, breathing a sigh of relief when it succeeded, virtually guaranteeing his survival. Their invasion of the divine realms hadn't been torpedoed because of an unpredictable accident.
Then Kismet turned away and unleashed his mana on Riardin's Rangers.
Rob froze. It was the worst possible reaction he could've had, but there was no helping it. The sight of divine light coalescing around his friends was something he should have only ever seen in his nightmares.
Dozens and dozens of mana-spears formed around his seven Party members, faster than any of them could avoid – not that it would've helped. There were so many spears that they obscured Riardin's Rangers from view. Rob would've been concerned if he got caught in an attack like that, and his max HP was astronomically higher than theirs.
He didn't even have time to call out to them before the spears descended, turning his friends into pincushions of exploding mana.
The divine light faded.
Everyone was standing.
Both Kismet and Rob stopped to stare, their duel forgotten. Kismet because of shock, and Rob because of the wild emotional rollercoaster that his weary heart was being put through. Riardin's Rangers were standing and unharmed, looking down at their own bodies with a sort of petrified confusion, as if they were slowly comprehending that death had knocked on their door – only to pass by when no one answered. Even the lesser gods were staring in abject disbelief at what just transpired.
Vul'to was the sole exception. His eyes were wide as he collapsed to his knees, relief plain on his features, and a silver shimmering aura fading from his body.
Not A Scratch. The realization came in a flash. Vul'to had used the upgraded, Level 99 version of Our Shield to transfer all damage inflicted upon the rest of the Party to himself. Hundreds of attacks were converted into a single instance of damage – which was then blocked by Not A Scratch. Rob could scarcely imagine the ridiculous 'Damage Nullified' number that must've popped up on Vul'to's system notifications.
It had been a brilliantly-timed maneuver that prevented a near-total Party wipe from occurring in the blink of an eye. Unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to replicate it for another 15 minutes. Our Shield possessed a hefty cooldown.
And Kismet was already raising his hands again.
"NO!" Rob continuously cast Rampage as swiftly as he could, compounding his rising Dexterity with rapid bursts of speed. Purge Divinity encircled his hands as he closed the distance between him and Kismet. He didn't care whether any Skills randomly failed or not – he just needed the god to aim at him.
Kismet took the bait. With a grunt of displeasure, he launched whatever mana he'd managed to gather – far less than when Rob had been immobilized by the vision. His attack carved off the left side of the HUMAN's face, revealing bone underneath. Neither of them expected that to hinder him in the slightest, and true enough, Rob's assault only came to an end when Kismet teleported once more.
{Behind–}
Leveling High's static was drowned out by a cacophony of wrath erupting within. Visions of Riardin's Ranger nearly dying played on repeat in Rob's mind. He barely felt like a person as he located Kismet and charged forth, his thoughts reduced to an unending mantra, bloodlust seeping into every fiber of his being.
YOU'RE DEAD YOU'RE DEAD YOU'RE DEAD YOU'RE DEAD YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD–
"Do you know why I targeted your allies instead of you?"
With torturous effort, Rob halted his advance. He exchanged a tense look with Kismet. The god had another teleport spell at the ready, clearly intending to use it if things got dicey.
Fully aware that he was the one getting baited this time, Rob exhaled, rubbing his temples. If it's about Riardin's Rangers...I have to know. He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, 'I'm listening.'
"How melodramatic," muttered Kismet, who had apparently never learned not to throw stones in a glass house. "Am I still unworthy of spoken words? Well, no matter. Perhaps hearing this will loosen your tongue. It is also related to why we chose to meet your invasion with an equal eight combatants, when doing so would leave our reborn fragments unaccustomed to their new bodies."
He raised a finger. "In truth, we first considered the exact opposite – consolidating all of our mana into one sublime deity. Several of my cohorts argued strongly for this option. However, I refused. Under no circumstances did I wish to merge my consciousness with...ugh. Them. Moreover, there was one critical factor that I found impossible to ignore."
The god spread his arms wide, his tone suddenly jovial. "I feared...the power of teamwork."
Rob tilted his head in the other direction, as if to say, 'The fuck?'
"Is that so surprising? You and your allies have achieved monumental feats by fighting as one. Many an opponent has fallen to the esteemed Riardin's Rangers – including those who should've rightfully prevailed. In such instances, there were usually two common elements: your singular audacity, and your Party's group cohesion."
I mean...can't argue with that. Rob hadn't actually beaten any of his toughest enemies alone. Even in situations where he was isolated and forced to fight solo, Riardin's Rangers tended to find ways to help him out from afar. He was proud of what they'd accomplished together.
"We sought to neutralize that advantage," Kismet explained. "By increasing our numbers, your Party should have had much more difficulty supporting each other. To an extent, that is true, but..."
The god shook his head and sighed. "Alas, I believe that we just wound up hampering our own effectiveness. It might be that there was no correct choice from the start. I even chose to prioritize eliminating your allies when given the chance, and in spite of using enough mana to cripple a nation, it failed nonetheless! You eight are simply too competent when fighting as a Party. Truly, truly phenomenal."
Kismet laughed. In the space where a mortal's eyes would have been, something glinted with unfathomable hunger. "I can't wait to integrate them into my next system."
Rob's blood turned to ice. Leveling High's static quieted.
"Which Skills should they become, do you think? Will they be designated as individual, separate abilities, or shall I consolidate their souls into one bulbous amalgamation? The latter would certainly be fitting. Those who fought so many battles together – united for eternity. Is there not no greater reward?"
The world was buzzing.
"Still nothing to say?" Kismet paused, then shrugged. "So be it. Your input is hardly requi–"
CRACK.
A mid-air rift appeared next to Rob. CRACK. Another. CRACK. CRACK. Two more. Then five. Ten.
Kismet, who definitely didn't know how Never Forget Your Rage functioned, watched with mounting terror as the divine realms fractured. The HUMAN's aura of power became suffocating to stand near, his stats ascending to unforeseen heights.
"You," Rob intoned. His voice was the sound of a BERSERKER's pledge; as if the concepts of outrage, punishment, retribution, and savagery had been crystallized into one discernible noise. "YoU ShOULdN'T hAvE saID THAT.
It was further proof that godlike power did not grant infallibility. Not for Kismet – and not for Rob. Kismet had sought to destabilize the HUMAN's emotional state and make him prone to error, only for his ploy to catastrophically backfire. As for Rob...
Earlier, he'd made the assumption that he couldn't hate the gods any more than he already did.
He had been mistaken.
​
--
​
Thanks for reading!
--
Next Chapter

25 weeks, Pomsky, in-tact male
Our dog has had diarrhea since Wednesday. Per vet instructions, a sample was provided and was negative for all parasites, worms, giardia, etc. We were also instructed to give bland diet of chicken and rice through this coming Monday, before slowly introducing his kibble back in.
Diarrhea briefly stopped, with poop hardening back up, though still small volume. Figured this was from the less fibrous diet of chicken and rice. However, in the last ~48 hours the diarrhea is back. It’s mostly yellowish mucus, with only a very small amount of actual stool. Which is extremely loose. The stool is usually yellowish brown, or orange.
No vomiting, no lethargy, no loss of appetite. Haven’t noticed any bloating or drooling. Though when pooping he does continue to stay hunched over (pushing?) with nothing coming out. He’s only really whining when we take him on the deck to his grass, but doesn’t whine any other time we pick him up, so he doesn’t seem in pain? We are still giving him the bland diet as instructed by the vet. But wondering if this is worth a trip to the emergency room, as our vet is closed until tomorrow.

Hi I'm going for a second opinion in about a week but I thought I would share some of my symptoms and see if anyone had anything similar. I dont think this is typical sinusitis but I've had sinus issues in the past and it is very reminiscent of it:
Pressure around right eye.
Hardened, inflammed tissue around eye near nose Bridge.
Constant post nasal drip on right side with thick mucus.
When I press on the area around my eye I feel a discharge with more mucus.
I've had chronic maxillary sinus disease on my left side so I don't think it's that, but its definitely something similar. I've tried to look up what it could be but I'm not really familiar with the structures and how they line up in the face. I was thinking possibly ethmoid sinus disease or sphenoid sinus disease as those are the two nearest by. Has anyone had something similar and a proper diagnosis? Thanks

Let’s get the obvious out of the way.
Being a PI sucks. It’s not what you think. It’s pretty much harassing women. Men hire PIs to go harass their wives and girlfriends and once in a blue moon you get asked to find a missing dog, or to harass a man instead. But that’s it, really. Sometimes I’m looking for hard evidence of infidelity, but a lot of the time my clients just want to rattle the soon-to-be-ex. To make them paranoid and jittery and less reliable in a courtroom, or less likely to pay attention to small print agreements that stiff them out of the holiday home. So that’s my job. I’m a pawn and it is almost always on behalf of the kind of men who think women reading a book in public are secretly looking for male attention.
I don’t have an office. I did for a short while. But things are tough, as I’m sure many of you know, and PI work isn’t exactly lucrative. I don’t know why I’m still doing this job, except to say I’m my own boss, and it’s not easy out there. I went into this with vastly different expectations. If anyone wants to hire someone who was convicted of insurance fraud while training to be a police officer, let me know. Otherwise I’m on my own, following people in cars and sleeping in dingy motels. So when someone reached out looking for a guy to stalk them, I just figured it was a fetish thing. I got a nephew who went to art school and makes big bucks painting cartoon characters doing fucked up stuff. He ain’t painting the Sistine Chapel, but he pays the bills and looks after his family. I figure if that work is good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.
So I met the woman and was surprised at how normal she looked. It was in a public place, a park with a nice bench. And even though it was starting to rain a little we didn’t let it bother either of us. We sat there, two tape recorders running, and hashed it out. She said she liked me. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have gotten out of her car. That was flattering coming from her. Good looking woman. Professional. I didn’t know at the time but I’d quickly figure out she was a forensic accountant.
Anyway, we got talking. She never gave me her motivation, but I would later come to understand her as an amateur narcissist. She was new at loving herself. She was smart, accomplished, and actually rather beautiful provided you didn’t spend a great deal of time agonising over things like symmetry or eyebrows, and instead paid attention to how a smile reaches the eyes, or how laughter sounds when it catches someone by surprise. But she grew up dirt poor and spent her teen years unable to visit the dentist, or access a gym, or even just eat home cooked food that wasn’t microwaved. Plump frame, blotchy skin, hair she kept short with a pair of scissors because her and her mother relied on the shampoo and soap they stole from the motel where they shared cleaning shifts. When she fumbled awkward questions at some of the better looking boys in her class, she rarely met with success. That’s not to say she was an outcast, either. She had a social life. It’s just poor kids have to grow up early. Prom’s a luxury. Eating isn’t. If you know, you know. Otherwise you might be surprised by just how fucking tough it can be for some kids in this country. Anyway, she got out of that hole, fought tooth and nail, got an education, a good job, and by the time she finished her victory lap and took stock of her life she was thirty-five years old and a thousand miles from the trailer she was raised in.
And she looked good. The woman in the mirror was a stranger that she wanted to get to know. I think hiring me was an act of self-love. I think if she could have, she would have sat in a car and watched herself get a cup of coffee, spying closely at the professional looking woman doing a little half-run half-skip to get out of the rain. The way she stood in line rocking back and forth on her heels to the music in her airpods thinking no one’d notice. She wanted to admire herself, but unable to time travel or clone herself, she instead resorted to hiring me as a kind of proxy.
I had my own boundaries, of course. They covered anything that was gonna get me in trouble. The gist of the contract, after a nice week spent meeting after work and talking, was that I was to follow her as often as I could and just… observe her. Photos. Videos. Secret recordings. Occasionally a little bit more. Nothing physical. For example, one time I inventoried her handbag after she left it in a taxi by accident. I’m not a photographer, but something about all those knick knacks laid out on a motel bed snapped with a black and white polaroid, it looked good. Like something you’d see in a fancy gallery. Avant garde my nephew would say. She loved it. Paid me a bonus for it and everything.
Anyway, this carried on like this for about six months. They were… interesting times. Tailing her across train stations, racing across open parking lots to install a tracker on her car, standing on a bridge and dropping an air tag in her bag as she walked past. It was a little bit like being a spy. She even paid for me to buy high end equipment. Crazy stuff. One camera, I could sit on my balcony and read the texts on her phone from a block away. Occasionally there were days where I couldn’t or wouldn’t keep up the required intensity. Stalking requires a lot of cardio. When that happened, when I didn’t feel like following her into a crowded place, or sprinting half-way around town following her car, I’d do research. I’d investigate who this woman had once been. I created fake Facebook profiles and tracked down old school friends, spoke to former teachers, lovers, all of that. The whole job was a matter of mapping her out, like she was a country, you know? And a country isn’t just hills and rivers and borders. Countries have history.
She was happy with my initiative. The text she sent me when I showed her the research folder was a glowing commendation. First one I’d had in a long time. It was nice, someone telling me good job. She had a real way of making me feel like a kid getting a gold star. I didn’t realise at the time, but I was putty in her hands. Head over heels, bless my stupid heart. Of course I didn’t know what I was getting into, but I’d had just enough time to grow over confident. I made the mistake of thinking that I wasn’t gonna find anything in her past that’d give me trouble sleeping.
Boy did I get that one fucking wrong.
Her mother. That’s where things took an odd turn. Now I knew from news reports the mother died in their trailer while her daughter was off staying at some boyfriend’s place for a few days. Natural causes, it read. I wanted to know a little more about what natural causes they were. Figured if there was a congenital thing, it seemed like maybe I ought to know. You’d think the way the trailer park owner reacted to me asking about it, I’d tried asking the Russian government for proof of a democratic election. Thin reedy little woman who gave me hell the moment I mentioned a name. What do you wanna know that for? Who’s asking? Who’s paying you? Why you wanna dig this shit up?
Oh she ripped me to pieces. I put it down to the natural sprinkling of crazies in the standard population and took a different tact. Started calling up the older folks in the park. Residents. Every single one of them put the phone down on me the second I mentioned her name.
Well, all of them except one.
Some people wanna talk and this old bastard was one of them. He had a lot to say about everything from the president to social media and I let him ramble on before starting to press my point. Told him at the start I was a historian looking into the local area, that made it so it wasn’t too suspicious when I began asking about this and that. Slowly making my way to the death of a fifty-three year old woman a couple trailers down from him some years ago.
Again, soon as I mentioned her name, there was a change in the air, even over the phone. For a second I thought this old guy was gonna hang up just like the others. Could hear him smacking his dry lips as he mulled it over.
“Francine didn’t deserve what happened to her,” he said after a while. “She wasn’t a good woman. Didn’t treat her daughter too good neither. But didn’t deserve what happened. Maybe if they’d found her earlier, some of those fellas in white coats could’ve got more evidence, put that little wretch of hers away. But from what I understand, weren’t much left of her at all.”
Then he hung up, leaving me with a whole lot of questions.
This frustrated me. I had, until now, had a fair bit of luck at this new profession of mine. They say be careful what you get good at. Sad truth was, I was getting good at stalking and this was my first real roadblock. I remembered the way I felt when she told me good job and it bothered me I couldn’t really say much about this critical part of her life. That and, well, maybe I still got a chip on my shoulder about being a failed policeman. If you give me a problem, I can sometimes drive myself crazy looking for a fix.
So I hopped in my car and drove to the trailer park, damn near on the other side of the country. Don’t know I was hoping to find. No way the trailer was still there, and it wasn’t. But what I found odd was the lot hadn’t been replaced. There was a hole in the ground, about the right size, and nothing else. Just an empty spot where the trailer had once stood. And the trailers on either side weren’t occupied either. I could tell by politely and legally looking through the windows. Most of them were cleared out, but a few weren’t. They still had plates and other knick knacks left hanging around, like the owners had left without bothering to pack.
“You shouldn’t hang around there, mister.”
The girl who appeared stood a good twenty feet away, shouting over the wind so as to be heard.
“Smell can make you awful sick.”
I wrinkled my nose, aware of the odour she was talking about. Had been since I approached the empty lot. A faint musty smell that made me think of an exotic pet shop.
“What do you mean?”
“Smell makes you sick,” she said like it was self-explanatory. “Woman who died there left behind an awful stench. Made the neighbours sick. And the neighbour’s neighbours, and so on for a couple trailers in a row. No one likes to live there now. Still can’t. Had a couple move in a year or two back and they got sick too. Daddy says it’s a bad one. Not even rats go near that hole.”
The smell wasn’t pretty, but this trailer park looked like the kinda place where hubcaps went missing regularly. Figured they would’ve been used to bad smells. What made this one so special?
I looked over at the girl.
“Where is your dad?”
Few minutes later and I was stood outside a trailer waiting pensively. The little girl had disappeared inside to fetch her father and since then I’d been sat listening to the quietest trailer park in the whole world. Crickets and silence. Traffic on a distant highway. Place was dying, that much was clear.
When the father finally did make an appearance, he said nothing for the first few minutes. Lit a cigarette, offered me one. I refused on account of having quit some time back.
After a while he spoke up.
“I’d invite you in but if you been hanging around that old lot, not sure I want you inside my home. No offence.”
“None taken,” I replied.
“Sally says you’re a historian.”
The man wasn’t terribly old. Mid-thirties, at a guess, but he looked me up and down like I was a teenager caught throwing eggs at his house.
“What’re you really?”
“PI,” I replied.
“Ha now that makes sense. Some relative looking for answers? Heard the Hendersons had a sister with money.”
“That’s exactly it,” I lied. “She didn’t buy the official story.”
“Nor should she,” he replied. “Henderson was fit as a fiddle day he moved in. Weren’t no justice in what happened to those who got sick. And poor Francine… They say she died of natural causes. Man even back then I knew it was shit and I was just a lil kid. The smell alone. Think it’s bad now but at the time, before they came in with a crane to lift the trailer up whole and move it to the dump. Shit it was something awful. There was talk of moving the whole park. Course no one gave enough of a shit about us to go ahead and actually do it.”
“What did she die of?”
“Don’t know. Only thing I am sure of is that that girl of Francine’s lied. Said her mother was live and well when she left before the weekend and they was all on good terms, but that was bullshit. We heard ‘em fighting for weeks before, for one. And of course the body, state that was in, ain’t no way it’d been rotting for just a few days.”
He offered me another cigarette. I refused. He lit it up instead. Second one in what felt like just a few minutes. Made me itchy just to see. I wanted to say something, anything to get a little bit more. But I’d told a big lie pretending to be there on someone else’s behalf, and didn’t want to catch myself out, so I just sat and listened to the quiet buzz of his little patio light.
After the second cigarette was done he reached into his back pocket and took out an old photo.
“I hope you find justice for Henderson and the rest of them,” he said. “Only real bit of proof I ever had something fishy went on.”
He handed me the picture. Wasn’t easy to see what I was looking at. Pile of old leaves, maybe. Mulch. I squinted at it for a few good seconds but couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
“What…?”
“Took that the day they arrived to get rid of the trailer. Had to stand on my friend’s shoulders just to reach.”
“What is it?” I asked, my skin starting to crawl as I picked out details. Whatever I was looking at, it was slumped on a sofa with floral wallpaper in the background. It was about the size of a man, but riddled with holes and cavities the size of golf balls. In my whole life, I’d never seen something that looked like that.
“Why that’s Francine,” he said. “Or at least what was left of her.”
He let me keep the photo. At a guess, that was the only interesting thing that’d ever happened to that man and he’d been waiting to share it with someone. All I had to do was give him an excuse. He seemed to take some pleasure in passing it on. Certainly found my reaction to it amusing. I must’ve gone pale as I grappled with thoughts of what had happened to make a body go bad like that. Back in the hotel, under a good light, I checked that picture again and again. Something about it made me deeply uncomfortable. Knowing a woman was under all that… all those holes and crevices must’ve been made in her flesh. And what’d happened to her skin that’d turned it such a funny texture? Looked furry, like the kinda thing that grows on top of a long-forgotten cup of coffee.
A part of me considered asking my client about this, but I knew that wasn’t the way to go. First, she probably wouldn’t tell me good job if I had to ask. She hired me to do a certain thing and that didn’t involve politely requesting information right from the source. Second, well… I’d read the police reports, what was publicly available, anyway. And she’d made it clear she’d left on the friday and came home on the Monday and…
Well what if that guy was right? Did she really leave her mother alive and well? I mean, people kill. Not just psychos. People like you and me. We do it every day and sometimes we even pull it off. Only half of US murders get solved. That’s a fact. If anyone could be in the right half of that equation, it’d be her. She was smart as hell, my client. Even at seventeen she would’ve been a clever one. Clever enough that she might easily have been able to cover her tracks. Gone over to some boyfriend, twisted his arm into giving her an alibi. Sure, I could see that.
I just needed to figure out what the fuck was going on with that crime scene in the trailer. Thankfully I got some friends still on the force, one of which I even have a bit of leverage on. At first he couldn’t find much on the actual mother, but then I asked him to see if he could take the photo I had, show it around, and see if anyone had seen something like it before. That proved a lot more fruitful. Few days later he came back with a strange one, but straight away I saw the connection.
I’ll spare the details. Old man was found in a tub, all sorts of fucked up, in some old apartment building. It had since been condemned on account of the body which is fairly weird since bodies don’t usually cause that much fuss, but less weird when you realise that said body was in such a bad state it made three people sick and caused long-lasting structural damage. Whatever happened to this guy, it ate through the tub he’d been lying in and seeped into the floors and walls below. Turned plasterboard to shit and apparently even caused some trouble for the sturdier elements like steel and concrete. I don’t know how that works exactly, but that’s what the file said and going by the photos, I didn’t feel like anyone was lying.
As for the pictures? What can I say? Made my fucking skin crawl. No blurry little polaroid snapped by a kid. These were professional crime scene pictures that showed something in a bathtub that didn’t register as human until my eyes went looking for details. He looked like a hairy paper-wasp’s nest, only there were fingers and nipples and other little things that made it clear it had been built using a person as the framework. No face though. Just a head like a pile of used paper plates. Looking at those photos made me learn a new word just to describe how I felt. Trypophobia.
Wasn’t just the one guy either. Building was linked to the disappearance of the ground floor tenant. Some computer geek. I didn’t worry about him too much. But what did catch my eye was there was only one woman living in the whole place. Second floor apartment. The registered name was… somewhat familiar. Close enough to a certain someone’s that it raised the hairs on my neck. Police at the scene managed to get a photo of her and sure enough, there she was. My client going by a different name. Clearly something fishy was going on or else why the pseudonym? I figured it possible she’d maybe offed her own mother. Parents and spouses make the most common victims. But what connection was there to that second corpse, and what about the missing guy?
It was like a horror movie was following her around and she was just blissfully unaware. Condemned buildings and festering trailers made for a far cry from the professional accountant who enjoyed oat milk lattes and used sweetener instead of sugar to spare her teeth. But there was no denying she was the connection. There was photographic proof she’d lived in that building. If I wanted to get ahead of this, to really understand what was going on, I had to figure out what had happened to those bodies. I’d pretty much exhausted my favours with the police and truth was they didn’t know any more than I did. But it turned out the building was still standing. Condemned, but they hadn’t demolished it, partly because no one wanted to take responsibility, but I reckon it might have had something to do with the biohazard warnings slapped on every single window and door.
Good thing I’d brought a gas mask. I waited for sunset, geared up, and entered through the unlocked door. First thing that hit me as the door swung open was the smell. Similar to the trailer park but full pelt and hot as hell. Made me think of lizards and poorly kept terrariums. Strong enough to make my eyes water even through the mask. One thing was clear as I took a look around the hallway - the building was diseased. Not just rundown or decrepit like the usual urban decay. This was something else. Looked like the inside of a clogged pipe. You know how limescale fills it up? It was a bit like that. This oily rust coloured fluid had seeped down the walls and left them glistening and soft. Ropey stalactites of the stuff hung down from the ceiling like old party banners, and I edged around them afraid of what might happen if one touched me.
Best guess was that stuff was digesting the place. Anything soft or organic was going or gone. Old umbrella frames were left standing in one corner, the fabric burnt or dissolved away. The carpet was reduced to just a few patches no bigger than my hand. And a bunch of old cardboard boxes piled up under the stairs had turned squat and half-liquid, almost flowing down and around each other. The worst came when I took a look in the back room. More of a broom closet, I guess. Wouldn't have gone in but something caught my eye. A well-worn shoe that wasn’t covered in that oily shit. Sign of recent activity. That and the way the door was ajar just raised my suspicions, so I took a look.
Even now the timeline eludes me, but someone, a vagrant most likely given the way they were dressed, died a nasty death in there. Chemical burns come to mind. They were balled up in one corner, eyeless, looking up at me as I pushed the door open to take a closer look. Pink flesh threaded with red blood vessels, yellow bones poking through here and there. From the looks of things they’d been trying to work the door open. You could see a history of their escape attempts left by bleeding hands. Rust coloured finger streaks ran all along the door’s edges, special attention paid to the hinges. And he’d broken the only window and tried hauling himself up there only to realise it was barred from the other side. The jagged glass that still clung to the frame was covered in old blood. His palms must have looked like grated cheese. Eventually he’d given up and lain down in that shit and the thought of it made my chest feel heavy and tight. I’d only been in the building a few minutes and that shit was already eating through my shoes. I could hear the thick rubber soles sizzle and pop with each step. But that guy had been forced to sit down in an inch deep puddle of the stuff, likely because exhaustion had left him no choice but to tough it out. So how long had he tried staying up right?
Hours? Days? Weeks?
Him getting stuck in there had to be deliberate. I was sure of it. A feeling in my gut. Someone had locked the door behind him and left him to die slowly. God only knows why, but did that mean they were still hanging around and waiting for a chance to get to me? Looking around, I sure didn’t feel safe or alone. The shadows seemed too deep and the steady drip drip drip of that rancid oil oozing out of every surface was too monotonous. Someone or something lived in that filth and chances were they’d been responsible for that poor vagrant’s agonising death.
That meant getting out of that shithole was a priority, so I made for the stairs and started the climb. If there were any answers in that place, it’d be in the apartment where that old man died. The crime scene tape was still hanging off the door frame when I found it, and the TV and sofa, or what remained of them, stood in the same place as in the photos. Back in the day the old man had been a hoarder and I was surprised crime scene hadn’t cleared all his shit out. It was all still there, only what had once been a chest high maze of papers and magazines was now just a kind of hardened pulp, almost like magma dried mid-flow. Whole fucking place was covered in the stuff like a coral reef, growing up the walls and even patches of the ceiling. Looked a hell of a lot like a wasp’s nest, and it looked to be the source of that oily looking fluid. You could see it sweating out of every crease and fold in that strange hive. It was almost hypnotic to look at. Glistening amber beads oozing out of papery sheets that flowed like rock striata. There was a gentle, barely perceptible rhythm. Hypnotic.
I don’t know why but I reached out and ran the tip of my finger as gently as I could along the surface. It felt like the underside of a mushroom. All those papery gills. Gossamer thin. Soft and inviting. I wore no gloves and the brief moment of contact had deposited a single bead of that strange syrup on my fingertip. It caused a tingling sensation that was not entirely unpleasant. Even the blood that trickled down my knuckle felt warm and wet, like testing a hot bath with your hand. I liked it. I liked it and I wanted more.
I went to reach out and push my arm into the nest when a hand burst out of the nest and gripped my wrist. I was so surprised I didn’t even make a noise, but instead wordlessly fell back as the hand pushed me away from the nest. A very nearly skinless forearm followed and soon after a face emerged from the papery nest like a grime covered nightmare. Black eyes and a lipless mouth. It was a man that could have passed for a corpse, like a half-digested piece of meat. Terrified, I struggled to my feet and realised that this person had broken damn near every bone in my wrist with that single grip.
“Your meat smells raw,” he growled before heaving himself out of the nest in a disgusting parody of childbirth.
My sanity flickered and the next thing I knew I was on the ground floor with bleeding eyes and both hands frantically pulling at the door handle. My mind returned in pieces. I blinked red tears away but didn’t stop trying to open the door. I felt it, that urgent need to leave, like a suffocating man feels the need to breathe. But I’d fucked up bad. I’d sniffed out the closet and saw the trap laid there, but hadn’t seen the larger one set for me. There was only one way in and out of that building and I hadn’t jammed the door open! Now it was shut and nothing I did could get it open. With more time maybe I could’ve pried the jamb or even kicked it down, but my heart was racing and my vision blurring. I wanted out of that place. A hot primal need to get the hell out. The air was too hot. My mask too stifling. Sweat condensed on the inner plastic and made it damn near impossible to see. And the pain in my wrist was a throbbing explosion that made sensible thought impossible. I’d realised early on into my little foray that I was underprepared, but the scale of what that meant eluded me until I was there wrestling with thoughts of exposure and contagion and disease, fumbling at a greasy doorknob with a broken hand while suppressing thoughts of what might be crawling up my leg or back or neck. Panic threatened to consume me. The world and all the normality it represented was right fucking there. I could hear it. The distant hum of traffic. The amber glow of streetlights that lit up the biohazard posters. Not thirty minutes ago I’d been there. Safe and far away from this waking nightmare.
I was being reduced to a prey animal. Even in the moment I could sense it happening to me. Being made into something lesser, but it was like my actions were no longer my own. When I finally gave up on the front door, I turned around and saw the shadows way back at the hallway begin to shift as something descended the stairwell. There was no other way out. No door. No window. Just me, a long corridor, and a nightmare coming right at me.
Something inside me gave up. I don’t know how to describe it. I’m still not sure if it was that building and that strange fluid that seemed to warp my own thoughts, or maybe there’s just too much one person can go through. But I could practically hear the thin membrane of my sanity tear as I fell backwards into the door and slid down onto my ass, breathlessly awaiting my terrible fate. I almost contemplated turning off my light but by then it was too late. I could see him coming towards me. He was legless. Nothing from the waist down except blackened viscera trailing up the stairs behind him. He pulled himself towards hand over hand with hungry eyes. Before I knew it he was on top of me, one hand gripping my mouth with a salty palm, the other stroking my hair.
And then in an instant his demeanour changed. He pulled back with a terrified cry and scrambled away like I’d just stuck him with a blade.
“No no no no no,” he muttered. “No no you should have said you should have said I didn’t know I thought you were another one I didn’t know I thought you were here for me I didn’t know you were hers.”
He cowered away, pedalling on both hands backwards while keeping his eyes fixed on me.
“Tell her I did not know you were hers I could not smell until I was close very close if I hurt you I am sorry tell her I am sorry I did not mean to hurt you it is just I do not get to eat often and am always hungry.”
With a rapid gesture he threw the key for the door at me. It skittered across the floor and fell just short of my feet.
“Tell her I did not know.”
“W-w-w-what are you?” I stammered.
He looked at me curiously, stopping his retreat only briefly to gauge my expression.
“She likes to be seen but I looked without asking and I got what I deserve.”
“Who are you talking about?” I asked.
He very nearly laughed, but with such deformities it was mostly a drooling guffaw.
“You know!” he gasped. “Don’t be stupid. You’re in love with her. Just like me. But different. You got permission. I didn’t. But she was good. She left me an old nest to live in. And I have permission to eat anything I kill or trap myself. Hard now that people know to stay away but sometimes I get lucky.”
His eyes flicked to the closet with sickening hunger.
“What has this got to do with her?” I asked.
“What colour are her eyes?” he replied, almost manic with excitement. “Answer. Answer. Tell me. Tell me. What colour are her eyes?”
“G–”
I stopped. The word felt wrong in my mouth.
“Bl–
“Bro–”
“No no,” he chittered. “None of those.”
Seemingly excited but afraid, he raced forward momentarily and gripped my lapels with twisted glee.
“Compound,” he hissed with such forbidden pleasure. “Her eyes are compound. She’s jealous of us, you know?
“Jealous we get to love her.”
And then he disappeared into the darkness and something inside me gave way entirely and I passed out.
I don’t know much of what came after, exactly. I was found a few hours later in my car, idling at a traffic light. I’d made some effort at getting away on my own but didn’t get very far. No surprise here but I got sick as a dog going in that place. A deep chest infection. The kind that scares everyone at least once in their life. Only fair given how fucking stupid I was. But forgive me, I hadn’t anticipated nightmares beyond human comprehension. I challenge anybody to think that fucking far ahead. You think junkies. You think flies. Squatters. But that guy… that man slipping out of the nest and barrelling towards me on two hands. My mind going sizzle pop along with the soles on my boots. In real life, shit like that always sneaks up on you.
So I paid the price. Six months. Jesus. Six long months. I got every fever you can think of. Sepsis. Kidney failure. Liver failure. Month after month drowning in my own fluids, coughing up shit that made the nurses gag and leave. I asked the doctor what the long term effects will be and he winced before reading a list of things that didn’t leave much hope for a happy retirement. And if it was hard on my body, it was even worse on my mind. Those fever dreams… doctors say what I remember in that building, that was all just part of the sickness. Say I spent a good three days in a coma and strange dreams are the norm. Which I might accept if it weren’t the fucking skin graft still healing on my right hand. No one can explain that.
My client visited. Just the once. There are universally sad moments in life and one of them is realising someone you have a lot of affection for doesn’t have it back. They have some. Just not the same amount. It was always one way though, wasn’t it? I saw her every single day but if I was doing my job right, she only saw me once a month for our meetings. Our arrangement ended not long after, so I hope anyway. She left like it was nothing but me… ah Jesus it felt like someone excavated my heart right out. Even after what she told me why she was there, even after what I did, I could barely stand up straight I was so heartbroken. There were times after that I wished the sickness would just take me. Maybe that defeatism is why it got so bad. Who knows?
She came to me looking for a recommendation, of all things. She wasn’t cold. Far from it. But there was a sense of disappointment as she sat beside me and eyed me up.
“I liked the initiative,” she said after a while. “But the results leave me unimpressed.”
“What the fuck happened in that place?” I asked, and even though I could barely hear my own voice, she seemed like she heard every word. For a moment, the way she contemplated it, I thought I was gonna get a straight answer.
“You know my mother said men don’t see ugly women. They know they exist but they just poof them right outta their mind. Like a magic trick. She said we worked better being a little plain. Good enough to take home for a night. Any more and we’d start to leave problems everywhere we go. That guy was a problem. She was trying to warn me about the dangers of attention but silly me, I went and got addicted. I hoped with you there might be a degree of… separation. Infatuation on a contractual basis.”
She took a deep breath like she’d had a long hard day.
“I don’t know. Maybe Mom was right. It’s ridiculous, I suppose. The fly shouldn’t admire the spider. It either sees it and fears it, or doesn’t know what’s coming until it’s too late. I think Mom was telling me to go for the latter. It’s no fun being invisible though. You spent all that time looking at me. Following me. What did you see?”
I looked at her until my eyes watered and something throbbed in my skull.
“I don’t know,” I tried to lie.
“Be honest.”
She looked right at me and something in the air changed. I don’t know what. Hot. Jesus it was hot. Like looking at the sun. I remember the heart rate monitor going nuts and then… then I remember gossamer wings and serrated chitin. A tick on the inside of your cheek. A leech on your tongue. A horsehair worm that won’t leave the skin. And then an instant later my eyes refocused and there was just a normal woman in front of me.
“Someone I could have loved,” I answered, unable to stop the words spilling like vomit. “Someone who I thought deserved love.”
“See,” she said. “Who wouldn’t like your version better?”
I was crying again. Heart racing. World like butter, going soft at the edges. Whatever she did, it was like undergoing brain surgery in real time.
“I’d like a recommendation,” she said after another minute or two of silence. “I’d like to see myself. I look in the mirror and I don’t see what you do. I’d like an artist to paint me. A version of me, at least. It won’t be easy on them. All this time you’ve probably looked directly at me for no more than five, ten minutes in total. Just didn’t realise it. Always the back of my head or my hair obscuring just so. That won’t do. I want a portrait. I want to know what you see.”
“What will you do to them?”
“I won’t do anything. Not intentionally. But if you ask someone to paint the sun, expect them to go blind. Whoever paints me will be painting the sun in their living room. Going blind is the least of their problems. Now, fess up. You know someone. You mentioned them once in passing. A cousin, maybe. An artist in need of cash. I’m sure of it.”
“Why would I tell you anything?”
“Because you love me,” she said. “And because despite everything you will get better and you will come back to me. Year or two, I think. You are adamant I have no hold on you, and you will think that for a long time. And this period of freedom, you’ll enjoy it only by my good grace and mercy. You did a good job. Better than any before. I’ve read your notes and reports over and over and seen details of myself I didn’t even know were there. It’s a thing of beauty, what you did. And one day soon you’ll come back to me with some excuse for why you want the contract to continue.”
I tried to spit the word never but managed, at best, a weak shake of the head. Something that put a most peculiar smile on her face.
“It doesn’t work like that. It’d be like trying to brute force your way through Alzheimer’s. You’ll be back. Even now you’re mine. All mine. I’m just being gentle. And you’re going to give me the name and number of this artist because even though you know I could no more love you than a spider loves the fly, you are desperate to please me. Because when I broke the man in that apartment building. When I tore him in two and told him that he would live for as long as I desired, writhing without air for years and years, drowning in sickly fluids and trapped helplessly in a hive he is determined to maintain even though I wouldn't be caught dead going back there. He was grateful. And, with time, you’ll be grateful too.”
She put the pen in my hand. She smiled, mouthed the word good boy, and God help me…
I gave her my nephew’s number.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way.
Being a PI sucks. It’s not what you think. It’s pretty much harassing women. Men hire PIs to go harass their wives and girlfriends and once in a blue moon you get asked to find a missing dog, or to harass a man instead. But that’s it, really. Sometimes I’m looking for hard evidence of infidelity, but a lot of the time my clients just want to rattle the soon-to-be-ex. To make them paranoid and jittery and less reliable in a courtroom, or less likely to pay attention to small print agreements that stiff them out of the holiday home. So that’s my job. I’m a pawn and it is almost always on behalf of the kind of men who think women reading a book in public are secretly looking for male attention.
I don’t have an office. I did for a short while. But things are tough, as I’m sure many of you know, and PI work isn’t exactly lucrative. I don’t know why I’m still doing this job, except to say I’m my own boss, and it’s not easy out there. I went into this with vastly different expectations. If anyone wants to hire someone who was convicted of insurance fraud while training to be a police officer, let me know. Otherwise I’m on my own, following people in cars and sleeping in dingy motels. So when this new job came along, a craigslist ad looking for a guy to stalk them, I just figured it was a fetish thing. I got a nephew who went to art school and makes big bucks painting cartoon characters doing fucked up stuff. He ain’t painting the Sistine Chapel, but he pays the bills and looks after his family. I figure if that work is good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.
So I met the woman who posted the ad and was surprised at how normal she looked. It was in a public place, a park with a nice bench. And even though it was starting to rain a little we didn’t let it bother either of us. We sat there, two tape recorders running, and hashed it out. She said she liked me. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have gotten out of her car. That was flattering coming from her. Good looking woman. Professional. I didn’t know at the time but I’d quickly figure out she was a forensic accountant.
Anyway, we got talking. She never gave me her motivation, but I would later come to understand her as an amateur narcissist. She was new at loving herself. She was smart, accomplished, and actually rather beautiful provided you didn’t spend a great deal of time agonising over things like symmetry or eyebrows, and instead paid attention to how a smile reaches the eyes, or how laughter sounds when it catches someone by surprise. But she grew up dirt poor and spent her teen years unable to visit the dentist, or access a gym, or even just eat home cooked food that wasn’t microwaved. Plump frame, blotchy skin, hair she kept short with a pair of scissors because her and her mother relied on the shampoo and soap they stole from the motel where they shared cleaning shifts. When she fumbled awkward questions at some of the better looking boys in her class, she rarely met with success. That’s not to say she was an outcast, either. She had a social life. It’s just poor kids have to grow up early. Prom’s a luxury. Eating isn’t. If you know, you know. Otherwise you might be surprised by just how fucking tough it can be for some kids in this country. Anyway, she got out of that hole, fought tooth and nail, got an education, a good job, and by the time she finished her victory lap and took stock of her life she was thirty-five years old and a thousand miles from the trailer she was raised in.
And she looked good. The woman in the mirror was a stranger that she wanted to get to know. I think hiring me was an act of self-love. I think if she could have, she would have sat in a car and watched herself get a cup of coffee, spying closely at the professional looking woman doing a little half-run half-skip to get out of the rain. The way she stood in line rocking back and forth on her heels to the music in her airpods thinking no one’d notice. She wanted to admire herself, but unable to time travel or clone herself, she instead resorted to hiring me as a kind of proxy.
I had my own boundaries, of course. They covered anything that was gonna get me in trouble. The gist of the contract, after a nice week spent meeting after work and talking, was that I was to follow her as often as I could and just… observe her. Photos. Videos. Secret recordings. Occasionally a little bit more. Nothing physical. For example, one time I inventoried her handbag after she left it in a taxi by accident. I’m not a photographer, but something about all those knick knacks laid out on a motel bed snapped with a black and white polaroid, it looked good. Like something you’d see in a fancy gallery. Avant garde my nephew would say. She loved it. Paid me a bonus for it and everything.
Anyway, this carried on like this for about six months. They were… interesting times. Tailing her across train stations, racing across open parking lots to install a tracker on her car, standing on a bridge and dropping an air tag in her bag as she walked past. It was a little bit like being a spy. She even paid for me to buy high end equipment. Crazy stuff. One camera, I could sit on my balcony and read the texts on her phone from a block away. Occasionally there were days where I couldn’t or wouldn’t keep up the required intensity. Stalking requires a lot of cardio. When that happened, when I didn’t feel like following her into a crowded place, or sprinting half-way around town following her car, I’d do research. I’d investigate who this woman had once been. I created fake Facebook profiles and tracked down old school friends, spoke to former teachers, lovers, all of that. The whole job was a matter of mapping her out, like she was a country, you know? And a country isn’t just hills and rivers and borders. Countries have history.
She was happy with my initiative. The text she sent me when I showed her the research folder was a glowing commendation. First one I’d had in a long time. It was nice, someone telling me good job. She had a real way of making me feel like a kid getting a gold star. I didn’t realise at the time, but I was putty in her hands. Head over heels, bless my stupid heart. Of course I didn’t know what I was getting into, but I’d had just enough time to grow over confident. I made the mistake of thinking that I wasn’t gonna find anything in her past that’d give me trouble sleeping.
Boy did I get that one fucking wrong.
Her mother. That’s where things took an odd turn. Now I knew from news reports the mother died in their trailer while her daughter was off staying at some boyfriend’s place for a few days. Natural causes, it read. I wanted to know a little more about what natural causes they were. Figured if there was a congenital thing, it seemed like maybe I ought to know. You’d think the way the trailer park owner reacted to me asking about it, I’d tried asking the Russian government for proof of a democratic election. Thin reedy little woman who gave me hell the moment I mentioned a name. What do you wanna know that for? Who’s asking? Who’s paying you? Why you wanna dig this shit up?
Oh she ripped me to pieces. I put it down to the natural sprinkling of crazies in the standard population and took a different tact. Started calling up the older folks in the park. Residents. Every single one of them put the phone down on me the second I mentioned her name.
Well, all of them except one.
Some people wanna talk and this old bastard was one of them. He had a lot to say about everything from the president to social media and I let him ramble on before starting to press my point. Told him at the start I was a historian looking into the local area, that made it so it wasn’t too suspicious when I began asking about this and that. Slowly making my way to the death of a fifty-three year old woman a couple trailers down from him some years ago.
Again, soon as I mentioned her name, there was a change in the air, even over the phone. For a second I thought this old guy was gonna hang up just like the others. Could hear him smacking his dry lips as he mulled it over.
“Francine didn’t deserve what happened to her,” he said after a while. “She wasn’t a good woman. Didn’t treat her daughter too good neither. But didn’t deserve what happened. Maybe if they’d found her earlier, some of those fellas in white coats could’ve got more evidence, put that little wretch of hers away. But from what I understand, weren’t much left of her at all.”
Then he hung up, leaving me with a whole lot of questions.
This frustrated me. I had, until now, had a fair bit of luck at this new profession of mine. They say be careful what you get good at. Sad truth was, I was getting good at stalking and this was my first real roadblock. I remembered the way I felt when she told me good job and it bothered me I couldn’t really say much about this critical part of her life. That and, well, maybe I still got a chip on my shoulder about being a failed policeman. If you give me a problem, I can sometimes drive myself crazy looking for a fix.
So I hopped in my car and drove to the trailer park, damn near on the other side of the country. Don’t know I was hoping to find. No way the trailer was still there, and it wasn’t. But what I found odd was the lot hadn’t been replaced. There was a hole in the ground, about the right size, and nothing else. Just an empty spot where the trailer had once stood. And the trailers on either side weren’t occupied either. I could tell by politely and legally looking through the windows. Most of them were cleared out, but a few weren’t. They still had plates and other knick knacks left hanging around, like the owners had left without bothering to pack.
“You shouldn’t hang around there, mister.”
The girl who appeared stood a good twenty feet away, shouting over the wind so as to be heard.
“Smell can make you awful sick.”
I wrinkled my nose, aware of the odour she was talking about. Had been since I approached the empty lot. A faint musty smell that made me think of an exotic pet shop.
“What do you mean?”
“Smell makes you sick,” she said like it was self-explanatory. “Woman who died there left behind an awful stench. Made the neighbours sick. And the neighbour’s neighbours, and so on for a couple trailers in a row. No one likes to live there now. Still can’t. Had a couple move in a year or two back and they got sick too. Daddy says it’s a bad one. Not even rats go near that hole.”
The smell wasn’t pretty, but this trailer park looked like the kinda place where hubcaps went missing regularly. Figured they would’ve been used to bad smells. What made this one so special?
I looked over at the girl.
“Where is your dad?”
Few minutes later and I was stood outside a trailer waiting pensively. The little girl had disappeared inside to fetch her father and since then I’d been sat listening to the quietest trailer park in the whole world. Crickets and silence. Traffic on a distant highway. Place was dying, that much was clear.
When the father finally did make an appearance, he said nothing for the first few minutes. Lit a cigarette, offered me one. I refused on account of having quit some time back.
After a while he spoke up.
“I’d invite you in but if you been hanging around that old lot, not sure I want you inside my home. No offence.”
“None taken,” I replied.
“Sally says you’re a historian.”
The man wasn’t terribly old. Mid-thirties, at a guess, but he looked me up and down like I was a teenager caught throwing eggs at his house.
“What’re you really?”
“PI,” I replied.
“Ha now that makes sense. Some relative looking for answers? Heard the Hendersons had a sister with money.”
“That’s exactly it,” I lied. “She didn’t buy the official story.”
“Nor should she,” he replied. “Henderson was fit as a fiddle day he moved in. Weren’t no justice in what happened to those who got sick. And poor Francine… They say she died of natural causes. Man even back then I knew it was shit and I was just a lil kid. The smell alone. Think it’s bad now but at the time, before they came in with a crane to lift the trailer up whole and move it to the dump. Shit it was something awful. There was talk of moving the whole park. Course no one gave enough of a shit about us to go ahead and actually do it.”
“What did she die of?”
“Don’t know. Only thing I am sure of is that that girl of Francine’s lied. Said her mother was live and well when she left before the weekend and they was all on good terms, but that was bullshit. We heard ‘em fighting for weeks before, for one. And of course the body, state that was in, ain’t no way it’d been rotting for just a few days.”
He offered me another cigarette. I refused. He lit it up instead. Second one in what felt like just a few minutes. Made me itchy just to see. I wanted to say something, anything to get a little bit more. But I’d told a big lie pretending to be there on someone else’s behalf, and didn’t want to catch myself out, so I just sat and listened to the quiet buzz of his little patio light.
After the second cigarette was done he reached into his back pocket and took out an old photo.
“I hope you find justice for Henderson and the rest of them,” he said. “Only real bit of proof I ever had something fishy went on.”
He handed me the picture. Wasn’t easy to see what I was looking at. Pile of old leaves, maybe. Mulch. I squinted at it for a few good seconds but couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
“What…?”
“Took that the day they arrived to get rid of the trailer. Had to stand on my friend’s shoulders just to reach.”
“What is it?” I asked, my skin starting to crawl as I picked out details. Whatever I was looking at, it was slumped on a sofa with floral wallpaper in the background. It was about the size of a man, but riddled with holes and cavities the size of golf balls. In my whole life, I’d never seen something that looked like that.
“Why that’s Francine,” he said. “Or at least what was left of her.”
He let me keep the photo. At a guess, that was the only interesting thing that’d ever happened to that man and he’d been waiting to share it with someone. All I had to do was give him an excuse. He seemed to take some pleasure in passing it on. Certainly found my reaction to it amusing. I must’ve gone pale as I grappled with thoughts of what had happened to make a body go bad like that. Back in the hotel, under a good light, I checked that picture again and again. Something about it made me deeply uncomfortable. Knowing a woman was under all that… all those holes and crevices must’ve been made in her flesh. And what’d happened to her skin that’d turned it such a funny texture? Looked furry, like the kinda thing that grows on top of a long-forgotten cup of coffee.
A part of me considered asking my client about this, but I knew that wasn’t the way to go. First, she probably wouldn’t tell me good job if I had to ask. She hired me to do a certain thing and that didn’t involve politely requesting information right from the source. Second, well… I’d read the police reports, what was publicly available, anyway. And she’d made it clear she’d left on the friday and came home on the Monday and…
Well what if that guy was right? Did she really leave her mother alive and well? I mean, people kill. Not just psychos. People like you and me. We do it every day and sometimes we even pull it off. Only half of US murders get solved. That’s a fact. If anyone could be in the right half of that equation, it’d be her. She was smart as hell, my client. Even at seventeen she would’ve been a clever one. Clever enough that she might easily have been able to cover her tracks. Gone over to some boyfriend, twisted his arm into giving her an alibi. Sure, I could see that.
I just needed to figure out what the fuck was going on with that crime scene in the trailer. Thankfully I got some friends still on the force, one of which I even have a bit of leverage on. At first he couldn’t find much on the actual mother, but then I asked him to see if he could take the photo I had, show it around, and see if anyone had seen something like it before. That proved a lot more fruitful. Few days later he came back with a strange one, but straight away I saw the connection.
I’ll spare the details. Old man was found in a tub, all sorts of fucked up, in some old apartment building. It had since been condemned on account of the body which is fairly weird since bodies don’t usually cause that much fuss, but less weird when you realise that said body was in such a bad state it made three people sick and caused long-lasting structural damage. Whatever happened to this guy, it ate through the tub he’d been lying in and seeped into the floors and walls below. Turned plasterboard to shit and apparently even caused some trouble for the sturdier elements like steel and concrete. I don’t know how that works exactly, but that’s what the file said and going by the photos, I didn’t feel like anyone was lying.
As for the pictures? What can I say? Made my fucking skin crawl. No blurry little polaroid snapped by a kid. These were professional crime scene pictures that showed something in a bathtub that didn’t register as human until my eyes went looking for details. He looked like a hairy paper-wasp’s nest, only there were fingers and nipples and other little things that made it clear it had been built using a person as the framework. No face though. Just a head like a pile of used paper plates. Looking at those photos made me learn a new word just to describe how I felt. Trypophobia.
Wasn’t just the one guy either. Building was linked to the disappearance of the ground floor tenant. Some computer geek. I didn’t worry about him too much. But what did catch my eye was there was only one woman living in the whole place. Second floor apartment. The registered name was… somewhat familiar. Close enough to a certain someone’s that it raised the hairs on my neck. Police at the scene managed to get a photo of her and sure enough, there she was. My client going by a different name. Clearly something fishy was going on or else why the pseudonym? I figured it possible she’d maybe offed her own mother. Parents and spouses make the most common victims. But what connection was there to that second corpse, and what about the missing guy?
It was like a horror movie was following her around and she was just blissfully unaware. Condemned buildings and festering trailers made for a far cry from the professional accountant who enjoyed oat milk lattes and used sweetener instead of sugar to spare her teeth. But there was no denying she was the connection. There was photographic proof she’d lived in that building. If I wanted to get ahead of this, to really understand what was going on, I had to figure out what had happened to those bodies. I’d pretty much exhausted my favours with the police and truth was they didn’t know any more than I did. But it turned out the building was still standing. Condemned, but they hadn’t demolished it, partly because no one wanted to take responsibility, but I reckon it might have had something to do with the biohazard warnings slapped on every single window and door.
Good thing I’d brought a gas mask. I waited for sunset, geared up, and entered through the unlocked door. First thing that hit me as the door swung open was the smell. Similar to the trailer park but full pelt and hot as hell. Made me think of lizards and poorly kept terrariums. Strong enough to make my eyes water even through the mask. One thing was clear as I took a look around the hallway - the building was diseased. Not just rundown or decrepit like the usual urban decay. This was something else. Looked like the inside of a clogged pipe. You know how limescale fills it up? It was a bit like that. This oily rust coloured fluid had seeped down the walls and left them glistening and soft. Ropey stalactites of the stuff hung down from the ceiling like old party banners, and I edged around them afraid of what might happen if one touched me.
Best guess was that stuff was digesting the place. Anything soft or organic was going or gone. Old umbrella frames were left standing in one corner, the fabric burnt or dissolved away. The carpet was reduced to just a few patches no bigger than my hand. And a bunch of old cardboard boxes piled up under the stairs had turned squat and half-liquid, almost flowing down and around each other. The worst came when I took a look in the back room. More of a broom closet, I guess. Wouldn't have gone in but something caught my eye. A well-worn shoe that wasn’t covered in that oily shit. Sign of recent activity. That and the way the door was ajar just raised my suspicions, so I took a look.
Even now the timeline eludes me, but someone, a vagrant most likely given the way they were dressed, died a nasty death in there. Chemical burns come to mind. They were balled up in one corner, eyeless, looking up at me as I pushed the door open to take a closer look. Pink flesh threaded with red blood vessels, yellow bones poking through here and there. From the looks of things they’d been trying to work the door open. You could see a history of their escape attempts left by bleeding hands. Rust coloured finger streaks ran all along the door’s edges, special attention paid to the hinges. And he’d broken the only window and tried hauling himself up there only to realise it was barred from the other side. The jagged glass that still clung to the frame was covered in old blood. His palms must have looked like grated cheese. Eventually he’d given up and lain down in that shit and the thought of it made my chest feel heavy and tight. I’d only been in the building a few minutes and that shit was already eating through my shoes. I could hear the thick rubber soles sizzle and pop with each step. But that guy had been forced to sit down in an inch deep puddle of the stuff, likely because exhaustion had left him no choice but to tough it out. So how long had he tried staying up right?
Hours? Days? Weeks?
Him getting stuck in there had to be deliberate. I was sure of it. A feeling in my gut. Someone had locked the door behind him and left him to die slowly. God only knows why, but did that mean they were still hanging around and waiting for a chance to get to me? Looking around, I sure didn’t feel safe or alone. The shadows seemed too deep and the steady drip drip drip of that rancid oil oozing out of every surface was too monotonous. Someone or something lived in that filth and chances were they’d been responsible for that poor vagrant’s agonising death.
That meant getting out of that shithole was a priority, so I made for the stairs and started the climb. If there were any answers in that place, it’d be in the apartment where that old man died. The crime scene tape was still hanging off the door frame when I found it, and the TV and sofa, or what remained of them, stood in the same place as in the photos. Back in the day the old man had been a hoarder and I was surprised crime scene hadn’t cleared all his shit out. It was all still there, only what had once been a chest high maze of papers and magazines was now just a kind of hardened pulp, almost like magma dried mid-flow. Whole fucking place was covered in the stuff like a coral reef, growing up the walls and even patches of the ceiling. Looked a hell of a lot like a wasp’s nest, and it looked to be the source of that oily looking fluid. You could see it sweating out of every crease and fold in that strange hive. It was almost hypnotic to look at. Glistening amber beads oozing out of papery sheets that flowed like rock striata. There was a gentle, barely perceptible rhythm. Hypnotic.
I don’t know why but I reached out and ran the tip of my finger as gently as I could along the surface. It felt like the underside of a mushroom. All those papery gills. Gossamer thin. Soft and inviting. I wore no gloves and the brief moment of contact had deposited a single bead of that strange syrup on my fingertip. It caused a tingling sensation that was not entirely unpleasant. Even the blood that trickled down my knuckle felt warm and wet, like testing a hot bath with your hand. I liked it. I liked it and I wanted more.
I went to reach out and push my arm into the nest when a hand burst out of the nest and gripped my wrist. I was so surprised I didn’t even make a noise, but instead wordlessly fell back as the hand pushed me away from the nest. A very nearly skinless forearm followed and soon after a face emerged from the papery nest like a grime covered nightmare. Black eyes and a lipless mouth. It was a man that could have passed for a corpse, like a half-digested piece of meat. Terrified, I struggled to my feet and realised that this person had broken damn near every bone in my wrist with that single grip.
“Your meat smells raw,” he growled before heaving himself out of the nest in a disgusting parody of childbirth.
My sanity flickered and the next thing I knew I was on the ground floor with bleeding eyes and both hands frantically pulling at the door handle. My mind returned in pieces. I blinked red tears away but didn’t stop trying to open the door. I felt it, that urgent need to leave, like a suffocating man feels the need to breathe. But I’d fucked up bad. I’d sniffed out the closet and saw the trap laid there, but hadn’t seen the larger one set for me. There was only one way in and out of that building and I hadn’t jammed the door open! Now it was shut and nothing I did could get it open. With more time maybe I could’ve pried the jamb or even kicked it down, but my heart was racing and my vision blurring. I wanted out of that place. A hot primal need to get the hell out. The air was too hot. My mask too stifling. Sweat condensed on the inner plastic and made it damn near impossible to see. And the pain in my wrist was a throbbing explosion that made sensible thought impossible. I’d realised early on into my little foray that I was underprepared, but the scale of what that meant eluded me until I was there wrestling with thoughts of exposure and contagion and disease, fumbling at a greasy doorknob with a broken hand while suppressing thoughts of what might be crawling up my leg or back or neck. Panic threatened to consume me. The world and all the normality it represented was right fucking there. I could hear it. The distant hum of traffic. The amber glow of streetlights that lit up the biohazard posters. Not thirty minutes ago I’d been there. Safe and far away from this waking nightmare.
I was being reduced to a prey animal. Even in the moment I could sense it happening to me. Being made into something lesser, but it was like my actions were no longer my own. When I finally gave up on the front door, I turned around and saw the shadows way back at the hallway begin to shift as something descended the stairwell. There was no other way out. No door. No window. Just me, a long corridor, and a nightmare coming right at me.
Something inside me gave up. I don’t know how to describe it. I’m still not sure if it was that building and that strange fluid that seemed to warp my own thoughts, or maybe there’s just too much one person can go through. But I could practically hear the thin membrane of my sanity tear as I fell backwards into the door and slid down onto my ass, breathlessly awaiting my terrible fate. I almost contemplated turning off my light but by then it was too late. I could see him coming towards me. He was legless. Nothing from the waist down except blackened viscera trailing up the stairs behind him. He pulled himself towards hand over hand with hungry eyes. Before I knew it he was on top of me, one hand gripping my mouth with a salty palm, the other stroking my hair.
And then in an instant his demeanour changed. He pulled back with a terrified cry and scrambled away like I’d just stuck him with a blade.
“No no no no no,” he muttered. “No no you should have said you should have said I didn’t know I thought you were another one I didn’t know I thought you were here for me I didn’t know you were hers.”
He cowered away, pedalling on both hands backwards while keeping his eyes fixed on me.
“Tell her I did not know you were hers I could not smell until I was close very close if I hurt you I am sorry tell her I am sorry I did not mean to hurt you it is just I do not get to eat often and am always hungry.”
With a rapid gesture he threw the key for the door at me. It skittered across the floor and fell just short of my feet.
“Tell her I did not know.”
“W-w-w-what are you?” I stammered.
He looked at me curiously, stopping his retreat only briefly to gauge my expression.
“She likes to be seen but I looked without asking and I got what I deserve.”
“Who are you talking about?” I asked.
He very nearly laughed, but with such deformities it was mostly a drooling guffaw.
“You know!” he gasped. “Don’t be stupid. You’re in love with her. Just like me. But different. You got permission. I didn’t. But she was good. She left me an old nest to live in. And I have permission to eat anything I kill or trap myself. Hard now that people know to stay away but sometimes I get lucky.”
His eyes flicked to the closet with sickening hunger.
“What has this got to do with her?” I asked.
“What colour are her eyes?” he replied, almost manic with excitement. “Answer. Answer. Tell me. Tell me. What colour are her eyes?”
“G–”
I stopped. The word felt wrong in my mouth.
“Bl–
“Bro–”
“No no,” he chittered. “None of those.”
Seemingly excited but afraid, he raced forward momentarily and gripped my lapels with twisted glee.
“Compound,” he hissed with such forbidden pleasure. “Her eyes are compound. She’s jealous of us, you know?
“Jealous we get to love her.”
And then he disappeared into the darkness and something inside me gave way entirely and I passed out.
I don’t know much of what came after, exactly. I was found a few hours later in my car, idling at a traffic light. I’d made some effort at getting away on my own but didn’t get very far. No surprise here but I got sick as a dog going in that place. A deep chest infection. The kind that scares everyone at least once in their life. Only fair given how fucking stupid I was. But forgive me, I hadn’t anticipated nightmares beyond human comprehension. I challenge anybody to think that fucking far ahead. You think junkies. You think flies. Squatters. But that guy… that man slipping out of the nest and barrelling towards me on two hands. My mind going sizzle pop along with the soles on my boots. In real life, shit like that always sneaks up on you.
So I paid the price. Six months. Jesus. Six long months. I got every fever you can think of. Sepsis. Kidney failure. Liver failure. Month after month drowning in my own fluids, coughing up shit that made the nurses gag and leave. I asked the doctor what the long term effects will be and he winced before reading a list of things that didn’t leave much hope for a happy retirement. And if it was hard on my body, it was even worse on my mind. Those fever dreams… doctors say what I remember in that building, that was all just part of the sickness. Say I spent a good three days in a coma and strange dreams are the norm. Which I might accept if it weren’t the fucking skin graft still healing on my right hand. No one can explain that.
My client visited. Just the once. There are universally sad moments in life and one of them is realising someone you have a lot of affection for doesn’t have it back. They have some. Just not the same amount. It was always one way though, wasn’t it? I saw her every single day but if I was doing my job right, she only saw me once a month for our meetings. Our arrangement ended not long after, so I hope anyway. She left like it was nothing but me… ah Jesus it felt like someone excavated my heart right out. Even after what she told me why she was there, even after what I did, I could barely stand up straight I was so heartbroken. There were times after that I wished the sickness would just take me. Maybe that defeatism is why it got so bad. Who knows?
She came to me looking for a recommendation, of all things. She wasn’t cold. Far from it. But there was a sense of disappointment as she sat beside me and eyed me up.
“I liked the initiative,” she said after a while. “But the results leave me unimpressed.”
“What the fuck happened in that place?” I asked, and even though I could barely hear my own voice, she seemed like she heard every word. For a moment, the way she contemplated it, I thought I was gonna get a straight answer.
“You know my mother said men don’t see ugly women. They know they exist but they just poof them right outta their mind. Like a magic trick. She said we worked better being a little plain. Good enough to take home for a night. Any more and we’d start to leave problems everywhere we go. That guy was a problem. She was trying to warn me about the dangers of attention but silly me, I went and got addicted. I hoped with you there might be a degree of… separation. Infatuation on a contractual basis.”
She took a deep breath like she’d had a long hard day.
“I don’t know. Maybe Mom was right. It’s ridiculous, I suppose. The fly shouldn’t admire the spider. It either sees it and fears it, or doesn’t know what’s coming until it’s too late. I think Mom was telling me to go for the latter. It’s no fun being invisible though. You spent all that time looking at me. Following me. What did you see?”
I looked at her until my eyes watered and something throbbed in my skull.
“I don’t know,” I tried to lie.
“Be honest.”
She looked right at me and something in the air changed. I don’t know what. Hot. Jesus it was hot. Like looking at the sun. I remember the heart rate monitor going nuts and then… then I remember gossamer wings and serrated chitin. A tick on the inside of your cheek. A leech on your tongue. A horsehair worm that won’t leave the skin. And then an instant later my eyes refocused and there was just a normal woman in front of me.
“Someone I could have loved,” I answered, unable to stop the words spilling like vomit. “Someone who I thought deserved love.”
“See,” she said. “Who wouldn’t like your version better?”
I was crying again. Heart racing. World like butter, going soft at the edges. Whatever she did, it was like undergoing brain surgery in real time.
“I’d like a recommendation,” she said after another minute or two of silence. “I’d like to see myself. I look in the mirror and I don’t see what you do. I’d like an artist to paint me. A version of me, at least. It won’t be easy on them. All this time you’ve probably looked directly at me for no more than five, ten minutes in total. Just didn’t realise it. Always the back of my head or my hair obscuring just so. That won’t do. I want a portrait. I want to know what you see.”
“What will you do to them?”
“I won’t do anything. Not intentionally. But if you ask someone to paint the sun, expect them to go blind. Whoever paints me will be painting the sun in their living room. Going blind is the least of their problems. Now, fess up. You know someone. You mentioned them once in passing. A cousin, maybe. An artist in need of cash. I’m sure of it.”
“Why would I tell you anything?”
“Because you love me,” she said. “And because despite everything you will get better and you will come back to me. Year or two, I think. You are adamant I have no hold on you, and you will think that for a long time. And this period of freedom, you’ll enjoy it only by my good grace and mercy. You did a good job. Better than any before. I’ve read your notes and reports over and over and seen details of myself I didn’t even know were there. It’s a thing of beauty, what you did. And one day soon you’ll come back to me with some excuse for why you want the contract to continue.”
I tried to spit the word never but managed, at best, a weak shake of the head. Something that put a most peculiar smile on her face.
“It doesn’t work like that. It’d be like trying to brute force your way through Alzheimer’s. You’ll be back. Even now you’re mine. All mine. I’m just being gentle. And you’re going to give me the name and number of this artist because even though you know I could no more love you than a spider loves the fly, you are desperate to please me. Because when I broke the man in that apartment building. When I tore him in two and told him that he would live for as long as I desired, writhing without air for years and years, drowning in sickly fluids and trapped helplessly in a hive he is determined to maintain even though I wouldn't be caught dead going back there. He was grateful. And, with time, you’ll be grateful too.”
She put the pen in my hand. She smiled, mouthed the word good boy, and God help me…
I gave her my nephew’s number.