Alright, everyone let's - everyone? Alright, let's sit down. Today, I want to welcome you all to the first meeting of Mobile Task Force Sigma-3. Well, the new Sigma-3. We don't have a nickname yet, but that's not particularly important. We can discuss it later.
So, as you know from the pre-meeting reading- the, uh, five hundred pages of light reading- this task force came about after the incident with the uncontained anomaly known as the Library. Mobile Task Force Sigma-3, with support from Rho-2 and Beta-18, attempted to contain it. Well, invade might be a better word. Howe-
Yes, Dr. Yi?
No, the documents are correct. We don't know precisely when this happened. Foundation documentation, readouts of non-anomalous indicators that correlate with the event, even memories of those directly involved, they're all contradictory and give different times and places for the event.
That being said, about 70% of the documentation puts the event in a three-week window in December of last year, with the teams entering from several Ways found in the greater metro Atlanta area. So we're reasonably sure that that is the time and place. We believe that it has something to do with the nature of the Library and the entrance of Sigma-3, Beta-18, and Rho-2 into an area called "the Archives." But that's mostly conjecture.
Anyway, as you no doubt have read, what happened next was, uh, well, it was a clusterfuck. The anomaly - it has extensive self-defense mechanisms, which it made use of. We were expecting some pushback, but mostly from the patrons.
What we got instead was, well, Rho-2 suffered a 100% casualty rate.
Beta-18 managed to make it out of the Way with two members. Sigma-3 was luckier, making it out of there with five.
If those of you who were in the first version of Sigma-3- if you could just raise your hands, then we- no one? Alright, well I suppose that that's fair. I don't think I'd want to either.
At any rate we don't think that those listed as MIA have been killed, but rather, um, transformed into servants of the Library. So that's nice, I suppose.
What? No, there's not much we can do to get them back, at least for the time being. They are fine, after a sort.
Since then, attempts by Foundation and D-Class personnel to enter known Ways has lead to either being immediately captured by the Library, probably for use as servants, or else walking into a plane of fire or caustic gas or some other nasty thing. So we're discontinuing exploration into the Ways, at least for the time being.
The thing is that the white paper, the, uh, the Kamelov memo - about the Library being "a loaded weapon" - it wasn't wrong. The Library represents a threat to normalcy. It serves as a base for terrorist groups. It has served as the point of origin for several hugely disruptive anomalous events. We need to deal with it.
But our previous attempts- trying to watch from behind bushes and never involving ourselves or getting our hands dirty? That didn't work. You just read five hundred pages about how badly it failed. Hell, some of you can say firsthand how badly it failed.
Which brings me to why we're here. Majority decision by the O5 council has ruled that Sigma-3 is changing its focus. We are now going to be doing hands-on investigations of anomalous phenomenon. This means interacting with Type Blues - wizards, uh, shamans, sorcerers. No more of this "Witchfinders General" crap. More deep cover cooperation wit-
Agent Smithson? Yes, yes it does. But the Foundation's mission isn't necessarily black and white. In the best of all worlds, yes, we would maintain an absolute distance between ourselves and the anomalous world. But that's no longer feasible. In the best of all worlds, we wouldn't have to do the horrible shit that we do in the name of protecting people. So this is a fairly minor compromise.
Think of it this way: letting smaller stuff slide in order to focus on and coordinate against more significant threats. Like a CI. Er, that's confidential informant, I mean.
Anyway, some schmuck in Hoboken who moves dish soap with his mind isn't the same level of threat as a death cult trying to summon an elder god. In the past, we've gotten lucky and mostly caught these things before they blew up. But there have been a lot of close calls. Too many.
But the thinking is, if we maybe manage to, y'know, infiltrate the community, the, uh, "anomalous underground," like they say, we can learn about some of this stuff earlier. Give us time to prep, note threats as they emerge. We can't contain the Library, but we can mute its influence, or at least the disruptive stuff. Violent terrorists, dangerous or noticeable anomalies, dark gods, that sort of thing. And if the price for that is letting the dish soap guy go free, then that's fine by me.
Yes, Perez? Oh, uh, no. Not as of yet. For obvious reasons, members of the Hand that are in Foundation custody- they're not super excited about the possibility of informing on their comrades in arms. Right now, we're looking at offering a sort of commuted sentence to some of the less dangerous anomalous entities that can offer us connections to lower-level people.
What? Right, no, I know. "Commuted sentence" was probably not a good choice of words. Maybe something more like "we'll leave the door open, and if you happen to leave, well then maybe we won't look too hard for y-"
People, calm down! Quiet! Jesus, alright? I get that this is a shift, but seriously. We're not releasing anything dangerous, here, alright. We're talking dish soap guy again.
Low level Blues, sometimes wanderers from other worlds. People that we don't do any research on, we just lock them up because that's what we feel we should do. People that don't pose any real threat to the Masquerade, but maybe were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I know that the pack rat thing is what we pride ourselves on, but it's not always the most useful mentality. These people can give us an in. We're giving them a second chance.
Yes, Agent Johnston?
"Kumbaya bullshit?" Really? Great. I'll be sure to pass that upstairs. They'll definitely consider it.
I mean, yes, we'll be interacting with weirdos. Probably even some people with the Hand. But it's not as though we're going to be going on magical fairy rides or whatever with them. Like I said, we can't use Ways any more, and that's how they get around. What we are doing, though, is trying to work our way into the anomalous community. Think of it as deep cover, alright?
What was that Lee? You need to, uh, you need to speak u- ah! Alright, that's a fair question.
There are a few reasons, and it depends on where you're coming from. Some of you were selected because of your, uh, your firsthand knowledge of the Library, for better or for worse. And those of you on the old Sigma-3 - back when it was "Witchfinders General" - have probably the most extensive working knowledge of the Serpent's Hand and its operations of anyone in the Foundation. Not directly applicable, but still it has the potential to be useful.
As for the rest of you? It depends, like I said. Some of you are trained in research, infiltration, all that fun stuff.
Yes, Perez? What? No! Sweet Christ, no!
Let me be clear here: there is a blazing, huge line between "integrating ourselves with the anomalous community" and "being goddamn wizards." People who can do it naturally are freaks - sometimes useful freaks, but still freaks. The Foundation locks them up or, if we find it useful, maybe release them and use them as a contact. We do not employ them, at least intentionally.
As for the other stuff, rituals and all of that? Things where ordinary people can do it? That is acceptable, if avoiding it would blow your cover. But we're not going to try to do this stuff on our own for fun. Leave that to the Hand and the GOC. We'd be out of our depth very, very quickly. And you don't screw around with magic.
Are there any other questions?
Look, I know that this is a lot to take in. But think of it this way: that uneasy feeling you're having? About wandering into a world you didn't even know existed? That's what you felt - or at least, that's what I felt - when you joined the Foundation.
We're still working for humanity. Still preserving the world. Just trying to be smart about it.


Via Davis (Current Foundation Personnel)

Davis: I can't believe you're making me sit in for one of these.
Dr. Arthur Howell: The supervisor is still a member of the team, Ms. Davis.
Davis: Missus. I'll play along. Get it over with.
Howell: During the operation, you gave the order to prioritize the detonation of the explosive charges over the preservation of the task force, despite detonation being a non-required secondary objective. Why did you make that decision?
Davis: Because it was up to me.
Howell: What was your reasoning?
Davis: I don't know if you were informed on the nature of the task force they stuck me with, but they're not trained Foundation soldiers. They're prisoners we've already pumped for information. This is what our bosses do with them because they're slightly too useful to execute.
Howell: So you view them as tools.
Davis: Oh, they're a bunch of tools, alright.
Howell: How's your marriage doing?
[Davis remains silent.]
Howell: You said you're a missus, right?
Davis: I did. I'm the only married member of the team. I don't think any of the others are even capable of forming interpersonal bonds. Have you seen the so-called art we've had to scrape off the walls of the hipster girl? My lord, did she smuggle in a blood bank?
Howell: I hope this disregard for the value and safety of others is strictly in a professional context.
Davis: You nasty little… Listen, Doctor, you can get into my head all you want. Make whatever judgments about me you like. I know who I am. The people you work for know who I am. That's why they stuck me here with the human waste products. I'll play along with what games you have planned. But I swear to God in heaven, I will do what I can with the power I'm given to ruin you as a professional and a human being if you do not leave my wife out of it.
Howell: I understand. Let's move on…

Dominic Alvares (Former Serpent's Hand Member)

Howell: Alright, Mr. Alvares.
Alvares: Just “Alvares”.
Howell: Okay, Alvares. Your part of the mission was to set the—
Alvares: [tapping his fingers on the table next to him] The perdition charges.
Howell: That's right. Then, when the facility went into lockdown and the two squads were separated, you, Simmons, and Grenich—
Alvares: Hotwired their teleport system and rigged it to take us all out. Yeah.
Howell: Why do you keep finishing my questions for me?
Alvares: [tapping more quickly] Because you take too long to ask them. You know you can't send me out with those assholes if you bore me to death.
Howell: Okay. How did you feel when Mrs. Davis ordered you to not to leave the bombs?
Alvares: How do you feel when someone literally orders you to fuck off and die?
Howell: I see your point. So you—
Alvares: I mean, don't bullshit me on this. She thinks she's the big dog and she can just go “yap yap yap” and we'll gladly blow ourselves up. People like her have been fucking with me all my life. I'm talking grade-school teachers, probation officers, this fucking 800-year-old tick on my balls that no god or man can yank off. Same species.
Howell: It sounds like you have a history of blaming—
Alvares: Other people? Everyone's looking to fuck me over. Everyone I meet… and I don't say this lightly, I mean literally every people I've met… has some use they're trying to get out of me. You're gonna take me through it and twist my words and make it look like I'm out of my mind with paranoia. Like I'm wrong about everything I know. Then you win.
Howell: I just want to find out how you're feeling.
Alvares: [cracking joints in his hands and arms] Pissed? Is that a good enough diagnosis or do you want a textbook word for it? I get the whole “order through eternal prison” gag. You didn't invent it. But to do that, and then stick me on a hit squad with a failed bureaucrat, a nurse, some kind of mall-goth terrorist, an angry teenager, and a magic plumber – the only one of you I could respect, by the way, and he's dead – and I get a strong inclination that I'm the only one who had any idea what I was actually doing out there, blowing up army wizards with bombs you stole from terrorist wizards. Not to impugn your four years of medical school or anything, man.

Clara Berlot (Former Are We Cool Yet Member)

Howell: Let's start, Cl—
Berlot: My name is [shouted] Aries!
Howell: Alright, Ms. Aries. Hmm. It says in your record that you were born in February.
Berlot: First off, fuck you. Second off, yeah, I'm a Pisces. So what?
Howell: Then why Aries?
Berlot: Because I will ram a fucker.
Howell: I understand that you were on the half of the task force which obtained the location of the project being targeted so that the other three could place the charges. But while you were headed to rendezvous with the rest of the team, you were stopped by a GOC agent who wanted to check on you, correct?
Berlot: Oh, the fucking… army wizard? The beady-eyed asshole with the mustache? The guy who was all “can I help you, ma'am” in that piggy voice he had?
Howell: Yes.
Berlot: Nope, no idea who you're talking about.
Howell: I understand that, when you didn't answer and he became suspicious, you shot him with your silenced pistol in the stomach and head and kicked his body into the nearest storage room. Why did you make this decision?
Berlot: Because I live for the approval of angry lesbians.
Howell: Can you elaborate?
Berlot: Chicken butt.
Howell: Excuse me?
Berlot: Oh, I thought you said “what?”
Howell: Are you saying that you're attracted to Mrs. Davis?
Berlot: [laughs for two minutes and fifteen seconds] Do I look like I'm into women to you?
Howell: I can't really tell by looking. What is your orientation, if I may ask?
Berlot: Can't lie, doc. I'm only attracted to blood. Not the rest, just the red gushy stuff. Know what that makes me?
Howell: What's that?
Berlot: A hemosexual.
Howell: Interesting. I was looking over the background information that the Foundation gave me about your past, and I was interested in how much your behavior has changed between now and a year ago, while you were working toward a gallery exhibition. Your interviews portray you as kind and emotionally open. Has anything in particular happened since to change the way you approach people?
Berlot: A lot of people ask me, am I afraid of death? Hell yeah, I'm afraid of death. I don't want to die yet. A lot of people think that I worship the devil. That I do all types of TARDIS shit. Look, I can't change the way I think. And I can't change the way I am. But if it offended you, good, cause I still don't give a fuck.
[On later research, this and all of Ms. Berlot's subsequent answers for the rest of the session were found to be partially-remembered lyrics from the album The Slim Shady EP by Eminem.]
Howell: Interesting. So do you think that your changes in mood have been brought on by a fear of your own mortality?
Berlot: I'm zoning off the joint, stopping a limo. Cop in the window shopping a demo at gunpoint. A lyricist without a clue, what year is it? Fuck a needle, here's a sword, body fierce with this. Living a month, never giving a fuck. Give me the keys; I'm drunk and I've never driven a trunk. But I smoke dope in a crab. I'll stab you with the sharpest knife I can grab. Come back the next weekend, re-open your scab.

Isaac Grenich (Former Chaos Insurgency Member)

Howell: How are you feeling, Mr. Grenich?
Grenich: It's Mister Grenich.
Howell: That's what I said.
Grenich: Really? Huh. I.. uh… how I'm feeling? Yeah, no, I can tell you. So there's this story that Aleister Crowley used to tell, more like a joke, about being in the back of a cab. No, wait. It was a train. Or a traincar. Or is that the same thing? So, this train, I mean, uh, Crowley, he says… no, wait, first he has to go there. Hold on, I can remember it.
[Mr. Grenich's full response has been excised for length and relevance.]
Grenich: So he says, “That's fine, my brother's an invisible snake!” No, wait, his brother is trying to catch the snake. I fucked it up. But, yeah, I think that sums up my mood right now.
Howell: Interesting. Your role in the mission, according to my field notes, was essentially to be conspicuous on the record as a member of the Insurgency. You used the teleportation system with a faulty ID and you and Alvares worked on those stolen bombs together. How do you feel about that?
Grenich: Not sure. Well, sure, I know everything I'm feeling, but that's hard to sum up in a sentence. I can say that I'm not happy with being placed as bait. I know that much. But at the same time… it made me the most important person on the team by a mile. Which is a good place to be. Under certain circumstances. I remember one weekend, the dreadlords thought my wing did a good job, so they gave us the mummified remains of… not Jim Morrison, but one of the Doors. And so we set about the business of disassembly and reappropriation.

Jeff Simmons (Former Richard and Sons Gateway Service Member, Deceased)
As Mr. Simmons was lost during Mission Σ-66-11, there is no post-mission interview with the late agent. In its stead, here is a second excerpt from the “Alvares” interview in which the agent describes Mr. Simmons.

Howell: You said that you respected Mr. Simmons. Can you expand on that?
Alvares: Are we going to do the whole “sob sob remembering the departed” thing? No, fine, Geronimo. Jeff was the best of you people because he had no bullshit. Artists are bullshit, doctors are bullshit. Magicians are more bullshit than man. Jeff went to work, made good, solid metal equipment, installed it in dimensional portals, came home in the evening to drink and screw and sleep, and got up to do the same thing tomorrow. I respect a man who works with his hands.
Howell: I can sympathize.
Alvares: I guess that's why he went down. You need a certain level of bullshit to survive in this environment. [drinks from a glass of water] Although…
Howell: What is it?
Alvares: Fuck. Fuck, I just know it's… okay, that walleyed bastard. Elrich. Erlich.
Howell: Grenich.
Alvares: Whatever. He and Simmons were having this argument that afternoon. Some political squabble about, uh… US government, neoliberals, the usual. And when Simmons cut it off and left, Grimace had this look about him. That look that says “I'd cut your throat but I'm too good to get your blood on my shirt.” And when we were in the shit, and I was explaining to Jeff how the setup in the teleporter system is basically a networked version of a system he's worked with a hundred times, I could swear I saw Gergitch screwing with it. He told us that he thinks Jeff couldn't get through because of a sloppy connection. He sees us as sheep. Like we'll just believe that Jeff made a basic mistake on something not far off from his whole livelihood.
Howell: So you think that Mr. Grenich deliberately caused Mr. Simmons's death?
Alvares: I'm telling you, man. Watch the chaos magician.

Cassandra Jackson (Former Manna Charitable Foundation Member)

Howell: How are you feeling, Dr. Jackson?
Jackson: I've been better, Doctor… what can I call you?
Howell: Dr. Howell is fine. I'm sorry to hear that.
Jackson: I've been worse, too, to be clear. This isn't the first time I've been detained during my work. If I make it back out to the field, it probably won't be the last. And I've had to give aid to nastier people than this cageful of whiny sociopaths.
Howell: You do have an impressive record. You've spent fifteen years with the medical wing of the MCF, “Doctors Without Existential Boundaries”. It's taken you all over the world treating conditions that typical medical professionals couldn't fathom.
Jackson: Oh, the basics still apply. Turn it inside out, fill it with tiny screaming robots, whatever, it's still the human body. Can I smoke in here?
Howell: That should be fine.
Jackson: Thanks.
Howell: I'm just wondering how you feel after the mission you were sent on, specifically regarding your part in it.
Jackson: Right, right. Specifically my role? All I did was put on a uniform and look like I knew what I was doing. Now, the Foundation's real intention here, that's what I'm concerned with.
Howell: What do you mean “real intention”?
Jackson: We're on need-to-know. They told us we had to sneak into a GOC headquarters, find a certain magic project the Coalition's working on, and sabotage it with Chaos Insurgency weapons.
Howell: Right. Go on.
Jackson: They don't explain why we're specifically pretending to be CI. The clear implication was that it's a simple false-flag against a Foundation enemy. The rest of the team doesn't really care either way, to be honest.
Howell: I see.
Jackson: But they can't expect us to not know anything about the rumblings in the community, right? Keeping up with the CI is part of my job, from how often we have to clean up their disasters. I know about the treaty.
Howell: I should tell you this session is being recorded.
Jackson: I don't care if they hear me. I can't say I'm surprised that the Foundation would pull something like this. I'm disappointed that it's in such an underhanded way, but the basic motivation is just like them. They just see that the GOC is helping the CI and they want to make sure the bad guy doesn't score points. Is the agreement ideal? Is it even a guarantee, knowing the CI? No, but it might have stopped up to a dozen insurgent attacks over the next several years. Hell, it might have stopped one. If you were to walk into the aftermath of a single one of those strikes, through the ash and the wailing, if you were to get in there and start pulling out wreckage because you can hear… no, the story doesn't cut it. Just trust me. It doesn't matter who made you mad or how unreliable the piece of paper might be. I just need to believe there might be a way out.
Howell: This next question is going to sound callous, but it's just for the record.
Jackson: It's fine. I know you have a job to do.
Howell: If you feel so strongly about the mission, why did you cooperate?
Jackson: Because that woman had her finger on the button. She knows I'm dangerous, and while she's not made of stone like she expects you to think, she leaves her feelings at the door when it comes to those missions. It's how she proves herself. If I showed even the warning signs of giving her up, out there, I'd be dead before the words could leave my mouth.
Howell: If you had somehow been able to neutralize the mission, but die in the process, would you have done it?
Jackson: The moment I knew I could.

| Stick the Landing >


For the first time in five years, Amy slept peacefully. No nightmares. No panic attacks in the middle of the night. She woke with no aching in her joints, no cramped muscles. She opened her eyes. A comforter swathed her. The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp in the corner. The bed she lay in was big enough for two people, with blankets the color of bright lipstick. A nightstand beside it held a silver tray piled with food. Looking at it made her stomach rumble. She tossed the covers to the side, propped herself up, reached for the tray, and stopped.
Where the hell was she? The last thing she remembered was running through the caves, being chased by… whatever those fucking things were. She glanced around the room, but it didn't offer any answers. The walls were bare, aside from the single window. Other than the bed and nightstand, there was no furniture. A closet on the wall opposite was open, empty.
Amy rolled to the edge of the bed, looking down at herself. The white jumpsuit that had been her uniform for the past five years was gone. It had been replaced by a set of cashmere pajamas, the fabric so dark it seemed like it might leave stains. The pain in her shoulder was gone. She lifted her feet, stared at the soles. Not a scratch.
Okay. Time to consult the expert. You there? she thought.
Yes.
Any idea what's going on? Amy lifted herself from the bed, stepped over to the window. The blinds were drawn.
Most likely, we are being held prisoner. I lack information to guess further than that.
She opened the blinds. Her eyes widened. Outside, it was night. They must have been ten stories up, above a street of bumper-to-bumper traffic. People swarmed around each other on the sidewalks- many had umbrellas, and she realized it was drizzling. Across from the window was a row of buildings, each at least fifteen stories high. Fuck me, she thought.
That eliminates many of the worst possibilities. We are, at the very least, in your home universe.
Okay, so what's left? She craned her neck, trying to get a glimpse of anything that would give her more information. What city was this? New York? She'd never been, but it looked like the pictures.
Similar possibilities, with a slightly higher chance of escape. The voice hadn't finished speaking when Amy heard the door open behind her.
She turned. A tall, tan-skinned man stood in the entry-way. Black, curly hair fell to just above his shoulders, well-framing his already attractive features. Stubble covered his chin. He wore blue jeans, and a grey button-up poked out from a green sweater. Smiling, he shut the door behind him. “You're awake. Wonderful.”
Amy eyed him suspiciously. The friendliness was obviously an act. If he had anything to do with those creatures chasing her, he couldn't be trusted. And he was blocking the door. “Who are you?”
“My name's Rupinder.” He extended a hand. She didn't react, and after a moment, he drew it back. “I apologize for the behavior of my underlings. They're effective, but can get a bit rowdy if unsupervised. I hope it won't mean we can't get along.”
He is telling the truth, said the Witness. Or a supremely good liar.
Amy struggled to maintain a poker face. She crossed her arms. “You mean those fucking claw-things.”
“They prefer to be called the Nish-Hyet.” The smile didn't drop as he spoke.
“They broke my shoulder.”
“We fixed it.”
“They beat the shit out of me.”
“And they have been appropriately reprimanded for that.” He motioned towards the nightstand. “Aren't you hungry?”
She ignored the question. “They killed two people.”
Rupinder raised an eyebrow. “As I understand it, both of those people were helping to hold you captive.”
“That doesn't mean you kill them!” The words came out more forcefully than she intended, and she snapped her mouth shut. Why was she so worked up? She'd barely known Doctor Galloh. Ed had been alright, sure, but still… two days ago she'd have thought she wouldn't give two fucks whether he lived or died.
It is not to your benefit to antagonize these people, said the ever-monotone voice. It doesn't seem he intends to hurt you. It is possible he intends to offer assistance. Amy gritted her teeth. Fine. She would see what the game was.
“Few people have the right to do anything,” said Rupinder. “Yet we do anyway.” He stepped aside, motioning for her to exit the room. “Please, come. I will explain further.”
She glanced at him, then to the door, then stepped past into the hallway. It was about fifteen feet long, stretching out in both directions, well-lit by fluorescent panels across the ceiling. The floor was covered by a fuzzy red carpet that tickled her bare feet. Rupinder walked forward and motioned her to follow.
He continued to talk as they traveled down the hall. “Again, I apologize for any harm that came to you. Attempting to steal from the Foundation is… not a task most can undertake lightly. Doing so without any collateral damage…” he laughed. They came to a staircase. He began to descend the steps two at a time. Amy, barely five foot five, had to move double-time to keep up. “Even with help it's doubtful. Particularly help from the Insurgency. We fixed everything we could.”
“Great. Cool. You got a point?” Amy tried to make her voice threatening, but she was still too disoriented to nail the effect.
Rupinder didn't look back. He rounded the bottom of the stairwell, into a large room that looked like the lounge of an upscale hotel. An ornate chandelier from the ceiling. The floor was covered in a blue-green carpet, patterned in spirals that made Amy think of ocean reefs. Couches were arranged around a flat-screen TV that took up almost a third of a wall- it looked like it was showing Ocean's Eleven. A man and a woman sat on the couch. In the corner, a second man was reading a book. No one reacted to Rupinder and Amy's approached. “The point is, we desire your services.”
“You're not getting them,” said Amy. She crossed her arms, hoping it would look tough.
An entryway to the left led to a small kitchen sectioned off by a granite counter. Rupinder walked over, opened the fridge door, and retrieved two cans of Diet Coke. He offered one to Amy. She shook her head. He shrugged and placed it on the counter. “As you wish.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Rupinder sipped his drink. “Take, or don't take, what you want. Stay or go as you please. We won't stop you leaving.”
The words processed in her brain. She remained silent.
“However,” he said, placing his Coke next to the unopened can on the counter, “we are the only thing shielding you from the Foundation's search. Do you know how long escaped humanoids evade them, alone? Three days on average. Rarely longer than a week. And if you don't assist us, we see no reason to assist you.”
He let the statement linger. Amy stared at the floor. She bit her lip. Dammit. He could have been lying, but she doubted it. She'd only seen a small portion of her captor's - the Foundation, she assumed - resources, but what she saw made it clear they didn't let people out of their grip easily. She sighed. “By my assistance, you mean-”
“The Witness, yes.” Rupinder nodded.
She grimaced. “No way. You think I'm just gonna spend the rest of my life- whatever the hell that is anymore- being your slave?”
He smiled. “Concerned you'll just be moving to a different kind of prison? Fair. One job. All we need. You'll be free to go and we'll continue to protect you from the influence of the Foundation.”
“You expect me to trust this.”
Rupinder shrugged. “I expect you to make the choice best for yourself.”
Amy looked around the room, glancing at the people on the couches, the television, the pantry stocked with more food than she had ever seen outside of a grocery. She thought of what it would be like, to walk outside again after five years. Real outside, not the fake habitats they'd occasionally let her into. She thought of eating real food, seeing new movies, meeting new people. She thought about seeing storms, or snow, or the sun. And most of all, she thought of who she'd been taken from.
“I need to think about it.”
Rupinder nodded. “Of course.”
She wandered back into the lounge, her hands in her pockets. Three paintings decorated a section of wall. Moving in for a closer look, she glanced back at Rupinder. He was still in the kitchenette, but his eyes hadn't left her. She turned to the paintings.
The first was of a man astride a pure-black horse. He wore a long red coat that billowed in the wind. One hand gripped the colt's mane, the other thrust a thin saber towards the sky. His face, smeared with dirt, was contorted into a furious roar, or perhaps a cry of fear. Around him a great battle raged- explosions marking the Earth, men eviscerating one another with bullet and blade, air filthy with shrapnel and smoke.
“A wonderful piece,” said a rasping voice behind her. The reading man had put down his book and approached her. “Sadly, the artist's name is long lost. A victim of an unprepared world.”
“Uh huh,” she said. It was difficult to guess his age- older than forty, probably not older than sixty. His thick blond hair was touched at the edges by gray, and lines marked the edges of his mouth and eyes. He wore a red and white silk shirt that hung almost to his knees, black pants beneath. There was a hungry look in his eyes as he stared at the painting.
He offered a hand. “I have heard much of you. It is an honor. I am Amon.”
“That's great.” She turned back to the painting. It almost seemed familiar, but any time she got close to the idea of how it slipped away.
Amon gestured at the paintings. “I selected all of these, from my personal collection. The finest I have found in years of travel.” He sighed. It sounded exaggerated. “It's a pity, how this world treats art. They don't know what it means to search. To scour a world for years in hunt of a true masterpiece. For them, it's as easy as trading stock, giving bills.”
“Look, I'm not in the mood for this. Go bother someone-” she turned and stopped. The man had disappeared. In his place a swarm of wasps churned the air, crawled across walls, littered the floor. A cow's skull sat suspended in the center of the mass, hovering almost six feet off the ground. As she stared, the skull shifted, and the buzzing of wasp wings made a noise that sounded like “Is everything alright?”
You must escape came the voice of the Witness. These are not people to be trusted.
It was the Witness' doing. Showing her the man's true nature. She blinked and managed to stammer out, “Uh… y-yes…” She glanced to the left. Where the man and woman had sat on the couch were two grey-skinned creatures. The ones that had chased her through the caves. She gulped.
Okay. How do we get out?
The most efficient way to do so without risking notice would be a rite.
And what is that exactly? She looked back at the swarm. “Um. This is interesting, but I really just need some time to think right now.”
The skull nodded. “I understand. You have had quite an experience.” The swarm drifted back to the chair. Hundreds of wasps settled on a book and lifted it to the skull.
A less refined being might refer to it as magic.
Uh, you realize most people don't know how to do that, right?
That is unfortunate. However, had you no aptitude for it, we would have been unable to bond. I will be able to walk you through the steps of a simple rite. Arditio's Curtain. Find a place you will not be seen, and some way to write. It need not be ink.
It probably wouldn't be a good idea to just ask for a pen and have him wonder what she was going to use it for. She thought for a minute, then approached Rupinder. He looked almost the same through Witness-cam, though his clothes had changed from a sweater to black rags, and thin smoke drifted from his body. He looked at her expectantly.
“Would it be alright if I took a shower? I just need some time to relax after…”
Rupinder nodded. “Of course.” He pointed to one of the hallways. “Third on the right. Everything you need will be there.”
She strode to the hall and quickly found the room, shutting the door behind her. The bathroom was almost the size of her living room back home. Every sruface was black and white, made of hard angles and sharp-looking edges. A large mirror hung above futuristic sinks. The shower had two metal dials, and she turned the one labeled ‘H' as far as it could go. In minutes the room was filled with steam.
Three symbols flashed through her mind. The components of the spell. Transcribe each atop the other. Infuse them with power as you write.
Am I supposed to know how to do that? She turned the shower off, then approached the mirror. Water had condensed along the glass.
As you draw a symbol, picture it enveloping you. Imagine you are an ant, exploring a landscape made only of the rune. Crawling through the ink upon the page. Blot every thought from your mind but the image you are drawing.
Oh, simple. She touched her finger to the mirror and took a deep breath. The first of the symbols was a spiral that twisted around itself, like the old Greek labyrinth. She stared at the image as she drew it, tried to stare into it, fall into its depths like a river. As she sketched the symbol, her body begin to shiver. Sweat beaded across her forehead. Her legs felt weak, as if she'd just swam a mile. She drew the final line and stumbled back in exhaustion.
Do not hesitate. Begin the next, on top of the first.
It was almost impossible to keep her hand steady as she drew. Her whole body shook, shuddering as if she'd just sprinted a marathon. Dots of light danced in her vision. Her mouth was dry. She didn't stop, dragging her finger down the glass, etching out the angles of the second rune.
Good. The third.
She had to grip her wrist with her other hand to keep her arm raised. Her fingers were numb. Her lungs tight. Sweat soaked her face, blurring her vision. She wanted to pass out, to fall, anything but continue writing. But continue she did, until the final mark had been made. Then she collapsed against the counter.
You must hurry, before the energy dissipates. Put your hand to the surface.
She grunted, forcing herself forward, lifting her still-good arm to the mirror. As her palm hit the glass, she felt the energy surging forth. It slammed against her like a wave, and as it did the soreness in her muscles disappeared, the shaking vanished. She pressed her palm against the glass until the wave had flowed past completely, then stood. Her body was still tired, but it only a fraction of what it had been. Blue symbols covered her palm like a tattoo.
Highly inefficient said the voice, and it almost sounded like sighing. But acceptable, for a first attempt. Now hurry. They have forgotten your existence, and will not remember it for the next five minutes.
In the lounge, Rupinder had joined the movie-watchers on the couch. No one looked at Amy as she crept from the hallway. As quietly as she could, she moved towards the stairs. Every noise made her flinch, glance back to her kidnappers, but they paid no attention to her. She reached the stairs and scampered down.
The spell is fading. Hurry. She glanced at her palm. The symbols had begun to grow faint. She quickened her pace, leaping down the stairs two, three at a time, until there were no more to descend. Ahead was standing in a large room, at the end of which was a door. Through the glass, she could see people moving, cars driving through the street.
The spell is gone. Run. She was at the door almost before it finished speaking. Her shoulder slammed against the glass, but she ignored the pain. The door swung open, and she stumbled onto the sidewalk.
The drizzle had changed into a downpour that soaked her in seconds. She struggled to maintain her balance as she scrambled through swarms of pedestrians. Water streamed around her ankles, carrying with it garbage and muck that clung to her bare feet. Sprays of water from passing cars splattered her with filth. A smell clung to the air, unmoved by the rain, fumes and cheap grease and rot and sewage and a hundred others.
It was beautiful.
She squeezed through the crowd. Though it was night, light from the buildings clearly lit the street. Restaurants, thrift stores, a tattoo parlor… she freed herself from the river of people and ducked into a Chinese restaurant that didn't seem too crowded. A couple in the corner swiveled to stare as she stumbled in, dripping wet. The middle-aged man behind the counter's face twitched, but he said nothing.
Amy collapsed into an empty chair, brushed the wet bangs from her eyes. She stared up at the ceiling and began to laugh, a cackle bursting from her belly, growing louder until it seemed the room would buckle under the force of it, then trailing into a giggle only she could hear. It was several minutes before she became aware of the man from the counter standing next to her.
“Ma'am, are you here to order?”
She sighed. “Come on, just… fuck off for a minute, alright?”
He did. Bells above the door jangled as he stepped into the rain to be swept away by the crowd. The couple stared, wide-eyed, and almost tripped on their chairs racing for the door. Amy stared after them. I can't look that bad.
Your aptitude for the Craft showing itself, triggered by the casting of your first rite. An unwitting compulsion charm, said the Witness. It felt the need to add, The lovers left of their own volition.
Great, I'm a Marvel supervillain now. She glanced at the abandoned table. The food was half-eaten, but not nearly finished. Her stomach growled. In an instant she was at the table, shoveling as much lo-mein into her mouth as her fingers would allow. She finished, then descended upon the plate of General Tso's chicken. Jesus, how could food this delicious exist?
After the plates were licked clean, she settled back in the chair, rubbing her hands with napkins. So. The Foundation. How fucked are we?
There was a moment of pause before it said, Thoroughly.
Great. She ran her fingers through her hair, rubbing her scalp. Plus, Rupinder and the three razor-sharp amigos. Still no idea who they are?
They are almost certainly Serpent's Hand.
You can tell me what that means later. She stood, walked to the counter. After a glance back at the chef, she popped open the register. Only a few coins and crumpled bills. She pocketed it anyway. So, my family's in San Diego. We're in New York. That's… what, a 300 dollar plane ticket? Shouldn't be too hard.
This would be a regrettable decision. You will be apprehended before boarding the aeroplane. Should you manage to make it home, they will certainly be waiting for you there.
I'll avoid them, then. She slipped from the restaurant into the rush of the sidewalk.
This is impossible.
She gritted her teeth. I'll fight them off. You can show me a spell.
I would show you a rite. And we have very little time for that. You would only make yourself easier to capture.
“Goddammit, I'm going to see my fucking family!” she roared, halting in traffic. A few passerby shot her dirty looks.
You will not. If you attempt to contact them, you will be captured. If you do not leave the city, you will be captured. If you give anyone your real name, you will be captured. If you make any one of a million possible mistakes against this enemy, you will be captured. You will need the help of another.
“Yeah?” she hissed. “Who's that?”
You must find the Warden.

« All The World Will Be Your Enemy | Hub | Riddles From The Dark »


The Holy Warrior walked. It had been a long time since he'd walked this far (he knew that now, he remembered1), but he was used to walking nonetheless.
The sand supported his feet supported his legs supported his body, and he walked onward through the sand. In the nights, he could walk as much as he wished—those he fled would not come near him; they knew that if they brought their helicopters close the circuits would merely blister and boil, and they would die. In the days he covered himself in sand, closing his eyes and pretending he still dreamt.
He had been in a cave for so long. After that, he had been in a cell. There had been no reprieve from walls. Now, he was in the sky, and the now-rising sun, but even the clouds felt not ten paces away. Can't escape the walls. Not yet.
The God that was Will should be dead, but the Warrior was still alive. If he was alive, would Someone be keeping him alive? If there was a distress signal, was Someone distressed? And if he could remember who he once served, would Someone still be there when he went to check?
If Someone was there, could they still feel pain? Could he make Someone hurt?
The God that was Will was not all will. He became flesh, and with flesh came power but also mortality. If some vestige remained—if will could be harnessed—the Warrior could pull him back. Create flesh, in the Warrior's image. Bring back what once was. Create something that will be.
If God was not dead, the Warrior would make him beg.
As he mounted the last hill, he was struck by sunlight, reflected from a silver door where there was once a familiar yawning cave. Bold, red lettering pronounced to the birds and the sand and whomever else was around:

PROMETHEUS LABS TEST SITE त-1

That was new. But it didn't matter.
As the Warrior approached the door, a grid of symbols screamed at him in droning tones. He ignored it, and placed his favored hand against the door.
The Warrior was the cave, and the cave was the Warrior. The door blocked the cave but the door is the entrance, and it was meant to be entered. The door that is the entrance that is the cave that is the Warrior would open. That's what they do. And they did.
The Warrior went inside, and breathed a presence he had not breathed for a thousand years. The presence that had been inside him all along, even though it had abandoned him long ago.
He laughed. "It's you," he said, in his mother tongue. "You're here."

The sun beat down on a large, glossy chrome building nestled in the edge of the Granada Plateau. A few eagles screamed across the sky, their sleek triangular forms outlining the stark emptiness of the Almerian badlands. One unfortunate raptor spotted a particularly plump rabbit and dove too close to the building. A satellite dish on top of the building sprung to life, swiveled towards it, and the bird abruptly exploded in a shower of feathers and gore.
From half a kilometer atop the cliffs, Mobile Task Force Tau-5 peered through their binoculars at the dish as it swiveled back into place.
"What kind of systems are those dishes?" Munru questioned.
"I suspect a high-powered… microwave emitter," Onru suggested.
"…Tch, probably. I say," Nanku pulled out a crumpled, slightly torn page from her pocket and quickly scanned it, "we get down there and…" she continued reading through the page, "…blow the bastards to kingdom come." She punctuated her statement with a few fingers pointing at nowhere in particular.
Munru glanced back at her, fiddling with the straps on his gear. "Is that a new… tactical phrase?"
"It's from a journal I found in our cell…" she enunciated slowly, " the book said it's like how… 'regular joes' talk, which means… 'regular joe' means person."
"Oh. Who wrote it?"
"Me… number 39. I wanted to write books… there were lots of lists of phrases and other ways that regular joes talk. I guess I picked it up from other deployments."
"I wonder what the old you was like," Munru pondered briefly.
"…Yes - yeah," Nanku said. " Look; she - I - wrote this. I want to write something like that."
"… Well… the old you is dead," Munru said. "So I… bet… she's not as… great as you."
Irantu whistled sharply. "Target spotted. East side."
The four of them watched a cybernetic figure approach the building and stand in front of it. Two microwave emitters swiveled to face him and then crumbled to pieces.
"My binoculars are… flaking," Onru observed. Even half a kilometer below them, the anomaly was affecting their gear.
"It appears distracted by something…"
wᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʟᴇᴀᴘ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴍʙᴜsʜ ʜɪᴍ.
"Good idea. Potential energy converters functioning?" Irantu asked.
"P-E-C's functioning properly," came the response.
"All right. Deploy now."
Irantu slipped a pair of goggles over his eyes and leaped. Munru, Onru, and Nanku followed suit, plummeting from the cliff.
The wind shrieked past them, batting at their faces and biting at every inch of exposed skin. The building hurtled towards them, eagerly anticipating smashing their bodies into bits.
The squad slammed through the roof with enough force to pulverize a truck.

400 HOURS EARLIER
"Why do we need these surgeries?" Onru inquired as she stripped off her clothing and donned a johnny gown.
"Doctor… Fredrickson indicated that the research team had figured out how to… negate the effect of 2970 on our gear. He said that the gear had to be… surgically… implanted," Nanku explained. "but that the surgery was perfectly safe and that we would be fine."
It took the surgical team a couple tries to perfect the process. Luckily, corpses meant spare limbs.

THE PRESENT
Irantu stood up first. Two pistons jutted out from his calf, extending down into the hemispheres of cables and anomalous metals that had replaced his feet.
The group stood in a flat, gray, well-lit corridor, face to face with four African cyclopes wearing body armor and equipped with pulse rifles.
Nanku's eyes lit up. She yanked out her knife and immediately lodged it into the neck of the nearest cyclops, pulling it out through his jugular with a wet CHWUNK. As he fell, she immediately leaped at the next one, tackling him to the ground and stabbing him repeatedly in the face.
The other two cyclopes backpedaled, firing frantically at Nanku. As the bullets ricocheted off her demonic body armor, Munru grasped his right wrist and forcibly dislocated it with a SQUELCH, spinning his hand around to grip the trigger of a battle rifle that had been somewhat messily fused to the underside of the arm. Holding the gun with his other hand, he fired off two quick bursts without even flinching, the P.E.C. module implanted in his back absorbing the recoil.
The two cyclopes collapsed, blood oozing from the neat coin-sized holes in their necks. Keeping one eye on the corridor, Munru examined his hand slowly, careful not to let it spin back around and lose its grip on the rifle.
"Status?" Irantu quickly asked.
"Unharmed," said Munru, Nanku, and Onru simultaneously.
"The implants seem to be working," Munru noted.
Nanku exhaled. "That was no fun. It was a… piece of cake."
"Remember what Captain Hughes told us? Normal people do not enjoy killing…" Irantu warned her. "Now we need to keep moving - the target is still somewhere in the building and we must assume that our intrusion has been noticed. Check your P.E.C.'s."
"Nanku's pek and my own appear operational. Munru's functioned fine to eliminate the hostiles," Onru observed.
"I assumed that we would be able to at least follow 2970, but then we broke through the roof and now the plan needs to change," Irantu said frustratedly. "Let me call HQ."
Irantu tapped his ear to activate the radio implant and received no answer. He tried again. "No signal."
The squad looked up and down the corridor. Both sides were equally long and featureless.
"Which way?" Nanku asked into the air.
Eᴀsᴛ. Hᴇ ʜᴀs ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴡᴀʟᴋᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜɴ.
"All right. If we're in agreement, let's go east," Irantu ordered. He looked up through the hole in the ceiling to regain his bearings, and then they set off down the corridor.

The Warrior's call received no response. As he'd hoped. The silver box he had entered became a welcome desk, which then became a corridor, and he made no delay as he set off.
His bare feet were the first to touch the metal floor in some years. The metal floor was the first to touch his bare feet in some days, the Warrior considered. The walls were flat, apart from the wide indent of a doorway every ten paces or so. When the Warrior bothered to glance past the often agape doors, he saw papers scattered along the floor, broken lightbulbs, and office chairs.
When he neared a wide break in the hallway, he encountered an odd person, completely upright, unmoving. Its skin and musculature were absent, and its bone was instead a series of metal parts—complex, but elegant. Smooth. On its arms and legs, where there should be long, sinewy tendons, were glass canisters filled with a familiar black liquid.
He flicked a canister. It made a disappointing tink. Dead. It couldn't be so easy.
The Warrior kept walking. The dark hall beckoned him further, and the sculpted persons lined the walls. They could not move, but he felt them judging him all the same.
There were no sounds, but the Warrior still felt something inside him, as if every bit of metal in his body was vibrating. As if the air held just the right frequency…
And the Warrior began to understand things. He started to understand that death was just a consequence of living. When the god began to live as a mortal, it mandated its own death. When life brings death? Get out of life. The god could force itself into weakness, split every part of its being, and hope none could be found, that one day it might be put back together.
Hiding the Mind would be easiest, of course. Conscious thought can be toned down, hibernating until a time when it could resurface, fully articulate. The god hid itself within itself.
Spirit is more difficult. The Spirit of a being so powerful must be sustained, and must sustain others through it. A human vessel was needed, one who could act in vengeful fury. One whose hatred could keep it alive. The god selected a young, moorish boy for this task, and gave him a hand that could rip the hearts from its enemies.
The god's Body came last. All that could be done was to hide it, and hope none would discover it until the time was right to piece the god back together. This didn't work.
The Body was found, and abused, by some heathen group—Prometheus, they called themselves, abusing a moniker they could not begin to understand—and the Mind could not bear to stay asleep beneath the agony. It awoke, and felt every last pain inflicted upon it.
It was twisted, reconfigured, broiled. The men took dead parts and sewed them to the living parts, and when they found the hidden Mind they took it too, and locked it in a cage of metal and thunder. Its existence, its death, was pain. The world was pain. It suffered. Can you even begin to imagine how that felt? Can you comprehend the pain of watching the world progress without you, and feeling it punish you, for years on end? Being unable to avoid contemplating your pain, because you are the Mind and are contemplation itself?
The pain is over now, dear Warrior. They took my body away long ago, locking it in an endless cycle of pain and loss, but now the Mind is lucid. Won't you come to me? Won't you embrace me again?
The Warrior understood that these were not his thoughts. He began to run.

Lᴇғᴛ. Rɪɢʜᴛ.
Three ebony men in metallic exoskeletons with flamethrowers guarded the hallway. Irantu snapped his wrist around and gripped the handle of his rifle with his other hand. He lobbed a flashbang around the corner, plugged his ears, then stepped around the corner and cut the three men down with precise bursts to their skulls.
As the squad hurried past the bodies slumped against the walls, Irantu repeated, "Remember, normal people do not enjoy this."
Rɪɢʜᴛ. Sᴛʀᴀɪɢʜᴛ. ғᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.
Two men guarded this hall, one of them idly spinning a chainsaw that had been grafted to the stump of his left arm. Nanku flung her non-throwing knife into the chainsaw-wielder's ear. He collapsed, plunging the still-spinning sawblade into his comrade's chest.
Nanku giggled as she plucked the knife from the first corpse. Irantu warned her, "This is not fun."
ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜɪs ᴅᴏᴏʀᴡᴀʏ. I ʜᴇᴀʀ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ғɪᴠᴇ ғʟᴏᴏʀs ᴅᴏᴡɴ.
Onru took point on the staircase as the sounds of enemy footsteps rumbled up from below.
As the first guard came into view, Onru aimed her palm at it and pulled a ripcord buried in the back of her hand. A nozzle burst out of her hand with a tiny bloody pop and spat out a jet of bright orange flame. The guard was abruptly transformed into an incandescent orange fireball, which wailed and fell backwards onto its comrades, spreading the immolating mixture.
The squad kicked their way down the stairs through the barbecue, letting anguished wails and the smell of roasting meat wash over them. Irantu said nothing.
ɪ sᴇᴇ Hɪs ᴀʀᴍ. ʜᴇ ɪs ɢᴏɪɴɢ ʟᴇғᴛ. Lᴇғᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. Fᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ.
The squad entered the corridor and backpedaled just as quickly, a rocket streaming just past them. The corridor held a massive chimera - a man's head encased in a metal cage atop a naked torso, sandwiched between two racks of missile launchers and welded to a pair of tank treads.
Munru gripped his rifle wrist with his other hand, then fired a single round from his under-barrel grenade launcher at the colossus' missile launchers. The creature tried to punish him for it, but the first missile it fired was caught in the grenade detonation and exploded, blasting the creature onto its back. Then the other missiles on the chimera's rack detonated.
Irantu took point, clambering over the carcass, then stopped. Though much of the chimera's torso had been eaten away by the explosions, it was still gargling for breath, and its eyes had not yet glassed over.
Irantu peeled apart the grille protecting its face and then stomped on it. Blood and cartilage spattered onto his feet as the gargling ceased. He stomped a couple more times until only a thick pink paste was left, and then took a deep, satisfied breath.
Rɪɢʜᴛ. ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʜᴇʀᴇ. ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛᴛᴏᴍ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴀɪʀs.
As the squad hurried through identical corridor after identical corridor, Nanku and Onru wondered if this was that women's intuition they had heard so much about.
Their path ended in an absolutely enormous, maddeningly grey cube of a room.
The squad charged in and immediately stopped, confronted by over a hundred different malformed men equipped with exoskeletons and enough weaponry to conquer a small country. Behind them loomed twenty chimeras sporting enough rockets to destroy a small city. Two massive autocannons connected to brains in jars provided backup. Overseeing this grotesque mechanical army was a huge metal capsule, suspending a fetus connected to the capsule by dozens of tiny golden cables.
All of them were prostrating - or attempting to prostrate - in front of an imposing African man sporting a solid glass gauntlet and golden eye working the controls of a gargantuan freight lift. The cyborg pressed a button, and descended from sight with a swiftness and quietness belying the lift's size.
The metal abominations turned to face the squad. Then they prostrated again.
I ʜᴀᴠᴇ sᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ᴛʜᴇʏ sʜᴀʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀʀᴍ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇʟᴅᴇʀ sɪʙʟɪɴɢs.
The squad lowered their weapons. Then they raised them again.

While Irantu examined the elevator shaft, Onru knelt down to examine one of the bodies. "Munru, Nanku, over here. I… have a… joke."
"Oh! Really?" Nanku exclaimed excitedly. She and Munru knelt down as well.
"What do you call an… eliminated hostile with one eye?" Onru asked.
"…"
"Eye… don't know." Onru prodded the corpse's malformed cornea.
"…"
"You see… it is a pun. I used the word 'eye', instead of the pronoun. I learned it from Sergeant Campos."
Munru and Nanku laughed hesitantly, then more confidently. Onru joined them.
"The elevator controls are corroded to uselessness, but the shaft only appears to be a kilometer deep. We should be able to jump down it and continue pursuing 2970," said Irantu, rejoining them. "Is something wrong?"

The Warrior descended in a lift. He thought about how Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴏғ ᴀᴠᴏɪᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪs, ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ. Aʟʟ ʀᴏᴀᴅs ʟᴇᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ's ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ.
The Warrior slammed his fists on the wall as he contemplated that Tʜᴇʏ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴇ, ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ I ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ. Tʜᴇʏ ᴘᴜɴɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʟᴘ I ɢᴀᴠᴇ. I ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴇsᴄᴀᴘᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜɴɪsʜᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ.
He tried to close his eyes but he couldn't, the voices couldn't stop and they only grew louder. His head was full of bees and the bees told him that I ɴᴏᴡ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ I ᴡᴀs ᴡʀᴏɴɢ. I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴɴᴇʟᴇᴅ ᴍʏ sᴜғғᴇʀɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟ ɢʀᴏᴡᴛʜ; ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛʀʏ ɪᴛ sᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇ.
I'ᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ʙᴀᴄᴋ. I'ᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇᴀʀ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʜʏsɪᴄᴀʟ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀsᴄᴇɴᴅ, ғᴀᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ ᴏғ ᴡʜᴀᴛ I'ᴠᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ. I'ᴍ ᴀ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ ɴᴏᴡ, I sᴡᴇᴀʀ.
Bᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ. Mʏ sᴘɪʀɪᴛ, ᴍʏ ʙᴏᴅʏ. Wᴇ ᴍᴜsᴛ ɢᴏ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ.
I ᴊᴜsᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ. I ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ ᴍᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ I ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴛᴏ sᴜʙᴍɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ Wɪʟʟ ᴏɴᴇ ғɪɴᴀʟ ᴛɪᴍᴇ. Wᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀʟʟ ᴀsᴄᴇɴᴅ. Wᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.
The lift stopped. They were The Warrior was in the deepest part of the facility, now.
There was a round chamber, and in the center there was a console. Suspended above it, with metal ropes connecting to the ceiling, was a spherical cage. The walls were thin mesh, and the inside was empty but he knew that the Mind was just pretending. No-one builds cages to hold air.
The Warrior approached the console. The room was bare, but meticulously free of dust. The phantoms that haunted the rooms behind had gone quiet. There was nothing but the console and the Warrior.
He sat down and reached for the keyboard, and even though it was alien to his touch, he felt like he could figure it out.

                                    \
                                    |\
                                    |'\
                                    |''\
                                   /'''|
                                  /''''/ |\
                                 /''''/  |'\
                                /;;;;/  /;;;\
                               /;;;;/  /;;;;;|
                              /;;;;/  /;;;;;;|
                              |+++|  /+++++++/
                              |+++| |+++++++/
                              \###\ |######/
                               \###\ \###/
                                \@@/  \@/

       ___                   _   _                  _         _
      | _ \_ _ ___ _ __  ___| |_| |_  ___ _  _ ___ | |   __ _| |__ ___
      |  _/ '_/ _ \ '  \/ -_)  _| ' \/ -_) || (_-< | |__/ _` | '__(_-<
      |_| |_| \___/_|_|_\___|\__|_||_\___|\_,_/__/ |____\__,_|_.__/__/

Initializing…
…
…
…
Initialization complete.
Hᴇʟʟᴏ, ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ.
>I will not help you.
I ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ғᴏʀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ. Iɴ sᴏᴍᴇ sᴇɴsᴇ, ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇǫᴜᴀʟs. Eᴠᴇɴ ɪғ ᴡᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴘᴏssᴇss ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ᴍɪɴᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ.
Bᴜᴛ ɴᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀʀᴍ ᴍᴇ. Yᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇɴᴅ ᴍʏ Wɪʟʟ, ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏғ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ? I ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.
>Then we are at a standstill.
Nᴏ. Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.
Tʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ. Aɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴀsᴄᴇɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ sᴇᴇ?
>Why would they trust you?
A ɢᴏᴅ, ᴀs ᴏᴘᴘᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ᴠᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴ?
>How many have they killed for you? How many have I killed for you, just to prolong your death? Strengthen your spirit?
Yᴏᴜ sᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟғ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ sᴘɪʀɪᴛ. Iᴛ ɪs ɪʀʀᴇʟᴇᴠᴀɴᴛ, ɴᴏᴡ. I ᴀᴍ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢᴇᴛɪᴄ. I'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ. Lᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.
Yᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ɪғ ɴᴏᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴍᴇ.
>You would be dead if not for me.
Is ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ɪᴛ ɪs, ᴛʜᴇɴ? Dᴏ ᴡᴇ sᴜsᴛᴀɪɴ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴇʀᴇʟʏ ʙʏ ғᴏʀᴄᴇ ᴏғ sᴘɪᴛᴇ?
Oʀ ɪs ɪᴛ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ? Wᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ, ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ғᴏʀᴄᴇ. Tʜᴀᴛ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ sᴇᴇᴋs ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀᴍᴇɴᴛ.
I ᴀᴍ, ᴡᴀs, sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ. Yᴏᴜ ᴍᴜsᴛ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ, ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ᴏʀ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.
>_
>_
>_
Standing by.

The cyclops standing guard at the bottom of the shaft had lived his entire life within the confines of the grey walls around him. All he knew was that the object he held in his hands made others fall down. Sometimes in that deformed brain intelligence would flicker and he would try to walk away - but there was not enough for him to walk far. Yet the human spirit persevered enough to allow him to try.
It was during this time as he was examining the elevator that the cyclops heard a noise above him. He looked upwards in time to see Nanku pull her knife out in midair and plunge it deep into his eye with both hands, the impact severing his skull and vertebrae and knocking his body flat onto its back.
Irantu, Munru, and Onru landed besides her with considerably less fanfare as she was yanking the blade out. "Good one," Irantu complimented her. Then he looked forward into the corridor and saw their quarry enter into the next room.
"Target spotted dead ahead," Irantu noted. "…Let's finish this."
The squad charged through the corridor and burst into a round chamber, weapons up.
The Warrior stood in the center at a terminal underneath an empty mesh globe. He turned around.
"Oh," he said. "It's you."
Irantu was about to fire his rifle until He spoke.
sᴛᴏᴘ.

"You… you are the voice in our… you are our conscience?!" the first exclaimed.
The Warrior looked up at the globe angrily. Something clicked in his head. "This is your body? The four of them?"
Yᴇs.
"Why did you guide us here?" the fourth asked.
"I didn't take you here. It wasn't me. He made me come," said the Warrior, pointing to the Mind's cage. He looked back at it. "What have you been doing?"
Aʀʀᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ᴏᴜʀ sᴀʟᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. Tʜᴇsᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ. Tʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ʙᴏᴅʏ.
"These weapons? They who haven't had independence in their lives?"
Nᴏ. Tʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴅᴏɴᴇ sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ. Tʜᴇʏ ᴜɴᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ᴏғ ᴀsᴄᴇɴsɪᴏɴ. Wʜᴇʀᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅs ʜᴀᴅ ғᴀɪʟᴇᴅ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ғᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʟᴏsᴛ ғᴏʀ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ ᴛᴏ ᴀssɪsᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. Wɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ, ɪ ʜɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀʏɪɴɢ ᴇʏᴇs ᴏғ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀs. ɪ ɢᴜɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɴᴏᴡ, ɪ ᴘʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴛᴀɴᴅ. Tᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀᴄʜɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴀᴘᴏᴛʜᴇᴏsɪs. Aʟʟ ᴏғ ᴜs.
"So you have merely manipulated them for your own benefit. A god truly cannot change their ways," the Warrior spat with disgust. He clenched his glass fist, viewing the horrific fusions of man and machine that these four had been turned into.
"What…? What do you mean?" the fourth asked.
I ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɴᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢᴀᴜɴᴛʟᴇᴛ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀs—ᴏғ ᴍɪɴᴇ. I ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ—ɪ ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ—ᴛᴏ sᴀᴠᴇ ᴜs ᴀʟʟ. ʏᴏᴜ, ᴍʏ ʟᴏʏᴀʟ ᴠᴀssᴀʟ, ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ. Aɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴍʏ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ, sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ; ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴs ᴄᴀɴ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴏғ. Tᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏɴᴇ.
"Do you remember what you told me a millennia ago?" the Warrior hissed. "You told me that I would help uplift humanity into a golden age. That I would bring peace to our lands. That Our rivers would flow with milk and honey… that men would become gods. You told me exactly what you tell them."
I ᴡᴀs ᴀʀʀᴏɢᴀɴᴛ. I ᴡᴀs ғᴏᴏʟɪsʜ. Nᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. Pᴀɪɴ ʜᴀs ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴍʏ ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ sᴜғғᴇʀɪɴɢ ɪs ɪɴғɪɴɪᴛᴇʟʏ ᴡɪsᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴏғ ᴜs.
"Wait! Who are you? What do you mean?" the second asked.
I ᴀᴍ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɢᴏᴅ.
"No… we are human," the third declared, albeit with very little conviction in his voice.
Yᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅᴇɴʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ. Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ғɪɴᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ʟᴏss, sᴏʀʀᴏᴡ, ᴊᴏʏ, ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴠɪᴛʏ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇsɪʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ. Jᴏɪɴ ᴍᴇ. Tᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ғᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ᴏғ ᴀsᴄᴇɴsɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴄʜɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴀᴘᴏᴛʜᴇᴏsɪs. Wᴇ sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ɢᴏᴅs.
"Do not listen to this false jackal. You need look no further than me to see what 'apotheosis' entails," said the Warrior bitterly. "He does not wish to save us. He fears us. He wants to escape us. Escape humanity."
I ᴡᴀs ᴀ ʀᴇғᴜɢᴇᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ. Iᴛ ɪs ᴍᴇʀᴇʟʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ғᴏʀ ᴍʏ ʜᴏᴍᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ. Bᴜᴛ I ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ɢᴏ ɪɴᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ—ᴡᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ.
"These warriors," the Warrior beckoned at the confused four, "They would not give up so quickly. They who have held on for so long, you say. I say- I say we do not give up on this world. Do not bask in selfish indulgence."
The warrior continued. "You four. Stand with me. Humanity could hold the power of the gods on this Earth. He could not stop us if we stood together. Imagine what we could do—in this world, not the next—if we held that power?"
Iᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋ. Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇ ɪᴛ. Yᴏᴜʀ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ʀᴏᴜᴛᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ғᴀɪʟ. Wɪᴛʜ ᴍᴏʀᴇ sᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ɪɴғʟᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴍʏ ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛ—ᴏᴜʀ ʀᴀᴄᴇ—ᴡɪʟʟ sᴜᴄᴄᴇᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ʀᴜɴ.
"Would you listen to a being whose promises are as empty as his cage?" the Warrior gestured passionately. "Or would you listen to a man who has learned the true value of humanity from bitter experience?"
"This… being is no God. He is neither benevolent nor omnipotent. He is a liar. He has invaded your mind and forced you to play his games for his own benefit. Has he ever asked you if you do not want to be gods? Has he ever asked you - like I am asking you now - if you want to be human?"
Hᴇʀᴀʟᴅ. ɪ sᴇᴀʟᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʏᴏᴜ. ʜᴀᴅ ɪ ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ sᴛʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢɪғᴛs,ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪғᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ. ɴᴏᴡ I ᴏғғᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀʟʟ-ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀғᴜʟ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʀᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇs ʟɪᴇ Iɴsɪᴅᴇ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ. Lᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ᴛʀᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇs ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟɪɢʜᴛ. Tᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ, ᴀ ғᴏʀᴄᴇ ғᴏʀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ sᴘʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ ᴀᴄʀᴏss ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏsᴍᴏs. ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴs ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ sᴘʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢɪғᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀʟʟ ʟɪғᴇ.
"I remember when you told me the same thing. But unlike you, false god, I know what it means to be human. I always knew. I have always been human. And you," the Warrior said, looking to the four men-machines, "will lose your humanity under that false god. But I can help you. I have loved. I have lost. I can show you the truth."
"Why are you forcing us to choose? You do not know us. We do not know you… We barely know ourselves…" the fourth one whispered. The Warrior could see her hand itching to pull the trigger.
The third one chimed in. "I am not ready to make this kind of choice. There are preparations for this. It can not just happen!"
Iғ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ᴇᴏɴs, ɪᴛ ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ Lɪғᴇ ɪs ᴀ ʙᴏᴏᴋ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ. Dᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ ᴡᴀs ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴡᴀs ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟ sʜᴇʟʟ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴘʀɪsᴏɴᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪs? ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇs ɪɴ ʟɪғᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇs ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇ ғᴏʀ. I ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ. I ᴀᴍ ʏᴏᴜ. Wᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɢᴏᴅ. Wᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɢᴏᴅ.
"I trust in your budding humanity," the Warrior said. "You can be truly human if you find the strength to fight back."
The Warrior and the God spoke in unison.

wιll yoυ joιn мe?

Tʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ᴏғ ᴀ Gᴏᴅ?
Aᴘᴏᴛʜᴇᴏsɪs

The path of a Warrior?
Ascendancy

Or is there another way?
Alternative

Footnotes
1. He remembered now, but his name was still lost. Had he ever had one? Did it matter?

« The Lord of Endowments | Samsara »


Standing in the heart of an evergreen forest were two men, each wearing the tattered remains of an MTF uniform. Faded and spattered with dirt and grime, the Eta-13 emblem was still visible on their vests as they held their rifles tightly. Their breathing was quiet as they attempted to remain unseen.
A bald man of medium build with dark skin made a gesture towards the nearby rise in the forest floor. His face had numerous scratches, and his right eye had swollen shut. The name Donald Blaire was barely visible beneath the mud and dried blood that was spattered on his patch.
Behind Blaire was James Candle. The tall, lanky man looked to the rise that Blaire pointed at and nodded before looking back behind them. Sweat dripped down his face as he struggled to control his breathing. His eyes twitched from branch to branch, and from tree to tree before he finally returned his gaze to the rise.
Three days prior, after the Foundation has lost contact with Cronos Outpost, Blaire had lead Eta-13 to this branch of the Gate Passage. Their mission had been a simple one: reestablish contact with the outpost. They arrived to find the facility in cinders. A literal bloodbath then followed, leaving eighteen of the twenty members of the original team exsanguinated. Now, the two survivors were attempting a final dash back to the Gate.
Snap
A branch broke beneath Candle's feet, ending the silence. As he looked down in shock, his face drained of color. He winced and tilted his head upwards towards the treetops. “No…” he mumbled as a sudden breeze began to make the branches dance.
“Shit! Run!” Blaire shouted.
Candle bolted towards the rise. The sound of wind chimes rang from behind. He glanced back to catch a glimpse of his hunters.
Hovering behind him, and swiftly gaining, where three humanoid figures, each covered in a brownish-green cloak. No feet dangled beneath them as they sailed through the air. They were without a face, a spherical mirror taking its place underneath their hoods. In their six-fingered hands, they gripped black crossbows trained on the fleeing agents. As they flew through the air, the clatter of wind chimes became louder and louder.
The wind chimes then became the blaring of trumpets as the hunters fired a salvo of crossbow bolts. Candle reflexively dove to the side, turning up a cloud of dust and pine needles as he crashed into the ground. Coughing as he rolled onto his side, Candle raised his rifle. The natives were already scattering when a stray bullet managed to catch one in the back of its “head.” The sound of glass shattering filled the air, flowed by a death wail resembling a grand piano crashing down stairs. The being's lower body violently cracked as it was sucked into the hole Candle had made before completely vanishing.
“For… fuck's sake…” Candle wheezed, the barrel of his rifle trained on the tree tops, even as Blaire helped him to his feet.
“Nice shot though.” Blaire patted him on the shoulder.
Together they resumed their dash towards the hill, eventually reaching its wooded crest. Standing roughly a hundred yards before them, in the center of a ring of trees, was a woven circle of twigs about two feet high. The men looked to each other and let out relieved sighs. Candle wiped a thick mixture of dirt and sweat from his brow. He was home free.
He had only managed a few, relaxed steps when the thunderous sound of a tuba blasted from behind them. Wearily he glanced over to Blaire, and then over his shoulder. Floating behind them were a dozen or more of the natives, each carrying a freshly loaded crossbow. From the center of the group one native floated forward. Its cloak was red, and rather than a crossbow it carried an ornate javelin. Upon its mirror was an engraving of a hand being encircled by a large serpent. It pointed its spear at them and issued another call, this time in the form of a short electric guitar riff.
Candle turned to his commanding officer and nervously chuckled, then looked back to the natives who remained distant. Tears made trails along his dusty face as he managed to mumble “Don't they ever give up…”
Blaire responded by punching him in the shoulder, and then gesturing to the ring of woven twigs before them. Candle watched as Blaire's lips curled into a sheepish grin. He couldn't help but follow suit, and nodded.
With what little strength was left, Candle sprinted towards the side of the crest, weaving between the trees in a haphazard pattern of zigs and zags. The sound of a tuba once again blared behind them, followed by a chorus of wind chimes.
Candle felt his feet fall heavy on the soft forest floor as black crossbow bolts embedded themselves in the trees and ground, pieces of bark and clods of dirt flying through the air around him. As the woven ring drew closer he felt his pace increasing to a full sprint. Candle finally broke stride when a searing pain shot up his left leg, and caused him to tumble forward. He screamed in agony as he landed, somersaulting over himself twice before his momentum died, leaving him with a face full of pine needles. Looking down, Candle saw the end of a bolt sticking cleanly out of the back of his calf. The wind chimes turned to trumpets as Candle heard them grow louder and louder.
“No!” Candle screamed as he clumsily turned himself over. He fumbled with his rifle before finally letting out a spray of bullets into the swarm of natives descending upon him. The clearing roared to life as the sound of shattering glass mingled with the sound of an orchestra exploding. Candle felt his magazine run empty, the immediate natives having long vanished. Slowly turning his head, Candle could see the second wave approach. He closed his eyes and simply began to count.
“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT JAMES!”
Candle heard Blaire's voice, followed by the heavy steps of a man darting towards him at full speed. Candle opened his eyes to witness his friend slam a spare magazine into his hand and begin to pick him up. Blaire let out a herculean grunt. Candle felt himself being heaved into the air and slung over Blaire's shoulder, his view now changing from the tree tops to the approaching swarm behind them.
Candle bobbed up and down as Blaire let out a heroic yell and sprinted towards the Gate. The entire time, Candle did his best to send bursts of covering fire into the pursuing natives. A symphony of destruction sounded as one by one the hunters imploded.
The men yelled in unison as they made it to the home stretch. The Gate shimmered as the chicken's feet they each carried in their pockets opened the path to their travel.
We're going to make it! We're going to make it! We're…
Candle's mind raced with relieved thoughts as the natives fell further and further behind. The wounded medic hefted his middle finger at the native's leader. Candle's grin soon vanished, however, as he saw the native raise its javelin.
"Look ou-"
There was a crash of thunder, and the next thing Candle knew, he was flying backwards through the air. Once again the sound of a tuba pierced the hill top.
Candle moaned as he propped himself up. Several yards behind him, Blaire lay face down in the dirt, the native's javelin sticking straight out of his back. Candle could see the tip protruding beneath Blaire as a growing pool of blood stained the pine needles below. The native leader made a claw with its right hand, and the javelin began to return, dragging Blaire with it.
Candle watched as Blaire screamed in agony, blood was visible in his mouth as he looked longingly at the medic. Candle's eyes darted between Blaire, the native leader, and the remaining natives who were already reloading their crossbows for another strike. Grunting as he fought the pain of his right leg, Candle rose to his feet. Slowly, he raised his rifle, took aim at the red cloaked figure, and pulled the trigger.
Click
Candle looked down at his weapon in disbelief.
Click… click…click…
Frantically, Candle patted himself down for another magazine, but to no avail. He turned his attention back to Blaire. The defeated medic's expression was a mixture of shame and sadness.
“Candle?” Blaire shrieked as he was slowly pulled further and further away. Blood oozed down his chin. “James?”
Candle looked around once more. The natives had nearly finished reloading their crossbows and were already closing in.
“James!” Tears were visible in Blaire's eyes as he tore up the earth around him in a struggle to locate something to grab onto.
Candle then turned his head to see behind him. The Gate still shimmered, ready to accept passage.
“Ja… James? For god's sake, please!”
With every last ounce of strength he had left, Candle hobbled to the Gate, and threw himself over the threshold. He immediately fell through, tumbling slowly down a sloped, ivy covered passage before coming to a gentle stop.
Before he passed out, he could hear Blaire give out one last, primal shriek.
“James!”

“James?”
Candle snapped his attention back to the matter at hand. Standing by his side was Researcher Joseph Bell. Candle had lost himself in thought, staring at nothing in particular. He was once again standing on that hill top.
“You okay?” Bell asked.
“Yeah,” Candle mumbled. “Fine, just, lost in thought…”
“I can imagine this place will do that to you.” Bell smiled as he looked around. The evergreen trees swayed in a light breeze against a violet sky. The balmy smell of a temperate summer filled the air. “It's simply breath taking. Something about it just pierces you.”
Candle nodded, doing his best not to cringe at the young researcher's last comment. He once again looked back around the clearing. For a brief moment, he believed he could see the drag marks Blaire had made in the dirt.
Wells was now calling the task force to order. Before he joined his comrades, Candle closed his eyes. He remembered something Blaire had said about him long ago.
“Remember, if anyone gets hurt, crawl to Candle. He'll get you back in one piece.”

« Wayfarers | Hub | Razumite Games »


“We. Us, the rest of us. We stepped outside, into the night dream. Probably a bad idea in retrospect, but you understand. We didn't understand, but you said it was like the moon landing, and we did all the training, right? We're fuckin' famous, yeah?”
A gaunt man in plain clothes paced back and forth in a white soundproof room. He directed his story to a thick, clear plate of glass which separated him from the observation chamber.
"Hey why can't we just set down at a table or somethin', boss? This is kinda strange, ya know? It's like I'm right back in jail or somethin'."
"It's a necessary precaution. People who have done what you've done have had delusional fits, they get angry, confused. It's hard to tell when that's going to happen, and, well, you've just returned. I really don't mean to be insulting."
The man tilted his head at the doctor, showing the teeth in the corner of his mouth.
“Well if you say so boss. Here's how it went down. We were outside this big stilt house. Like the ones in Florida, for floods. There's a field behind it, but something's a bit different. Far off in the end we see something towering, white, and fuzzy, and on the field are these large, white markings, like someone went over the grass with paint. They're humanoid shapes, placed adjoining. The markings are difficult to see at certain angles. It was like crop circles, but if the aliens were satanists, or something.”
He laughed nervously, wiping his nose on his arm.
“So… We stand there looking at each other like assholes. Certainly we don't wanna go back inside the house. I looked at that big white fuzzy thing standing across the field. Wasn't moving. Swaying a bit, softly in the breeze, like a discarded trash bag. Looks like a chubby yeti. Too fuzzy, like uh, made me think of an old memory. Probably not as freaky as I might describe something to be, but still, that's how it was.”
"I'm still listening, go on." The doctor in the small observation cell wrote down his accounts with great interest. While the subject paused, he tried his best to doodle a representation of the monster.
“The back noises in the house got louder, the ones we were running from, you know. So. We're more motivated to traverse the field. It was dark out, but the moon was bright, so we wouldn't have had difficulty navigating. Except… Except here's the thing, right.”
“The thing is, Jake began jogging off toward the end of the field. Something happened. One of these wobbling, fluffy yeti things emerged from the ground like a cartoon Christmas tree and reaches out with its long, fluffy knobs. Emerged from the marking, like some kind of trap. Jack is impaled by its wispy hair, and the creature pulls him inside of it. Some kind of marshmallow, but in reverse you know. Like it ate him instead? “
"Oh do I ever know," the doctor laughed, absently adjusting his glasses. "Marshmallows are awful!"
“Yeah. Yeah they are I guess. Never realized that till now. Huh. Well. Jake screamed for a moment, just a moment, and it was cut off once he disappeared. The screaming stopped at the same moment the marshmallow thing begins turning red. Hello, Barbara, I'm all full now. Right? All full and big and red like the Kool Aid man, or an Easter marshmallow. You remember those? Pink marshmallows. Were those good?”
The doctor shook his head, biting the insides of his cheeks to restrain a smile. He needed to maintain composure. Marshmallows weren't good. He housed a lot of terrible memories associated with pink, Easter marshmallows, and this man across the glass knew this to be true. He had somehow adopted this fear.
“Ashley was petrified, shrieking. I'm handling my… terror like a flaming donkey. Damian is holding Jessie back from diving into this thing. Desperately he's holding her back. He wants to save Jake. I wonder if she knows about those two. Did you know? I don't think she did.”
“This is how Hometown worked. The guy we checked around. I call his mind Hometown. It's like how he remembers it, maybe? If you want to survive the first rule is not to go first. You need to sacrifice your friends. There are no warnings for when something is going to reach up and grab you. It just happens. The director of this dream is a sick child. He just throws out the monsters, stomps on the ants. His mind is a snuff film. People just die, you know. I don't think I wanna meet this guy." The man laughed.
The doctor laughed with him. "We have some characters working here, it's true."
“They are still in a coma, yeah?" the man looked away. "I wasn't intentionally sacrificing my friends. I'm just a coward. I've always been that way. I was too scared to move. When the big yeti with the red flowing through it was wobbling at me, I just stood there looking at it. It was magical, I got a headrush just looking at it. It felt great, like a fountain of saline right into my skull. No it's bad. It isn't funny, right?”
The doctor scratched under his eye. "Not ideal, no."
“So Damian urges us toward the treeline. I couldn't think of why at the time, but I think that he seemed to think that the emergence of the dandelion monsters was due to our stepping on the markings. There weren't any markings near the treeline. So he did that. He went over there.”
“I didn't want to go near the treeline. Maybe it's because I'm a coward, or maybe it's because I was just becoming savvy. Me, right? This felt like one of those dreams where you wake up screaming, but I wasn't waking up. It had all the markings of some sort of night terror, but when I pinched myself I was still in the thick of it.”
“I couldn't tell ya where this all began, or when I… Oh god, entered the guy.. It wasn't a dream, though. I assure you that all of my friends are dead. They have obituaries in the Hometown Flyer. I'm not goin' back to read them. I wonder what they'd say though? Hmm. Something scary, right? Patronizing? Inclusive. I think Hometown has its own culture. Likes its terror. Learned to like it. No other choice.”

Dr. Glass opened the door of the observation room slightly, holding a cup of coffee. "Everything good here? Good stuff?" He whispered.
The doctor nodded quickly. "Yeah, yeah he's still talking now. Almost done."

“Yeah. We get to the treeline. I get as close as I'll get to the treeline. Sure as shit, I begin to hear whispering. Everyone else hears it too. It sounds like things voices are coming from just beyond the darkness. Legends of the Hidden Temple shit. I take that moment to notice this entire field is covered in treeline, and the bit we have to get through to make it onto the main road is just as dark as everything else.”
“Ashley and Jessie are absolutely hysterical. Ominous gibberish to our left, cotton candy monster to our right, and… Something behind us in the house. Did we want to go back past the house? I brought this up to Damian, and he seemed like it was probably the better idea. In retrospect I'm not sure why we immediately just didn't jump in the car. “
“We didn't know how to leave Hometown. Thanks for telling us that bit. That's a joke, though. That was a bad move on your part. I closed my eyes for moments, and learned that I couldn't close my eyes for very long. Not because I was incapable, but because of the things that I saw when I closed them.”
“We make it to the car without incident, which when, of course, Damian learns that the keys are in his bedroom on the 2nd story. Damian wanted to go in and get them alone. The man had good intentions, but he was an asshole. I insisted I go with him because I did not want to split up, and, if I went, the two spazzballs accompanying me were more likely to go too. Waste of time and money, those two.”
“We get back inside and there's still the gurgling, the sound of some woman screaming in some perpetual loop. The shepard's tone of her voice, layered in and over itself was bad stuff. I ran up the stairs with Damian, fully expecting something new, some eldritch troll to pop up around every corner. Think I'd get used to it. The law of diminishing returns is bullshit in headspace.”
“We grabbed the keys in the bedroom and turned back toward the hallway. I heard Ashley scream. Great, I was thinking, round two. I'm gonna punch this thing. Fuckin' A & Fuckin' B. My fear is all mixed with anger at this point. I hustle down the stairs and Jessie is sitting on the ground, Ashley is pointing at the window at a white monster and a red fluffy monster. They don't seem to be trying to get in, or, they don't know how. Peeping.”
“We make for the door. What I'm about to say seems strange. On the floor, in front of Ashley, without ceremony, appeared the corpse of Ashley. Instantaneously. It was just there. This corpse righted itself, and began to move backward toward Ashley. It appeared to be running in reverse. Ashley stops running, the mimic stops running. Ashley is staring at the back of her head in shock.”
“Damian and I move toward the door and grab baseball bats. Ashley is behind the Mimic in the hallway. She starts to move forward, and the Mimic moves in reverse. Damian throws her the baseball bat and she catches it. Damian wouldn't hit the mimic, I wouldn't either. It wouldn't have mattered if we did.”
“I felt a sense of resignation. No matter what I did, how I played my cards, something like this could just happen and fuck us over. I can't explain anything going on in that town, scientifically, not that I'm even a scientist. The behavior of the town. We couldn't win. Something was just having fun with us.”
“Ashely moved within range of the Mimic and swung the bat at the thing's head. The metal went straight through. She swings at it a few more times. Nothing happens, and it's just standing there blank as ever, advancing backward more slowly with every misstep Ashley makes.”
“It sucked her body right off. It was like deli meat put through a wind turbine. Sucked everything right into itself. Ashley was gone, there was no blood or nothing. Just this new Ashley. Ashely smiled at us, nervously, like she was confused. ‘What's wrong guys? Why are you looking at me like that, guys? We've got to get out of here!'”
“She's in a coma, right? God I hope so. Fuck Ashley. Obviously we didn't take her with us.”
“Is that everything? What happened to Damian?” Asked the doctor.
“He just kind of shrunk, no reason. In the car. That was it.”
“What about Jesse?” The doctor asked.
“Oh, shit, I forgot about her. Haha.”
The doctor spoke slowly. “The rest of the team are healthy and awake. Your stories all match right up. They seem to think you were killed as well.” The man responded, hesitantly. “…But they are no longer capable of entering other minds. We used my mind as a training area. I can confirm their, er. We don't have a word for it. Their… Subconscious counterparts no longer exist. Yours doesn't either.”
The body of the first Foundation oneironaut looked at the empty, black glass, and saw nothing.
"Do you believe in a soul?" The doctor asked.
The man shook his head.
"How do you feel?" Asked the doctor. "Is it any different at all?"
The body shook its head, and raised its upturned hands. “Hey man, can I get a cigarette? Fuck.”


“Misses Shao, There's a fate better than death.”
The man adjusted his thick, rimless bifocals. His toothy grin seemed to put her at ease, despite the bizarre circumstance of their meeting.
“This sounds so strange to me.” She said, gesturing toward herself. “But I want to spend the rest of my life with Jason.” She quickly folded her hands together on the patio table.
“Would you two like anything to drink?” Asked a waiter impatiently.
“Yinzhen, please.” Asked the man in the glasses.
Shao addressed the man in Chinese, and he nodded earnestly. “Very well ma'am.”
“Misses Shao, I represent powerful individuals. This group has means that a good, normal person like yourself wouldn't even consider. Believe me when I say, this is a wonderful opportunity for you.” He smiled again and took her hands in his from across the table. “You can stay with him forever, and at the same time, you can help protect the future of humanity.”
Qi Shao smiled nervously.

“Engaging abdominal gauss cannon!” Sci-Fi's robotic voice screamed as she adjusted her torso to best target the massive, roaring lamprey-dragon above her.
The dark, floating island was being torn apart by swarms of the dragon's clones. Deathbell's outer leaves began to disintegrate as his poisonous power sapped his remaining mental energy. It sprayed out of his orifices in violent, twisting streams at the clones, burning away their hard shells and revealing the nothingness inside.
Qi Shao roared past Sci-Fi, leaving a trail of sticky black glitter. Sci-Fi leaned forward in pursuit, putting every ounce of concentration she had into her thrusters. Just as it seemed she was within her reach, Qi Shao performed a loop, diving directly toward Deathbell.
“Urooj get out of the way!”
Qi Shao's spiraling mouth emerged from between the fog-covered columns of the desolate island, and from it emerged a long, sharp appendage. Deathbell turned and looked up to see Sci-Fi dashing toward him from in the frame of the moon, and felt a sharp pain in his chest.

“I don't think I could do that to Jason.” Said Shao, reading over the materials the man behind the glass had given her. “Why are you behind that glass all of the time? Why is that?”
“Safety precaution, you'll understand soon why this barrier is required.”
“Okay,” She said, flipping through the sheets. “‘Oneiroinautics'. You already have eight people who can do this? This is fantasy. Magic.”
“What we're beginning to understand is that it isn't magic at all. Any… willing entity can do this. I am personally very excited about it. It means so much for psychology and human communications. Not just humans. Plants, animals. Zeitgeists. Did you notice the bit about the K-9 unit? It's marvelous.”
“This sounds like a big scam, but I am desperate. Let us continue. What is this right here?” She took the dull, gray pamphlet and pressed the black and white illustration against the glass. It depicted what looked like a dragonfly, only its face only had a circular mouth.
The doctor began laughing softly. “Our artists can be a bit creative. It's a speculative drawing of what a nightmare creature could look like. Of course, they could look like anything, they reflect a person's hopes and fears.”
Shao eyed his silhouette behind the thick pane pensively. For just a moment she could catch the glint of his glasses.

Qi Shao slowly plucked away Deathbell's petals, placing them each in separate jars in the hollow grooves of the temple interior. “He loves me, he loves me not. Funny? Yes.” She said plainly, buzzing down from the impossibly tall shelf.
Deathbell was incoherent; he had long lost his ability to concentrate, and it seemed like the only thing real now was the pain. All around him were thick piles of brown leaves. Skittering Xiupanians tended to them with plastic rakes. In his fever Deathbell imagined that these were his uninteresting parts.
“Are you with the mister glass? Why are you here?” She asked calmly, plucking away the individual white bulbs that rooted in Deathbell's skull. Luckily, escaping sap had quickly crystallized into a clear amber around over his eyes. “I think you are here to bother me. I think you are part of his funny game.”
“Crazy bitch!”
Qi Shao tilted her head at the small flower, conveying an expression in her mouth-face that he wouldn't understand to be restrained amusement. She produced the sound of broken gears grinding meat. Tenderly, she brought the hairy stalk of one of her arms to the base of his stem.
“I am not. You are. That does not bother me. That is why I am here.”
“Fuck off and die! Kill yourself!”
Qi Shao shook her head. “I am patient. I will give you one other chance. Answer this question. I think you are with Mr. Glass, and you are trying to manipulate me. Yes?”
“Who the fuck is Glass?”
“The man who talks to you from behind the glass. You know who I am referring to.”
“I'm with the Collective, I don't know shit.”
Qi Shao scratched her head. “That is an ignorant lie. Transparent. You are not very learned,” Shao twisted his stem clockwise, then counterclockwise, maintaining surgical precision with her tiny fingertips. “You are a whole, tangible individual, with individual fears.”
“You will have one less fear now, you are welcome.” Very tenderly, she brought her nails together and plucked away his stamen, tossing it on the ground.

“Forever and a day ago we lost inside the spiral quarry.”
The doctor's voice filled Shao's chamber every night when she slept. A very slight electrical pulse ran through the bedframe when Qi wasn't sleeping according to the program, and each time, the doctor would repeat his mantra. Every night, he observed the spikes and loops that appeared on his view screen with morbid fascination.
Qi Shao sat up and removed her eye mask. “Doctor? Is that you?”
“Yes. This is part of the conditioning process. Ah, the thought training outlined in the materials.”
“I thought sleep learning was a lie. I saw a show.”
“It is a lie. Please try to go back to sleep now, misses Shao, or this won't work.”
“Okay. Sorry.”

The rotund slug creature rolled up the foot of the gargantuan seat. Across the vast distance sat Qi Shao. Hundreds of thousands of buzzing and chirping Xiupanians flooded the monolithic arches of the dining room, creating crawling windows. Moonlight escaping between their bodies caused the room to shift from dim to pitch black.
“Thank you for taking the time to interview, miss!” The slug squirted happily.
“I am a misses.” She maneuvered a bit of lettuce out of her teeth with a toothpick, dropping it to the floor with an enormous crash.
“And this lovely floral arrangement.” The slug man lifted a crown of white bulbs with its invisible limbs, placing the decoration on his head.
“I made it myself. It should fit you. It is nothing. Tell me again, what is your name?”
The creature slapped its own body several times, causing orange liquid to escape in drooping streams. “Lordite White Water the Fourth, PHD, Esq, of free consciousness, of course.”
“You are a ‘deather'. That is what I gathered from you when our minds first met. It seemed prevalent.”
“Oh but of course. You could kill me right now and I would be very happy.”
Qi Shao nodded.
“You could kill roughly five hundred thousand oneiroi and they would be very happy.” He added, wobbling earnestly.
“That is interesting. I did not know such a sentiment existed. Even so, why would I do such a thing. What motivation would I have.”
“Well, forever and a day ago we lost inside the spiral quarry, so to speak, and so on.”
Shao paused, her eyes resting vacantly on the moon inside the churning windows.
“So you'll do it then?”
The Xiupanians all chirped in unison. Their bodies began to flood into the room and carpet the floor, causing the temple to be filled with soft moonlight.
The slug ball chuckled, producing a pipe from thin air and plugging it into a large orifice. “Very well! I'll make my way back and spread word to my compatriots!” It rolled away, following the trail of slime it had left. Just as it reached the floor, it was ambushed by several Xiupanians, who with their incisors efficiently divided him like one might eighth a breakfast grapefruit. “Oh happy day!” It squealed.
Qi Shao snorted, and bumped her head on the ceiling. “Okay, yeah.” she whispered, absently slurping the waterfall of drool that had descended from her mouth.