I awoke to a rubbing noise, a fibrous scraping sound. At first, I was only a set of ears, but just as suddenly as the first sense had came, I had begun to feel the twists and bends that were creating the sound. They were nothings, at first. My long, thin, flat body was being rolled into a stockier torso, and soon after that, there were limbs. Weak, flimsy limbs. And just as I was aware of a head being rolled, I began to see. Not well. But I could.
A mass of shapes, moving without reason, shifting, nauseating. But I did not react, for I still couldn't move. Then, there was a strange, rhythmic sound, like a resonance being funneled out in waves. I couldn't understand it at first. But then it said:
"Joey."
A few too many things happened at once. First, the shapes started to make sense. I was staring straight forward at a face, the face of a young girl with long black hair. Her eyes were hazel, her skin was dark, her hands were small and dainty, and the right one was wrapped around my body. My body, then, began to be malleable. I could move it, albeit very slowly. That same scraping sound accompanied every bend of my arm, or kick of my feet, or turning of my head. I began to know things, as well.
My name was Joey.
And she…
"I am Martí."
…was the one I answered to.
She whisked me towards an enclosure with a fence made out of toothpicks, where others like me resided. On instinct, I knew their names at once. Though they all looked roughly the same, their identities were clear to me. I saw Billy, Richie, Jamie, Tommy, Perry, Carey, Charlie, Ellie, Milly, Moxie, Roxie, and others. We were a veritable troupe, and we all looked at each other without any need for curiosity. We knew we were a team, we knew we answered to Martí. That was all we needed to know. Patiently, we waited.
Master made more of us, each with a similarly fashioned name, until our numbers were in the dozens. We moved only to keep her within our sight, to await instruction. When new members entered our ranks, they were regarded with the familiarity we knew and felt. No introduction was needed. No greeting. We were already one with one another. Extensions of the same whole.
Once she seemed satisfied with our numbers, she stood over us. We each gazed up at her, simply waiting. She pointed a finger, at who we did not know, and waved it. We followed religiously, our heads turning to keep up with her more and more extravagant motions, but no order came. She giggled.
Master was happy. That was good.
When she spoke, we did not hear words. Intentions, however, were clear.
"I am leaving," Master explained. "Stay here."
She left the room, and we did as we were instructed. Though she left a lamp on near us, the majority of the room was dark. It was not in my nature to be curious, but in the absence of an active task, I took in my surroundings. Not everything was familiar to me, but some objects were immediately clear. The bed, for one, was recognizable without any further thought. Its four posts and large mattress were dead giveaways. There was a small, black, rectangular object sitting at its center that I could not make out, with a long cord leading from it into a box installed in the wall. Beneath the box in the wall was a face, two rectangular eyes and one frowning mouth. Possibly a ward. On the other end of the room, there were another two faces of the same type.
There was a chandelier overhead, but I could not make out any candles. Instead, there were glass balls with small wrappings of what looked like string. I did not feel any particular need to discover its workings. If it made light, it was a chandelier.
I could tell I was on a desk. We must have been very small. On the same desk were a great many tomes — one was open, beneath where Master had been creating us. I could not make out any details from this angle, but it did not matter. Tomes were for the Masters. I was not interested in them.
Martí returned, carrying a small leather pouch. She sat down at her chair, in front of us, and began to empty it onto the table. Out came several shining gemstones, primarily green in color, though with some splashes of orange and blue. She then reached into her pockets and pulled out teabags. She held them up while running her finger along the tome's pages, and seemed to slowly cut one or two open. She sifted through the remains and picked out specific herbs she desired. Once she had what she wanted, her hand, carrying the herbs, came above us.
"Move," she instructed, and we hurried to the sides of our enclosure, making space for her to lay the herbs down. She then surrounded the enclosure with five evenly spaced gems.
"Stay away," we understood, as she lit a match and plunged it into the herbs. The fire was small and swift, burning out only seconds after it came into existence. Master was efficient with her time. She stood, looked at her tome, pointed to the flame, and recited words with a different cadence from those she said before but their intentions I still instinctively understood. Using a few more words than this, she meant:
"They are mine, make them mine, and arm them."
The flame rejuvenated, if only for a moment, and lashes of its newly green tendrils speared through the chests of all of us, one at a time. The feeling was not unpleasant. Not that we would have done anything if it was. It was clearly Master's intention, and nowhere within our desires was one with which we would betray her wants. Soon after, knowledge began to collect in our heads like water dripping into a basin. New powers, new abilities. We were stronger than we were before.
"Create whips," we intuited. Within seconds, all of us had manifested whips made of the same materials as our body. Master jumped and smiled. She was happy. This pleased me.
I heard a voice from outside the room. A deep and commanding voice. Master looked displeased at its presence. My grip on the whip tightened, but she did not call for battle, so we waited. She said something without instruction, aimed at the voice outside, and then worriedly looked for something in her room. Once found, she returned to us, her creations, and laid it over us. A napkin.
"Rest," she said.
We were resting by doing nothing, so we held our position. There was a pause in which nothing happened.
"Lay down," she instructed, her voice unsure. We did as we were told.
"Good," she said. We did not require approval, but we did not disdain it. It was good to do things that Master liked. In coming years, we would come to know Master — unless our Master changed — and then we may be able to serve her better. The best golems could even lift their Master's spirits. It was a desire deep within us. This ability grew faster if the Master told us what did and did not please them. This Master was doing so on the first day.
She was a good Master.
I saw the lamp light go out, and I heard her footsteps as they made their way towards her bed. Despite hearing her lay down, I could make out a faint blue glow coming from that direction, through the napkin. It went away after a short while.
That night, we did not move, for fear of waking Master.

She had addressed us in the morning, said something that translated to “reassurance” — though I did not see why such was required — and left us resting on her desk for the remainder of the day. Only in the afternoon did she return. We had at first heard her from below, the nature of her voice already imprinted into us. She spoke with the other voice from before. Soon after, she had come up and entered her room, then removing our covering.
Master did not look happy at first, but after we sat up at her command, she smiled. Master began to speak very quickly. We did not catch individual words, but a picture was forming in our mind. A house, next to this house, where animals were kept, was experiencing a problem. Master was telling us this because we were a solution.
“Fix problem in other house,” was her order, though she had not said it. We all stood in unison, and formed whips. She startled at this.
“Put away weapons,” she commanded, and we complied.
Master seemed to consider her words. But before she spoke, she grabbed a bag with two straps, and opened the largest pocket. She placed it at the edge of the desk, and said “get in”. She was going to take us to the other house. We climbed over our toothpick fence, and marched into the bag, falling with little grace among the other objects within. There was a long metal rectangle that I soon recognised as a measuring tool. There were two large tomes, though one folded at an unusual angle and had metal rings within. There was a smaller bag, yellow and patterned with depictions of wingless dragons.
I assumed we would all fit better if we went limp, and it appeared the others had followed suit. For some reason, Master became alarmed. She began poking at some of us, for what intent I do not know. She then held out her finger, and we snapped to attention. A few waves of her finger, and she seemed to cheer up.
This was the second time this had happened. Master liked it when we looked at her finger.
I would not forget this.
I could feel that we were being taken down, and then I heard a door close, and the acoustics became that of the outdoors. It became colder, as well. As Master walked, I heard the crunch of dead leaves under her feet. Soon, though, that changed to the soft sifting of stepping on grass. I was eager. It was not within me to ask for a purpose, or complain of not having one, but I was glad to be getting one. It means that we were helping Master. It was the best thing to be doing.
I heard a noise I recognised. Horses. It was the huffing of idle horses.
A heavy set of doors was pushed open, and the air from inside the other house — I now identified it as a “barn” — came out, warmer than the atmosphere under the sun. Master took us inside, closed the door behind us, and then opened the bag once more. She peered in, smiled, and tipped the bag on its side so that we could be let out. Without need for instruction, we exited the bag, and formed a small clump inside the barn. The ground beneath our feet was covered with more of the material we were made of. “Hay”, I realised. We were made of hay.
She sat with her legs crossed, and addressed us. Soon, she was talking, but she was talking too much. It made it hard to follow her. After a minute or so of listening, an image formed in my mind.
The problem was that she could not be with cats.
No.
The problem was that she did not have a cat.
No.
The problem was one that a cat could solve, and she did not have a cat, because she could not be with cats. Cats. Mouse hunters. The problem, then, was mice.
Master confirmed my suspicion moments later, by pulling a small figure made of hay out of her bag. She placed it between herself and us. “Mouse,” she identified. Each of us manifested a whip in turn, and approached the figurine. Master stood and backed away, allowing us to dismantle the figurine as a sign of our understanding. After the figure had been torn into several pieces by the combined efforts of as many golems could efficiently attack at once, we looked at Master for further instruction.
Master looked unhappy, and had backed away a great distance. But seeing us look at her, she nodded. “Continue,” she said. We did not move, for there was no more mouse.
“Find more mice,” she commanded instead, “and kill them.”
We began to wander in random directions. I knew this was not the most efficient method, but since I did not know a better one, I would continue to meander aimlessly until I learned a better path that led to mouse destruction. Behind me, I heard the barn doors open and close, which I assumed would be Master taking her leave. She had given us a task, we were to carry it out. No more direct instruction was needed.
It felt good to have a purpose so clear.
The next issue was how to go about it.

We could hear her return, hours later. Those of us that could had ran to the front of the barn, and peered upon her commanding visage. She had, in her hand, Eddy and Teddy. She knelt down and placed them in our midst.
"Stay in barn," she specified. Teddy and Eddy had gone outside in search for mice. This mistake would not happen a second time.
She surveyed us. There were not as many of us as there had been before. She asked why. We could not answer, and so stayed still. Master sighed, and sat down. She picked at loose hay on the ground, and wound another mouse figurine.
"Kill," she instructed. We did as we had done before, but she shook her head.
She wound another figure, placed it in front of us, and we moved towards it.
"Stop," she said, and so we did.
She pulled a loose strand of string from her coat, and wound it around the neck of the figure. She pulled lightly, lifting the figure. She then handed the string to one of us — Sylvie — and motioned towards the figure. Sylvie took the string, climbed onto the mouse, hooked the string around its throat, and pulled. Master then took the string away, and bid her to continue. Sylvie manifested a whip, and repeated the process. Master looked pleased, then her expression changed. She left the barn without further instruction.
We had hardly returned to our task when Master came back, and dropped a pile of sewing needles onto the floor.
She did not trust in our strength alone. She had armed us. For this I was grateful. An aid to our task. We could now serve her better.
Her next instruction was simple. "Work together." Without a second thought, we each took a needle and gathered into groups of three. She smiled. She sat again, and bid us to go about our duties. I had formed a troupe with Tilly and Sammy. We set off in a random direction, which happened to pass into the sleeping area of one of the horses.
The beast was great, but it was not our target. We made a careful path around it, towards the wall. Masters sometimes rode horses. It made Masters faster. But this one was sleeping, and Master was still on foot. There was not a great distance between Master's quarters and the barn. Horses were not required.
Once we had reached the wall, Tilly led towards our left, and Sammy and I followed. The route was simple and effective. We would trace the wall until we had made a full circle, and then do so again, and again, until we either found mice, or had learned that there were no mice to be found.
The first circuit was uneventful. The second circuit saw the death of Sammy by a careless hoof. I had salvaged his weapon before continuing. The third circuit was fruitful.
Tilly and I had located a mouse, within a stack of hay. Its white fur and naked tail confirmed its identity. We crouched, and clutched our weapons. It was near the corner of a horse stall, so Tilly and I spread out to cover its routes of escape. The attack would have been more secure with our third member, but that could not be helped. When we were ready, we charged. The mouse did not have much time to react. It squeaked in pain as I impaled its abdomen. The crippling of its back leg sapped its energy to run away, and Tilly followed through with a stabbing through the eye.
We had killed a single mouse.
Master would be pleased.
"Come," we heard her beckon from the center of the barn. We followed the sound of her voice, and met her where she sat upon a stack of hay. At her feet was what appeared to be a village of small houses, made of hay. Each was large enough to fit three of us golems. As Tilly and I approached, she smiled. As we collected at her shoes, she leaned down and picked up our needles, wiping the blood off with her fingers.
"Rest," she said. We stood still.
"Lay down," she said. We complied.
"In the houses," she specified. She sounded unhappy. We moved into the huts she had made, and laid down. She seemed satisfied with this, at least. The sun was beginning to set, and the light in the barn had begun to fade. Master left, and walked back to her quarters.
I do not know how long I laid there. It was a long time. I did not know sleep like Master did. But I was capable of waiting for very, very long periods of time. We all were. The limit was only the material we were made of.
I began to take in less and less, and then forgot time completely.
The night was long.

I became suddenly aware of a loud noise, far off. It was a voice. No, it was two voices. One was Master's. The other was the deeper voice. They were very loud. Louder than necessary, if they only meant to communicate. They sounded unhappy.
I listened closely, in case an order came. From this distance, Master could summon us to her side if a combat was imminent.
The noise continued for a long time.
No order came.
Suddenly, the night was silent again, except for the occasional shifting of horses, and the unbearable tittering of mice.

Months passed without much change. Master periodically replaced our losses with new additions. In the early days, she would come in to "wake" us and "sleep" us, but we at some point internalized the cycle and did not require Master's assistance. She looked very happy, the first day we laid in our huts without her instruction. Her happiness said everything for us. No further instruction was needed.
We saw Master when she came in to take care of the horses, mostly. Some of us had taken to showing her the fallen mice we had claimed. On good days, we would find a den of mice, and eradicate them. The mouse threat was constant and pressing. They never fully disappeared. We fought hard. It took a long time for the mice to fight back, but they had learned to fear us. Some of the braver mice were able to take a golem or two out before going down — rare were the days that a mouse was able to destroy a golem without themselves dying, but those days were becoming worryingly more common. As the enemy evolved, we were forced to do so ourselves.
Some of us had discovered how to kill a mouse before it could make a noise and alert its companions. These were our strongest warriors. I had learned from them. On the best days, I could kill three or four mice. They were good days, and Master was happy with our efforts.
But the noises at night were consistent.
They did not occur every night, but they were not uncommon. Each time I heard them from the house, I listened for a command, a call to action.
None ever came.
I could not help but feel I was failing Master. She was unhappy, and I was not helping.
But the feeling was forgotten each morning once we returned to mouse hunting. That work was fulfilling. Master smiled when she saw the mice we had killed. One day, she had seen the remains of a large battle between us and the mice. The corpses of the mice were more obvious than those of our fallen comrades, but torn hay soaked by mouse blood lay in several places. Master noticed. She seemed unhappy.
Master took the remains of fallen golems and buried them outside the barn, marking their graves with stones. Did she not know she could remake them? It did not matter. We did not mourn them. It was not within our capacity.
But she did.
And so we buried them, from that point on.

This night was worse than others.
I had not identified the noise before as anything other than loud voices. This night there were screams. Even the horses were rousted — they made more noise, moved uncomfortably in their stalls. Every being in the barn knew something was wrong. I felt more helpless than I ever had before.
Master needed us, but we were here and she was there. If not for the nights before, I would be sure the command for help would come. But these had always come and gone without so much as a "get ready". Master was casting aside her army and facing the threat alone. I did not understand why. I did not wonder about many things. This was one I did.
Something far off fell. Something heavy, off of a table maybe. The screaming became louder. Strange, I thought, that I could not hear an exchange of blows in this battle. I had only the faintest inkling that there was such a thing as psychological warfare. It was something only a Master could understand. I only knew it was a battle with no physical component. Its mechanisms were mysterious.
As if in response to the thought, I heard what sounded like a slap. Flesh against flesh — the material Masters were made of. At once, the voices stopped.
After a few long seconds, I heard a door slam.
The night was once again dark and silent. The tittering of mice was gone, and even the horses were still. Nothing stirred.
Suddenly, I realized that I had manifested my whip. For how long, I did not know. There were no mice, there was no battle. The weapon was unnecessary. Still, I could not bring myself to put it away.
The rest of the night passed without event.

Master was unhappy.
She had entered the barn at her usual time, but she had gone to the very back of it, a place she rarely visited for there were no horses. We had watched as she drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them, hiding her face behind her legs and underneath her long black hair. The wind today was quite strong, and it had been spooking the horses — many golems had died under restless hooves already, and their whinnies were frequent. Over the noise of the horses and the wind, it was almost impossible to hear Master. But she was making noise.
It was not words, it was not commands. It was purposeless noise, that spilled out of her without her wanting it to. Sometimes it would increase in intensity, sometimes it would be little more than a whisper, or cut out entirely. She wasn't just making noise, either. She was moving.
Shaking, to be exact. The shakes increased and lowered in intensity much like the noise, though not always at the same time. They seemed involuntary as well.
We, most of us, sat and watched her. When she came in to take care of the horses, we had learned to ignore her, but under any other circumstances, we would gather around her, and wait. This was one of those circumstances.
No commands came. No instructions. I do not know if I expected any. But I knew that the right thing to do was to wait for them. Minutes passed like this. Some of us had laid down — we knew that Master liked that we "rested", and there was little else to do. Sometimes Master would lift her head, and pass an arm under her nose. But she would then go back to her previous position.
The wind knocked something large into the side of the barn, startling the horses further. The cacophony drowned Master out completely, but she rose her head. She said something to the horses, something intentless, and then looked at us. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks were wet. Her nose was leaking. Her hair was not as straight as it usually was. But she just stared.
"Go," she ordered in a few more words than that.
The majority of the golems departed, content to return to their mouse hunting. I and three others stayed. Jimmy, Terry, Jerry and I. I glanced at the golems with whom I shared the most solidarity.
"Go," she ordered again, louder, but we did not move.
She ordered the same again and again — in many words, in many ways, but she could not get us to leave. I could not speak for the others, but I knew why I stayed. I was wrong, at first. The noises and shakes were not purposeless. They may have been unintentional, but an image had begun to form in my mind. They communicated to me something that Master had been hiding from us.
"Help," they said.
Over and over.
"Help."
I did not know how to help. But I knew that her order to leave was contradictory. I searched for something I could do, some assistance I could provide. I looked to my companions, to see if they knew, but they were as motionless as I was. If I could not help, if I could not fulfill that order, then I was disobeying her command to leave. I could not disobey Master. I had committed to helping, and I would.
It was unfortunate, that she spent most of her time in the other building. A golem is best at learning what their Master does and does not like when they are able to see their Master at times that they are not commanding. I had only been in the other house once before, once that first night I was made. I searched for something that could help me. Help me help her.
I found it.
I began to stride forward, towards her. She recoiled, but did not stop me. She had ceased giving her order. She only watched me.
I began to climb up her calves, but was having trouble finding footholds and handholds. I was struggling to grasp for anything that could heave me up when Master grabbed me and lifted me, then placing me on her knee. She stared at me. She looked unhappy, still. Her eyes were filled with water, which she tried to blink out many times over. But she still stared at me.
I, in turn, stared at her finger. She had one hand on her knee, the same that had lifted me, and I began to intently stare at its pointer finger. But she did not move it. If she was not moving her finger, how could she know I was staring at it so intently? My featureless face's ability to communicate such nuances paled in comparison to the capacity that Master's had. The most expressive things on my body were my arms and legs. So I used them.
I walked up to her finger, and clung to it. Finally, she lifted her hand, and I went with it. The movements were slow, at first, and then at once very very fast, then slow again. Her cheeks had remained wet, her nose remained leaky, but her mouth had curled up into a smile. I think I was making her happy. I think I was helping. So I kept clinging.
The three golems below me had begun to move towards Master as well, pulling on her pant leg to get her attention. She put her right hand in front of them, and they too wrapped themselves around her fingers. She made another involuntary noise, and another involuntary shake, but they were of a different nature. She moved her hands randomly — up and down, left to right, side to side — and just watched us cling to her.
The noise and shake became more frequent, until the noise was loud enough to be easily heard over the wind and the movement vigorous enough to give me trouble in hanging onto her fingers. But they were not noises and movements of the same type as before. An image had begun to form in my mind, but this wasn't a command.
This time, it was approval.
This sound, I realized, was gratitude.
We had helped. Just as I had been wanting to do for countless nights behind me.
But then I heard a noise. The deeper voice, from the other house. It was loud, and demanding. And, I realized, it was saying Master's name.
"Martí!" it called.
Master quickly began pulling us off of her fingers and set us on the floor.
"Martí!" it called again.
The noise of gratitude had ceased, and she began to stand. But I stopped her. She looked down at me, pulling at her pant leg. I let go, and backed up. Now that she was watching, I had forgotten all of my practice. It had occurred to me, three days ago while hunting mice, that there was a way to communicate to her that we could help. That she could call on us. Count on us.
It came back to me, slowly. I first pointed at her. Then, I put both my hands around where my mouth should be, in a "calling" fashion. Lastly, I pointed to myself, and then to the others. She looked at me, blankly. My body was not made for communicating. I tried again, repeating the same motions, but added two more: I manifested my whip, and held it up above my head.
"Martí!" the voice called, even louder than before.
Master turned her head to look in the direction of the noise, and then looked back at me. She saw me pointing. Pointing towards the voice. I repeated all the same motions as I had before, but ended by pointing to the voice. Then, I repeated only the raising of the whip, and pointing to the voice.
Only at the last raising of the whip did I see her expression change. It became harder. It became commanding. Intimidating. The best qualities of a Master. I knew I shouldn't feel proud — I knew it was her place to feel proud of us, and not ours to feel proud of her. But I did. In spite of myself, I did.
She finally left, running her nose across her arms several times on her way out. Soon after she had left, I heard the noises I usually heard at night. I heard the battle, the continuous battle within that house. A battle that had bred only one blow, though I did not know from whom to whom. Hopefully, that would change soon. Hopefully, she would call us.
For now, though, there were mice to hunt.

I knew that noise. I hadn't heard it before, but it was familiar, in the same way tomes and horses and chandeliers and cats were. It was a sound that was built into me.
A cannon.
I sat up. It had fired once, and echoed, and was gone. Was it a replacement for the battle sounds tonight? I had not heard any, yet. Perhaps one last decisive blow had been struck. But who threw the punch, and who received?
In the meager light that penetrated into our hut from a full moon outside, I could see that Tilly had sat up too. I wasn't alone, then, in listening to the battles at night. At least Tilly listened, too, and in that I found a type of comfort. But that comfort was outweighed by the discomfort of not knowing who had fallen. I looked to Tilly. We did not make eye contact, for we had no eyes, but we knew we were looking at one another. Looking into each other's face.
We stood in unison, and left our hut. The blue glow from the cracks in the old building's walls that counted as windows illuminated five to six other golems standing outside their huts. Not everyone had risen, but some had. We all waited and listened. Perhaps soon there would be a voice, something to tell us who the victor was. There was nothing.
I did not think any longer on it. I walked straight towards the barn doors. From behind me, I could hear the soft, dry footsteps that told me some of my companions were following me. That was good. Depending on the victor, we may have to fight to avenge our Master. In case of such a scenario, I picked up a needle I saw laying on the ground.
I pushed my way outside through a crack between the doors. The graveyard of fallen golems was large, now. It was becoming difficult to drag the torn and twisted hay far enough to be buried somewhere a previous golem hadn't. The mice were getting smarter, and some had attacked in the night when we laid in our huts for the sake of Master. Such small enemies we faced together compared to the storm she faced alone. Our burdens were unfairly split.
I set a foot past the last pebble that marked a grave, and looked at the imposing structure of Master's house. Our birthplace. A holy land. Sometimes, light poured out one of the windows. No such light was there tonight. I realized I had paused — because I had not gone past these stones in the last year, I realized. I had never been this far from the barn since I was put there.
With an unsure first step, I began to lead the march to the house. Soon we were swallowed by grass and had to struggle to keep our path in view. The house became closer and closer, larger and larger, until we were upon it. Our first challenge was getting in. We had found what appeared to be the main entrance, but this building was better maintained than the barn, and there were no cracks in the door to speak of. My first instinct was to —
But just as I was leaning down to check if we could fit under the door, it began to open. I moved aside to let it swing freely. Once it had opened fully, we could see into the house. To the right were the stairs, but straight ahead was a hallway, black as oil. Past the hallway, moonlight revealed to us a figure, facing away from the door. A faint wind blew.
In the dark, it was impossible to know for certain, but it appeared to have the long hair I associated with Master. It was completely silent, but it was not without motion.
It was shaking violently.
Tilly was the first to step inside this time. I followed her as best I could before losing her in the darkness and going by sound. Accounting for the possibility that the foe was strong enough to take a cannonball, I readied my needle, tightening my grip and raising it to be horizontal.
When we were finally able to see the figure from the other side, it became clear it was Master. A weight lifted off of myself at the realization. She was standing behind a couch, on which another figure sat, but this one was more than just silent. It was holding a large piece of paper, which used to be white but was now black in the light of the moon. Master dropped something. Looking over, I saw that it was a small cannon.
Looking back up, I saw the decisive blow.
A hole in the foe's head, that the moon's glow was perfectly shining into.
Master had won.

The task of killing mice had been forgotten. Those of us that did not venture into the house might have stayed and fought, but Master had not ordered us to do so. She was unhappy. Instructions were few.
The night after the shot, we had watched her bury her foe like she had our fallen golems. The task was careful. The foe did not deserve it, but sometimes enemies were like that — some demanded respect, even in death. I had not fought an enemy like this; the mice fought dirty, and deserved no such courtesy. Their bodies were left to rot and be eaten by other mice.
Once she had finished the burying, she returned to her house, and we followed her. This seemed to be our usual state of being, now. She paid us little mind, but we followed her and she did not stop us. Master seemed busy. She had ceased to take care of the horses. I suspected they would die.
In her room, she consulted her tomes quite often. They occupied the majority of her time. I worried that she had forgotten about us, that she would not see it fit to give us new commands. Already, some of us had returned to the barn. But I was sure there was a better way to assist Master. As long as I could, I would watch her.
When she slept, I would lay on the ground of her room, like she wanted us to. Sometimes I would follow her finger, to see if she noticed. She hadn't, yet. I could not cheer her.
Still, she did not seem to be unhappy as she was before. She was unhappy, but she was working. Much like I might be after a long day of unsuccessfully hunting mice, it was the type of unhappy that was associated with doing. Interrupting her work would not help. So I just watched.
On the fourth night, she went outside and dug her foe up again. She had closed the door on her way out of her room before I could reach it, and I was unable to fit beneath the door, so I had climbed onto the desk and peered out the window. From my vantage point, I could see that she was not bringing the body out of its grave. Instead, she was doing something to its face. Master's body covered her work, so I did not see what.
She put something into her bag, and then reburied the body. This time, however, she placed something large and blue over the grave so that the freshly disturbed dirt was not visible. The purpose was not clear.
When she returned to her room, she sat at her desk, and looked directly at me for the first time in days. I at first expected some kind of instruction. But then she picked me up and gently placed me on the ground. She needed her desktop to herself. I understood, and was content to observe her once more. Her actions were curious, but beyond me.
She sat like that for many hours, and slept only once the sun had begun to rise, never having left her seat for anything.

I had deigned it good to lay down the entire day. Master had left early in the morning, and it was now late in the evening. Her tomes were still here, I could not imagine she had left for good, but she had not taken us with her. There was nothing to do but wait. There had not been a battle in a long time. Master had no foes, and neither had we. The horses were certainly dead — their neighing did not come as it had before. I did not wish to return to the golems in the barn. It was only myself and Tilly who remained in the house. The rest had left, gone back to fight the mice.
Master had not made new golems in quite some time. I doubted that their efforts against the mice were fruitful. Their numbers would be dwindling, their strength fading with it. The mice would have the carcasses of the horses to feed on, their numbers would grow. The battle was losing. Yet I knew that if I was still there, I would fight as well. They were good golems. They did as Master told them.
I did not know what separated them from myself and Tilly.
I did not care to know.
We sat up immediately as we heard Master enter through the front door. We were already waiting in the hallway, there to greet her as she came in. She looked very tired, and was carrying six shining bags. She looked at us, but then walked past us, and set the bags down on the kitchen counter. She stood there, leaning on the counter, for several minutes, before going to climb the stairs.
Tilly and I had more trouble climbing the stairs than she did, and so we were only three steps up before she had come back down again, carrying with her several tomes and her bag. She opened a door I had not seen her open before, a door next to the stairs up that led down into a basement. She took the tomes and bag down the stairs, and Tilly and I began to follow. We had not gotten down more than four steps before Master did as she had before, changing directions before we could effectively follow her. She came up the stairs with nothing in her arms, and went into the kitchen — or so I guessed from the sounds of her footsteps. Tilly and I had begun to climb back up the stairs when Master stepped over us, carrying the shining bags. She turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and was once again out of sight. Tilly and I changed direction, and started to climb down once more, only to see Master climbing the stairs again.
She was fast today.
But she did not walk over us. Instead, she picked us up, and carried us to the top of the stairs. She set us down on the floor near the couch, and then gave us our first instruction in a long, long time:
"Stay here."
She shut the door leading downstairs, and we did as we were told. It felt good. We were noticed by Master. And she did not tell us to go back to the barn. We were only to stay. So we stayed.
She was beyond the door for almost as long as she had been gone outside. Evening had turned to night had turned into morning before she came up again — but she only came up to grab something from the kitchen, a glass of water and a loaf of bread, before returning to the basement. Tilly and I did not move to follow. Morning turned to afternoon turned to evening before we saw Master again.
When she came up, it was slowly.
And something trailed behind her.
A figure, larger than she was, was taking slow steps up the stairs. When it came into the light, I manifested a whip reflexively. It was him.
It was the foe.
But Master intervened. "Friend," she said, and repeated several times.
I looked at him, and felt a name come to mind.
Abel.
His name was Abel. And there was only one way I could know that without hearing it. Tilly demanifested her whip, and I did the same. Not that we would have been able to do anything against him. But if he had been a foe, we couldn't help but try.
I approached him, and touched him. He was wet, and a little malleable. Clay. He was made out of clay. But he didn't look like it. He looked very much like Master did — his texture was that of flesh, he had facial features, I saw hair (likely made out of Master's). I did not know his purpose. But there was something that drew my attention more.
Master had collapsed on the couch. As soon as I heard her fall, I ran to see if she was okay. She was shaking. I had to help. I tried to climb the couch, but I was having a hard time finding handholds and footholds. It did not take long, though, before Master picked me up.
She extended her arm and rolled onto her back, bringing me high above her. Looking down, her eyes were watery, her cheeks wet like before. But things were different. I did not worry.
She was smiling.

The day after Abel had been created, Master had slept for an entire day, but I did not lay down to join her. I instead watched Abel. He did not seem to follow Master, nor did he take on one task. For long stretches of time, he would sit on the couch and open a large paper that was sitting on the small table in front of him. The paper was filled with words, and he would occasionally turn pages. Sometimes, he would put down one paper, and pick it back up again, starting from the front and going through to the back another time. I did not see the purpose in this action, but it was similar to not seeing purpose in the killing of mice. The purpose did not matter. Master wanted it, and so it was important. Doubts did not come to mind.
But that was not all that Abel did. He would also go into the washroom sometimes. He would close the door, lock it, and then stand in front of the mirror. He did not do much here. Master had given him clothes, and so he sometimes adjusted them, but the majority of his time was spent only staring. Staring at himself. Sometimes, before he left the washroom, he would press down a lever that then made a quite loud wet sound. I had seen Master do this before. Its meaning was lost on me.
Abel would also go into the kitchen, pull ingredients out of the pantry, and construct sandwiches. Sometimes, he would carry a sandwich with him, but other times he would leave them in the kitchen. When Master finally woke and came downstairs, she had eaten some of his sandwiches, and returned others to a large white pantry that glowed and hummed.
Abel did not much change his behavior in the coming days. Sometimes, when Master was around, he would look at her and smile. Even rarer, I would hear him say words. A greeting, that he and Master exchanged. I had not envied him before, but for that I did. Otherwise, Abel was unremarkable.
But that was no matter. Master began to create other golems.
Sometimes from her room, sometimes from the basement, new creations would be made from useless objects within the house. Candlesticks, silverware, bowls, firewood, dolls, stuffed animals… Master seemed happier than ever before, and her enthusiasm showed in her work. She was becoming ornate with her golems. She carved faces on some, embedded jewels in others. Some were given tasks — what used to be the stand upon which several coats rested had become a cleaner. It swept the floors and dusted the shelves. Several baby-sized dolls worked together to wash the dishes that Abel needed to create sandwiches and which Master needed to cook on. There were two golems made from shoe-leather that methodically went through the house and tapped on all the walls. There were three wooden golems that followed Master everywhere she went, and did small tasks for her as she commanded them to.
Tilly and I were never given such a purpose. But that did not mean we were ignored.
Often Master had picked us up and placed us on her shoulder, instructing us to sit there. We did as we were told, and we watched her work. It took a great many tea bags and geodes to create the golems she did. It seemed that each day, Master would flip to a random page in one of her tomes, press her finger down somewhere, and then begin reading. This would also precede the creation of a new and different golem.
After the house had become incredibly full with them, Master had taken to sending some away before creating more. On the same day that she created a golem that sang out of a salt shaker, she would tell the golems she had made out of paper to go into the woods. It was so for many days. Sometimes Master would leave the house and return with ingredients for the pantry, or yet more tomes. Her library was increasing to incredible size, and she was not reading the tomes faster than she was gaining them. I knew the goal of Master's studying.
She was working to become stronger.
I waited for the day that Master told us to bear arms and set into the world beyond the house. It would come. One day.
But once, when Master was playing with her black rectangular object, a knock came at the door downstairs.
Master suddenly looked very unhappy, and waited. Another knock came. She rose from the couch, and gave an instruction to every golem she passed:
"Hide."
Luckily, she had not made many large golems, but it was still easier for the smaller ones to hide. Some, that were relatively unaltered from their materials, simply went still. Others, like myself and Tilly, crawled behind table legs, hid in containers, or simply ran to a far away room.
Once we had all gone out of sight, Master answered the door on the third knocking. I heard voices. Master's, and others. Deeper voices.
Foes.
I readied my whip, but stayed perfectly still. I would wait for her command. Or, none would come — she had faced foes alone before and won. I did not have doubts of her strength.
The voices continued for many, many minutes. It was only after some time had passed that I realized the original foe's voice — Abel's voice — was among them. I had only ever seen him have short exchanges with Master. I did not realize he could have so much to say.
Before twenty minutes had passed, the doors had closed, and the voices were gone. I stepped out from behind the chair leg, and looked at Master. She was still standing in front of the door, Abel beside her. She did not move. I made my way towards her, so I might see her face, read her expression. But I was unable to. She ran up the stairs before I could read her, and I heard the door to her bedroom close with a loud noise.
I did not follow her.
Something told me she had meant to go alone.

All of Master's creations laid down at night. All of them had to be taught, as we were taught so long ago. Sometimes Master would forget to teach one, and it would wander at night, unsure of what to do, or else continue with its task even though the task no longer required doing. Some, the smartest ones, would lay down anyways, following the example of the older and wiser golems.
Master had been in her room for a week, allowing only her wooden golems inside with her. It worried me. Some golems, without being given new tasks, had taken to laying the entire day and night, foregoing any movement at all. I found myself more restless than that. I had made a post outside Master's door, along with the shoe-leather golems and Tilly. Tilly would sometimes stand, walk to the end of the hall, and come back, and lay down again. The shoe-leather golems did less than that. I was more like the shoe-leather golems. We laid and did not move, waiting for when Master would inevitably come out.
Tonight was windy.
It was already difficult to hear Master moving in her room, but it was impossible now. No noises reached us except for a branch that repetitively hit against the side of the house, and the howling that filled the spaces inbetween. There was little moonlight tonight. The single window at the end of the hall provided almost no light. Only stars were visible in the cloudless sky above. Stars that I sometimes stared at, in absence of anything to do.
Then, a rather loud thump came from within Master's room. I sat up, at attention at once. Another thump. Then another, and another, in quick succession. Then there was no noise. Was it purposeful? Did something fall? I wondered if Master needed help. If she did, I was not able to give it. I was hopeless. Still, I stood up.
I would not be a good golem if I did not try.
I tried knocking on the door, to get her attention, but I was not strong enough. I doubted that I had made any noise, but if I had, it was swallowed completely by the wind. I tried again, with a similar result. I then looked towards the shoe-leather golems.
They were unnamed. Master had forgotten to name many of her most recent golems. Names were likely unnecessary to Masters — they need only know your abilities. Such as that shoe-leather was heavier than hay, and could thus knock on a door. I tried to grab their attention with a wave, but was unable to. I walked towards them, and began to hit them. They stood up. That had grabbed their attention.
I pointed towards the door. They did not understand, so I demonstrated. I pounded ineffectually on the door, and then motioned for them to join me.
They did not move.
I was not their Master, I could not command them. They did not understand my role. They did not understand why I was requesting their help. They only looked at me. They could help, but did not understand. On the other hand, Tilly could understand, but did not help.
She went to the door and pounded once, only to show that she followed me.
Master was unhappy, and there was nothing we could do. Master could be in danger, and there was nothing we could do. Master had not left her room in days, and there was nothing we could do.
I knew I was doing nothing. I knew there was nothing to be done. But still, I pounded. I battered the door with all my might, over and over, fighting against its heft with willpower alone. Perhaps if I continued, the world would give in to my wishes, and open the door. Perhaps if I continued, Master would open the door, and show me everything was okay. Perhaps —
Tilly touched me.
I ceased my punching and looked at her.
We did not make eye contact, for we had no eyes, but we knew we were looking at one another. Looking into each other's face. She had placed a hand on my head, like Master sometimes did to pick me up. Tilly could not lift me like Master could, but the gesture was clear. An image started forming in my mind. It wasn't as full as images before it had been. I could not make out specifics, there was no instruction. There was no clear message. But there was intent.
Tilly was comforting me.
I did not understand it fully. I was not in need of comforting. It was Master who needed us. Was I acting irrationally? Was it that, in my desire to help, I had foregone thought and become defective? Was I not calm? Did I need to be calm? Never in my life had I asked so many questions. I was confused. Never in my life had I been so confused.
Maybe it was not that I needed to be comforted. Maybe Tilly needed to be comforted. I was not sure. I did not know. I was lost. But that made the most sense. I did not know why a golem should need a hand on their head, but if Tilly put her hand on mine, it would follow that she would see the reason. She needed a hand. So I placed my hand on her head.
We stood like this, hands on each other's heads, for minutes. Neither of us moved. The wind did not let up, and no more thumps came. Master was either dead or safe. There was nothing we could do. There was nothing we could do.
I let my hand fall to my side, and Tilly let her hand fall to hers.
Then, the door to Master's room tore open. Master stepped over us, and marched downstairs. Tilly and I did not hesitate a single second to follow her.
Several of the golems had begun to stand up just from her presence, but there was one that was already standing. In the kitchen, Abel — one of few golems to lay down and get up seemingly whenever he felt like it — was making a sandwich in the kitchen. Master strode directly to him. He looked up from his meal and began to speak a greeting, but it did not come quick enough. Master's finger pierced through his forehead, and he began to be demade.
His fleshy outer layer quickly gave way to the pounds of wet clay inside, which in turn started to melt and break down until I could no longer see him behind the counter. The house was still for a moment, the wind continuing to berate the walls and windows. Then, Master began to do the same to the nearby golems.
The dishwashing dolls toppled over and lay limp on the floor from where they had stood on the stove. Then, the paper golems on the table in front of the couch had unfolded and lay flat. Cloth unraveled, string unwound, and other objects went rigid as they had been before they were imbued with life. Master methodically made her way through her creations. None ran, none fought back. We were no longer of use to her. If we could not help, there was no point in living. Our fate was natural. An endpoint. Not one to be feared.
Tilly moved closer to me. I heard her twine body creak as she did so. I turned to look at her.
This was the end for us. Master had bigger projects. I wonder if she noticed that Master's bag was especially full, too. She was not just getting rid of us. She was leaving this place behind.
I thought that when she would leave, she would take us with her. That we were her army, that we would partake in some great battle. That would have been a more noble way to die. Honorable. Dying in the service of Master. But not every golem experienced the highest of honors. Such was our existence. Such was our purpose. And I could not imagine a more righteous life.
The room was a mess of materials. Clay and wood and metal and cloth, thrown this way and that by the demaking of golems. Master surveyed the wreckage, and breathed deeply. She did not look happy, but she did not look unhappy. She looked like she was doing something. Something that she needed to be doing.
Then, she turned around.
And saw us.
Immediately, she kneeled down, and extended her finger, but stopped.
We had watched her finger, followed it with our heads. While her hand hung in mid air, I could see a green material smeared on her finger. Something that glittered slightly, like crushed rock made into paste. She waved her finger randomly, for just one second, and we followed it. At once, she smiled, and made that noise of gratitude I remembered from before she struck down her foe. But then, her expression changed. It was not unhappy before, but it was now. She began to shake, and her eyes began to water. She was frowning.
Had we displeased her? Had we done something wrong? I could not think of a way to help her — I did not know the issue, and following her finger had made her sad. There was nothing more I could think to do. I only waited.
But Tilly moved.
Tilly moved into Master's finger, and unraveled.
Master stood at once, and backed away. I only stared at Tilly's remains. There was something in me, something that was drawn to them. Curiosity? Fear? I did not have the concept in my head for what it was. Something I should not have felt. Something that even overcame my worry for Master.
I looked back at Master, and waited. Waited for her to demake me too. To put me with Tilly.
But she didn't. She stayed away.
I stepped towards her, and she stepped back. I ran towards her, and she only stepped back once more, and then stopped. I made it to her pant leg, and tugged, like I had that night I was trying to climb it. I knew it would make her touch me. And if she touched me, I would be demade. I wanted to be demade. I wanted to be with Tilly.
And then she touched me.
But I stayed alive.
She picked me up by the head, and then put me in the palm of her hand. Her hand that didn't have the smear. She brought me to her face, and pressed me on her lips. I did not understand the gesture, but it was over soon. She looked at me, and began to speak. The words were not many, but it was still difficult to understand. An image began to form in my mind.
She was broken.
No.
She made us.
No, it was more than that.
She was broken, but then she made us, and we fixed her.
I had no thoughts. I just stared at her. She lowered me, and put me on the ground.
"Go," she said.
I did not move.
"Go," again.
I started to move, but then stopped.
I could not leave. Why couldn't I leave? I had been commanded, I was being told, but I was having trouble bringing myself to follow through. Then I looked over, and saw Tilly's remains. That was why. I could not leave without them.
The front door swung open on its own, and I carried Tilly outside. It swung shut behind me.
The wind had stopped.
"Go," the command echoed in my mind.
Go where? Do what? There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. I was alone. No Master. No companions.
Companions.
The barn.
I began to walk to the barn. The grass surrounded me, as tall as my head, but it did not make me lose my way. I was soon at the front doors. The graveyard had visibly grown since last I had seen it. When was that? Months ago? Time was meaningless. It had been a long time.
I pushed through the cracks of the barn door, and saw my old home. Gone.
There were only so many huts left. Some had been destroyed. Most definitely by mice. Needles lay scattered about. Some were crusted with blood, others had never seen a successful blow. Torn bits of hay lay here and there. My first thought was to bury them.
No.
I did not want to.
The only body I wished to bury was Tilly's.
But she did not deserve a grave among the many others outside. They were faceless, nameless. I could not write, but I could give her importance. I would bury her inside, in the middle of the barn. Alone.
That was when I noticed an orange glow from outside. I walked into a horse stall — strangely empty — and peeked through a crack in the old building's wood.
Master's old house was burning. Not all of it had gone yet, but it was burning. All of the evidence she had ever been there would be gone within a year. I wondered momentarily if she would do the same to the barn, but then I saw her. Her bag on her, something in her hand, she was walking away from the wreckage, out beyond the trees that I had never been past. Where the clay came from, and the ingredients came from, and the teabags came from, and the tomes came from. The world.
It did not interest me. It was a world for Masters. I was a golem.
It occurred to me that I had to honor Master's memory, too. I owed her something.
And so, I turned around, and picked up a needle.
It was a task as worthy as any other.
Mice.
I would kill the mice.


[Excerpts from the journal of Lord Blackwood.]
August 4, 1883:
My continued journey has led me to the island known by many, though recognized by few, the home of ancient Ithaca. Delighted at my happening upon such an auspicious place, I offered a small sum of money to an agreeable resident to act as my guide. I spent that day in his company, with him telling me the local stories that were passed down to him from his grandfather, and his grandfather's grandfather before him, and so on, he claimed. Tales, if believed, that were handed down from Ulysses' own midshipman.
When the sun had hidden its face beyond the far horizon, we retired to my new companion's home, to a dinner of lamb, bread and pickled vegetables. Thereafter, we spoke over wine, and I was regailed with further stories of that ancient voyage. I shall not pen them here, for Homer is a greater poet than I, and I would leave some mysteries for this dear friend of mine to pass on to his grandchildren some day.
August 5, 1883:
As the first rays of the sun found their way through the window, I opened my eyes, and I knew then what I must do. I thanked my most hospitable friend, gathered my belongings, and let him know the quest that had been revealed to me. I would charter a ship, and follow the legendary odyssey of Ulysses myself.
My acquaintance balked at my design, warning me that it was folly, that I would tempt divine wrath. I tried to convince him to look beyond his superstition and join me on my voyage, but he would not accompany me. As we discussed my proposition well in the afternoon, he relented somewhat, informing me of an adventurous neighbor who had purchased his own schooner just weeks prior. With a final word of thanks to my host and his family, I bid them farewell and sought out their neighbor.
August 6, 1883:
Fortune shines upon me. I have met with their neighbor and spoke with him long into the evening. The Captain, for that is what he fancies himself, gave his name as Aeneas, and confided in me that he had long considered a journey such as the one I suggested.
Perhaps he saw this as a sign, an answer to his long-pondered question. Perhaps not. Perhaps it doesn't matter. I paid him a modest sum, and our deal was struck. He would gather supplies and a crew, and we were to sail within the week.
August 10, 1883:
Twelve men, myself, and the Captain. A serviceable crew. Perhaps the dream the Captain and I share isn't such an uncommon one on this propitious isle.
The provisions have arrived and are being loaded this very evening. In an endeavor to gain my sea legs early, I shall be spending this night on the craft.
August 11, 1883:
I have never in my entire wretched life felt so ungodly ill.
August 12, 1883:
By God, it started moving. I threw up carrots this morning. I haven't eaten carrots in years.
Please, lord of mercy, strike me dead.
August 15, 1883:
At long last, I have recuperated to an extent that I am able to move about the deck without keeping always to the rail.
The crew has made no end of jest and jibe at my expense, but they are good lads, experienced all. We have had no issue on our voyage save the contents of my stomach, and are well on our way to the Ottoman Empire, whence, claimed my Ithacan friend, lay the true location of mythical Troy.
We've no desire to get caught up in local affairs, and will only go as close enough to glimpse the mainland. After all, the crew seemed in agreement, 'twould not do for us to get caught up in a war like those in whose steps we follow.
August 17, 1883:
The Barrelman called out a sighting of land at the break of dawn, and, wishing to remain clear of patrolling ships, we turned swiftly north to sight Cicones. Another two days, if the weather remains fair.
I remain eager for our journey to turn back westward, where we need not fear running afoul of an Ottoman fleet. Indeed, I am told, were it not for the swiftness of our small craft, none of the crewmen would have joined our venture.
August 19, 1883:
With no city to loot, the coastline holds no lure to our crewmen as it did to those of Ulysses, and so, in short order, we had had our fill of the sight of coastlines, and headed south and west, to set out on the longest leg of our journey, south and west, to Africa. There, just off the coast of French Tunisia, is said to lie the island of Lotus Eaters.
The last of our fresh supplies have run out with today's lunch, and so we start to our rations of hardtack and rum. It did not take me long to remember why the latter is oft served with the former.
August 25, 1883:
Dark clouds on the horizon this morning, a storm to the southwest, and a big one it seems. The Captain has decided to turn our course north. By my reckoning, we are two days west of Crete, and at the worst this storm could push our course off northwards perhaps to Malta, or, at worst, the southern coast of Sicily. No great loss, as we will be able to correct our course in short order.
August 29, 1883:
Fortune doesn't fain to smile on us, as this blasted storm has continued northward along with us unabated. At this rate, if we wish to continue westward, we must needs turn more sharply north, making our way towards the northern coast of Sicily lest we risk running aground along her eastern shores.
I pray the storm breaks across the island's southern shore, that our journey might continue in peace.
August 30, 1883:
Roiling waters off the shore of the Sicilian isle. Fortune would not favor us this day. Oh but if only the storm would have been the end of it.
Not another ship in sight, nor soul on the land, but from beneath the waves, just off the coast the waters began to chrun and boil in great lines, hundreds of yards long. The crew turned us aside, to keep us far abreast of these uneasy waters, and as we watched, I swear on my honor as an Englishman, we saw a host of warriors rise from beneath the tides. All hefting bronzen arms and chanting as one with a berserk fury.
Even near to a mile away from the nearest of their ranks, we could hear their war cry. My studies of the classics had me here stood in good stead, as I recognized the language of the Greeks.
"Great Mother Halyna, scourge the world of Iron. Fix your wrathful gaze on man, grant them not your spurn. Strip away flesh from flesh, flay alive her foes. Pull them into Mother's grasp, and take away their toes!"
We stood, transfixed to a man. Yet before we could ponder as to what sorcery was afoot to conjure such an army, we beheld Her. Hair as black as midnight, she rose from their midst. Her face was the very image of rage, and as she crested the waves, her myriad tentacles burst forth from beneath the surf, writhing to and fro. With a single shriek, she bade her army forward, across the waves, towards Italy.
My breath caught in my throat, I cast my gaze around the crewmen, men I have grown to know well these past weeks. Finally, my eyes turned to the Captain, whose stern mask had begun to crack, betrayed by the panic in his eyes. We had brought a small handful of rifles to arm the crew as a last holdout against privateers, and my measure of the Captain's bravery was not misplaced as I saw his gaze towards the locked hold where we had the munitions stored. He meant to strike out against this unexpected horror. Thinking quickly, I called out, rallying the crewmen, whose visages belied not but horror.
"Brothers! Hearken unto me! Fate has deigned to set upon us a collision course with a monster— with a legion of monsters! And yet, do not falter! Look around you! We, and we alone are here, chosen to bear witness to this monstrosity, and burdened with the sole responsibility of preventing this dread host from reaching land and bringing her horror down the innocent."
Scant, ragged cheers soon found themselves strengthened to great war cries when bolstered by the sturdy stock of a rifle. In short time, the Captain began moving us towards the advancing host. Roughly a mile wide, and perhaps a dozen ranks deep, her army marched across the surface of the water. As we neared, we could finally see the myriad horrors that replaced her army's legs. From writhing tentacle-like masses of veins, to featureless, porpoise-like flippers, each had had their feet, and oft their entire legs, removed. Removed and replaced, lovingly it seemed, by some new and mad replacement. No two of her soldiers could boast the same form, and yet it seems in their elation of their 'mother', they cared not.
Closer and closer we came, barreling head-on towards them, until, just over a hundred yards from them, we turned broadside. The men were quick to their positions; we would have precious few volleys before we must needs retreat.
"Aim for the witch that commands them!" I called to them. "Rend her from her tentacles! Send her back once more to the briny depths!" A resounding retort answered, rifles firing true, rending the sea witch's body with wounds. A cheer went up among the crew.
In an instant, however, the cheer was drained, as the bleeding witch cackled, lashing out with her many tentacles, pulling her own soldiers into her grasp. She uttered a foul sorcery, and twisted their flesh, pulling them into her. One by one, she plucked them from their march and added their mass to hers. By the time the men had aimed for a second volley, she had grown to the size of an African Elephant.
Screams erupted as her titanic visage turned towards the ship. Rage, a hot red light, shot from her eyes, falling over the Barrelman. We watched in horror as it reduced him to naught but a quivering pool of flesh, dripping from the crow's nest. We adjusted our tack, fleeing this horror, desperate for retreat. Yet whatever speed the craft could muster, the sea witch's growth threatened to overtake. Indeed, her foremost tentacles found their way onto the deck of the ship, pulling the Midshipman and First Mate away, screaming as their legs melted.
A fortuitous wind caught our sails, billowing us out ahead, and yet Neptune does not cast a favor without tempering it with a curse. Before us, not half a mile, began swirling a vast whirlpool, spraying froth two dozen feet high. The crew lamented, fearing this a new spell summoned up by the witch, and yet, to our amazement, something began to emerge from the whorl.
A metal shell, polished like burnished brass, and twice the width of our craft broke from the surf, risen aloft atop six gleaming legs, long and slender. Graceful, like a dancer, they moved. Emerging from the front of this metal titan loomed two tremendous claws, either well capable of reducing our craft to so much driftwood.
And yet, for reasons I confess I do not know with certainty, we were spared its wrath. As a great grinding noise and a burst of hot steam emerged from within the titanic brazen crustacean, the witch issued forth a scream of most primal rage as to shake every man to his core.
Water fell down from above as we passed beneath the long, spindly legs of the metal titan. The Captain gripped tight to the wheel, navigating to avoid crashing into bronzen doom.
Our breath was stolen from our lungs as the machine lunged forward, surging up a great wave which carried us away, towards the distant shores of Italy. We dared not question our luck, and could do little but watch in awe as the titans collided. Massive tentacles twisted and fought for purchase around the hardened metal carapace, while razor-sharp claw tore at the flesh of the titanic witch's breast. Searing blasts of steam shot from cleverly concealed holes atop its carapace to meet the withering rage emanating from her countenance. Their clash is, in my estimation, the most spectacular event to have taken place upon this green Earth. I shall meditate on what I have seen and transcribe every most minute detail of this epic battle on the morrow.
August 31, 1883:
[This page is missing.]
September 1, 1883:
We have arrived safely upon the shores of Italy. Our respects have been paid, and now we shall make inland, to recount what we have seen. I fear the crew have lost their stomach for adventure at sea, as, I believe, have I, for the time.
As I reflect upon the spectacle I have borne witness to, I can come to only one conclusion. Sometimes adventure isn't merely afoot. Sometimes, adventure is the entire damned leg.


Okay, Clown anatomy, capital C, that's where it gets really weird. I mean I can give you the footnotes, sure, but Fuller didn't exactly run seminars on Clown biology. He didn't run seminars period, and frankly neither did Manny or the Ringmaster, but really once you get too esoteric you might as well be preaching to the shareholders.
No, I can't tell you who they are. Not just because it'd break Manny's heart, really, I have zero clue. He sends me bits and pieces every now and then, out of pity or contract or really, maybe the poor lug misses my dashing personality. Buuuuuut yeah, no clue who bankrolls it.
Back to Clowns.
Okay, you gotta understand: it's kinda rude to just walk up to Clown and ask "Hello, sir, madame, or otherwise, what do your insides look like?". Come to think of it, though, a few'd already seen my insides, so I probably stood a better chance. Still, hindsight is 2020, which if the marks on my wall are any indication, 's coming around in four years time. Oh yeah, happy belated anniversary, by the way, here's to ten more years living my best life as the cyclothymia eats me from the inside-out. Don't worry, little joke.
I can give you my best educated guess of course, but keep in mind my schooling stopped at eight. So, three kinds of Clowns exist: "born" Clowns, "bred" Clowns, and "turned" Clowns.
Most Clowns are born Clowns. How? I'm not entirely sure. You can see them coming in and out of the Ways, and they are freaky, Doc. Like a parody of a human. I mean this in the best way possible, of course, and when you think about it we are pretty funny as a species. I was not allowed to talk to the born Clowns.
Now, the turned Clowns…

thwap
thwap
thwap
"Sharp as ever, Barney." In the seconds or so it took to land three bullseyes in a row, Saint's typical deathly silence had erased him from the little unseen world at the back of what Barney knew to be there. Thankfully that die had been cast over the Rubicon, because if Barney had to think about Saint for just a second longer he'd almost certainly have overshot.
Don't get Barney (or, in a more literal sense, Saint) wrong, Saint wasn't the be-all-end-all of his concerns. Barney had trained with clowns, uppercase and lowercase, many of whom played a bigger role in his life at the circus than Saint had. Few of those clowns, however, had been sic'd onto debtors by the Ringmaster with a baton and thirty minutes' time; fewer still had the face of a Renaissance model and the figure of a cartoon heartthrob. As much as Barney understood "fear"1 and "attraction"2, whether or not they were supposed to mix as much as they did in the presence of a Clown was still pretty new territory.
"Scythe would never let me hear the end of a fuck-up. Remember when I got his ear?" Hell of a show, that one. Barney was supposed to stick the eyes, as Scythe and the screeching anxiety at the back of his head loudly reminded him. Should he have shared that story? "Damn, I miss that sunuvabitch." Alright, shut up now. "What's it been, three years?" Why was he like this?
Saint collected Barney's darts, earning another ping from the anxious mass in his block. "Wouldn't even know. Counting the years ain't my forte." God, he even sounded like a vampire on top of looking the part.
Standing almost perfectly still, Saint took his shot, shots, all three of them, trajectory twisting and winding through the air until they found their bullseye, on the board and in Barney's mind's eye.
"Uh…" Okay, out of words, that's a first. All too fitting it's in front of the grimmest Clown of the band. Come to think of it, Barney's silence was making things worse. "Yeah, that's a neat trick. You'll have to show me how to, you know if you want to show me, do that. Maybe not for an act, I don't know if that meshes with the Barney Brand, you know. Of course-"
"Barney?"
Somehow, that shut him up.
"Do I scare you?"
Barney paused, and looked Saint over. The hourglass figure, distorted just enough to veer into the realm of the fantastic. The rough hands, painted fingernails caked with the memories of a dripping red (it smelled of iron) and a viscous black (too runny for Clown milk, too thick for ink). The gentle face near-perpetually marked by a solemnity inappropriate for a Clown, and the way his "facepaint" accentuated every look, glare, gaze, every smile and frown and expression inexpressible in the span of a single word.
"… a little?"

… alright, you sure you want me to continue that story? In short, it's a few months of me being a little less talkative than usual as I navigate the fact that I desperately want to bone a Clown, followed by me… boning a Clown, I guess. What can I say, Saint only vaguely looked like a demented cartoon and I hadn't exactly handled my breakup with Theodore the best I could.
They're… the turned Clowns have mostly the same body plan, I found. They don't produce milk, no, but they do output a lot of sugar. Of course, they eat a lot of it, too. I don't think the born ones even eat that much. They also don't get tired as much, and they're usually pretty happy. I don't know what Saint's deal was, but I think it had something to do with that sister he lugged around everywhere. But that's a story for another day.
Bred Clowns are essentially show dogs to the born Clown's wolf or the turned Clown's permanent werewolf. That's when the body plans get really weird; actually, ironically, looking at them you never got the feeling you did with the born Clowns, and I think that's because of how Fuller and Ringmaster sculpted them.
Bred Clowns had two purposes: shows and Clown milk. They're all sculpted to fit one or both of those niches. In the process, you lose some of the cartoonish horror of the other Clowns. What you gain is a real piece of work, a powerhouse in whatever chosen field you needed. But, we didn't need all that much.
Of course, we had other clowns, lowercase c. That's me, I think? I never had to drink any Clown milk, and I certainly don't feel all too happy, but I guess the gut thing's worth mention.
Oh yeah, if you don't mind me veering off track a little…

Twenty minutes into alternating between shitting out his intestines and puking with enough force to pull them back in, Barney coughed up something he hadn't remembered swallowing.
Whatever it was was long, longer than Barney was tall, a pale ribbon of what he suddenly noticed were legs the size of his fingers. Hundreds of them, scurrying and clicking and probably some other gerundive that his acute nausea was obfuscating. Weary eyes followed a segmented chitinous shell up to a wicked-looking mole's maw, ten compound eyes staring directly into Barney's.
"Poor human," crooned the… thing, Barney guessed, in a soothing echo across the back of his mind. "You must be shocked. Well-"
***
Something sharp stabbed into Barney's thigh, ripping him away from the deceitfully comfortable clutches of a food (poisoning) coma.
"Hey. Mortal." The… the weird worm Barney only vaguely remembered was poking him. "Doing my big entrance, here, I'd love it if you could keep up."
When Barney rubbed his eyes, nothing happened, so he could have safely ruled out "fever dream". Whatever this thing is obviously cared about the spectacle in relation to itself, so it probably wasn't any Death he knew of. This was… probably a Port-O, and Barney liked to think he had a good memory, so this couldn't have been a new freak… you know, if this was Barney's guardian angel, it'd have explained far too much about the procession of his life.
"… hello? Anyone home?"
Barney opened his mouth to say something, then rushed back to the toilet as his gastrointestinal tract resumed its violent rebellion against the rest of Barney.
***
"Are you done crying, mortal? This is really uncomfortable for me."
Barney had run out of tears around ten minutes ago, and was currently waiting for the sink-water he drank to replenish his water supply in general. "… who the fuck are you?"
"Aha, wouldn't you like to know?" He'll give whatever this fucker is this much: it was ready to do what it came here for. "You may call me Eucestodiel. I am an Awakened, a tapeworm having spent 999 days feeding exclusively on the digestive tract of a mortal, and-"

Huh, what's that?
Wait, seriously? Well sirree, you learn something new every day. I would've thought the intestinal tract would be prime munching, but I guess when you're low on the tree of life you make do without that. God, imagine living without a stomach! I don't know if I could.
Either way, they did tell me that they were-

"-a tapeworm having spent 999 days feeding exclusively on the digestive track of a mortal, and have achieved the power of a god."
"… am I hallucinating you? You seem like the kinda thing a guy would hallucinate after a bad meal."
The tapeworm god (or whatever Barney's mind saw fit to torment itself with) probably would have blinked if they had eyeballs. "You are an odd one, mortal. No matter! Gawk and mock to your heart's content, for you are powerless to stop me." Eucestodiel punctuated their monologue with what was probably a laugh, assuming the appropriate amount of anthropomorphization actually applied.
Barney's body groaned. "Yeah, that sounds about right… yeah, go ahead and do…" … wait. "… what are your plans?"
Oh, hey, Eucestodiel actually blinked.
…
"… you do have plans, right?"
…
***
"Alright, lemme get this straight:" Barney took another swig of ginger ale. "You… became a god."
"The difference is negligible."
"You know, I haven't met too many gods, so maybe." Nothing beat chicken soup from the canteen, except chicken soup from literally anywhere outside the circus; Barney could take that up with Fuller, assuming he wanted his ass whooped. "So, you became a god or god-equivalent, aaaaaaand you don't even have a follow-up."
"I was a tapeworm!" Eucestodiel had elected to munch on a choice selection of mystery meatloaf. "My kind is not the kind to plan and scheme."
"But you became a god?"
"Well, what else was I supposed to do?" Barney wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the sight of Eucestodiel's star-shaped maw in action. "Realistically, it's that or a neuron count in the hundreds."
"I wouldn't know."
"Urghhhh, this is the worst day of my life." Finishing a particularly large chunk, Eustecodiel elected to partially flop over onto its back. "You ruined everything! I was going to look dashing and mysterious and important and you ruined it with your sleep and projectile vomit. I hate you and I wish I was dead."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Eustace."
"Eucestodiel."
"Right, right, sorry, bit of a mouthful and you're the first Eucestodiel I know."
Barney took another swig of ginger ale.
"… you ever seen Back to the Future?"
"No?"
"Want to?"

The story ends there, unless you want me to recap the Back to the Future trilogy. You've seen it, right? No? Okay well, to start things off, meet-
Alright, alright. I do recommend watching it, it's a fun night for the family, or maybe just whoever grew up in the nineties or earlier. I still cannot believe that there are real life people that never had to sit through the 9/11 shitshow. I'm telling you, we got that on some of Fuller's radios, and those things are definitely not "American".
Oh, are we still talking about that, Doc? Sorry, I got a little side-tracked. Although, really, pretty sure I left off at the end of where I was going. Fuller sourced his clowns, lowercase c, from pretty much everywhere. Few freaks, few weirdos, maybe some kid Manny nabbed off the street who only knew how to juggle.
Yeah, the Circus was full of all kindsa weirdos…

"I hate bananas." Eucestodiel stood atop their heaping portion of half-bad spinach and mystery meat, an Empressor upon their rancid throne, frying the minds of any bug that dared challenge that title. "I'm genuinely uncertain how you mortals can stand the taste of it. Don't even get me started on your preoccupation with poisonous root vegetables."
"Eh, humans are flippin' weird, little guy. They eat peppers, peppers, for Pagliacci's sake!"
Next to plate, sitting (with great reluctance) on the edge of the tricolor picnic blanket, was the rubberhose Fleischer graduate ('reject' might have better completed the metaphor, but it didn't complete her) known as Lolly. Her plate, by contrast, was stacked with a funnel cake tower the size of an infant, caked in so much powdered sugar it could have killed Barney. That was, of course, ignoring the Clown milk drizzle that definitely would've killed Barney; the fact that this was half of what's left of her second plate could've sent Atlas into diabetic shock alone.
To think, Barney felt bad for his Peanut Butter and Lucy. "Didn't you used to be human?"
"Oh Marone, you gotta bring that up?" Barney couldn't quite tell which splotches on her face were powdered sugar and which were just her normal skin, but then again it was getting pretty late. "I didn't get it when I was humdrum, sure as flip don't get it now."
Eye contact was a bit hard when your friend was devouring funnel cake like a bear eating a toddler. "I'm telling you, you're missing out. Seriously, the stuffed peppers are the only concession I haven't gotten tired of."
"Why would one stuff a pepper?"
"Ehhhh, mostly convenience." Barney wasn't sure if the moonshine should be getting him drunk or burning him back to sober. "You get more out of the pepper, while adding the kind of taste you need to sell the pepper whole. And props to Willis, his are downright sensational."
"It all seems so decadent." Below them, Eucestodiel's army of mindless insect drones patrolled against further invertebrate incursion. "Is it not all the same in one's stomach?"
"Remind me never to let you brainwash one of the cooks."
Lolly had, inexplicably, finished her second plate and, unbound by the need to keep food off the grass, elected to pace and cartwheel around their spot on the hill. Eucestodiel, meanwhile, seemingly realized that yes, they needed to eat, and dug in. In absence of speech, Barney elected to look up to the emerging stars.
Summer was warm; it's the kind of thing Barney wouldn't have thought about in New York, not before the scent of charcoal wafted through the hills, not before the laughter of dozens saturated the breeze. Not without a blanket against grass, stained with powdered sugar and meat juice and the table scraps of flatworm divinity. Not without the Circus.
Barney closed his eyes, and nearly fell asleep.
…

"I'm gonna ask her."

The Ringmaster, Lolly most likely meant. "Well, it's about damn time. I'm no good at arranging weddings, but I'm guessing-"
"No, Motors, I'm being serious."
Barney blinked himself back to the outside world, to Eucestodiel curled on their plate and to Lolly rocking on her heels in a surprising display of restraint, cartoon face marred by a complex expression. It almost hurt to sit up, though perhaps the blanket just felt that good. "I beg your pardon, Lolly?"
"I…" Lolly's wrists shook, and her heart beat visibly against her sternum. "I dunno, it's been-" and then she cut herself off, freezing for the span of a second, before twirling her head around, to find that the three of them were safe with their secrets, and only then did she continue. "I mean Icky's so, so scary. Just thinkin' of her I get a little chilly, in a good way but also bad, like, I dunno, I'm not good enough."
Barney glanced down at Eucestodiel, who, if the phantom clouds of ancient dreams emanating off them were any indication, was fast asleep. "Come on Lolly, you're good enough."
Lolly was pacing, now, still shooting the occasional glances towards left and right and up and down and anywhere where, Barney supposed, she'd think to find Ringmaster. "I don't feel good enough. I'm, I'm weird and cartoonish and like, I'm not so good with magic like her or talking like you or her, and what if she's already found someone? And you know, she's so flippin' beautiful and funny and talented! Me, I'm some dumb runaway off the streets, I can't wield a baton or speak to…" Lolly collapsed onto the blanket. "What if she doesn't like me?"
"Mm. Lolly, I'm sure you're gonna be fine. It's…" Barney sighed. "Love, relationships, whatever you wanna call it, it's not just a list of statistics. Consider why you like her. It can't just be all the cool shit she does, or you'd be falling for the whole Den."
Lolly rolled over to face the sky, opening her mouth to say nothing.
"You're one of Ringmaster's enforcers, right? Take it from someone who dated your coworker: you actually know her, and she knows you. Me, I think she's scary as hell, but beneath her skin's the same kinda heart I've got beating around my chest. And… and if she's anything like the friends I've made along the way, and I know she is, deep down in that horrifying slash uncomfortably attractive exterior… I don't know. I get the feeling she likes you back."
Barney scratched his beard. "I dunno. Take it from a serial monogamist, with or without a grain of salt."
Lolly said nothing, but the smile she flashed could outshine the moon.

… sorry, think I've got something in my eye. You think we could take a break?

Footnotes
1. And he understood that incredibly well.
2. That, less so.


Holiday Art Exchange gift for Naepic.
Credits:

Blurry embers, CC-BY 2.0 John Brooks, with a public domain play button attached to it.
Removed image icon is also public domain, via the Tango! Project
Color Animated fractal ........TendrillonGsr06102006 CC-BY 2.0 SantaRosa OLD SKOOL
Image block coding used from Masquerade's End by Uncle Nicolini

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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

ALL SPaG ERRORS ARE INTENTIONAL; PLEASE DO NOT TRY TO "FIX" THEM! ALL SPaG ERRORS ARE INTENTIONAL; PLEASE DO NOT TRY TO "FIX" THEM! ALL SPaG ERRORS ARE INTENTIONAL; PLEASE DO NOT TRY TO "FIX" THEM!

Crimsonwindbreaker #11899900

guys inee d help. i summoned a god and it hruts.

FatalWalrus #11899902

LMAO what?

Crimsonwindbreaker #11899904

dont fucing laugh a tme

DeliciousMaclunkey 🗿 #11899910

Crimson, if you don't stop being belligerent and start making sense, you're out.

WatchTheSkis #11899924

Dude, seriously. What happened?

Crimsonwindbreaker #11899937

@DeliciousMaclankey im inpa in and none of the pills are worikng, so c utme some slakc.
@Skis I got the wrong kin d of book at the Li brarrry thats what happened.

DeathByPinwheel #11899940

Uhhh what kind of library do you go to where you can summon gods

Crimsonwindbreaker #11899947

It wassome dusty fuckign corner of the counry llbrary, I think in the very back. Its har d to rememr through the pain. They w e re all in werid languges, didn't look like any1 tuohed them in yeasr. Room dindt' look like rest of lirary either. eflt wrong.
Book was on pedstal, had a werid cylcone on the cover. whY was i suo goddnam stupi?d

MissTurbown #11899950

I find it hard to believe you just happened to find a part of your library that sells actual magic books, and yet you only took one.
And why are you on here, if you are in so much pain? You should be getting help.

FatalWalrus #11899958

They're bullshitting out their ass, ofc. They find a part of the forums that've been unused for a long time, and make something up to get eyes and internet brownie points on them.

MissTurbown #11899960

If you think they are lying, why are you even here?

FatalWalrus #11899965

I want to see how long it takes for them to slip up >:)

Crimsonwindbreaker #11899969

Blacke dout. gonna grEEntxet the rest before i pass out for godo.

> grab the book
> turn around and bail the fuck out f that room
> make a mad dash to the counter
> put the book on the chekcout
> lirariban givs me the evleye, bt doesn't even blink at the book befre she rings it up
>stff it in my bag and gtfo
>return home adn collapae on the couch
>stare at te book for a while, then open it up
>everythings written in the same fukcing gibbresh as the other booksbacl there
>i keep turning the pages, tring to find //something/ that makes sense
>feel like harts gointo brak outof my chest the longe ridon ' t
>finally see what looks like latin, surrounding a painting of a foot that taks up half the page
>knowlege of latins rusty af, but said smth like "dont say her name or shewll come"
>ignore it lik dumfcck i am and say the name. might'v butchered it, didn't matter
>all the hairs on mybody stand up at one, feel statc and metal taste in air, thn bright liht
>standing in fro ntof coffee table is tan woman w pitcblack hair, and i sihtyounot fuCKING TENTCLES WHER HER LEGS HOULD B
>both of us stare at each other; dont know how long
>she starts speakin in some strange, raspy language: like nothin ive ever heard before, and coldn't understand nearly any of it.
>bits i can rembmber; "sar kick", "hall coast", "heritc", "flesh"
>th she fucking //grinne/d at me, did somg with her hands, then tOOK MY tOES

FatalWalrus #11899971

Cool story bro. Also nice.

Crimsonwindbreaker #11899975

Our media player is incompatible with your browser. We apologize for the inconvenience.

call itfake if you want. But i was smart, and whiped out my phone and recorded it as soon as that bich started speaking. im shit with vieo editing, so icouldnt fake this even i fiwanted to.

FatalWalrus #1189977

Holy fuck.

Crimsonwindbreaker #11899980

REMOVED -🗿.

notso funny now isit, you fucc? and thsis what that [removed by moderator] did to m yfoot.
 [USER WAS PERMA'D FOR THIS POST. Reason: inflammatory and derogatory language, gore-posting, Jesus H fucking Christ]

FatalWalrus #1189981

What the fuck dude I agree with Turbown go to a hospital

EminemEatingM&Ms #1189982

If you actually cut your toes off, that's some commitment to your trolling.
 [USER WAS BANNED 1 WEEK FOR THIS POST. Reason: We don't need a peanut gallery for this.]

ScepticalPingu 🗿 #1189985

Fucking hell. All right, this thread's getting locked, and the authorities in Crimsonwindbreaker's area have been notified. I'm disappointed in all of you for feeding into this.

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The group of Serpent's Hand members panted as they collapsed into the Wanderer's Library, their Way closing behind them.
For a moment, they were afraid. Afraid of the locusts that had been swarming behind them just moments ago. But the Way was closed, and everyone was okay. They'd survived.
But others weren't so lucky.

As the empathetic employees of Wondertainment scrounged lands yet to be ravaged by the swarm, opening Ways to Wonder World!™ for anyone they could find, two women spoke on the top floor of Wonder Tower.
"How many have been bought in so far?" Dr. Holly L. Wondertainment asked, rubbing her forehead.
Her assistant, Judy Papill, responded with a number higher than she wanted to hear.
"Well… If… if this is unavoidable we might as well give them the refuge they need in their final moments."
"But we—"
Looking up from her clipboard, Judy saw tears falling from Holly's eyes. "I don't know what else to do, Judy." She sniffled. "I just… I didn't think it'd happen like this. So… so quickly. But it's okay…"
"Okay?"
"Yes…" Holly replied, her legs wobbling as she stood up from her chair. "At least…"
Judy lurched forward, hugging the final Dr. Wondertainment as tears began to waterfall down her face. "At least we're here together."
Far down below, at the bottom of the tower, a frazzled man came sprawling out of a Way, and the Wonder World!™ denizens helped him to his feet. "Thank you! Thank you for saving me!"
The pure gratitude completely drowned out the sound of wings buzzing as locusts crawled out from under his clothes, ready to feed on a whole new land.

"All clothes must be taken off! Nothing can be taken inside! Everyone is subject to an inspection! None of those pests are getting into Three Portlands, y'hear?!" The UIU Director shouted into a megaphone, looking over the lines of uncomfortable citizens.
Agent Tosh Reddy scoffed as he finished inspecting a naked, sobbing young woman. "Go on to the Way, the agents up there will help you get to safety." Nodding, she swallowed the vomit that was daring to spurt from her mouth and ran forward. Tosh sighed. "Nex—"
A gunshot rang out from the checkpoint nearby, and Tosh craned his neck to see a man fall to the floor, blood gushing from his stomach. The agent who had shot him kneeled down with a bottle of pesticide— the only one that even had some effect on the locusts— and sprayed it into a small, barely-noticeable cut on his back. Three locusts flew from the corpse, and Tosh swore he could hear a high-pitched cry before they shriveled up and died.
He shook his head, looking back to his checkpoint. No point in worrying too much…
"Next!" Tosh shouted, and another man stepped forward. He was shivering, a static worry plastered onto his face. As Tosh looked him over, he opened his mouth only to let out a cough, which descended into dry-heaving before stopping instantaneously. "Are you okay?"
He didn't respond.
"Well…" Just shaken, most likely. And understandably so. But he was all clear, no cuts or anything. "You're free to go on. The other agents will help you get to safety."
The man silently walked forward, every step weightless as something within him began to wriggle. After waiting in yet another line, he stepped through the Way, finally looking up to the busy city of Three Portlands, where citizens were handing out clothes and food to all the newcomers.
Someone tapped on his shoulder, offering him a robe.
They barely had any time to react when locusts burst from the man's chest, hungry for more.

Back in the Wanderer's Library, the group of Serpent's Hand members watched a set of bookshelves crumbled into nothingness.
Another world had ended, and dust was all it left behind.
As they moved on, bidding farewell to their lost knowledge, a single locust crawled from the remains of the shelf with only one desire: to feed.

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