"You actually have to ask? I can do my job without a babysitter."
"I don't care if he can snap it clean in half. Would you have assigned me to catch him if you thought I couldn't handle a reality bender?"
"I thought so. I'll call you when he gets here. And I want a raise."

Andy and Jude are nearly inside The Establishment before Armand even leaves his seat — the former because he had parked several seconds before they had, and the latter because Jude had wasted no time getting out and power-walking over to the door. Armand sighs, double-checking that he locked the doors before following them inside.
It takes Armand's eyes a few seconds to adjust as he examines the bar's darkened interior, but even before that he can tell that Jude is nearby — on a quiet day like this, his rolling wrists easily stand out above the indistinguishable rock-sounding music in the background.
"Okay, so, we're here. Andy's over there talking to his sister, uh, and could you get the arrangements or whatever settled with her so I can head out and find a dealer? I haven't smoked in like a whole day." Jude looks anywhere but at Armand. "Like seriously, I'm just about out of my fricken, mind over here."
"Juuust magggic some upth, there's stuffuff todo." Armand's eyes adjust to the darkness, and he spots Andy in a booth towards the back, sitting next to a woman who could be his sister and a man who is definitely not related to him at all. Armand heads over there, and Jude reluctantly follows, hands in his pockets.
"It doesn't… feel right when I do it. Ugh. Fiiiooooh heyyyy man what's ah fuck this is bad isn't it." Jude's whirlwind of emotion corresponds to his identification of the unrelated man, who gives Jude a wave and a wink, and his realization that this man's presence suggests that things have very much gone off-script.
"Not exactly." The woman sitting next to Andy sips from a beer bottle. "I suppose you're wondering why I gathered you here today."
"Sssomething gogoood?" Armand pulls up a chair and sits down in it; Jude stands by awkwardly.
"It is definitely not good." Andy sighs. "Amanda, apparently, has a contact with the Foundation, who is paying her to keep us all here so they can come to lock us up."
"…" Amanda rolls her eyes, putting her phone away. "I suppose you're now fully informed of why I gathered you here today."
This elicits some giggling from the thus-far unnamed individual at the table. "You know, I was just saying the same thing in chat, like, this morning." He reaches over and snatches Amanda's beer from her, taking a swig from it. "The bit about gathering people, I mean. Anyways, I'm going to bullshit my way out of this, obviously, and chances are I can get everyone else out of it too. Just so you know."
"JJ, I appreciate it, but this is some kind of… retrocausal, destiny bullshit. Is your luck stronger than that? Like, she already got you here, why do you think you can leave?" Jude starts pacing. Amanda gets partway through gesticulating indignantly at JJ before he starts up again. "Like, yes, obviously, I could just Dr. Manhattan this whole bar and delete the space between me and the nearest nug, but I bet HER bullshit is going to wipe the floor with MY bullshit, because that's how things go, and —"
"And we'll have a few hours before anyone gets here," Andy interjects, "so we have time to think of a plan. What we don't have time for is you losing your shit because you can't get high."
"Oohhh, lilighten up Anddy, giiiive hima break." Armand shares a look with JJ before looking back to Andy. "It's nonooot his faultw we couuuldn't get him rerereehab in thec car ride over!"
Amanda rests her head on the table and mutters something about a fucking drink.

Five beers (four of which went to Amanda), many raised voices, and a half hour later, Amanda is alone at the bar, while the four boys have gathered in a corner booth. Jude stares listlessly at the ceiling, Armand traces spirals on the table, JJ plays a game on his phone, and Andy fiddles nervously.
"You know what, I'm gonna go try leaving. Worst that happens, it doesn't work." Nobody bothers to respond as JJ stands up and walks out the door. They do look up as several muffled impact sounds emanate from the doorway, followed shortly thereafter by JJ walking back into the bar and rejoining the table.
"So there's a sniper set up on the hardware store across the street, but his aim is fucking terrible." He lifts up his phone, which has a large hole going through it. "Of course, that might just be me, so uh, I wouldn't try anything."
"Great." Jude sighs, looking back up. "And WHY, pray and tell, is there a goddamn sniper keeping us in here?"
"It's probably just a coincidence, so, y'know, Amanda's fault." Andy gestures towards his sister with his thumb. "So we're stuck convincing her to let us go. Which means… leverage. I don't have any, how about you guys?"
"Nonnno, but…" Armand turns to Jude. "Reeeememmmber the artt gallery?"
Jude sits up very suddenly and glares at Armand. "I'm not. Doing that. Again. What the fuck are you thinking?"
"Iiii'm thinking," Armand says as he holds up his hands in front of him, "Youuu do it inr revererse." Jude's expression softens.
"Well yeah, but on who?" A look of realization dawns on JJ's face. He grins. "Yeah, I dig it. C'mon Jude, let's do this." He stands up and walks over to the bar.
Andy watches as JJ leaves. To the other two, "Uh, mind filling me in on the details here?"
Jude shares a look with Armand, then looks back to Andy. "It'll be way cooler if you see it in action, probably." He gives a sort of half-smile before he gets up and follows JJ. Andy is about to ask another question when Armand picks up a bottle and smashes it against the table.

Amanda is shaken out of her reverie by a loud inhaling sound coming just inches from her face. She reflexively swings a fist at the offender, then sits up straight and turns to him. "What the hell is your damage? As if taking my drink wasn't bad enough."
JJ prods his nose experimentally, eyes crossing to get a look at it as he sits next to Amanda. "Ow. Okay, you didn't break anything, at least. Anyways, I just wanted to say hi, see how you were doing."
Amanda's attention is diverted by the barstool on her other side, which is now groaning under Jude's weight. But she returns to squint suspiciously at JJ. "I'm fine. Very fine, in fact. Whatever bullshit you're planning here, you should know it won't work." She glances past JJ towards Armand, who is carefully dropping shards of broken glass in a spiral pattern on the floor. "Especially half-assed pattern magic."
JJ shrugs. "Yeah, don't worry. I was just thinking, you weigh what, a hundred pounds?" He cuts Amanda off with a wave of his hand. "Rhetorical question. You're tiny. But you've had five drinks just since I got here, and you don't seem drunk at all. That's one hell of a tolerance. Your breath gives you away, though. Seems like the kind of thing you wouldn't want your employer hearing about…" He trails off, giving Amanda a knowing look.
Amanda scoffs at him, rolling her eyes. "God, you're pathetic. What, do you expect me to let you go just so the Foundation doesn't find out I drink?" She glances over at Jude — he's picking at some old stain on the bar with his fingernail — before taking out her phone. "I'll just call and explain the situation to them. Like they'd expect me to stay sober while I babysit you idiots."
JJ catches the bartender's attention, ordering an appletini as Amanda taps in a phone number and waits for a response after it starts ringing. The response is not the standard identity-confirmation passphrase she expects, but something closer to a SCCRRRREEEEEEEAAAAAWWWWEUEUEUARRRGCHCHCHCH, as pronounced by something somewhere between a human, a cockatoo, and a computer-generated facsimile of a cockatoo.
"What the —" Amanda jerks the phone away from her ear, then swivels around to Jude. "You — !"
Jude is now insistently picking away at the space near Amanda's phone, and half-humming half-mumbling some late-'70s synth-pop song. His nail catches on the air, and he tears that away. There is a cord behind the air, and he pulls that too — this time, he puts his whole arm into it. There is a flash of light, the crackling of ozone, something shiny, and something buzzing.
For a split second, a man is visible about six feet off the ground — he's in his mid-50's, but in surprisingly good condition for his age, and dressed in some forgettable business-casual getup. He's sitting on nothing, phone held up to his ear. The man is still visible after the split second, but he's now fallen onto the ground, groaning in pain and confusion.
Jude and Amanda look at him, and then share a glance.
"He's uh." Jude points at him. "Guess that's the guy you were calling."
Amanda blinks, expressionless. "… why did you even do this."
"Uh. Armand?" Jude looks over to Armand, who has started to make his way over.
"Becc cause hem missssunderststood me." Armand pinches his nosebridge, and sighs. "Whhho is this?"
JJ looks over, eyebrow raised in interest. "… wait, is that not what we were supposed to do? That's her contact with the janitors." As an aside to Amanda, "Kind of a catch, if you ask me. Bit young for my tastes."
"What're you —" The man's query, and his attempt to lift himself up off the floor, is interrupted when Armand puts a boot on his shoulder and shoves him back down. He puts his hands on his hips. "Wellelln never mind now. Wen need a newplan."
Amanda shrugs. "Won't stop the task force from coming to pick you idiots up."
"It might," says Andy, who has drawn a few looks by speaking up, "if we take him hostage."
Jude is about to respond when Armand falls forward, his leg dragged out from under him and his knee shoved forward. The man stands up, looking over at Jude. "Hello, Kriyot." he grumbles. "Wonderful mess you've gotten both of us into."
"You know my name and I don't know yours." Jude blurts. He knew several cooler ways of saying that, but seeing Armand dropped like that made him lose his train of thought.
"Good, that's how it should be." The man turns his attention to Amanda. "So, who are these? Some sort of entourage for the target?" He gestures to Andy (hanging back awkwardly), JJ (still on his barstool), and Armand (still on the floor).
"Freebies. That one's the guy who's been driving Jude everywhere, I think he knows some kind of magic. That one over there has extremely good luck. The third is my useless brother, he can make cars belong to him by touching them. Don't you collect these kind of people?" She points to each in turn. "And more importantly, doesn't this warrant a bonus?"
Andy is about to voice objections of his own when the man cuts him off. "No, we're not in the habit of giving bonuses to contractors who get drunk on the job, go against their instructions to introduce unknown variables to a situation, and let targets get close enough to kidnap a Foundation employee!" He gestures to Armand. "You don't even know what he can —" The man pauses, then looks at Armand again. That is not Armand on the floor. It is a busted-up glass sign of a cartoon man flipping a pancake.
Then a shard of glass whizzes by and slices the man's ear off.
Andy, who was standing next to the broken glass spiral already, is the first to realize that it is hovering mid-air, and that Armand is standing behind it. Jude notices second, Amanda third, JJ fourth, and the Foundation man — who is desperately attempting to stem the bleeding — fifth. JJ blinks. "Shit, dude, when did you get over here?"
Jude facepalms. "More importantly, why? What the hell does that accomplish?"
Armand shrugs. "Pupppput thef fear ofgod into him? Tesssst out herab bilities?"
"My abilities?" Amanda looks over from helping the man with his blood problem. "What about them?"
"This is why," the man grumbles to Amanda, "we only wanted Kriyot. Because we know he won't try to kill anyone!"
Jude shares a glance with Armand, then smiles. "You know, I'm not too sure about that." He gets out of his seat and starts to meander over to Armand and Andy. "I mean, I don't kill out of, like, in most cases I don't kill." He only mulls over his error for a second. "But like, it's different when you're trying to get free, right? Give me freedom, or kill me, right? The Boston Tea Party guy said that."
Andy snickers a bit before he processes what Jude said. "Wait, uh, dude? You sure about this?"
Armand nods solemnly. "It'sth the only way."
The man looks to Amanda insistently. "Well? Don't just let him kill himself! Do something about it!"
JJ laughs. "Bitch, please. She couldn't even stop Armand from fucking you up. She can't save anyone. Like, wh-"
"Would you all please shut up? Speeches are fucking hard enough already…" Jude rubs his forehead. "ANYWAYS. I don't think any of us really want to be locked away for good, 'cause that's not a life. So, uh." He thinks for a few seconds. "See you in hell."
"Don't you fucking d-" Amanda is cut off by the crackle of electricity.
JJ, whose phone is busted, gets to sit out and watch. Jude, Armand, and Andy get to feel their very beings ripped apart on the atomic level, devolve into a chaos of noise and particles, and shunt themselves into their phones single-file. It is painful.
By the time Amanda finishes her sentence, all that remains of the three is ozone (a natural byproduct of electricity in the air) and shoes (which are too big to fit through the phone).

gaycopmp4: blunt
polaricecraps joined the channel.
gaycopmp4: the cliffhanger doesnt work if we already knowyoure not dead
CommunismAnarchismNihilism: lmao
bluntfiend: Hm. I suppose you're right.
bluntfiend: In my defense, I'm high as shit.
gaycopmp4: g fucking j
bluntfiend: <:3c
bluntfiend: Did I ever tell you guys about the whole, uh, history behind the electricity thing?
lesbian_gengar: Not exactly, and I don't think they need to know.
polaricecraps: aw mother fuck did i miss papa smokes story time
bluntfiend: Yeah, you're right. Point is, the last time the janitors saw me do it, it was permanent.
orbhorse: ^ Me after two jars of ghost pepper salsa.
hetcopogg: ew.
TrainerDP: Pakoosh.

It always astounded Jude, the things that he could put his mind to when he was desperate — specifically, things from comic books. He could keep three people in the phone lines for maybe two minutes… would that be enough? Would the strings of fate loosen before they all sang the body electric?

CommunismAnarchismNihilism: seriously dude?
gaycopmp4: i literally JSUT called you out on this lmao

Yes. Yes they would.
Their bodies tore themselves back together. Bit by bit. Quarks. Bosons. Armand knew the science. The rest of them didn't. What they all knew was that it was cold. They groaned barefoot, buzzing out of the air. The crackling smell of air freshener.

gaycopmp4: is this bit like a reference to something or what are you doing
bluntfiend: I did a cool thing, I get to describe it dramatically.
hetcopogg: sorry but you're really bad at it
bluntfiend: Okay, fine. lmao
bluntfiend: So we all wake up in a hotel room in Iceland.
CommunismAnarchismNihilism: worst hangover sequel ever
bluntfiend: I mean, I *meant* to send us to Iceland, but I don't know how we ended up in a hotel.
bluntfiend: Fancy one, too.
bluntfiend: Confusion ensues, etc.
bluntfiend: Whole lot of bullshit I was not high enough to process.
bluntfiend: Andy actually had Euros in his account for some… reason. I have no idea what his deal is. So he cashed that out. Kinda mad about kars or something.
bluntfiend: LG's gonna get us, like, IDs. As per our original plan.
bluntfiend: Andy went out and bought me some weed, I'm gonna have to pay him back. Apparently it wasn't hard to find, but it was like $200 for an eighth.
bluntfiend: And that's about where we are now, I guess. I'll have to get a job, eventually. I don't know how to make euros out of thin air.
bluntfiend: So… yeah.
lesbian_gengar: what about jj?
bluntfiend: Oh, right. He actually called the hotel room's phone like, a half hour ago.
bluntfiend: After I did my thing, the janitor guy just told Amanda to fuck off. Since we were all apparently dead, I guess? Guess that's why my trick worked.
hetcopogg: more like amandumb
bluntfiend: She, uh. The guy with the gun hadn't gone away yet.
gaycopmp4: so she died and you thought the weed price was more important
bluntfiend: She got hit in the ankle, relax. JJ ditched after that.
PCSatisfatorio: whats the view like over there i heard theres no sun in iceland
bluntfiend: Not sure.
polaricecraps: all three of these things are fucked up
bluntfiend: I'm kind of stuck in the bathroom right now, for various reasons.
orbhorse: Isn't there some salsa from Iceland that literally put people in the hospital?
gaycopmp4: icelandic salsa is folded up to a million times to produce the finest laxative known to mankind
PCSatisfatorio: like for a half of the year its just dark
hetcopogg: y'all are gross.
hetcopogg: gaycopmp4, break up with me over this.
harmpit joined the channel.
polaricecraps: seriously though can someone like give me some logs or something
gaycopmp4: no
bones: polaricecraps: Sent.
polaricecraps: thx
bluntfiend: … harm, what the fuck are you doing here?
PCSatisfatorio: ??
bones: Is there some issue I should be aware of?
bluntfiend: No, well, kind of?
harmpit: :34
bluntfiend: I can literally hear him sucking Andy's dick in the next room.
CommunismAnarchismNihilism: power move
harmpit: your'e just jaelous
polaricecraps: this just in papa smoke is the world's worst storyteller
bluntfiend: First of all, not even a little. Second, WHY are you on chat right now?
harmpit: it's liek taht somettimes
CommunismAnarchismNihilism: i actually exclusively talk in here while sucking dick
orbhorse: See, now I'm wishing when I thought "someone is going to get a blowjob out of this whole deal", I would have said so, so I could say I called it. But I guess you'll just have to believe me.
gaycopmp4: cool story
bluntfiend: Does he know that you've, like, never brushed your teeth?
tiedyeduck: guys holy fuck
tiedyeduck: someone drew a gijinka of my dog
PCSatisfatorio: what
polaricecraps: wut
gaycopmp4: what
lesbian_gengar: okay i just got back and: what?
bluntfiend: If someone wanted to suck mwait hold the fuck up
bones: tiedyeduck: Unless you can show us the gijinka, we'll have to assume this is a ruse.
CommunismAnarchismNihilism: what in the goddamn
tiedyeduck: is there still a channel ban on anime tiddy
bones: Yes.
tiedyeduck: then i can't
bones: I see.
harmpit: in theb utt
gaycopmp4: osaugpojgasdknsaldgakfd;la
hetcopogg: @lesbian_gengar dog tity alert just thought you should know
lesbian_gengar: gaycopmp4 please break up with your gf.
PCSatisfatorio: whats a gijinka
lesbian_gengar: she needs to be taught a lesson in not making fun of me for two years about this
bluntfiend: Hey tiedyeduck, what's your dog's name again?
tiedyeduck: noooooo nope
gaycopmp4: apsodignpoADFPOGIAODSGJO WHY IDD SOMEONE DRAW A GIINKNA OF YOUR DOG
tiedyeduck: i'm not telling you
harmpit: wehn i was 87 i thout my catw as a human inh iding and i kept kissin gitlike a frog tot urn her bakc
bluntfiend: It's just an innocent request. What breed is it? Just so I can get a good visual in my head.
CommunismAnarchismNihilism: PCSatisfatorio, it's like a humanized version of something. Usually as a cute girl.
tiedyeduck: i regret everything
hetcopogg: seriously what's the context here you can't just say "someone drew a horny human girl version of my dog" and just leave it out there
PCSatisfatorio: oh like a humanization except youre all weebs so you use the confusing word for it
gaycopmp4: fgsfds
tiedyeduck: it's a really long story okay like i wrote a thing and used her picture for it and the story got popular in japan blah blah blah
polaricecraps: okay harmpit's thing is actually adorable can we talk about that?
orbhorse: The real story here is that tiedyeduck is a nerd.
tiedyeduck: hey hetcopogg lesbian_gengar just pmed me asking for a link to the pic
hetcopogg: LOOOOOL
lesbian_gengar: so what if i did?
harmpit: thanks polaricecraps
hetcopogg: yiff yiff motherfucker
lesbian_gengar: dog girls are good and pure.
tiedyeduck: this one ain't
CommunismAnarchismNihilism: yiff
PCSatisfatorio: it's weird to collect jerkoff material based on someone's dog
bluntfiend: I actually kind of agree.
harmpit: yiffyiff
bluntfiend: Of course, I think porn in general is kind of weird.
tiedyeduck: i just sent it to her
tiedyeduck: like at the end of the day it's not a big deal
lesbian_gengar: yeah this is basically porn.
hetcopogg: YIFF
hetcopogg: I
hetcopogg: F
TrainerDP: i wrote a script so that my computer won't open irc until its microphone picks up something that sounds like a dick getting sucked, goml
hetcopogg: F
tiedyeduck: i'm mostly just, reeling, that this is now a thing that has happened, in my life.
TrainerDP: fuck, i was scrolled up, nvm
bluntfiend: tiedyeduck, yeah, I definitely know that feeling.
tiedyeduck: what
tiedyeduck: like someone drew furry porn of your dog?
gaycopmp4: thats definitely what hewas talking about. brilliant guess
TrainerDP: furry porn who what
bluntfiend: No, the "this is such a weird thing and now I have to live my life knowing that it's real." thing.
bluntfiend: Like all that bullshit that just happened today.
tiedyeduck: bruh you realize all of us can do magic
hetcopogg: couf
tiedyeduck: all the cool ones
harmpit: rued
hetcopogg: ^
hetcopogg: arrowblocked
tiedyeduck: it's so not the same
tiedyeduck: you having some dumb magic adventure is like a tenth the fucked upness of this titty dog
harmpit: yeahr elax
bluntfiend: Heh. Yeah, I get that.
harmpit: k fniished
lesbian_gengar: finished with what?
TrainerDP: snrk
bluntfiend: …
bluntfiend has left the channel.

« You are trash if you toke. | I will use my taser on you. | [STAY TUNED] »


Capone's 'Outfit' operates out of South Chicago with impunity, handing out stacks of green to keep everyone minding their own damn business. And if the green ain't green enough? A couple pounds of lead in your belly ought to do the trick.
One of the only men with the moxie to stand up to the Outfit is Hymie Weiss — 'The Perfumed Burglar'. But moxie only gets you so far. Weiss' North Side Gang is the mom-and-pop store to Al Capone's Sears Catalog. Capone's got the muscle, the cash, and — unlike Weiss — hasn't managed to piss off nearly every crook in the Windy City. He's got Weiss on the ropes — and that's made Weiss desperate.
And if there's one thing desperate men are good at, it's filling up morgues.
Place stinks of chemicals. I pull out a foil-sleeved stick of gum from my pocket, unwrap it, and shove it into my mouth. Meanwhile, Dr. Dalewood — Chicago's pre-eminent forensic pathologist — makes his way toward the large metal plates that line the wall. He disengages the locking mechanism on one of them, then casts a glance back my way. "You sure you're up to this?"
I mash the gum against the back of my mouth. "You sure you want that twenty?"
A week ago, a stoolie set to testify against one of Capone's boys ended up in the hospital over a case of 'acute lead poisoning'. Four slugs in the brain. Doctors didn't expect him to make it through the night. Suddenly, Hymie Weiss shows up with his own personal physician. Two days later? The stoolie walked into the courtroom and sang his little heart out. Must have been a stressful performance — he croaked the next day. 'Brain aneurysm'.
The doctor grabs hold of the handle and heaves back. The tray rolls out with a loud, obnoxious rattle — revealing a shrouded corpse stretched across the slab.
Two days ago, Capone sent a specialist to 'ventilate' one of Weiss' Northboys. Witnesses claimed the bastard ate over twenty rounds before buying it. Police are keeping it hush hush, but Mr. Gallant has it on good word that the corpse was still crawling two hours later. They eventually just set the damn thing on fire.
Dr. Dalewood pulls the sheet back. He has to work at it; some of the linen sticks to the corpse's face and chest. Underneath are the burnt remains of Mr. Charles Montgomery — one of Weiss' personal body-guards.
Not much to work with. But I've done more with less.
I fish the wad out of my mouth and walk on over to the body, sticking the gum to the side of the tray. Then, reaching down, I squeeze Mr. Montgomery's blackened, blistered cheeks. Bits of charred flesh crack and splinter under my fingers. His jaw pops open like a released spring, exposing crooked teeth inside of a still-pink mouth.
The doctor takes a few steps back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him making the sign of the cross.
Words never meant to be spoken by a human tongue leave my mouth. I follow them with a question to Mr. Montgomery: "Who gave you life beyond life?"
I lower my head and kiss his melted lips, breathing warmth into his lungs.
My hands go to his chest. As I pull back, I push down against his sternum. Bones creak and pop — something gives. A surge of fetid air gushes out from him, accompanied by a raspy whisper.
Volo… dya…
Satisfied, I retrieve my gum and step away, poking the wad back into my mouth. But then I hear Dalewood cry out.
"Mother of God!"
I turn. Mr. Montgomery seems to have regained his zeal for life. His upper torso convulses; he's trying to breathe on his own.
I grab the bone chisel from the surgical tray next to me and slam it down between his eyes. It sinks in about an inch. He keeps jerking. I seize a nearby hammer and start beating at that chisel, forcing it deeper. After the seventh hit, his convulsions have dwindled to tiny spasms. After hit number sixteen, he's just a twitching heap of cooked meat.
"God in Heaven." Dalewood mumbles a prayer to himself. Meanwhile, I hold the hammer up, ready to strike again.
Twitch. Twitch. Twitch.
Nothing.
That's when I see it. Something wriggling inside of his mouth. At first, I think it's his tongue — but it's the wrong color. A sickly, pearl-like white. Too pale, and too long. Leaning forward, I narrow my eyes and get a closer look.
A segmented worm pokes its head out from the back of his throat. It looks like a bloated, over-sized pupa. The thing stretches and undulates, squeezing bulges from its tip down to where it's gotten stuck — trying to push itself free. I tap Mr. Montgomery's mouth shut with the hammer.
Dalewood's looking a little green around the gills. He's flattened himself against the far wall, staring at me and the corpse.
"Alright," I tell him. "We need to stitch his mouth shut, quick. Also, you got an incinerator down here?"

After I clean myself up and pay Dalewood for his trouble, I climb the steps back up into the police station and use their phone to call the number Mr. Gallant gave me.
September's voice responds: "Mr. Hartliss. You'll take the case?"
"Ten dollars a day to cover expenses. Three hundred when the job is done. And I'll need a hundred up front, right now."
"Those terms seem rather excessive."
"The case is excessive. You're asking me to take on a lot of risk." I glance around to make sure none of the flat-foots are listening in. "I can track Weiss' new ally for you, but it won't be easy. Whoever they are, they're dangerous."
"You already have a lead?" She sounds surprised. I savor it. September isn't the sort who's easily impressed.
"Yeah. It ain't the Spirit. How much do you and your boss know about Sarkicism?"
The line goes quiet for a while.
"September?"
"You suspect Sarkic involvement."
"I don't 'suspect' a goddamn thing. I know. I've also got a name: Volodya. You recognize it?"
Again, quiet.
"Look, lady, I don't deal with dramatic silence that well. You familiar with the name or not?"
"We are familiar with Iga Volodya's work," she tells me. "I'll have my office forward you our information on her, and wire the money to your account. We'll need daily reports from you — you are to locate her and determine her involvement with Mr. Weiss. Nothing else. Are these terms agreeable?"
"Nothing about this is agreeable, September. But it'll do." I hang up.

Finding out that Weiss' silent partner isn't the Chicago Spirit is a relief. Guys like Capone and Weiss will spill your guts, sure — but a guy like Richard Chappell? He'll putrefy those guts, blend 'em into a milkshake, then make you drink while your family watches.
Not like the Sarkites are much better, though. They're older than dirt and use words like 'quaint' and 'rustic' to describe acts of cannibalism. They've got dynasties spanning back hundreds — if not thousands — of years. Their only saving grace is that they're too old — modernity baffles them. I once watched one struggle for ten minutes to figure out how to answer a goddamn telephone.
After a night of rest, I arrive in the Polish Downtown. Crowded tenement housing looms on either side of the street; the scent of sauerkraut and boiled hot-dogs wafts from a nearby food-cart. A newsboy stands on the corner, trying to pass yesterday's papers as today's news.
I reach into my coat pocket and squeeze my pistol — taking comfort in its weight.
The Gallant Society has been keeping tabs on Iga Volodya since the 1800s. September's file on her reads like a pastiche of half a dozen horror stories. Mothers giving birth to bulbous knots of mandrake root — their unborn children snatched from their very wombs. Babies sown into blood-drenched soil, only to grow into sobbing saplings that bleed when cut. Human heads sprouting from the branches of trees.
Y'know, basic Sarkic stuff.
Volodya was born in Russia, but left with her kids and grand-kids for Poland. Immigration papers describe her as 'a simple turnip farmer'. To everyone else, she's Baba Yaga. September's files hint that she's had a hand in everything from Rasputin's rise to power to the influenza pandemic of 1918. Whoever she is, she's a fully ordained Karcist — the Sarkic equivalent of a Catholic Cardinal.
In other words? I'm to her what a card-sharp is to Harry frigging Houdini.
But even a card-sharp can pull a fast one on a master when the master isn't paying attention.
I slip past the store-fronts and tenement complexes, making my way through the alleyways that weave in and out of the spaces in-between. Closing my eyes, I walk and breathe — counting back from a hundred. The scents and sounds behind me shrink away. Little by little, the world dissolves.
Most people who live here only see one city. A few can see two or three. If you're real clever, you know there's more than can be counted — each stacked on top of another, like an infinitely nested Matryoshka doll.
I hold my breath, peel back Chicago's layers, and open my eyes.
The alleyway is now crooked and wrong. Pink veins snake through the walls to my left and right; they pulse with a hidden heartbeat. In the distance, a heavy, yellow smog obscures the skyline. What was previously a dead tom-cat is now alive and growling, lazily grooming its spilled entrails.
I pull out my .45 and start walking.
Volodya immigrated here from Poland in 1921. She claimed she wanted to spend time with her family. Five bucks says Weiss — a Polish immigrant himself — is part of the family she was referring to.
Finding her won't be hard. I tuck the .45 under my sleeve and follow the veins, tracing them back to their source. They lead me around a corner — past a bakery where all the pastries are stuffed full of glistening viscera — past a man selling toys with blood on his hands.
All the veins stretch out to meet a single building. It's a slouched 3-story tenement in the poorest part of town. As I approach, I can hear the faint beat of a heart. It's getting louder with every step.
I slip in through the back door and up the stairs. The railing is made of cracked, splintered femurs; they are fastened together with wet, slick sinew. On the walls, a symbol is scrawled over and over again — a crooked spiral of yellow. The boards under my feet whimper with pain.
The heart-beat is deafening. I enter the hall; the walls and floors are made of pale, pulsating flesh. Root-like fibers dangle from the ceiling above. The door where all the veins converge is a misshapen, bulbous thing; it's covered in tumors and pustules, each throbbing with the pulse.
I breathe. The world around me shudders and collapses. I am standing in an ordinary hall, in front of an ordinary door. There is no one with me. I reach out and knock on the door.
No answer.
I knock again. "Ma'am? This is Officer Dalewood, with the Chicago PD. I was hoping to ask you a few questions."
Still no answer.
I give the hallway another look-over — still no one around. Then, I take a step back and slam the heel of my boot into the space directly beneath the lock. After three solid kicks, the wood splinters. After the fifth, it snaps and gives.
The door swings open. I step in.
Iga Volodya's eyes meet mine.
She's tied to a bed on the other side of the room, surrounded by a dozen or more sticks of smoldering incense. The space is filled with stacks of glass cylinders framed in brass — each filled with a pale yellow liquid. Segmented worms are suspended in the fluid — the same kind of worm I found in Mr. Montgomery's throat. Numerous medical textbooks litter the floor, with surgical equipment arranged neatly on a nearby tray.
The incense is for the smell, I'm guessing — but it's not nearly enough. Iga Volodya is split open from throat to pelvis, folds of flesh pinned back with needles; her organs throb with every beat of her still-functioning heart. Inside of her, more of the white worms — smaller pupae — wriggle and twist inside of her guts. She stares at me from where she's bound, watching me with those pitch-black eyes.
She's not the one helping Weiss. She's being used — harvested. Someone's kept her locked up here, using her to grow and cultivate these things.
Her cracked lips peel back to expose yellow, broken teeth. She opens her mouth, starting to make a wheezing sound — is she trying to speak? It looks like her tongue's been carved out.
No, she's not trying to speak.
She's laughing.
I see the length of loose tripwire on the floor. I see where it attached to the now broken door. And then I see the grenade bolted to the wall to my right — the grenade that's missing its pin.
As the world explodes around me, I suck in a breath and dive deeper into Chicago than I've ever dived before.

Next: The Long Goodbye