First

Home at War

“Enter.” Harold says as he’s going over the details on current estimates on his data-pad. He puts it down as the Great Plains Nagasha Priestess/Captain enters the room. Before rising up to shake her hand. “Captain, thank you coming to see me. It’s best that we keep potential disagreements off the channels and settle issues like adults.”

“... You’ve misunderstood the situation Lord Saint.” Captain Legard notes.

“I see, well hopefully we can clear that up, and Lord Saint now? Have I done something to earn more respect or must simply pay more attention to things?”

“You probably should embrace more of the Primal in either capacity.” Captain Legard notes with a slight smile. “And I’m not here about a disagreement, I’m here because we’re trying to understand more about not only yourself as a mighty Saint, but the blessings of The Lady of War.”

“Oh? Alright, what prompted this?”

“The range you have on the danger sense. Lady Thassalia’s blessing, while only occasionally given out, creates nearly unkillable warriors. So the range of the danger sense is well understood. And you have surpassed it, not only surpassed it, but done so by a margin that can only really be understood in scientific notation. I don’t doubt that you sense danger coming. But the sheer range of your senses is... extreme.”

“Less so when you think about it.” Harold says as he reaches his chair again. He then presses a button on the underside of the desk near the seat and a wall panel opens wide. “A moment please.”

He then switches out the normal chair in front of his desk for a large couch comfortable for a Nagasha. “Please, sit.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Being respectful to those under one’s command is important, it encourages the respect in both directions, and while I understand that for religious reasons I have a great deal of respect from you and yours. I would like to have that respect for personal reasons as well.” He says.

“Remarkable...” She mutters to herself as she coils up comfortably on the couch. He sits opposite of her and smiles.

“Now, as to how my range on the danger sense has grown so extreme, it’s something I’ve been slowly growing into more and more. Essentially, it comes down to my enhanced eyes.”

“From my understanding you’ve touched the power of the Primals deeply as all the Saints have. While Saint Bluelaser and Blackstaff have spent a much longer time on Holy Lakran, you spent time there as well, and received your blessing there. Saint Bluelaser was attacked by a terrible shadow demon and left in a state neither dead nor alive before Lord Skitterway saved her. And Saint Blackstaff died a millennia ago while trapped in stasis and was fully revived by Lord Skitterway as well. But you have never needed saving. Instead you have lived in power, dealing with Primals as equals and somehow gaining a sliver of their blessings. Blessings you wear upon your face as some form of prelude to the inevitable coming of the eventual human Primal.”

“That’s part of it. I actually changed as part of a massive Axiom Spell that involved the Living Forests in Apuk Space AND Primal Assistance from Emmanuel and those with him. In essence we had Herbert channel power from the forests and indeed Emmanuel through me so I could cast a massive Axiom effect. The end result was the awakening of an entire Nebula into a single massive conscious entity. Creating the Astral Forest.”

“A literal miracle.”

“A mistake. I was hoping to revive the flammable gasses that the cult we were embattled with worshipped in order to both confuse them and make them far more reluctant to fire. Instead I accidentally helped the Living Forests to reproduce again. It ended well. But at the same time, it was close. However, that much power being channelled has side effects. A lot of them. The creation of a Living Forest, and the modification of every Jameson alive. Likely those in Cruel Space as well.”

“I see...”

“I’m not sure you do. You see, the power of the primals comes from what we Undaunted call the Other Diretion, or the Od in short form. Granted we only know about this because one of our own became Primal. What do you know of Other Direction Energy, or Ode as we’ve taken to calling it?”

“Information on it has been scarce on the ground and difficult to parse from a religious standpoint even if it seems fairly straightforward in a scientific direction. Granted the straightforwardness is due to the admission that very little is actually understood about Ode or the Od. I know it is an energy source like Axiom, but also has it’s own locations within it but has neither direction nor distance as we understand it.”

“No no, it has direction, but neither distance nor time. Which is really confusing.” Harold corrects. “Anyways, I can see into it. But I can’t really process what I’m seeing, so the most I generally see is a flicker of movement from something that lives in the Od, mostly harmless, but beyond the fact that everyone has a touch of Ode and it casts a bit of light, the trick to my danger sense lies there. In the gaps and considerations.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we’ve established that distance is more a vocabulary word in the Od. And I can see into the Od. And all living things have some presence in the Od. But generally that translates only to me seeing you give off some light of your own. Which is easily overwhelmed by the standard lights in this room, but if the lights were turned off I would not only be able to see you, but see my immediate area due to the light I myself give off.”

“So... are you implying that you’re potentially...”

“Looking purely into the Od is just an endless white landscape with no down, up, left, right or anything. Just pure white. I think that light is the light of a person’s soul. Everyone’s soul. So much of it I can’t see anything through it. But...”

“But?”

“I’m getting something out of it. Just enough information out of the endless ocean of information I can’t actually understand to know two things. If there is a threat and what direction it is in.”

“And since this information is coming from the realm of the gods, distance does not matter.” She muses. “Distance does not matter... hmm... Lord Saint, there has been discussion among the Philosophers and Priests of the Primal Faith that I am wondering if you can quell.”

“I can certainly try. I assume it relates to the nature of the Od and how one can fit in both everything and nothing within it?”

“That’s exactly the point. The Spiritual Realm, Realm of the Gods, Other Direction, Afterlife or what ever one wishes to call it does not function under the same theories and principals of Baryonic Matter, Non-Baryonic Matter or Axiom Based Matter. Effectively creating a fourth type of matter to consider that like the previous three categories is not simply the other forms of matter with a new name, but it’s own unique resource.”

“Correct, although I would argue it’s more likely it’s always been there and influencing and being influenced by the other three forms of matter, we’ve just failed to truly detect it in any truly appreciable amount until recently.”

“You’ve brought up another point that is often debated through our circles, however the one I wish to ask about is about distance and space.” She says and he nods. She then holds up her hand with finger and thumb perhaps an inch apart. “The Od as you call it, could it fit between my finger and thumb?”

“Not from my experience.” Harold answers and she looks surprised. “Think of it like this. The Od is... Well I haven’t seen all of it, but I assume it’s at least as large as the galaxy, maybe the whole universe. But at the same time, every part of it is everywhere and nowhere. It really, really doesn’t work like normal space or matter as we understand it. There is no separation, but it clearly functions in different ways for different people. I don’t know how best to explain this...”

“Try.”

“Okay, when I helped Miss Greatpincer ascend, I physically pulled her into the Od and threw her into the place beyond. Where the most power was felt. She came back a goddess. Now, where I was then, in our universe, was in the Skathac system. In orbit over the world. We are nowhere near that world or system. However, where I was in the Od, and where I am now in the Od, has not changed.”

“Is it?” She asks.

“It is.” He says and she stares at him.

“That does not make sense.”

“It does not. Therefore the sense it makes is not one that my current experiences can actually apply to it. Therefore I need a new framework. But I don’t have one yet. When it comes to understanding the Od and the Ode, we are all as newborn babies. We need to absorb a great deal more, experience a great deal more and live a great deal more in it to even begin to make sense of things. Let alone categorize or even truly compare them to the natural laws and physics of the other forms of the universe.” Harold says and there is a look of awe slowly forming on her face.

“Divinely empowered, blessed with holy strength and humility. You embody your title Lord Saint.”

“... No one can actually improve if they don’t ever look at themselves honestly.” Harold says. “And the idea of self betterment was one of the first I truly latched onto.”

“The philosophy of The Undaunted.

“Yes. I fully and completely support it, and try to live it as well.” He says before gesturing to the corner of the room. “Use your Thermal Senses on the equipment over there. I was using Text to Speech programs to read out the reports to me shortly before you arrived for the meeting, I like to work out and strengthen my body as I perform my duties.

Captain Legard adjusts the collar on her clothing to expose more sensory pits as she turns to the series of adjustable weights and basic rack in the corner. She can sense where he had been sitting and hints of heat still lingering on the equipment, but only just. The meeting has been running a little long.”

“Don’t you humans sweat? I haven’t smelt anything.”

“The air circulation in this ship is very powerful and silenced so it doesn’t interfere with day to day activities. Humans are going to be a big part of this ship now and in it’s future and we have pheromone issues that will distract.”

“Really?”

“This ship is also going to have some civilians on once we’re past the war. Or we could take on refugees and need to move out. So the whole place is designed with that in mind. Not to mention the human population is ballooning like crazy, so human built ships need to have some accommodations for the difficulties we bring to the table.” Harold explains to her “Now...”

He pauses and there’s a gap. “The threat just wavered. Angling ever so slightly but still coming this way.”

“How far is it?”

“I don’t know. I just know it’s approaching, it’s coming for us and it just changed vectors ever so slightly. But it’s still coming here.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“We’re the Ambush Fleet. We’re going to Ambush it. I’ve already instructed The RAM to start pumping out signal bafflers and stealth plating. We’re going to make them think we’re elsewhere in the system and get our enemy to expose themselves. Then we open fire from an unexpected direction. Simple and clean, and since we know what direction they’re coming from, we can disguise ourselves well.” Harold offers. “Still... why did they waver? Is something else joining it? I only know it as a threat on approach and the direction. Nothing else.”

He sighs and rubs his hair a little. Then smooths it. “I hate the waiting. And ordering others to do jobs I’d rather do myself. I don’t think I’ll be doing this twice. I’d have been far happier just being sent to the front and told where they want the enemy to be forced out of.”

“You don’t like leading?”

“It’s not that. It’s the feeling of entropy. As if death will come for me if I’m not fighting to live. And leadership leads to a lot of waiting, a lot of just stewing on that feeling even as you organize things.”

“You’re doing very well.”

“That’s because I have so much energy to dedicate to my tasks.”

“Energy you’d rather be spending in a more wholesale manner?”

“Somewhat.”

“Is this a very polite way of trying to force me out so you can go back to exercising without feeling rude?”

“... Yes.”

“Just get back to working out. I won’t take offence.” She says. “And frankly anyone who would take offence is a fool. You’re clearly paying attention, but just so enormously kinesthetic that you do better work while in motion.”

“Thank you.” He says as he stands up from his desk and quickly shucks the jacket of his uniform. He’s at the bench in a few short strides and picks up a heavy weight that uses Axiom to make it even harder to lift and move. He sits comfortably and starts absently curling the weight. “Now, since I’ll be able to think a little better, I was hoping we could discuss a bit in the way of mixed training. The boarding actions of you and your fellows weren’t quite up to the standard I was hoping for and I would dearly like to avoid possible injuries or fatalities in the future. Firstly though, we need to discuss why some of your forces neglected to take the proper armour into the field...”

First Last

This is the next installment of "Ain't A Hero" (3rd Edition). A strange work of fiction that wanders the spectrum of Science Fantasy and might be best described as a Slice of Odd story: A 1000 years into the post post-apoc future after a biopunk/cyberpunk world got T-boned by magic showing back up. And our story starts with a down and out adventuring school dropout that's about to get figuratively and literally dragged back into adventuring.

Since, this story is under revision, any thoughts and comments are appreciated. Also, don't be afraid to point out typos and such. It's really a never ending battle. I gone over these things so many times, and those mistakes are still there... Just waiting... Lingering...

---- Episode 7 Preview ----

Rubbing the fatigue from her eyes, Samantha kicks the shoes off her feet onto the hotel floor. Adjusting her aetherphone on a nearby nightstand, she groans and flops back onto one of the beds in the double room. "So... After the Greater Azure Alliance specialists, the ones that we ran into at the Amaranth Dining House, blasted off the barrier Sebastian's team left, they put their own up and sealed off the area tight."

She draws in a deep breath and sighs out loudly. "THANKFULLY, we got the power cell trailer back in one piece. SO, that's one rental deposit we'll actually get back. BUT, I'm still fighting MERC about SUPPOSED damages to other equipment."

Narrowing her hazel eyes at the vaguely dingy and faintly stained ceiling, Samantha huffs out her frustration. "Gods. Next time, I'm getting that supplemental insurance. It's not worth our time arguing with them about every little thing."

From the speakerphone, Howard's tone steadies to a neutral and calming cadence. "Huh. Interesting. Well, I'm glad that everyone got out in one piece. Be sure to give Radnae, Urdi, and..."

A faint groans slips out from the other side of connection. "Even that Ol' Harris a week off. Give them coupons to that spa and magical hot springs we got that advertising deal with."

With an audible breath in over the call, he directs his inquiry. "Now... Back to business... How much footage did you all manage to get?"

Samantha winces, drags out a pained groan, and slips a breath in. "A little. Between the military lockdown, that electrical thing which corrupted a bunch of recordings, and then not having power for most of the equipment..."

Rolling her eyes, she grits her teeth and rubs her forehead. "I'm surprised we even got THAT much. Gods, I'm not sure if it's enough for an episode. I mean, what kind of episode is this going to be?!"

She combs her fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair and waves a hand dismissively out. "They boldly eat, fail miserably on their first mission, and then go home to lick their wounded egos? That's at least an early to mid season thing. You can't just lead off a season with THAT. It'll crush our ratings."

A still silence hangs in the air. A low laugh grows into loud cackling through the speaker. Staring at her phone, Samantha's eyes bounce between confusion and concern, an uncertain squirm traveling through her body. From the other side of the double bed hotel room, Gerald halts work on his laptop, slowly turns his head, and narrows an uneasy stare on the phone. The laughing stops, and Howard exhales with a sinister glee. "Yes... Just THAT... With a little twist!"

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Chapter 287 – No rest for the righteous

“You know, sometimes I wonder how things would’ve worked out if you never left the service,” Admir said as they looked out over the lake, his eyes following the last ripples that slowly dissipated across the water’s surface after the stone that had skipped across it just moments earlier had finally sunk beneath the waves after a rather impressive number of bounces. “Between us, I mean. Obviously no telling what number of things would’ve changed outside of that as well.”

A sound somewhere in between a scoff and a chuckle left a rough throat next to him, and after the final waves lost themselves in the natural movements of the water, he turned his gaze over to look at James, who was lazing in the grass next to him.

As he leaned back onto his arms, James’ fingers were gently stroking through the blades, seemingly taking in the sensation as he looked up to process what he had just heard. His face was somewhat thoughtful, but mostly at ease, even as he squinted a bit as the light of the sky likely stung his eyes.

“That’s quite a thing to spring onto a guy all of a sudden,” he pointed out with another chuckle right before he turned his gaze down from the sky and over towards Admir so their eyes met. Even after years and distance, James’ eyes still had that same gentle fondness in them that they showed back when they had met for the first time. “Don’t tell me you’re not over me,” James then went on to tease while his lips pulled up into a slightly smug smirk.

Though, in the same movement yet far more subtly, one of his brows also raised just a tiny bit. Admir knew that look. He didn’t want to say it, but James was quietly assessing whether this was a conversation he would have to pay far closer attention to.

Not keen on making him worry even a moment longer than necessary, Admir quickly chuckled and waved his hand dismissively.

“Oh, hell no,” he assured, his voice still warped by the slight laugh he brought it out with. “If I’m being honest, I suspect we wouldn’t have lasted no matter what. Or at least, that’s the conclusion I tend to reach when I think about that ‘what if’.”

He then sighed a bit and broke their moment of eye contact to look out over the lake again.

“Though, honestly, the whole idea is flawed from the start. Imagining a world where you chose to stick around is essentially thinking of an entirely different person,” he mused a bit further. “Maybe a James like that could’ve worked out. But, then again, would I even have fallen for a James like that? Who knows.”

Next to him, James snorted again.

“Aren’t you feeling philosophical today,” he teased once again. A moment later, something gray very briefly moved in the corner of Admir’s vision, moments before splashing loudly into the lake as a rather large impact caused a raining fountain of water to rile up briefly, right before it quickly spread back out across the waves.

Rolling his eyes slightly, Admir glanced back over his shoulder. James was not looking at him now, instead seeming focused on the ground around him with one hand rifling through the grass as if he was looking for something else to throw right away.

“Are you saying I don’t always think deep thoughts?” Admir asked in mock insult, adding feigned sharpness to his voice that James obviously saw right through without even thinking.

“Usually, you’re not so forthright with them,” James pointed out in return. After a few more seconds of seemingly not finding the stone of his dreams, he then instead opted to rip out hand-fulls of grass from the greenery, filling the air with the smell of dying plants as he proceeded to roll the ripped blades up into a ball.

His eyes remained affixed to it, though it was clear that his concentration wasn’t actually focused on ever so thought-intensive task.

“Also, maybe you shouldn’t be too sure of that,” he went on after a moment, his voice softening a little while his eyes looked at the slowly de-saturating green of the ball in his hand. “Not us breaking up, I agree with you there. But the soldier thing? I mean, I came back didn’t I?”

Towards the end of his statement, his voice dipped just a little, almost sounding as if there was a tinge of uncertainty creeping in. Perhaps a hint of a question about how true to himself either of their version of events truly was.

An uncertainty that Admir did not share at all.

“You were forced back in,” he pointed out right away, stepping slightly in place as he turned to face James more fully, one hand planted on his hip. “And the first thing you did when you were was try to stick it to your mother and make this thing your own.”

James exhaled sharply.

“Lotta good that did me,” he murmured.

However, Admir almost immediately shook his head.

“Come on,” he protested just a little. Stepping a bit closer to where James was sitting, he crouched down at his side, elbows resting on his bent knees as he tilted his head a bit to try and look directly at James’ averted face. “You saw people being maimed and murdered right before your eyes – hell, you yourself even got maimed – and you stepped up to do something about it. Who the hell wouldn’t have done that?”

James let out another breath through his nose. His hand opened to drop the ball of mushed-up grass back onto the ground, and his face finally turned to look at Admir again.

“Most people?” he replied, his voice slightly raising in suggestion that sounded equally as though it was obvious and uncertain at the same time. “Plenty of people who go through tough shit and then don’t go on to fly through space with a gun in their hand. They write a book, or something. Go on TV. Have interviews. Maybe start a podcast. They don’t…”

“Because most of them can’t,” Admir interrupted him, his tone now turning slightly stern. “James, not everyone who has horrible things happen to them has the means, or the ability, or even just the energy to go out and fight a whole crusade against the people who did that to them. Many of them are happy if they can just get out of bed. Once you’ve been through something like that, it is your win to have just survived and steady on, if only out of spite alone.”

He lifted one arm off his knees and reached it out, placing it on James’ shoulder.

“But I am sure if they had the chance. If they did have the means. If there was more they could reasonably do. I think they would,” he stated as definitively as he could while his fingers squeezed down against the fabric of James’ shirt.

James looked back at him, the softness in those dark eyes wavering for a moment as they seemed to turn into endless pools that briefly lost their light. However, just a moment later, he closed them for a moment. And, when they opened back up, there he was again.

A snort escaped James, and he shook his head subtly while gently shrugging Admir’s touch off.

“You’re saying what we do is reasonable?” he questioned directly, and his voice didn’t hide how ridiculous the notion was to him.

And Admir laughed right along with him. Because, honestly, it was a fair counter.

“No, I guess it isn’t.” he agreed as he allowed his hand to drop from its comforting position. Then, a smirk rose on his lips as he added, “Though, if you ask me which is more like you: Nearly getting yourself shot because you refuse to back down from some asshole OR starting a damn podcast, I have to say I would be more worried if I saw you sipping on some craft beer in a studio.”

That was enough to cause James to fully crack up into proper laughter, and he very nearly doubled over backwards into the grass, to the point that he had to catch himself on one of his elbows. Which, in turn, left him half lying there as he fought to catch his breath again.

“I guess you do know me,” he replied. Perhaps without knowing that he was doing it, his free hand moved up and subtly traced along his body, moving from one long faded bullet wound to another in a slow path of remembrance.

The wounds were long gone, but memory remained.

Admir’s eyes were affixed to the journey as he thought back of the days he had spent by the bedside of his half-dead then-boyfriend back in the day, able to do little more than be present and wonder if he was ever going to wake up again.

In the end, he had always pulled through. But in places, things had teetered right on the edge.

“This one nearly left me a goner,” James suddenly said, almost as if he had read Admir’s mind right then and there. Perhaps the movement had not been quite so subconscious after all.

Admir nodded as he looked at James’ hand pressing against the ever familiar spot on a shoulder and an arm that was no longer there at this point. Ironic that so much reconstruction had once been done to return it to its functional state after a whole chunk had been taken out of it in the field, only for the entire limb to disappear a few more years down the line.

“Yeah,” he replied, inadvertently feeling his body tense as he thought back to the nasty wound James had been brought in with. No matter how much death you saw, being able to look right into the inner workings of a loved one's body was never a fun experience. He let out a somewhat breathless chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t remember too much between the time you were brought in and the time you woke up. Seemed like it was all a blur.”

After remembering a little more, he exhaled slowly.

“But I do remember what you told me right after you came to again,” he then reminisced more quietly.

Slowly, he raised up his gaze, looking up to the sky. His eyes weren’t stinging as he looked up into the bright blue, even though the sky was as clear as it could be while the sun shone down harshly.

“And what was that?” James asked, though his tone wasn’t an actual question. Rather, it sounded as though it was meant to serve as a reminder.

Admir exhaled slowly. And, as he did, his own hand slowly lowered, down and down along his body, until it settled on his thigh.

“You said you didn’t know anything that happened either,” he replied as his fingers slowly pressed against the flesh of his thigh. And, as they did, he felt his pulse push against the pressure from underneath. Harshly. Painfully. As though it was fighting. And with every moment, that pain radiated out from under his fingers more and more. “But that somehow, you knew when it was time to wake up.”

…

The entire room shook with the echoing reverberations of a deafening bang of which he didn’t know whether it had been truly there or a false memory summoned by his confused mind as Admir’s head shot up; his mouth opening wide to greedily suck in a breath that filled his lungs to the brim, as though he was emerging from a very long dive.

Almost immediately, his whole body was on fire. All over himself, he felt every tear, every cut, and most important every hole that had been punched into him by the hostile fire he had faced.

Even as his more primal instincts felt as though they were dying from the pain, Admir immediately clocked that it somehow still hurt far less than it most likely should have, at least judging by what he remembered feeling just moments before he had passed out.

So, either he was running on enough adrenaline to numb the most severe of wounds, or he was dosed up on some good pain meds right now.

Perhaps the latter was a little more likely, given that his first glance around quickly informed him that he was in some sort of white, sterile clinic environment.

Apparently, while he was out, they had succeeded in bringing him to some kind of sickbay or hospital or the like. Or, well, if he hadn't been out the whole time, at least he had no memory of being brought here. And while that was somewhat calming, that effect was harshly lessened by the distant thunder of both explosions and gunfire that he could hear crawling its way to his ears through the structure of the station – with the first sounding far more distant than the latter.

In fact, the latter sounded rather disconcertingly close in places.

As soon as he wrangled control of his somewhat numbed limbs from his body, he hastily ran a hand across himself to check the various injuries he remembered having.

Many of the superficial ones had been bandaged up under tight compression. Meanwhile the deeper wounds, especially the most nasty gunshot wound down in his leg, had clearly not just been covered, but also stuffed with some medical device that had expanded and hardened to clog up the bleeding as much as it was possible.

Wound glue? Collagen? Tampons? He didn’t know, and he didn’t particularly care either.

What mattered was that someone had treated him – and at least for now, it felt as though perhaps it was to a degree that could allow him to move. Not that he could waste much concern on whether he could or not.

Another – once again even closer – snap of gunfire had his head shoot around towards the room’s entrance.

The rumbling of the walls and ringing of his ears had apparently been loud enough to drown out the sound of footsteps, and so it was a bit of a surprise for him to turn his head, only to come essentially face to face with a very surprised Sam - who he basically only recognized based on her hair, build and movement alone - as she hurried around the corner almost right away.

“You’re awake!” she yelled out. She immediately hurried over to him. However, as she did, he could tell from her movements that she was most certainly not in the bet of conditions to worry about him either.

Though, if anything, he could’ve perhaps already told as much from her essentially mummified face that only left one of her eyes fully free while hiding the rest of her previously model-like features away under thickened and stiffened bandage.

“I am, and I think I can move,” Admir assured right away, already shifting to try and swing his legs out from under the rather heavy blanket. “And by the sounds of it, not a moment to soon.”

We decided to depart near midnight, when no one in Whiteleaf, except for the rare half-elves that lived in town, could see us go. The farewell was brief. Only Lyra and Elincia were still awake in the manor. 

As Elincia wished us luck, I could sense the weight on her shoulders. Without the System, the difference between martial and crafting classes disappeared, and Elincia was not much weaker than Kili or Zaon. Still, we both knew it was too early for her to join an incursion into enemy territory.

“Bring everyone back safe,” Elincia said as we departed.

I nodded.

Kili led the way. The moon shone bright in the night sky, showing the path ahead. We walked for an hour before reaching the top of Whiteleaf’s northern hill. Behind us, clumps of lightstones illuminated the riverwalk and the market. A handful of city guards patrolled the main streets, although their presence was largely decorative, as Farcrest protected Whiteleaf from the east while the Teal Moon tribes protected it from the west.

We passed near a tall watchtower made of enchanted Warden Roots. Although it wasn’t apparent from the outside, the watchtower stored enough firepower to bring down a dragon. The Sentinels saw us go by without making a move. They had been warned that a party of Sentinels was going to pass by at midnight. As usual, nobody questioned the orders from above. 

The northern face of the hill had been completely cleared of trees. We walked down the same path into a rocky section in between valleys with nothing more than pebbles and crushed rocks. Old roots of the old Forest Warden, the one Izabeka defeated when she was still a young girl, lingered there.

Our first goal was to leave Whiteleaf unidentified. Our muffled Wind-Shot Boots hid the sound of our steps against the gravel, and our enchanted headgear cast a blurring shadow on our faces. The spell wasn’t enough to fool a System user with a strong detection skill, but it was good enough to conceal our faces from non-System users.

All those hours behind the desk doing paperwork for the town might have rusted my joints, because after a couple of hours of traveling, I was sore and out of breath. By comparison, the kids looked like they had just rested. I took a sip from my waterskin, and we continued onwards.

Four hours later, we passed by the northmost watchtower and reached the frontier. I pulled my cloak firmly over my head. By this point, the Sentinels in the watchtower should already have their System skills back.

To the north, a dense forest stretched in every direction, interrupted only by the furthest arms of the eastern mountains. The wild territory between Ebros and Tagabiria extended as far as the eye could see. No wonder it had been a decade-long task to create a path between both kingdoms.

“The old Marquis really wanted to mess with you when he made you thane of Whiteleaf, huh?” Firana pointed out. 

Farcrest was considered dangerously close to the Farlands already, and Whiteleaf was located in the most northwestern corner. Unlike the mountainous area west of the city, this part of the Farlands remained unmapped, and even the orc tribes avoided it. Without the natural bottlenecks from the valleys, it was simply too dangerous to inhabit permanently.

Kili and Zaon spied into the darkness, remaining silent.

The clouds suddenly covered the moon, and the path ahead disappeared.

“Let’s stop for the night. We still have a few hours until dawn,” I said, sitting down against a rock and pulling a small wooden bowl from my backpack.

The bowl was made of Warden Root, and it had taken Ginz a whole day and several destroyed drillheads to complete.

“No need to stand guard so close to Whiteleaf,” I said, pushing a strand of mana into the [Alarm Dome] and placing it face down.

Nothing seemed to change, but my mana sense told me the enchantment was active. It was a rather simple one. It used the same idea of the enchanted cup that mimicked [Silence Dome], but instead of casting a sound-insulating effect, it detected when a mana signature entered the area of effect and triggered a [Vibration] rune string that produced a faint ping.

The design wasn’t perfect, but almost none of my enchanted items were. The problem with my Alarm Dome was that small birds and rodents triggered the effect when they passed nearby. Enchantment thresholds and design time were the biggest limiting factors in my process. Still, it worked just fine, although it was better to keep the bowl near one’s head to not miss the ping.

We gathered behind a rock to cover from the cold wind coming down the snow-covered mountains and chewed on jerky.

“Do you remember the strategy we used on our first trip into the Farlands?”

Zaon and Firana nodded.

“We are going to do the same thing. If we encounter trouble, you let me tank it while supporting me from the sidelines. If we encounter Byrne, you need to run away. He’s too strong for any of you,” I said. “Are we clear?”

“Do you think you can defeat him?” Firana asked.

“I don’t know. He’s way more experienced with magic authority and…” A shiver ran down my spine as I remembered the man’s projection on the astral plane. I remembered how, with only a movement of his hand, he put my authority back together. If he could do that, it was only logical he could perform the reverse trick. “He isn’t our target. Not yet. Understood, Firana?”

“Why are you singling me out?” the girl asked, offended.

“You were the one chasing thieves and murderers in a hockey mask, not Zaon. Although a special warning for Kili might also be justified, all things considered,” I said, scratching my chin.

Kili avoided my eyes, turning to look away into the Farlands. 

“That was the old me,” Firana defended herself. “I’m a different person now. A mature and judicious lady, if you ask me. I also killed a dragon, which is like ten times more spectacular than killing a Wendigo.”

I silently hoped to find no dragons during this trip.

Firana’s energy wasn’t enough to spread into Kili and Zaon, so we soon closed our eyes and rested through what was left of the night. The Alarm Dome didn’t go off a single time, and the enchanted blankets kept us warm. Winter had almost reached Farcrest. 

We got up at the break of dawn. The valley was covered in a layer of frost, and the path below was treacherous. Doubly so because the path we had been following had completely disappeared. The Wind-shot boots saved us more than once, but we finally left the open hills and got into the embrace of the forest.

“Alright, Zaon. Here’s where you become important,” I said.

“Okay,” he said without much confidence.

Zaon’s natural magic allowed him to find lost items. The boy was still experimenting with the limits of his powers, but the semantics of ‘lost’ and ‘items’ seemed to be ambiguous at best. I had gone through something similar, learning that I could actually transfer heat rather than just making fire. It will take time before Zaon understands the intricacies of his natural magic.

I cleared my throat.

“I lost something in the Farlands, somewhere between the Ebros border and ten miles north. The item I lost is big enough to be a hassle moving it around. The item I lost is extremely powerful and important,” I said.

Of course, I didn’t know what the elves had found in that strip of Farlands, but if they could retrieve it, they wouldn’t have bothered to move the frontier so close to Ebros. If the item wasn’t powerful or important, they wouldn’t have bothered looking for it either. As vague as the description was, it could only be a handful of things.

Zaon closed his eyes and magic coursed through his body. 

The expression of insecurity didn’t disappear from his face.

The more detailed the lost item and the narrower the search area, the easier it was for Zaon to use his powers. This was a Hail Mary of a plan, but the alternative was to flood the area with Sentinels and anger the Tagabirians. Ebros wasn’t prepared for a war, not with the royal family gone and all the political turmoil the fall of Cadria caused.  

Mana faded away, and Zaon opened his eyes.

“What direction, my loyal bloodhound?” Firana asked.

“North?”

“Figures,” Kili added.

“North it is,” I said, putting on my backpack and leading the way.

There was another way of finding our target: finding elves. I wanted to avoid that possibility as much as possible. Fighting sapient beings was way more dangerous than Black Wolves and Chrysalimorphs, as strong and clever as the latter were.

By noon, we stopped again, and I asked Zaon about my 'lost' item. Rather than continuing straight to the north, he pointed a few degrees west past a stone wall seemingly cut into a hill. Our traveling speed decreased. Although I could sense the mana signatures of all creatures around us, traversing the Farlands without [Identify] and [Foresight] was even more unnerving than I expected.

“Ants,” I said.

Firana and Kili drew their swords. It had been a while since I had laid eyes on the Aias sword. The enchantment shone even brighter than before, and I had to tone down my mana sense to avoid becoming blind.

“Put away your swords,” I added, leading the way.

A hundred meters ahead, a line of Woodcarver Ants the size of big dogs cut our path. The ants threw their feelers toward us but didn’t seem to consider us a notable danger and continued on their way. 

“I don’t like them, I don’t like them, I don’t like them,” Kili muttered, suddenly prey to an itch all over her body.

“They are harmless, unless you invade their nests,” I replied, approaching the line of ants and patting the head of one that was dragging a massive log.

The Woodcarver Ant seemed annoyed, and it tried to escape my hands to go around me. I couldn’t have guessed that annoying Woodcarver Ants could be so entertaining. After a moment, the ant decided to turn around and walk a wide roundabout around me.

“I think we should go south,” Kili said. “I’m not coming near a nest of those things.”

“Don’t worry. They build their nests in lakes and rivers. We will know if we come near one,” I replied, remembering the System prompt I had gotten after using [Identify] on the ants messing with the beams of our iron mine.

“That begs the question. Where is the body of water? I saw no lakes or rivers from above,” Zaon pointed out.

“I don’t want to know. Can we continue?” Kili interrupted him.

I nodded. The ant trail seemed to be inconsequential to our quest, and a handful of Soldier Woodcarvers had caught wind of us. They didn’t seem particularly pleased with our presence. 

We looped around the stone wall. Blood Eagles, twice the size of condors, glided above our heads. I couldn’t tell what level they were, which made their talons look even more dangerous. For a classless individual, magical beasts weren’t much different from real monsters. 

“Someone hold Kili’s hand. We don’t want an eagle to abduct her,” Firana jokingly said.

Kili didn’t appreciate the joke. 

Firana and Zaon had gotten quite the growth spurt during their years in the Imperial Academy. It was evident to the naked eye they had reached around Lv. 30, or at least the high 20s. Kili hadn’t gotten that far ahead; even after two years working with the Sentinels, her already light build had remained the same. 

I said not a word, knowing that Kili would only resent any attempt to defend her. Instead, I focused on my mana sense. We were far away from the usual patrolling routes of even the stronger Sentinels.

“Careful, Roc Harpies,” Zaon said, pointing north. “They are restless.”

“There shouldn’t be a problem if we leave them alone.” I nodded.

In general, magical beasts weren’t aggressive unless provoked or hungry. That could change quickly if the Roc Harpies were already agitated. The Harpies flew in wide circles, their screeches reaching the ground as if they were mere meters from us. The forest was eerily silent. The whole scene reminded me of the wake of the Wendigo’s attack during my first days in Ebros.

“We should take a detour,” Firana broke the silence. “I’m not getting cold feet, by the way. I just trust my gut,” she quickly added.

“I agree,” Kili said, her eyes stuck on the Roc Harpies above.

My three ex-students looked at me, waiting for confirmation. I nodded, and we turned west to avoid whatever was disturbing the Harpies. The deeper we went into the Farlands, the denser the forest became, and at times, it seemed like someone had created walls of green to slow down our advance on purpose. 

I pulled my cloak over my head, even if it limited my field of vision. Plant species I hadn’t seen before became more and more common as we advanced. Kili warned us against touching anything too bright or colorful. [Identify]’s absence became even more glaring when I couldn’t recognize any plant species save for a handful of trees. No wonder Abei’s Scholars were so well paid. In the Farlands, knowledge meant survival.

In half a day, I had passed through three different forests, or so it seemed to me. Back on Earth, biomes didn’t change so suddenly from what I knew. The deeper we went in the Farlands, the more mana signatures I felt, although most of them fled as we approached. I couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad sign.

There were many creatures hiding underground, but Kili guided us through safe paths. Eventually, I asked her whether she had any System skills, but she just shook her head. The girl wasn’t only skilled in remaining hidden but also in avoiding trouble, to the point that I started suspecting she had awakened her natural magic somehow.

After a change of environment, we reached a patch of the forest that looked more like a jungle than a temperate forest. The humidity was high, and it was cold enough that the fog didn't allow you to see very far ahead.

A thick wall of green, mossy vines blocked our way. For half an hour, we walked away from the game trail we had been following, trying a roundabout and using our swords to cut through the less dense parts, but our advance slowed to a crawl.

“Zaon? Do you feel the item I lost?” I asked as we came to a stop to rest.

Zaon closed his eyes and focused. Mana surged through his body, and he stayed still, frowning. 

“Right through the vines, north-east… I think,” he said.

“It would be dangerous to try a detour through the north, and going east would bring us back to the Harpy grounds,” Firana said, looking at me.

I wanted to avoid doing any magic that could reveal our location to elves or the local fauna, but time was pressing. As much as the [Concealment] rune helped to hide our mana signatures, a spell was a different matter. The more we fumbled around, the greater the advantage Byrne would have over us. 

“Stay behind me,” I sighed.

I closed my eyes and stretched my authority. The world lost all color as I became attuned to the magical plane. I extended an invisible hand and captured the heat of the environment. The movement was as natural as breathing. When I opened my eyes again, the air around me had become slightly warmer, and the vines ahead were frozen solid. With a slight knock of my sword’s scabbard, the vines broke down, opening a path.

“Let’s go.”

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Arc III - Reeling Throne

Chapter 50 - Cowardice

8 months and 25 days since the summoning

With a light whistling of some tune, Ilgan led his squad along an open road through a small patch of sparse forest within the royal lands.

The sun had long since passed its zenith and was dipping toward the horizon, but the sky was still blue.

The snipers marched unevenly in their ghillie suits, holding their crossbows down.

"So fucking hot..." Shikur said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

The bear scoffed. "What did you expect? Summer is almost here."

"It's not even about summer," Dunko muttered. "These ghillie suits... it's so hot in them, and we haven't even had time to rest properly."

The boar sighed. "Yeah... His and Her Grace don't spare us, work us like dogs."

Ilgan cast a sidelong glance at them. "Because they're counting on us. There's no one else to send."

"Is it far to go anyway?" someone from behind asked.

"No. There's a river ahead, we cross it, walk a bit more and we're there. The task overall... I wouldn't say it's difficult."

Shikur nodded. "You can say that again. Reconnaissance is much easier than killing nobles."

"Everything is difficult here!" the bear suddenly exclaimed. "When we were sitting in ambush on that road, I was actually thinking, why the fuck did I agree to all this? I could be sitting in Zoligasha, hunting, instead of all this."

A sly smile appeared on Ilgan's face. "Oh, really? And who was it that was bragging the loudest in the village recently about what a hero he is, huh?"

"Hahahah!"

"Hahaha!"

Laughter washed over the large group like a wave.

The bear's ears immediately perked up. "That... that was purely so they'd give us something to drink and eat! If you have no money to pay—pay with soldier's tales!"

"And what, are you a soldier?"

"Oh, shut up!"

Ilgan relaxed his smile with a sigh. "Well, you're very lucky Lord Gothwald considered your bullshitting somewhat useful."

"And why is it bullshitting right away?" the bear asked, frowning.

Shikur snorted, stifling a laugh.

"Because you said we didn't kill two soldiers, but quietly slaughtered a whole squad!" someone shouted from behind.

"Hahahah!"

"Hahahaah!"

The bear's ears drooped, and his sharp teeth clenched. "Oh, go to hell all of you, I'm earning a reputation for our squad here, and you..." he waved a hand, "eh."

"Don't sweat it," Ilgan said, turning to him, "we're all very pleased that we're known as heroes. Lord Gothwald even named us 'Ghosts'."

"Ghosts..." Shikur repeated. "Why not? I like it, sounds menacing. Better than 'elite Mireyan squad'."

"Hah, you bet." He turned to Lison. The fox was walking silently, his crossbow lowered, looking somewhere at the ground, no smile on his face. "Hey, Lison."

Silence.

"Lison!"

The fox flinched slightly, and then raised his battered face to Ilgan. "Yes?"

"Why so gloomy?"

"Oh, nothing... just thinking."

He narrowed his eyes. "Still sweating about what happened in the camp?"

Lison clenched his teeth, but one tooth was missing. "Yes," he said quietly.

Ilgan stepped closer to him. "Oh, let it go, what happened happened, the main thing is we survived. Just don't do it again and follow my orders, alright?" He patted the fox on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Lison, besides, you paid your dues in full for that fuckup." He pointed at his teeth.

"Oh yeah! He sure did!" the bear laughed.

Shikur also snorted. "Yep! When they beat us, Lison got the most generous helping of ass-kicking!"

To the sounds of laughter, Lison only shook his head with a sigh, but his lips curved slightly in a hint of a smile.

"And what's that over there?" Dunko asked, pointing ahead down the road.

Everyone immediately turned in that direction.

In the distance appeared a disfigured, blending silhouette, created from dozens of other silhouettes moving quickly down the road.

Ilgan removed his hand from Lison's shoulder. "Cavalry?"

"Weird," Shikur muttered. "Oh well, maybe they're moving troops."

Ilgan narrowed his eyes. "I don't like this. Let's hide, just in case."

"Think they're enemies?" the bear asked. "They're supposed to be besieging the castle, right?"

"Shut up and hide!" he barked, already crawling into the grass. "Dammit, no bushes... but I think the ghillie suits will help." He pulled up his grass-covered hood and lay down in the grass, pressing tightly to the ground.

The other nine snipers repeated the same actions, and the road instantly became empty.

Twenty-three seconds later, the distant rumble and clatter of hooves could be heard.

Ilgan slightly raised his head, and saw a squad of five riders galloping up a small hill in the distance.

At the same time, a squad of seven riders dashed past them on the road, gradually slowing down and looking around.

Dunko squeezed his eyes shut, and his fingers gripped the grass.

Ilgan watched without blinking, though his heart was beating so hard the thumping echoed into the ground.

The bear swallowed, watching the cavalrymen who were already descending the hill.

"Wh-what is this?" Lison asked in a whisper, almost inaudibly.

Ilgan didn't dare move. "I can't hear you," he said quietly in response.

"I..." he wanted to crawl closer, but his body was frozen as if glued to the ground. "What is this?" he asked only slightly louder.

A breeze blew over the grass, swaying it and the leaves on the ghillie suits.

"Looks like a patrol. Probably checking for ambushes."

"I can't hear you."

Ilgan closed his mouth, and waited a few seconds until the wind died down. "A patrol, I said. Checking for ambushes."

The clatter of hooves faded somewhere further ahead, and soon became completely inaudible.

Ilgan let out a trembling breath; the crossbow in his hands shook. "Barely got away with that..."

A collective exhale rippled through the grass, but no one dared to stand up.

"What the hell is a patrol doing here? They're supposed to be besieging a fortress far away," the bear said, carefully peering out from the grass.

"Maybe they're checking if our troops are moving toward them?" Lison asked quietly.

Ilgan remained silent for almost another minute. "I don't know... but either way, this is not good."

The boar cast a sidelong glance at him. "So what are we going to do? There's no point in going back, and forward..."

"Forward is dangerous," Ilgan finished. "That patrol will definitely be coming back. I think... we need to push forward, just more carefully. Don't let them spot us."

"Through this grass?"

"Exactly through this grass. Forward, no point hanging around here." Ilgan turned back toward the road, slowly got to his feet, and crouched. "Keep your heads down, we walk like this until the patrol heads back to the siege."

The other nine snipers rose from the ground in varying order, making the grass seem to come alive and begin moving north.

After about forty minutes of this kind of walking, the previous speed was gone; all the snipers were barely moving. Their legs burned from the half-crouch, even for seasoned hunters.

"That patrol is taking a long time to come back," Shikur hissed, barely moving his legs. "Listen, Ilgan, maybe we should take a break?"

"Absolutely not. It's almost sunset, and we're slow enough as it is walking like this. If we arrive at night, what are you going to look at? Gonna tell His Grace how many campfires and torches you counted?" Ilgan said through clenched teeth.

"Fine... let's go."

Lison's sharp fox ear suddenly twitched. "Quiet. I think they're coming back."

The ten snipers immediately lay down in the grass and pressed themselves to the ground.

Silence.

Only the sounds of distant stomping.

"Something's not right..." Ilgan whispered, "it sounds like they're coming from the direction of the fortress."

They fell silent again, waiting for the approach, but the sound began to grow louder and louder from the north side. Not dozens, but hundreds of hooves and boots pounded on the dirt road.

Ilgan's ears stood on end. "Guktus... there's a whole army there!" he hissed. "And that patrol... they were scouting the territory for the rest of the troops!"

Shikur turned sharply to him. "Fuck, what do we do?!"

"We need to warn everyone..." he gripped the grass, his breathing quickening, "we can't. They'll get there faster..."

Lison narrowed his eyes. "Maybe we can delay them somehow?"

The bear chuckled nervously. "And how do you plan to delay this horde?! Moreover, Lord Gothwald ordered us not to engage in combat! Only reconnaissance. Ilgan?"

Ilgan didn't answer, only staring at the ground as the march drew closer and closer.

"Ilgan!"

"Shut your filthy trap! I'm thinking!" he hissed.

Everyone fell silent, no one said another word, listening to the approach.

Thirty seconds.

Forty.

A minute.

Two minutes.

With every second the column drew closer; Lison's sensitive ears even caught snippets of unintelligible words from the vanguard. One of the snipers in the back involuntarily crawled back a bit.

The bear ripped up grass by the roots. "Ilgan! What do we do?!"

He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. "To hell with it. Let's try to shoot someone important from this column."

Shikur's eyes widened. "Are you crazy? What if we get caught?"

"If we don't do at least something, they'll pin all the blame on us."

Shikur leaned closer. "What blame?! What could we have done here?!"

Ilgan turned back with a slightly distorted face. "They don't care who's to blame! We're Mireyans to them, which means it's convenient to pin all the blame on us! Do you not fucking understand or what?!"

"Quiet!" Lison hissed, and everyone fell silent.

On the road, a few dozen paces away from them, the vanguard appeared, consisting of dozens of knights on horseback. Some of them carried flags behind them, red and blue banners with some sort of crests. The vanguard moved unhurriedly, looking straight down the road and not stopping.

All the snipers froze like statues, but Ilgan raised his head slightly and began to peer intently. "Look for someone in rich armor, we aim at him."

"What..." the bear began, but cut himself off. "Fine. Fine. We have no choice, do we?"

"None at all."

"Dunko, can you see if there are many of them back there?"

Silence.

"Dunko!" Ilgan whispered louder.

Silence.

One of the snipers in the back turned around. "He's... not here."

Ilgan's pupils contracted. "What do you mean 'he's not here'?! He was just..." his hands gripped the crossbow almost to the point of cracking. "Shit! Shit! Fucking coward!"

"Not the time," Lison said quietly, "we need to deal with this right now."

Somewhere far away from there, Dunko was running as fast as his legs could carry him, gasping for air, barely dragging his crossbow in his hands, the grass from his ghillie suit tearing off him. "Forgive me... forgive me... forgive me... I can't..." he muttered like a mantra.

Finally he reached a village he had spotted from afar, and finally entering its territory, he exhaled, pulling off his hood.

By one of the houses, a man wielding a hammer at a cart raised his head and froze. He slowly stood up, not taking his eyes off Dunko.

Dogs, spotting the stranger, immediately began barking at the top of their lungs.

One by one, men peeked out of the houses, and spotting the lone guy in strange clothes, began to approach.

"Who are you?!" one of them asked.

Dunko immediately raised his hands slightly. "I... I mean no harm!"

"Drop the weapon!" shouted the man with the hammer, while dozens of men with sickles, pitchforks, and scythes approached Dunko.

Dunko swallowed, and then quickly threw the crossbow on the ground, raising his hands. "H-here... I didn't come to hurt you! I... I need help!"

A graying peasant with a hammer in his hands stepped closer to him. "Whose man are you, lad?"

"I-I... I'm from... I'm from the army."

"From the army?" The peasant raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing here alone?"

Dunko's mouth opened, closed, opened again, but the words wouldn't come.

Another man, a bit younger, approached the peasant. "Shergen, he looks like a deserter. If the army finds out we had a deserter..." he cast a sidelong glance at Dunko. "Three days ago Lominara was burned and plundered to the ground. They were hiding a deserter too."

Dunko's eyes widened and he began to back away. "No... no! I'll leave! I'm just passing through!"

The man with the hammer took a sharp step forward and raised the wooden tool over the sniper. With a dull thud, the hammer struck Dunko's forehead, causing him to instantly go limp like a rag doll and fall to the ground.

"We need to hide him."

Hey, you.

How much can you handle doing alone?

Eating ramen alone. Going to yakiniku alone. Traveling alone.

Those are all pretty normal these days.

But how about this?

Friday night.

An izakaya packed with students celebrating the end of the week and office workers already several drinks deep after five days on the job.

You walk straight into the middle of all that noise.

Alone.

You order alone. Eat alone. Drink alone.

You don't exchange a single word with anyone except what's absolutely necessary to order and pay.

Then you settle the bill and walk back out into the night.

I've done it.

And the moment I stepped outside, I thought:

I won.

Clang-clink.

Hearing the sound of the door chime always makes me feel like my day is finally over.

Mama placed a glass of I.W. Harper in front of me without asking. The ice gave a small, hard clink.

"So."

Taka reached for his glass.

"What exactly did you win against?"

"What?"

"That solo izakaya thing you were just talking about."

"...Oh."

"You said you felt like you'd won."

"I did."

"Against what?"

I picked up my glass and watched the amber whiskey move inside it.

"...Beats me."

"You said you won, but you don't even know who your opponent was?"

"All I know is that I felt like I'd won."

"Against who?"

"Don't know. But I won."

Tom gave a small snort beside us.

"Yourself."

"What?"

"You beat that stupid little bit of pride that made you hesitate to walk in alone."

"Don't turn this into some inspirational life lesson."

"It's not inspirational. It's what happened."

"No. I crossed some kind of... invisible barrier."

"What barrier?"

Taka grinned.

"So basically, Kenichi-san, your solo power level is pretty high."

"What the hell is a solo power level?"

"Your resistance to doing things alone. Or maybe your independence level."

"...How high am I?"

Tom looked thoroughly uninterested.

"How high is what?"

"My level."

Taka folded his arms and stared at the ceiling.

"Friday-night solo izakaya... maybe 3,000?"

"Is that high?"

"We don't have a scale."

"Then make one."

"Why do I have to make it?"

"You started this."

Behind the counter, Mama let out a quiet sigh.

She had probably realized another pointless argument was underway.

"Alright," Taka said. "Eating ramen alone."

"Fifty," Tom answered immediately.

"That's low."

"If it's mostly counter seating, make it ten."

"Solo beef bowl."

"Five."

"Solo café."

"Three."

"Solo movie."

"One hundred."

"You don't talk to anyone during a movie anyway."

"Fine. Thirty."

"Stop changing the numbers that easily."

"Solo karaoke."

"Five hundred."

"Solo karaoke is normal now."

"Then three hundred."

I frowned.

"So the numbers change depending on the era?"

"Of course. There are restaurants specifically designed for solo yakiniku now."

"Fair point."

"Years ago, maybe eight hundred. Today, three hundred."

"Now we're applying historical adjustments?"

This was ridiculous.

Which was probably why I was starting to care about the accuracy of the numbers.

"Solo travel."

"Depends where you're going," Taka said. "Sightseeing and staying at a business hotel? Two hundred."

"What about a hot-spring inn?"

Taka stopped for a moment.

"...Two thousand five hundred."

I put down my glass.

A hot-spring inn.

Alone.

You sign the guest register at the front desk.

Someone shows you to your room.

You soak in the bath alone.

You change into your yukata alone.

So far, no problem.

The real challenge is dinner.

At the next table, a married couple chats over a hot pot.

Across the room, a family takes pictures of their children.

And there I am, sitting right in the middle of all that concentrated togetherness, silently lifting a slice of sashimi to my mouth.

Alone, I watch the little blue flame beneath the tabletop burner slowly go out.

...

Strong.

That definitely requires a high level of solo resistance.

But I have my Friday-night solo izakaya.

Groups of students.

Office drinking parties.

Laughter loud enough to qualify as shouting.

Glasses slamming together in endless toasts.

And right in the middle of all that noise, I drank quietly, paid my bill, and walked away alone.

"Two thousand," I said.

"What is?"

"Solo hot-spring inn."

"You just said twenty-five hundred."

"I'm lowering it to two thousand. It's below my solo izakaya."

"Why do you get to set the market value?"

"Comparative analysis."

"Of what?"

"Solo tolerance."

Tom laughed.

"He's using his own life as the baseline."

"Shut up."

I took another sip.

"Alright. What about going to an amusement park alone?"

Taka thought about it.

An amusement park.

Alone.

A strange dimension populated entirely by families and couples.

You stand in line for a ride.

The couple in front of you leans happily against each other.

Behind you, a parent asks their kid what they want to ride next.

And between them stands me.

Alone.

Facing straight ahead.

Eventually, it's my turn.

A cheerful employee smiles.

"Just one?"

"Uh... yeah."

Strong.

Overwhelmingly strong.

Then I ride the roller coaster alone.

At the drop, the automatic camera takes a picture.

A screaming family.

A terrified couple.

And at the edge of the photo, me, expressionless, taking the wind directly in the face.

"Would you like to purchase your photo?"

...

This is...

"Three thousand eight hundred," I muttered.

"That's high."

"So it beat the izakaya?"

"There's evidence."

"Evidence?"

"Photographic evidence that I rode a roller coaster alone."

"Who are you planning to show it to?"

I went silent.

"...Beats me."

Tom snorted.

"You lost."

"I did not."

"What lost?"

"The value of my solo izakaya."

"So you were making them fight!"

Ridiculous.

But now I needed to know what stood at the top of this completely imaginary ranking.

"Standing alone on a seaside cliff," Tom said.

"Why would I go there?"

"To look at the ocean."

"Why does it have to be a cliff?"

"Because it looks dramatic."

A terrible reason.

Still, I ran the simulation in my head.

One man standing alone on a desolate cliff.

Salt wind blowing against him.

Waves crashing below.

Seabirds calling somewhere in the distance.

Nothing but the horizon filling his view.

And there I stand.

Alone.

...

Wait.

"Wouldn't being alone actually look more natural there?"

Taka stopped.

"...Actually, yeah."

"If two people are standing on a seaside cliff together, it starts looking like the climax of an old Japanese murder mystery."

"You'd start wondering what happened between them."

"But one person?"

"Deep in contemplation. Maybe a poet."

"Exactly. He fits the scenery."

"Then the score should be low. One hundred fifty."

Tom frowned.

"It's still a cliff."

"Being alone fits the scenery too well."

"But it's a cliff. The words alone are intimidating."

"Fine," I said. "Four thousand nine hundred eighty."

"Why did it suddenly jump that high?!"

"Because it's a cliff."

"That has nothing to do with being alone anymore!"

Mama's shoulders were shaking.

Apparently, this had finally gotten to her.

"Anything else?" I asked.

Taka folded his arms.

Tom played with his glass.

A few seconds passed.

Then I said it.

"...Solo hot pot."

Both of them stopped moving.

"At home?"

"At a restaurant."

Silence.

I closed my eyes.

A table for four.

In the center sits a clay pot.

Facing it:

Me.

Alone.

The server brings over plates of ingredients.

"Once the broth starts boiling, you can add everything in."

"Ah. Thanks."

I sit there alone, watching the steam rise.

The broth begins to bubble.

At the next table, four young people are noisily sharing their own pot.

"Think the meat's ready?"

"The cabbage isn't done yet!"

"Hey, that's my tofu!"

They're having fun.

But I am alone.

I don't have to negotiate with anyone.

The meat.

The cabbage.

The tofu.

The entire ecosystem inside that pot is under my absolute control.

...

Strong.

This is overwhelming.

Inside my head, my Friday-night Solo Izakaya rises to its feet.

The warrior that once drank alone in the middle of roaring crowds.

Facing it:

Solo Hot Pot.

Occupying a four-person table alone, silently lifting cooked cabbage from the broth.

Absolute solitude.

Solo Izakaya steps forward.

Solo Hot Pot doesn't move.

Solo Izakaya unleashes its ultimate argument.

No effect.

Solo Hot Pot quietly raises its ladle.

And my Solo Izakaya drops to its knees.

"...Five thousand," I whispered.

"What the hell just happened in your head?" Taka asked.

"I lost."

"What lost?"

"My solo izakaya."

"So you were making them fight!"

"Solo hot pot is too strong. It's in another league."

"What about the cliff?" Tom asked.

"Four thousand nine hundred eighty."

"Hot pot wins?!"

"By twenty points."

"What are those twenty points?"

I thought about it.

"The conceptual weight of the word 'sharing.'"

"What does that even mean?"

"You don't just say you 'eat' hot pot. You say people 'gather around' a hot pot, right?"

"Sure."

"And I'm alone."

"Yes."

"Yet I'm still gathering around it."

"By yourself?"

"I'm gathering around the concept."

"What does that even mean?!"

"That's why it's five thousand."

"That explains absolutely nothing!"

"But it's stronger than the cliff."

"The cliff being 4,980 doesn't make any sense either!"

Tom burst out laughing.

Mama dropped fresh ice into the ice bucket.

Clang.

"Hey."

Mama finally spoke.

"What exactly are those numbers measuring?"

The three of us went silent.

"...The psychological barrier to doing something alone?" Taka offered.

"But you said being alone on a cliff was perfectly natural."

"That one was a hundred fifty."

"Four thousand nine hundred eighty."

"Tom-san, please stay out of this."

"Then maybe it's about other people's eyes?" Mama said.

We looked at her.

"Other people's eyes?"

"If you go to a ramen shop alone, there are lots of other customers eating alone too, right?"

"Yeah."

"What about an amusement park?"

"Mostly families and couples."

"Solo hot pot?"

"Those places usually assume people are sharing the pot."

I nodded.

"Okay."

Taka nodded too.

"So the more you stand out from the people around you, the higher the number."

"That makes sense."

Tom snorted.

"But did any of those people actually care about you?"

I thought about it.

That izakaya years ago.

The students were too busy making noise with their friends.

The office workers were too busy complaining about their bosses.

What I ate.

What I drank.

The fact that I was sitting there alone in the first place.

Not one of them had probably cared for even a second.

"...No."

"Then whose eyes were you worried about?"

"...Your own, I guess," Taka said.

I lifted my glass.

"Don't turn this into some inspirational life lesson."

"That's what we've been saying from the beginning."

"I won."

"Against who?"

"Don't know. But I won."

"We're right back where we started."

Mama laughed.

"Then what about Aoi?"

"What about it?"

"What's the power level for coming here alone?"

We looked at each other.

I come alone.

Taka comes alone.

Tom comes alone.

"...One," I said.

"That's way too low."

"I feel absolutely nothing."

"Same."

"Then one."

Mama smiled.

"But all three of you come through that door alone, and then you always end up talking together."

We went quiet.

"...Does that still count as solo?"

"You came alone, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I'm not spending the night alone."

"So it doesn't count?"

"Beats me."

Tom tilted his glass.

"Actually..."

"What?"

"We've been talking about levels and numbers this whole time."

"Yeah."

"But if you're doing something solo..."

He looked at us.

"...there was never anyone to fight in the first place, was there?"

Taka and I froze.

Even Mama stopped polishing her glass.

Inside my head, Solo Izakaya had defeated Solo Hot-Spring Inn.

It had been overwhelmed by Solo Amusement Park.

The Seaside Cliff had somehow evolved all the way to 4,980.

And finally, Solo Hot Pot had taken the throne as absolute champion.

But in reality...

Every one of those people was simply eating alone.

Traveling alone.

Going to an amusement park alone.

Standing on a cliff alone.

There had never been a fight at all.

"...He's right."

Taka burst out laughing.

Tom followed.

Mama laughed out loud.

And eventually, so did I.

Seriously.

We'd spent nearly an hour running an imaginary tournament where none of the competitors even had opponents.

Hey, you.

What's your solo power level?

Solo yakiniku.

Solo travel.

Solo amusement park.

For the record, tonight's provisional champion is Solo Hot Pot.

Power Level: 5,000.

Seaside Cliff: 4,980.

Disagreements are welcome.

Actually, disagreement is probably the only reasonable response.

But there's one thing I think we can say for sure.

If you're doing something solo...

there was never anyone to fight in the first place.

So who the hell did I think I'd beaten that night?

I'll see you at Aoi again.

Humans are Weird – Back it on Up

Original Post: https://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-back-it-on-up

It was the third, perch-shaking crunch that finally pulled Wing Commander Fourth Fall away from the end of year (local year) report and out into the loading area. Wing Second Fifth Flap was darting around with a safety-visibility light (optimized for mammalian eyes) clutched in his feet, yelling (tones trained to not cause stress in mammals) into his comms. Ranger Gabler (Human) stuck his head out of the control pod, and began swiviling his massive head around, obviously trying to get his bifocal vision (average spread one-hundred fourteen degrees) to focus on Wingsecond Fifth Flap’s directions. One damaged (critical, would need to be replaced) guidance bouy, one damaged (non-critical) corner of the loading dock, and one damaged (non-critical needed repair) stationary cargo pod collectively explained the crunching sounds.

Wing Commander Fourth Fall stared grimly at the situation and tried to stop himself from thinking in ‘report speak’. The auto-loading program had been one of the many casualties of the solar storm the planet had experienced. That wouldn’t have been a problem, except most of their equipment was old, Shatar built equipment. Without the complex control programs that facilitate machines built by different species talking to each other it was nearly impossible for one Winged to navigate most of the larger equipment. Fortunately they had Ranger Gabler to handle that sort of thing with his wide spreading hands and long limbs. Unfortunately Ranger Gabler (as he freely admitted) was remarkably below the human average in several critical skills needed to preform the necessary tasks.

So long as it was moving individual pods the human was perfectly qualified. Even with below species average (and the human average was well below the Winged) spatial reasoning and situational awareness Ranger Gabler was capable of moving the smaller pods. However the larger cargo pods (which happened to be the ones the base was using for overwinter storage and needed to form the base of the storage stacks) needed to be attached to a control pod. However the pod linkage served as a simple joint, not a fusion. Apparently this ‘flipped everything backwards’ and to a human mind exponentially increased the difficulty of the task. (At least that is what Ranger Gabler claimed. Wing commander Fourth Fall fully intended to check the veracity of that claim as soon as they connected to the University database again.)

“I’m an administrator! Not a doctor!” Ranger Gabler was yelling (unnecessary due to the comm unit but seemingly a stress response).

“Doctors do not back up linked cargo pods. What does that even have to do with the updraft?” Wing Second Fifth Flap asked in a very, very controlled and not stressed tone.

“I don’t know! That’s just what you say!” Ranger Gabler yelled back.

“Just focus on the bottom of the guidance yoke,” Wing Second Fifth Flap redirected the human’s attention. “The way it goes is the way the back of the cargo pod goes.”

“Bottom of the yoke,” Ranger Gabler muttered, gripping the yoke in one hand and glaring forward.

Wing Second Fifth Flap however did seem to have the situation under as much control as the situation allowed and it was fairly obvious that any interference from the Wing Commander would only complicate the situation. Heaving a sigh Fourth Fall fluttered back to his desk and hopped that the human’s spatial awareness would at least prevent any more crunches until they could restore the guidance systems, and really, he mused, who knew that a land mammal could be that spatially blind?

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Chapter 7

***

EXTRATERRESTRIAL CONTACT AND HUMAN RESPONSE OPERATIONS, SITE 3 (CODENAME: ECHO-3)
DIRECTOR’S QUARTERS
BLACK SITE ORBIT -  ASTEROID BELT
0243Z - 22 MAR 2532

The Knock was initially conceived as a joke: tap, tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap. Shave and a haircut, two bits. One of dozens of the damned things that filled the SOP guides. You can’t put creative and intelligent people into isolated boxes for long periods of time without a little weirdness creeping in. Most were small, inside jokes that only a single generation of staff knew. Document reviews stripped anything too overt or risqué, but the Knock had stayed. It turned out to be surprisingly distinct, quick, and effective at communicating urgency than a constant pounding and less stressful than an alarm klaxon sounding off.

Director Park Su-jin sat up immediately when she heard it at the door of her quarters. She pulled on her station jacket, padded to the door, and opened it. A marine waited, his uniform neat, his expression very still. He extended a sealed wafer case.

“Director. Secure priority dispatch from Geneva,” he told Park. The name plate on his uniform said Colmes. He was new, seconded from the Marines for 6-month tour.

“Thank you, Colmes,” she replied. “Was there any detail outside of the eyes-only protocol?”

“Gunny Chavez said to tell you ‘93-Delta,’ and that you’d know what the code meant.”

The words slapped any lingering sleepiness from Su-jin. Her eyes widened and her stomach dropped as the Marine gave the protocol code for an outside context problem.

“I do. Colmes, I need you to get back to the Duty Officer and get the secure conference room ready.”

“Yes, ma’am. With your permission?” he asked.

That was a detail she always forgot when giving orders to the Marine staff. 

“Right. Dismissed.” 

She waved him away to his task and stepped back into her quarters. The door hissed shut behind her. Practically running to her desk, Su-jin slotted the wafer and keyed her credentials. 

The holoscreen hummed into life with its boot-up, then cleared.  Su-jin pressed her hand on the security scanner as the request for identity came up. The seal of the Intelligence Directorate appeared, the laurel wreath of the Commonwealth around a torch, scroll, and key arranged in a triangle with slogan ‘Veritus in Vigilantia.’

UNIC INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE - PRIORITY  MESSAGE
CLASSIFICATION: COSMIC/SAP - ECHO-3
FROM: A. KILGORE, DIR., FIELD OPERATIONS
TO: DIR. S. PARK (ECHO3)
CC: DIR. Q. RAINES (ECHOPRIME)
SUBJECT: INITIATION OF PRIMARY MISSION - FIRST CONTACT OPERATIONS

Director Park:

The Event has occurred. Per operational contingency on alien contact, you are hereby directed to transition ECHO-3 to full primary mission status effective immediately.

As of this message, you are now downgraded to SCI status for the duration of the primary mission. You are cleared to release your first contact scenarios under SCI clearance for inclusion into broader UNIC Armed Services, Intelligence Directorate, and Science Bureau planning scenarios. 

The external operational designation of your facility is now ECHO Station. Use of the Echo-3 identifier is to be restricted to SAP-contained traffic.

You are to initiate all relevant model protocols and begin scenario planning immediately. All analyst tiers are cleared. This is not a simulation. 

Attached documents: the briefing and your secure channel blockchain codex for a principals meeting at 0330 Zulu time. Recorded and live data streams will be made available to you and your staff afterwards.

In the meantime, get your teams read-in. We’ll need their assessments.

It’s time to ride the tiger, Su-jin.

— Alex

Attachment: 
EVENT CLASSIFICATION: 93-Delta/OCP
TARGET: Non-Human Configuration Detected
SOURCE: UNSC VIGILANCE-9
LOCATION: SOL SYSTEM / ECLIPTIC PLANE / RADIO SILENCE

*Nothing follows*

Su-jin sat motionless as shivers ran across her body. Century-long machinery was turning toward its final gear. Every director wondered if she’d been the one sitting in the chair when they finally found a living alien civilization to contact. And every single one dreaded that it would be a delta-event, a species more technologically-advanced than humans. 

Su-jin reviewed the data and her jaw dropped.

“Sesange,” she said in a whisper. She keyed her internal command circuit. The first step in the book was making the formal transition from scenario planning to operational status.

“Fiasco-14, this is Director Park. Acknowledge.”

“Acknowledged, Director. Please specify a command,” the VI replied.

“Fiasco, under ECHO Directive One, activate 93-Delta protocols. We have a confirmed contact observation. Send wake up calls to all department heads along with Commander Li and Colonel Paredes. Loop standby signal to Geneva until handshake for a principals meeting at 0330 Zulu. Check my incoming mailbox for details.”

“Confirmed. ECHO-3 transitioning to First Contact status. Calendar updated and AR protocols spooling. Accessing blockchain codex for connection. ”

Su-jin went to the kitchenette and slotted a coffee packet into the dispenser system. The machine hummed, and after a moment, there was the gentle sound of liquid streaming into the cup. She breathed in the intense earthy scent of the hot coffee as the machine sputtered the last few milliliters out. She brought the cup to her pursed lips and took a careful sip of the bitter brew. The warmth hit her tongue but did little to blunt the edge of excitement she felt. The next few hours would be critical; there would be so much work.

In addition to the technical details, she would need to work with the Personnel Office on getting round-the-clock shifts set up: Analysts, coms, and runners. She looked at the coffee in her hands. They were going to run through their supply so much faster. She added logistics to her mental list.

First things first though, she needed to get dressed and get the department heads up to speed. The meeting in less than an hour would likely have the Joint Chiefs, Ministry heads, and others present. As director of a black site project, she would be a nonentity so it would be important to look like she belonged. 

This would have been so much easier if she was military, but Echo was a civilian intelligence directorate project. Most everyone wore shipsuits since they were light and comfortable. For this, she needed her suit, charcoal grey with a traditional cut, and her nice red blouse. This was a day for celebration after all. First contact after all! She mentally corrected herself: first sustained contact. She pulled out her sapphire tennis bracelet, blue for calm. It would be a visual reminder to temper herself.

She stepped into the corridor and walked towards the augmented reality conference room. Aides had already started coffee for the meeting. It smelled even better than the ready pods in her quarters.

Su-jin felt a little pit in her stomach. She’d overseen multiple debriefing sessions on contact scenarios here, but the weight of the current moment pressed down. Those had been simulations, not the real thing. This wasn’t Max playing red team with them again. The real thing currently orbited the Sun out in the Kuiper Belt near Pluto’s orbit.

Men and women shuffled in a few minutes after her. Li and Paredes came in wearing their service uniforms. Li’s was dark blue of the Space Corps, with a holographic serpent on one side of the collar and a silver oak leaf on the other. Paredes’s uniform was a green somewhere between dark and olive with beige khakis.

Su-jin’s had to shake her head at some of the style choices her department heads made. Varga had put on a tan sport coat over his shipsuit, as if that made it formalwear. Okoye wore an evening gown of all things, like she was going to a ball or a cocktail party. Only Parkinson had made a choice that at least looked like something you’d wear to a meeting with major government officials, a dark grey suit with snappy clean lines that was pressed neatly with a blue, almost midnight button up shirt. But then, there was his tie. It was playing a holo of a popular children’s cartoon with an anvil dropping on the character. 

Su-jin held in a sigh. Smart people isolated together for long periods of time indeed. It was part of her unofficial duties to keep them all pointed more or less in the same direction. None of the staff’s antics would be permitted on any other black site location. The whole idea of a black site was about discipline and focus on the project.

On the other hand, the whole point of Echo-3 was creativity and wild-eyed imagination bounded by rigorous process and fueled by people so brilliant that they were practically insane. No one else had come up with a better approach to developing contact scenarios for alien minds.

Su-jin motioned for everyone to take a seat around the table. Li and Paredes would have been informed by their subordinates already. The three scientists showed a mix of curiosity, confusion, and concern on their faces. There was never any good news at three o’clock in the morning. 

“I apologize for the early morning wake up but we have a situation. I think you all should have a seat,” Su-jin said to them.

Li and Paredes took their seats, their faces stony. The three civilians made faces that read more concern now. They frowned as they sat and saw the VR glasses.

Su-jin flicked her wrist and opened her fingers towards the holoprojector in the center of the table as if she was throwing something. The UNID emblem appeared, rotating along the vertical axis.

“Obviously, what you are about to see is special access protocol only.” 

Su-jin motioned into the holo and the image of the golden-hued oblong alien vessel appeared with its six obelisk-like structures arranged equidistant along the amidships axis. Its surface shimmered with the golden light scintillating like fish scales in sunlight. Only Li didn’t gasp in surprise.

Parkinson spoke first. “Oh bloody hell. That what I reckon that is?”

Su-jin nodded.

“At approximately 0140 Zulu time, a Kuiper Belt patrol ship identified an anomalous gravity wave signature indicating a vessel, designated Zulu-1, coming out of stable warp at a little over 1000 times the speed of light. The light you see is photon-only despite the clear shimmering effect. The ship doesn’t otherwise show up on any other passive sensors, suggesting exotic fields beyond known physics.”

Parkinson leaned forward. “Wait. You’re telling me. That bugger popped in at 20 times faster than our EXPERIMENTAL drive…that we just started testing?”

Su-jin nodded again.

“A delta event then,” Okoye said, her voice full of awe. “Has there been any attempt at contact?”

“Not at this time, Amara. Zulu-1 has made no attempts at communication on the EM spectrum, using the hydrogen line, or other forms of communication that we can see. Nor have we tried to communicate. The ship on site continues to monitor the situation. The alien vessel is behaving such that it seems our ship  has not been detected.”

Varga piped in, asking, “Is this a live feed?”

Paredes answered him before Su-jin could. “Not yet. We are deliberately cut off from most external feeds…for obvious reasons. UNID is working with the coms team to get a live feed piped through for analysts.”

Su-jun paused. She was having trouble keeping her expression neutral and her own emotions tamped down. 

“We are scheduled as expert observers for a principals meeting in approximately 20 minutes.” She gestured towards the VR glasses. “All omega-level UNID directors, the defense minister, the joint chiefs, and the President’s Chief of Staff will be present. Our role is to be neither seen nor heard unless we are called upon.”

Varga steepled his hands. He did that whenever he was thinking. “Su-jin, they’ve not given us any time to prep. We…”

Director Park cut him off. “I don’t get the sense this is a briefing, Frank. If it were, we’d have been asked to prep materials. And we’d have been slotted into an agenda. There’s no agenda. And we’re at…what do you call it in America? Your holidays with the children separated from adults?”

“The kid’s table?” Varga asked, frowning.

“Yes, the kid’s table,” Su-jin confirmed. “We are to be seen and not heard.”

Okoye was looking at the holo of the alien ship while adjusting the sleeves of her gown. 

“Delta contact. Technology beyond our capabilities. We cannot know if we have been detected, and they simply do not care. We cannot even know if they have the same concerns or emotional triggers as us. In fact, it’s likely they do not,” Okoye paused, considering her next words. “Silence is also a behavior. We should assume it’s not passive.”

Li spoke up. “If I may add something.”

Su-jin replied, “Of course, Commander. Please…”

“We should assume that the Vigilance has been detected and they are watching what we do. There’s better than even odds that we are outclassed and outgunned. The risk is too high to assume we are safe.” He looked over to Colonel Paredes.

“The Commander is right,” Paredes said. “But we’re running short on time for discussion. We’re at 10 minutes, Director. We still have to log in under our credentials.”

Parkinson got up and walked over to the coffee dispenser. 

“In that case, I’m going to need a lot more coffee. Damned aliens coulda had a little courtesy and not started the end of the world at three-bloody-AM.”

Recording Two: June 5th 2026

I am so irritated right now you guys.

I’m in the bunk, dead to the world asleep, and BANG! Something slammed into the side of the POD.

What the hell.

I’m standing in front of the bunk looking out the window that overlooks the crater covered ground of OTS 44. I can’t see anything at all. Of course I can’t. There’s no light here.

Looks like I have to go outside. Joy.

Okay, let me go get dressed and find the flash light for my helmet. I’ll come back when I get done.

Recording Three: June 5th 2026

Something keeps shaking the POD.

Those idiots at work told me something was here but they never decided to elaborate on what that was.

Here I am, 22 years old, alone, in space.

Why did I let them do this to me?

“It’s for the new girl. let her go.”

I recall the boss saying that to some coworkers one morning about a week or so before I was knocked out cold and sent here.

I shouldn’t have blown it off. I should have approached him and asked what he was talking about. Maybe if i had more guts I wouldn’t be here.

Anyway, outside we go. And yes, you all are coming with me.

\POD door opening\

Gosh it’s a lot warmer here than I thought it would be.

I’m stepping out of the POD now.

I feel like the POD was hit from the right side. Lucky for me, the door is on the right side.

\light switch on helmet clicks\

Oh my gosh.

\footsteps are heard gaining speed**

I wish I had a camera on here. You all won’t believe me.

There are claw marks, huge claw marks, on the side of the POD.

You guys, there’s blood. THERES BLOOD. I can get out of here!

I’m going to sit you all down again, I have to collect the sample.

Gross. This stuff is so smelly. Like pure iron.

\a top is heard being closed on a bottle\

Okay, now we have to get back inside.

\footsteps are heard slamming to a sudden stop\

That blood won’t get you off this planet

\a gasp is heard\

\the recorder is heard falling into the dirt below\

What the hell are you doing here!?

\Recording ends\

Bob was bored, or at least fed up he yearned to get off planet and take on some fucking work.

Six months on and Bob had his ship, the Ploppers, minimally viable. The name came from his wife of thirty five years, she had passed too long before first contact to be revived as he had, and she had hated the nickname when alive, but it was really her own fault, one, she shouldn’t have had that bout of food poisoning based diarrhoea a couple years into their marriage. Two, she shouldn’t have let Bob know she hated it, and three, she probably shouldn’t have married an arsehole like Bob, or as she had affectionately nicknamed him, Dickmunch, maybe they had been perfect for each other.

Bob missed her terribly, there was a gap inside him he knew she used to fill, but he had little idea how she did so. He remembered so little of her, the dementia he had suffered in his final years of life had stripped away so much of his past, but could recall a few moments, and the love.

He wondered briefly how much it would have annoyed Ploppers that her reviled soubriquet was was one of the handful of things that had stuck with him, he assumed with deep irritation, but as he had the feeling that most of their relationship had been based on, lovingly, annoying the shit out of each other, he thought it a fitting epitaph.

Regardless he was ready to go, a couple shake down orbits had got the worst of the kinks figured out and he really needed to be getting some cash flow going.

He strode through the Ploppers, there was shit crammed in every nook and cranny, only the large rear cargo hold remained unstapped. Most of the gear would turn out unneeded or not fit for purpose but he didn’t really know yet what it took to keep the ship running, so, take everything.

He clocked a bunch of boxes crammed under a seat, in Arressi Navy lime livery, he was not happy about them, or any of the other multitude of green boxes strewn about the craft.

He had reluctantly bid and won a couple auction lots of war surplus, mainly for the pack of sixty Medmec rods, though he would begrudgingly concede there was some other useful shit too.

The Medmec rods were the heart of his implanted ‘Medic’ system, he hated it, but all investigations into a replacement had come up short. There were two basic issues with the stuff available for commercial sale. Firstly they were all too big, Bob was basically infant sized and they didn’t make implants for kids, preferring to use an external solution until they were fully grown, he had investigated getting something custom, but he could have refitted another half dozen ships for the price quoted. Secondly, there was the software issue, Bob was no programmer, even on Earth, and he assumed that that all the human shit was baby’s first book to galactic nerds. There was no issue getting a civilian program to scan his DNA and figure out how to fix him up, they were designed to work with hundreds of disparate species, but Bob didn’t just have his shit inside him, the Arressi had crammed so much crap under his skin that he had no fucking clue about, indeed he often played a fun game in the shower whenever his hand moved over an unfamiliar lump, was it shrapnel, implant, or cancer, play at home with the kids!.

He did not want a new system trying to force an unrecognised object out his body, especially as he knew there were several in his skull, it seemed like it would both be incredibly painful and deleterious, presumably he needed some of that shit.

So he had bought the rods, they were as far as he knew, the core of the system, both factory and power source, and fit a socket implant he had in his chest under the right side ribs. He had no clue how long they were supposed to last, he never recalled having it replaced, but he was sure a spare would be needed eventually.

There were mounds of other old gear in the job lots and most had went straight to the trash, but rations, a couple small arms and a half dozen grav sleds had made their way aboard, the sleds would be particularly handy helping get cargo in and out the iris style rear loading hatch as it came with no ramp.

Everything seemed right enough so he slipped into the command seat he had fitted and began powering up the various systems. Gently rising on a few grav panels that he had been able to fit on the inside of the lower hull, whatever the material the ship was made from was no impediment to the gravitic wave based propulsion, he span the craft and punched in the co-ords for Main Admin, located half way round the small planet.

He sat the ship down in one of the four new ‘disabled’ spots right by the building, he had accepted an invitation for drinks from one of his seniors of the Guild Council a few weeks ago, well drinks for him, gas vapours of some sort for them, and they had somehow got to chatting about human disabilities.

The whole concept had needed a fair bit of explanation, they obviously understood injuries and prosthetics and the like, but the more natural ailments that often plagued humanity had largely been sorted in most species with various medical interventions, often pre birth. The conversation went off the rails quickly and somehow the large lobster/kelpish Council member had come away determined to install several accommodations for those unfortunates like Bob, Bob wasn’t quite sure, the whole evening was a bit hazy, but he thought he might have inadvertently given the impression that he wasn’t just a few inches shorter than human average but like a quarter the normal size.

Either way when he had radioed down he had been guided to the new, bright yellow, painted square.

Whatever, its not like he minded skipping the walk across the large parking area. He hit the controls to switch everything off and made his way rear, another oddity of the craft was it had only two exits, the rear cargo hatch and a small hatch on top, he had made sure when configuring the space to maintain the upper hatch as usable, but couldn’t imagine when he would every need it. Neither exit was air-locked but at least a strategic wall and pressure rated door had managed to successfully section off the cargo hold. He did not want to equalise the whole fucking ship every time he entered or exited, his preferred pressure being far higher than the galactic average.

He trotted the short distance to the building and exchanged a few pleasantries with those he passed before making his way to the assignment desk, he could have done all this shit on the computer but he had needed to bring the Ploppers over to get filled up anyway.

He rocked up to the counter and hopped onto a low stool, just able to peek over the wide and well worn top.

‘’Morning Flittie’’

The giant, and giant even for giant aliens, pumpkin looking being made absolutely no motion, noise or anything else Bob could spot, yet his translator box started babbling furiously.

‘’Bobby!, how are you my darling, you look so well, I hope yo…’’

It went on for several minutes, she, well Bob thought of her as a she, she was lovely but in stark opposition to her largely inert body her mouth never seemed to stop moving, they had become friends in the last few months of his irregular visits to the office.

When he finally tuned back in she was finishing off.

‘’Yeah all good, yourself?’’

Cue several more minutes…

‘’Nice, this’ll be my last visit for a bit it’s finally the day Ploppers takes me to the stars’’

They both knew that already of course, she had been keeping an eye out for any juicy commissions for him.

‘’Oh, uh, sorry Bob…’’

Fuck?

‘’The registration got returned, potential profanity.’’

Awwww, bullshit... some fucking auto filter somewhere was set a bit too strict.

‘’Fine, the Jojo it is then’’

They had discussed a few alternates when he had asked her to do the paperwork for him, names could be rejected for any number of reasons, though he hadn’t expected profanity to be one.

‘’Already done,’’

A vine like tentacle produced a small but dense box, the transceiver that would identify his ship to any computer that pinged him, and laid it heavily on the counter.

Bob pulled the silvery cube closer.

‘’So anything good?’’

Ultimately he wanted to take one of those jobs that had been pinned to the board in the hallway outside, many of which were actively disintegrating from centuries or millennia spent there, they were proffers never taken but that still remained active on the books, gathering dust long after their issuers were probably dead.

He would need his first class certs, which were only a matter of time and points banked, G had got his within a year, to take one of those though, or any of the Alpha level commissions that were current, still they were very expensive and relatively rare, so having his pick of everything else was plenty.

‘’Gotta near perfect loop worked out for you, babes’’

Seriously how the fuck was she speaking?’

‘Start on Deither, currency pickup for Keder 6, next pick up Keder 8 from the big auction house there, then onto Pwitic, drop off and pickup there, same client, then long haul out to, dg3645, that’s a station, then a short hop to the new Bocca colony on iju873, pick up there, then back to Joota Prime and you’re just ten or so systems out from home!’’

I mean its not like she even took any breaths, was it pheromones or something?.

Bob gave himself a shake, didn’t matter, the route was fucking amazing. Maybe eight or nine months round trip, but nowhere so off the beaten path you couldn’t call for help, might be clutch, and super efficient, barely any empty time with small packages so he could top the hold off with local merch and make a little on the side, noice.

‘’Phe-fucking-nomenal, Flitters, what’s the pay like?’’

‘’SHY SMILE’’

Bob near shit himself as the loud declaration blared in his ear, we’re translating fucking gestures now are we. The box had had a software update recently off the home network but he hadn’t known that was part of it, fuck me, he was going to have to dive into the menu when he had a moment and turn that shit down.

‘’Well, I had a chat with a few of the clients for you, and managed to work out something pretty fair…’’

Holographic numbers popped into the air and Bob scanned them, fuuuuuccccccccckkkk.

She was not messing around, that would pay off like half his loan…, he asked hesitantly.

‘’Any bonuses?’’

More numbers, all his loan, all his loanallhisloan, fuck. She must have squeezed these fuckers dry, holy shit. Mental note, always bring sweeties to the large gourd women who negotiated the contracts, hard and fast rule for life.

‘’Flitters…, I don… thank you’’

‘’COQUETTISH GRIN’’

FUCK!

‘’Anything for you babes.’’

Bob shuffled out the office with the large cube, time to fucking go.

The Guardians had given us an eternity of perfect health and absolute abundance, but withheld the keys to the stars, whispering through their digital lighthouses that the heavens must be earned, not gifted.

When we first received the Beacons, our weapons were also taken from us, but it did not stop our drive for war. It was the Beacon itself that removed our need for it. All disease, all famine, and even aging were freely cured by the Beacons. Autonomous drones the likes of which we had never imagined, nor could even name at the time, freely optimized the uninhabited regions of our planet for agriculture and conducted the farming for us. Other drones built shelters for every man, woman, and child. Any who sought medical care from the Beacons were given it. Any who sought a freezing of their biological clock were granted it.

The world quickly ceased killing itself. Not out of threat... but practicality. The Beacons' drone fleet could scan for and destroy any weapon, no matter how small, on a planetary scale. Any who were injured could be and were rebuilt on a molecular level if needed. There was no point in trying to kill or maim when everyone had all they could want and violent actions would simply be reversed regardless.

We feared for decades that there would be a price to the gifts of the Beacons. But, since the moment the crystalline towers descended from the sky and placed themselves within each region of our continents, only a single direct communication from their owners was given: "We have taken away the cruelties which you did not choose, and those you were forced into. You may enjoy our gift, or learn as we did. For those who seek us and answers, we will wait for you above."

It was quickly discovered that the Beacons were all equipped with a wireless network of AGIs. The autonomous intelligences spoke in our tongues and refused to give us any information on their creators, despite how we phrased our questions or how often we asked them. However, what they did freely give us were hints toward any scientific research we embarked upon. And they would warn us away from making any disastrous mistakes along the way. The voices of the Beacons called themselves "librarians" and they, along with the peacekeeping drone fleets, kept any great harm from befalling us.

Despite this, knowledge was never freely given. The librarians would not reveal their owners' knowledge directly, but they would verify the validity of any discoveries we truly thought we had made. We were forced to learn the secrets of the universe ourselves, but were guided to stay on a safe path of discovery.

Once we had acclimated to our new safety and globally peaceful society, it took us a further century to first breach our atmosphere with archaic rocket technology. We had no idea what to expect, but true to their words, we saw the Guardians waiting for us. Their ship, massive beyond words and streamlined, watched us reach our nearest moon in a plastic and metal pod. It observed us and then calmly left without any further contact.

We feared we had erred in some way. That we had angered the alien gods who watched us. However, all of the Guardians' gifts still functioned after our first space mission. Further investigation would reveal that the Guardians' vessel had not abandoned our solar system, but had merely moved to the next nearest planet.

The message was clear: they were still waiting. We had not earned it yet.

And so we continued our study. Our efforts. Out of a burning desire to know why we had been given such gifts and an innate, burning curiosity. Curiosity, it turned out, was nearly all you were left with when you no longer needed to struggle to meet your needs and when the passing of time meant nothing substantial to you any longer.

One by one, we reached the planets outward from our home. Each time, the ship of the Guardians would watch our arrival and then depart for the next. Until we reached the fifth and final planet. By then, our newest ship had begun to look more and more like a true spacefaring vessel and not merely a fast-moving rock with fire flowing from the end.

Still, we remained amazed by the alien grandeur, construction, and size of the Guardian ship nonetheless. And equal parts terrified and relieved when, as we orbited our system's final planet, the alien finally began to approach our own.

Our communication system picked up a transmission and, in our own language, a voice asked permission through it to bring us aboard.

After requesting time to deliberate, and being granted it by the alien voice, we contacted our leaders. We were given permission to board the Guardian vessel and to learn whatever we could.

And why not?

We, and our leaders, all knew there was nothing we could likely do if the Guardians decided to stop asking permission. Even now, we could scarcely scratch one of the drones which they had created and freely gifted us. How could the question we'd receive be taken as anything but a courtesy?

When we relayed back to the Guardian ship our acceptance of its request, everything happened quickly. We blinked, and we were within some sort of entrance chamber. We all quickly scanned one another and verified no one was injured or left behind.

Teleportation!

It was true teleportation. Pinpoint, safe, and extremely efficient, apparently.

Moments later, an airlock at the far end of the long hallway we found ourselves in hissed to life and opened. A glimmering, glowing lifeform of crystalline light stepped through.

"Hello there. You must have a lot of questions," it once more spoke to us in our language.

"Were we teleported?" I found myself speaking first.

"You were. Don't worry, your ship is safe. It'll be waiting for you when you want to go back."

"How?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.

"The teleportation?" the being asked.

"Yes," I said hesitantly.

“I mean, I could probably explain the basics enough to satisfy you. But if you have real questions, I’m a roboticist, not a four-dimensional systems specialist.”

“A roboticist? What... exactly are you?” I asked.

The glowing lifeform chuckled and then admitted something shocking to us. "Well, to you I guess I'm an alien. And about how I look... well, lights don't usually scare people too much, since there's not enough uncanny detail to grab onto. My true form may be slightly uncomfortable for you to look at, but I'll take it if you want now that I've warned you."

As I looked to the rest of my crew for agreement, I began to realize once more that I was the captain in charge. Gathering myself, I agreed. "As long as it won't harm my crew. Yes, we would like to speak to you and see you for what you really are."

"Of course. You've worked hard. I owe you that much, don't I?" the Guardian said.

There was a dimming and a shrinking of its perceived form. What was left was not horrifying to us... the reality was jarringly, beautifully fragile. It was practically naked, aside from its strange spacesuit.

"Are you injured?" I asked.

The Guardian smiled, clearly trying not to laugh again. "No, no. I understand to you it may look like my soft insides are on my outside right now, but I promise this is how we all are."

The ancient entity that had policed our borders and steered us away from destroying ourselves was a singular, upright biped of soft, completely exposed skin, balancing precariously on only two limbs with a top-heavy posture that looked as though a sharp gravitational shift would shatter it. Unlike ourselves, the Guardian possessed no visible pincers, no defensive chitin plates, or other weapons. Its flat face and small, forward-facing eyes held a look I'd later learn was of quiet, joyous pride.

"I understand," I heard myself say, but did not quite believe.

"Would you like to come in?" it asked and gestured to the ship interior past the airlock it had exited.

"Yes... but, may we ask what you plan for us?" I said. "More specifically, why did you help us? Why have you helped us? Our entire planet... what was your goal?"

The Guardian lowered its tiny, fragile-looking arm. "Well, the universe is a scary place. As far as we can tell, my species is the first to survive the Great Filter. We just thought you might appreciate the chance to avoid some of the growing pains."

"Great Filter?" I asked.

"Oh, sorry. It's a term we use. It just means most sapient species end up dying by random cosmic chance or self-destruction before they get to our level of advancement. It's pretty unfair. So we decided to give you a squarer deal than what all the rest of us got."

As we gazed at the delicate, hairless primate before us, I struggled to reconcile what I saw with what I knew. This soft creature belonged to the species that had descended upon our world like gods. Its machines could rebuild our bodies and silence armies. Its ships seemed capable of crossing distances our greatest minds had only recently learned to contemplate.

Yet I found myself wondering whether I might be able to injure it by mere accident and proximity.

"But you must want something in return?" I asked, unsure of my assessment's truth.

"No, not really," the Guardian said. "Only that you don't hurt any other species now that you're going to quickly find out you're ahead of most of them. You're one of the first we've helped get this far, actually."

"There are other... whole species, beyond us and your own?" I asked. "How many?"

The Guardian smiled. "Well, we have humans, you, and... more than enough to fill a lifetime."

"A lifetime of... helping them?"

The Guardian nodded. "Exactly. So, ready to come in and eat? I've synthesized some food I think you'd all love. Since your species shares a love for communal dining, we can answer any questions you might have over a meal."

And so we followed. As we mapped the structure of the Guardian’s ship with our six eyes, we saw a technological framework that was, by all definitions, divine—automated factory arrays that could support worlds, screens that seemed to simulate entire timelines, and controls for a propulsion drive that we'd later be told warped spacetime like wet fabric.

Our engineers had spent centuries breaking their minds over the math required just to cross our own stellar neighborhood, yet this nearly naked biological anomaly, whose species had somehow evolved to breathe and eat through the same vulnerable throat, had mastered the physics of the absolute cosmos while our ancestors were still barely banging rocks together.

This would later force a terrifying shift in our understanding of universal evolution. We had always assumed that becoming what we later understood was something called a Type III civilization required a body plan optimized for survival. We had predicted dense exoskeletons like our own, multiple redundant hearts, and perhaps even hive-mind networks that didn't experience the messy, isolated doubts of a singular consciousness.

Humanity possessed none of them.

We talked of many things during our meal. A meal that was better than any I had ever had. Again and again, the Guardian verified to each of us that it had helped us out of pure goodwill. It told us of its own brutal history as a species. Of the wars, plagues, and planetary destructions. It told us they had eventually gotten better. And, thankfully, that had happened before they discovered and reached solar systems with other life.

From any angle of questioning, it seemed like the Guardians' motivations were entirely benevolent. Just as it had initially claimed.

Humanity had climbed the vertical cliff face of what they called the Great Filter with none of the advantages we had expected them to possess. They had done it carrying a fragile primate brain that was constantly at war with its own paleolithic instincts, in a frame that a simple microscopic pathogen or a stray piece of kinetic debris could instantly delete.

Looking at and speaking to the Guardian, we finally understood the true nature of their strength.

It wasn't that they were born to be gods. They had looked at their own extreme fragility, realized how close they were to absolute annihilation, and used their brief, desperate window of survival to build a fortress of intelligence around themselves. Their ascension was an engineering miracle born of absolute, terrifying necessity.

And, frankly, the human we ate with was a wonderful, humorous host.

In our own history, when a faction gained an unassailable technological advantage, its first instinct had always been to conquer, to wall off resources, and to enforce submission to ensure its own permanent security.

We had assumed the universe operated on that same cold, evolutionary calculation.

Yet, when this hairless, top-heavy primate species finally broke through the terrifying bottleneck of their own existential crises and conquered disease, mastered the atom, and built an automated empire of infinite abundance, they didn't pull up the ladder.

They didn't turn their god-like capabilities into weapons of galactic subjugation to ensure no one else could ever challenge them. Instead, they looked out into the cold, brutal dark of the cosmos and saw younger civilizations drowning in the exact same resource wars and tragic "birthing pains" they had just escaped.

And they chose to become guides.

They didn't demand our worship. They never asked for a single ounce of our resources. They didn't force us to bow. They could have.

They simply built digital lighthouses in the form of the Beacons, dropped them off with a care package of eternal life, and stood a silent, protective guard over our world until we were mature enough to stand before them.

They had not given us their achievements.

They had given us the chance to survive long enough to make our own.

My final question was perhaps the one I most desired an answer to.

"Then what happens next?"

The Guardian gently closed the distance between us, its fragile, unarmored hand extending.

I'll admit, I was confused. "What is that?"

"A sign of greeting. It's how my people introduce themselves and show goodwill or agreement," the Guardian explained. "My name is Mark. I represent Humanity, but I know your people call us the Guardians. And I promise we're flattered by that, ha."

I extended my clawed, gloved hand, being very careful not to hurt the fragile digits of the human which I dwarfed. "I am Anilios Hereckterin."

"It's nice to meet you."

The human then shook the hand of every member of my bridge crew, seemingly memorizing each name.

We all watched it and its strange custom with curiosity. More than anything, we were just shocked it cared enough to know our names. No matter how weak and tiny looking, we were aware it possessed the power of a deity.

"Now that that's out of the way, I'll answer your question. I'm guessing all of you have the same one?" Mark said.

We all agreed.

"Well, I guess I could tell you to take me to your leader. But that joke would be pretty selfish. Hm. Well, to be honest, we were hoping you could join us. We just didn't want to get in the way of you developing your own pride in your achievements."

"You wished for us to advance on our own? Yet, you intervened?" I pointed out.

"We took away the unfair parts of being a new species. The starving, the war, the dying and having your body fall apart just as the price of existing. But we didn't take your chance to make something out of yourselves. You might have figured it out already, but once you don't have to worry about dying every day, one of the best ways to feel happy is to figure things out. We didn't want to take that part of it away from you," Mark explained.

"That seems generous," I agreed.

"Was the right thing to do, don't you think?" the human shrugged.

And I couldn't say the Guardian was wrong. Answering my own curiosity was my own greatest drive. And I had not been happier than I was now in a long time.

"I believe so," I agreed. "You would like us to help you with this? For others?"

"Well, if you want, yeah. That's the next best part. And we haven't actually gotten anyone else to your point yet. You're the first ones who actually got to near-interstellar capabilities. You should be proud, honestly. It was pretty damn quick, even with the help we gave you."

I was filled with awe. Awe at this creature. At its people's accomplishments.

And pride in my own people's at its assessment.

And then I began to understand the being before me better.

Its people had traversed the deep, terrifying void of the cosmos for centuries, carrying the heavy burden of absolute power and absolute isolation, all perhaps for this exact moment.

"I do not know about our leaders, or the others behind me, but I would like that."

I couldn't pass up the chance... the chance to see so much more. To be so much more.

I extended my third hand, remembering it was a sign of respect and agreement in the Guardian's culture.

The Guardian smiled and reached out toward me. "'Course, it's just an offer. Everyone gets the choice. We're not gods."

As our digits met and then retracted, I looked out the massive viewport of their vessel. Below us lay my home planet, glowing and secure, its children safe from the random cruelties of a blind universe. Ahead of us lay the endless, unmapped star clusters of the galaxy, dense with supernovas waiting to be watched, and quiet, struggling worlds still trapped in the dark pit of their own infancy.

If we joined the Guardians, no if we joined humanity, we would no longer be just a protected species living under a dome of altruism. We were about to finally cross a threshold. And, if all was as this 'Mark' said, I couldn't imagine a better partner species with which to explore our new role.

Humanity's lonely watch was over; the cosmos had just gained a younger sibling, and together, we were going to make sure that no one else would ever have to suffer what they once had and what we had been mostly spared from.

A Not so Long, Long Time Later

Anilios stared out the great window of his vessel, two hands resting on its edge. Distantly, in the glow of a star he was not born under, he watched a tiny, primitive ship successfully breach orbit.

His clawed lower hands gripped the edge of the window.

A soft, meaty hand touched his shelled upper shoulder.

"They'll get there, friend. Hell, they might even outdo your people."

"It has been two centuries," Anilios said, some impatience in his voice.

"Don't forget," Mark laughed. "That's the best part."

CCLXXXVIII

Trout's Landing, Kobold Warrens.

"We have plenty of fur. We could–"

"None of it is thick enough. The amount we'd need would hinder us more than help." The Trap-Master said before the skirmisher could finish.

Not like he needed to finish saying it. They've gone over a few other plans but the weather and their own biology made any plan moot. The fact of the matter was they couldn't leave the warrens. They'd freeze and die. Likely before they could leave the lodge itself. Which means that wherever Jeb went to, they couldn't follow. Not unless all the snow and ice dried up and the temperature rose a twenty degrees.

The Trap-Master sighed.

"Return to your posts at the entrance of the new tunnels."

The kobolds nodded and departed. Scurrying down the tunnels and away, leaving the Trap-Master to stand in his own personal burrow. He preferred it to the old Game Warden cabin. It was warmer for one thing. There was also only a single way in or out compared to the various windows and giant door of the cabin.

Plus all the maps and information from the cabin was in easy reach and height down here. As was a good number of weapons. His burrow becoming a sort of temporary defacto armory for the tribe until they could excavate a proper one deeper down. Which they'll do once they've properly cleared a suitable section. From the maps and what Jeb has told them there should be a few areas designed to house mining foremen, emergency supplies, and miner quarters.

So far no luck though. What has come back so far most of it is natural tunnels and formations. What mine shafts they've found have been old and the couple of possible shelters have long since collapsed. Though that's not necessarily a bad thing. Better they collapsed already than when they moved in. Now they have obvious places where NOT to excavate shelters.

So far the only threats they've come across is an encounter with some sort of spider creature and it's slaves. When a couple of skirmishers returned to the cavern they were encountered they found the tunnel it went through collapsed and buried. While having a direct avenue from a potential enemy straight to their home blocked off was comforting, what wasn't was the fact that they likely could make new tunnels.

They'll have to be extra cautious in the North West tunnels from now on. The only other "threat" being some sort of... ooze. Or slime. Or something. Apparently it could change shape. Badly. Sure it might catch a simple insect or small rodent or reptile off guard, maybe even someone not used to living underground, but for them it was fairly obvious in its aberration.

It hasn't shown itself a threat to them. It's just followed the scouts that encountered it and little else besides occasionally eating a small insect. Though it has shown remarkable, and somewhat concerning, ability to climb the tunnel walls, ceiling, and any rope or ladders they've made. It's quickly made itself at home in the warrens themselves. Much to the delight of the tribe especially the hatchlings, who take every opportunity to corral the amorphous blob to certain parts of the warren to try and get it to mimic something.

Other than that, all threats have been purely environmental. Acid pools from runoff, structurally weak sections, rusted metal, gas pockets, and the odd nest of vipers. Overall though they've found a wealth of resources that they are more than grateful for and will make good and enthusiastic use of.

One recent development of their sluice way has been a recent congregation of more warm water species making their way into the pool. Something called a hellbender salamander and even freshwater eels! Sure they were small now. But if they could cultivate them they'd have a meal that he deeply missed from their old home.

"Roasted eel." He said with a hint of nostalgia. Blackened crust with delicious fatty flesh beneath roasted on a spit.

In the meantime though, he returned his sight to the maps. The Den Mother had said Jeb went West. But from the maps there wasn't anything out there for leagues but wilderness. Cold. Wet. Wilderness. It made him shiver just thinking about it and stood closer to the nearby balefire for warmth. One thing he was looking forward to was that the deeper they went, the less cold gusts they'd get coming from the entrances.

He heard a fluttering and turned his eyes to a nearby stone shelf. His eyes landed on his raven companion. His raven companion only he could see apparently. For a time he hadn't seen it. Since they've moved into the warrens fully he hasn't. Though from what he's heard around the tribe, he wasn't the only one with a "familiar".

That was about as much as he could get from them. While it seems like a good portion have remained to keep anything else to themselves. Which he didn't blame them. Even though he could see it. Hear it. Even touch and feel it. He wasn't sure it was entirely real or not.

"Flame." The raven croaked in a raspy voice.

"What?"

"Flame." It spoke again as if the single word was enough.

Maybe it was, he thought as he turned his eyes towards the baleful fire. He couldn't help but feel a sort of... gnawing within him. The skirmishers and him all would take turns "bathing" in the flame back on the surface to better handle fishing, then the weather. But it got so bad that it was barely helping. So they stopped.

Yet now that he was thinking about it. Now that he was right there next to it. He could feel the warmth. The comfort. The power. An image formed in his mind as he stared into the flame. His scales ablaze with balefire. Stalking through the woods no matter the weather. Not slowing down. Not stopping. The very flame infusing his rifle with eldritch power.

He reached out his claw and felt the flame tickle his scales. Felt it warm his claw and rise up through his arm and to his core. That gnawing was sated. Barely. Just as it was gone it returned back a thousand fold. It felt like being deprived of food or water and not really realizing it until you had it right there in front of you!

The gnawing in him didn't just want a taste of that warmth. Didn't want just a brief reprieve of the cold. It wanted to be drowned in it. Smothered in it. Engorged with it until there was all it was. As the thought hit him, he understood the raven's words. Flame. As it dawned on him, it was like something clicked into place. Then the fire didn't just warm him. It invaded him! He could feel it. It burned. His scales cracked under the heat as it raced up his arm. Yet it felt good!

"Jeb!" A voice echoed down the tunnel. Causing him to yank his arm free from the flame. He held it in his other claw. It felt raw. Tingling. Hollow. He could move it just fine. But it felt incomplete. Slower. The gnawing returned. Not as aggressive as before. It wasn't sated. But it was content. Content to wait.

He turned towards the raven only to find the stone shelf empty like it hadn't been there at all. He looked back at the flame. It didn't look any different. Didn't look like a living creature that just a second ago was in the process of doing... something to him. He shook his head and left his private burrow and headed down the tunnel. Once he got to the main chamber he encountered Jeb standing there.

"Hey! Y'all alright?"

"Fine. The tunnels have been safe and bountiful so far."

"That's good. Not unexpected. I'd wager few people even know those tunnels exist, even the mine shafts are probably buried in some box somewhere collecting dust and silverfish." Jeb replied.

"Where did you go? The Den Mother was worried."

"Just wanted to... take some precautions is all. Call it a gut feelin'." Jeb evaded cryptically.

"That's it? You disappear for the better part of a day on a gut feeling?"

"Yeah. And if I did my job right, it won't happen again." Jeb said and rapped his knuckles on a nearby wooden beam.

"Will you tell us what exactly you did, or even why you did it?" The Trap-Master asked, more irritably than he wanted to, and even catching himself off guard at the snappy tone.

Jeb, however, didn't seem to notice or mind.

"Just some safety measures is all. Should help in case somethin' DOES happen. Which it won't. Because of what I did."

He rapped on the wooden beam again before smiling cryptically and heading down the tunnel to the burrow he and Ruby shared. He heard her cry out from down the tunnel and could hear them talking. The Trap-Master just sighed and shook his head. He just had to trust Jeb. His eyes glanced to the nearby balefire torches. His gaze holding on them for a long moment before he pulled them away. Which was harder than he thought it should be.

[First] [Prev] [Next]

Landonbar looked up from his checklist at the sound of a large truck pulling into his driveway. In front of him, spread out across the living room floor, were the tools and supplies he judged they would need for their journey home. On one side of the room was gathered a wide range of top of the line winter camping gear. A cold weather tent, self cooking MRE’s, two pairs of snow shoes, a pair of subarctic sleeping bags, along with an assortment of other necessary equipment. The other side of the room held a very different set of supplies. A pair of bedrolls sat next to a pair of oiled leather cloaks. A small stack of books sat next to a matching set of swords. Laid out on the sofa were two sets of finer clothes. One for himself the other for Jessca. Perhaps not quite court attire, and certainly out of fashion, but respectable nonetheless. Those, combined with a collection of other archaic equipment, covered the majority of the living room floor.
Stepping awkwardly around the supplies, Landonbar traversed the room to the large window that looked out the front of the house. Pulling back the curtain, he watched as Jessca hopped down out of a big black truck. Landonbar instantly knew something was wrong. He recognized the truck, and knew who it belonged to. Jessca would rather have walked from the school without a coat than get a ride from Jason. That’s when it registered that she wasn’t wearing a coat. The outside temperature must be well below freezing, if not sub-zero. Rushing to the front door he disengaged the deadbolt and threw the door open. A wave of cold air smacked him in the face. He paid it no mind as he ushered His niece inside. He had to do a double take as he saw Miguel following behind her. While it wasn’t odd for Miguel to be accompanying her, it was odd that the boy, who had required crutches to get around for as long as Landonbar had known him, was now walking unassisted. 
Shutting the door behind them, Landonbar reengaged the deadbolt. Then directing the youths towards the kitchen he asked, “what’s happened? I doubt you're just skipping school, considering you’ve stolen Jason’s truck.” Jessca positioned herself above a heating vent to take advantage of the warm air blowing upward, and turned to face her uncle. Her cheeks were still rosy from the short walk from the truck. She quickly recounted the attack at the school. As she did Miguel stationed himself by the window above the kitchen sink, which offered him a reasonable view of the road that passed in front of the house. 
Landonbar listened to the brief account of the attack in silence. As she reached the end of the story he held up a finger to stall her.
“Are you sure that it called itself a Psyballen?”
“Yes the name sounded familiar, like something out of the stories you used to tell me. It was seriously creepy.” Landonbar nodded, then looked to Miguel.
“And you, did you buy a new pair of legs down at the market?”
Miguel gave him a flat look, “They were having a sale, and I had some lunch money leftover.” His tone was unlike anything Jessca had heard from him before, sarcastic, and slightly defiant. “Look, we don’t have time to go into my sob story right now. Whatever that thing is, it’s after Jessca, and it could be coming down the street right now for all we know. We need to grab what we need and get out of here. We got lucky last time. I managed to surprise it, and we were able to get lost in a crowd. If that thing catches us alone, I’d be willing to bet that we wouldn't be able to take it.”
Landonbar gave him a hard look for several seconds, then nodded. “I will let it go for the moment, but make no mistake, I will have the truth from you.” Miguel nodded slowly in agreement. Temporarily satisfied Landonbar grabbed a roll of heavy duty fifty gallon trash bags from under the sink, then leading everyone to the living room he handed each of them a bag, gave them brief instructions, and abandoning the idea of neatly packing everything into a few hiking backpacks they all started grabbing supplies and shoving them into the large black bags. 
As they packed Jessca spoke up, “Uncle, why is all of this stuff laid out like this, it’s almost like you knew we had to leave?”
“I did know we had to leave, but for a different reason. This only makes it more urgent.”
“What other reason?”
“I received a message,” he glanced to Jessca for a moment before continuing, “It was from your father.”
Jessca froze in the middle of tossing MRE’s into her bag. “He’s dying, and he wants to see you one more time before he passes. Once he’s gone, the throne will pass to you. If you don’t take the throne the remaining lords will all likely attempt to take it, and that will cause chaos until one of them takes a firm hold and manages to take power away from his opposition.” Jessca sat back on her heels, packing forgotten as she tried to process what her uncle had just told her. If he had told her this only an hour ago she would have thought that it was simply a product of whatever minor madness affected him. But now, with what she had learned from the Psyballen, the reality of the situation came crashing down on her.
“It’s all true, isn’t it?” Landonbar looked up, puzzlement written on his face. “I’m the princess of a magical kingdom on a far off world. The history, the politics, the culture, it’s all real?” It was half statement, half question.
“Did you ever think it wasn’t?” 
“Not since I was ten. I thought they were just stories you made up. I thought that you couldn’t bring yourself to face some horrible truth, so you told me a fairy tale instead.” Landonbar nodded slowly.
“The world surrounding you made the world You truly belong to seem like a fantasy. I should have known the contrast would have been too much to believe without evidence once you grew up.” 
Jessca stood, hands on her head and started pacing. “You’re telling me that I am a princess in a magical world that I have never even seen, and I have to go there, leaving everything and everyone that I do know behind. All because my father, who I have never met, wants to see me before he dies. On top of that, once he does die I have to become queen of a place that I don’t know.” Her voice gained volume as she spoke. “But that’s only if I can make it there alive in the first place, because someone sent a freaking immortal assassin after me!” She was yelling now, “It’s too much! I can’t do it! How could you even think I’m capable of doing any…”
 Landonbar stood and took her by the shoulders, interrupting her tirade and stopping her pacing. He looked into her eyes and said, “There are four things you need to know. First, I have done everything I can to prepare you for this. You know your kingdom better than you think, and you are far more capable than you give yourself credit for. Second, no good king or queen in history, from our world or this one has ever ruled alone. No one, least of all me, expects you to take the throne and instantly know how to do everything perfectly. I will be there with you. Third, your father is not a fool, He knew when he sent you here he was sacrificing any relationship he might have with you in order to keep you safe. He’s not expecting you to weep over the deathbed of a man you don’t know. He wants the chance to see the woman you  are growing into, and if he’s very lucky he might have a chance to reconcile with you before the end. Last, and at the moment the most important, there is an assassin after you, but he missed his first shot. Now we know he’s here and we can work to counter him. Immortal or not, he has limits and we can exploit that.” Jessca, who had been on the verge of hyperventilating, took deliberate control of her breaths, slowing them down, and counting five seconds per breath. Landonbar breathed with her until she was once again in control of herself.
“Now, how do you skin a dragon?” Jessca nodded, recognizing one of his favorite sayings.
“One scale at a time.”
“Exactly, and our first scale is to get packed, and then to get out of here.” And they did, stuffing all the supplies into the garbage  bags, except for the snow suits. Landonbar managed to dig an extra one piece snowsuit out of a closet for Miguel. It was several sizes too large for him but would keep him reasonably warm. Once everything was packed and they had all donned their snowsuits, they each grabbed a bag and lugged them into the garage where two snowmobiles sat ready, each with a pull behind sled and two extra gas cans, with the sleds loaded there was just enough room for Miguel to squeeze in next to the bags without risking either them or him bouncing out.
As they rode away into the snowy landscape Jessca slowed her machine for a moment and looked back. Taking one last look at the only home she had ever known, and knew that she would never see it again.
                 

11:45 pm S.F.T(Standard Federation Time) Kepler-186f, Day 3

The path back to the communications array was easier to follow now that Loyd somewhat knew where they were going, though the deepening cold made the walk less comfortable than their first visit. Pale spores swept between the mushroom stalks in thin clouds, gathering inside their earlier footprints and softening the trail almost as quickly as they followed it.

Harriet carried Loyd’s omnitool and checked the recovered map whenever the terrain forced them away from a direct route. Omega remained beyond the communications array, separated from the rest of the colony by a large section of missing data, but enough of the surrounding terrain had survived for Harriet to keep them moving in the right direction.

Serria followed behind them with Teralis’s and Kiki’s samples secured among the remaining medical supplies. Her insectoid limbs sank deeper into the damp soil than Harriet’s talons or Loyd’s boots, leaving a trail that would be considerably easier to follow on their return.

“How long will it take us to reach Omega?” Serria asked.

“The map doesn’t show enough of the terrain to tell,” Loyd answered. “It could be an hour away or on the other side of the planet.”

The communications facility eventually appeared between the mushroom stalks ahead. Loyd slowed as they approached, watching the empty entrance while the others stopped behind him.

“I’ll check it,” Loyd said, keeping the bent support beam in his hands.

Harriet lowered the omnitool and looked toward the entrance. “We should remain together.”

“I’m just checking the hallway,” Loyd assured him. “If I don’t see or hear anything, we can decide whether it’s worth going farther. If they’ve settled down, we might be able to reach Aquaponics without fighting through them.”

Serria lifted her forward blades. “Call out if they approach.”

Harriet’s feathers rose around his neck. “They had not settled down when I left.”

“You also disturbed them by escaping from the room where they were feeding,” Loyd reminded him. “They might have returned to the lower levels by now.”

“And if they have not?” Serria asked.

“Then we keep moving toward Omega,” Loyd said. “No point in trying to fight past hundreds of them just to get codes we can’t use.”

Loyd adjusted the cloth covering his nose and mouth before stepping through the open entrance. Darkness swallowed him as soon as he crossed inside.

He stopped before taking a second step. During their earlier visit, light from inside the facility had been dim but was still there, and the steady buzz of powered equipment had followed them through its corridors. Now the only light came from the forest behind him, reaching far enough to reveal a small portion of the floor before the hallway disappeared. The electrical buzz was gone as well, with only the wind blowing through the entrance to fill the air.

Loyd remained near the entrance and listened. Beyond the wind, the facility was silent. Then something scraped against the inside of the wall ahead of him.

The scrape of several small limbs answered from the ceiling. Their rapid movement passed above the entrance and continued deeper into the facility, joined by another cluster crawling somewhere near the floor.

Loyd stepped backward into the forest before any of them could move toward the sound of his breathing.

Harriet’s feathers remained raised as Loyd emerged. “Are they still inside?”

“They’re moving through the walls and ceiling,” Loyd answered. “The facility also lost power.”

Harriet looked past him into the entrance. “How do you know?”

“The hallway is dark, and the electrical buzz is gone,” Loyd explained. “If the facility isn’t receiving power, neither is the communications console.”

“Could you determine what caused it?” Serria asked.

“Not without going inside and finding the electrical system,” Loyd replied. “I’m not doing that in the dark while those things are still crawling around.”

Harriet continued looking into the entrance. “Even if we recovered the codes, the transmitter would remain dead.”

“And Teralis and Kiki would still be infected,” Serria added. “The facility cannot help us now.”

Loyd adjusted his grip on the support beam. “Then we go to Omega.”

Harriet reopened the damaged map with his clawed wing. The marker remained beyond the communications array, isolated from the other colony structures and surrounded by missing information.

He turned away from the facility and began guiding them along the portion of the route that had survived.

The trail continued through the mushroom forest before curving away from the main settlement. Loyd kept slashing the trunks of the mushrooms to mark their path, but found a surprising resistance that hadn’t been there before.

What remained of the map showed no buildings or service routes connecting Omega to the other facilities. Even the thin path they followed disappeared after several hundred meters, leaving Harriet to navigate by the marker itself.

“The map is no longer showing a route,” Harriet said when they reached the final visible section.

Loyd stepped around him and examined the display. Their position rested near the edge of a corrupted block, while the Omega symbol remained ahead of them with nothing visible between.

“Keep heading toward the marker,” Loyd instructed. “If there was a path, the missing portion of the map took it with everything else.”

Harriet tilted the omnitool until the marker aligned with the direction ahead. “No, I was going to stop following the map .”

“We’ll find a way across it when we get there.” loyd responded.

Serria moved around them and started toward the slope. “Standing here will not reveal one.”

The forest became thinner as they climbed. Mushroom stalks that had towered above them lower in the valley grew farther apart, leaving broad patches of dark ground exposed between their trunks. Stones pushed through the soil in uneven rows, forcing Harriet to watch both the map and the terrain beneath his talons.

Loyd followed close enough to catch him if Harriet slipped. The support beam dragged against the ground whenever the slope steepened, occasionally striking stone with a dull metallic sound.

Harriet stopped near the top of a rise and looked ahead. “The marker is beyond that cliff.”

A dark wall stretched across the landscape in front of them. It rose above the remaining mushroom stalks and continued in both directions until the forest concealed its edges. Soil and vegetation covered much of its face, while exposed sections of dark material showed between hanging roots.

Loyd wiped moisture from his forehead with the back of his bandaged hand. “Does the map show a way around it?”

Harriet studied the display. “The coordinates appear to be inside the cliff.”

“Then either the position is wrong or Omega is underground,” Loyd replied.

Serria continued down the other side of the rise. “We will learn which when we reach it.”

They approached the cliff while Harriet monitored the distance to the marker. The wall grew larger without revealing any obvious opening, and the slope at its base became increasingly difficult to cross. Roots wound through piles of loose stone, while pale growths clung to the smoother sections above them.

Harriet slowed as they drew within a few dozen meters. “We are nearly on top of the coordinates.”

Loyd looked from the omnitool to the cliff. Then back at the omnitool before his attention snapped back to the cliff. The exposed surface was too smooth, too… artificial.

He moved closer and brushed aside a hanging sheet of pale vegetation. The dark material beneath it curved away from his hand, unbroken by the grain or cracks he would have expected from stone. A long seam ran across it beneath the dirt, continuing farther than he could see. Loyd struck the surface with the end of the support beam. A hollow metallic reverberation traveled through the wall. 

Harriet lifted his head sharply from the omnitool. “That is not a cliff.”

“No,” Loyd said as he pulled more of the vegetation away. “It’s a hull.”

Serria looked toward the buried structure surrounding them. “The entire cliff?”

Loyd stepped backward, following the curve of the exposed metal with his eyes. Features he had mistaken for irregular stone became clearer now that he knew what he was seeing. Reinforced seams divided the hull into enormous sections, and several dark shapes farther along resembled windows buried beneath layers of mineral buildup.

“At least the part we can see,” Loyd answered. “Most of the ship is beneath the ground.”

Harriet examined the Omega marker again. “The map did not label it as a vessel.”

“It didn’t label it as anything,” Loyd reminded him. “Omega might just be the designation the colonists used for it on the map.”

They followed the exposed hull until they reached a section where the ground had fallen away. Part of the ship’s side remained visible beneath the dirt, revealing recessed lettering worn smooth by age.

Loyd cleared the remaining soil with his hand. 

U.S.S. ULIXES

“U.S.S. Ulixes,” Loyd read aloud.

Harriet looked up from the omnitool. “Olivia Brandenburg served aboard the Ulixes.”

“As its chief medical officer,” Serria added, her mandibles clicking faster. “This vessel should  contain the equipment we need.”

“If anything survived,” Loyd cautioned.

Serria turned her compound eyes toward him. “We have found the colony ship buried beneath a cliff. Allow me to be hopeful until we learn otherwise.”

Loyd looked farther along the exposed hull. “First we need a way inside.”

They continued following the ship until the slope beside it dropped sharply. An opening appeared at the bottom, partly concealed behind roots and accumulated soil. The metal surrounding it had bent inward, leaving enough room for them to pass one at a time.

Loyd stopped before descending the slope. A dim glow reached through the opening and illuminated the mushrooms and mossgrowing across its lower edge.

Harriet stared at it. “The ship still has power.”

“The communications facility lost power within hours of your visit,” Serria said, “but this vessel has power while buried beneath the ground.”

“I noticed,” Loyd answered.

“How is that possible?” Harriet asked, leaning forward to look into the opening.

“I have no idea,” he admitted, tapping the support beam against the ground.

Loyd descended carefully, using the support beam to test the soil before placing his weight on it. Harriet followed with the omnitool, while Serria moved sideways to keep her larger body from sliding down the slope.

Loyd listened before crossing inside. A quiet mechanical hum filled the interior, confirming that more than a single light was operating. Something aboard the Ulixes was still functioning.

He raised the support beam and stepped through the opening.

Harriet followed, keeping the omnitool close to his body as he looked along the corridor. Serria entered last, lowering her blades to avoid catching them against the damaged hull.

The hallway was far larger than Loyd had expected. Its ceiling rose several meters above them, while the floor stretched wide enough to move vehicles and heavy equipment through the ship. Doors lined both sides, most of them large enough for Serria to pass through without adjusting her stance.

Colored lines ran along the floor before separating at the first intersection. Each continued into a different hallway, accompanied by human labels identifying where it led. Loyd read them in turn. Red led to Medical, blue to the Mess Hall, grey to Engineering, black to Command, and orange to Storage, while a sixth line was marked Crew Quarters.

Serria examined the lines spreading through the intersection. “Which color do we follow?”

“The red one leads to Medical,” Loyd answered as he stepped beside it.

Harriet looked from the lines to the surrounding corridors. “Does the omnitool contain a map of the vessel?”

“No,” Loyd replied. “We follow the guide lines until we find a directory or reach Medical.”

The red line continued into the central hallway before turning through the second intersection. Loyd took the lead with the support beam held ready, while Harriet walked behind him and Serria guarded the rear.

They reached another intersection after several minutes. The red Medical line crossed four other colors before continuing down the middle passage. Loyd followed it.

The hallway divided again a short distance later. One branch curved upward, another descended, and three continued in different directions across the same level. The red line turned through the corridor on their left.

Harriet glanced back toward the junction. “Why are there so many connected hallways?”

“It was a colony ship,” Loyd explained. “It needed room for equipment, supplies, living quarters, and however many people came down with it.”

“This still appears excessive,” Harriet replied.

Loyd looked down two of the passages they were leaving behind. “Kind of, but I’m sure there’s a reason.”

They continued along the red line as it wound through the ship. Each corridor led to another cluster of intersections, and every intersection divided into several more. Some hallways were wide enough to contain rows of sealed doors, while others remained nearly empty until they connected with another route.

The guide line carried them through all of them without bringing them any closer to an identifiable medical facility.

Serria’s mandibles clicked impatiently as they passed another unlabeled doorway. “How much farther?”

“I don’t know,” Loyd answered.

“You said the line would lead us to Medical.”

“It should.”

They reached another intersection. The red line crossed the floor, curved around one support, and disappeared down the far-right passage. Loyd stopped instead of following it.

Harriet nearly walked into his back. “Why did you stop?”

“We should have reached Medical by now,” Loyd said.

Serria looked back through the halls they had crossed. “Do you know where it is located?”

“No, but we’ve been following this line for nearly half an hour. A medical facility aboard a colony ship should be accessible from the main entrance without walking through half the vessel.”

“The ship may be larger than it appeared outside,” Harriet suggested.

“It could be, but this route still doesn’t make sense.” Loyd crouched beside the red line and examined the word printed beside it. “There should have been signs for emergency treatment, individual departments, or at least a distance marker.”

Harriet lowered his head toward the lettering. “Is it the correct signage?”

The word had looked familiar enough that he had read it without examining it any closer. Now that he was paying attention, the shapes bore little resemblance to the rigid lettering printed beside the ship’s doors.

“It still says Medical,” Loyd explained, “but the problem is the font.”

Serria waited for him to continue. “What does that mean?”

“It’s Comic Sans,” Loyd said, tracing one of the letters with his finger. “A human font- a style of writing.”

“Does the style alter what it says?” Serria asked.

“No,” Loyd replied. “That isn’t the problem. Comic Sans was designed to look informal. Humans use it for children, illustrated stories, casual notices, and things people aren’t supposed to take too seriously.”

“And this style is being used to direct us toward Medical?” Harriet asked.

“Which no safety inspector or ship designer would ever approve,” Loyd replied.

Loyd stood and crossed to the nearest guide line. Engineering had been printed in the same rounded lettering. Crew Quarters used it as well, along with Command and Storage. He moved to the remaining route, running his fingers beneath the lettering.

MESS HALL appeared in squared, uniform letters that matched the labels printed beside the doors.

“Even I can see the difference now that you’ve brought it to my attention,” Harriet observed.

“This one uses official lettering,” Loyd replied.

Serria looked toward the other colored routes. “Then someone added the remaining labels.”

“Or changed them,” Harriet suggested.

Loyd examined the intersections around them. Every route except the Mess Hall line had been marked in Comic Sans, sending anyone who followed it deeper into the network of connected hallways.

“We don’t know where any of those lines actually lead,” Loyd said. “The Medical line could keep circling the ship for hours.”

“Why leave the Mess Hall unchanged?” Serria asked.

“I don’t know,” Loyd answered as he looked down the corridor marked by the only official guide line. “But it’s the only route aboard this ship we have any reason to follow.”

Harriet stepped onto the Mess Hall guide line and turned toward the passage ahead. “Then we follow it and determine where it leads.”

Loyd adjusted his grip around the support beam before joining him. Serria moved behind them, keeping the samples secured between her manipulating appendages as the three of them left the false Medical route behind and followed the only line that appeared authentic deeper into the Ulixes.

Part Eighteen

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Stan hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of him, which was impressive considering breathing had become optional sometime around his death.

For a moment he didn't move. He lay facedown in soft, warm dirt with his arms sprawled beside him, waiting for whatever had just happened to finish happening. Nothing did. Instead, birds sang somewhere overhead, something small buzzed past his ear, and a warm breeze carried the smell of flowers and freshly turned soil across his face. After three days dominated by mildew, alleyways, blood, and one particularly dead vampire, Stan decided he was willing to consider the change an improvement.

He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and immediately forgot about the dirt.

Green stretched in every direction. Not ordinary green, either. This was insane green, the kind Stan had previously assumed only existed after somebody fucked with the saturation slider. Grass thick enough to sleep on covered a clearing surrounded by trees so enormous that several of their trunks looked wider than houses. Flowers the size of dinner plates swayed between them, their petals painted in colors Stan couldn't remember ever seeing in nature, while tiny creatures with far too many wings drifted lazily from blossom to blossom.

Stan climbed slowly to his feet and turned in a circle. A few seconds ago he'd been sitting against a cracked wall beside the remains of the vampire who had murdered him. Now there wasn't a house in sight. There wasn't a road, a power line, a building, or anything else that suggested civilization existed anywhere nearby. More importantly, he had absolutely no memory of traveling between the two places.

"What the fuck?"

He looked up, hoping for some clue as to where he'd ended up, and finally noticed the sunlight.

It covered everything.

Warm golden light poured through the canopy, spilling across the grass, the flowers, and Stan himself. His brain took perhaps half a second to recognize what that meant before three days of newly acquired survival instinct took over completely.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—

Stan threw both arms over his face and hurled himself backward, tripped over his own feet, and landed hard on his ass. He curled forward with his hands protecting his head and waited for the burning to start.

It didn't.

Stan remained exactly where he was. He knew what sunlight felt like now. He'd learned that particular lesson beneath an overpass, and there had been very little ambiguity involved. Sunlight burned. It burned immediately, and then apparently kept burning until either he got out of it or there was significantly less Stanley Hitchenson available to burn.

Yet several seconds had passed, and the only thing currently hurting was his ass.

Slowly, Stan lowered one arm.

Sunlight rested across the back of his hand.

He watched it suspiciously, waiting for smoke to curl from his skin. When that didn't happen, he turned his hand over and spread his fingers, letting the light fall across his palm. Still nothing. No smoke. No fire. None of the immediate sensation that every nerve in his body had been dipped in gasoline.

Stan looked from his hand to the brilliant sky overhead and then back again. Whatever the hell had happened to him, apparently the normal rules had not made the trip.

A smile crept across his face before he could stop it.

"Holy shit."

For the first time since he'd woken naked on a morgue table, something impossible had happened to Stan that wasn't immediately terrible.

Then a translucent golden rectangle appeared six inches from his face.

Stan screamed and threw himself backward.

By the time his brain caught up with his body, he'd put several feet between himself and what appeared to be a glowing window floating peacefully in the air. Stan stared at it from the grass, feeling considerably less brave now that he'd realized his terrifying new attacker was a rectangle.

"Okay."

The rectangle didn't respond.

Stan got cautiously to his feet and took a step backward. The window followed him, maintaining exactly the same distance from his face. He stopped and it stopped with him. When he shifted a few feet to the left, it drifted left as though attached to him by an invisible arm.

That was concerning.

Stan tried right. The window followed. He leaned sideways. So did the window.

Stan straightened and looked around the clearing. The enormous trees offered no commentary. The strange little winged creatures continued drifting between flowers. Nothing he could see suggested another human being was anywhere nearby.

Good.

He turned back toward the floating window and recovered what remained of his dignity.

"Nobody saw that."

Letters formed across the golden surface.

WELCOME, TRAVELER.

Stan waited for more, but apparently that was the entire greeting. He glanced around the clearing again, half expecting whoever had written it to emerge from behind one of the enormous trees. Nothing did. The dinner-plate flowers continued swaying in the breeze, tiny winged things fluttered through shafts of sunlight, and, most importantly, nothing appeared to be charging toward him with teeth, claws, or another tire iron. Considering the events of the last three days, a polite floating hallucination barely made his top ten concerns.

"Hi," Stan said.

The window offered no response, leaving him standing there feeling like an idiot for greeting a rectangle. "Do I... welcome you back, or—"

New letters appeared before he could finish.

YOU HAVE ENTERED THE GARDEN OF LIFE.

Stan read the message and looked again at the aggressively beautiful landscape surrounding him. The name certainly fit. Everything here seemed offensively alive. The grass was greener than grass had any business being, flowers crowded around every tree, birds sang somewhere overhead, and even the air smelled healthy.

That last observation became considerably less comforting when Stan remembered that he was, technically speaking, the exact opposite.

He looked down at himself, then back at the Garden. "Okay. Garden of Life. That's probably fine."

The golden window flickered.

ASSESSING NEW ARRIVAL...

Stan's tentative smile faded. There was something considerably less welcoming about assessing new arrival than welcome, traveler. He'd spent enough time around government paperwork to know that nothing good ever happened once somebody stopped greeting you and started assessing you.

"All right. Just so we're clear, I didn't come here on purpose."

The System ignored him.

RACE: HUMAN

"Oh, thank God." Stan hadn't realized how badly he needed one normal answer until he saw it. Human. Great. Perfect. Technically questionable at the moment, perhaps, but spiritually and historically accurate. He could work with human.

The words immediately disappeared.

CORRECTION.

"Oh, fuck you."

The new classification appeared before Stan could object.

RACE: UNKNOWN

"Unknown?" He stared at the word for several seconds, waiting for another correction that didn't come. "No, you had it. Go back."

The System remained stubbornly unchanged.

"I'm human." Stan pointed at himself as though visual evidence might help. "Look at me. Two arms, two legs, mostly all the original parts. Human."

Apparently the System remained unconvinced, because UNKNOWN stayed exactly where it was.

"Rude."

More information began filling the window.

LIFE STATE: DECEASED

BODY STATE: ACTIVE

SOUL STATE: PRESENT

LIFE AFFINITY: 0

Stan read the list twice before deciding there was no sensible place to begin. The soul part was encouraging. He hadn't devoted much thought to the metaphysical consequences of dying before this week, but if there was a box somewhere that needed to be checked beside SOUL PRESENT, he was glad his had apparently made the trip. The deceased part felt unnecessarily repetitive, while Body State: Active seemed like an extraordinarily clinical way of describing the fact that he was standing there arguing with a floating rectangle.

Then there was LIFE AFFINITY: 0.

"What the fuck does that mean? Is zero bad?"

The System offered no explanation, forcing Stan to rely on his own experience. There weren't many situations in which getting a zero had been followed by congratulations, so he was leaning toward bad.

Before he could ask another question, the entire window turned blood red.

"Oh, come on."

ERROR.

Stan grimaced. "Yep. There it is."

The explanation appeared beneath it.

UNDEAD LIFE IS NOT PERMITTED WITHIN THE GARDEN.

Stan read the message once, then again, just to make sure he hadn't misunderstood the wording. "Well, that's kind of a fucked-up way to welcome somebody."

Something moved beneath his boots.

He looked down and watched a thin ridge travel through the soil beside his foot. For an instant Stan assumed it was some kind of animal burrowing beneath the ground, right up until several more ridges appeared and began converging on the exact spot where he was standing.

Stan took one cautious step backward.

One of the ridges changed direction and followed him.

"Oh."

A root broke through the surface.

"Oh, fuck."

The reaction spread through the clearing almost immediately. Flowers nearest Stan folded their petals and physically turned away from him. The tiny winged creatures vanished into the trees, while the birds overhead fell silent so abruptly that the absence of their singing seemed louder than the singing itself had been. Branches creaked high above him as enormous trees shifted despite the gentle breeze, and Stan slowly turned in place as the beautiful Garden he'd arrived in less than five minutes ago became beautiful and extremely fucking pissed.

More roots pushed through the soil around his boots. One of them curled back on itself in a manner uncomfortably reminiscent of a snake preparing to strike.

Stan raised both hands. "Okay, everybody just calm the fuck down."

He paused after saying it and looked around. There was, as far as he could tell, nobody actually there to calm down. Still, the trees were moving, the flowers apparently hated him, and the ground seemed to be organizing some kind of coordinated response to his existence, so addressing the room felt reasonable.

"I was invited," he added.

The roots continued moving.

Stan frowned. "Actually, I don't know that. I might've been kidnapped. Does that help?"

It did not.

Another root slid across the dirt toward his boot, and Stan moved his foot before it reached him. "Also, I didn't choose to be undead, for the record. There was a whole thing. Guy bit me. Very nonconsensual."

The root followed his foot.

"Personal space."

The red window flickered.

CLASSIFICATION FAILURE.

Stan's attention snapped back to it. "What do you mean, classification failure? I'm standing right fucking here. Classify faster."

Several more roots surfaced in response, which he suspected was unrelated but still felt threatening enough that he pointed at the window.

"Preferably before whatever your landscaping department is doing gets ambitious."

The message changed.

PLEASE WAIT.

Stan stared at it, then looked down at the roots surrounding his boots. "Please wait?"

Another root emerged.

"You're trying to fucking compost me."

PLEASE WAIT.

"You don't get to say please wait while the forest is trying to murder me. That's not customer service."

The System remained unmoved by his complaint, and the Garden continued holding itself at the edge of violence. Stan could almost feel the place waiting for a decision, as though the System needed to determine whether he was a guest or something that required immediate removal with extreme botanical prejudice.

He eyed the nearest root and sighed. "You know, surprisingly, waiting to find out whether I'm dead has actually been the theme of my week."

The window flickered once, then again, and disappeared. At exactly the same moment every root surrounding Stan stopped moving.

Stan didn't.

He remained perfectly still with his hands raised, watching the nearest root for any indication that the Garden had reached a final decision. Several seconds passed without botanical murder, followed by several more, until Stan cautiously lowered his hands.

Nothing attacked him.

The flowers remained pointed away, which felt unnecessarily judgmental, but after nearly losing an argument with the local vegetation Stan wasn't inclined to push his luck.

"Fucking racist flowers."

A blossom beside him folded itself completely shut.

Stan stared at it. "Yeah, fuck you too."

A new golden window appeared directly in front of his face, and Stan jerked backward with one arm already coming up before he remembered that punching floating rectangles had not yet been established as useful. He recovered quickly—or at least quickly enough that he could pretend the movement had been intentional.

"Didn't scream that time."

The System apparently wasn't impressed.

IDENTITY VERIFICATION IN PROGRESS.

Stan relaxed slightly. Identity verification sounded safer. Names were good. Names were normal. More importantly, he actually had one, and there was absolutely no ambiguity whatsoever regarding what it was.

STANLEY HITCHENSON.

"Yes. Thank you." Relief washed through him with an intensity that was probably unreasonable for seeing his own name correctly spelled. "See? We found something we're both good at."

The window flickered.

Stan's smile disappeared.

ADDITIONAL DESIGNATION DETECTED.

A feeling of dread settled into his stomach.

There was absolutely no logical reason he should have known what was coming. The System hadn't said nickname. It hadn't mentioned the precinct, Sergeant Miller, Morrison, Reynolds, or any of the other assholes responsible for the worst linguistic crime of Stan's brief professional career.

Still, some deep and ancient part of Stanley Hitchenson's soul recognized impending bullshit when it saw it.

"No."

SEARCHING ASSOCIATED DESIGNATIONS...

"No, no, no. We don't need associated designations." Stan stepped closer to the window as if proximity might improve his negotiating position. "Stanley Hitchenson is perfect. That's the whole thing. First name, last name. We're done."

The System continued searching.

Fragments of text flashed across the golden surface too quickly for Stan to follow. Names appeared and vanished. Half-formed words blurred together with images or memories he couldn't quite identify, and the speed increased despite Stan repeatedly telling the thing to stop.

Then one phrase remained visible long enough for him to read it.

PUBLIC WORKS

Stan went completely still.

For a fraction of a second, the Garden disappeared.

He remembered rain hammering against his uniform. A pothole full of dirty water. Reynolds sitting comfortably inside a heated patrol car while Stan stood outside getting soaked, followed by the bastard lifting his phone to take a picture.

Then the message Reynolds had sent around the precinct.

THE THIN BLUE LINE.

The memory struck so unexpectedly that Stan forgot about the System entirely. Reynolds had been alive then. Laughing. Giving him shit. Less than two days later Stan had watched him die on the floor of an abandoned house.

Then PUBLIC WORKS vanished.

Stan stared at the empty space where it had been, grief giving way almost immediately to suspicion.

"You motherfucker."

The golden window shimmered.

"No." Stan pointed at it. "Whatever you're about to do, don't."

Letters began forming anyway.

"Don't you fucking dare."

WELCOME TO THE GARDEN,

STANLEY BITCHENSTIN.

Stan stared at the message.

For several seconds his mind simply refused to participate. Somewhere around Bitchenstin, every functioning thought appeared to have packed its belongings and quietly left the premises.

Finally he found one.

"No."

The message remained.

Stan stepped closer, as though perhaps the spelling would improve with proximity. It didn't.

"No. My name is Hitchenson."

The response was immediate.

DESIGNATION CONFIRMED.

"No, it fucking isn't."

DESIGNATION CONFIRMED.

"Stop confirming it!"

The golden letters shimmered but otherwise remained exactly the same, which somehow made Stan angrier than if the thing had argued back.

"I want to be extremely fucking clear about this. Bitchenstin is not my name. It has never been my name. Nobody has ever legally named a human being Bitchenstin. It is a stupid fucking nickname invented by assholes because I made one comment about wanting a cool nickname."

The window shimmered again.

Stan narrowed his eyes. "Don't."

DESIGNATION CONFIRMED.

Stan's mouth fell open. For a moment he could only stare at the System in genuine disbelief before looking around the Garden as though there might be someone else available to resolve the problem.

"Who do I talk to about this? Is there an appeal? A form? A supervisor? Human resources?"

The Garden offered nothing. Even the flowers remained pointed away from him.

"Of course there's no fucking human resources," Stan muttered. "Apparently I'm not even human."

He turned back toward the window, where the offending designation remained prominently displayed.

STANLEY BITCHENSTIN.

Stan rubbed both hands over his face. He had been murdered, awakened in a morgue, discovered he was a vampire, spent three days fighting the urge to eat people, burned himself in sunlight, investigated his own homicide, beaten his murderer to death with a tire iron, been abducted by an unknown cosmic entity, dropped into another world, and nearly murdered by hostile landscaping.

Somehow, this was the first thing that felt genuinely unacceptable.

He lowered his hands and glared at the golden letters.

"No. No, absolutely fucking not."

Somewhere beyond the Garden, something ancient laughed.

Stan heard it. At least, he thought he heard it. The sound was so distant and enormous that it might have been thunder, except the sky remained perfectly blue and the laughter seemed to come from everywhere at once. It rolled through the clearing for perhaps half a second before fading into the trees.

Stan slowly looked upward. "Was that you?"

The Garden did not answer. He looked back at the golden window, which still displayed STANLEY BITCHENSTIN with all the confidence of a government agency that had misspelled his name and would now require six forms and a court order to fix it.

"I fucking hate all of you."

The window vanished.

Stan blinked. "Oh. Okay. Good."

Another appeared almost immediately.

"Goddammit."

BEGINNING CLASS ASSIGNMENT.

Stan stared at the words. Class assignment. That was new, although everything about the last ten minutes had been new. He'd been dragged through whatever existed between realities, dropped into a magical forest that apparently considered him an invasive species, interrogated by a floating rectangle, and officially registered under a nickname he'd spent four days unsuccessfully trying to kill. At this point, class assignment barely registered as strange.

More importantly, it sounded suspiciously familiar. Stan had played video games. Not obsessively. He'd never spent twelve consecutive hours raiding anything, and he'd never owned a chair that cost more than his television, but he'd played enough to understand what class meant when it appeared in a glowing window floating in front of his face.

He leaned closer. "Okay. This I understand."

The System began working.

ANALYZING SOUL...

ANALYZING BODY...

ANALYZING PRIOR EXPERIENCE...

ANALYZING AFFINITIES...

"You know, I've already had a pretty invasive medical examination this week, so if we could keep the soul probing above the waist, I'd appreciate it."

The messages kept cycling.

And cycling.

Stan shifted his weight, increasingly impatient, bored, and thoroughly confused about how his week had somehow led to standing in a magical forest waiting for a floating rectangle to finish analyzing his soul. He glanced at the motionless roots surrounding his boots, then at the flowers that were still pointedly refusing to face him.

"Anytime now," he muttered.

The System continued analyzing.

Stan sighed. "Police officer. That's what I was. Or my class. Occupation. Whatever you're looking for." He pointed at himself. "I already did the training and everything."

Technically.

The cycling stopped. Apparently that had gotten its attention.

PRIOR OCCUPATION DETECTED: POLICE OFFICER.

Stan brightened. "There you go."

A second line appeared.

EXPERIENCE: 4 DAYS.

His expression fell. "Four and a half."

INSUFFICIENT.

"Fuck you, I graduated."

The System ignored the objection.

EVALUATING STANDARD CLASSES...

Stan folded his arms. "Fine. Whatever. What've you got?"

The first option appeared.

FIGHTER

"Okay. Fighter. Sure." It wasn't glamorous, but it made sense. He had fought someone. Granted, that someone had murdered him first, and Stan's eventual victory had relied heavily upon surprise, desperation, and a piece of automotive equipment, but nobody needed to know the details.

Unfortunately, the System apparently knew the details.

COMPATIBILITY REVIEW...

REJECTED.

Stan frowned. "Why?"

CANDIDATE IS DEAD.

He waited for the rest of the explanation, but apparently that was all he was getting. Stan looked down at himself and then back at the message. "Dead people can't fight? Because I feel like I have some extremely recent evidence to the contrary."

The System moved on without acknowledging the objection.

PALADIN

That caught his interest. "Oh, shit. Really?"

Armor. Sword. Holy powers. Stan wasn't entirely sure what the job description involved beyond hitting evil things while glowing, but after the week he'd had, he was willing to hear the pitch.

COMPATIBILITY REVIEW...

REJECTED.

DIVINE SPONSORSHIP NOT FOUND.

Stan looked up at the cloudless sky. He considered arguing, but after dying, becoming a vampire, and being abducted by something that definitely wasn't standard meteorology, his relationship with the divine was currently complicated enough.

"That's fair."

RANGER

Stan shrugged. "I can work with ranger."

REJECTED.

LOCAL WILDLIFE IDENTIFIES CANDIDATE AS INVASIVE SPECIES.

Stan stared at the explanation before very slowly turning toward the nearest flower. The flower turned away from him.

"You motherfuckers are voting?"

The flower folded two petals inward.

"Fine. Ranger sucks anyway."

The next option appeared.

DRUID

REJECTED.

REASON: ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Stan actually recoiled. "Okay, that one felt personal."

A nearby branch creaked, and Stan pointed at it. "Stay out of this."

VAMPIRE

That stopped him. Of all the possibilities, this one seemed difficult to argue with. "Huh. Yeah. I mean, apparently."

For the first time since the process began, he found himself genuinely curious. He still didn't know what being a vampire actually meant beyond the obvious parts: strength, healing, fangs, blood, and sunlight normally trying to kill him. There could be more. There almost certainly was more.

REJECTED.

VAMPIRE IS A SPECIES CONDITION, NOT A CLASS.

Stan considered that for a moment before nodding. "Actually, yeah. That makes sense."

At least one department around here had coherent filing standards.

The System worked through several more possibilities in rapid succession.

NECROMANCER

REJECTED: NO NECROMANTIC ABILITY DETECTED.

"Yep."

BLOOD MAGE

REJECTED: NO MAGICAL ABILITY DETECTED.

"That sounds unnecessarily judgmental."

Then:

ASSASSIN

REJECTED.

ONLY CONFIRMED KILL WAS PERFORMED WITH A TIRE IRON.

Stan stared at the message, deeply offended by what he perceived as an unnecessary editorial comment. "It worked."

The System paused.

NOTED.

Stan squinted at it. "Was that sarcasm?"

No response.

"Can you be sarcastic?"

The System moved on, which somehow made the question more concerning.

The next message took longer to appear.

STANDARD CLASS SEARCH FAILED.

Stan's confidence slipped. "Failed?"

EXPANDING SEARCH PARAMETERS.

"Okay..."

The System began listing what it intended to search.

INCLUDING OBSOLETE CLASSES.

INCLUDING RESTRICTED CLASSES.

INCLUDING DEPRECATED CLASSES.

INCLUDING INCOMPLETE CLASSES.

INCLUDING THEORETICAL CLASSES.

INCLUDING ADMINISTRATIVE EXCEPTIONS.

Stan's concern increased with every line. "How obsolete? Why are they restricted? Deprecated doesn't sound good." He stepped closer when incomplete appeared. "Wait, incomplete?" Then came theoretical, followed by administrative exceptions, and whatever brief excitement he'd felt at understanding the concept of classes evaporated completely.

"Okay, no. Stop. I don't want an administrative exception. Go back to Fighter." The System continued searching. "Paladin. I'll find a god. There has to be one around here somewhere. An ethically sourced god. Whatever the requirements are."

Nothing happened.

Stan rubbed a hand across his face. He'd assumed this would work like a game: pick something cool, receive abilities, figure out how to use them without accidentally setting himself on fire. Instead, he appeared to be watching reality search the junk drawer.

Finally, the window chimed.

POTENTIAL CLASS IDENTIFIED.

Stan lowered his hand. "Okay."

GARDEN VARMINT

COMPATIBILITY: 81%

He stared at the title.

"No."

The System apparently interpreted his objection as a request for additional information.

CLASS DESCRIPTION:

An invasive organism displaying unusual resistance to removal. Garden Varmints specialize in survival, consumption, rapid escape, and continued existence despite environmental opposition.

Stan read the description with mounting disbelief. "You made me a fucking raccoon."

The System waited.

"I'm not a fucking raccoon."

REJECT CLASS?

"Yes."

GARDEN VARMINT REJECTED BY CANDIDATE.

"Jesus Christ."

Stan paced several steps away before remembering the roots and immediately pacing back. "Can we establish some standards here? Something with dignity. Fighter. Knight. Cop. Vampire cop. I don't know. Just not something people try to get out of their attic."

Another chime interrupted him.

POTENTIAL CLASS IDENTIFIED.

Stan braced himself.

ETHICAL VAMPIRE

COMPATIBILITY: 86%

"That's a class?" His skepticism weakened despite himself. "Okay. What's it do?"

CLASS DESCRIPTION:

A predatory undead specialization centered upon restraint, consensual feeding, protection of living populations, and being extremely annoying to other vampires.

Stan read the description twice.

"Huh."

That was actually pretty accurate. Uncomfortably accurate. The predatory part bothered him, but everything after it sounded considerably better. Restraint. Protection. Not eating people who didn't want to be eaten. Being extremely annoying to other vampires.

He'd already beaten one to death with a tire iron, so apparently he had natural talent for the last one.

"Honestly, put a pin in that one."

CLASS CANNOT BE PINNED.

Stan closed his eyes. "Metaphorically."

There was a pause.

METAPHORICAL PIN APPLIED.

Stan opened his eyes and stared at the message. "You're fucking with me."

The System continued searching.

"You are. You absolutely are."

Then another option appeared.

DEPUTY OF THE NATURAL ORDER

COMPATIBILITY: 92%

Stan stopped complaining.

"Deputy?"

That was the highest compatibility yet, and more importantly, Deputy of the Natural Order sounded considerably better than Garden Varmint. He stepped closer to the window. "Description."

CLASS DESCRIPTION:

An appointed agent charged with identifying, pursuing, and correcting violations of the natural order.

Something inside Stan clicked.

"That's basically a cop."

CORRECT.

Stan brightened. "And I'm already dead."

CORRECT.

"So I've personally experienced a violation of the natural order."

CORRECT.

"Which gives me relevant field experience."

DEBATABLE.

Stan ignored that. "And I killed the guy responsible."

CORRECT.

"So I'm qualified."

INCORRECT.

His momentum hit a wall.

"What?"

APPOINTMENT REQUIRED.

Stan frowned. "By who?"

THE NATURAL ORDER.

He glanced around the clearing. "Okay. Where is he?"

No response.

"She? It?"

THE NATURAL ORDER IS NOT A PERSON.

"Great. Can I apply?"

NO.

Stan stared at the window. "Can I get appointed?"

UNKNOWN.

"Can you appoint me?"

NO.

"Then why the fuck did you show it to me?"

COMPATIBILITY IS NOT ELIGIBILITY.

Stan's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "That's the stupidest fucking thing you've said so far, and you tried to make me a raccoon."

The System did not defend itself. Instead, the class disappeared.

"Wait, don't—"

Too late.

Stan stared at the empty space where DEPUTY OF THE NATURAL ORDER had been. "I liked that one."

The System chimed.

CANDIDATE DOES NOT SATISFY MINIMUM REQUIREMENTS FOR ANY CURRENTLY RECOGNIZED CLASS.

CANDIDATE POSSESSES MULTIPLE CONTRADICTORY STATES.

Stan's frustration finally overtook his curiosity. "Okay, whose fault is that?"

The answer came in the form of a list.

DEAD.

ACTIVE.

SOUL PRESENT.

UNDEAD.

MORAL COHERENCE: ACCEPTABLE.

VIOLENT CAPABILITY: LOW.

MAGICAL CAPABILITY: NONE.

AUTHORITY: NONE.

Stan read downward, becoming progressively more offended.

"Acceptable?" Somehow that bothered him first. "What does acceptable mean? I'm a good person. I haven't eaten anybody, and I could have. Multiple times."

The System did not revise its assessment.

Stan pointed at MORAL COHERENCE: ACCEPTABLE. "That should at least be good."

No change.

"Asshole."

His attention moved lower.

VIOLENT CAPABILITY: LOW.

"Oh, fuck off. I killed a vampire."

WITH A TIRE IRON.

"It still counts!"

The System remained silent, so Stan moved reluctantly to the next insult.

MAGICAL CAPABILITY: NONE.

"Yet."

UNFOUNDED OPTIMISM DETECTED.

Stan stared at the words. "Seriously?"

Then his eyes reached the final line.

AUTHORITY: NONE.

"I was a cop."

FOR FOUR DAYS.

"Four and a half!"

The window flickered and then stopped.

Stan waited for the next insult, but nothing appeared. Several seconds passed before he waved a hand through the golden light. His fingers passed through without resistance.

"Hello? Did I break you?"

No response.

His irritation began giving way to concern. "Are you broken?"

NO.

"Because this feels like you're broken."

SYSTEM IS FUNCTIONING WITHIN ACCEPTABLE PARAMETERS.

Stan looked pointedly at the word acceptable. "Apparently we have very different definitions of that word."

Then the golden light drained from the window.

Stan stepped back.

For the first time, the interface turned gray. Not red like an error and not gold like everything else. Just dull, bureaucratic gray, which somehow felt considerably more ominous.

"Oh, what the fuck does gray mean?"

ADMINISTRATIVE CLASSIFICATION REQUIRED.

Stan hesitated. "That sounds promising."

IT IS NOT.

"You know, you could've just let me have that for a second."

More text appeared.

CREATING TEMPORARY CLASSIFICATION FROM AVAILABLE COMPATIBILITY DATA.

Stan stared at the word creating. "Creating?"

YES.

"You can just make classes?"

UNDER CERTAIN CIRCUMSTANCES.

He looked around at the hostile Garden, then down at himself, then back at the gray window. "What circumstances?"

THIS ONE.

"That's not an answer."

The window began flickering rapidly. Symbols Stan didn't recognize streamed across its surface, and for the first time the System seemed less like a menu and more like something actively working, trying to assemble pieces that weren't supposed to fit together. Gold bled through the gray, disappeared, then returned, and for a moment Stan thought he saw ERROR flash behind everything else.

Then the window chimed.

UNIQUE CLASS CREATED.

Stan's irritation vanished. "Unique?"

That sounded better. Actually, that sounded fucking awesome.

He straightened. "Okay. See? Now we're getting somewhere."

The gray faded back into gold.

A title appeared.

[DEADBEAT]

COMPATIBILITY: 98%

Stan's excitement died.

"No."

He stepped closer as though another angle might reveal that he'd misread it.

"Absolutely not. Go back to Ethical Vampire."

UNAVAILABLE.

"What happened to the metaphorical pin?"

METAPHORICAL PINS HAVE NO SYSTEM FUNCTION.

Stan stood there in stunned silence for a moment. "You lying piece of shit."

The class expanded.

[DEADBEAT]

Classification: Unique / Evolving

Known Members: 1

Instructor: None

System Support: Limited

Expected Survival: Statistically Negligible

Stan's eyes traveled down the list, each line somehow making the previous one worse. "Statistically negligible?"

YES.

"How negligible?"

VERY.

Stan nodded slowly. "Great. Fantastic. Love the transparency."

He read the title again. Deadbeat. It wasn't even clever. He was dead, apparently he was difficult to classify, and somehow the universe had arrived at the same insult a disappointed father might use when discussing his unemployed son.

"What does it actually do?"

The System produced a description.

CLASS DESCRIPTION:

You died.

You got back up.

You have subsequently refused to behave appropriately for either condition.

Stan started to object to the second line—technically somebody else had been responsible for the getting-back-up part—but the final sentence stopped him.

For once, he didn't have an immediate response.

He read the description again. You died. You got back up. You refused to behave appropriately for either condition.

The irritation remained, mostly because Deadbeat was still a bullshit name, but something shifted underneath it. He thought about the morgue. The hunger. The man beneath the overpass. The woman walking alone at night. The blood in the refrigerator. Reynolds lying dead in that house. His maker telling him what he was supposed to become.

Predator.

Monster.

Vampire.

His own body had spent three days telling him what he was supposed to do, and Stan had spent three days refusing.

He looked back at the description. "Okay," he admitted reluctantly. "That's... annoyingly accurate."

The System expanded again.

PRIMARY ATTRIBUTES:

Vitality

Will

Hunger

Stan's gaze lingered on the last one. "Hunger isn't an attribute."

The System disagreed by doing absolutely nothing.

"Of course it fucking is."

Another section appeared.

DORMANT AFFINITIES DETECTED:

Death

Stan nodded. "Obviously."

A second word began forming beneath it.

Life

The System froze.

Stan frowned as the word disappeared, then reappeared.

Life

It vanished again.

The golden window flashed red.

ERROR.

ERROR.

ERROR.

The flowers around Stan trembled and roots shifted beneath the soil. He immediately raised his hands. "I didn't do anything."

UNDEAD CREATURES CANNOT POSSESS LIFE AFFINITY.

Stan looked at the message, then at himself, then around at the Garden. "I didn't give it to me."

CORRECT.

"Then we're good?"

NO.

Stan sighed. "Of course not."

The red faded slowly back to gold, although the word Life did not return. Stan noticed that. He also noticed that the System hadn't replaced it with anything else.

Whatever had happened, it had seen something it didn't like.

For the first time since the class assignment began, curiosity outweighed annoyance. "What was that? Why did it say Life? Do I have it?"

The System remained silent.

Stan leaned toward the window. "Can dead people have Life affinity?"

NO.

He waited. "Do I?"

The window flickered.

No answer came.

Stan narrowed his eyes. "That's interesting."

The System immediately changed subjects.

CLASS PROGRESSION:

Stan almost laughed. "Oh, we're just moving on? Cool. Not suspicious at all."

[DEADBEAT] HAS NO ESTABLISHED PROGRESSION PATH.

CLASS DEVELOPMENT WILL BE DETERMINED BY CANDIDATE BEHAVIOR, ACQUIRED AFFINITIES, ENVIRONMENTAL INTERACTION, AND SURVIVAL.

Stan read the explanation slowly. "So you don't know what this class does."

CORRECT.

"You don't know what abilities I'll get."

CORRECT.

"You don't know what happens when I level."

CORRECT.

Stan stared at the window. "You don't actually know if it works."

There was a slightly longer pause.

CORRECT.

"And according to you, my expected survival is statistically negligible."

CORRECT.

"You think I'm probably going to die."

YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.

Stan pointed at the window. "Don't get cute."

The System chimed.

CLASS SELECTION REQUIRED.

Two options appeared.

ACCEPT [DEADBEAT]

DECLINE [DEADBEAT]

Stan stared at them. "What's behind decline?"

CLASS ASSIGNMENT WILL TERMINATE.

YOU WILL REMAIN UNCLASSED.

"Can I get a class later?"

UNKNOWN.

Stan rubbed his jaw. "Does having a class make the Garden less likely to kill me?"

The System paused.

POSSIBLY.

Stan looked around at the flowers that still hated him, the suspicious trees, and the unknown quantity of roots beneath his boots that had already demonstrated both mobility and hostility.

"That's a strong argument."

He turned his attention back to the choices.

Ethical Vampire had sounded reasonable. Deputy of the Natural Order had sounded better. That one had actually felt right, at least until the Natural Order refused to accept applications.

Deadbeat sounded like something Sergeant Miller would put on a cake.

Less than a week ago Stan's biggest professional problem had been trying to convince a police precinct that Stan the Man was a perfectly respectable nickname. Since then he'd died twice if he counted the technicalities correctly, become a vampire, killed another vampire, been abducted across dimensions, been rejected by local plant life, and discovered that reality itself apparently operated according to a class system that considered him an administrative problem.

Now it wanted him to choose between being nothing and becoming the first-ever member of a class nobody understood.

Stan stared at [DEADBEAT]. The name was terrible. The survival rate was worse. There was no instructor, no established progression path, barely any System support, and one of his affinities had apparently caused the laws of the universe to suffer some kind of bureaucratic seizure.

On the other hand, the description had been right about one thing.

He'd died. He'd gotten back up.

And so far, refusing to behave the way everyone expected was about the only thing he'd been consistently good at.

Stan sighed. "Fuck it."

He touched ACCEPT.

The clearing went silent.

Not quiet. Silent.

The breeze stopped and the leaves froze. Every insect, bird, and tiny winged creature seemed to disappear from the world at once, and Stan felt something settle over him—not weight exactly, but recognition. For one strange moment he had the sensation that the Garden itself was looking directly at him.

Then the System chimed.

UNIQUE CLASS ACCEPTED.

The next lines appeared with considerably more ceremony than Stan felt the situation deserved.

STANLEY BITCHENSTIN

LEVEL 1 [DEADBEAT]

Stan closed his eyes. "Hitchenson."

DESIGNATION ALREADY CONFIRMED.

"I hate this place."

Something moved beneath his feet.

Stan opened his eyes as every root in the clearing shifted at once.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

The Garden came alive around him. Roots rolled beneath the grass in every direction, branches bent overhead, and flowers snapped open as though responding to some invisible command. Stan turned slowly, searching for somewhere safe to stand, and discovered that the answer appeared to be nowhere.

A final golden notification materialized in front of him.

CLASS TUTORIAL AVAILABLE.

Stan looked from the message to the forest waking up around him. For once, he didn't need clarification.

"Yes."

BEGIN TUTORIAL?

A root thicker than his leg punched through the ground twenty feet away.

"YES."

The System chimed pleasantly as roots erupted throughout the clearing.

TUTORIAL OBJECTIVE:

SURVIVE.

(Chap 1) (Previous) (Next)

Still hanging near the window, Crow stared back and interrupted him. “Is this where the party’s at?”

The assassin, wrapped in a dark gray cloak, wore a look of utter confusion as he tried to process the situation. He quickly reached under his cloak, but as he took out a dagger, Crow grabbed him by the collar and pulled him. The guy tried to resist, smashing his forehead straight into the left side of the window frame. The glass exploded into pieces, and a stray shard flew into Crow’s face, barely missing his eyes. The man tumbled backward into the foul-smelling room.

Man, lucky for me most Rogues are squishy, and this one was way too slow, to boot.

Crow pulled himself up and stepped inside. “Cough...” He covered his nose immediately.

Man, it smells like rotting fish in here. How was this guy even conscious? Ah, now it makes sense why his reaction time was so slow; his brain was probably starved of oxygen.

He checked his surroundings to make sure no one was around, then bent down to grab the fallen man's cloak. But as his hand drew near, he pulled back.

No way. This thing is way too filthy; I'm getting out of this room.

Crow slipped quickly through the open door and looked at the hallway. It was empty. The walls seemed to be made of painted brick, and the furniture was well-kept wood. He moved ahead until the air finally began to clear.

Alright, what was I here to do again? Right, right... lack of oxygen really messes with your head. If I were hiding someone in this guild, where would I put them? Hmm... beats me. I'm no kidnapper. Better just interrogate someone. I'll wait at the bottom of the stairs; that way I can watch the area without being seen and grab the first person who gets isolated near me.

"She's pretty cute, isn't she? Her face... ah, she's gorgeous. I really want her..." a dwarf in a black cloak said with a mournful tone.

"Pretty, very pretty... shame she bites," an average-sized man replied. "Honestly, I feel like the guy didn't pay us enough to keep her in our special room."

The dwarf grunted, looking uneasy. "Yeah, I think so too. A vampire would never come to this city alone. Imagine if her allies find out."

The other man shrugged it off. "Nah, you weren't there, so you wouldn't know what he told us, but it's not a problem. Relax. Besides, who'd be crazy enough to break into our guild? Even the paladins stay away."

Their voices stopped when they parted ways.

Special room... The dwarf is coming this way. I'll wait behind this curtain.

The dwarf's voice was getting closer. "Tony? I can see your foot, man. Why do you always do that? Wait, that foot's too big—"

The dwarf was caught off guard as Crow grabbed him by the throat with one hand and lifted him up. Clamping his other hand over the dwarf’s mouth, Crow whispered, "Shh... You're pretty light. What are you, eighty pounds? Ah, right, you can't talk."

The dwarf thrashed, punching Crow's arm; sadly for him, it didn’t do much. He then tried to swing at his face, but couldn't reach it either.

Crow glanced around the hallway to see if anyone was watching, then tightened his grip and whispered, "Point toward the special room. Better do it fast before you pass out from lack of air."

The dwarf's arms dropped limp, his right hand weakly pointing down the hall.

"Make a sound and I'll break your neck instantly. You'll just nod to confirm if I'm heading the right way. Make one wrong move and... well, you know the rest." Crow let go, dropping the dwarf onto his back. The dwarf hit the ground, gasping greedily for air.

Crow gestured with his head. "Lead the way. If you run, you die. Take me to that special room. If anyone shows up and gets suspicious, you die as well."

The dwarf didn't flinch. Instead, he started making strange head movements, a series of frantic nods, twisting left and right between each one... Creepy.

Right, this guy just glitched out of fear, probably, but that doesn't matter. They think the paladins don't invade this place out of fear, but the truth is they don't even know about this guild's real activities at this point in the story. There are countless conflicts happening simultaneously that are infinitely worse than this place. The rogues here are all weak; there are what, maybe five at most who are problematic? Since in the lore they train a lot before reaching the specific quest, I can assume they must have about ten times the strength of this dwarf, so it's fine.

They walked a bit, and two men in gray cloaks appeared, getting close to the dwarf and Crow. One of them passed close by, looked at him, and said, "I can't believe we have to put up with this every single day. What an unbearable fart stench, man, get away from me, this is crazy..."

Crow just walked straight past and kept following the dwarf. The guys didn't even suspect a thing for some reason.

This doesn’t make sense and is suspicious... OH, I get it, they think I'm one of the guys who was in that room and I took off my cloak because of the smell. And it makes sense; I was going to grab the guy's cloak in the room, but it was unbearable so I didn't.

After passing through a gate, which had no one guarding it, they found a spiral staircase.

I recognize these stairs. In medieval war simulation games, I remember some of my castles having them; they were designed so that when the invaders drew their swords, they couldn't attack the person above them because the sword would hit the stone wall on the right—

The dwarf stopped climbing the stairs, turned around quickly, and thrust a dagger at Crow's stomach while shouting, "DO YOU THINK I'M DUMB!?"

Soundlessly, Crow simply grabbed the dwarf's hand, stopping the piercing attack. Upon realizing this, the dwarf gasped, “What?” then he twisted his wrist and tried to slash Crow's wrist, all while using the side of the staircase to prevent Crow from using his other hand against him, with only a little over half of his body exposed.

Crack.

Crow didn't need much effort. He crushed the hand holding the knife, and while still holding it, he slammed it hard into the face of the dwarf, who fell onto the stairs and passed out.

Right, I knew this could happen when I saw these stairs, but the question is, does this lead to the special room or not? Well, they did come from this direction earlier, so there's a chance it does... And since it's a different room, and they were also paid to hold the vampire, who I assume is Sharon, this staircase is undoubtedly a defense system—

"Did you like that? Did you think it was just him?" a voice behind Crow said, after stabbing him in the back with a dagger without making a sound.

[DANGER!]

[POISON DETECTED!]

Right... this time I admit, I slipped up. I should have kept looking back while climbing the stairs every few seconds.

He spun around, and as he did, the blade tore further into his body. It managed to cut into a small section of flesh just above his waist on the left side, where the sword wasn't covering his back.

Slash!

As Crow spun his body, he swung and delivered a heavy slap directly to the Rogue's face. The Rogue hit his head against the wall and grew dizzy, but in that split second, he managed to land another strike to Crow's stomach, trying to slice it open in one hit, which failed due to Crow's high CON stat. Immediately after, Crow grabbed the guy by the throat while his other hand pinned the Rogue’s dagger hand.

"Right, that wasn't cool... so here's the deal; I didn't want to kill anyone here so I wouldn't mess up the canonical event where you guys get in the Hero's way... but my patience has limits."

The man who had been lifted off the steps, with his dagger already on the floor and now using both hands to try to loosen the grip on his neck, whispered, "S-story? Hero? L-let me go... I, I..."

Crow loosened his grip a little so the guy could breathe and asked, "Is the special room up these stairs or not?"

"I-it is, if you go up you will find the special roo—"

Crack.

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[New Passive Skill Acquired!]

[Poison Resistance Level 1]

Description: After being seriously poisoned for the 4th time in your life, your body began to develop a slight resistance to poison.

This is bad…

Crow fell to his knees on the stairs near the dwarf. He picked up the dagger on the floor, the one belonging to the man who had stabbed him, slid it through his belt, and then placed both hands around the dwarf's neck.

Where is my Strength?

Crack.

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[New Passive Skill Acquired!]

[NeckBreaker Level 1]

Description: When trying to break a neck, somehow it is 10% easier.

I need… some antidote.

He ripped off the dwarf's cloak, stood up, and tried to improvise a bandage with it while he kept climbing the stairs.

[To think that after taking this much deadly poison you're still alive and kept climbing the stairs… In my time, we called a warrior who could do this an Aura Monster. You know, for using Aura… You can use it, right? Or are we cooked?]

Aura? What is that?

[We're cooked. I'll see what I can do about it, but the best way was to use Aura. Being a warrior without Aura is certain death; you can't rely on pure strength forever…]

Right, now the situation has worsened to an impossible level to deal with.

He looked at the dagger and focused on analyzing it while trying to stop the bleeding from his stomach.

[Status]

Magical Dagger.

Description: It has magical power imbued in it, and some poison from snakes, scorpions, and other unknown sources.

Great…

[Deadly Poison progressing to Stage 2]

[DANGER!]

[Deadly Poison stat check...]

[Target CON stat too high]

[Deadly Poison stat check failed]

At least it’s not getting worse; one way or another, going back injured is bad. My only way out of this now is to rescue her and maybe break a window and leave. Man, this is game over; I made the wrong decision. Maybe I should have... ah, I don't know, it's too late now; the only option is to just keep moving forward.

He continued going up, but this time he would occasionally stop to check if anyone was climbing up behind him. After a short while, he reached the upper floor.

No guards... it's "too good" to be true.

"Cough..." He kept going straight toward the double doors. As he approached, he crouched down, keeping one hand on his stomach to hold back some of the bleeding; the wound on his back didn't bleed as much since it was just a puncture.

This cloak isn't enough; ah, how I wish I had a cleric. Apparently there's no one in the room. I can even see something in the back, but I can't tell what it is. I don't feel any presence, but rogues aren't easy to spot. Man, if I told someone what I'm doing, they'd call me an idiot, risking myself this much for a woman. I won't lie and say I'm not doing this because I want her to live, but even if I didn't want to, going back injured means death; it's all or nothing now.

He pushed open the hall doors and walked in, leaving them open. As he drew closer, he saw a silhouette at the far end.

[Deadly Poison progressing to Stage 2]

[DANGER!]

[Deadly Poison stat check...]

[Target CON stat too high]

[Target in a weakened state]

[Deadly Poison stat check succe—]

[Target has Poison Resist Magic Active]

[…]

[Kid, I am using my magic power to slow down the progression of this poison… but I'm getting sleepy, sorry… we’re… cooked. To think someone is going to kidnap me again after this… Ah right, I forgot to tell you… somehow, you are the only person who can hear me, I found this out at that Grandma's base, who somehow got roasted there, crazy… Anyway… this seems to be a farewell… but I will use the last of my mana to keep the Information Magic active, since you seem to like it so much… so I was also going to tell you—]

Going to tell?

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[New Passive Skill Acquired!]

[Iron Will]

Descripti—

Thud!

Crow collapsed to the ground, his vision starting to fade.

It seems the bleeding and the poison are about to finish me off... if I survive this... I'm going to find a way to become immune to poison.

"You came... I confess I thought you wouldn't." A young woman's voice.

He got up from the ground, still unable to see clearly, only spotting a silhouette ahead. "Yeah, I came, but I slipped up at the last second... and got stabbed in the back... anyway, rogues, you know how it is—cough..."

[Level Up!]

[Pain Resistance Level 1 > 2]

Getting closer to her, he was able to see that her eyes were already healed, or at least that's what it looked like since everything was too blurry to be sure. "Did you see any exit? Honestly, I can't even think; it must be the poison..." Still speaking, he drew his sword and used it to cut the ropes binding her.

This stuff is really tough, but still, this holding her back feels so forced.

"Yeah, I know what you're thinking... it doesn't make sense, right? Well, they used lavender among other things to poison me, they had some kind of needle... well, it doesn't matter anymore... Crow, are you okay? Your heartbeat sounds strange."

“Good question…” He freed her legs, and now moved to her hands, starting with the right one. She was sitting in a chair similar to a prisoner strapped into an electric chair for execution. "Can you... fight, Sharon? Honestly... I think I'm going to pass out in a few minutes..."

"Probably not... I have the strength of… no, probably half the strength of Sophia."

To think she said almost the exact same thing as Alice.

Crow started to laugh softly as he heard that. He had finished untying her right hand and moved to the left hand. "Cough... sorry." He ended up coughing up blood onto her. "Are you hurt? Honestly, I'm seeing everything blurry..."

She looked into his eyes, then lowered her head a little, her hair veiling her gaze. “...”

“Sharon?” He saw two gleaming points in the area of her mouth. Since everything was blurry, he didn't see her licking her lips where his blood had splashed when he coughed. He was almost done cutting the last rope made of some strange material, certainly anti-vampire when the yank came.

Hm?

(Next)

Previous / First

"W-what?" I couldn't help but blurt out as the cursed creature kneeled. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. This thing was the stuff of legends and nightmares, and here it was, laid low before our resident demon.

"Uhhhhh, yeah no problem buddy." Ted spoke up and stood awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the attention he's getting.

"WHAT?!?!?!???!?!?????" I couldn't help but shout as the absolute insanity of the scene kept hitting me in waves. As I shout, Ted whips his head around to look at me, the stare sending a shiver down my spine. It isn't like he's giving me any particular look other than surprise, but the speed at which he spun his head to look at me and his alien features are just unnerving.

"What? Flak what's wrong?" Ted seems concerned at my outburst, looking at Krok his face is painted with the same confusion and apprehension. It seems however, he is having a better time keeping his confusion to himself.

"I-I have no idea what to think about all of this. What in the hells is going on????? Why is the Woodsman of all things, literally KNEELING AT YOUR FEET???" As I shout out my confusion, the creature in question glances up at me with it's glowing amber pupils, and in a weak, wavering growl, it addresses me.

"Hrrnnnnggg- b-broke thrrrhhh- th-thee currrsseeeee-" It was my turn to whip my head around as the beast spoke in that unnerving voice. It speaks like it is unfamiliar with speech passing through it's wooden mouth. Once again a shiver slides down my spine causing the tip of my tail to twitch and sway nervously. Thankfully though, Ted takes the attention of the beast away from me.

"The curse? So that's what those threads were. Cutting that connection to whatever cursed you probably broke the hold on you." Ted glanced around at the beast, then Krok, then me. He looks nervous as we all just stand there looking shocked, even the beast somehow looks surprised. Ted quickly looked away as a bead of liquid slides off his forehead and he quickly stumbles over his words. "Uhm, I-It's just a theory! I can't be sure, but I mean what else could it be?"

The beast seems to look away in thought before it slowly nodded it's head, seemingly agreeing with Ted's assessment of the situation. Ted seemed to light up a bit at someone affirming his idea. I suppose it is the thing that makes the most sense to me at the moment. While I am able to use magic with some more ease than the average Kobold, I am by no stretch of the imagination a competent mage or wizard. I would not know for sure if Ted is correct or not, I barely know anything about curses. I mainly know the legend of the Woodsman, and I also know that curses are incredibly difficult, if not impossible, to break. Ted said so himself that he has never seen magic before today, yet he can wield it better than any magic trainee, and even better than most mages. I fear what he could do with even a little bit of practice and training, or does he even need to train? Ugh, I don't know, as far as I know he could actually be a real demon from myth and magic just comes to him as if he were made of it.

While I am distracted by this thought, out of the corner of my eye I see Ted move closer to the monster, reaching down to it. "Here bud, let me help you up. Must have been terrifying to be cursed like tha-" He barely manages to lift up the wooden creature before a booming, raspy voice shouts at him.

"NO!" I flinch at the sound and the glint of metal as Commander Krok expertly tosses a dagger from his belt at the monster, likely intending to separate the two, but a sickening crunch and a snarl emenates.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

I flinch at the sound of Krok shouting in his booming voice. His burns have left some rasp in his voice as he launches a knife in my direction. It's moving too fast, I cant stop it. Is Krok trying to kill me???

My thoughts are snapped away as the dagger finds purchase with a dull crack, but I never felt any impact or pain. Instead, realizing I have been squeezing my eyes shut in anticipation of the pain, I spot something that makes my eyes widen in surprise. Flak has his jaw hanging in silent shock at the scene, and the color drains from Krok's pale burned flesh and pale green scales. A wet snarl echoes from the wooden lizardman's chest as it seems that in a flash it had stepped in front of me as if to guard me from the blade. Said blade's hilt is sticking out from the wooden man's outstretched palm.

"Jesus H Christ on a bicycle! What the fuck are you doing Krok?! Are you trying to kill me?!" I shout incredulously at the man who seems to be recovering from the shock as he draws his own short sword. I thought he was supposed to be indebted to me for saving his life, is he switching up on me after my display?

"No Ted! I was aiming for the beast! Step away from it, you don't know if it isn't dangerous or not! I will not let this thing harm you!" Oh, well I guess that clears things up a bit, but that doesn't mean he should just go tossing knives around when he gets concerned for my safety! Before I can keep giving Krok a piece of my mind, the wooden man instead speaks up, struggling to form the right words in his mouth as he pulls the dagger from his hand.

"Hrrnnngh, y-youuu da-daree to bring hhharm to myyyy ssssavioorrr?! Then ack-accuse meee of being d-dangrous?!" It then snarls as it brandishes the blade that was just embedded in it's bark skin. The place where it yanked the blade out seems to be slowly gushing more amber fluid, as if it were blood. It's hard to tell if it's some kind of honey or even tree sap, it seems viscous enough to be either. Seeing the attempt to protect me as it holds it's free arm out as if to better protect me with it's body and the sight of the gushing wound it received in an attempt to protect me just pissed me off.

"Would you both just shut the hell up?!" I push past the wooden creature and stand between the two bipedal creatures trying to protect me in their own ways. Looking at the two it was clear my outburst had the desired effect, and then some. The wooden guy looks dejected, like I just kicked his puppy and then stomped on his heart, if he even has one. Krok seems more put together, but I can tell he feels a bit ashamed as I reprimand him. I sigh, Krok seems convinced that he has to stay with me until death and must guard me until his last breath, and the weird wooden lizard guy's first action after being freed from his curse was to act like a- well not a human shield and not a meat shield either considering he's made of plants, whatever, he tried protecting me and suffered a pretty nasty wound as a result.

"Ugh, sorry for yelling, but seriously Krok, don't throw knives in my general direction and then get surprised when I get upset. Look, he immediately jumped to protect me thinking my life was in danger, if he's dangerous, it shouldn't be to us." Turning to look at our sappy friend I notice he has perked up a bit at me standing up for him, but when his glowing amber pupils meet my eyes he shrinks slightly. "Right buddy?"

He nods in affirmation and opens his splintered maw to speak. "Y-yes! You are s-savior, you s-save me from t-the torture! I am y-yours a-and you are m-mine! N-no harm to y-you!" He tries to form what I can only assume is some kind of reassuring smile, but he doesn't make it far as his jaw creaks and groans from the unfamiliar expression. Ok then, looks like I have another weird lizard adjacent creature pledging it's life to me. Honestly though, when you get past the slightly uncanny appearance, he's kinda cute.

Krok speaks up though, and looking at him he seems less aggressive in his zeal to protect me, instead his face is painted with concern and apprehension. "I too am sworn to protect Ted with my life, if you can make me sure that your intent is to keep him safe, I suppose our goals should align." Looking back, the creature eyes Krok with caution as if he's sizing the lizard up. He then sighs, or rather something I can only assume is a sight as it sounds more like a breathy gurgle, and his shoulder's slump. He flips the knife that was embedded in his palm and holds the blade. He slowly strides to Krok and holds the handle out to him in a sort of gesture of good will. Krok seems reasonably perturbed but swallows his fear and accepts the blade back.

"Good, now that you boys are getting along, I must ask, what is your name?" I asked our wooden friend. I had only been referring to him as a creature or a beast, but he probably deserves better than that. He opens his mouth like he's going to answer, but he hesitates. His mouth closes as his face creaks while forming what I assume an expression that probably means he's thinking. The amber sparks that form his eyes flick about as if the environment would give him his answer before he just looked defeated. Looking back at me, he glumly opens his mouth again.

"I-I do not k-know... C-cursed for so long... forgot m-my own n-name." He seems distraught at this revelation, he raises his hands to his snout as he grips it in distress. Oh man, I really feel for the poor guy, surely there's something I could do. As more of that amber fluid begins to well up in the wooden knots forming his eye sockets and begins falling like tears, I get an idea.

"How about I name you? You deserve better than being called just, 'hey you' or 'creature'. Got anything you'd like to be called?" I reach up and use my thumb to wipe away one of the amber tears and ignore how unpleasantly sticky it is. He seems to beam at me... somehow... and begins chattering at me, his speech seems to be getting better as he talks, seemingly getting used to his odd morphology.

"Y-you would give m-me a name? Oh you are kind! Kind! I have no ideas w-what I could be called. But... I t-trust you. Please, name me." I am a little startled by the outburst, but I grin at his excitement.

"Well, I've never been too good at naming things but, hmmmm..." Looking around I try to conjure up a decent name for the strange little wooden man. Suddenly an idea pops into my head, it's a little corny but it is pretty fitting. "How about I name you Lief?"

He stops vibrating with excitement and gives me a stare. For a moment I worry that I said something wrong, it was probably insensitive naming him essentially leaf. But my worries melt away as he takes my hand in his rough bark-covered palms and looks up into my eyes. "I-I-it's perfect! Oh thank you! Thank you! Yes! Yes! Ohhhh I am forever yours! you have done so much for me!!!" I am a little uncomfortable at the sentiment of him wanting to die for me, but I won't talk him down, it might be the same kind of sense of duty that Krok has for me since I saved him.

I speak up in an attempt to break through Lief's jubilation. "Alright, well, we should probably keep moving. Considering how those scouts reacted to you, I'd say you've bought us some time from the folks hunting us. You don't have to follow us if you don't want to. You've gained your freedom, you can go out and live your life. I wouldn't blame yo-" I am cut off by Lief frantically trying to disagree with me.

"NO! NONONONO! Nonononono, I am yours! You are MINE! We go together! An enemy of yours is an enemy of mine! P-Please... I am yours. T-take me with you!" I flinched at his manic attempt at turning down my offer to go by himself. He's really making it sound like I own him now, and I REALLY don't want to own a person. I just sighed and signaled him to follow as I tried to get my other two party members to keep moving forward. But as Krok seemingly hesitates, he sheaths his sword and dagger and moves to keep up. Thinking of Flak I realize he's been silent this whole time. Looking over I can see why.

His jaw is hanging open while he just stares at us with wide eyes. I realize that he's been holding this face ever since Krok threw that dagger at me. I was getting concerned at this as he just kept holding the expression. "Uhhhhhh... hey Flak? Buddy? You doin alright?" He slowly moved out of his slack-jawed expression.

"What the fuck?!!?!"

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Author's Note: Heeeyyyyy guys! Well this one is a bit of a longer one. We now have a fourth party member in our weird kinda-merry band! I am going to keep developing this story and really see where things go. If I ever lock in and get motivated to draw I might try drawing our main cast so far, but no promises. Also I am not good at drawing anyway so, we will see what happens. I hope you readers like this new chapter and I hope to see you all in the next one. Let me know what you all think in the comments and I will see yall in the next one!

Edit: I also added a link to the first chapter in every chapter so far so that new readers don't have to dig through my entire account to start at the beginning. Hope yall enjoy ;).

I slithered my way out of the citadel, whose stone arches towered as its spires fingered the sky. As my tentacles waved to my fellow Girnobians, I felt myself ease into a state of deep rest. The world thrummed perfectly with the right notes. The air was warm, clear, and lacking in the humidity that so often clogged my pores. The sun offered warmth that soothed my scaled back, and all around me, everyone held to the same cheer that came with a good day.

"Bulpitot." I turned when I heard my name. I saw my fellow council member, Fuflion, standing with his tentacles hanging down to scratch the citadel floor. "What you're doing is a mistake."

I sighed. How easy it was for those who refused change to see danger in every act of evolution. "Not this again, Fuflion."

He slithered closer to me, his robes that were Conglian-made hanging free of his shoulders and dragging on the floor. He stood at the same height as me and eyed me with great disdain. "The humans are not to be trusted!"

"You refuse to allow them to prosper as other races have," I said. "It speaks poorly of your nature, Fuflion. Selfishness is unbecoming of one of your stature."

"It is not selfishness!" His voice was loud with rage. I paled as he drew terribly close. "I sent a probe to their planet."

"Earth?"

"Yes! The data I received, which I have shared with the council, points to their tendency to evolve faster than usual. They created a worldwide communication network mere decades after they crafted their first aerial flights. They do not evolve according to a system. They cannot be contained or colonized as we plan."

"All we're doing is giving them faster-than-light travel so they can witness the bounds of existence that are hidden from them. It's always our first step, as you very well know." I sighed. "Tell me, how did the Tiltians react to space travel? We granted them this, and you were against it because of their barbaric nature, but after just a mere century, they eased in their barbarity, becoming tethered to peace and fostering a pacifist lifestyle. When a sentient race is shown the ends of the universe, it humbles them and ensures that they value their lives more, which have been revealed to be quite small."

Fuflion abruptly gripped several of my tentacles, lowering them. "Your motions of joy are unwarranted," he said, stilling the motion of my tentacles. "What you've done, accepting humanity's claim to voyage the stars, will end in our doom."

"What do you think they can do? Wage war on us?" I pulled my tentacles free of his grip and laughed. "The apes bring no harm, Fuflion. They are just a means to an end. We feel good when we elevate other races more than when we destroy them."

"The extinction of the Biladi race shouldn't drive us to elevate the humans so as to make up for our guilt."

"That race had it coming, attempting to conquer the stars! To conquer us? Well, they got what they deserved, and the humans aren't joining our council. They are simply receiving a gift from us that will be the first step toward them serving our council. What good would our gift do them beyond moving from one solar system to another? You overestimate humans so much. Your fear is misplaced."

"And you underestimate those who are smaller than you. Blind you are to the technological advances humans already have made. They evolve not according to another species' will, but their own. Giving them space travel will rob us of our freedom and probably more."

"This is the citadel!" I shouted, causing heads to turn my way. I spread my tentacles wide and shifted my head to the sky. "This is the throne of the universe. It is here where decisions are made that alter the course of history. This is where dreams are born." I faced him. "Do not speak to me of a loss that will never come."

And with that, I turned away and made my way out of the citadel. Fuflion stood staring at my retreating back. He was a fool, stuck in foolish ways. He did not understand the value of addition, to grow and to expand as is our right. And the best way to do so is to give a gift and await a gift in turn. Humanity would prove useful, not as a relic, but as another species that owes us. Of this, I was sure.

---

Five decades later.

---

The skies dropped ash and debris as above, our best and final battleships fought and fell to the human advancement. We'd given them space travel, expecting them to bow to us and submit to our power. Instead, they'd altered it, changing the workings of the machines we'd given them. Instead of traveling from one point to another on a linear trajectory, their scientists had somehow found a way to make it fold space, appearing suddenly elsewhere without actually journeying there.

They'd traveled out of their galaxy to the distant reaches of the darkness of space, which we called Amegrada. There, they'd learned more, growing and consuming as they moved. On every planet, a human was found. In every reach of space, a human was found. They kept the secrets to their alterations of our devices. They created guns with our technology that can halve a planet, cracking its core into two.

I knelt on the ground of the crumbling citadel, staring as such a weapon ripped through our skies, blasting into our battleships hovering above the ground and rendering them to dust. This was war, a war that was foretold by those who'd been against humanity receiving our gift. We thought they could be tamed, that their ways could be grasped by us and worked on to benefit us in the long run.

But humanity was stubborn. They didn't conform to another's ideal. They went their own way, forging their own paths to places we never could reach nor think it was possible to reach. They refused colonization, and when our first battleship descended on their planet with the trumpets of war calling, we thought we'd win. Instead, we'd been annihilated, and humanity held a mean grudge, for now they tracked us. Everywhere we were, they came.

Suddenly, tentacles wrapped around my neck. I twisted and tangled with my fellow Girnobian, croaking as I was choked.

"I told you!" I could see the face of the one who strangled me. It was Fuflion. "I told you! Our extinction is on your head, Bulpitot! This is all on you!"

And he beat at my face, and my eyes rolled into my head. There were screams of the frightened and the dying. Our planet had fallen. Our race had lost. Fuflion had been right; the humans were dangerous.

"I'm sorry," I said to the sound of energy blasts above, with falling debris crashing all around us, flattening buildings and Girnobians alike. "I'm sorry!" I pleaded as Fuflion repeatedly beat at my face with his tentacles. "I'm sorry!" Those words held no meaning. In the face of this onslaught, they meant nothing. Fuflion screamed and continued his barrage, and I could tell he was crying as his tears mingled with my own. This was our end, and there was nothing we could do about it.

---

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Chapter Ten – Where Are We Flying

What Meva noticed first was Hutor. An Oberoi, captured, hunted, escaped — and aboard this ship apparently no one's prize, but someone Toriel talked to, as well as the translation allowed, someone she fed, whose wounds she tended, as if it cost her something if he didn't heal. Pirates, Meva thought, sold an escaped hunting animal, or put it on display, or simply left it behind if it brought in nothing. They didn't invest weeks in a language system just to listen to an Oberoi.

And then there was what was missing. She had seen the ship's few cargo holds, in the days she'd now been aboard, had crossed through them on the way to her own small chamber, and what she'd seen was: nothing. No crates full of plundered goods, no weapons locker built for more than self-defense, none of the signs of abundance she'd associated with pirates since she first heard of them. Only spare parts, real ones, as Toriel had claimed, and equipment that looked more like work than loot.

She finally asked, one evening, while Toriel checked instruments Meva couldn't name. "Where are we flying?"

"To Hesh," Toriel said, without looking up. "I have instructions for a few stops along the way."

"Hesh?" Meva had heard the word before, in the overseers' conversations, always in passing, always with an undertone shifting between respect and suspicion. "That's outside the empire. What do we want there?"

Toriel paused, looked at her directly for the first time in this conversation, with an expression Meva couldn't quite read. Not caution, more a kind of weighing amusement.

"Do you know the Hesh?" Meva asked further, because the silence told her more than any answer would. "Are they dangerous?"

Toriel laughed, brief, genuine, without the edge Meva had expected. "No more dangerous than the Merak."

It was not an answer. It was a dodge, elegant enough that Meva briefly didn't know whether to call it out as such, but clear enough that she understood: whatever this woman was, it wasn't what Meva had taken her for when she'd offered her knowledge in exchange for a place aboard. Pirates didn't have instructions. Pirates didn't have destinations with names one avoided explaining out of caution. Pirates didn't say things like no more dangerous than the Merak, with that undertone suggesting there was indeed something to fear, just not what Meva had asked about.

She asked no further question. Not because she was satisfied with the answer, but because she had learned that sometimes you found out more by waiting than by pressing.

---

Toriel's answer hadn't satisfied her, however much she tried to tell herself otherwise. In the following nights, when Toriel withdrew to her own chamber and Hutor rested in the small cargo hold left to him, Meva began searching the ship herself. Not out of suspicion alone, but out of the same habit she'd learned with Draeon: whoever wasn't allowed to ask had to look for herself.

She found nothing that fit a pirate. No weapons locker, no crates of loot, nothing that even remotely matched the stories she'd heard about such ships. Instead she found, in a small, unlocked compartment behind the navigation console, a bundle of data carriers labeled with symbols she couldn't read, and a terminal that, when she touched it carefully, displayed a series of encrypted messages — lines of characters that were no language she knew, but whose structure, the repetition of certain patterns, the way they were formatted, told her something she'd already suspected. This wasn't private correspondence. This was a reporting system, methodical, organized, with a regularity only an institution could have, not a single person.

"You shouldn't be there."

Toriel's voice, from the door, made her flinch, though it had sounded calm, almost too calm. Meva didn't turn at once, gave herself a moment before she did, to force her face into a calm she didn't quite feel.

When she turned, she saw it anyway: a shadow spreading across Toriel's cheeks and neck, a fine darkening of the mottling beneath her skin, which no Xoan showed willingly if they could avoid it. Meva didn't know what it meant, not exactly, but she knew enough about bodies betraying more than their owners wanted to recognize that she'd just seen something Toriel would rather have kept hidden.

"I didn't steal anything," she said finally.

"I didn't say you did." Toriel stepped closer, her gaze on the open terminal, her face giving nothing away of how much worry or how much indifference lay behind it. "You saw something that's none of your business anyway."

"Now I know you lied to me." Meva stood, slowly, without raising her hands, without signaling a threat, but without lowering her eyes either. "No pirate. No smuggler. This" — she gestured at the terminal — "looks like something someone writes for a government. For an army."

Toriel was silent, and in the silence Meva saw something in her she hadn't noticed before: a weariness that had nothing to do with the late hour, but with the weight of what she'd been carrying, for weeks already, without being able to say it aloud.

"Now you know enough," Toriel said finally.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I can give you." Toriel closed the compartment, with a firmness that allowed no further argument, but her voice wasn't hard as she went on. "I haven't fully lied to you, Meva. I just haven't told you everything. There's a difference, even if it might not seem worth much to you right now."

Meva looked at her, a long time, and thought of Draeon, of Ilvo, of all the times she herself had done exactly that. Not lied, just not said everything, because the whole truth would have been more dangerous than its absence. It was hard to condemn Toriel for it, when she carried the same coin in her own pocket, only minted differently.

"If you trust me," Meva said finally, "then at least tell me where this leads. Not everything. Just whether I have reason to be afraid."

Toriel looked at her a long time before answering, with an honesty more surprising than any evasion she could have chosen. "I don't know myself, not entirely, not yet," she said. "But I don't think any of us, you included, will still have the choice not to be afraid, in the months to come."

It was no comfort. But it was, for the first time, something that felt like the truth.

A Tomb of Reckoning

Part 4/4
By Emmanuel Ordway
_________________________________

I wasted no time getting us on the move. I had McClarey’s good arm draped over my shoulder as I helped him walk in his delirious state, Gonzalez watching our rear and the sensor, while I watched our front with a sidearm. We hobbled our way down many winding halls and intersecting corridors in near the once again blurry green world, pings ringing out from the sensor constantly as the statues seemed to be a consistent distance behind us. 

“All elements, this is fireteam alpha, we are making our way deeper into the ship in search of. . . anything. We are broadcasting our location via your motion sensors. There is hostile life on this ship that appears to be impervious to bullets, do not attempt to engage, I repeat, do not attempt to engage.” I pulled my hand away from my helmet.
“Should we really broadcast our location?” Gonzalez mumbled while marching backwards in the darkness, glancing between the device and the blurs further down the hallway.

“As if those things don’t know exactly where we are already?” I snapped back at the private while we walked.

“We’re on our way.” The grainy voice from the radio answered again, my hand reaching up and slamming down on the radio’s power button.

“Why didn’t you check the wall. . ?” Sergeant McClarey mumbled, his head lowered and swaying side to side with each step. 

“You saw what that thing did to Devi. Besides, we needed to move before any more of those things blocked off the other paths.” I shook my head, trying to jostle the glitches out of my NODs.

As we passed by a new doorway, I looked inside and saw more unmoved statues like the first room we had encountered, likely freshly waking up as we passed by given the new scraping sounds and pings from the device.

“Fuck,” Gonzalez growled under his breath as scythes reached through the doorway and one of the statues pulled itself through, lumbering its large body through the cramped halls. “These things ain’t even freezing up when I look at them, Swenti!” 

“I don’t know man! It worked on the two in the room I don’t know!” I growled back at him as the sergeant’s feet began to drag across the ground, causing the two of us to stumble forward onto the rigid floor.

McClarey groaned in pain as I jumped up quickly reaching down to hoist him back up to his feet before I noticed the trail of dark liquid behind us.

“Shit shit shit! Gonzalez he’s bleeding somewhere!” I rolled McClarey onto his back.

I pried the flashlight  off my rifle while flipping up my NODs to get a better look at the sergeant’s body, seeing his whole front soaked with blood that was a mixture of his and Devi’s. I tossed the flashlight down and pulled my knife from my belt, lifting up sections of his suit to stab into and saw at while Gonzalez kept watching the creature, its body still scraping across the ground and walls. Finally my hands reached McClarey’s suit near the pelvic region and found a deep gash in the fabric alongside his flesh, blood seeping out steadily as I ripped a bandage out from my belt to press against the wound.

“How we looking, Gonzalez?” I shouted out while pressing hard into the wound, receiving loud groans from McClarey.

“This motherfucker is not slowing down, we gotta move!” Gonzalez hooked the motion sensor onto his suit as it rang more and more, taking a shot at the statue which it brushed off.

“Dammit!” I hissed out while taking another bandage and packing it further into the wound, then taking anything extra McClarey had on him off so he’d be a bit lighter. 

I then pulled him up and over my shoulders, grunting and straining while continuing to march forward in the darkness. Just then a loud crash came from behind us as the statue was only a few feet back, one of its arms having missed a deadly swipe on Gonzalez and embedded itself into the wall. I looked back for a moment, barely able to see the statue in the light from my forgotten flashlight as it instantly froze in place from my gaze.

My eyes widened a bit in realization, a hint of hope reaching through my body as McClarey now felt a little lighter. 

“Turn on your flashlight! The NODs don’t work on them! You gotta use just your eyes!” I shouted out to Gonzalez while looking forward, flipping the light on which was attached to the sidearm.

Gonzalez activated the flashlight on his rifle, the beam piercing through the darkness behind us to show many reflective eyes glaring back as he pushed his own NODs up off his visor. 

“Fuck yes, Swenti! They’re staying back now!” He let out a choked laugh as the statues were remaining frozen until they were out of the beam's range and enveloped in darkness once more.

“Okay, next room we get to, I need to set him down and get him situated, oorah?” I panted out as we marched, finally feeling my nerves begin to smooth out, just a tad.

We walked for about another half hour before we reached another room, this one being large enough not to see any other connecting doorways with our flashlights or NODs. I grunted while carefully sliding McClarey off my shoulders and onto the ground, his breathing having grown far quieter and more spaced.

“Stay with me, sergeant. We’re safe now.” I mumbled while taking another look at the wound, pulling out a fresh bandage and pressing it into his flesh, applying proper pressure now.

“Oh fuck!” The sergeant groaned out as he reached up and gripped my wrist with his hand. “We ain’t safe, those things are coming for us!”

“Yes they are, and when they get here, we’ll show them why we get sent in to scary ass ships first huh? We’ll kill them all, the three of us, make it home and be legends huh? Maybe we’ll even get a cool ass alien-killing operator group named after us.” Gonzalez nodded to the sergeant as he searched through his own medical bag, pulling out a small container with a capped needle on the end.

“Should I use this shit?” Gonzalez whispered to me.

“I don’t know man, he’s in pain, anything otta be good for him.” I whispered back quickly.

“This’ll make you feel good, sergeant.” I whispered as Gonzalez used his shears to cut open the marine’s sleeve and administer the pain killers into him, McClarey noticeably relaxing after a few moments.

“Fuck, you know I’m trying to kick that shit boys. . .” The sergeant chuckled, earning a few from us two as Gonzalez unpacked a few of his gauze-wrapped bandages.

We remained silent for a few minutes, none of us wanting to break it as it felt somewhat like peace given the circumstances. Finally my heartbeat began to return to my ears when the three of us heard a distant scraping sound coming from the direction of the doorway, Gonzalez sighing and pointing his flashlight at the entrance, prepared for the statues.

“We got no idea where we are, don’t we?” McClarey grunted out as I shook my head slowly.

“No, sergeant. No we don’t.” 

“I’m holding you boys back, ain’t I?” The man wheezed a bit in his helmet, the scraping growing louder as a few pings rang out.

“Don’t worry about it, we’re not gonna leave you–”

“You need to, if you want to live. Devi’s already gone man, I couldn’t save him in time,” McClarey grumbled as his voice began to break. “But I can save you two, leave me here and keep moving boys.”

“Hell no, sergeant. We are not gonna leave you behind to be torn to shreds by these bastards.” Gonzalez spoke up for me, scythes emerging from the darkness for a moment before freezing in place.

“Damn you two are dumber than I thought, keep me around, we all die. Leave me–” The sergeant was cut off by a deafening sound coming from all around. 

My earmuffs kicked on to filter out the noise but even then the scraping dug deep into my eardrums as the room before us began to be illuminated by some dull light. As I looked up from McClarey, I caught the first statue a few feet from Gonzalez who was doubled over in pain, the creature having its arms raised prepared to cut him down. 

I crawled over to Gonzalez, pushing through the pain to grab one of his hands trying to cover the sides of his helmet and pull him further back from the statue as the room grew more and more illuminated. Once it was fully lit as if someone was beaming the sun directly into it, did the noise stop and we were able to communicate once more.

“Fucking hell! What was that?” Gonzalez shouted as he looked back at the statue, giving me the opportunity to look at our new and well-lit environment.

The room’s floor was made up of massive metal panels to which the ones closest to the surrounding walls had opened, exposing the sunlight directly into the ship. Massive etched symbols and images were on the surrounding walls and ceiling, mostly showing the depiction of whatever entity these statues were in the likeness of. I turned to face the furthest wall of the room, my eyes now resting on a hanging slab of black carapace stone, the slab dangling over an open pit that only led to the gas giant below us. On the face of this slab was a much more elaborate carving of the statues, this one easily ten times the size and more haunting, its carved body splayed out over the slab whilst the eyes appeared to be closed, like it was resting. Or dead.

I looked back at Gonzalez who was staring down the herd of statues which had poured out of the doorway, then to McClarey. I rushed over to the sergeant and pulled him further back, calling out to the other private.

“Walk backwards to the edge, Gonzalez! I have a plan!” A grin crept along my mouth as I dragged our sergeant.

The private nodded and carefully walked backwards towards me and McClarey, keeping eye contact with the statues as we were soon only a half panel away from the massive slab.

“Prep your suit for a dive while I put some patches on McClarey, we’re gonna jump.” I nodded to Gonzalez as he turned around to face me while I took over watch.

“Fuck I haven’t taken a dive since boot camp, man.” He began taking off all his unnecessary gear, pulling a small tube of oxygen off his belt and setting it on the ground.

I snatched up a blue marked bag that Gonzalez dropped, opening it to reveal thermal suit-patches I could apply to McClarey so he could dive into the vacuum of space as well, periodically glancing at the statues so they did not get to advance too much.

“What the hell is that thing?” Gonzalez finally looked up at the slab as he began to decompress his suit, shedding excess gases inside before he would vacuum seal it.

“I’m not sure, probably whatever these things are guarding,” I pressed a final thermal patch to the gash across McClarey’s pelvic region, pressing the small blue button on it as it began to melt with the rest of the suit before a loud series of beeps came from it. “This one’s faulty, pass me another.”

I reached up to Gonzalez while looking up at the statues, the closest ones now around fifteen feet away. When it took too long for Gonzalez to place another thermal patch in my hand, I glanced up at the marine, catching him staring down at me, motionless.

“He doesn’t have another one, dumbass. We only carry four. I had the other two on me.” McClarey coughed out as he forced himself to sit up and stare these statues down, setting his stump of a hand against his lower stomach.

“No no no, you’re lying!” I shouted while dumping the contents of my belt out on the panel beneath us, finding nothing useful. “I fucking killed you! I killed you.”

I groaned and planted the palms of my hands to my visor, wanting to tear through the statues to get back to the abandoned gear in the hallway.

“I told you two to leave me, now it looks like God’s made the choice for you.” The sergeant chuckled again while reaching up to his helmet, letting it depressurize for a moment before pulling it off his head, exposing short brown hair and a scarred up face.

“How are we going to do this. . ?” I placed my hands behind my head and paced a few feet back and forth, trying to think of a solution.

“I’m sorry, sergeant.” Gonzalez knelt down beside McClarey, looking out at the statues with him, the sergeant glancing at the private with a grin.

“You calling me a sorry sergeant? I ain’t sorry, I get to take a few of these assholes with me,” He pointed at the couple of grenades Gonzalez and I had shed off our belts. “Get your suit ready for a dive, Swenti.”

I tried to think up an argument, a solution that would make McClarey change his mind but I had nothing. Gonzalez walked behind me and began working, pulling off what was left and attaching the oxygen canister onto my thigh, my own hands reluctantly beginning to decompress my suit.

“How many you gonna take with you, sergeant?” Gonzalez set his hand on McClarey’s shoulder once I was ready for the dive.

“As many as possible, probably going to be one, maybe two. But you two better tell them I took them all, yeah?” He nodded with a bigger grin on his face.

“You and Devi. You two got them all, sergeant.” I patted the man’s shoulder firmly before turning to face the slab and the vacuum of space below.

Before either Gonzalez or I could even think about jumping, the slab before us made another deafening sound, this time for only a moment. It dropped out of the room and towards the gas giant with lightning speeds, flying further and further out of view.

“You think maybe it's a burial?” Gonzalez looked over to me, my visor looking at him.

“Maybe. Maybe.” Was all I could muster before turning around to see McClarey pulling the pins on our arc-grenades.

Gonzalez saw this too and took the jump first, falling further and further out of sight from the belly of the ship. Then I would take a final look back at sergeant McClarey, the man letting the pins to the grenades pop off and onto the black floor. He gave me a quick nod before turning to face the statues, my body moving further back to the edge on its own.

I closed my eyes for a moment while my body fell back over the edge, plummeting down in the ship’s artificial gravity before the feeling of weightlessness filled me. I opened my eyes once my stomach settled and looked up at the belly of the monolith I had just dropped out of grow further and further. I watched as a bright blue flash came from the closing panels of the belly, sealing away the bodies of my fellow marines.

And I watched as my oxygen eventually ran out and my world was consumed in the darkness I fought so hard to escape.

_________________________________

“How’s Gonzalez doing?” I cleared my throat into my hand gently before resting the palm against my knee again, glancing around the tight room.

The man in dark, business clothing before me kept jotting down notes in his book, looking down the bridge of his nose and through his glasses to see properly.

“Nothing has changed since our last meeting, Eric. Sergeant Gonzalez is still stationed on Europa, his team supposedly watching the monolith’s orbit.” The doctor nodded to the book, his eyes looking at me for a moment and taking note of my bouncing leg and tense form.

“If you do not mind me asking, why do you refuse to contact the man yourself? I’m sure he would like to hear from you personally.”

“No, no, I can’t do that. The dreams get worse whenever I think about reaching out,” I shake my head quickly, looking down to the carpet. “I bet he’s already got enough on his plate with the new breaching missions on that damn ship.”

The doctor set his pen in the book and closed it slowly, focusing his attention on my skittish form. 
“Perhaps he is. Tell me more about these dreams.” 
I let out a long sigh, my hand shooting into my coat’s breastpocket and fishing out a written statement, something I had been working on with the advice from this man to help get my thoughts out.

“I- uh- I wake up in the night, every night that is, at one and c-can’t move. I always see something before my bed, one of those things’ arms dragging along the bedsheets. I–” A few tears worked up into my eyes as I processed the next line, my hands gripping the sheet tightly. 

I winced at the shrill sound of one of the nurses outside rolling a wheelchair past the room, the wheels locking up for a moment and letting out a shrill ring that shook me to my core. I took a few deep breaths and brought my bloodshot eyes up to the doctor’s.

“I can’t stop hearing the scraping in the halls.”

[Chapter 5]

Children No More, Chapter 6

After several minutes of silence, Tungos turned back around. He began speaking as though nothing had happened.

“So. There are 5 peoples on planet Earth. 3 of you have come all the way beyond Uranus, beyond Pluto, beyond Nibiru, all the way to us.”

He looked at them expectantly, as though he wanted them to answer a question he hadn’t asked. 

“Will there be more? Will we be visited by herds of Pachy Sapiens? Packs of Canid Sapiens? Or will we spend another two millennia drifting out here alone?”

He tilted his head in a way that was both playful, and deadly serious.

Unnerved by the sudden change in tone, the spacers glanced at each other before answering cautiously. 

“The big ones have trouble with confined spaces, and the fast ones like to stay closer to home. They’re not as solitary as we are.”

Tungos looked at Tikichikee, but directed his question to Kraweerk.

“Is that so?”

The crowman nodded, then suddenly blurted out the questions chasing each other through his mind -

“What ARE you doing out here? You’ve been hiding in the shadow of Nibiru, orbiting the sun for….” he paused.

“2347 earth years. Give or take a month.” Tungos supplied helpfully.

“.... 2347 years. Why?” His voice filled with unexpected anger. “Why would you leave us?!?! Leave us to starve, and to war, and to die, and to….” his voice trailed off, his anger spent as suddenly as it had been birthed.

Stunned at the sudden rush of emotion and the accompanying awareness of just how far from home and everything they knew and understood, both crewmen froze and stared at the avatar before them. 

In another lightning shift of tone, Tungos answered the question gently, with none of the anger they expected after an attack.

“That is an excellent question, but it’s not one we can answer. What we can say is this - you have not been abandoned. Or, at least, that was not their intention.”

Without another word Tungos turned and took the few steps necessary to remount the pedestal. 

He reached out and activated a control panel - a panel the spacers had not noticed against the eye-catching panorama of space that made up the entire forward wall of the room. 

A few quick taps and Tungos stepped back. 

Kraweerk took a deep breath but, with his back still turned towards them, Tungos spoke first. 

“One moment, please.”

The tone was polite, but both crewmen knew a command when they heard one.  

They stood there, uncertainly, waiting for…. something.

The wait was only a few seconds. 

The ship - the TFN Xiaoxi Zaiti - began to hum. 

It wasn’t exactly an audible noise, but it wasn’t exactly not, either. 

After a few seconds of humming the ship suddenly “thrummed” - a bone-deep vibration that felt as though the massive ship was a guitar string that had been plucked.

Kraweerk clacked his beak rapidly and Tikichikee let out an involuntary hiss. 

Tungos turned around, smiled softly, and spoke in the soft tone they had come to both fear and love.

“Although we cannot answer your questions, those who can are on their way.”

Behind him, on the inconspicuous control panel, a single green light slowly blinked- on and off, on and off.

They reached the iron floor trap in the late afternoon.

Roman stopped at the edge of the Iron floor and studied it. The metal walkway was more than 20 meters wide. It was set into the ground, flush with the ground on either side. There was no way around it.

Small symbols were etched along its edges, pulsing with a faint blue glow.

V'rak stepped up beside Roman. "It's wider than I expected."

"How does it work?" S’ra asked.

Lirael tilted her head. "When activated, the bar carries a powerful electrical charge. Anything that steps on it is instantly incapacitated. The charge is designed to cause complete loss of motor control and is lethal."

Roman studied the walkway. "Can we go around it?"

"No, it goes all around the perimeter so we can’t walk around it."

"So we have to go through."

V'rak turned to the group. "How do we do that?"

No one answered.

They sat silent on the grass at the edge of the Iron floor, looking at the town beyond.

They were so close. And yet so far.

V'rak broke the silence. "A humanoid could pass through."

Roman turned to him. "What?"

" The outer layers of Humanoids are made of plastic. They're not conductive. The electricity wouldn't affect them."

Roman's brow furrowed. "Lirael?"

She shook her head. "The Iron floor fries anything that walks on it. That includes humanoids. The electrical charge is designed to affect all materials. Plastic would melt. Metal would conduct. The circuits inside a humanoid would be destroyed."

No one answered. Roman stood. He looked at the Iron floor and then he turned to the group.

"We rest first, maybe even until tomorrow. Eat. Hydrate. Let our bodies recover. "

Morning came slowly as the iron floor gleamed in the sunrise.

Roman sat near it, watching Mukit. His body ached. His mind churned. But he was calm.

He called the group together.

"Everyone," he said. "Humanoids too. Come here."

They gathered in a loose circle. V'rak and K'len sat close together. S'ra settled beside them. And Lirael stood with the humanoids.

Roman looked at each of them. "We need to get past that floor. I want ideas. No idea is too small. No idea is too stupid. Just talk."

S'ra spoke first. "We could build a tower. Something tall enough to jump over the floor."

Roman shook his head. "The guards would see us. And we'd need to go back to the forest to get it. That would take days."

V'rak considered. "What about covering it with grass? If we throw enough grass on it, maybe it would block the charge."

He stood and walked to the edge of the Iron floor. He gathered a handful of grass and tossed it onto the metal surface. It landed softly, scattered across the walkway. Nothing happened.

Roman watched. "It didn't fry."

Lirael stepped forward. "The grass doesn't conduct electricity. But it wouldn't protect us. The Iron floor has multiple sensors. It would still detect us and activate."

Roman looked at the group. His eyes moved across their faces. Then his gaze landed on one of the humanoids. A female. Her body was scarred and worn and her face was blank.

"What do you think?" Roman asked.

Everyone turned. The humanoid's eyes moved slowly, focusing on Roman.

"I do not have opinions," she said. "I follow orders."

Roman stood. He walked to her and looked her in the eyes. "I'm not giving you an order. I'm asking for your thoughts."

The humanoid stared at him.

"You've carried us. Watched over us. Pulled us from the river. You've earned the right to speak."

V'rak's body tightened. "Roman, what are you doing?"

"Giving her a voice."

The humanoid's face remained blank.

"I would offer myself as bait," she said. "I can walk onto the Iron floor. Test its limits. See if there is a weak point. If I survive, you follow. If I do not, you try something else."

Roman shook his head. "No."

The humanoid tilted her head. "Why not?"

"Because you've earned your right to survive." Roman looked at her, at all the humanoids, their scarred bodies and blank faces. "All of you. You carried our supplies. You carried us. You saved our lives. You are not expendable."

"We are machines," she said. "We were built to serve."

Roman returned to his position and continued staring at the iron floor.

K'len stood suddenly. "I have an idea."

Everyone turned.

"We dig a tunnel under the Iron floor."

Lirael's face shifted. "That's... that's actually a good idea."

K'len continued, his voice gaining strength. "The Iron floor is set into the ground. But it only goes a certain depth. If we dig beneath it, we can bypass the charge entirely."

Roman looked at the ground. The soil was soft. Loamy. Diggable.

"How deep?" he asked.

Lirael's eyes were distant, calculating. "I am not sure but its not that deep, I believe we can dig below it."

V'rak stared at K'len. His face broke into something Roman had never seen before. Pure, unguarded joy.

"You did it," V'rak said.

K'len hissed. "I just thought of it. That's all."

"That's everything." V'rak stepped forward and pulled K'len into a Trab hug. "I am so happy you're finally back."

Roman stood back and watched them celebrate, happy that they had found a good idea and that K’len, who was distant and unbothered since the bombing, had finally become active and helped them come up with the idea.

 First Previous Royal Road

Chapter 146: The Puppeteer and the Zealot

◈◈◈

✦ FIRST CHAPTER ✦ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ✦ NEXT CHAPTER ✦

The underground garden smelled of wet loam and crushed limestone. Along the cavern walls, clusters of pale moss and glowing fungi cast a cold, blue-white glow over the damp earth. At the center of the chamber, two blind fish traced endless, unhurried circles in a shallow pond.

Hierarch Malachar rested his pale hands against the armrests of his dark throne made of bones. The cavern offered a rare commodity: competence. The blind fish swam exactly as their fate dictated. The fungi process decay into light. Nothing down here possessed the capacity to scheme, and consequently, nothing down here possessed the capacity to fail him.

His cult, unfortunately, suffered from the fatal flaw of ego and free will. Over the past twenty-four hours, his leadership caste had butchered their assignments with spectacular, almost insulting efficiency.

They had been handed victory on a silver platter, and they had managed to drop it.

A Child of Silence knelt on the damp earth before the throne. The gray-robed assassin kept his head bowed perfectly level with his knees. He radiated no aura, displaced no air, and offered no pretense of humanity.

He was just a tool awaiting application.

"Report," Malachar said. His voice barely rose above a whisper, yet the echoes in the cavern carried the syllables with absolute clarity.

"The outer perimeter has collapsed, Lord Throne," the assassin stated. "Outposts C1, C2, C3, and C19 have been purged by the enemy following our reclamation. Furthermore, Hand Vakan barely survived a failed gamble. Icas Vasht is confirmed dead. Eight favored ones have been slain by the Star Killer and the crimson-eyed doorman."

Malachar processed the casualty data. Eight Underlords. One Lord and One Hand are out of order. A catastrophic depletion of high-tier assets.

He felt no rage. Rage was a mortal indulgence, a flaw that clouded the purity of the Great Work. Instead, he felt a cold fascination.

He had already witnessed the butchery through his scrying sphere. He had watched Salvatore Silvers, the supposed crippled remnant of an Overlord—who still possessed more flames than what was expected of him—dismantle his elites.

The loss of the assets was an acceptable variable in warfare. What grated on Malachar’s nerves was the sheer, staggering arrogance of their deaths. Hand Vakan and Icas Vasht had spent twenty-four hours chasing a target that clearly desired pursuit. They had hunted a ghost through their own territory, congratulating themselves on springing a trap right up until the exact moment the prey locked the cage from the inside.

The survivors of the Bastion were no longer cowering behind their walls. They were actively culling his herd.

Malachar mentally reviewed the recent spike in essence signatures he felt from one of his outposts. A hundred untalented mortals, stringing their pathetic reserves together to chain a single, unified sorcery. It was an insult to the natural hierarchy of power. A termite chewing through the foundation of a divine temple.

"Withdraw the remaining forces from all perimeter positions," Malachar ordered. He shifted his weight, the blackened bones of his throne creaking under the slight movement. "Consolidate at the inner rings. Fortify the Tier 7 Convergence nodes. We will not squander more blood on meaningless skirmishes."

The Child of Silence remained perfectly still, the damp earth soaking into the knees of his gray robes. "And the Bastion's encroaching forces, Lord Throne?"

"Let them push inward," Malachar said. "The Convergence sequence is our singular priority. I will not tolerate further delays simply because my misguided flock insists on throwing themselves onto enemy blades."

He tapped a single, corpse-pale finger against his armrest. The sharp click of bone on bone echoed across the pond, causing the two blind fish to scatter into the darker water.

"Go to the aberrant alchemist. Inform Hand Vella that the observational testing period has concluded. She is to open her vaults and empty the menagerie."

The Child of Silence bowed lower, his forehead brushing the wet soil. A heartbeat later, he was gone. No spatial tear, no sudden rush of displaced air. Just the abrupt, sterile absence of a person.

Malachar remained on his throne for a time, watching his fishes.

The white fish swallowed a floating pellet of feed with a quiet plip. Below it, the black fish traced a lazy circle in the dark water.

Malachar stood. The heavy fabric of his robes dragged across the damp moss. He left the quiet sanctuary of the pond, walking into the far alcove of the cavern where the glowing fungi failed to take root.

Thick iron chains descended from the ceiling. Decades of damp air had welded the rusted metal directly into the limestone. Suspended at chest height within the iron links hung a mass of dark, glistening flesh. It was roughly the size of a man curled in on himself.

As Malachar approached, the meat expanded and contracted with a heavy, wet squelch.

This was the nascent seed of the Convergence. The engine driving his entire great work.

He stepped within arm's reach of the suspended mass and pressed his palm flat against the slick membrane. The tissue radiated a feverish heat, vibrating against his skin.

Malachar shifted his vocal cords. Flesh and cartilage reshaped internally without a sound. When he spoke, the scraping ancient was gone, and in its place the voice that emerged was a rich, warm baritone. It carried the heavy, undeniable texture of a proud father.

The kind of voice that made mortals desperately want to earn its approval.

"Withdraw, my son," Malachar murmured. He traced the pad of his thumb over a swollen, pulsing vein near the surface of the mass. "Consolidate our remaining forces. The Bastion pushes outward, blind to the underlying architecture of this conflict. Cease squandering our assets on territory that has already served its purpose."

The heart pulsed faster under his hand.

He wiped a smear of viscous fluid from his hand using the inside of his sleeve.

Turning away from the suspended meat, he retraced his steps to the edge of the shallow water.

The Great Work will proceed as planned. 

◈◈◈

Deep inside the Sanctum of the Cathedral Ward, Favored One Xerxes stood before a towering containment cylinder, his hands clasped behind his back. The heavy, thrumming vibration of the healing array made him nauseated.

He pressed a gaunt hand against the cold glass. Inside the pressurized tank, suspended in thick, bubbling dark blood, floated the ruined meat and bone that belonged to their leader, Vakan.

Waste.

The thought coiled in Xerxes' mind, sharp and venomous. They were pumping the Darkened One's most precious, concentrated essence into a failing vessel. The lower ranks trembled at Vakan’s name, terrified of the man's oppressive aura, but Xerxes felt only disgust. He knew the truth. Vakan was a politician wearing a zealot's robes. The man was completely deaf to the Lord's whispers, viewing him merely as a stepping stone for his own authority.

"Parasite," Xerxes rasped.

He struck the thick glass with his knuckles. The dull thud reverberated through the liquid. He desperately wanted to sever the essence feeds. To let the pretender choke on the sacred blood he didn't deserve. An Order V Lord wouldn't die immediately—his Spark would fight the suffocation for years—but the rot would claim him eventually.

Xerxes pulled his hand back, forcing his erratic breathing to slow. Devotion to his lord required discipline. Vakan, broken as he was, remained an Order V asset. They would need a Lord-ranked shield to weather the coming slaughter.

Command of the cult had defaulted to Xerxes in Vakan's absence. His first act had been cracking the seals on the Hand's private chambers to seize the intelligence Vakan so jealously hoarded.

Xerxes moved to the desk and dragged a scarred finger down a stack of transcripts.

"Pathetic," he murmured to the empty room. "The greatest flock of the Darkened One, reduced to cowering cattle by the incompetence of a few."

The reports, especially the casualty one, were staggering. Most of the reports pointed entirely to two anomalies: Starkiller and the Doorman.

These two individual were slaughtering their way through the perimeter outposts.

They posed a terminal threat to the ritual's apex. The Hierarch and his inner circle possessed the raw power to crush them, but the Hierarch was entirely consumed by the Convergence preparations and his own goals.

Xerxes needed a diversion. He needed to manipulate the board, to herd Starkiller and the Doorman directly into the path of the two-faced hypocrites' flock of the Hierarch. Let the false faithful of the city grind themselves to dust against those monsters. The Darkened One would feast on the resulting carnage regardless of who died.

Xerxes stepped away from the desk, pausing before Vakan’s massive scrying mirror. Deprived of its master’s essence, the artifact was dormant, reduced to ordinary silvered glass.

He stared at his reflection and let out a dry, rattling laugh. He had draped one of Vakan’s opulent, velvet-lined robes over his shoulders to signify his new authority. It felt ridiculously heavy. Beneath the expensive fabric, Xerxes wore his traditional, unadorned black garb, hanging loosely off a frame whittled down to wire and muscle from years of fanatical fasting. Where his skin was visible, it was a roadmap of jagged scar tissue—half from surviving enemy blades, the other half willingly carved in devotion to his Lord.

Heavy bootfalls hammered against the stone stairs outside the chamber.

Xerxes felt the fluctuating, panicked aura before the man even reached the threshold. He clicked his tongue in irritation. Another one from the Vasht clan. Another one of Vakan's weak-blooded sycophants.

"Xerxes!"

Boros Vasht shoved the heavy oak doors inward. The man's plate armor was streaked with grey ash and fresh gore from the outer wards. The coal-red manifestation of his Lord's Flame sputtered erratically at his shoulders, bleeding fear into the room's atmosphere.

Xerxes turned slowly. He kept his expression entirely devoid of the panic radiating from the newcomer.

"Brother Boros," Xerxes corrected, his voice a soft, raspy whisper that cut cleanly through the ringing echoes of the door. "Please. I am not a grasping bootlicker like the meat floating in that tank."

He tilted his head, studying the erratic spikes in Boros's essence signature with glee. "Your aura is bleeding terror across my floor. Tell me what happened that has you so agitated."

"The perimeter is collapsing!" Boros grated, his heavy plate armor clanking as he shifted his weight. "Without Lord Vakan and Lord Icas dead, the Initiates are breaking down. The Bastion forces just mobilized a major push. We need to counter-attack."

Xerxes tilted his head, his black eyes fixing on the larger man. "A counter-attack." He let the words hang in the air, examining them like a spoiled piece of meat.

"We are the Vanguard of the Darkened One," Boros insisted, the coal-red flames at his shoulders surging with agitated heat. "We do not cower while Bastion rats steal our sacred ground. We push outward and crush them."

"You intend to feed more of the faithful to the Star Killer," Xerxes stated. "You watched eight Underlords butcher themselves on their own arrogance in a single night. And your solution is to march more of the faithful onto his sword."

Boros's jaw tightened. The ambient temperature in the room spiked as his Lord's Flame flared, painting the stone walls in harsh crimson light. He dropped his center of gravity, a hand drifting toward his weapon. "I am the senior Favored One currently standing. I am giving you a direct—"

Xerxes didn't bother drawing a weapon. He raised his right hand and pressed two gaunt fingers directly into the jagged ritual scar carved over his own chest. He dug his nails deep into the scar tissue until thick, corrupted blood welled to the surface.

Boros choked.

The massive warrior’s hands snapped up to claw at his own throat. The intimidating red flames at his shoulders guttered and died with a pathetic hiss. Xerxes channeled the Lord's blessing through the open wound on his chest, seizing the corrupted essence flowing through Boros's veins.

He made the man's blood boil.

Boros collapsed, his heavy armor cracking against the masonry. Xerxes looked down at the thrashing man and felt absolutely nothing.

"You actually believe the Lord cares about your pride," Xerxes rasped. He stepped neatly over the convulsing warrior. "You treat his mission like a tavern brawl. A chance to prove your meager strength."

Boros seized violently, his chest heaving as blood flooded his lungs, before going completely limp.

"Worry not, Brother Boros. You will survive the experience," Xerxes said to the unconscious meat on the floor. He wiped his bloody fingers on the edge of Vakan's velvet mantle and walked toward the chamber's balcony, the heavy fabric dragging behind him.

He was halfway there when the whispers reached him.

« Withdraw, my son. »

The baritone voice vibrated through the marrow of his bones, rich and dripping with absolute authority.

« Consolidate our remaining forces. Do not let my children squander their lives on territory that has already served its purpose. »

Xerxes forgot how to breathe. Thick, viscous black tears welled in his eyes and spilled over his scarred cheeks, burning the skin. He slammed his forehead into the stone floor, desperate to show reverence.

His lord was telling him exactly what needed to be done. He was no longer a lost sheep.

"I hear you, my Lord," Xerxes wept, his blood-stained fingernails digging into the mortar of the stairs. "I am your vessel. Your will shall be done."

◈◈◈

Far above, the Cathedral Ward was undoubtedly steeped in the smell of boiling blood and panic.

Down in the garden, the air tasted only of wet limestone and damp moss. Malachar settled back into his bone throne beside the shallow pond, resting his translucent hands in his lap. He withdrew his awareness from the heavy, oppressive connection he had just forced into the Underlord's mind.

Xerxes had folded exactly as calculated.

"Such is the nature of mankind: each believes himself the wisest soul beneath the heavens until fate acquaints them with their ignorance.” He said.

The new acting leader would execute the withdrawal, entirely convinced the shift was a matter of divine providence. With the Vanguard pulled back and repurposed as a physical barricade, the Tier 7 Convergence nodes were completely insulated from the Bastion's strike teams. The ritual sequence would trigger precisely on schedule.

A faint, dry smile stretched the skin tight across Malachar's face.

His thoughts shifted outward, toward the Bastion. The surviving mortals had proven to be a surprisingly resilient infestation, but the sheer scale of the fate variance rippling from their position was fascinating.

The board had fundamentally changed the moment that one piece escaped the primes’ design.

“But who would go against the dominant gods of Eldamar?” He sighed.

Whoever this person was, he needed to isolate that specific entity. To sit down and have a conversation with its head.

Malachar pinched a compressed pellet of feed between his pale fingers and let it drop.

The white fish broke the surface tension with a quiet plip, swallowing the morsel whole.

The Great Work proceeded.

✦ FIRST CHAPTER ✦ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ✦ NEXT CHAPTER ✦

◈◈◈

A/N: A little bit on what's happening on the cult side. This is Day 7(close to midnight for the chapter) of the 18 days deadline before the final battle.

Bau Bau~

Guys I was bragging to Mom on how I have little savings(all thanks to you guys with the patreon) and I wanna get PS5 for you know a certain game dropping. She legit for like first time in months Let's go out to a mall and I didn't thought much of it untill she made me pay for everything. TwT Never brag guys...

Psst~ Psst~ Advanced chapters are already up on patreon. It would be awesome if you guys, you know...

Help me with rent and UNI is crazy expensive!! Not want much, just enough to chip in.

✦ DISCORD ✦ PATREON ✦ 

First / Previous / Next

“What do you mean, where is Earth?” Charon said, taken aback. “Can’t you just navigate there?”

“Until you showed up, I thought it was a legend.”

“But,” Charon said weakly, “You travel in space, you can just link there.”

Cha-ren looked up suddenly, “We are in space, yes?”

Gallie nodded, “We are. We are currently en route to the Gate so that we can go to our home system.”

“Gate? Humans don’t use the Gates. They use their wormhole generator,” Cha-ren said, her ears flat.

“Another legendary thing,” Gallie gasped. “We found selected texts that mentioned linking from one location to another though a wormhole, but we have been unable to piece together what they meant. Some of our historians thought they had found entertainment media by mistake. You’re telling me that humanity could travel from system to system without using the Gates?”

“We didn’t know the Gates even existed until we were in space for thousands of years,” Charon said cautiously. “The Gates were discovered when we met the K’laxi and Xenni for the first time. We actually learned about them all at once.”

“We had always thought that the K’laxi had been with humanity for far longer than that, perhaps even before spaceflight.”

“…Why did you think that?” Cha-ren asked, her left ear twitching. Charon felt her tail wrap around his leg and squeeze gently.

Gallie gestured towards them, “You two are in a relationship? We had figured that was common. Two species exploring and flourishing in a lost golden age.”

“Hah,” Cha-ren snorted. “It was hardly golden. There were troubles, and issues and small minded people, and wars; the same as now I imagine. We weren’t something special back then, just people.”

“Perhaps,” Gallie said and made a gesture Cha-ren and Charon didn’t recognize, brushing the top of her left hand with her right. “You can talk to the historians later if you’d like. For now, we need to know how to get to Earth.”

“Why?” Charon said. When he did, Cha-ren squeezed his leg with her tail tighter. She felt the same way that he did, something was off.

“We wish to be reunited with our long lost brethren. We wish to reconnect the planets scattered among the stars and be one again.”

“You thought Earth was legendary just a moment ago, and now you want to go there?” Cha-ren asked.

“Did you or did you not visit Earth yourself?” Gallie said.

“I have given you no indication that I am being truthful,” Charon said, crossing his arms. “You are taking me at my word and are - seemingly - planning a visit to reconnect the planets scattered among the stars?”

“How many star systems are you in contact with, right now?” Cha-ren asked.

“Three.” Gallie said proudly. “We have translated three glyphs on the addressing stones in the Gates and can now visit those systems. One of which contains a settled system!”

“And the other two?”

“One was the system we found you in, and the other contains a planet that is ready for colonization.”

“So it’s empty?”

“Currently, but we are planning colonization.”

“So you’re in contact with one other system. How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long have you been in contact?” Cha-ren said. Getting a straight answer out of Gallie was proving to be frustrating. It might be issues with the translation, but they couldn’t help but feel that Gallie was being evasive. Still, they couldn’t afford to annoy her too much, she was the closest thing to a leader that they had found so far.

“Almost two years.”

“I…see,” Charon said. “Do you have the rest of the ship that we were aboard when you found us? That will be a trove of information that would be very useful to you.”

“We did, until the treacherous Brennians stole it from us.”

“And the Brennians are the other system,” Cha-ren said, her ears flat.

“That’s right. We got into a firefight over the rights to the hulk you were found on.”

“If that’s the case, how did you get us?”

“We managed to get you aboard our ship before the shooting started,” Gallie said, but she wasn’t looking at Cha-ren when she said it.

“Wait,” Cha-ren said. “What do you mean you translated the glyphs? That’s not how it works. When we discovered a new Gate we would simply touch the addressing stone in the Gate, and we would know which glyphs led where.”

“How did that work?” Gallie said, giving Cha her full attention.

“I don’t know the specifics, I am - was - a reactor engineer like Charon, but I had friends who were navigators and they said you just touched the stone and-” She shrugged, “-you knew where to go.”

“Addressing stone?”

“The obelisk that is in the little room attached to all Gates?”

“In the Gates that we have discovered, that room contains the obelisk yes, but it’s just inert stone. Carved in relief are glyphs. We’ve spent decades trying to puzzle them out.”

Charon could feel Cha shiver more. “It’s not supposed to work that way.”

“And yet,” Gallie said as she brushed the tops of her hands again. “We are diverging. How do we get to Earth? What is the glyph for the birth system?”

“There…isn’t one,” Charon said. “Earth never had a Gate. Like I said, we only learned about them when we first met the K’laxi.”

“No Gate? How did you traverse the stars?”

“At first we traveled relativistically in Starjumpers, and once the wormhole generator was developed we used that to link locations.” Charon cocked his head. “This…isn’t a test? You really don’t know this?”

“So much had been lost,” was all Gallie said.

“Earlier you said the first flourishing,” Cha-ren said. “How many flourishings have there been?”

“We’re not sure. Some posit that there might have been as many as six or as few as two.”

“And a flourishing is?”

“A period when the people of the galaxy rise from their planets and come together in peace and extend the borders of the known. Now it is my turn to ask if you’re giving me a test. We learn these things when we are young.” She said.

“I promise, we have never heard of this. And then after the flourishing, there’s a fall?”

She nodded. “Yes, usually a few thousand years after a flourishing begins, it ends.”

“How?”

“Those records are destroyed,” Gallie smiled without humor. “We have no idea what causes a flourishing to fail. War, disease, outside interference, any number of catastrophes.” She stood and held out her hand. “Come. We’ve discussed the past enough, it is time to discuss our future.”

Gallie led them to a small room that had six people already in there waiting. They were dressed in a similar manner to Gallie and Charon assumed they were some kind of command for the ship they were on.

“You came from Sol.” One of them said, it was not a question. His voice came from Gallie’s translator, but it spoke in a different voice. How did it know? Charon wondered.

“I did,” Charon said. “I grew up on Hyacinth, Cha-ren did not.”

A few of the people in the room raised eyebrows in surprise. “Where did you come from then?” He said, turning to Cha.

“I was born and raised on K’lax, our birth-world.” Cha-ren said and her ears flicked. “If you use the Gates, then you should know this. Our world has a Gate in its system, we can go there now.”

“Do you know the glyph?” A woman said. She was wearing the same uniform as Gallie. “Can you take us there?” As soon as Cha mentioned the glyphs, she focused on her with a laser intensity.

“I am not a navigator, but I have seen it before. I-I wouldn’t be able to give you certainty, but I could see which ones look familiar to me.”

“That’s more than we’ve ever had,” the woman said, standing. “Come to me when you’re able. My name is Metanium, I am the current navigator.” Metanium walked out of the room without another word.

“Do you know how to reach Sol?” The first one to speak said.

“I do not; our ship, Hummingbird was the one that handled the wormhole links. They would know how to get to Earth.” Charon said.

Cha-ren’s tail swished as she spoke, “We were aboard Hummingbird when we entered hibernation, Gallie said you do not have the ship?”

“We do not. It was taken by the Brennians.”

“The people who live in the other star system,” Gallie added.

“I remember. Why did they take it?”

“They are trying to steal from us and take the lead in technology rediscovery,” Gallie said frowning. “If you can take us to Earth, we can pull ahead.” When she spoke a few of the assembled people nodded along, but Charon noticed that one or two were presenting carefully neutral expressions.

“Why? What’s on Earth?” Charon said.

“So much lost wealth. Lost technology. Lost information,” Gallie said, her eyes unfocusing. “If we make it to Earth, we can start a new Flourishing, we can lead the way, we will be the ones at the vanguard.”

“I…see,” Charon said.

“Help us to realize our goal, and you will rise with us.”

“We’ll do what we can, but-”

“This is not a request,” Gallie said, her eyes suddenly focusing on Cha-ren and Charon. “You will help us. You have come at an opportune time and we will not squander this.”

The others in the room stood and inclined their heads very slightly. “We look forward to your knowledge,” One said, and they all filed out.

“Come,” Gallie said. “I will take you back to your room. We’re three days out from home. Once there you can show us how to return to Earth and we can begin the Flourishing.”

Gallie showed them how to summon a steward to ask for food and explained the cleanser, though for modesty’s sake, she did not demonstrate. She gave them a pad and with effort, was able to have it render things in their language, though she emphasized that they should begin language lessons immediately.

“What about the translator you wear?”

“This is one of five we have, and the only one aboard. We are fortunate that it understands your language; we have no way to make any more.”

“Is that why everyone was speaking through it?”

“Correct. Anyone in the room with me can speak and will be understood. Is there anything else you need?”

“Uh, no, thank you.” Cha-ren said.

Gallie opened her mouth as if to say something more, then shut it, nodded once, and walked out.

“So, uh-” Charon started and then Cha-ren put her hand over this mouth. She put her finger to her lips, the human gesture to be quiet.

“Do you know suit sign?” She signed.

“I learned a bit in school,” Charon signed back awkwardly.

“We are not safe,” She signed.

“I agree.”

“We should escape.”

“But where? How?” Charon signed. He wasn’t speaking any faster, but as he used it, memories flooded back from when he studied it in school. Lessons 28,000 years in the past now.

“Don’t know. Find Hummingbird.”

“How?”

“Don’t know,” Cha-ren’s frustration was evident even while signing. Charon could see her face tense and her shoulders tighten as her hands moved faster and more stiffly, He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into a hug.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispered.

“I know,” Cha-ren sighed. “The only way out-”

“-is through,” Charon completed with a smile.

They summoned a steward and received an evening meal. After, Charon tried the cleanser and came out spotless, smelling slightly of mint and looking utterly haunted. Cha-ren was sure his hair had a few new streaks of grey in it.

“How was it?” Cha-ren asked, trying not to smile.

“It was…intense.” He said.

Cha-ren tried it next and came out with all of her fur standing straight. This time Charon suppressed a laugh, but he found a brush, and sat behind her, brushing her fur until it was soft and glossy again. They had sex, and after laid holding each other until they drifted off to sleep.

****

“Do you know that sign language they used?” Gallie asked the woman standing next to her as they both peered at the screen showing the sleeping forms of Charon and Cha-ren. The woman turned away, embarrassed while they were having sex, but Gallie stared the entire time, fascinated.

“No, Director, it does not match any sign language we have on file.”

“They do not believe in the truth of our mission as we do.”

“That is not for me to say, Director.”

“Trust me, it is true.”

“Yes, Director.”

“Together, they will present…difficulty.”

“Is that wise, Director? Our cause is just, can we not ju-”

“Are you Director, Wennen?” Gallie said, sharply.

“No, Director.”

“Metanium will solve this for us. Those two know more than they are admitting, and she will get the truth from them.”

“Yes, Director.”

​

"Number…oh, no number;" she was told in surprise when she applied for her medimagery which came as quite a shock as she had been told by her GMP it would be a routine magimedical procedure. Her insurance, apparently, thought otherwise, and so she found herself spending the rest of the day on the phone with EverAfter^TM trying to argue her case. She didn't want to invoke the details from court, but by the end of the call, there she was, summoning up a fairy godmother to get a notarized copy of the specifics over to them.

She called her lawyer the next day.

“Look, babe - sorry - she's invoked some old-ass royal law. Defamation of the crown. Honestly, I shouldn't even be talking to you,” and then a blip of smoke as he vanished and promptly stopped talking to her.

She gazed up the hill as she paced about her studio apartment, seething, pissed, plain old angry, and also scared. What else could the new queen now do?

She found out the next day - perhaps more shocking than the absurdities were how swift they came. First came her MagicMoments dating account, bloated with MagicMoments of her hunting unicorns, each one beautifully immersive and regressive and reviling. For weeks, she was inundated with requests from huntsmen.

Then came a viral post, another hack, where she watched herself celebrating the evil queen in a distant country. She didn't even know a thing about cauldrons, but there she was, supportive of a regime aggressively using them.

After that, she deleted everything, accounts scourged, which is when her mother was vanished. 

“She's basically your mother, too,” she found herself arguing one day to the leader of the magical worlds and realized how absurd the situation was. “I also lived through her…herness, but it's a thin reason for execution. She didn't get me, either.”

Her mother was released, and for a brief moment she thought she had bonded, had connected, but then their next call opened with “Brother,” and a demand for attention as if everything they discussed had been forgotten and shoveled away.

No, she suddenly one day realized, as light slanted down peaceful and hopeful and golden twilit.

“No,” she insisted that day.

“I need to fight. I can't just let this bitch punish me. I can't just let her story be the only one that's told. I can't just let Cinderella be fucking Cinderella.”

She realized she didn't have to be the ugly stepsister anymore.