"Katsuki Bakugo, the hero known as CoolOff is a villain killer!"
The news circulates throughout the country. It's on TVs, YouTube ads, Posters, Billboards, stickers. If that wasn't enough the people are now wearing badges calling Bakugo a criminal.
"Young Bakugo, I heard what happened. Come we need to leave the country NOW" All Might stressed.
"No, I'm not leaving because a bunch of damn extras starting sympathising with a fucking femicidal maniac"

...

"I'm sorry, I'm just really agitated by this whole thing. I can't believe my entire career as a hero is over" Bakugo said as he looked down at his feet sheepishly.
"Don't be. This whole thing will blow over soon when the truth gets out" All Might responded
"Thanks"
KRAKAKAKOOOOOOOMM!
"What was that"
"I don't know but we should go check it out"
Bakugo stops Yagi
"I should go check it out. You stay, with OFA's embers down to 45% you're in no condition to go fight"
"Fine, but I'd feel more comfortable by your side Young Bakugo...That way I'd know your safe"
"Aww, your making me blush" Bakugo replied sarcasticly as he ran off.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
"There's more where that came from" The mysterious voice answered as he joyfully tormented his victim
"Please...Please stop" Izuku pleaded
"NO"
"Now I'm gonna make sure your kind never sees the sun rise again. INDISCRIMINATE SHOCK 1.3 MILLION VOLT-"
"SHUT THE HELL UP NERD"
Bakugo caught Denki off guard
"Wait. Are you that pathetic quirkless murderer guy i've been hearing about because frankly you're such a damn bore" Bakugo teased
"A-Are you making fun of me" Denki questioned
"Duh! What else do you think I was doing shit for brains"
Denki gasped
"That's soo rude" Denki reacted
"KAAACHAN!" Izuku gleefully cried
"Oh hey Deku"
"Wait. You know this juvenile" Denki queried
"Well-um yes? Kaachan and I go way back. We used to hang out back in Junior High"
"DEKU!!! Stop telling the bad guy E V E R Y T H I N G" Bakugo started grinding his teeth in frustration.
"Oh...sorry"
"HUMAN STUN GUN!" Denki electrocutes both Deku and CoolOff and runs off
All Might smacks Denki with a wooden plank effectively knocking him out
^{"Timber from Cainz...Specifically Miura Smash"} All Might careful whispers to his sleeping opponent.
"Who are you talking to?" Bakugo said bluntly
"N-No one" All Might hastily said
"Is that?...All Miiiiiiiiiiiiggggggghhhhhhhttttt" Izuku breaks out into a fanboy frenzy
"Yes, it is I young man. You must be awfully scared but fear not for I am here"
Izuku starts crying and tells All Might about how scared he was
"What do we do with this piece of crap now?"
"We?"
"We" Bakugo confirmed
"OW!" Bakugo yelled
"What's wrong Young Bakugo?" All Might asked
"Yea Kaachan are you alright?"
"I'm FIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNEEEEEEE"
Bakugo was indeed not fine
"You're sweating and your arms are covered with black veins"
"Huh?"
"Denki has an electric-type quirk" Izuku blurted
"Then it's worse than I thought" All Might added
"I think...You might be dying"
Bakugo laughs at All Might
"What are you crazy?"
"I'm quite serious Young Bakugo..How's your breathing and your heart rate. Check your heart rate"
"Alright All Might"
Bakugo checks his resting heart rate
"It says 160. Is that good?"
All Might dissolves back into skinny form
"You should be dead" All Might articulated
Blood starts dripping from Bakugo arms and old wounds start opening up
"That's not good"
"NO SHIT DEKU"
Bakugo's heart rate starts rapidly beating as if it were to explode
Bakugo struggles to breathe
He tries to shake the feeling off but ends up splashing his blood all over Deku
Bakugo realises his time is up and flys as far away as he can from the city and people
He explodes in an abandoned warehouse
Tears drop down All Might's face as he hears his protege's demise
Izuku goes home that night upset and gloomy.
He wakes up the next day
And punches his door in a fit of rage
His arms explode off
Terrified Izuku calls his mom for help.
4 hours later
"The surgeons have managed to successfully reattach your arms Izuku"
"Are you ok, honey?" Inko asked worried about her son's spontaneous combustion
"I'm fine mom"
BREAKING NEWS! TEEN HERO COOLOFF FOUND DEAD IN ABANDONED WAREHOUSE
Inko switches off the tv
"I'll give you some space"
Inko exits the room and heads over to get some coffee
Izuku's door opens
"Mom, I thought I made it clear I wanted to be left alone"
"Well then it's a good thing I'm not your mom"
"ALL MIIIIIGGHHHT"
"Hello Izuku-Kun, I heard your arms exploded off which is why I came"
"You see Bakugo is....dead. Which I'm sure you already know but what you don't know is that I gave my power to Bakugo..One For All...And he gave that power to you"
"Me? Why would Kaachan give OFA to me?"
"Well he didn't do it intentionally. When he tried shaking all his blood off some of it must've entered your mouth or gone up your nose and with the intention in mind to transfer the power you received it"
"Why would Kaachan want to give up this power?"
"Because his burden proved to great for him to handle"
"I'm sure you took note of the media cancelling Young Bakugo"
"I did"
"Well the media kind of twisted the truth and as a result Young Bakugo has been having thoughts of quitting for months. He let his rage get the better of him and now he's....May his soul rest in piece".
"Now that your arms have been fixed I think it's time to start your training"
Meanwhile in an abandoned warehouse
"Ah! CoolOff the 9th and last user of OFA! Now OFA will finally be mine!
The mysterious man grabbed CoolOff's hand but to his surprise no OFA
"He passed it on. I should've expected this of course Toshinori's protege would have his own protege". The mysterious man thought
"No matter. I'll make use of what I can" the mysterious man said a loud as he carried CoolOff's corpse to his van before driving off
"Vive Les Puissants"
Fin.
Some trivia about this universe:

• In this universe Bakugo is given OFA (at least 2 years before he ends up in UA).
  
• Bakugo is a lot nicer and friendlier to All Might than everyone else (All Might gives up on his relentless quest of finding a quirkless aspiring hero. It's been 20 years so he just gives OFA to the strongest and most dedicated aspiring hero he can find).
  
• Izuku also pulls up to UA (quirkless. He's in the General Education Department).
  
• All Might uses tech from David and Melissa Shield as well as Mei Hatsume and Power Loader [to make up for OFA's declining embers All Might utilises tech to continue his day-to-day hero pursuits. All Might's support gear includes: Electromagnetic Soles (for speed), High Density Capture Nets (neatly compressed and fired from a gun to swiftly capture one's foes), Koete Arm Bracers (a mix between Izuku's Airforce gloves, the mid-gauntlet and the full gauntlet. It's reinforced with iron, tungsten, tantalum, and vanadium. The fingertips of the Arm Bracers are covered with potassium chlorate, sulfur, and nitroglycerin [covered with resin so All Might doesn't accidentally set himself on fire. These coin-like projectiles activate when All Might flicks them at his opponents], The QAD (David Shield's Quirk Amplification device. The prototype was a headset but since then the design has been redeveloped and has been drastically changed to a set of trendy shades), and a Jetpack (to allow All Might to fly without placing further strain on OFA's embers).
  
• Weirdly enough Bakugo has been silently doing hero work for 2 years (He's following Eraserhead's footsteps by avoiding the media).
  
• Bakugo comes face to face with his arch nemesis [the weird slime villain who got the better of him 2 years ago] and blasts him to smithereens...This creates a very unfortunate series of events of Bakugo.
  

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I'm not gonna go full TA, but there are some weird parts to the building. It mixed rounded arches and pointed arches for no apparent reason even allowing for the community's architectural strata theory, has a couple bushes somehow growing out of the brick and mortar floor, has an unexplained gaping hole in the roof (not big enough to be caused by a Grafted Scion) and features a series of unusually far-apart blind arches at floor-level. There's a wall of bookcases inside the chapel that doesn't make sense for a chapel to have. There are many wooden chairs, two pews and no lecterns etc.
It's implied that there used to be a wooden platform above the southeast side of the interior matching the northwest interior side but there's only a shape in the floor for three of the matching four support beams and it's just smooth paving where there should be a broken bit of a wooden pillar (opposite the southwesternmost bookcase).
Then there's the cobwebs. There are so many of them and they are so big that the building has obviously not has a single Tarnished return from across the fog to the chapel for a long time. If it's been abandoned for years, why had Godrick sent one of his family members to guard it?

The pain was the worst thing`Dominick Mason had ever known…and he knew what it felt like to die. It felt like his brain was in a blender, being chopped to liquid for a Jeffery Dahmer smoothie and though it seemed melodramatic, he imagined he could feel himself losing brain cells by the minute. The sun, Merrick told him, would not burn him, but it would decay him faster, so sleep or rest during the day. With the sick, throbbing agony in the center of his brain, however, that was impossible. He spent most of the day curled up on his side, hugging his knees, and moaning. He had flashbacks to dying in his apartment, and that made things even worse. The room became too small, too close, the air too stale. His heart, filled with the blood of last night’s meal, pounded in his chest, and he went from slightly chilly to hot and feverish as blood was forced through his circulatory system. It mixed with the embalming fluid and left him feeling full and constipated. He didn’t want to get up, but he also didn’t want to go on lying there. He was the definition of miserable.
Before long, the pain became too great and he got up to pace, pressing his hands to the sides of his head and gritting his teeth. Merrick, who slept very little if at all, sat in his chair and watched, trying his best to talk him through it. “It’ll be over soon,” Merrick said. “The pain receptors in your brain are the first to go. When they burn out, you won’t feel anything.”
“When?” Dom asked, his voice raising with the tide of pain.
“A couple days?”
“A couple days???”
“The pain will lessen gradually,” Merrick said, “this is the worst of it.”
Dom believed that this was, indeed, the worst of it, but he doubted it would lessen gradually. For the rest of the day, the pain got worse and worse until every light blinded him, every sound turned his stomach, and the smell of anything made his gorge rise. The cloying smell of the embalming fluid, the light but unmistakable odor of dead flesh, and the scent of stale blood sitting in decomposing stomachs made him want to vomit, but he was afraid to. He didn’t think he could handle the sight of blood rushing from his mouth and splattering the floor. He still possessed enough of his facilities, he believed, to go insane.
Pain has a way of darkening one’s mood, and by the time the sun began to set, Dom was in the most sour mood possible. Even Merrick’s calm, fatherly voice was beginning to get on his nerves. When he took the oath to him the day before (or was it the day before that?), he turned his faith and trust over to Merrick entirely. He was finally accepted, included, finally had the love and fellowship that, in the pit of his soul, he had always wanted. Merrick understood him, Merrick was kind to him.
But deep down, Dom realized that he didn’t fully trust him. He said that his brain didn’t rot because he was “lucky.” That sounded like some bullshit to Dom. Why wasn’t Joe a blithering idiot too? Was he lucky as well? Did lightning strike in the same place twice? In life, people had done nothing but hurt and lie to Dom. Why would death be any different? He thought back to the strange liquid that always seemed to leak from Merrick’s nose, and Joe’s. He thought it was embalming fluid, but it never leaked from his own nose, or from anyone else’s. He tried to tell himself that it was far too soon to judge, but once he began to doubt something, his mind raced away. He felt a twinge of guilt, as Merrick had done absolutely nothing to deserve his doubt, but goddamn it, his head was on fire and he wanted it to stop. Anything to make it stop.
Just after sundown, the music began as Club Vlad opened for the night. It throbbed in the center of Dom’s head and made him want to claw his eyes out. When it became too much for him, he slipped away and stumbled into the sultry summer night. He came out in the alley running behind the club, clutching his head and breathing through bared teeth. He staggered, bumped into a metal trash can, and roared at the top of his lungs, as if he could purge himself of the pain by screaming.. His voice echoed and came back to him, making the pain worse.
Merrick was lying. He knew it. People always lied to him. His brain was rotting and PEOPLE WERE LYING! Flashing with anger, he slammed his fist into the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant. He barely felt anything so he did it again and again until his hand was lumpy and shaking. He sat heavily on the ground and pressed his hands to his head. It felt like maggots were burrowing into his brain, and he was suddenly terrified that they really were. He needed to stop this awful pain, but how?
An idea came to him.
The funeral home.
Maybe there was something there.
He was on his feet and lumbering there before the thought had even finished reverberating through his mind. It was a long shot, but he was desperate. On the way there, he stuck to the shadows, staying out of the light cast by the streetlamps and avoiding people. When he passed them, he kept his head down. When he reached the funeral home, he went to the back door where he and Jessie had gone the other day. He tried it, and it opened.
Inside, he bounced off the walls like a pinball, knocking over an end table and tearing at the flesh of his head, pulling it away in long, gray strips. He panted like a wild animal, his body a raging tempest of emotions. It was reaching a crescendo, he thought, his brain was about to go supernova. The world dimmed, things got really echoy. The young man he’d picked the embalming fluid up from was there, looking scared.
Flashing, Dom grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him against the wall, knocking a painting of a flowery field to the carpet. Everything seemed to go in slow mo. “How does Merrick keep his brain from rotting?” Dom heard himself demanding from far away. “How does he keep the pain away?”
The man trembled. “I-I-”
Dom slammed him again. “Tell me or I’ll make you like me.”
“No!” the man wailed. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes wet with fear.
“How?”
“He-He uses a solution,” the man stammered. “Some kind of special thing. It preserves his brain. That’s all I know.”
An idea occurred to Dom.
Holding the man by the back of his neck, Dom dragged him into the embalming room and pushed him against the table. His head felt like it was swelling. Hot, screaming, getting ready to explode. He looked around, found the embalming machine, and grabbed the hose. There was a sharp tip on it so that you could jam it into a body. He held it in his hand, hesitating for just a moment before pressing it to his temple. The man watched in horror as Dom slowly shoved the tip into his head. It tore his flesh, broke through his skull, and sank into his brain. He felt no pain, only pressure, but cried out anyway. His eyes rolled up into his head and a shudder went through his body.
“Turn it on!” he yelled.
“That’s not what he -”
“TURN IT ON!”
Starting, the man turned the machine on. Cold embalming fluid squirted directly into Dom’s brain. Almost at once, the pain began to ebb away, replaced only by a fuzzy sense of numbness. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, looking for all the world like an addict taking a hit of his favorite substance after a long and trying day. Fluid leaked from his nose, ears, and eyes and dripped down the back of his throat.
The man waited for a long time, then turned the machine off.
The pain was gone.
At least for now.
“Tell me again,” Dom said.
The man did. Merrick used a special preserving agent to keep his brain intact. Joe, the man suspected, got it as well. So Merrick had lied to him.
Dom felt betrayed.
And angry.
Leaving the man (Dom realized that he didn’t even know his name), he walked back to Club Vlad, his hands fisted in his pockets. All his life, he had been hurt, lied to, and ignored. All his life, people had done wrong to him. And all those years, he just took it.
He resolved not to be so accepting in death.
At last, he was going to stop being a sniveling little bitch and stand up for himself.
When he reached Club Vlad, he slammed through the back door and took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he called out Merrick’s name. The old man was sitting in his chair, being attended to by Jessie and Matt. He looked startled when Dom came in. “You lied to me,” Dom said, stalking over to his benefactor.
“What are you talking about?” Merrick asked, doing his best to sound innocent.
“You lied to me!” Dom screamed. He bent over and got so close to Merrick’s face that he could have kissed him. “You told me there was no way to save my brain, but that’s not true. You’re pumping your head full of shit and letting the rest of us rot.”
A dark shadow flickered across Merrick’s face. “Watch your tone when you talk to me,” he said. His voice was low, menacing.
“Fuck you,” Dom said. “I should k -”
Suddenly, Dom was being grabbed from behind and yanked back, an arm around his neck. He cried out in alarm as Joe swung him around and slammed him face first into the wall. He heard his nose crunch, felt his teeth shatter. Next, Joe wrestled him to the glitter-sprinkled floor and wedged his knee between his shoulder blades.
Merrick watched with a sneer of disgust, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. He wheeled himself over, Jessie holding his IV stand steady and following behind. “Listen, you son of a bitch,” Merrick said, “you’re lucky to be a part of this family.”
Cold fear filled the pit of Dom’s stomach, yet he wouldn’t back down, couldn’t back down. He had lived his entire life like a mouse in a burrow, he wasn’t about to live his entire death the same way.
“Fuck your family,” he said defiantly. “And fuck you.”
Merrick’s face darkened and he sat back in his chair. He looked at Jessie and nodded. She went away and came back a moment later holding something in her hand. Dom’s eyes widened when he saw what it was.
A wooden stake, one end honed to a razor point.
Why they had one of those lying around, Dom didn’t know; it’d be like Superman keeping a piece of kryptonite on the mantle over the fireplace. Merrick directed Max and Matt to hold Dom’s arms down/ Joe pivoted, kneeling on his head now so that Dom’s back was exposed. Dom’s heart slammed with terror and tremors raced through his body.
“Is this what you want, Dominick?” Merrick asked. “To die? To truly die?”
Dom swallowed hard. No, it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to live, to love, to have a family one day. He wanted a happy, normal life, the life TV and social media had been promising him since he was a little boy.
But all of that went out the window the night he died in his little apartment. There was no life anymore, just a grotesque parody of life. What was there for him other than death? Clinging desperately onto life for decades like Merrick? Stuffing himself full of embalming fluid and moth balls? Grinding for one more minute just so he could sit hooked up to a machine?
Dom spoke.
“What?” Merrick asked, not having heard.
Dom licked his lips. “Just fucking do it.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Expectation hung in the air. Finally, breaking the tension, Merrick nodded to Jessie. Kneeling down, she brought the stake up, and Dom closed his eyes.
This was it.
He braced himself for death.
Jessie brought the stake down just as a shot rang out, deafening in the small space. Her head whipped back, embalming fluid, skull fragments, and gray, sickly pieces of brain showering from the back of her head. She flopped back and landed on the floor with a sickening thud.
A woman cop, her black uniform in stark contrast to the burning white light, stood in the doorway to the hall, her gun drawn. Everyone did, indeed, freeze, more out of surprise than respect for authority. They all looked at her, their dead mouths agape, resembling children who’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Everyone on the ground!” she barked.
No one knew what to do. They hadn’t expected to be raided by the police so had not prepared. She jerked her gun and everyone instinctively flinched. “On the ground!” she repeated. To Max: “You too, bone boy.”
The first one to react was Joe. He sprang at her like a big, undead frog. She brought the gun around and fired, but he was already crashing into her. The shot went wild and struck the IV bag next to Merrick; he ducked and let out a sound of fear. The others rushed her, and Dom got quickly to his feet. Jessie lay on the floor, her mouth open in a silent scream and her bony fingers frantically examining the ragged hole in the center of her forehead. For a moment, he was frozen; everything was happening too fast. Then, when Merrick saw him and cried, “Stop him!, he came alive. Jessie tried to grab at his leg, but he kicked her hand away and stomped on it like it was a giant spider. On the other side of the room, Matt, Joe, and Max had forced the cop to the ground. Perhaps excited by all the action, perhaps just hungry, they began to tear her apart. She howled in pain, and the last thing Dom saw before he fled was her open, blood-filled mouth. Her eyes were filled with pain…with terror.
After that, Dom ran.
***
When the interloper was dead, Merrick directed Joe and Matt to dispose of the body. “Get rid of it,” he said wearily and rubbed his temples, “make sure it isn’t found.”
They rolled her into a carpet from the office, and the way her feet stuck out may have been comical under other circumstances.
Goddamn it, this was bad. Merrick’s entire philosophy rested on avoiding detection. He had done well in that regard. Whereas other vampires had attacked their villages and gotten themselves dug from the ground and staked, he had made it four decades. He never shat where he ate, and there is no bigger turd than killing a cop. They might dawdle on all the boys who’d gone missing - taken because their blood was stronger and more robust than the blood of girls - but they would not take a cop dying lightly at all.
Merrick owned various businesses around the country. He and the others would simply move on. Tomorrow night, they would disappear into the night. They had done it before and they would likely do it again. Once things were settled at their new base of operations, he would have Joe killed for all the trouble he’d caused.
And Dom?
Let him go.
The little rat wouldn’t last a month on his own.
“Jessie?”
Jessie sat against the wall, gazing into space.
“Jessi…start packing. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
She didn’t move, didn’t seem to hear. The shot had all but lobotomized her.
Damn it.
Joe backed the van up to the back door of Club Vlad, and then helped Matt carry the carpet-rolled body down the stairs. They loaded it in and closed the back doors. Together, they drove around looking for a place to dump it. Merrick wanted it to go unfound, but Joe doubted there was anywhere isolated enough in the city. On a whim, he drove to Washington Park, a vast expanse of green trees and shadows. There was a large pond there. It seemed the best option. They were leaving tomorrow anyway, so did it really matter?
Joe backed the van to a railing overlooking the dark water and put it in park. He and Matt got out, fetched the body, and carried it to the railing. They lifted and heaved it over. It splashed. Thus, they rid themselves of Vanessa Rodregiez.
***
Bruce sat anxiously up in his easy chair and waited for his cell to ring.
Parked in front of the TV by warm lamplight, a beer wedged between his legs, he’d been watching the 11’o’clock news when the phone rang. He picked it up and it was Vanessa. “Hey,” she said, “I think I found our body?”
“Which one?” Bruce asked and took a drink. “We have a lot of those these days.”
“Dominick Mason.”
Bruce sat forward in his chair. “Dead Dom? Where?”
“He just came out of a funeral home, ironically enough.”
“That sounds about right,” Bruce said. “Where are you now?”
“I’m following him east on Central.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” Bruce asked.
“I think so, but I’m not sure. I’ll call you back when I’m done.”
Bruce sat the phone aside and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
At some point, he fell asleep sitting up, his head lulled to one side and his mouth open. He snorted himself awake, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. He checked his phone and was perturbed to see that it was past 2am.
Vanessa hadn’t called.
He dialed her number and let the phone ring until it went to voicemail. Sighing, he ended the call, then waited a few minutes and called again.
Still no answer.
It was possible she had forgotten. Maybe the guy turned out to not be Dead Dom after all. She followed some random guy around, realized it, and that was that. Hell, she was probably too embarrassed to call and tell him about it.
Something told him that wasn’t right, however.
There was something else going on here.
Something…darker.
Just before 3am, his phone rang. He snatched it off the end table next to the chair and answered it. It was Burt, the night sargent. “Rodriguez is missing,” he said simply.
Bruce’s heart sank. “Missing?”
“Yeah, she hasn’t checked in for hours and she isn’t answering calls.”
“I’m on my way,”
Bruce tore through the house, pulling on his uniform, socks, and shoes in less time than it took a Daytona 500 pit crew to service a car. In ten minutes he was speeding down 787, the Albany skyline rising in the distance. As he hurried to the station, he thought back to his last conversation with Vanessa. She’d found Dom the Dead Man, the “corpse” who’d scared Ed Harris out of a 20 year career. Despite all their talk about vampires and the living dead, Bruce didn’t believe it, not really. Even so, he was sure that Dominick Mason had done something to Vanessa.
He checked in at the station before doing anything else. They had triangulated Vanessa’s last known location via cell towers. Cops were already out searching the streets for her. Bruce went out as well, intending to start from her last known position and work his way east on Central. The closest funeral home was Tebbutt and Frederick on Central. There was also Lasak & Gigliotti on North Allen Street. Bruce didn’t know which one Vanessa had seen Dom come out of, so he checked both.
Both were deserted at this hour.
Undeterred, Bruce drove up and down Central Ave. At one point, he noticed a shape in an alleyway that looked human. He hit the brakes, jumped out, and pointed his gun at it. “Freeze!”
An old wino stepped out of the darkness. “Alright, you got me,” he said, hands up. “I started COVID. It was an accident, I swear.”
Bruce sighed and put his gun away.
For two more hours, Bruce searched the streets of Albany for Vanessa. At 4am, he spotted a squad car abandoned in the rear parking lot of an abandoned gas station on lower Lark Street. He called it in and the desk sergeant confirmed that it was the one Vanessa had signed out that night.
Still there was no sign of Vanessa herself.
Just after dawn, as the city came alive and CDTA buses began lumbering up and down the streets, Bruce got a call on his cell. “A jogger found a body in Washington Park.”
Bruce was in his personal car. He had no bubble light, no siren. Even so, he sped through the streets like he did, blowing through red lights and stop signs with little care to himself or anyone else. When he got to Washington Park, he found an army cops by the pond, the scene cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. He slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and jumped out without even turning off the engine.
The body was rolled up in a carpet and lying on the bank. Two beat cops unrolled it at Bruce’s direction. “We should wait for -” one of them started, but Bruce cut him off.
“Do it.”
They compiled, and at the carpet’s center, like a rotten cream filling, was the body of Vanessa Rodregiuez. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes wide and staring. Her throat had been mangled and ripped away, her head nearly severed. Even in the black and red mess, Bruce could make out the teeth marks and puncture wounds. They may have looked like something else to anyone else who saw them, but he knew, in that moment, what they were dealing with.
A sharp pang of horror sliced through him, and his knees went weak.
“Jesus Christ,” one of the beat cops drew.
Bruce fell to, rather than knelt on, one knee. He bent over the body, a mixture of horror and grief welling his throat. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her in death, but he stayed his hand. Instead, he visually examined the body. She had bruises on her face, defensive wounds on her hands, and her gun was gone. Whoever had attacked her, she put up a fight.
Something glinted on her pants.
“What’s that?” one of the cops asked.
“I dunno,” the other replied, “but it’s all over the carpet.”
Indeed, there were glinty little specks all over it, winking like mocking eyes. Nice work, eh? We really fucked her up, didn’t we? Wink wink.
“It looks like…”
The other cop cut him off. “Glitter.”
Bruce flashed back to his visit to Club Vlad the other day.
There had been glitter everywhere.
Bruce stood up.
He had work to do.
***
Instead of going back to the station to start his shift, Bruce went to Lowes. There, he bought a mallet, a gas can, and a dozen sticks of wood. An employee in a blue vest used a machine to sharpen them to a wicked point and he took his purchases to the car. Next, he drove over to the Mobil station and filled the gas can. He was so hellbent on revenge that he sprang for premium, the good stuff. No expense shall be spared.
His final stop was at a Catholic church. He filled a canteen with holy water from the marble font by the door, then swiped a crucifix from the wall. He stopped by the station, went inside, and grabbed a black duffle bag with POLICE written across the front in yellow. He opened the gun cabinet in his office, took out a shotgun, and loaded it with shells. He grabbed a handful from the box and stuffed them into his pocket.
He was just finishing up when Bertha came in. “There you are,” she spat, “I’ve waited long enough for you to do something. I demand -”
Bruce shoved the duffle bag into her arms. “Make yourself useful.”
“What?” she demanded.
“We’re going to get your granddaughter,” Bruice lied. Kind of.
Bertha’s demeanor changed. “Good. It’s about time. I was starting to think you were a complete incompetent.”
Bruce didn’t answer. Outside, he plucked the bag out of Bertha’s hands and tossed it into the backseat. He slipped behind the wheel and Bertha sat in the passenger seat. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Club Vlad,” Bruce said and started the engine.
“I want all of them arrested.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce said.
She barked orders the entire way there. Bruce was so deep in his thoughts that he barely heard her. The image of Vanessa’s ruined throat and terror-twisted face haunted him, and he felt a lump forming in his throat. Hot tears filled his eyes but he blinked them back and forced himself to calm down.
I’ll cry when I’m done killing, he thought.
A few minutes later, he pulled to the curb in front of Club Vlad. It was a hot and sunny day and the place seemed even more ominous because of it. The windows were black, the front cast in perpetual shadows by the old marquee from when it used to be a theater. The place was surely closed, but Bruce could hear music still playing from inside, some techno dance bullshit. “Alright,” he said, “let’s go.”
Getting out, he slung the dufflebag over his shoulder and carried the shotgun, the canteen full of holy water clasped to his belt. Bertha carried the gas can, looking confused. “Why do we need this?” she asked.
“We’re burning the place down.”
Bertha blinked in surprise…then an evil grin carved across her face. “That’ll show the bastards.”
Unlike last time, the door was locked. Bruce used the butt of the shotgun to break the glass, then reached inside and unlocked the door, being careful not to cut himself. This was the point of no return. What he had in mind would probably get him kicked off the force or even thrown in jail - and we all know how tough jail can be for a former barnaclehead. The memory of Vanessa’s contorted face pushed him on, however.
He’d suffer any consequences he needed to just so long as he got the sons of bitches who did this to her.
Inside, the club was cool and cave-like. Strobe lights flashed, on and off, black and white, dazzling Bruce’s eyes. The bartender was at his station, cleaning up from the night before. When he saw Bruce and Bertha come in, he started. Bruce pointed the shotgun at him. “Don’t fucking move,” he commanded.
The bartender hesitated, then reached for something under the bar.
The shotgun kicked in Bruce’s hands, and the bartender flew back, turning as he crashed into the barback. Bottles, glasses, and mugs crashed to the floor along with the bartender. Bruce racked the gun, and the shell flew out. He moved low and fast now, expecting to be swarmed by vampires, living thugs who worked for vampires, or vampire thugs who worked for themselves.
Though the shot had been like thunder, no one came.
Bruce had no idea where to go, but he imagined that vampires were naturally gravitate to the lowest part of the building. Was there a basement? Shit, he should have looked up the building plans at city hall. Damn, this is what happens when you go off half-cocked. He searched around a bit, opening doors and sweeping the rooms beyond with the shotgun. He found no basement, only stairs leading up. “Stay close,” he said to Bertha.
In the lead, Bruce crept up the stairs, the flashlight on the shotgun providing a cone of clean, white light. At the top of the stairs, he went right, and came to an office and a store room. Backtracking, and bumping into a bungling Bertha, he went into the next room. It was large and open with a vaulted ceiling, almost like a ballroom. Here the same strobe lights throbbed on and off, making him dizzy. Was this to dazzle prospective vampire hunters?
Either way, this was the place. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, some curled up on their sides and others in the classic vampire pose: Flat on their backs with their hands laced over their chests. In the center, like the sun to the planets, Merrick Garvis lay slumped back in his wheelchair, his neck exposed for any potential assassin to come and cut. Not that it would kill him. At least Bruce didn’t think it would.
“They’re all dead,” Bertha whispered. She looked around and gasped. “There’s Jessie.”
Jessie lay on her back, her hands folded on her chest. She had a ragged bullet hole in the center of her forehead. “Oh, God,” Bertha wavered, “someone shot her.”
He hoped it was Vanessa. And he hoped it fucking hurt.
Looking around, Bruce couldn’t find Dominick Mason. Was he the one who killed Vanessa? Was it a group effort? He wanted the little son of a bitch bad, but it looked like he’d have to go on without him. They didn’t have much time.
Unshouldering the duffle bag, he knelt down and rummaged around. “Start splashing that gas on the bodies,” he said.
“But -”
“Just do it,” he snapped.
There must have been a harder edge in his voice than normal, because Bertha jumped and did as she was told. She upended the can and began to splash gasoline onto the sleeping forms, the smell of it acrid and strong.
Taking out a stake and the mallet, Bruce went over to Merrick and knelt down. He gripped the stake in one hand and placed it firmly against Merrick’s chest. He brought the mallet up and hesitated, the gravity of what he was doing finally reaching him. What if he was wrong? What if -
Merrick’s head whipped up and their eyes locked.
Too late.
Bruce brought the mallet down as hard as he could. The stake drove deep into Merrick’s heart, and the vampire let out a howling screech that rang through the chamber like the cry of a banshee. His bony fingers clawed at the stake and his head whipped from side to side, his back arching and his robe coming open. In the quick strobe pattern, Bruce was shocked to see that his body was little more than a wood frame, chicken wire, and cotton balls. His blacked heart was hidden behind a screen of mesh that the stake had easily torn through. It throbbed, seemingly in time with the strobe lights, and Merrick let out another wail.
Bertha screamed, and Bruce jumped to his feet.
The vampires, drawn by their master’s cries of distress, were rising to their feet. Two, four, six of them, pale and ethereal like ghosts in a gothic mansion. They came toward Merrick, and Bruice fell back a step. The old man had gone still and lay slumped to one side, his eyes open and his mouth slack, embalming fluid leaking from the corner of his lips. Jessie bent over him and touched his face. Though she moved like a zombie, with no human emotion, Bruce was crazily sure that it was a touch of tenderness and love. Merrick didn’t stir.
He was dead.
Jessie looked at him. Yellow liquid leaked from her eyes like tears. Instead of attacking him, she turned on her grandmother and slammed her against the wall. Bertha screamed and dropped the can. It landed on its side, its contents sloshing out onto the floor. A man that resembled the pictures Bruce had seen of Joe Rossi only deader rushed him, slamming into him and knocking the shotgun aside. It hit the floor and skidded away. Joe grabbed Bruce around the throat and squeezed. Still the lights flashed, off and on, off and on. The walls thrummed with the mechanized beat of dance music, pierced only by Bertha’s screams as Jessie ripped out her throat.
Joe leaned in, his fangs wicked and glowing in the light. Bruce clawed at the monster’s face, tearing away strips of dead flesh. Joe turned his head to the side, and Bruce kneed him in the groin. Even dead, getting kicked in the balls hurt like hell, apparently. Joe’s grip loosened and Bruce was able to shove him off. Bruce unclasped the canteen and frantically screwed the cap off as Joe recovered. Joe sprang at him again, and Bruce splashed him in the face.
A sound like sizzling meat filled the air, and Joe screamed at the top of his lungs. He pressed his hands to his face and danced around the room, his skin liquifying and oozing between his fingers. The others were coming now, led by a terrible skeletal thing. Bruce scooped the shotgun off the floor, brought it around, and fired. The blast hit the thing dead center, tearing it literally in half. The top half flew back, an all too human look of surprise on its face, and the bottom half fell over with a wet thud. Another vampire came at, and Bruce slammed it across the face with the butt of the gun. He heard its jaw crack, saw teeth flying.
Bertha lay dead on the floor, Jessie bent over her. The smell of Bertha’s blood attracted the others, who seemed to forget about Bruce, Merrick, and everything else. Joe was on his knees, wailing in pain, and the skeletal thing was pulling itself toward Bertha. A feeding frenzy broke out as vampires fought to get a piece of her the way piglets might fight over their mother’s teat. Bruce watched in a mixture of horror and fascination, but recovered himself. He grabbed the gas can from the floor and dumped the rest of its contents on Merrick’s body, the feeding vampires’ backs, and the floor, using the last of it to make a little trail to the door. He tossed the can aside, bent down, and stuck a match.
A huge, fiery whump filled the room, and fire streaked along the trail. The vampires all went up in a huge ball of flames, and fire shot up Merrick’s body, catching his robe, his hair, and the wooden frame that had kept him semi upright for God knows how long. Letting out inhuman screams, the vampires broke from Bertha’s corpse. One stumbled around, bounced off the wall, and fell; another toddled toward Bruce before falling to its knees. The half skeleton kept drinking from Bertha’s neck even as it burned.
The heat was enormous, baking. Bruce backed away, and the last thing he saw before smoke obscured his vision was Merrick Garvis.
He was literally melting.
***
Dominick Mason tried to go home, but he no longer had a home. All of his worldly possessions sat on the sidewalk in front of his building, discarded coldly as easily. His key didn’t work in his door and there was a FOR RENT sign on it. Why would it be any other way? He was dead. Sooner or later, everyone forgets you when you’re dead, and all the things you held so dear wind up in the trash. It was a hard pill to swallow, but most people aren’t around to see it after they die.
He was.
From his building, he walked east toward Washington Park. In the distance, thick, black smoke billowed into the air, and sirens rose. He barely noticed and wouldn’t have cared even if he did. No more rubbernecking for him. That was for the living.
The pain that had plagued him so the previous day came back, only less this time. Maybe he was imagining it, but it was getting harder to think. Not that he cared, really. What was there to think about anyway? How he had no one to mourn or miss him? How he died and not one single person, except for maybe his mother, cared, or even noticed? How he had done nothing with his life? Even to the women he’d slept with, what was he? Just another dating app hookup. They probably didn’t even remember his name.
Merrick had been right about one thing. Death was easy. It was life that was hard…life that hurt.
With that in mind, Dominick made his way to Washington Park. It was a vast and deep place with many small caves and thickets. Kids played on the playground, their cries of laughter scenting the still air. It had grown cloudy and began to rain. Still, smoke poured into the sky in the direction of Club Vlad. Dom didn’t wish ill on Merrick and the others, didn’t hope it was them burning. He didn’t care anymore. Not about them, not about anyone. For better or worse (and he would argue it was worse), his life was over. His time came days ago, he just missed the boat.
Picking out an isolated little area, Dom sat against a tree with his legs splayed out in front of him. He titled his head back and closed his eyes. Yes, thinking was hard now. His mind felt sluggish, cold. He was thirsty…so, so thirsty, but he ignored it.
Slowly, the bugs found him. Flies buzzed around him and laid their eggs in his skin. Beetles scuttled over him, followed by worms.
Next, it was the birds. They ate out his eyes and nibbled at his blue, bloated skin.
The animals came last.
Their appetites were bigger.
And they left little remaining of poor, outcast Dominick Mason.
***
That night, Bruce sat alone in his little trailer, a bottle of whiskey wedged between his legs and unshed tears in his eyes. He stared at his reflection in the darkened TV set and took long swallows from the bottle. He planned to drink until he forgot or passed out, whichever came first. He tried to not think about Vanessa, but in his addled state, he couldn’t control himself, and began to cry. When that storm passed, like the others before it, he chugged from the bottle.
As distant church bells clanged the hour - midnight - a feeble knock came at the door. Bruce took another drink and it came again. Getting up, he stumbled, nearly fell, and gripped the bottle tightly. He didn’t want to lose one precious drop.
Again, the knock.
“I’m coming,” Bruce slurred. He staggered to the door and fought with the lock. He was dizzy and seeing double.
When he got it, he opened the door.
The bottle dropped from his hand and clanked onto the floor.
Vanessa, clad in a puke green hospital gown, stood on the step, her hands pressed to her chest and a look of anguish on her milk white face. Her head tilted to one side, the wounds on her neck cleaned but open, gaping. Her dark eyes shone with tears. “I’m dead,” she said.
Breaking down in tears, she collapsed against him and they sank to the floor. She was cold and smelled. Bruce wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest anyway. “Shhh, it’s alright,” he said drunkenly. “Hey, it’s alright.
“I’m dead,” she repeated, and her voice broke. “I don’t want to die.”
Bruce held her close, trying to warm her icy skin. He didn’t know what to say, so he cried with her.
“You’re safe now,” he said, “it’s going to be okay.”
“I want blood,” she said and sobbed harder, “I want to hurt people.”
“Shhh,” Bruce said again. “It’s okay.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a utility knife. He flicked the blade across his wrist and searing pain shot up his arm. “Here,” he said and offered her his blood, “drink this.”
He did this without care and without thought. She needed him, and one barnaclehead always backs up another.
Vanessa hesitated, looking from his face to the oozing blood, unsure.
“Go ahead,” he told her.
Vanessa brought his wrist to her mouth.
And began to drink.

I'm selling mine for $600. It has a wooden stand with shelving, a new band, and a new interior ceramic shelf. It's in great condition. I just don't have the time to smoke like I used to. Email me at mardigrasupcycling@gmail.com if you're interested. Thanks!

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I was at a disadvantage before, looking around in unknown territory, but here? This is my house. My country. My library! I have walked around these halls so many times that I have a pretty good mental map of where everything is. Considering the most requested academic tomes are under the protection of the Librarian, I go investigate the shelves on the first floor, where you find mostly reference books.

All this confidence I managed to build up disappears the instant I notice there’s a group of students in the lodges to the side of the hall, just minding their own business. My throat dries up, my knees shake a little bit.

Saints damn it, why aren’t you all on vacation!?

And they are sitting right on my way, between me and the shelves. I am sure the symbol has to be on the shelves…

“Time to turn tail and run, like always.”

“You can do it. Take a deep breath, look straight onwards and walk!”

Taking her advice, I do my best to not look at ANYTHING and just go straight as an ant to the shelves.

“Wait. What if any of them say hi? Oh no. Uhm. Take a quick look! But make it super, super quick!”

Damn it.

My eyes slowly turn to the left as I am walking. Are they looking at me? Did they look at me? WILL they look at me? They don’t seem to even notice me. Should I call for their attention? Should I say hi? I don’t even know them, that would be weird. But what if I do know them and I just don’t remember? There’s lots of law students around, maybe they are law students? I can’t see their books from this distance, maybe I need glasses. Would glasses make me look unassuming? I wish people didn’t look at me…

Eventually I reach the shelves without exchanging a single word with these people. I really, really hope I didn’t look like a nervous wreck while walking by, but I guess there isn’t much I can do about that now, can I? Ugh, I can barely focus as I start looking on the shelf itself, trying to find anything out of the ordinary…

“You’re nervous when there’s a lot of people, and you’re nervous when there’s few people. What will it take for you to be happy about something, huh!? Tiresome bitch…”

I sigh loudly. I left my S.O.S. at home, so I can’t really get rid of these voices tonight… I’ll have to brave them.

“It will be a hard time… but you can do it.”

Taking a deep breath, I continue trying to focus on finding that damn ‘golden symbol’ around the shelves, even taking out a few suspiciously out of place books, just to check if the symbol could be carved on the back of the shelf or something…

Nothing.

I spend a good long hour checking each shelf on the first floor as methodically as my body allows… before I know it, I have given up on everything and am sitting on a bean couch at the main hall, letting my eyes close slowly…

… When I open them again, I practically jump out of my chair.

Did I just fall asleep!?

“Oh boy.”

I pick up my phone to check… It's 2 in the morning.

“Oh boy! Who could have guessed things would go wrong, huh?”

I can still feel the sleepiness in my limbs, my eyelids feel so heavy. Saints, help your poor servant!

The lights feel so vibrant here, so annoying and white. I can practically hear them buzz… but then, I notice something else. The smell of decent coffee, recently brewed. I look around, quickly finding the librarian at her desk, serving cups of coffee to the group I saw… I think of going over and taking one but that would probably imply conversation. And I am not ready for conversation! I—

“Oi! You finally woke up!” The librarian catches me instantly with a knowing smirk. “Want a cuppa?”

I freeze. For a moment I think: ‘hey, let’s pretend I didn’t hear her!’, but I don’t have my headphones on and I made eye contact. I am trapped, TRAPPED.

“M-Mhm.” I manage to whimper, nodding my head quickly.

“Then come over, don’t be shy. We’re all night owls here.”

There is a sense of community there that’s quite alluring, but the curious looks of that group of students really feel like cold daggers on my chest. Still, I gather all my courage and robotically walk over to the group, taking a styrofoam cup, and then watching the woman fill it up slowly with coffee as black as my soul. Just like I like it… just with a hint of sugar, though.

“So you finally came around again. I was wondering what happened to you.” The old lady looked at me, knowingly.

“You… you recognize me?” I can’t help but feel a mixture of happiness and abject horror mounting on my back.

“My child, I recognize every single person who comes to my library! I know them all, believe it or not! Including these rascals over here.”

The others laughed. I just looked at my coffee while mixing a teaspoon of sugar in it. She’s probably joking, right? I mean… there’s no way she actually memorizes every visitor, right?

“Maybe she’s a witch.”

Knowing what I know now? I wouldn’t be surprised. I just take a sip of my coffee.

“You’re not here to study for the special tests, are you?” The lady again read me like a saints’ damned book. “You’re looking for something special.”

“It’s nothing that ominous.” I quickly cover. “I am just looking for a particular book, but I am not sure where I could find it in the library.”

“Why not ask for help? I am right here, precisely for that!” The Librarian puffed up her chest. “If I don’t get anything to do, I get bored.”

“Ah, well, you see…” I start getting nervous again. I can’t just tell her the truth! What if I slip and this woman turns out to be a cloak testing me? Or worse, a sleeper! I am quite sure the whole ‘Secret of magic’ is a very serious matter! I could get her and myself in a big pickle!

The woman seems to notice my distress… and instead of trying to reassure me, the damn crone just goes and says:

“Is it poooorn you’re after, boy?~”

Saints help me.

The others are laughing and looking at me all smiley, why!? Why must this lady put me in a situation like this!?

“T-There’s the internet for stuff like that!” I blurt without thinking. “I mean! Ah! Damn it!”

More laughs. At this point my face must be lighting up red and radiating hotter than active uranium.

“I. Can’t. It’s a symbol!”

“A symbol?” One of the other students tilted his head with curiosity. “What kind of symbol? Are we talking chemical or arcane?”

“Nerd spotted. You’re among comrades here, breathe easy.”

It’s hard to breathe easy when people are actively laughing at me, saints damn it!

“It… symbolizes gold.” I finally relented. “I am not sure which one of the many, many interpretations it could be. I thought of the alchemical symbol for gold, or a Sun, who knows…”

“That’s a little vague.” The student said, frowning a little bit and rubbing the back of his neck. “The symbol is in the book? Like, on the cover?”

What am I even supposed to answer to that!?

“I. Think?”

“Well.” The Librarian recovers the reigns of the conversation with a grin. “If that thing you are looking for isn’t here? It may be a literature tome. You know, on the second floor.”

“Y-Yeah…” I sigh. This whole conversation has just been so stressful.

“Well! It could be the Golden Ratio!” One of the girls says. “You know the Golden Ratio?”

“Isn’t that the whole shell inside a rectangle thing?” I blink.

“Yeah! They use the helenian letter ‘phi’ to represent it.”

The girl is nice enough to draw it for me…

Phi
I stare at the symbol on the paper for a moment. That’s… actually useful. And it does make sense! It could be this! Suddenly inspired, I stand right up and finish what’s left from my coffee in one gulp, not even caring that it burns my damn throat as I do so.

“Okay, this works. Thank you!” Without even feeling the anxiety attack me again, I bow my head and turn around to go right for the stairs!


When Tav had turned around and moved out, the Leader of the Coven looked at her young apprentice with a frown, shaking her finger slowly at the girl.

“You shouldn’t be so obvious with your hints, young girl.” The woman shook her head softly. “We could have had fun with her for at least another hour!”

“I didn’t feel like being cruel today.” The apprentice said with a sleepy grin, while some of the others ruffled her hair and called her a ‘softie’. “The Bastard needs a way to learn! And it would be sad to see the Overseer waiting for another night…”


I rush past the empty reception desk on the second floor, joging without even caring about the ‘No Running’ rule as I go head first into the wooden shelves of the literature section. And it doesn’t even take me that many attempts to finally see something: a symbol carved on the wooden side of one of the shelves.

Phi. Lower case. Small enough to not be disruptive, but big enough to be noticeable.

My eyes widen, and I immediately approach the symbol with awe invading my body. I don’t even dare to touch it at first, that’s how big my excitement is! Whatever does this mean!? Is this whole building the Elysium? Or just the second floor? Isn’t this place way too public for what they mean to do?

Finally giving up on trying to be cautious, I just touch the symbol. For a moment nothing happens, and I feel the panic starting to take over again.

“Trust the process, maybe it takes a moment!”

I keep my finger pressed on the carved symbol for a moment, taking slow, deep breaths as I try to keep myself from going into a saints damned anxiety attack. But then, something does happen. Octarine, that strange colour, starts filtering from my very veins and into the symbol, filling in the carving before flowing on the air like a river of vibrant purple-green. It advances in front of my eyes, dancing and spiraling before flowing deeper into the library.

“What…?”

“What are you waiting for!?”

“Follow it!”

I don’t have to tell myself twice! My legs don’t have the energy to keep running, but the colour is not flowing super fast, so I can just walk behind it until it reaches an empty wall on the deepest side of the second floor. I put my hand against it and push slightly, this time trying to cause the flow myself! My excitement knows no bounds when the colours flow from my forearm to my palm, and then spread on the wall like vines growing in all directions.

“Idiot! What if someone can see you!?”

Biting my lower lip, I quickly turn around. No one followed me, good! I can focus again on the wall, or in this case the lack of it: where there was a wall now there’s an entrance, a black hole just waiting for me to jump in. With a sigh, I decide to ignore my anxieties and just go into the darkness, being quickly surrounded by it as the wall quickly appears again behind me.

It takes a moment for my eyes to get used to the room, but when they do the way is clear: a spiral stairway going up.

“More stairs… why do people here love their stairs!?”

With a frustrated grumble, I take a step on the stairs, only for them to start moving on their own. Huh. Now that’s convenient! I just let them take me higher and higher, without even questioning how they move without mechanisms or electricity. Magic is just Like That™.

It doesn’t take long until the light hits me: a faint, gentle blue light, like a beautiful night sky. My observation proves right on the money, for what I find on top of the stairway is a tremendous planetarium: a dome of darkness with distant white lights showing the spectacle of the stars right above us.

There are some tables and chairs around, some bookshelves too… and sitting on one of them, was the specter of someone I know. The figure of a certain book vendor.

Miss Pelafina gently brushed some of her dyed black hair behind her ear to look at me with a mocking grin.

“Took you long enough, didn’t it? Kid.”

Introduction

The purpose of this essay is to identify the differences between the Greek and Roman architecture of Antiquity. Although Greek and Roman architecture have various similarities, it is important to identify the differences and the ways the Romans chose to adapt their influences. The five architectural orders were highly favoured in both Greek and Roman architecture.

Greek Architecture

Greek architecture is a very influential and historical movement which is used to inspire many architects today. This movement was based on the post and lintel system which is simply a system made up of columns. Although the concept of columns may seem simple, the Greeks carved the columns into something beautiful – including carvings of mythological creatures. They created some of the most precise and distinctive designs in the history of architecture. The Greeks interest in simplicity and proportion in their buildings went on to influence Roman architects.

Introduction

The purpose of this essay is to identify the differences between the Greek and Roman architecture of Antiquity. Although Greek and Roman architecture have various similarities, it is important to identify the differences and the ways the Romans chose to adapt their influences. The five architectural orders were highly favoured in both Greek and Roman architecture.

Greek Architecture

Greek architecture is a very influential and historical movement which is used to inspire many architects today. This movement was based on the post and lintel system which is simply a system made up of columns. Although the concept of columns may seem simple, the Greeks carved the columns into something beautiful – including carvings of mythological creatures. They created some of the most precise and distinctive designs in the history of architecture. The Greeks interest in simplicity and proportion in their buildings went on to influence Roman architects.
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There are five main architectural orders in classical architecture which are Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, Tuscan and Composite – which were all named by the Romans. Greek architects created the first three and took part in influencing the latter two “which were composites rather than genuine innovations” (Ancient History Encyclopedia, 2009-2014). The differences in these styles were best recognised by the décor that existed at the top of each column.
(Doric, Ionic and Corinthian)

The Doric Order

The Doric Order was the first of the architectural orders to be introduced, the top of the column is plain and undecorated while the column itself is fluted with parallel grooves.
They stood directly on the temple without a base. Prominent features of both Greek and Roman versions of the Doric order are the alternating “triglyphs” and “metopes” (Essley, J). Three vertical grooves make up the triglyphs and imitate the wooden end-beams, which are supported by the architrave that takes up the lower half of the entablature (superstructure of mouldings and bands which lie horizontally above columns). Under each triglyph are peglikedrops that maintain the structure. A triglyph is placed in the centre above every column with another between columns. “The Greeks felt that the corner triglyph should form the corner of the entablature to create a contrast with the supporting column. The spaces between the triglyphs are themetopes” (Princeton, Online).

(Temple of Hephaestus in (Sharon Mollerus)
Athens, Greece, 449-415 BC)

The Ionic Order

The Ionic Order was the second to be invented and can be recognised by its scrolled design at the top of each column – the columns are also fluted and sit on a base. This order is more slender that the Doric but very similar.

(Column of the Erechtheion, Acropolis of Athens, 421-406 BC) (Guillaume Piolle)

The Corinthian Order

The Corinthian Order was the latest order to be produced, the late classical period was where the earliest example was found. It is best recognised for its ornate capital – apart from this factor, it is the same as the previous ionic order. The Corinthian Order was favoured by the Roman architects in a lot of their work.

(The Pantheon in Rome, 126 AD) (Rosengarten. A, 1898)

Roman Architecture

The Greek tradition in architecture was continued on by the Romans, their interest is evident in many of their buildings – especially their use of the Corinthian Order. The Romans were known as “great innovators” because of the way they adopted new techniques and new materials and the way they adapted on existing techniques. The Romans introduced the use of domes and arches to create a new architectural style. They continued to use the Doric, Ionic and Corinthian orders – however adapting the capital of the Corinthian to make it more decorative.
The Tuscan column is very similar to the Doric column but with a smaller design at the top. The Tuscan column was used most “in domestic architecture such as peristyles and verandahs” (Ancient History Encyclopaedia, 2009 – 2014).There became a stage where columns were no longer used for structure, but were purely decorative.

The differences between Greek and Roman Architecture

Greek and Roman architecture is relatively similar, they were inspired by the Greeks existing work and adapted their own styles around it.

Although the Romans were inspired by the Greeks which resulted in many similarities, there are still many differences, such as the materials they chose to use. They both commonly constructed their buildings from marble or limestone – but, the Romans perfected the use of concrete in buildings which allowed them to create more free-flowing structures.
In relation to the styles of columns they used, they were all favoured by both the Greeks and the Romans and made a persistent appearance in most of their buildings. Although, the Greeks did prefer the use of the Doric and Ionic orders, whereas the Romans preferred the more ornate Corinthian order.
The purpose of the Greeks and Romans architecture was also different. Most of the existing Greek architecture was designed as art to honour their gods which resulted in a less ornate interior. Due to the Romans advances in material technology, a greater variety of Roman buildings still exist today. Roman architecture was beautiful internally and externally, mirroring “the pursuit of pleasure, an essential part of Roman culture” (Faller, M)
In relation to more of the construction details, the Greeks work was more equilateral which was known as “post and lintel construction”. The Romans took great credit for grasping the arch and the dome, which are a prominent feature in ancient Roman architecture, but not in Greek architecture.

The Parthenon and the Pantheon

The Parthenon and the Pantheon are both ancient temples – the Parthenon was built in Greece for their god Athena and the Pantheon was constructed in Rome to celebrate the Roman gods. The Parthenon was first to be constructed in 126 AD and the Pantheon was constructed about six centuries later around 447 – 438 BC.
(The Parthenon) (The Pantheon)
Both these temples have many similarities and differences due to the Romans adapting the Greeks processes. The majority of the exterior design of the Pantheon is adapted from traditional, ancient Greek architecture, such as that of the Parthenon. It is said that both of these temples functioned as churches during the middle ages and have both faced rebuilding. The religious links of the Pantheon prevented it from being damaged by loots, but unfortunately many parts of the Parthenon were stolen in the 1700s.
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Of course, the Parthenon was a Doric temple which was supported by Ionic columns. The floor was constructed wholly of marble, where the base was constructed from limestone – typical materials used by the Greeks. “The east pediment narrates the birth of Athena, while the west pediment shows the contest between Athena and Poseidon to become the city’s patron god” (Diffen, Online).
This creates a contrast to the Pantheon, which was a concrete dome supported by the ornate Corinthian columns. They were interested in capturing more beauty with small, distinctive details. Again, typical materials such as marble and concrete were used to construct this temple.

Conclusion

Architectural history is what formed the architecture of today, both Greek and Roman architecture has played a huge influence in numerous modern buildings. The majority of their work is very similar but they still continued to work in numerous different ways in order to make their statement in architecture. Without the Romans – who mastered the use of concrete – may have resulted in a different use of materials in which we use today. Both the Greeks and Romans have created the basis of architecture to form the process we have today.

Bibliography

ANCIENT HISTORY ENCYCLOPEDIA. (2009 – 2014) Greek Architecture. [Online] Available from: http://www.ancient.eu/Greek_Architecture/. [Accessed 12th December 2014].
Doric, Ionic and Corinthian. Photograph, viewed 12th December 2014, <http://i39.tinypic.com/30agqbs.png>
PRINCETON. Doric Order. [Online] Available from: https://www.princeton.edu/~achaney/tmve/wiki100k/docs/Doric_order.html. [Accessed 12th December 2014].
Essley, J. Pediment and tympanum, Metopes and Triglyths. Terms from Greek temples. [Online] Available from: http://www.house-design-coffee.com/metopes.html. [Accessed 12th December 2014].
Temple of Hephaestus in Athens, Greece, 449-415 BC. Photograph, viewed 13th December 2014, <http://arthistoryblogger.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/doric-ionic-and-corinthian.html>
Sharon Mollerus / public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. Photograph, viewed 13th December 2014, <http://arthistoryblogger.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/doric-ionic-and-corinthian.html>
Guillaume Piolle/ public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. Photograph, viewed 13th December 2014, <http://arthistoryblogger.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/doric-ionic-and-corinthian.html>
Column of the Erechtheion, Acropolis of Athens, 421-406 BC. Photograph, viewed 13th December 2014, <http://arthistoryblogger.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/doric-ionic-and-corinthian.html&agt;
The Pantheon in Rome, 126 AD. Photograph, viewed 13th December, <http://arthistoryblogger.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/doric-ionic-and-corinthian.html>
Rosengarten. A,A Handbook of Architectural Styles,1898. Photograph, viewed 13th December 2014, <http://arthistoryblogger.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/doric-ionic-and-corinthian.html>
ANCIENT HISTORY ENCYCLOPEDIA. (2009 – 2014) Roman Architecture. [Online] Available from: http://www.ancient.eu/Roman_Architecture/. [Accessed 14th December 2014].
Faller, M. Differences between Greek and Roman architecture. [Online] Available from: http://www.ehow.com/facts_5507152_differences-between-roman-greek-architecture.html. [Accessed 14th December 2014].
Diffen. Pantheon vs. Parthenon. [Online] Available from: http://www.diffen.com/difference/Pantheon_vs_Parthenon. [Accessed 15th December 2014].Introduction

The show kind of made the Starks more rustic than they where in the books. House Stark in the novels where not as wealthy as the Lannister's but they where a lot wealthier than the show.
First lets look at what they wear in the books which is nothing like there costumes in the show.
Side note Lord Rickard owned Steel armour and gold spurs.
When Arya is packing to go to Kings Landing she files where chest with silk and Sansa is fond of blue silk.
In Kings Landing Eddard looked nothing like what he did in the show, he always wore what he called his council silk. Ned also commissions a new uniform for his guards. Long cloaks of heavy grey wool decorated with white satin borders. Their cloaks are pinned with hands of beaten silver representing there Lords office as hand of the King. When he was on the Iron Throne Ned wore a white double embosomed with a grey dire wolf.
In Winterfell at the feast welcoming the King and Royal Family they all dressed grandly, including Benjen Stark. There are high born brothers in the Nights Witch from the north and south and I have never seen one dressed as well as Benjen at that feast, not even Lord Commander Mormont himself. He wears rich black velvet high black leather boots. His wide belt has a silver buckle and very heavy silver chain.
When Bran is attacked by Wildlings he is attacked for what he is wearing and he is second legitimate son and he is wearing a wolfs head broch of silver and jet. Jet is a gemstone and this is not a formal event this is just outriding in the woods.
Jon wears fine blacks and mole skin gloves which would not be cheap. At Winterfell harvest feast Bran is dressed quote, as befits a Prince and Robb wears a bronze crown and Catelyn describes her sons royal Kingly attire as quote magnificent.
Also Theon Greyjoy dressed very well when he was living with Stark in silk and Gold and Balon fears the Starks have made him soft. I doubt Greyjoy money was funding Theon's extravagant lifestyle. When he takes Winterfell he crowns himself Prince of Winterfell and orders and orders a new crown forged with black diamonds and chunks of gold. Where did he get the gold and diamonds if not from Winterfell's plundered treasury. And before Winterfell Bran and Luwin gave the Manderley's gold and build a royal fleet and mint coins.
At the Winterfell harvest feast
Now lets look at Winterfell it is much bigger and much grander than in the show this is a Castle built of granite which is an opulent martial.
Winterfell is a huge castle complex spanning several acres and encircled by two massive granite walls.
Remember the Castle is built over natural hot springs and as the wiki explains.
The water is piped through walls and chambers to heat them, making Winterfell more comfortable than other castles during the harsh northern winters.
Also from the wiki
Inside the walls, the complex is composed of dozens of courtyards and small open spaces. Weapons training and practice take place in those yards. The inner ward is a second, much older open space in the castle where archery practice takes place. It is located next to the broken tower. Inside Winterfell stands the inner castle, which contains the Great Keep and the Great Hall. Winterfell's towers and halls have diamond-shaped window panes.[6]
Inner Castle
The Great Keep is the innermost castle and stronghold of the castle complex. It was built over natural hot springs to keep it warm.[5] The Great Keep contains bedchambers for House Stark[5] as well as the solar of Lord Eddard Stark.[7] The building is connected to the armory by a covered bridge.[8] From a window on the covered bridge, one can see the entire yard.[9] Beneath the Great Keep are cellars with narrow windows.[10]
The Great Hall is used for receiving guests and the place where the household dines together, including the Lord of Winterfell. It is made of grey stone[11] and has wide doors made of oak and iron,[12] which opens to the castle yard, and a rear exit leads to a dimly-lit gallery.[12] Inside it can hold eight long rows of trestle tables, four to each side of the central aisle,[12] and the hall can seat five hundred people.[13] There is a raised platform for noble guests, and the walls are covered with banners.[11] The hall contains the high seat of the old Kings in the North. The seat's cold stone has been polished by the many lords who have sat upon it, and its massive arms are decorated with the carved heads of snarling direwolves.[14][15]
The small sept was built for Lady Catelyn Tully, a southron, by her husband, Lord Eddard.[16]
Courtyard and Other Buildings
The First Keep, a squat and round drum tower, is the oldest surviving part of the castle but is no longer in use. Around it lies a lichyard where the Kings of Winter would bury their loyal servants. The keep has gargoyles atop it.[17][6] Maester Kennet determined it was built after the Andals arrived.[18]
The broken tower, also known as the Burned Tower, was once the tallest watchtower in Winterfell. Over 140 years ago a lightning strike set it afire and the top third collapsed inward, but no one rebuilt it.[19][20] It stands behind the old inner ward. Crows nest atop the broken tower.[19]
The ancient godswood of Winterfell has stood untouched for ten thousand years, with three acres of old packed earth and close-together trees creating a dense canopy, which the castle was built around. At the center of the grove stands an ancient weirwood with a face carved into it, standing over a pool of black water.[16] Across the godswood from the heart tree, beneath the windows of the Guest House, an underground hot spring feeds three small pools, with a moss-covered wall looming above them. The godswood is enclosed by walls, and is accessed by a main iron gate, or smaller wooden ones.
The Glass Gardens[21] is a greenhouse heated by the hot springs, which turn it into a place of moist warmth.[5] It is used to grow fruits, vegetables, and flowers.[9][22] The garden has green and yellow glass panes[10] locked in frames.[8]
The crypt of Winterfell, located near the First Keep, is where members of House Stark are buried. The underground crypts are long and narrow, with pillars moving two by two along its length. Between pillars stand the sepulchers of the Starks of Winterfell, the likenesses of the dead seated on thrones, with iron swords set before them to keep the restless spirits from wandering, and snarling direwolves at their feet. The crypts are deep under the earth, cavernous and bigger than the complex above ground. They are accessed by a twisting stone stair and a huge ironwood door that lies at a slant to the floor. The stair continues below to older levels where the most ancient Kings in the North are entombed.[23][17][10]
The Bell Tower is connected to the rookery by a bridge. The bridge is covered and runs from the fourth floor of the tower to the second floor of the rookery.[6][8]
The maester's turret is below the rookery.[24]
The Library Tower houses the library at Winterfell. A stonework staircase winds about its exterior.[8]
The Guards Hall is in line with the Bell Tower, and further back, the First Keep.[6]
Winterfell has undercrofts and cellars.[25] The castle also has dungeons,[25] including tower cells.[26]
Walls
Winterfell is a huge castle complex spanning several acres, defended by two massive walls of grey granite with a wide moat between them.[4] The outer wall is eighty feet high, while the inner is one hundred feet high.[4] There are guard turrets on the outer wall and more than thirty watch turrets on the crenelated inner walls.
The great main gates[7] have a gatehouse made of two huge crenelated bulwarks which flank the arched gate[8] and a drawbridge that opens into the market square of the winter town.[27][28]
There is a narrow tunnel inside of the inner wall stretching halfway around the castle, allowing travel from the south gate all the way to the north gate without interruption.[19]

• The Hunter's Gate is close to the kennels and the kitchens. It opens directly onto open fields and the wolfswood, so people can come and go without having to cross through the winter town. It is favored by hunting parties.[4]
• The East Gate[10] or east gate[29] leads to the kingsroad.[10] The Kingsroad Gate[7] may be another name for the same gate.
• The Battlements Gate is a small arched postern in the inner wall. It crosses the moat between the walls but does not have a passageway through the outer wall.[7]^#

When Jon Snow becomes Lord Commander of the Nights Watch he considers building a glass building but thinks it will be costly and for such fine glass he would need to look Myr and by the freedom of a few glass makers.
We know Sansa loves lemon cakes and lemon trees do not grow naturally in the north importing lemon seeds to Winterfell from the reach or Doren would not be cheap. My guess would be the seeds came form Doren as one need only sail up the narrow sea than the up the White Knife.
Finally Maester Luwin has his own turret and mentions having servents of his own. The Starks top servants have servants
Not as wealthy as the Lannister but it clear Ned and Robb after him where unlike in the show 2 of the wealthiest man in the world.

I've always had my monitor on this wooden block/shelf thing but it's gotten uncomfortable especially when gaming or designing during long hours. I'm 5'0 tall so it helps but it's also straining my neck.
I decided to place it under the wooden block thing and it feels okay although it takes up some desk space.
I can't crosspost here but I have the images on my profile if you sort by New.

Okay, I’m gonna level with you. Focusing on current events is just getting a little too fucking heavy. I’m no closer to answers than I was a month ago, none of us can sleep through a full night without waking up shaking and drenched in sweat, and there are some new downright bizarre phenomena cropping up that I just don’t have it in me to allot my energy to at the moment.
So, for today’s installment (and then also for the next one) I’m gonna tell you another good ol’ fun-for-the-whole-family pool story. Yep, you heard that right—welcome to our first bonafide two-parter.
This was quite a while ago. My measure of time is all off by a year now, but I feel fairly confident in chalking it up to post-first pool story, pre-ouija board fiasco—so however long ago that’s been now.
It was a weird, rare night, in that Matt was out. Not an unheard of occurrence, but it’s fairly anomalous, and it certainly puts the rest of us on slightly higher alert.
Obviously, he always tells us to call him at the first sign of some shit going down and to use our best judgment to determine whether it’s serious enough to lock up and head out. Better safe than sorry and all that. The night in question was no exception to the rule.
Overall, though, things were mostly quiet. Alice was in, as was I, as was Wiley. We do a lot of congregating, but we do a lot of work, too, and this night, we were all in our respective areas, doing our respective jobs.
I was in my not-office mending a finicky Shakespeare anthology, Alice was watching the desk while working on cataloging a truckload of new donations, and Wiley was replacing several lightbulbs that had all decided to call it quits after our most recent power outage (this one due to a flash-flood).
It was calm to an almost uncharacteristic degree. There was a relatively steady flow of patrons in and out of the building—I could hear Alice greeting them and wishing them a good evening—but as far as anomalous activity, there was none.
It does happen, on rare occasion, that we make it through a full night without any goings on, but there’s almost always at least the odd disembodied voice or two.
We should’ve known better than to trust a meteor shower.
See, there’s just something about natural anomalies. Not just the ones that knock our power out, either, although those are clearly included. Blizzards, thunderstorms, hail and tornados and earthquakes and all your run-of-the-mill destructive shit, sure. But the things of beauty, too. Rainbows. Eclipses, lunar or solar. And you think full moons hit emergency rooms hard? Try this fucking place.
It was just that a meteor shower wasn’t one we’d dealt with before. Does that mean we shouldn’t have known better? Fuck no. Obviously not. But perhaps our collective greatest fault is that we still have some semblance of hope.
Wiley wanted to look at it from the roof. Kid never fucking wants to do anything, and they were set to climb up and camp out alone. I couldn’t not entertain such an innocent, youthful whim.
Our roof access doesn’t have stairs—just a ladder—so Alice couldn’t accompany us, which I felt shitty about, but she assured me it was perfectly fine with her.
“The world decided I didn’t need functional legs so I could never be peer pressured into leaving the ground,” she quipped. “I’m not into heights. But y’all have fun up there. Somebody needs to be here for the patrons anyway.”
Fair and fair. So Wiley and I gathered up an armful of blankets and one of Matt’s trusty camping lanterns and headed out to scale the building.
Wiley went up ahead of me. That was my first mistake.
Really, they aren’t that much younger than I am. Maybe four or five years, and I’m too close to thirty for comfort now. But there’s something about them, even as far as they’ve come, that makes it impossible for me not to do everything in my power to protect them. I think Matt feels the same way. Maybe most of us do.
Anyway, that’s why I immediately started cursing myself when they reached the top of the ladder, pulled their way up and over the ledge of the roof, and said, “...Whoa.”
My second mistake was not immediately telling them to turn around and start climbing right the fuck back down.
I knew exactly what that tone of voice meant. But something in me just kicked into hyperdrive and I…had to see it. Whatever it was, I had to see it for myself.
“Don’t move,” I said, and then, “What is it?”
But by that point, I was at the top, too. I hoisted myself over the ledge and was met with…
…Water.
It was everywhere. Extending in every direction. There was no edge in sight—not even a horizon line. Just vast, dark water as far as the eye could see.
“Okay. This is not—let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Wiley agreed, a little breathless.
I’m sure you’ll be downright shocked to learn that, when we turned around, the ladder was gone.
The edge of the rooftop was, too.
The thing that surprised me, really, was that it wasn’t as though we were standing on some sort of island. We were somehow in the water all of a sudden, up to our waists, neither of us having taken a single step.
“Fucking…shit. Jesus. Adam?”
“We’re fine,” was my default response, because my anxiety override kicks in like a motherfucker as soon as someone else is more openly afraid than I am. “It’s okay, let’s just—let’s think for a second. Maybe it’s just, like, an illusion or something.”
“Okay,” Wiley said. “Maybe we should…try moving?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll bump the ledge and then we can just feel for the ladder. Good idea.”
Wiley and I shared a look, wordlessly nodding to one another, and stepped forward in unison.
Maybe I misspoke before, when I said we weren’t on a platform. It was just that our platform wasn’t above the water. Now, though, there was nothing.
It felt, almost, like the stomach-turning sensation of missing a step walking up a staircase. The only difference was that there was no moment-too-late connection.
We plummeted.
There wasn’t any difference in temperature beneath the surface, which was, in a way, more disorienting than the water itself. The mental recalibration that typically comes with plunging into a cool lake or, adversely, a heated pool wasn’t allotted an opportunity to take place. It felt, for most intents and purposes, the same as being in the air, just that I couldn’t breathe.
It was heavy, too. The weightlessness water tends to embody was null; I immediately abandoned everything I’d been carrying, clawing my way upward frantically enough that it would’ve been mortifying, I’m sure, had anyone witnessed it.
Wiley resurfaced at the same moment I did—empty handed as well, I noted—coughing a little but not to the extent that I was worried they were choking. “Next idea?” they asked, pushing their wet hair back from their face, dark, damp lashes obscuring their eyes.
“Let’s get back on the…” I started, but trailed off when I raised my head.
A couple hundred yards out from us, there was a ship. It was a dark, hulking thing, with tattered sails and something indistinguishable affixed to the bow, glittering and glinting in the moonlight.
Wiley spun around to face it, drifting back slightly when their gaze landed parallel to mine. “What the fuck is that?” they demanded, legs kicking haphazardly beneath the water to keep them in place.
“Maybe it’s…good,” I said. I knew better than that and I knew Wiley did, too, but I said it anyway. “Maybe someone will help.”
They didn’t even humor me with a response to that bullshit.
Now, at this point in the story, maybe you’re thinking being suddenly surrounded by water and watching as an ominous ship approached us with absolutely nowhere to go and no way to escape doesn’t feel quite enough like imminent condemnation. To which I say to you: not to worry. Because the next realization we came to was that the platform we’d been standing on previously had suddenly ceased to exist.
“Shit,” Wiley said. “Shit, shit, shit. Adam.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s fine. We’re fine. We just—we’re gonna—follow me.”
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to swim toward the Obvious Death Ship. I guess just that there wasn’t anything else save for open water anywhere so it essentially felt like our options were paddle around until we were exhausted and drown or face a quicker, simpler demise.
“You better have a fucking plan, bro,” Wiley intoned from behind me, which I chivalrously pretended not to hear, because I did not, in fact, have a fucking plan.
The closer we drew to the vessel, the more unbelievably monstrous it appeared to become. It loomed above us, casting a shadow over everything in its direct path, and the sinking in my stomach almost convinced me to turn around. Almost.
But then something curled around my ankle. It was slick and strong, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that whatever it was could’ve pulled me under and eaten me alive in a fraction of a second.
Luckily for me, it wasn’t interested. It let go as quickly as it had latched on, almost as though it was simply using me as a handrail to move itself along. Still, though, the knowledge that it was there was all the motivation I needed to push forward ever faster. I didn’t say anything—didn’t want to add more fuel to Wiley’s panicked fire—just picked up my pace and swam up to their side.
“There’s a ladder,” they informed me, raising a hand and pointing toward the back half of the ship.
Indeed, there was a ladder. It was a tattered, worn thing, comprised of old, fraying rope and rotting, untreated wooden boards, but it looked composed enough that I figured we could likely make it up if we were swift.
“Bet,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We went.
Up close, the ladder appeared even shoddier than it had when we’d first seen it. I reached out of the water and wrapped my fingers around the rope at the bottom, giving it a hearty tug. To my slight surprise, it held fast.
“I think we’re good,” I told Wiley. “I’ll go up first and tell you what I see.”
“Be careful,” they said, but didn’t protest, just backed up enough for me to get the leverage I needed to hoist myself onto the bottom board.
I climbed warily, overly conscious of every creak of the wood bowing beneath my weight, every groan of the fibers of rope under my hands, but made it without incident to the top.
Once there, I grabbed onto the ship’s edge, lifting my gaze to take in whatever lie before me.
It was…nothing. I mean, it was a ship, obviously. But there wasn’t anything on board. No apparent crew nor cargo nor even a captain manning the helm. Granted, I couldn’t see perfectly, but the moon shone brightly enough that I was fairly confident in my observation that the deck was devoid of anything but its own shiplap floor.
“Hello?” I called, because I wasn’t about to beckon Wiley up if some fucked shit was going to pop out of nowhere the second we made a sound.
Nothing responded. Nothing moved. The ship rocked gently on the impossible water, as silent and vacant as it had been a moment before.
“Good?” Wiley questioned nervously from below me.
“Yeah,” I told them, easing myself off the ladder and down into the confines of the vessel. “Come on.”
They did so tenuously but still more swiftly than I had, climbing aboard and landing next to me with a dampened thunk.
We allowed ourselves the briefest of moments to catch our breath, silently rejoicing in the small win that was having found solace from the pool itself. Not that we had any idea what to do or where to go from here, but at the very least, we weren’t drowning.
“Okay,” I said, clearing the unease from my throat. “I don’t know what good trying to steer this thing would do us—there’s nothing but water no matter where we go. But maybe there’s something here somewhere that’ll help us figure out how to get back. So I think we just…start looking around?”
Wiley nodded. “Cool. Split halves, front and back?”
Nooo, Adam, don’t split up! Never split up! I know. I can literally hear you screaming it at me. And actually, for once in my life, I considered that something might be a horrible fucking idea before acting on it.
But then I saw something.
As I turned back to respond, Wiley’s eyes shimmered, dancing in the moonlight.
They were silver and mercurial, with no pupils or whites in sight.
Whatever had come back up from underwater, it was not my coworker.
I swallowed, forcing my expression to remain as neutral as I was able and praying whatever was standing in front of me didn’t notice I’d caught on. My entire body was instantaneously covered in chills, in a way that I understood to have the same purpose as a dog’s hackles rising. “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll take the front.”
I headed in the opposite direction of the thing wearing Wiley’s face (at a pace that I hoped didn’t appear hurried but one that would remove me in a timely manner from the vicinity) and didn’t stop until I’d reached the front of the ship, breathing heavily and attempting to slow my reeling mind.
I didn’t know what to tackle first. I didn’t know where Wiley was, or if they were anywhere—if they were even still alive. I didn’t know what my next move should be. I didn’t know what I was looking for or where I might find it.
It’s rare that I feel utterly hopeless, to the degree that I genuinely contemplate just sitting down and giving up, but in this instance, I thought long and hard about how easy it would be to succumb. I’d let the unthinkable happen. Wiley was gone. No one else had been here with them—there was no one else to blame. Just me. Only me.
…You’ll be glad to know that the self-pity didn’t last long. Embarrassing, honestly.
If I was the only one here, it meant I was the only shot they had at making it out alive. Our version of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ had always been ‘alive until proven dead’ and I wasn’t about to turn my back on the insane streak of luck we’d had up until this point. Not a single one of our lives had been lost, and we’d been in the midst of some absolute shitstorms. There was no reason to believe that right now, tonight, was an outlier. I couldn’t lie down like a sick dog and wonder if Wiley was still out there somewhere, suffering until the bitter, bloody end. I had to find them. By whatever means necessary, as long as it took, I had to find them.
I pushed off the railing before me and spun on my heel, eyes flitting back and forth to assess my options as efficiently as possible, and after a moment, I registered that fitted flush against the large front mast, there was a door.
It was only a sliver, thin and not particularly extraordinary in height, but there was a handle carved roughly into its right side and a set of rust-riddled hinges on its left.
I took about half a second to weigh my options and then reached for it, curling my fingers around the handle and giving it a generous tug.
The hinges, unsurprisingly, complained, but not loudly and not for long. The door gave way with little resistance, and opened up to my worst fucking nightmare.
A set of stairs, descending into blackness.
I mean, I guess if I’m being fair, my first pool encounter had featured a staircase leading to the pool rather than away from it, but I didn’t feel like there could possibly be good news awaiting me below deck of a ship where I’d just encountered a fucking mimic.
Still, though, there was a niggling insistence in my brain (not that kind, come on) that it was my only lead on finding Wiley if they were, in fact, somewhere on board. So I cast one last glance over my shoulder and stepped into the dark, letting the door fall closed behind me.
It smelled different, instantly, from the open air above. Mustier, which was to be expected, but also almost sweet somehow. I tried, unsuccessfully, to shove my true-crime-podcast-addled brain’s helpful reminder that the scent of human death is said to be sweet into a mental lockbox and put my hand to the wall, easing tentatively down to the second step.
The visibility wasn’t just low—it was practically zero. If you’ve ever been on a cave tour and had a guide cut the lights and instruct you to lift your hand to your face to demonstrate the complete absence of light, it was nearly that intense. The placing of both feet on each concurrent stair was an arduous, calculated process, but finally, after approximately one (1) century, I reached flat ground. I still couldn’t see, and there was no definitive way to tell whether I was standing on the floor or just a landing without thoroughly feeling out the space around me, so I reluctantly departed from the wall, scooting my feet in small, tentative motions and keeping both arms partially outstretched before me.
After a (l o n g) moment, I determined that either this was the world’s largest landing or I’d made it all the way down. I had no idea whether I was in a singular, enormous room, or if there were individual cabins, or if I was about to run face-first into the grim fucking reaper.
And then I turned to my left.
There was a light.
It was so, so faint. Flickering. Barely discernible, its warm, gentle glow ever so shyly illuminating the cracks around what appeared to be another closed door.
Being the only visible thing in my line of sight, in any direction, it emitted the aura of both a beacon and an omen.
I headed towards it.
I was about half afraid I was stuck in a horror movie situation where no matter how long I walked it would never grow any closer, but fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. I actually gained on it more quickly than I felt I should have for the speed I was moving, but I wasn’t going to complain about reaching the end of the nothingness in commendable time.
I ran my fingertips along the edge of the door and, sure enough, there was a carved-in handle, just like the last.
It opened just as effortlessly, and yellow candlelight rolled dimly out to greet me, lapping at my waterlogged clothes.
“Please,” came a quiet, terrified voice from inside the room. “Please don’t. I don’t know what you want, or–or what you are, but please don’t—”
“...Wiley?”
Rather than calming, the voice’s state of alarm rose to a level bordering on full-blown panic as I took a step into the space. “Please,” the voice begged. There wasn’t anyone visible from my current vantage point, but I could hear it clearly enough to feel fairly confident that the person attached to it—the person who either had to be Wiley or yet another duplicate of them—was close. “Why are you doing this?”
This was a cabin, I thought, or perhaps a study of some sort, with a rotting wooden desk and a decaying leather chair both covered in a flurry of loose, browned book pages and a thick layer of dust. There were candles littering several surfaces, placed in what appeared not to be any intentional manner. Directly to my right, there was a shelf; its back faced me and the odd placement led me to imagine that it may have been employed to block the door at some time.
It was also, I would have just about bet, the source of the voice.
I nudged a couple of planks and a broken amber bottle out of the way with the toe of my shoe, rounding the shelf to find a crumpled, bloodied Wiley, restrained to the floor by a thick, coarse rope fixed expertly to a bolted tie and holding their bound hands up to shield their face.
“Jesus fuck,” I said. “What happened to you?”
Slowly, they lifted their head. “...Adam?”
Realization dawned on me, and I felt my stomach sink. “Look at me,” I told them. “Look at my eyes.”
They did, their own bloodshot and watery and inherently human, and I watched their shoulders deflate, the defense and terror draining from their form. “There’s someone…something…down here. Or, I guess it still is, anyway. I don’t know where it went, but I don’t wanna be here when it comes back.”
I nodded. “It look like me?”
Wiley nodded back.
“Yeah, there’s one of you upstairs. Not real sure what we’re supposed to do about them, but one thing at a time. Let’s get you up from there.”
It was a struggle, disentangling Wiley from the heavy, abrasive leads coccooning their body, but we got there eventually, and throughout the entirety of the arduous process they gave me the rundown on how, when we’d parted from the solace of the platform, something had instantaneously latched onto them, dragging them down deeper and deeper until their ears popped and their head felt like it was going to explode. They said they’d been knocked out by the pressure, and that when they’d come to, already tied in place and coughing up lungfuls of water, “I” had been standing over them, wielding a large net hook and no mercy.
“I knew it wasn’t you, obviously,” they said, “but I didn’t know where you actually were or if something had, like. Hijacked your body? I don’t know. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We grabbed a couple of candles (the majority had simply been melted into place atop whatever surface they’d adorned, but there was a small collection fitted into slightly-too-small brass holders) and got the fuck out.
Being able to see so little in the space around us was almost more disorienting than the pitch darkness I’d been feeling my way through before. It felt as though we were in a fragile, wavering bubble of reality and nothing existed outside of it.
“Wish I’d been awake coming down here,” Wiley remarked. “Guess I still wouldn’t have seen shit, though.”
“I could…maybe get us back upstairs?” I considered, with little to no confidence. “But I don’t really know what good it would do us. Nowhere to go. Maybe we just…look around down here for a bit? See if we can find anything useful?”
“Yeah, okay,” Wiley assented. “But we’ve gotta be quiet. I don’t want that thing to hear us.”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that.
We wandered hesitantly through the dark, shielding the flames of our candles with cupped palms and praying we wouldn’t misstep. We made it some unsubstantiated quantity of time without incident, but softly, after seconds or minutes or hours, we heard a light rustling from the shadow veiled corridor to our right, and Wiley pulled me into the nearest open room in the opposite direction.
Flattening our backs to the wall, we listened intently as footsteps echoed faintly behind us, cyclically growing closer and then further away again for several moments before disappearing altogether.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and uncovered my candle, easing the door of the room to a gentle, silent close. The contents of this one were different from that of the last in that there practically weren’t any. It wasn’t just that it was tidier; there was a chest shoved against the wall nearest us and a leatherbound book of some sort lying in the center of the floor, but otherwise the space was vacant.
Wiley moved first, crouching next to the journal and lifting it from the ground, a cloud of dust rising in the wake of their breath. I knelt down beside them, offering my candlelight so they could discard theirs and open the cover.
Beneath which there was a box.
It was a plain, unadorned wooden rectangle, nestled into the carved-out central pages of the book, and we learned upon extracting it that there was no lock or latch, just a seam indicating the lid’s separation from the body.
I don’t need to spell the whole situation out for you. There was a key in the box. The key opened, you guessed it: the chest. Inside the chest, there were piles of gold and jewels beyond your wildest imagination. We’re rich now. The end.
Nah, JK. But the key in the box did open the chest, in which there was, A) a pair of peeling, pleather driving gloves, and B)...
I felt my heart skip.
A bicycle chain.
I’m not going to get into the nuances of that right now, or maybe ever. But for the purposes of dramatic flair, just know that it was incredibly, pointedly relevant to me, on a level so personal it sucker punched the air straight out of my lungs.
“No,” Wiley said, staggering back a step. “Uh-uh. Nope.”
I put together, then, that the gloves must have been their ticket item. “It’s okay,” I said, on autopilot, because it was not. “There’s something—something’s carved into the bottom of this thing.” Pushing past the reaction every fiber of my being had to the sensation of the frigid metal against my skin, I shoved both the chain and the gloves to the side and could scarcely make out a host of crudely scrawled letters in the wavering light of my half-gone candle.
“What is it?” Wiley asked, making no move to come nearer again.
“Though your…hand…? Heart. Though your heart does pound and knees grow…weak,” I deciphered slowly, “Rid yourself by your… That doesn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t it be of? It says ‘rid yourself by your fear’ and…something. Drain the…clin… No. Drink. Drain the drink.”
“Rid yourself by your fear and drain the drink,” Wiley repeated analytically. “The hell does that mean? Is this shit telling us to kill ourselves with the—oh. Oh. Fuck.”
I was not following. “...I’m not following,” I said.
“It is.” Wiley returned to my side, squatting down and nudging me out of the way with their shoulder to peer warily into the trunk. “It’s telling us to kill ourselves, but not these selves. We’re supposed to use…those…to kill our fuckin’ doppelgangers, or whatever they are. That’s how we get rid of the water.”
“Oh,” I echoed. “Fuck.”
We marinated for a moment in silence before Wiley sighed, resigned, and lifted the gloves from the chest, closing their eyes and pulling the fabric snugly over their hands. “Let’s get to work.”

Okay, I’m gonna level with you. Focusing on current events is just getting a little too fucking heavy. I’m no closer to answers than I was a month ago, none of us can sleep through a full night without waking up shaking and drenched in sweat, and there are some new downright bizarre phenomena cropping up that I just don’t have it in me to allot my energy to at the moment.
So, for today’s installment (and then also for the next one) I’m gonna tell you another good ol’ fun-for-the-whole-family pool story. Yep, you heard that right—welcome to our first bonafide two-parter.
This was quite a while ago. My measure of time is all off by a year now, but I feel fairly confident in chalking it up to post-first pool story, pre-ouija board fiasco—so however long ago that’s been now.
It was a weird, rare night, in that Matt was out. Not an unheard of occurrence, but it’s fairly anomalous, and it certainly puts the rest of us on slightly higher alert.
Obviously, he always tells us to call him at the first sign of some shit going down and to use our best judgment to determine whether it’s serious enough to lock up and head out. Better safe than sorry and all that. The night in question was no exception to the rule.
Overall, though, things were mostly quiet. Alice was in, as was I, as was Wiley. We do a lot of congregating, but we do a lot of work, too, and this night, we were all in our respective areas, doing our respective jobs.
I was in my not-office mending a finicky Shakespeare anthology, Alice was watching the desk while working on cataloging a truckload of new donations, and Wiley was replacing several lightbulbs that had all decided to call it quits after our most recent power outage (this one due to a flash-flood).
It was calm to an almost uncharacteristic degree. There was a relatively steady flow of patrons in and out of the building—I could hear Alice greeting them and wishing them a good evening—but as far as anomalous activity, there was none.
It does happen, on rare occasion, that we make it through a full night without any goings on, but there’s almost always at least the odd disembodied voice or two.
We should’ve known better than to trust a meteor shower.
See, there’s just something about natural anomalies. Not just the ones that knock our power out, either, although those are clearly included. Blizzards, thunderstorms, hail and tornados and earthquakes and all your run-of-the-mill destructive shit, sure. But the things of beauty, too. Rainbows. Eclipses, lunar or solar. And you think full moons hit emergency rooms hard? Try this fucking place.
It was just that a meteor shower wasn’t one we’d dealt with before. Does that mean we shouldn’t have known better? Fuck no. Obviously not. But perhaps our collective greatest fault is that we still have some semblance of hope.
Wiley wanted to look at it from the roof. Kid never fucking wants to do anything, and they were set to climb up and camp out alone. I couldn’t not entertain such an innocent, youthful whim.
Our roof access doesn’t have stairs—just a ladder—so Alice couldn’t accompany us, which I felt shitty about, but she assured me it was perfectly fine with her.
“The world decided I didn’t need functional legs so I could never be peer pressured into leaving the ground,” she quipped. “I’m not into heights. But y’all have fun up there. Somebody needs to be here for the patrons anyway.”
Fair and fair. So Wiley and I gathered up an armful of blankets and one of Matt’s trusty camping lanterns and headed out to scale the building.
Wiley went up ahead of me. That was my first mistake.
Really, they aren’t that much younger than I am. Maybe four or five years, and I’m too close to thirty for comfort now. But there’s something about them, even as far as they’ve come, that makes it impossible for me not to do everything in my power to protect them. I think Matt feels the same way. Maybe most of us do.
Anyway, that’s why I immediately started cursing myself when they reached the top of the ladder, pulled their way up and over the ledge of the roof, and said, “...Whoa.”
My second mistake was not immediately telling them to turn around and start climbing right the fuck back down.
I knew exactly what that tone of voice meant. But something in me just kicked into hyperdrive and I…had to see it. Whatever it was, I had to see it for myself.
“Don’t move,” I said, and then, “What is it?”
But by that point, I was at the top, too. I hoisted myself over the ledge and was met with…
…Water.
It was everywhere. Extending in every direction. There was no edge in sight—not even a horizon line. Just vast, dark water as far as the eye could see.
“Okay. This is not—let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Wiley agreed, a little breathless.
I’m sure you’ll be downright shocked to learn that, when we turned around, the ladder was gone.
The edge of the rooftop was, too.
The thing that surprised me, really, was that it wasn’t as though we were standing on some sort of island. We were somehow in the water all of a sudden, up to our waists, neither of us having taken a single step.
“Fucking…shit. Jesus. Adam?”
“We’re fine,” was my default response, because my anxiety override kicks in like a motherfucker as soon as someone else is more openly afraid than I am. “It’s okay, let’s just—let’s think for a second. Maybe it’s just, like, an illusion or something.”
“Okay,” Wiley said. “Maybe we should…try moving?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll bump the ledge and then we can just feel for the ladder. Good idea.”
Wiley and I shared a look, wordlessly nodding to one another, and stepped forward in unison.
Maybe I misspoke before, when I said we weren’t on a platform. It was just that our platform wasn’t above the water. Now, though, there was nothing.
It felt, almost, like the stomach-turning sensation of missing a step walking up a staircase. The only difference was that there was no moment-too-late connection.
We plummeted.
There wasn’t any difference in temperature beneath the surface, which was, in a way, more disorienting than the water itself. The mental recalibration that typically comes with plunging into a cool lake or, adversely, a heated pool wasn’t allotted an opportunity to take place. It felt, for most intents and purposes, the same as being in the air, just that I couldn’t breathe.
It was heavy, too. The weightlessness water tends to embody was null; I immediately abandoned everything I’d been carrying, clawing my way upward frantically enough that it would’ve been mortifying, I’m sure, had anyone witnessed it.
Wiley resurfaced at the same moment I did—empty handed as well, I noted—coughing a little but not to the extent that I was worried they were choking. “Next idea?” they asked, pushing their wet hair back from their face, dark, damp lashes obscuring their eyes.
“Let’s get back on the…” I started, but trailed off when I raised my head.
A couple hundred yards out from us, there was a ship. It was a dark, hulking thing, with tattered sails and something indistinguishable affixed to the bow, glittering and glinting in the moonlight.
Wiley spun around to face it, drifting back slightly when their gaze landed parallel to mine. “What the fuck is that?” they demanded, legs kicking haphazardly beneath the water to keep them in place.
“Maybe it’s…good,” I said. I knew better than that and I knew Wiley did, too, but I said it anyway. “Maybe someone will help.”
They didn’t even humor me with a response to that bullshit.
Now, at this point in the story, maybe you’re thinking being suddenly surrounded by water and watching as an ominous ship approached us with absolutely nowhere to go and no way to escape doesn’t feel quite enough like imminent condemnation. To which I say to you: not to worry. Because the next realization we came to was that the platform we’d been standing on previously had suddenly ceased to exist.
“Shit,” Wiley said. “Shit, shit, shit. Adam.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s fine. We’re fine. We just—we’re gonna—follow me.”
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to swim toward the Obvious Death Ship. I guess just that there wasn’t anything else save for open water anywhere so it essentially felt like our options were paddle around until we were exhausted and drown or face a quicker, simpler demise.
“You better have a fucking plan, bro,” Wiley intoned from behind me, which I chivalrously pretended not to hear, because I did not, in fact, have a fucking plan.
The closer we drew to the vessel, the more unbelievably monstrous it appeared to become. It loomed above us, casting a shadow over everything in its direct path, and the sinking in my stomach almost convinced me to turn around. Almost.
But then something curled around my ankle. It was slick and strong, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that whatever it was could’ve pulled me under and eaten me alive in a fraction of a second.
Luckily for me, it wasn’t interested. It let go as quickly as it had latched on, almost as though it was simply using me as a handrail to move itself along. Still, though, the knowledge that it was there was all the motivation I needed to push forward ever faster. I didn’t say anything—didn’t want to add more fuel to Wiley’s panicked fire—just picked up my pace and swam up to their side.
“There’s a ladder,” they informed me, raising a hand and pointing toward the back half of the ship.
Indeed, there was a ladder. It was a tattered, worn thing, comprised of old, fraying rope and rotting, untreated wooden boards, but it looked composed enough that I figured we could likely make it up if we were swift.
“Bet,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We went.
Up close, the ladder appeared even shoddier than it had when we’d first seen it. I reached out of the water and wrapped my fingers around the rope at the bottom, giving it a hearty tug. To my slight surprise, it held fast.
“I think we’re good,” I told Wiley. “I’ll go up first and tell you what I see.”
“Be careful,” they said, but didn’t protest, just backed up enough for me to get the leverage I needed to hoist myself onto the bottom board.
I climbed warily, overly conscious of every creak of the wood bowing beneath my weight, every groan of the fibers of rope under my hands, but made it without incident to the top.
Once there, I grabbed onto the ship’s edge, lifting my gaze to take in whatever lie before me.
It was…nothing. I mean, it was a ship, obviously. But there wasn’t anything on board. No apparent crew nor cargo nor even a captain manning the helm. Granted, I couldn’t see perfectly, but the moon shone brightly enough that I was fairly confident in my observation that the deck was devoid of anything but its own shiplap floor.
“Hello?” I called, because I wasn’t about to beckon Wiley up if some fucked shit was going to pop out of nowhere the second we made a sound.
Nothing responded. Nothing moved. The ship rocked gently on the impossible water, as silent and vacant as it had been a moment before.
“Good?” Wiley questioned nervously from below me.
“Yeah,” I told them, easing myself off the ladder and down into the confines of the vessel. “Come on.”
They did so tenuously but still more swiftly than I had, climbing aboard and landing next to me with a dampened thunk.
We allowed ourselves the briefest of moments to catch our breath, silently rejoicing in the small win that was having found solace from the pool itself. Not that we had any idea what to do or where to go from here, but at the very least, we weren’t drowning.
“Okay,” I said, clearing the unease from my throat. “I don’t know what good trying to steer this thing would do us—there’s nothing but water no matter where we go. But maybe there’s something here somewhere that’ll help us figure out how to get back. So I think we just…start looking around?”
Wiley nodded. “Cool. Split halves, front and back?”
Nooo, Adam, don’t split up! Never split up! I know. I can literally hear you screaming it at me. And actually, for once in my life, I considered that something might be a horrible fucking idea before acting on it.
But then I saw something.
As I turned back to respond, Wiley’s eyes shimmered, dancing in the moonlight.
They were silver and mercurial, with no pupils or whites in sight.
Whatever had come back up from underwater, it was not my coworker.
I swallowed, forcing my expression to remain as neutral as I was able and praying whatever was standing in front of me didn’t notice I’d caught on. My entire body was instantaneously covered in chills, in a way that I understood to have the same purpose as a dog’s hackles rising. “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll take the front.”
I headed in the opposite direction of the thing wearing Wiley’s face (at a pace that I hoped didn’t appear hurried but one that would remove me in a timely manner from the vicinity) and didn’t stop until I’d reached the front of the ship, breathing heavily and attempting to slow my reeling mind.
I didn’t know what to tackle first. I didn’t know where Wiley was, or if they were anywhere—if they were even still alive. I didn’t know what my next move should be. I didn’t know what I was looking for or where I might find it.
It’s rare that I feel utterly hopeless, to the degree that I genuinely contemplate just sitting down and giving up, but in this instance, I thought long and hard about how easy it would be to succumb. I’d let the unthinkable happen. Wiley was gone. No one else had been here with them—there was no one else to blame. Just me. Only me.
…You’ll be glad to know that the self-pity didn’t last long. Embarrassing, honestly.
If I was the only one here, it meant I was the only shot they had at making it out alive. Our version of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ had always been ‘alive until proven dead’ and I wasn’t about to turn my back on the insane streak of luck we’d had up until this point. Not a single one of our lives had been lost, and we’d been in the midst of some absolute shitstorms. There was no reason to believe that right now, tonight, was an outlier. I couldn’t lie down like a sick dog and wonder if Wiley was still out there somewhere, suffering until the bitter, bloody end. I had to find them. By whatever means necessary, as long as it took, I had to find them.
I pushed off the railing before me and spun on my heel, eyes flitting back and forth to assess my options as efficiently as possible, and after a moment, I registered that fitted flush against the large front mast, there was a door.
It was only a sliver, thin and not particularly extraordinary in height, but there was a handle carved roughly into its right side and a set of rust-riddled hinges on its left.
I took about half a second to weigh my options and then reached for it, curling my fingers around the handle and giving it a generous tug.
The hinges, unsurprisingly, complained, but not loudly and not for long. The door gave way with little resistance, and opened up to my worst fucking nightmare.
A set of stairs, descending into blackness.
I mean, I guess if I’m being fair, my first pool encounter had featured a staircase leading to the pool rather than away from it, but I didn’t feel like there could possibly be good news awaiting me below deck of a ship where I’d just encountered a fucking mimic.
Still, though, there was a niggling insistence in my brain (not that kind, come on) that it was my only lead on finding Wiley if they were, in fact, somewhere on board. So I cast one last glance over my shoulder and stepped into the dark, letting the door fall closed behind me.
It smelled different, instantly, from the open air above. Mustier, which was to be expected, but also almost sweet somehow. I tried, unsuccessfully, to shove my true-crime-podcast-addled brain’s helpful reminder that the scent of human death is said to be sweet into a mental lockbox and put my hand to the wall, easing tentatively down to the second step.
The visibility wasn’t just low—it was practically zero. If you’ve ever been on a cave tour and had a guide cut the lights and instruct you to lift your hand to your face to demonstrate the complete absence of light, it was nearly that intense. The placing of both feet on each concurrent stair was an arduous, calculated process, but finally, after approximately one (1) century, I reached flat ground. I still couldn’t see, and there was no definitive way to tell whether I was standing on the floor or just a landing without thoroughly feeling out the space around me, so I reluctantly departed from the wall, scooting my feet in small, tentative motions and keeping both arms partially outstretched before me.
After a (l o n g) moment, I determined that either this was the world’s largest landing or I’d made it all the way down. I had no idea whether I was in a singular, enormous room, or if there were individual cabins, or if I was about to run face-first into the grim fucking reaper.
And then I turned to my left.
There was a light.
It was so, so faint. Flickering. Barely discernible, its warm, gentle glow ever so shyly illuminating the cracks around what appeared to be another closed door.
Being the only visible thing in my line of sight, in any direction, it emitted the aura of both a beacon and an omen.
I headed towards it.
I was about half afraid I was stuck in a horror movie situation where no matter how long I walked it would never grow any closer, but fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. I actually gained on it more quickly than I felt I should have for the speed I was moving, but I wasn’t going to complain about reaching the end of the nothingness in commendable time.
I ran my fingertips along the edge of the door and, sure enough, there was a carved-in handle, just like the last.
It opened just as effortlessly, and yellow candlelight rolled dimly out to greet me, lapping at my waterlogged clothes.
“Please,” came a quiet, terrified voice from inside the room. “Please don’t. I don’t know what you want, or–or what you are, but please don’t—”
“...Wiley?”
Rather than calming, the voice’s state of alarm rose to a level bordering on full-blown panic as I took a step into the space. “Please,” the voice begged. There wasn’t anyone visible from my current vantage point, but I could hear it clearly enough to feel fairly confident that the person attached to it—the person who either had to be Wiley or yet another duplicate of them—was close. “Why are you doing this?”
This was a cabin, I thought, or perhaps a study of some sort, with a rotting wooden desk and a decaying leather chair both covered in a flurry of loose, browned book pages and a thick layer of dust. There were candles littering several surfaces, placed in what appeared not to be any intentional manner. Directly to my right, there was a shelf; its back faced me and the odd placement led me to imagine that it may have been employed to block the door at some time.
It was also, I would have just about bet, the source of the voice.
I nudged a couple of planks and a broken amber bottle out of the way with the toe of my shoe, rounding the shelf to find a crumpled, bloodied Wiley, restrained to the floor by a thick, coarse rope fixed expertly to a bolted tie and holding their bound hands up to shield their face.
“Jesus fuck,” I said. “What happened to you?”
Slowly, they lifted their head. “...Adam?”
Realization dawned on me, and I felt my stomach sink. “Look at me,” I told them. “Look at my eyes.”
They did, their own bloodshot and watery and inherently human, and I watched their shoulders deflate, the defense and terror draining from their form. “There’s someone…something…down here. Or, I guess it still is, anyway. I don’t know where it went, but I don’t wanna be here when it comes back.”
I nodded. “It look like me?”
Wiley nodded back.
“Yeah, there’s one of you upstairs. Not real sure what we’re supposed to do about them, but one thing at a time. Let’s get you up from there.”
It was a struggle, disentangling Wiley from the heavy, abrasive leads coccooning their body, but we got there eventually, and throughout the entirety of the arduous process they gave me the rundown on how, when we’d parted from the solace of the platform, something had instantaneously latched onto them, dragging them down deeper and deeper until their ears popped and their head felt like it was going to explode. They said they’d been knocked out by the pressure, and that when they’d come to, already tied in place and coughing up lungfuls of water, “I” had been standing over them, wielding a large net hook and no mercy.
“I knew it wasn’t you, obviously,” they said, “but I didn’t know where you actually were or if something had, like. Hijacked your body? I don’t know. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We grabbed a couple of candles (the majority had simply been melted into place atop whatever surface they’d adorned, but there was a small collection fitted into slightly-too-small brass holders) and got the fuck out.
Being able to see so little in the space around us was almost more disorienting than the pitch darkness I’d been feeling my way through before. It felt as though we were in a fragile, wavering bubble of reality and nothing existed outside of it.
“Wish I’d been awake coming down here,” Wiley remarked. “Guess I still wouldn’t have seen shit, though.”
“I could…maybe get us back upstairs?” I considered, with little to no confidence. “But I don’t really know what good it would do us. Nowhere to go. Maybe we just…look around down here for a bit? See if we can find anything useful?”
“Yeah, okay,” Wiley assented. “But we’ve gotta be quiet. I don’t want that thing to hear us.”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that.
We wandered hesitantly through the dark, shielding the flames of our candles with cupped palms and praying we wouldn’t misstep. We made it some unsubstantiated quantity of time without incident, but softly, after seconds or minutes or hours, we heard a light rustling from the shadow veiled corridor to our right, and Wiley pulled me into the nearest open room in the opposite direction.
Flattening our backs to the wall, we listened intently as footsteps echoed faintly behind us, cyclically growing closer and then further away again for several moments before disappearing altogether.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and uncovered my candle, easing the door of the room to a gentle, silent close. The contents of this one were different from that of the last in that there practically weren’t any. It wasn’t just that it was tidier; there was a chest shoved against the wall nearest us and a leatherbound book of some sort lying in the center of the floor, but otherwise the space was vacant.
Wiley moved first, crouching next to the journal and lifting it from the ground, a cloud of dust rising in the wake of their breath. I knelt down beside them, offering my candlelight so they could discard theirs and open the cover.
Beneath which there was a box.
It was a plain, unadorned wooden rectangle, nestled into the carved-out central pages of the book, and we learned upon extracting it that there was no lock or latch, just a seam indicating the lid’s separation from the body.
I don’t need to spell the whole situation out for you. There was a key in the box. The key opened, you guessed it: the chest. Inside the chest, there were piles of gold and jewels beyond your wildest imagination. We’re rich now. The end.
Nah, JK. But the key in the box did open the chest, in which there was, A) a pair of peeling, pleather driving gloves, and B)...
I felt my heart skip.
A bicycle chain.
I’m not going to get into the nuances of that right now, or maybe ever. But for the purposes of dramatic flair, just know that it was incredibly, pointedly relevant to me, on a level so personal it sucker punched the air straight out of my lungs.
“No,” Wiley said, staggering back a step. “Uh-uh. Nope.”
I put together, then, that the gloves must have been their ticket item. “It’s okay,” I said, on autopilot, because it was not. “There’s something—something’s carved into the bottom of this thing.” Pushing past the reaction every fiber of my being had to the sensation of the frigid metal against my skin, I shoved both the chain and the gloves to the side and could scarcely make out a host of crudely scrawled letters in the wavering light of my half-gone candle.
“What is it?” Wiley asked, making no move to come nearer again.
“Though your…hand…? Heart. Though your heart does pound and knees grow…weak,” I deciphered slowly, “Rid yourself by your… That doesn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t it be of? It says ‘rid yourself by your fear’ and…something. Drain the…clin… No. Drink. Drain the drink.”
“Rid yourself by your fear and drain the drink,” Wiley repeated analytically. “The hell does that mean? Is this shit telling us to kill ourselves with the—oh. Oh. Fuck.”
I was not following. “...I’m not following,” I said.
“It is.” Wiley returned to my side, squatting down and nudging me out of the way with their shoulder to peer warily into the trunk. “It’s telling us to kill ourselves, but not these selves. We’re supposed to use…those…to kill our fuckin’ doppelgangers, or whatever they are. That’s how we get rid of the water.”
“Oh,” I echoed. “Fuck.”
We marinated for a moment in silence before Wiley sighed, resigned, and lifted the gloves from the chest, closing their eyes and pulling the fabric snugly over their hands. “Let’s get to work.”

Okay, I’m gonna level with you. Focusing on current events is just getting a little too fucking heavy. I’m no closer to answers than I was a month ago, none of us can sleep through a full night without waking up shaking and drenched in sweat, and there are some new downright bizarre phenomena cropping up that I just don’t have it in me to allot my energy to at the moment.
So, for today’s installment (and then also for the next one) I’m gonna tell you another good ol’ fun-for-the-whole-family pool story. Yep, you heard that right—welcome to our first bonafide two-parter.
This was quite a while ago. My measure of time is all off by a year now, but I feel fairly confident in chalking it up to post-first pool story, pre-ouija board fiasco—so however long ago that’s been now.
It was a weird, rare night, in that Matt was out. Not an unheard of occurrence, but it’s fairly anomalous, and it certainly puts the rest of us on slightly higher alert.
Obviously, he always tells us to call him at the first sign of some shit going down and to use our best judgment to determine whether it’s serious enough to lock up and head out. Better safe than sorry and all that. The night in question was no exception to the rule.
Overall, though, things were mostly quiet. Alice was in, as was I, as was Wiley. We do a lot of congregating, but we do a lot of work, too, and this night, we were all in our respective areas, doing our respective jobs.
I was in my not-office mending a finicky Shakespeare anthology, Alice was watching the desk while working on cataloging a truckload of new donations, and Wiley was replacing several lightbulbs that had all decided to call it quits after our most recent power outage (this one due to a flash-flood).
It was calm to an almost uncharacteristic degree. There was a relatively steady flow of patrons in and out of the building—I could hear Alice greeting them and wishing them a good evening—but as far as anomalous activity, there was none.
It does happen, on rare occasion, that we make it through a full night without any goings on, but there’s almost always at least the odd disembodied voice or two.
We should’ve known better than to trust a meteor shower.
See, there’s just something about natural anomalies. Not just the ones that knock our power out, either, although those are clearly included. Blizzards, thunderstorms, hail and tornados and earthquakes and all your run-of-the-mill destructive shit, sure. But the things of beauty, too. Rainbows. Eclipses, lunar or solar. And you think full moons hit emergency rooms hard? Try this fucking place.
It was just that a meteor shower wasn’t one we’d dealt with before. Does that mean we shouldn’t have known better? Fuck no. Obviously not. But perhaps our collective greatest fault is that we still have some semblance of hope.
Wiley wanted to look at it from the roof. Kid never fucking wants to do anything, and they were set to climb up and camp out alone. I couldn’t not entertain such an innocent, youthful whim.
Our roof access doesn’t have stairs—just a ladder—so Alice couldn’t accompany us, which I felt shitty about, but she assured me it was perfectly fine with her.
“The world decided I didn’t need functional legs so I could never be peer pressured into leaving the ground,” she quipped. “I’m not into heights. But y’all have fun up there. Somebody needs to be here for the patrons anyway.”
Fair and fair. So Wiley and I gathered up an armful of blankets and one of Matt’s trusty camping lanterns and headed out to scale the building.
Wiley went up ahead of me. That was my first mistake.
Really, they aren’t that much younger than I am. Maybe four or five years, and I’m too close to thirty for comfort now. But there’s something about them, even as far as they’ve come, that makes it impossible for me not to do everything in my power to protect them. I think Matt feels the same way. Maybe most of us do.
Anyway, that’s why I immediately started cursing myself when they reached the top of the ladder, pulled their way up and over the ledge of the roof, and said, “...Whoa.”
My second mistake was not immediately telling them to turn around and start climbing right the fuck back down.
I knew exactly what that tone of voice meant. But something in me just kicked into hyperdrive and I…had to see it. Whatever it was, I had to see it for myself.
“Don’t move,” I said, and then, “What is it?”
But by that point, I was at the top, too. I hoisted myself over the ledge and was met with…
…Water.
It was everywhere. Extending in every direction. There was no edge in sight—not even a horizon line. Just vast, dark water as far as the eye could see.
“Okay. This is not—let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Wiley agreed, a little breathless.
I’m sure you’ll be downright shocked to learn that, when we turned around, the ladder was gone.
The edge of the rooftop was, too.
The thing that surprised me, really, was that it wasn’t as though we were standing on some sort of island. We were somehow in the water all of a sudden, up to our waists, neither of us having taken a single step.
“Fucking…shit. Jesus. Adam?”
“We’re fine,” was my default response, because my anxiety override kicks in like a motherfucker as soon as someone else is more openly afraid than I am. “It’s okay, let’s just—let’s think for a second. Maybe it’s just, like, an illusion or something.”
“Okay,” Wiley said. “Maybe we should…try moving?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll bump the ledge and then we can just feel for the ladder. Good idea.”
Wiley and I shared a look, wordlessly nodding to one another, and stepped forward in unison.
Maybe I misspoke before, when I said we weren’t on a platform. It was just that our platform wasn’t above the water. Now, though, there was nothing.
It felt, almost, like the stomach-turning sensation of missing a step walking up a staircase. The only difference was that there was no moment-too-late connection.
We plummeted.
There wasn’t any difference in temperature beneath the surface, which was, in a way, more disorienting than the water itself. The mental recalibration that typically comes with plunging into a cool lake or, adversely, a heated pool wasn’t allotted an opportunity to take place. It felt, for most intents and purposes, the same as being in the air, just that I couldn’t breathe.
It was heavy, too. The weightlessness water tends to embody was null; I immediately abandoned everything I’d been carrying, clawing my way upward frantically enough that it would’ve been mortifying, I’m sure, had anyone witnessed it.
Wiley resurfaced at the same moment I did—empty handed as well, I noted—coughing a little but not to the extent that I was worried they were choking. “Next idea?” they asked, pushing their wet hair back from their face, dark, damp lashes obscuring their eyes.
“Let’s get back on the…” I started, but trailed off when I raised my head.
A couple hundred yards out from us, there was a ship. It was a dark, hulking thing, with tattered sails and something indistinguishable affixed to the bow, glittering and glinting in the moonlight.
Wiley spun around to face it, drifting back slightly when their gaze landed parallel to mine. “What the fuck is that?” they demanded, legs kicking haphazardly beneath the water to keep them in place.
“Maybe it’s…good,” I said. I knew better than that and I knew Wiley did, too, but I said it anyway. “Maybe someone will help.”
They didn’t even humor me with a response to that bullshit.
Now, at this point in the story, maybe you’re thinking being suddenly surrounded by water and watching as an ominous ship approached us with absolutely nowhere to go and no way to escape doesn’t feel quite enough like imminent condemnation. To which I say to you: not to worry. Because the next realization we came to was that the platform we’d been standing on previously had suddenly ceased to exist.
“Shit,” Wiley said. “Shit, shit, shit. Adam.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s fine. We’re fine. We just—we’re gonna—follow me.”
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to swim toward the Obvious Death Ship. I guess just that there wasn’t anything else save for open water anywhere so it essentially felt like our options were paddle around until we were exhausted and drown or face a quicker, simpler demise.
“You better have a fucking plan, bro,” Wiley intoned from behind me, which I chivalrously pretended not to hear, because I did not, in fact, have a fucking plan.
The closer we drew to the vessel, the more unbelievably monstrous it appeared to become. It loomed above us, casting a shadow over everything in its direct path, and the sinking in my stomach almost convinced me to turn around. Almost.
But then something curled around my ankle. It was slick and strong, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that whatever it was could’ve pulled me under and eaten me alive in a fraction of a second.
Luckily for me, it wasn’t interested. It let go as quickly as it had latched on, almost as though it was simply using me as a handrail to move itself along. Still, though, the knowledge that it was there was all the motivation I needed to push forward ever faster. I didn’t say anything—didn’t want to add more fuel to Wiley’s panicked fire—just picked up my pace and swam up to their side.
“There’s a ladder,” they informed me, raising a hand and pointing toward the back half of the ship.
Indeed, there was a ladder. It was a tattered, worn thing, comprised of old, fraying rope and rotting, untreated wooden boards, but it looked composed enough that I figured we could likely make it up if we were swift.
“Bet,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We went.
Up close, the ladder appeared even shoddier than it had when we’d first seen it. I reached out of the water and wrapped my fingers around the rope at the bottom, giving it a hearty tug. To my slight surprise, it held fast.
“I think we’re good,” I told Wiley. “I’ll go up first and tell you what I see.”
“Be careful,” they said, but didn’t protest, just backed up enough for me to get the leverage I needed to hoist myself onto the bottom board.
I climbed warily, overly conscious of every creak of the wood bowing beneath my weight, every groan of the fibers of rope under my hands, but made it without incident to the top.
Once there, I grabbed onto the ship’s edge, lifting my gaze to take in whatever lie before me.
It was…nothing. I mean, it was a ship, obviously. But there wasn’t anything on board. No apparent crew nor cargo nor even a captain manning the helm. Granted, I couldn’t see perfectly, but the moon shone brightly enough that I was fairly confident in my observation that the deck was devoid of anything but its own shiplap floor.
“Hello?” I called, because I wasn’t about to beckon Wiley up if some fucked shit was going to pop out of nowhere the second we made a sound.
Nothing responded. Nothing moved. The ship rocked gently on the impossible water, as silent and vacant as it had been a moment before.
“Good?” Wiley questioned nervously from below me.
“Yeah,” I told them, easing myself off the ladder and down into the confines of the vessel. “Come on.”
They did so tenuously but still more swiftly than I had, climbing aboard and landing next to me with a dampened thunk.
We allowed ourselves the briefest of moments to catch our breath, silently rejoicing in the small win that was having found solace from the pool itself. Not that we had any idea what to do or where to go from here, but at the very least, we weren’t drowning.
“Okay,” I said, clearing the unease from my throat. “I don’t know what good trying to steer this thing would do us—there’s nothing but water no matter where we go. But maybe there’s something here somewhere that’ll help us figure out how to get back. So I think we just…start looking around?”
Wiley nodded. “Cool. Split halves, front and back?”
Nooo, Adam, don’t split up! Never split up! I know. I can literally hear you screaming it at me. And actually, for once in my life, I considered that something might be a horrible fucking idea before acting on it.
But then I saw something.
As I turned back to respond, Wiley’s eyes shimmered, dancing in the moonlight.
They were silver and mercurial, with no pupils or whites in sight.
Whatever had come back up from underwater, it was not my coworker.
I swallowed, forcing my expression to remain as neutral as I was able and praying whatever was standing in front of me didn’t notice I’d caught on. My entire body was instantaneously covered in chills, in a way that I understood to have the same purpose as a dog’s hackles rising. “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll take the front.”
I headed in the opposite direction of the thing wearing Wiley’s face (at a pace that I hoped didn’t appear hurried but one that would remove me in a timely manner from the vicinity) and didn’t stop until I’d reached the front of the ship, breathing heavily and attempting to slow my reeling mind.
I didn’t know what to tackle first. I didn’t know where Wiley was, or if they were anywhere—if they were even still alive. I didn’t know what my next move should be. I didn’t know what I was looking for or where I might find it.
It’s rare that I feel utterly hopeless, to the degree that I genuinely contemplate just sitting down and giving up, but in this instance, I thought long and hard about how easy it would be to succumb. I’d let the unthinkable happen. Wiley was gone. No one else had been here with them—there was no one else to blame. Just me. Only me.
…You’ll be glad to know that the self-pity didn’t last long. Embarrassing, honestly.
If I was the only one here, it meant I was the only shot they had at making it out alive. Our version of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ had always been ‘alive until proven dead’ and I wasn’t about to turn my back on the insane streak of luck we’d had up until this point. Not a single one of our lives had been lost, and we’d been in the midst of some absolute shitstorms. There was no reason to believe that right now, tonight, was an outlier. I couldn’t lie down like a sick dog and wonder if Wiley was still out there somewhere, suffering until the bitter, bloody end. I had to find them. By whatever means necessary, as long as it took, I had to find them.
I pushed off the railing before me and spun on my heel, eyes flitting back and forth to assess my options as efficiently as possible, and after a moment, I registered that fitted flush against the large front mast, there was a door.
It was only a sliver, thin and not particularly extraordinary in height, but there was a handle carved roughly into its right side and a set of rust-riddled hinges on its left.
I took about half a second to weigh my options and then reached for it, curling my fingers around the handle and giving it a generous tug.
The hinges, unsurprisingly, complained, but not loudly and not for long. The door gave way with little resistance, and opened up to my worst fucking nightmare.
A set of stairs, descending into blackness.
I mean, I guess if I’m being fair, my first pool encounter had featured a staircase leading to the pool rather than away from it, but I didn’t feel like there could possibly be good news awaiting me below deck of a ship where I’d just encountered a fucking mimic.
Still, though, there was a niggling insistence in my brain (not that kind, come on) that it was my only lead on finding Wiley if they were, in fact, somewhere on board. So I cast one last glance over my shoulder and stepped into the dark, letting the door fall closed behind me.
It smelled different, instantly, from the open air above. Mustier, which was to be expected, but also almost sweet somehow. I tried, unsuccessfully, to shove my true-crime-podcast-addled brain’s helpful reminder that the scent of human death is said to be sweet into a mental lockbox and put my hand to the wall, easing tentatively down to the second step.
The visibility wasn’t just low—it was practically zero. If you’ve ever been on a cave tour and had a guide cut the lights and instruct you to lift your hand to your face to demonstrate the complete absence of light, it was nearly that intense. The placing of both feet on each concurrent stair was an arduous, calculated process, but finally, after approximately one (1) century, I reached flat ground. I still couldn’t see, and there was no definitive way to tell whether I was standing on the floor or just a landing without thoroughly feeling out the space around me, so I reluctantly departed from the wall, scooting my feet in small, tentative motions and keeping both arms partially outstretched before me.
After a (l o n g) moment, I determined that either this was the world’s largest landing or I’d made it all the way down. I had no idea whether I was in a singular, enormous room, or if there were individual cabins, or if I was about to run face-first into the grim fucking reaper.
And then I turned to my left.
There was a light.
It was so, so faint. Flickering. Barely discernible, its warm, gentle glow ever so shyly illuminating the cracks around what appeared to be another closed door.
Being the only visible thing in my line of sight, in any direction, it emitted the aura of both a beacon and an omen.
I headed towards it.
I was about half afraid I was stuck in a horror movie situation where no matter how long I walked it would never grow any closer, but fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. I actually gained on it more quickly than I felt I should have for the speed I was moving, but I wasn’t going to complain about reaching the end of the nothingness in commendable time.
I ran my fingertips along the edge of the door and, sure enough, there was a carved-in handle, just like the last.
It opened just as effortlessly, and yellow candlelight rolled dimly out to greet me, lapping at my waterlogged clothes.
“Please,” came a quiet, terrified voice from inside the room. “Please don’t. I don’t know what you want, or–or what you are, but please don’t—”
“...Wiley?”
Rather than calming, the voice’s state of alarm rose to a level bordering on full-blown panic as I took a step into the space. “Please,” the voice begged. There wasn’t anyone visible from my current vantage point, but I could hear it clearly enough to feel fairly confident that the person attached to it—the person who either had to be Wiley or yet another duplicate of them—was close. “Why are you doing this?”
This was a cabin, I thought, or perhaps a study of some sort, with a rotting wooden desk and a decaying leather chair both covered in a flurry of loose, browned book pages and a thick layer of dust. There were candles littering several surfaces, placed in what appeared not to be any intentional manner. Directly to my right, there was a shelf; its back faced me and the odd placement led me to imagine that it may have been employed to block the door at some time.
It was also, I would have just about bet, the source of the voice.
I nudged a couple of planks and a broken amber bottle out of the way with the toe of my shoe, rounding the shelf to find a crumpled, bloodied Wiley, restrained to the floor by a thick, coarse rope fixed expertly to a bolted tie and holding their bound hands up to shield their face.
“Jesus fuck,” I said. “What happened to you?”
Slowly, they lifted their head. “...Adam?”
Realization dawned on me, and I felt my stomach sink. “Look at me,” I told them. “Look at my eyes.”
They did, their own bloodshot and watery and inherently human, and I watched their shoulders deflate, the defense and terror draining from their form. “There’s someone…something…down here. Or, I guess it still is, anyway. I don’t know where it went, but I don’t wanna be here when it comes back.”
I nodded. “It look like me?”
Wiley nodded back.
“Yeah, there’s one of you upstairs. Not real sure what we’re supposed to do about them, but one thing at a time. Let’s get you up from there.”
It was a struggle, disentangling Wiley from the heavy, abrasive leads coccooning their body, but we got there eventually, and throughout the entirety of the arduous process they gave me the rundown on how, when we’d parted from the solace of the platform, something had instantaneously latched onto them, dragging them down deeper and deeper until their ears popped and their head felt like it was going to explode. They said they’d been knocked out by the pressure, and that when they’d come to, already tied in place and coughing up lungfuls of water, “I” had been standing over them, wielding a large net hook and no mercy.
“I knew it wasn’t you, obviously,” they said, “but I didn’t know where you actually were or if something had, like. Hijacked your body? I don’t know. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We grabbed a couple of candles (the majority had simply been melted into place atop whatever surface they’d adorned, but there was a small collection fitted into slightly-too-small brass holders) and got the fuck out.
Being able to see so little in the space around us was almost more disorienting than the pitch darkness I’d been feeling my way through before. It felt as though we were in a fragile, wavering bubble of reality and nothing existed outside of it.
“Wish I’d been awake coming down here,” Wiley remarked. “Guess I still wouldn’t have seen shit, though.”
“I could…maybe get us back upstairs?” I considered, with little to no confidence. “But I don’t really know what good it would do us. Nowhere to go. Maybe we just…look around down here for a bit? See if we can find anything useful?”
“Yeah, okay,” Wiley assented. “But we’ve gotta be quiet. I don’t want that thing to hear us.”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that.
We wandered hesitantly through the dark, shielding the flames of our candles with cupped palms and praying we wouldn’t misstep. We made it some unsubstantiated quantity of time without incident, but softly, after seconds or minutes or hours, we heard a light rustling from the shadow veiled corridor to our right, and Wiley pulled me into the nearest open room in the opposite direction.
Flattening our backs to the wall, we listened intently as footsteps echoed faintly behind us, cyclically growing closer and then further away again for several moments before disappearing altogether.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and uncovered my candle, easing the door of the room to a gentle, silent close. The contents of this one were different from that of the last in that there practically weren’t any. It wasn’t just that it was tidier; there was a chest shoved against the wall nearest us and a leatherbound book of some sort lying in the center of the floor, but otherwise the space was vacant.
Wiley moved first, crouching next to the journal and lifting it from the ground, a cloud of dust rising in the wake of their breath. I knelt down beside them, offering my candlelight so they could discard theirs and open the cover.
Beneath which there was a box.
It was a plain, unadorned wooden rectangle, nestled into the carved-out central pages of the book, and we learned upon extracting it that there was no lock or latch, just a seam indicating the lid’s separation from the body.
I don’t need to spell the whole situation out for you. There was a key in the box. The key opened, you guessed it: the chest. Inside the chest, there were piles of gold and jewels beyond your wildest imagination. We’re rich now. The end.
Nah, JK. But the key in the box did open the chest, in which there was, A) a pair of peeling, pleather driving gloves, and B)...
I felt my heart skip.
A bicycle chain.
I’m not going to get into the nuances of that right now, or maybe ever. But for the purposes of dramatic flair, just know that it was incredibly, pointedly relevant to me, on a level so personal it sucker punched the air straight out of my lungs.
“No,” Wiley said, staggering back a step. “Uh-uh. Nope.”
I put together, then, that the gloves must have been their ticket item. “It’s okay,” I said, on autopilot, because it was not. “There’s something—something’s carved into the bottom of this thing.” Pushing past the reaction every fiber of my being had to the sensation of the frigid metal against my skin, I shoved both the chain and the gloves to the side and could scarcely make out a host of crudely scrawled letters in the wavering light of my half-gone candle.
“What is it?” Wiley asked, making no move to come nearer again.
“Though your…hand…? Heart. Though your heart does pound and knees grow…weak,” I deciphered slowly, “Rid yourself by your… That doesn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t it be of? It says ‘rid yourself by *your fear’ and…*something. Drain the…clin… No. Drink. Drain the drink.”
“Rid yourself by your fear and drain the drink,” Wiley repeated analytically. “The hell does that mean? Is this shit telling us to kill ourselves with the—oh. Oh. Fuck.”
I was not following. “...I’m not following,” I said.
“It is.” Wiley returned to my side, squatting down and nudging me out of the way with their shoulder to peer warily into the trunk. “It’s telling us to kill ourselves, but not these selves. We’re supposed to use…*those…*to kill our fuckin’ doppelgangers, or whatever they are. That’s how we get rid of the water.”
“Oh,” I echoed. “Fuck.”
We marinated for a moment in silence before Wiley sighed, resigned, and lifted the gloves from the chest, closing their eyes and pulling the fabric snugly over their hands. “Let’s get to work.”

A friend of mine has high ceilings. We're thinking of installing a strong 40cm shelf 40cm or so below the ceilings, running all the way around the room.

• Correct width of ply? Looking at 12mm. Should I go to 18mm?
• Metal brackets, or DIY wooden ones? Metal brackets add about another £5/m, doubling the price of the job. If we're making our own, any tips?
• Fixings? He has solid brick walls throughout.

Thanks for your expertise!

First: https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/14vo5lb/troublemakers_deaths_pity/
*previous:* https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/1crq34h/troublemakers_buried_secrets_bolster_the_weak/
......
Go'mon strutted around the command center, a cape of deep purple silk flowing about his shoulders as he wore his gilded armor. An ornate helmet underneath one arm, the faceplate forged into the visage of a snarling Rak'nal beast. He peered over the shoulders of drone pilots, observing the carnage on the streets in front of the mansion. His black scimitar hung at his belt, the palm of his war gauntlet resting on the hilt, eyebrow crests rising as he saw the expeditionary general's Buzzard explode.
"Casualty report on General Gra'vos?"
He stated to the small Geknosian woman who deftly piloted her drone closer to the wreckage to pull data from the onboard recorder. Her eyes sparkled, reflected in the screen as the data was streamed directly into her brain through a neural implant.
"Deceased, Just like you planned, his provided pleasure slave threw him from the craft and stole the det-sphere you clipped to his belt. You seem to know a lot about how these humans fight."
Go'mon touched the small grooves underneath the elastomer skin of his face where that parasite had shot him with a concealed gun. He laughed bloodily and purred.
"Failure is the greatest teacher in the universe, these parasites have taught me everything they know. Now we just need to see what their true fighting strength is."
"Understood sir, orders?"
"Get a view on the inner courtyard and report to the commanders of the second and third waves their positions and weaponry."
A young lieutenant called out.
"Sir! Twelve UHM-60 Blackhawks en-route to the enemy base! Advise!"
Go'mon stalked over, peering over the satellite observer's shoulder as he followed a chevron of twelve helicopters loaded down with ancient, obsolete human war-droids. He rapped the claws of his war gauntlet against the handle of his scimitar with a purr.
"Send orders to Commander Mar'tek to equip three of his Gallicks with anti-air weaponry, and orders for Commander Rak'don to equip his light attack craft with visual lock on missiles."
"Yes sir, relaying orders now."
Go'mon patted his subordinate on the shoulder hard enough to make them wince as he stepped back to gaze up at the massive map of Golgotha on the big screen. Small purple dots converging on a black dot that symbolized the human base of operations. He noticed that Mar'tek's forces were delayed, having only made it roughly halfway to their staging area. Walking over to the Comm's desk he asked.
"What's taking Commander Mar'tek so long to get into position?"
"A small group of human Saboteurs dropped a pair of buildings across the roadway, they're still clearing the rubble sir."
Go'mon nodded, picking idly at his metal teeth with the sharp point of his war gauntlet's index finger.
"Hm... I thought the parasite's response was oddly punctual, color me surprised they had the wherewithal to keep scouts. Move Mar'tek to the rear of the attack plan and tell Rak'don he's up next."
"Yessir!"
Go'mon chuckled haughtily, exiting the command room and returning to his field office. Setting his helmet on top of his desk he picked up the communication stick for sylva.
"Sylva, Would you kindly deal with that gate once you've landed?~"
There was a pause before.
"I'm too injured to follow that order sir."
Go'mon raised an eyebrow crest at the monotone voice that echoed back through the device.
"you've never refused a command before darling, would you kindly take care of the gate?"
The pause was longer this time, much longer this time. Then, a different, much younger voice came through, filled with fear, but also tainted with determination.
"Fuck you, Go'mon. These are our friends."
The sound of penny whistles and drums accompanied the words before the comms device popped in his gauntlet with the sound of a musket shot. Impossibly thick gray smoke pulsing from the speaker as he snarled and tossed it to the side.
"Bobby, Would you be a dear and retrieve your sister for me?"
The almost seven foot tall brute slowly nodded, eyes dull behind his ceramite mask as he stomped from the command center, bulky combat armor clattering and clunking with each step. Go'mon pressed his metal teeth together with a hiss. That damned warrior corrupted everything he touched with delusions of free will. Go'mon grabbed a fungal cigar from the box General Da'kos had given him as a thank you gift. The sweet, smoky flavor filling his maw as he lit it with the glowing hot blade of his gauntlet's thumb. He relaxed into his chair, flicking his cape out from beneath him as he enjoyed the cigar to relieve some momentary stress. His body suddenly flared with tingling power as the voice of Conquest growled in his ear.
"Kill that boy before he realises your plan. if he finds out your intentions he won't hold back."
Go'mon puffed the cigar and pulled it from his lips, letting it burst into purple flames and crumble away into cinders as he rose from his chair. He stepped out into the command center and commanded.
"Get me a buzzard to that battlefield, Order's from Conquest herself!"
There was a moment of silence as he let his aura roll over the command room, several of the comms officers immediately setting up a Buzzard for his departure.
...
Dust kicked off the ground as Drake's jump pack slowed his fall meters above the ground, He hit the ground and tore it from his back, whipping it into a group of soldiers and hitting it with a jet of pale flames.
The pack detonated in ball of orange fire that vaporized the soldiers, his cape fluttering in the backdraft before he whipped his sword from it's sheath, keen edges wreathed in pale flames as he took a Geknosian's arm off at the elbow as they tried to stuff a blaster pistol in his face. He snatched the blaster pistol from the air, using it to put a kinetic bolt into the faceplate of a powerarmored soldier with a Warhammer, Crumpling it inwards as he slid a foot back, another warhammer crashing into the ground where he'd just been standing. Another kinetic bolt tore off the soldier's pauldron as the hammer swung up at his face, making him reel back as another hammerhead caught him at the small of his back and knocked the air from his lungs. Another hammer slammed into his faceplate, forcing him to kick himself into a flip to land back on his feet. Ears ringing he deflected a Warhammer with his sword before putting another blaster bolt into the wielder's faceplate. But even as they fell back, another hammerblow hit the side of his helmet and smacked him down. Drake rolled out of the way as twenty millimeter high-explosive rounds shredded his assailants, allowing him to get to his feet as the war-bots formed a lethal semicircle, sending high explosive firepowerinto the rear column of the Geknosian assault at a blistering pace. Drake shook his head clear and vaulted over the back of one, hearing it's gun fall silent as he landed in it's cone of fire. Several flowing chops decimated a small squad of Geknosians as he tried to fight his way to the center of the column where the Gallicks hammered the gate with kinetic penetrators. The armored gate shuddering with each blow as Drake dodged war gauntlets and hammers, retaliating with fast slashes and blinding thrusts. Purple blood drenching him as his heart began to pound with battle lust.
He heard a mighty roar and crackle as one of the flying machines opened up with it's chin gun, harassing a gallick with 20mm High explosive rounds to get it's attention off the gates. It's shadow passing overhead with a Buzzard in pursuit as it slalomed low through the buildings to come back for another gun run. There was a ground shaking Boom! as something exploded beyond the rooftops, a Buzzard, smoking from one engine buzzing overhead and away from the battlefield. Drake quickly returned his focus to the battlefield, Smacking a Warhammer to the side with the blaster pistol before thrusting the blade right beneath the soldier's chin, twisting, and pulling free as a war-bot fell forward, a molten pit of slag glowing in it's back as he turned his head to face another column of armor and armored soldiers as they rounded onto the battlefield, a Buzzard painted the deepest, most royal purple he'd ever seen hovered low in front of them.
A geknosian in gold and purple armor fell from the open door, Cape of purple silk flowing behind them as they landed with one palm against the ground, Dark scimitar slashed out to the side as a crescent blade of purple energy was slung straight at Drake. Death's chosen slashed upward at the crescent, but it flowed around his blade, cutting across his chest and bringing with it a foul, draining weakness as a cold, familiar voice called out.
"That one's mine boys!~ all mine!~"
Drake hadn't recognized Go'mon in the ornate armor, but now there was no mistaking it. He tried to take a step forward but his legs buckled beneath him, sending him to his knees as a festering cold spread from the wounds made by the crescent blade that never touched his armor. He looked in confusion at his sword as the pale flames flickered out, then up just as Go'mons armored shin cracked into the side of his helmet, flinging him through a building as his mind reeled with confusion. He pulled himself from the rubble around him, stumbling to the side as a blade of purple energy sliced through the rubble he'd just been buried in without leaving a mark. He tossed the blaster pistol to the side, bringing the free hand to his mouth, intending to rip a ring off with his teeth. But as Go'mon slung another blade of purple energy with a cackle, He missed the ring, biting off his left index finger, ring and all as a boost of power burned the creeping cold away. He spit the severed digit to the ground as the ring still on it puffed into smoke.
"Feeling weak boy?!~ like your power's been drained?~"
Go'mon purred as he took a step forward, aura swelling with power as he held up the black sword.
"The blade of greed will do that if you let it touch you~"
Go'mon took an unfamiliar stance, Blade arched over his head and pointed down as he fell into a low, wide stance, one arm pushed forward as the blades on his war gauntlet's fingers glowed orange with heat. Drake fell into his peasants guard, gripping his sword in two hands as he glared at Go'mon. His gaze flickered off go'mon for a split second as he thought of everyone still in the mansion and the Geknosian chosen surged forward in a flash of purple light to run drake through before kicking him through the back wall of the building, Drake's power draining away like the blood pouring from the hole in his Lorica. He barely deflected Go'mons black blade as Conquest's chosen surged forward with a brutal slash, unable to focus for the split second required to dissipate a ring and refresh his power. Go'mons aura blooming with power with each blow of that black blade. Drake burst through a wall and into an empty street, tumbling ass over head as he desperately held onto his sword.
Angry red blood spilled from the hole in his armor as he got his elbows under him, a pair of golden boots clomping into view as Go'mon gloated, a softly flickering bloom of pale purple flames in his palm.
"All this power, and you don't even know how to properly control or wield it... Don't worry, you won't have it long~"
Drake manage to dissipate two of the remaining rings on his left hand, an intoxicating burst of power allowing him to launch himself back away from Go'mon as his wounds knitted closed, severed finger growing back with a crunching, fleshy noise. He could feel Go'mons grin behind the snarling visage of his helmet as he fell into a peasants guard, feeling far too weak for having removed five rings. The two stared at each other silently, one of the flying machines spinning to the ground before exploding into a fireball behind Go'mon. Drake fet a deathly calm fall over him as he twisted his sword up into a high guard.
He had to make it back to his people, no matter what. The thumb and pinkie ring on his right hand puffed into smoke as he felt those corvid like wings form at his back, a cold cage of festering ice around the burning sun of rage in his heart. Go'mon took a simple offensive guard, twirling the scimitar with obvious skill in a figure eight in front of him.
The two chosen launched themselves at each other, Drake wreathed in black smoke as Go'mon exploded with pale purple light; the pavement cracking beneath their feet with the violence of the action.
...
Martha tended to the mounting wounded in the infirmary as fast as she could, back splayed open as small gossamer arms allowed her to work on several wounded at once. Many of the ex-slave women helped, binding wounds with clean bandages and splinting broken limbs like they had back at the plantations. Hearing the large wooden doors of the ballroom infirmary slam open, she looked up as Destrier and Caz hauled in a pale remin and a Brutalized young woman. Keeping one hand holding a bundle of gauze against the bleeding wound she was attempting to close up, The young man looking up at her with fear, pain, and hope on his face as he helped hold the gauze down. Pointing to two empty beds she called out.
"Set them there! Where's Drake?! We could really use the walking embodiment of Death right now!"
Destrier hoarsely called back, setting Remin into a bed as the old man struggled to keep his eyes open.
"He's fighting his way towards us from the rear!"
Caz helped the battered young woman into a bed where she curled into the fetal position before the Markswoman swept back out of the infirmary, Huntress humming as she slammed a new flechette into the barrel. Martha continued tying off tattered blood vessels, trying to keep the young man from bleeding out as Cassius appeared next to her, shaking his hands dry after scrubbing them with antiseptic to help close up the gnarly gash in the stomach of the wounded man behind her. Martha's heart pounded in her throat as she finally managed to sew the wound closed before hitting the fighter with a sedative to ease his pain and knock him out. She wanted to cry but held in her tears as she turned around to focus on the same patient as Cassius, but even as she did, the young man placed a bloodied palm on her forearm. She felt a lone tear drip down her snout as she looked at the mans deathly stillness, eyes closed in quiet acceptance of his fate, a grim smile on his face.
Her legs felt weak beneath her as she leaned on Cassius, watching Destrier rush out of the infirmary out of the corner of her eye.
"we're going to need a miracle if we want to make it out of this alive..."
She whimpered as the din of battle echoed dully from outside. That was when a wounded man sat up, grunting as he held the bandages across his torso. She rushed over to stop him from tumbling out of bed when he simply fell through the floor, an odd superposition happening where he was there and not for a split second. But when it faded, there was a note left on the ground, scrawled in blood red, blotchy words.
"I'll be back, and I won't be alone."
Martha could only hope that was true as she turned to continue tending the wounded, Despair filling her heart as more wounded were brought in from the ramparts.
...
Halcyon held the gate, rifle spitting hatred from behind one of the wall's crenellations as one of his Hellions fell next to him, skull split open by gauss slug. Halcyon glanced down at the gate where Thomas and another hulking agri-droid held it against the wall, the gate rattling with each impact of a Gallick's kinetic penetrator, apples of sunlight spreading across the ground where they'd simply sailed straight through. The Geknosian reinforcements turning an already blistering hail of various projectiles and beams becoming an impassable force as several of their light cruisers fired on the helicopters that circled over the battlefield. Missiles streaking upwards and shredding the soft-skinned aircraft, forcing them to take evasive maneuvers and stop the pulse-pounding barrage of their rotary cannons. Halcyon's attention was drawn to the sky as an impossibly loud crash of steel on steel accompanied a streak of pale purple light and void black as they shot into the sky. The black streak getting slammed down by a brutal, unseen strike that made Halcyon's heart leap into his throat. What kind of monster could go toe to toe with Drake, and appear to be winning.
Halcyon, peaked past the cranellation he had his back against, a gauss slug taking his eye out and making him shout in pain as he jerked his head back. Ripping a bundle of gauze from his medi-pack, he rolled it out and bunched it up, pressing it against his vacant and shattered eye socket as a bout of lightheadedness turned the edges of his reduced vision dark.
One of his men crouched beside him flinching when chips of stone exploded from the crenellation they'd been taking cover behind, some sort of heavy weapon having been aimed at them as they darted for Halcyon. Halcyon looked into their eyes, face just as dismayed as he felt, their words barely audible over the din of battle.
"what do we do, sir...?"
Halcyon let out a sigh, shouting over the roar of gunfire.
"Pull back! secure the mansion!"
The fighters didn't need to be told twice as the ramparts were abandoned, leaping from the walls to sprint back to the mansion, The agri-bots forming a phalanx behind them to cover their retreat. But Halcyon couldn't help but feel this is exactly what the Geknosians wanted.
But even as the fighters swarmed into the Mansion, Two figures walked past them.
A hulking man in dark samurai armor wielding an lmg and a smaller woman with a flowing furred cloak and white mask, carrying an ornate rail rifle walked past them through the doors.
Halcyon watched in dismayed confusion as Caz and Destrier stepped out into the sunlight, a jump pack freshly mounted on Destriers back beside his kanabo. Another smaller figure appeared as if from thin air, Cassius spinning the weight at the end of a chain attached to a kama menacingly as the doors closed behind them, massive metal shutters sealing them out as the mansion was locked down. He couldn't help but smile grimly.
There was a reason they were Drake's friends, and it wasn't because they were the best fighters.
It was because when everyone else ran away, they ran towards the fight... regardless of their own safety.
......
Part 109: will be linked here upon release.

Hi. I’ve been struggling with humidity in SoCal.
Ongoing from last year and back again. I discovered white and orange mold that got on my bookshelves and ruined some items in a dresser. There is orange mildew stains on my bathroom ceiling, even after installing an automatic fan and painting the entire interior of our home. Even fixed our kitchen fan. Mildew was also on the peeled paint in the adjacent bedroom to the bathroom (where the damages occurred). Then there was the same wall mildew and damages in the living room opposite the house. Our big arch window has been completely fogged up and dripping condensation. Most of the windows were replaced with double pane about four years ago, but the humidity might be the problem and not the single pane. I have zero idea the cause of the humidity. I can’t open windows cause the humidity outside has been 98%. I have been running two dehumidifiers constantly opposite sides of the house. They definitely fill with water, as I’m constantly dumping it out (I don’t have a way to drain it automatically). However, another reader shows about the same percentage of 65-78 humidity, even minutes to hours of turning off the dehumidifier, or emptying it. Hell, one day a week ago every room read 50-51, with only the living room remaining high. Now it’s nonstop high with it currently reading 73-82 in each room. I am so lost. The roof isn’t leaking. It’s been inspected. The only things I can think of is that the wooden trim and plaster outside each window could use some caulking even if not visible, and we don’t have an insulated home. A tiny attic you can barely crouch in and a crawl space of dirt under the house with only thin wooden floor boards separating to the interior of the home. We also don’t have anything but a window ac in the living room cause the house is from 1927. No centralized heating, etc. Any advice appreciated on what to do cause I don’t want anything else ruined and it’s been driving me nuts trying to stay at 50% to prevent mold growth. I don’t want to spend a fortune on electric bills either. I’m so exhausted from spraying things down with mold killer.

Cover Art!
Just because you’re transported to another world, doesn’t mean you’ll escape from your pain.
Abused by her parents, thirteen-year-old Frances only wants to be safe and for her life not to hurt so much. And when she and her class are transported to the magical world of Durannon to fight the monsters invading the human kingdoms and defeat the self-titled Demon King, Frances is presented with a golden opportunity. If she succeeds, Frances will have the home she never had. If she fails, Frances will be summoned back to the home she escaped.
Yet, despite her newfound magic and friends, Frances finds that trauma is not so easily lost. She is dogged by her abuse and its physical and invisible scars. Not only does she have to learn magic, she has to survive the nightmares of her past, and wrestle with her feelings of doubt and self-loathing.
If she can heal from her trauma, though, she might be able to defeat the Demon King and maybe, just maybe, she can find a home for herself.
[The Beginning] [<=Chapter 216] [Chapter Index and Blurb] [Chapter 218 May 28 or see the next chapter now on Patreon]
The Fractured Song Index
Discord Channel Just let me know when you arrive in the server that you’re a Patreon so you can access your special channel.
Frances and company catch up before the final battle.
***
“Hold on. How would he win this battle if we outnumber him and surround him?” Ginger asked.
“He could target our leadership. Focus on killing Titania, Antigones, you and Martin,” said Ayax.
“Only, he’d have to kill Sebastian and Megara, as well as Edana and you too, Frances, along with a whole list of targets. I’m not sure how he could pull that off,” said Elizabeth.
Ayax grimaced, brow furrowed, but Frances knew the answer to that question.
“Thorgoth doesn’t need to find half the targets he’s after. Myself, mom, Titania, our strongest mages and the rest of the people that will be on his list have leadership positions. Like it or not we’ll be involved in the battle and he just needs to find us on the battlefield. A well-placed spell and he’d snuff any non-magic person out,” Frances said.
“So what do we do then?” Martin asked.
Frances’ heart was pounding, for she knew the answer, but was afraid to give it life. Yet what could she do but tell what she knew was the truth?
“Take the battle to him. Thorgoth will have to operate by himself with maybe just his Royal Guards. We need to hold him and his escort and defeat him before he hurts everybody else.”
“So, all the Otherworlders, our best mages?” Ayax asked.
“Not all of them. But my mother and I, Jessica and Leila, Dwynalina and Jim and Nicole, with a few Otherworlders holding off his guards,” said Frances.
Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Ayax and I can go after Queen Berengaria. I can’t imagine her going far from her husband.”
“This is assuming we can at least split the attention of the dragons and keep them occupied of course,” said Martin. He touched Ginger’s elbow. “Not that I don’t trust you dear.”
“Oh I know, but it is a consideration.” She swirled the wine in her cup. “That means Martin and I will be directing the battle with Sebastian and Alexander.”
“It’s likely you’ll be the overall commander with Martin. Alexander and Sebastian would then take charge of their own contingents,” said Elizabeth. She bit her lip. “Do you feel up for it?”
Ginger shrugged. “I mean, we have to—”
Elizabeth reached out to pat her friend’s shoulder. “Martin, Ginger, you know we have every faith in both of you, but if you need help, there is no shame in asking for it.”
“Besides I think we’re all scared. I know I am,” Ayax said with a smile. Even so, they could all see how her tail looked like it was trying to twist itself into knots. Frances figured her cousin wasn’t trying to hide her fear, just trying not to alarm or panic them.
Martin sighed. “I think that’s the problem, Liz. Duty compels us. Love binds us. So I know no matter what happens, I know we’ll stand together to face him. Still, we are afraid and while I know I won’t run, I worry that fear may cloud my judgment at a crucial moment.”
Ginger wiped her eyes, but her tears now flowed freely down her cheeks. “How do I know I won’t panic, and make a bad call? How do we know we are all coming back? We can’t. I…I guess we have to accept that, but I don’t want to lose you. Any of you.”
Drawing her friend into a tight hug, Elizabeth gently patted Ginger’s back. “I don’t either. I suppose that for me, I’ve always looked to my faith in God, and in you all. Have we not triumphed in all we’ve faced?””
Frances found herself nodding, her throat unclenching and the tight nervousness in her shoulders and neck fading. What remained was a faint feeling of lightness that lifted her chin.
“You’re right. We should believe in ourselves, and hope. Hope for a future when we win this war. Hope that our good will triumph over Thorgoth’s evil. Hope that in a few days, we’ll be home with our family, and our friends.”
Martin gave Frances a wondering look. “How are you able to hope that?”
Frances smiled. “I think that I have always been good at having hope. I didn’t realize it until now, but even in my darkest moments, I always hoped that I would find a place where I could be me.”
Ayax stood up, raising her glass. “To faith, friendship and hope. May it see us all through our final trial.”
Rising to their feet, the five touched glasses and drank deep. They all were smiling. The pain and fear in their hearts soothed by the hope they held and the determination to see each other once again.
***
“Frances, can I walk with you?”
Frances would never have said no to her best friend, and she could tell that past Elizabeth’s bright smile, her friend was worried. There were just too many small signs learnt from years of friendship. She was scratching behind her ear, and her eyes were narrowed just slightly from the tension in her face.
“Of course,” said Frances, falling in beside the tall Otherworlder. “How are you and Ayax?”
Elizabeth giggled. “We’re great! Fantastic even. She and I are even talking about what we might do after the war. We have so many plans and well, I kind of wanted to talk to you about that.”
Frances waited as Elizabeth continued to walk beside her, lips pursed.
“I know that after the war, I’m choosing to stay here with Ayax, with all of you. I just…” her voice trailed off, and her walk slowed to a crawl.
Taking a slight breath, Frances touched her friend’s hand. “Liz, you know it’s okay for you to doubt that.”
Elizabeth stopped and shook her head. “Oh no, I don’t have any doubts about my decision. At the very least, I’m past the point where my doubts aren’t going to change my decision. I know I’ve changed too much in the past seven years. I’ve come to terms with my sexuality. I’ve fallen head over heels in love with a woman who loves me just as much. I’ve commanded armies, led soldiers into battle and helped to make decisions affecting hundreds of thousands of people. I can’t go back pretending I’m Grade 8 and neither do I want to.” She squeezed Frances’s hand. “My decision is the right one. I know it in my heart and I’ve prayed about it. I can do a lot of good here and me going back? That won’t just hurt the people I love here, but it’ll hurt me and my family at home. I can’t hide who I’ve become and I’m proud of what I’ve grown into.”
Frances closely studied her friend knowing Elizabeth wouldn’t mind her staring.
“So what are you feeling, Liz?”
Closing her eyes, Elizabeth sniffled. “Guilt. It’s stupid. I know I’m making the right choice. I’m sure in my heart that God is encouraging me to make this choice, but I still feel guilty.”
“How could you not? You know your family loves you.”
“And I’m abandoning them. I know I’m doing the right thing but I still feel like I’m doing something wrong,” said the Otherworlder.
Frances hugged her best friend, squeezing her tight, hoping that her warmth and touch could comfort the woman who she’d trusted as much as her own mother.
“Liz, if they are everything you told me, they’re going to be alright. Have faith in them, like your faith in me and your friends.”
Elizabeth let out a sigh, but returned the hug. “Thank you, Frances. If…if the worst comes and you are sent back without me, go to them. Tell them I love them.”
Tears in her eyes, Frances nodded. “I promise. If you are sent back, I will take care of Ayax.”
Elizabeth let out a gurgly hiccup. “Thank you. I know you will.”
***
The historic coronation of King Martin and Queen Ginger would found what would be known as the Congrey dynasty. Con for Conthwaite and Grey for King Jerome’s dynasty.
It was an unusual coronation as King Martin and Queen Ginger were long-betrothed but not married. Yet King Jerome and Queen Forowena’s wills had been clear. Apart from that, the coronation involved as many of Eridale's traditions as possible in light of the circumstances.
Down the parade route attended by all those that could be mustered, King and Queen marched in at the head of an honor guard composed of their closest companions. These included Frances, Elizabeth, and Ayax, who held three poles of a crimson banner that hung over the pair. The fourth corner was held by Martin’s sister Mara, who wore a slightly undignified grin. Yet, nobody could really blame her.
Martin wore a black-white checkered tunic with red-gold trimmings and shoulder epaulets. His trousers were dark gray with again red-gold tassels. Ginger did wear a dress. It was of a dark maroon with silver lacing. A bejeweled gorget studded with emeralds hung from her neck and her ears sparkled with dark blue sapphires.
There was one minor alteration. As the procession marched up to the entrance of the old Goblin Empire palace, on a raised wooden dais dressed with elaborately embroidered carpets stood the attending dignitaries. They included all the other Erisdalian lords and ladies such as Viscountess Katia and Lord Tarquin, dressed in all the finery they could muster. Other notables such as Prince Timur, representing the Kingdom of Alavaria, Grandmaster Edana of the White Order and Alexander and Eloise of Erlenberg stood proudly side by side.
Towards the center of the dais were three figures. King Sebastian and Queen-Consort Megara, and the former Queen Janize. Sebastian and Megara were standing, holding Queen Forowena’s crown, whilst the heavily pregnant Janize sat, holding King Jerome’s crown. Thorgoth may have taken their decorated helmets, but he did not have their ceremonial attire.
Martin and Ginger stepped out from under the awning, giving their bearers a brief nod, before taking the last steps up the dais.
Whistling a spell, Megara touched her throat with her wand. “Who stands before the crowns?”
Martin knelt to one knee. The bearers of the awning followed. “Sir Martin of Conthwaite. A Knight of Erisdale.”
Ginger curtsied low. Frances nearly split her lips as she grinned at her friend’s perfect form. “Ginger. Just Ginger of Erisdale.”
Janize’s expression was unreadable as she rose to her feet. There was a slight archness to her features, and yet that could just be how she lifted her haughty cheeks.
“As witnessed by all, and by the King and Queen of Lapanteria, do you swear to defend Erisdale with all means at your disposal including force of arms?”
“We do.”
“Do you swear to uphold the laws of the land and the rights of Erisdale’s citizens?”
“We do!”
“Do you swear that until your dying breaths, to govern and reign over Erisdale not for your benefit, but for the benefit of the people and for their future generations?”
From her kneeling position, Frances frowned. That wasn’t quite the right oath. The wording was “Do you swear to govern over Erisdale wisely and justly?” She supposed that she might have missed it, or maybe there was a variation.
Yet as she noted her fiance’s face, she noticed his eyes were wide and her mother’s eyebrow was arched.
Not skipping a beat, Martin and Ginger bellowed. “We do!”
“Do you swear that you will do your utmost not to make the same mistakes as your predecessors and do whatever it takes to preserve Erisdale’s peace, even if it may cost you your lives?”
Frances blinked. Janize had gone completely off script. There was no fourth oath.
However, Martin and Ginger only hesitated for a moment as they exchanged a glance and looked up to meet Janize’s gaze.
The blonde woman’s eyes were bright and the hands holding Jerome’s crown were trembling ever so slightly. Frances had wondered why she’d insisted on doing this. Martin and Ginger had wanted to approach her to ask if she was willing, but the enigmatic former queen had surprised them by demanding they allow her to crown them. She now had an idea as to why.
“We do,” said Martin, smiling.
Ginger returned that smile. Blinking back her own tears, she took a breath. “In the name of Queen-consort Forowena and your brother, King Jerome. We solemnly swear.”
Janize closed her eyes, a single tear running down her cheek.
“Then as the last heiress of House Grey, I pass the crown of Erisdale on forever. Long live the Congrey dynasty. Long live Martin the Hero of Erisdale and his queen to be Ginger, whom I dub Erisdale’s Burning Heart.”
Lifting Jerome’s crown high, she set it onto Martin’s head. Swiftly taking Queen Forowena’s crown from Sebastian, she set it on Ginger’s head.
“Hail King Martin and Queen Ginger!” Janize bellowed as Martin and Ginger rose to their feet.
The crowd chanted back, their voices filling the great cavern. “Hail King Martin and Queen Ginger! Hail King Martin and Queen Ginger!” Frances could barely hear her own voice over the crescendo. The call that they all raised. Like the sound carried up into the void, she could feel herself be carried up. It was like she was floating on the power of their united song.
Turning around, Martin and Ginger smiled at Frances. Their eyes were wide, and she could see them clasp each other’s hands tightly.
Frances found herself standing on her feet, the pole to her awning in her hand. Without a second thought, she stabbed the pole’s spike into the ground. As her hand dropped to Alanna, she paused for a moment before her mind caught up with her body, and she nodded as if to herself.
Drawing the estoc, Frances raised her blade high, saluting her two friends.
“Long may they reign! Long may they reign!”
Elizabeth was right behind her, hammer raised high. Ayax followed suit with her staff and Mara and the rest were soon drawing their weapons. From the corner of her eye, Frances even spotted Morgan and Hattie raising their wand and staff.
“Long may they reign! Long may they reign!”
***
Helias glanced over his shoulder toward the accursed city. Despite the distance, there was a tremble in the air of Kairoun-Aoun itself.
“Helias?” Sara asked.
“Sounds like they crowned Martin and Ginger. They’re going to attack soon,” he said.
Sara nodded, her tense jaw the only sign of the worry that had seized the harpy-orc. As gently as he could manage with his rough, scarred hands, he wrapped his arm around her waist.
“Sara. We’re going to be fine.”
“You’re lying,” she said with eyes fixed forward.
The general couldn’t help but wince. “Sorry.”
Slowing in her stride, Sara placed a hand over Helias’s. “I still appreciate you trying to comfort me but I would prefer you to tell me the truth. How bad is it?”
Helias looked around. “Thorgoth may pull off a miracle and get himself and Berengaria out. However, a lot of Alavari are going to die.”
“What are you going to do?” Sara asked.
“I’ll have to attend this meeting and see what Thorgoth is planning. We’ll make a plan after that.”
“You and I know it’s not going to change anything,” Sara said, looking up at her husband, who could not meet her gaze. Yet, she didn’t push him away. Instead put her hand around his waist, drawing him closer.
“I know, but I want to be sure,” said Helias in a low tone.
“I understand. See you soon,” said Sara.
***
Helias found himself exchanging side-long glances with Glowron. The pair sat, both leaning forward toward King Thorgoth and a pacing Queen Berengaria, who’d finished explaining tomorrow’s strategy.
“Do you have anything else to add, my good generals?” Thorgoth asked. The king still smiled easily as he swirled a cup of wine in his hands.
Glowron shook his head. His tone was short but he kept this expression neutral. “No sire.”
The goblin general was Helias’s superior in rank and social class. The fact of the matter was that if Glowron had no objections, then there was no way the tauroll could object.
And still, Helias felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He froze, ever so briefly. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. Nothing mattered, except for Sara and Gwendilia.
“No sir. I’ll have my troops ready for tomorrow.”
That should have been that. They would have been dismissed to prepare for tomorrow’s suicide mission, but the king’s whims had other plans.
King Thorgoth put his cup down and leaned forward. “Oh come on my good generals. Surely you have something to improve on this plan.”
Glowron’s expression remained blank, whilst Helias smiled. “Your Majesty, you were the one who taught me everything I know. I can think of nothing I can add to your strategy.”
Queen Berengaria strode toward him. “You’re usually so talkative, Helias. Are you sure you have no other thoughts?”
“I beg your apologies, but I do not have any further additions to your plan, Your Majesty. My lord Glowron?” Helias asked.
“I do not either, my liege—” Glowron fell silent and Helias’s tail stiffened.
Thorgoth and Berengaria were no longer smiling and with a few more steps, the harpy queen had put herself behind the two generals.
“Let me be plain, we are now not asking you about how to improve the plan. We are asking for your thoughts. Give them.”
The Demon King’s remaining dark eye was narrowed. The other was now covered with a black silk eyepatch, the remains of the scar that Queen Forowen had given him, a discoloration scouring a line along the side of his face and right over his ear. In spite of the king’s injury, Helias felt nothing but cold dread dry his mouth.
“Your Majesty, my only thought is that we have no option but to follow your plan. No matter how we got into this situation, the only thing we can do is go forward and try to win this day,” Glowron said.
“And do you blame me, Glowron?”
Helias watched, eyes wide as somehow the much smaller goblin general continued to meet the king’s eyes. “I would be lying to you if I said I didn’t assign some responsibility to you at all, but I believe we ought to have thought of the possibility of such a trap. So the responsibility is mine as well.”
Thorgoth nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, Helias saw the slightest of nods that Berengaria gave to her husband. Alarm shooting his gaze back toward the Demon King, Helias found the full attention of his sovereign and sometimes uncle directed right at him.
“And you, General Helias?”
Lie and he might not be able to make it convincing enough. Tell the truth about what he thought about this war and he was never seeing Sara and Gwendilia again. Thorgoth hadn’t just been hurt, his pride had been wounded and he was now backed into a corner. It would be unwise to anger him, but what to say? What could he say?
All he could think of, and see was his child and her adoring gaze. All he could feel was the touch of Sara’s hand against his. They’d become closer than he could have imagined and were more than just companions with mutual goals now.
If he was to die, then maybe he could tell this truth.
“I am mostly thinking of my wife and my child, my king. The coming battle has me greatly concerned with how dangerous it shall be.”
Thorgoth narrowed his eyes at Helias for a brief moment. The tauroll, staying very still, waited for the presumed reaction by Berengaria.
Whatever Berengaria did made Thorgoth arch an eyebrow.
“I thought you didn’t consider your wife to be worth much,” said the king in a mild tone.
His mind racing, Helias ran with the idea. “She has responded well to the constraints and discipline I’ve enforced on her. She does nothing but facilitate all my needs and has served me well.”
He could feel Berengaria’s eyes narrow, but Thorgoth was already leaning back onto his chair. “Good for you. You are dismissed.”
“Thank you, sire,” said Helias, almost unable to hide his sigh of relief.
***
Author’s Note: While I wish I could have spent more quality time with Martin, Elizabeth, Ginger and Ayax, I do love the best-friend/team that I created for Frances. This chapter and the last was my little way of giving each of them a bit of time with Frances before the final battle.

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