by Captain Kirby

Carl Glasko did not expect to find himself at the doorstep of Director Bright's home. When he made that quip in the bathroom about Jack liking mirrors, he thought he was just being friendly. But that quip led to the topic of self portraits, which led to an invitation. And when the Director of Site-19 asks if you want to see his self-portrait collection, it's difficult to say no.
"Ah, Carl! You showed up," Jack said as he opened the door.
"Well, you did invite me after all. Who am I to say no to dinner?"
Jack laughed a little, "You'd be surprised how many people turn me down. One of the curses of being Foundation-famous is that everyone is 'afraid of intruding'."
Jack led Carl into the house. It was a two-story building, nothing too fancy, yet something about it felt empty. The footsteps seemed to echo a little too much. The walls were a little too bare.
But Carl didn't really pay it all much attention. He and Jack ate at a dinner table for six people. They both sat on one end, and left the other half completely empty. Conversation danced from topic to topic, eventually landing on the heavier, philosophical areas that work their way into any good discussion. They talked about the pleasures and pains of company. They talked about identity. They talked about faces.
"I've got an 18-year-old Redbreast I need an excuse to open," Jack eventually said, as he got up from the table. Carl nodded. He could go for a good whiskey.
After a few drinks, Jack felt relaxed enough to show Carl to the basement. It was behind a small door that Carl assumed was a closet, or just extra storage space. The stairwell was dimly lit. A few faint lightbulbs here and there. Jack blamed it on something like "atmosphere", but in reality he just hadn't changed them in decades.
After he lead Carl to the bottom floor, Jack flipped a switch. A few light bulbs flickered to life, illuminating a wall covered in self-portraits. Except, they were all self-portraits of different faces.
"I guess your face changes more often than the rest of ours," Carl said. Jack laughed a little, and then walked to a table in the center of the room. On that table was a mirror, a sketchpad, and a vast array of pencils. On the sketchpad was an in-progress portrait that resembled the Jack that Carl just dined with. Jack took a seat, and looked wistfully at the pictures around him. After a few moments, Carl broke the silence.
"Do they ever talk to you?"
Jack turned to Carl, that same smile plastered on his face, with something heavy behind his gaze.
"You want to hear a few stories?"
Carl nodded, and took a seat across from him at the table.

Portrait #1

Graphite on Paper

"You bastard!"
"I'm sorry!"
"Why me? Why the fuck was it me?"
"It's not like it was my choice."
"Fuck you."
D1-113 had been shouting at Jack ever since he got home. Jack had opened the door to his flat, and was met with this bombardment. It was the worst thing that could've happened to Jack after all of the shit he had been through that day. Dying, coming back to life, begging your way to freedom. He was almost contained on the spot after the amulet incident. But now he was home. He wanted to be done. He wanted to sleep. But the man next to his bed just kept shouting.
"Give me my goddamn body back."
"Do you think I know how?"
"You're all supposed to be geniuses, right? You figure it out."
"And then do you just expect me to die?"
D1-113 lowered his voice, and looked Jack right in the eyes, "Yes. Today was your day. Not mine."
Jack just laid down, and covered his head with his covers.
"You just ignoring me?" D1-113 asked.
Jack stayed silent.
D1-113 glared at Jack for a moment, and then let out a breath. There was something else he also let out in that breath. It might've been hope. Or maybe it was fear. Either way, he took a seat on the floor opposite Jack's bed.
"You bastard, you're as bad as they all say. Just looking out for yourselves. You've taken my body and I bet you don't even know my name."
It was the last thing D1-113 said that night, but it rung around in Jack's head. It bounced up against thoughts of "I shouldn't be here" and "I'm a freak" and "this doesn't feel like me". He didn't know why, but he couldn't bring himself to ask for the man's name.

Portrait #12

Pastel on Watercolor Paper

This was the third time that Jack's host was a woman. It never felt natural. Jack had given up on feeling comfortable in his own skin. His colleagues and friends would make some remarks about it, but at the end of the day, it was just another body until he needs another one.
The thought "this must be what nomads feel like" often crossed Jack's mind. Living on a stretch of land until it no longer offered the same quality of life it once did, and then moving to the next one. It's part of why Jack decided to stop moving after he bought his last house. If he couldn't feel at home in his body, then he would at least feel at home somewhere.
Jack normally took a week off between transitions to get used to the new body. But, ever since he got promoted, that week had become near impossible to schedule. This time, containment inspection got started ahead of schedule, so Jack had to practically live at Site-19 to make sure all the logistics worked out. It was about 10:00 at night, and Jack was still stranded at his desk, reviewing schedules and signing paperwork.
"So, this is what a Site Director's office looks like," Alice said. She strolled toward Jack's desk, her eyes looking everywhere except at Jack.
"I'm not doing this right now. I am extremely busy, so if you could wait until I'm not drowning in work, I'd appreciate it."
"Ah, yes. I forgot about how hard it must be to deal with," Alice motioned to the stack of forms on Jack's desk, "all this."
"Okay, you want to do this now? Fine. I'll give you the abridged version. Life is unfair. I don't want this to happen any more than you do. There's nothing you can do about it now. I suggest you spend your time left making peace with yourself before you fade away."
Alice dropped her coy smile, and took a seat across from Jack.
"Fade away?"
"Thirty days. Takes thirty days for me to get you out of my system. So, unless you want to expend all of my goodwill points now, I suggest you fuck off. Or else when you really want to talk, I won't give you the silent treatment. Trust me, the only thing worse than knowing how long you have left, is being ignored for half that time," Jack replied. He didn't look up from his desk as he said it. It was hard to tell what was on auto-pilot: the signing or the monologue. Jack had done both so much that he could probably keep it up while juggling with his free hand.
"I— I'm sorry," Alice replied after a moment. She sat in silence, staring at her lap while she waited for Jack to finish.

Portrait #34

Charcoal on Canvas

"Do you ever hear them?"
Dr. Jack Bright turned to the kid sitting next on the bench to him. He must've been in his mid-twenties. He reeked of bright futures and deodorant.
"It's polite to ask a stranger for permission before you join him on a bench," Bright replied, turning back to the small crowd of birds that had amassed around his feet. He tossed a few bread crumbs.
"You seemed lonely, and I learned from the best that it's better to ask forgiveness rather than permission."
"Where'd you learn that?"
"Working here," the kid motioned to building across the pond. Should have figured he was Site-19 personnel.
The kid felt familiar. Bright was certain he'd met him somewhere before. Definitely a researcher. Definitely Foundation. Maybe he was in some meeting or rather. Bright deals with far too many people to remember each junior researcher and security guard who waved to him in a hallway. One of the downsides of everyone knowing your name is that they never bother to mention theirs.
"Anyways, as I was originally asking, do you hear them?" the kid asked again.
"Don't you see I'm trying to dodge the question?" Bright replied.
"I'm letting my curiosity get the better of me."
"What's your name again? I don't think I quite caught it."
The kid smiled and shook his head. "Arnold Thayer. Been here for fifteen years. Would've hoped you at least heard my name by now."
"Fifteen years? You don't look like a vet of the system."
"Young face."
Bright nodded. He tore a piece of bread off for Arnold, but the kid declined.
"You still haven't answered my question," Arnold said.
"It's a pretty personal question. Don't really feel like answering. Besides, I'm pretty sure you know the answer anyways."
"I guess I'm asking if I'm the first."
"Nah, you're not," Bright tossed the rest of his bread on the ground and got up from the bench, "They usually stick around for about a week before they're gone."
Bright started back down the path toward Site-19. He had a meeting in five minutes, and he didn't want to be more than five minutes late, since that's what's fashionable.
Arnold walked with him. "Are they normally mad?"
"Sometimes," Bright replied, "Sometimes they're just sort of resigned. One time, I got this one girl who wouldn't stop talking about how I was a terrible landlord for 'evicting' her. I think she was a D-class who saw a few too many things."
"Do you ever miss your original body?"
Bright stopped and looked at Arnold. He's gotten a lot of questions over the years from these people, but they normally don't ask about that. It's usually more screaming. Or sighing. One of the two until they go quiet. It was only then that Bright could settle in to the new host.
"Well—"
"Dr. Thayer?"
Bright turned to see Teresa Rivera, Junior Researcher at 19.
Bright held his amulet up. "Close, but not quite."
"Oh, sorry Dr. Bright. Still getting used to the transition. Anyways, the meeting with Gerald and William was supposed to start two minutes ago."
"Was it? I'm sorry, I must've put it in my calendar wrong. I better get going then," Bright replied. He continued his stroll into the building.
"Umm…"
Bright stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"Who were you talking to?" Teresa asked.
Bright smiled. "Myself. Don't worry about it."

Jack finished his stories, and then both entered a heavy silence. Jack took a sip from his whiskey, since he brought it down with him. Carl finished his drink about an hour ago, so instead he looked at the man getting lost in the portraits hanging from the walls.
"Do you still miss your old body?" Carl asked. It's a silly question. Carl knew the answer. He just wanted to hear Jack say it.
"Yeah, I do."
"Do you remember what it looks like?"
Jack laughed a little at the remark, before responding, "It's funny, really. Most of the hosts are so distraught by seeing someone else in their bodies, they never realize how strange they must look in mine."


As Eugene Thacker stood and watched the fire roar, many thoughts crossed his mind. His first thought was a vindication that he did the right thing, that no longer would Marshall, Carter and Dark commit such atrocities against people again. His second thought was how this could almost be a painting, seeing the flames lick the night sky, the rising ashes mixing with the twinkling stars. His third thought was that his briefcase seemed a bit lighter than normal, and as such he was worried that he may have missed a few things when he cleaned out his desk.
His final thought he said aloud.
"Oh my God… I just blew up an MCD Facility…" he said, terrified of his own words as he said them.
Eugene clutched at his stomach, threatening to throw up then and there in anxiety. His breaths became labored and raspy, and he could already taste the bile starting to form up. He didn't want to be a criminal, he wanted to be a good person, and he just blew up an entire bloody building. His pre-vomit foreplay was interrupted by the sounds of sirens.
Eugene ran. His suit jacket flapped in the wind, his designer shoes echoed in the open air with every step, and he could feel the cold air whipping against his moisturized face, making his eyes water. He, as any recent arsonist may assume, believed that headhunters or special agents or demons would be sent after him. One doesn't just DO a thing like that to Marshall, Carter and Dark.
He thought he had planned out everything about that fire, what parts of the cloning machine to jam up so it would be totally destroyed, when to do it so nobody would be caught in the fire, how to do it so the machine couldn't be rebuilt. It all went off without a hitch, and he was even able to send those memos to Mr. Carter to let him know that poor little Eugene was the cause of the whole thing. He wanted to rub it in their faces. In hindsight, that was probably his worst idea so far.
Eugene didn't know how long or how far he ran, but eventually he stopped in a dingy alley that no self-respecting suit would ever explore out of fear of dirtying it. The fire was no longer in his view, so he took that as a sign of mercy and sat down for a breather. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to do everything to get the thoughts of his inevitable punishment out of his head.
"Bloody fucking hell," Eugene heaved out, "Why the fuck did I do that?"
He paused, thinking about an answer to his own questions.
"Because it was the right thing to do. It had to be. What they were doing was wrong." he reasoned aloud.
Another pause, "They'll find you, they'll find a way to get rid of your money so you'll have nowhere to go, no way to get anywhere."
Eugene gritted his teeth and pulled at his hair. He had left everything behind when he made that fire, there was nothing left for him anywhere. As he started to hyperventilate, his briefcase clattered to the ground next to him. He flinched at the sound, looking down at it. It was a relief to him to see that his briefcase was not, in fact, an assassin.
An idea came across his head to actually check if his assumptions were right, if he left anything behind in that fire. He needed to know how fucked he really was, after all. Eugene reached out a shaky hand to the clasp and flicked it open, paranoid that Mr. Carter had already thought a million steps ahead and booby trapped it. It sprung open unceremoniously, revealing a moderately-sized stack of papers that he took from his office.
After taking the time to look through each of them, to his relief, he found that everything that he wanted to take was there. The last physical copy of the blueprints for the machine, memos to and from Mr. Carter, anything that could potentially lead to people learning how to make or find clones he made certain was either destroyed in that fire or right there in his briefcase.
Anything that could lead people to finding clones…
Eugene rifled through once more until he found what he was looking for: a record of sales. Every single clone sale from the beginning. Names, addresses, amount of product sold. While the means of production may have been ceased, he just had the idea to go a little bit further. He knew he couldn't go for the big boys like the Factory or Wondertainment, after all he already made one powerful enemy. Individual sales, however…
"Hell," Eugene resigned, "I've got one foot in the grave, might as well dive into the coffin."
Scanning through the sheet, he tried to find an address that was relatively nearby, somewhere that he could walk so he wouldn't leave a trail anywhere. There was a country house a couple of kilometers away, but it was the closest place he could find on the list. The Thoroughwood Estate. Product Sold: 4 units.
Eugene clicked his briefcase closed, brushed off his pants and started walking.

To those who knew Eugene, he was not the type to lie to people. Even when he knew he would get in trouble, he would almost always say the truth. Or at least, if not the truth, what was on his mind about something. If one were to tell a person who knew Eugene personally that he was about to pretend to be an inspector on behalf of Marshall, Carter and Dark in order to infiltrate a billionaire's country home, they would think you were crazy.
"God, am I really doing this? Is this worth it?" Eugene whispered to himself, "No, you're committed, come on, don't get cold feet now."
The country house of a Mr. Filmore Thoroughwood was significantly larger than any house that he'd ever been in. Even his mentor, Mr. Weissman, knew when enough was enough; this felt like someone took five houses and glued them all next to each other. Eugene didn't need to be a genius to tell that the guy who lived in this place was the kind of person to buy slaves. As he approached the front gate, he buzzed the callbox to let Mr. Thoroughwood know he had company.
There was a crackle before a very tired voice came through the speaker, "Hello? It's seven in the morning, who's trying to sell me something?"
Eugene didn't need to be reminded how early it was, considering he didn't get any sleep at all last night.
"I-I'm actually from Marshall, Carter and Dark," Eugene said with wavering confidence.
There was a pause before the voice came through again, "Didn't know that MC&D did traveling salesmen. Who are you?"
"I'm not a salesman. I'm here to inspect your Weissman Model Assistance Clones," Eugene said.
"Something wrong with them?" the voice asked.
"We've gotten reports that a few of the clones are prone to…" Eugene paused, trying to think of some urgent problem that would get his attention, "…Dissolving."
Another silence between Eugene and the voice. Eugene swallowed hard and tried to ignore the gurgling sound rising from his stomach. Suddenly vomiting would probably be a good indicator of his dishonesty.
"Well, I don't want a clone to suddenly become goo when my knob's jammed in it," the voice said, "I'll get a guard to escort you in."
Eugene sighed a sigh of relief, thankful that his ruse was enough to get past this guy. Maybe he got lucky and found someone who just wasn't good at sensing one's motives, because his ability to bluff was certainly below average.
Eugene stood still and smiled as a guard dressed in a well-pressed navy blue suit approached, taking disciplined steps across the gravel pathway to the gate. He looked a lot thinner for a guard than what Eugene had expected, but his face was hard and intimidating enough to not make Eugene question it.
As Eugene was lead towards the house, he took a note of how well-kept the lawn was. There wasn't exactly a lot of brush sculptures or lawn ornaments decorating everything, but the grass itself seemed so perfectly trimmed it was practically a flat plane. He was impressed by this, though in his heart he knew that he probably shouldn't be impressed by anyone who willingly buys four slaves.
The guard left Eugene's side as they made it to the front door, which was then opened by a short, light-skinned man with a toned figure and wet, black hair. What struck Eugene the most about him was that he wasn't wearing anything but a towel, wrapped loosely around his waist. What's more, what was being barely covered up was teased with sizable bulge. Eugene coughed and looked away, not wanting to stare.
"Oh, don't be so bashful, son," the man said, "Everyone's got a dick. Shouldn't be afraid to look at one from time to time."
"Uh, ha, yes, that's uh," Eugene gulped, "That's very true."
"Filmore Thoroughwood," the man said, extending a hand.
"Eu-Eugene Thacker," Eugene said in reply, extending a much more shaky hand.
Mr. Thoroughwood took Eugene's hand a shook it hard, laughing a bit in amusement.
"Might wanna work on that handshake a bit, eh, son?" Mr. Thoroughwood said.
"Son?" Eugene asked incredulously, "You don't look that much older than I am."
"Yeah, yeah" Mr. Thoroughwood said, waving a dismissive hand, "Just a thing I do to people I'm friendly with. Come on in, I'll show you around."
Eugene took the offer to look at the house rather than at Mr. Thoroughwood's body, which was threatening to expose itself with every passing step. Eugene didn't really like the overly-modern style that Mr. Thoroughwood was going for with his estate, what with the overuse of brass and the pastel everywhere. Plus, there was enough pretentious anart on the walls that this place might as well be a museum. He stopped for a moment to look at a painting, trying to figure out if it was a duck or an egg beater. All he could really make out about it was that it was colored something he couldn't comprehend.
"Servant's Quarters are upstairs," Mr. Thoroughwood said, "Follow me so you don't get lost, I know it's a big house."
"Thank you," Eugene said, "I'm just trying to make sure that Marshall, Carter and Dark's customers are all satisfied!"
"As you should, as you should."
Mr. Thoroughwood looked behind him at Eugene, waiting for him to make eye contact. When Eugene finally noticed, he flinched a little, worried how long he'd been looking back. Mr. Thoroughwood once again chuckled, pleased at how easy it was to mess with Eugene. Eugene just smiled and laughed nervously in return, trying to keep his cool. He was not being cool.
As they walked up the stairs, Mr. Thoroughwood continued to talk, "I noticed your suit was a bit dusty there, son. Had a bit of a spill on your way here?"
"Yeah, I uh… my car broke down. Had to walk a ways to get here on time," Eugene said.
"Get here on time?" Mr. Thoroughwood asked, "Considering I had no idea you were coming I don't exactly know why you'd need to be on time for anything."
Eugene's internal monologue was a mix of screaming and cursing. He heard another gurgle build up in his stomach. He was blowing it, he knew he was. He knew that this guy was just playing with him so he could just report him to Mr. Carter and get some reward money for him. Fuck, he hadn't even thought about how fast word could travel about him. Why did he use his real name for this? He was fucked, he was-
"Just fucking with you," Mr. Thoroughwood said through the silence, "I figure you've got a busy day, need to hit a lot of houses, don't you?"
Eugene once again gave a smile, glad that he gave him a cover story, "Yes! Exactly, lots of clones to need to check on, you know? Lots of sales! You know, MC&D, we're all about sales!"
For a person who worked under a senior member of Marshall, Carter, and Dark for 4 years, he sure doesn't exactly sound like a person who worked there. Fortunately for Eugene, he seemed to be the only one who thought that at this point in time.
Eventually, they made their way to the only door in the house Eugene has seen that had a sign on it. "Servant's Quarters". Eugene wasn't exactly Sherlock, but he figured that this is the room that they had to go to.
"Let's open her up so you can get your inspection on, hm?" Mr. Thoroughwood said, opening the door.
"Yes, why don't we-" Eugene was interrupted by what he could only describe as one of the most pungent smells he'd ever experienced.
As the door to the Servant's Quarters opened up, a musk so thick and hot invaded Eugene's nose that he swore that he could feel his mustache curling. It smelled like hormones, alcohol and expensive perfume in there, and the pitch darkness wasn't doing any favors for what he imagined it looked like.
"Sir, is that you? Are you in need of assistance?" a voice from inside said.
"It's earlier than usual, you must be in dire need," another voice said.
"Is that a new companion? Does he need assistance too?" two voices said together.
"Jesus Christ…" Eugene managed to get out through the coughs.
"Now now, pets, I'm not looking for 'assistance' right now," Mr. Thoroughwood said, "Nor is my new friend here. Good old Eugene here's just going to give you all an inspection, isn't that right?"
Eugene looked at Mr. Thoroughwood and gave a watery-eyed smile and nod.
"Good lad. Now go on, inspect them."
Eugene took a deep gulp of air and walked into the room, feeling around for a light switch. His search efforts were in vain as the lights were suddenly turned on without his help. One of the clones, one of the gender-transitioned ones, was holding onto the cord for the one light bulb in this room.
Eugene looked around at the dingy room that the clones were being kept in. Compared to the rest of this chic, modern house, this looked like an abandoned shack. The room itself was the size of a broom closet, the wallpaper was peeling off, revealing rotted wood siding. The floors had all sorts of mystery stains on them. There weren't even any beds!
In front of him were the four clones. All of them stood stock still. All of them stood completely naked. Seeing this sight in front of him, seeing so many people that looked like his mentor in such a way, felt like an invasion of privacy to Eugene. Then again, Eugene himself was kind of doing an invasion of privacy by trying to infiltrate and steal these clones, so was he really one to judge?
Eventually, he realized that he actually recognized one of the clones, or rather two of them. A pair of the clones were joined at the hip, and their left and right arm were fused together, forming a doughnut of flesh between them. They were one of the first defects that came out of Weissman's machine. God… if this is where they've been, that means they'd have gone through this kind of thing for almost a year…
Eugene heard the sound of a gun cocking and felt the muzzle of a pistol push hard against his neck. Eugene shakily raised his hands above his head, letting his briefcase clatter to the ground. The clones looked scared. Eugene hoped that they were scared for him.
"Wh-where did you keep that gun?" Eugene asked.
"Oh, you flatter me for thinking my bulge was actually that big, son," Mr. Thoroughwood said, "Now, tell me who you really are and maybe I won't kill you."
"I-I really am Eugene Thacker, and I worked for Marshall, Carter and Dark," Eugene spat out as fast as possible.
"You 'worked' for them?"
"I blew up one of their facilities, the one that made the Weissman clones!"
"Oh, well isn't that rich…" Mr. Thoroughwood purred, "I'm sure there's a pretty bounty on that head of yours. I guess I really shouldn't kill you after all, should I?"
"No, please, don't turn me in! I don't want to go back! Do you know what they'll do to me?"
"Hm…" Mr. Thoroughwood paused, "You know, you're right. I won't kill you, and I won't turn you in."
Eugene shakily sighed in relief.
"I have a much better plan for you, actually," Mr. Thoroughwood said, taking aim at Eugene's left arm.
The clones all yelped as the muzzle flashed. Instantly, Eugene's arm was crushed. He bawled in pain and grabbed at his shoulder. He didn't dare look at what was left, because he was certain it was a grisly sight. Mr. Thoroughwood chuckled behind him.
"Bloody hell you look pitiful. Go on son, take a look at your arm there. Tell me what you see," he said, grabbing a handful of Eugene's curly hair and forcefully turning his head.
To Eugene's surprise, his arm was still there. Still fully intact, still perfectly fine. There wasn't even a gunshot wound. Despite that, he could still vividly remember his arm being destroyed, the bones cracking, the nerves fraying leaving it paralyzed. He looked at his perfectly healthy arm in shock and terror.
"Th-that's a…" Eugene stammered out, "226-BPD?"
Mr. Thoroughwood gave an amused smile, "Oh you know this gun, do you? I had this one custom made. A Walther P88, known for superb accuracy. The perfect hunting pistol. Also happens to be good for making servants submit."
Mr. Thoroughwood pointed the gun at Eugene's other arm, "And I sure am going to have a good time making you submit, son."
As Mr. Thoroughwood was about to fire, the world seemed to slow down in Eugene's mind. Through the combination of the cloud of sex in the air, the feeling of pain in his arm and the taste of bile in his mouth, his brain was effectively non-functional. He couldn't think, he was way over his head in this place. He had been overthinking everything after he set that fire, and this is where it got him, in a room that smelled like warm garbage with a gun trained at him. Despite the shitty situation he was in, he realized that he needed to stop trying to think about everything that was going to happen and just do what he thought felt right. He thought with his gut. In one big burst of adrenaline, he took action.
Eugene suddenly swung his arm backwards and elbowed Mr. Thoroughwood in the face, making a satisfying crack as he struck his nose. When his gun clattered to the ground, Eugene whipped around and grabbed it, taking aim at Mr. Thoroughwood's head. He fired, and as he expected, no bullet came out. Despite that, Mr. Thoroughwood shrieked in pain, clutching at his eye as he writhed on the ground. Eugene kept firing, over and over at him until finally the screaming stopped.
Eugene dropped the gun and stood up shakily, looking down at Mr. Thoroughwood's body. He could still see him breathing. Mr. Thoroughwood's eyes were bulging open, bloodshot and terrified. Eugene knew he didn't kill him, but… what did he do to him? What was going on in his head? Was he in a coma? Was he paralyzed? What had Eugene's life become? He was a thug, an arsonist, a criminal, and if this was where his life was going to lead…
Eugene threw up over Mr. Thoroughwood's face.
"What… what did you do?" one of the clones asked, "Why did you do that?"
Eugene said nothing, just breathing heavily as he let drool drip down his lips.
"Is he… dead?" another clone asked.
"Are you going to take us now?" the conjoined clones asked.
"No to b-" Eugene interrupted himself with a burp, "To both."
Silence between the five.
"Then what's going to happen now?" they asked.
Eugene took a deep breath and turned towards the four of them. He tried to muster up any vestiges of confidence he could, so they too could have a bit of confidence as well.
"I'm going to get you all someplace safe. Someplace that isn't here," Eugene said, "You won't have to assist anyone anymore, you'll all be free."
The clones looked down at Mr. Thoroughwood and then back at Eugene.
"What about Sir?" one asked.
"I…" Eugene looked down at Mr. Thoroughwood as well.
He couldn't just leave him there to die. Mr. Thoroughwood was a monster, but Eugene didn't want to be a murderer. He couldn't call a hospital, because then that would alert the guards outside that something had happened, and then he'd be dead, and probably the clones too. Eugene threw up again, covering his dress shirt in yellow bile.
"Maybe you should relax," one of the clones said, walking forward, "We can help you relax, if you'd like? We can take care of you."
"No! Please, god, no," Eugene said backing away, "You don't need to do anything that you don't want to, you don't need to take care of me just because you were made for that. You can be so much more than what you are used for!"
The clones stood in awe for a moment, and then, one by one, gave a smile to Eugene. Eugene coughed and smiled back. It was a moment of tenderness that Eugene appreciated after everything that he'd gone through. Maybe this could work out after all?
"Alright, we'll go with you. Where are we going?" they asked.
At that moment, Eugene realized that he should never come up with a plan ever again.

‘Weissman Model Assistance Clones'

Inevitability Industries

A Bit More of a Plan


The other day, a man walked up to me and talked to me about his one true god. I told him that there was no one true god, for all gods were true if they were believed in. And if there was indeed a one true god, it must be his belief that made it so, and framed the others as fairies and demons. But in truth, gods were no different from demons or fairies, for they were all creatures created by our minds, merely under different titles.
I told him that if he must worship, at least be like the Daevites, who offered worship in exchange for the gods' service. And if he were to worship just because they were gods, it would be indeed foolish of him, for their power came from no other source but us. It is ourselves that we must believe in.
The man was furious, and accused me of blasphemy, and claimed that his god would damn me to the underworld. But it is not gods who damn us; it is us who make and damn the gods.
I have since come to realize that many were unaware of the nature of gods, of what fiendish, parasitic, and pathetic creatures they are. They only latch onto us for we are children of the Two Dragons, and indeed harbor great power and potential. As a scholar of the Xia Clan, it is my duty to impart such knowledge and let the truth of gods be known. I shall thus offer a cautionary tale, and hope some light can be shed through the act. After all, many would find stories more convincing than mere arguments.

Long ago, in a place lost to time, lived a King who ruled his kingdom mercifully. Indeed, his land was not of the vastest, but its soils fertile and its harvest abundant. Rivers flowed constant and steady across the fields, never too much to create flood or too little to cause drought. In the villages, people lived peacefully and harmoniously, young and old well taken care of. The cities were likewise prosperous, booming with business and art.
In the capital, where the King's palace sat, merchants from distant lands gathered after long journeys, selling exotic artifacts and exchanging eerie tales. And at the palace, Four Lords served at the King's court, each knowledgeable and experienced in their own fields of governing. The kingdom knew little war, for there were no other kingdoms around it, but an army was kept nevertheless, honorable warriors that patrolled the safety of not only the royalties, but the normal citizens as well.
Truly, the only thing odd about the kingdom was that its people worshipped no god and begged from no demon. They respected the King, and adored the queen, but nothing more. Even the tales of the merchants, all those stories about powerful beings and divine forces from other lands did not change this; the concept of religion was simply alien to them. And curiously, no demon or god had bothered with the kingdom.
But this did not last. It was a night when stars hanged high and the moon obscured, that the queen gave birth to a prince, an heir to the throne. Yet the King was struck with only grief, for the queen gave her life for their son. For a hundred days, the king grieved and left the prince to the servants and the kingdom's responsibility to the Lords. He came back a sorrowful man, pale and gaunt, ridden with regrets. He no longer connected with his people, as his thoughts often went to his wife, who now lay cold under the ground. The kingdom was prosperous, yet not what it used to be. People avoided the palace, and whispered unkind words about the royalties.
But on the prince's first birthday, a person walked into the hastily assembled party. The warriors failed to stop them and the servants merely gasped as their presence. It was an individual with strange beauty, who adorned a black silk robe, standing tall and pound. They stepped upon the court and accused the King of neglecting his people. The Four Lords all came forth and argued, but was each defeated in their respective field, their words all fell pale. It was then that the King shot another glance at the stranger, and asked for their way of solving the problem.
So the being went up to the King, but instead of offering suggestions to govern, they whispered to the King's ear that there were ways to bring back the queen. In hushed tones, they explained that both gods and demons had powers of resurrection, but they were far from trust-worthy, and often took more than they would give. Instead, the King could become a god himself, for surely his own judgment could be trusted.
The King's eyes brightened. He stood up and announced that the individual was truly wise and outstanding, who had proved themselves better than even the Four Lords. He named the person the Ambassador, who shall serve as a bridge between the court and the people. The party ended, and celebration for the prince was neglected over the news. That night, the King and the Ambassador discussed and planned under the faint moonlight, until the stars hanged high and the moon was no more.
And an Ambassador to the people they indeed were. Every day, the Ambassador walked among the great fields or on the fine streets, spreading good words of the King. Their voice charming, their manners perfect, and their smile wonderful. The words from their mouth were not only convincing, but alluring as well. Everywhere, people stopped to chat with them and listened to their stories. And every night, the Ambassador returned to the palace and report to the King what they had seen and heard.
What the Ambassador did was small at first, only attempts to rebuild the respect for the King; but as time went on, legends and epics were created, painting the king as a great hero. The once barren mountains on the kingdom's border had become an evil lair of monsters, which the King had led his brave army to destroy once and for all. The vast ocean was now a holy palace of trial and judgment, where the King dived and retrieved a heavenly crown and great treasures. And among the foreign merchants, virtuous saints now walked, who came with magical gifts to praise the King's rightful ruling.
And miraculously, as the tales were told and believed, things changed accordingly. The King's gaunt shape was now healthy and muscular, his garments made of the pelts of great and fearsome beasts, and his people cheered him endlessly as their heroic ruler. And as he sat with the Ambassador under moonless nights, listening to his own great deeds he never accomplished, his sorrows were washed away, forgotten, replaced with joy and ambition.
The palace constantly expanded and grew, reaching the clouds and shined with gold and ivory. Even the land seemed more and more magical by the day, with healing springs hidden in the valleys and fantastical animals striding the forests.
But it was only the first step. The Ambassador no longer walked among the people to chat in small cottages and over campfires; instead, the kingdom's people came to the Ambassador willingly. They walked out of their homes and gathered at first squares, and then great halls, which soon become temples and churches. The tales the Ambassador spun grew from legends to myths and finally what their people believed to be the truth. The King was first chosen by a god, and then a demigod, and finally a god himself. The prince was not left out, for he had the god's blood in him. Even the Four Lords were now known to hold great power, and were lesser gods themselves.
Monuments and obelisks were erected, on every city's center and even dotted the mountains and fields. Prayers were sung for the King and his court, which echoed in great chambers painted with amazing murals. Soon enough, there were festivals where people wore masks and cheered and celebrated the King's glory, from dusk till dawn as the stars travelled the sky. And at the high palace in his luxurious throne, the King, too, celebrated with the Prince and the Lords. The Ambassador stood by his side, long black robes reaching the marble floor, arrogant and beautiful as ever. And at the bottom of the castles, the queen's body lay cold in a forgotten tomb, sinking deeper into the soil.
Indeed, the King was, at that point, already god-like. As his favorite colors were announced, the entire kingdom was coated with them and nothing else. As the Ambassador claimed that the King's eyes reached every bit of his land, the entire kingdom folded into one massive city. The sun was no more for the King preferred starry nights; the city now floated in heavenly space, for a kingdom of a god should not stand on mortal soil. All jobs and professions were discarded, for an endless party was more pleasant; all must wear masks all the time, for the King hated to see faces any less gorgeous than the Ambassador. Still, the Kingdom prospered, as it was the King's wishes.
Yet, he was still no god; there was one thin line he failed to cross, even with all the faith and beliefs of his people. He discussed with the Ambassador again, this time for days on end, as there were no longer methods to determine the passage of time. With the sun and the moon both gone, only the stars shone and blinked endlessly. And as the Ambassador stepped out of the palace, they ordered for sacrifices to be made. And as per the King's wishes, his people rejoiced and obeyed.
In the grand kingdom's grand city, only laughter was heard. And when the Ambassador returned, their fine silk robe was tainted red. Everyone had shed their blood, and the magical rivers of the city were no longer clean, but flowed with the life essence of the city's denizens. When the Ambassador walked through the court, the Four Lords all came forth, and donated their share.
The King awaited them on his throne, the Prince stood nearby. He had turned out to be a fine young man, who shared his mother's elegance and beauty; but a mask now covered his face, for he was no match for the Ambassador.
When the Ambassador arrived and presented him a dagger, the King knew there was one more sacrifice to be made. He got up, and watched calmly as the prince's scream was cut short by the blade to his throat. A god needed no heir, after all.
And it was done. The King felt great power, greater than he ever had; and at that moment, he was indeed a god. The Four Lords applauded their King's ascension, and the people outside the palace, who had newly bled for the King, felt it as well. A great party was thrown, and revelry it was throughout the city. The King laughed as he watched this, as the Ambassador stood by his side and his wife's cold body sank deeper; after all, what was a mortal life to a living god?
As the prince bled out, the Ambassador whispered sweetly into the King's ears. They led the King upwards, climbing to parts of the palace he didn't even know existed. They spiraled up a tower and the King could hear his people, his followers' cheering getting louder and louder. But when he arrived at the top and as the black stars shone upon him, he was greeted with a lasso.
The King turned to the Ambassador in confusion, but they only smiled and replied this was the final step. After all, what god would dwell in a mortal body of weakness? A final sacrifice, so that a god can be made.
The King was shocked and refused to submit. However, the Ambassador, striding tall and proud, grabbed the King and dragged him towards his death. The King found all his divine power somehow useless against them, even his strength earned in the heroic tales was ineffective. He struggled, but the Ambassador's grip was tight, and he found himself as helpless and weak as the man he started out with. He yelled and pledged to his people, but the only response was cheers and laughter, as if he was on stage, and the people were mere audience.
No one was there to help him, and indeed, no one would, for his end was told in every tale the Ambassador spread, secret only to the King. Even the prince had heard it, only that he thought he would inherit the throne after his father's demise. And over the years, the people believed in it, believed this was how their King was to become a god, and it was made true.
As his neck was strangled against the rope and his breath ran thin, he finally became what the Ambassador had made him to be. A god, but powerless in his own realm, against a simple lasso.
For three days the King was hanged. His blood streamed down from the high palace, and seeped into every inch of the city. For three days he struggled and twitched and refused to go out, yet all the sounds he made was drowned out by the laughter of the Ambassador and the applause of his own people. For three days his body grew colder and colder, until it was as dead as the queen deep beneath the castle; until he was but an empty husk, a hole of his previous self.
On the fourth day, the rope broke and the King's shell of a body hit the ground. Rope still around his neck, the new god stood up, stumbling and following the Ambassador down to his court. There the Ambassador sat their King and God to his throne, now filled with spikes so that his empty body wouldn't slip and fall, so that he would sit there forever.
The City rejoiced once more, this time never-ending, as the Four Lords all kneeled, and the Ambassador stood as beautiful and proud as ever next to the Hanged King.

To this day, the City, or Alagadda as it is called, still floats in its own twisted realm, preying upon those who stumbled in. I thus urge my readers to be wary of gods and what they have to offer.


'When in doubt, listen to smooth jazz' was probably the worst piece of advice Sophie heard in a very long time. She has attempted concentrating for twenty minutes now and failed again and again. It got so bad that she figured she'd give her father's terrible advice a shot.
Smooth jazz. I should've never bothered.
It's just little bug. I can fix this today.
She presses the F5 button again. A new window pops up on her monitor in which a door appears. Sophie presses the W key and the camera moves towards the door. E - the door opens; the window closes; red text appears.
Sophie grabs her head. Simon looks over to her.
"Having problems fixing bugs?"
"Yes. Whenever I try entering the Inn, it just crashes."
"Sadly, I don't have that much time to help fix your bugs. The supporters from the Help Chat will probably be able to help, though."
That might be my last resort.
She opens her browser, types in the address and presses Enter.
She went onto the Server she had saved at the top of her bar - I&I Studio.

SophL
Today at 2:36 PM

@VeteranCan someone help me here?

YourMainManDave
Today at 2:39 PM

yeah, currently got a bit of free time, just got done with my part
what is it?

SophL
Today at 2:39 PM

I've been stuck on trying to fix a bug for the past three days.
In "Knights of Terra", the one VR game we have in the works, the Inn is bugged.

YourMainManDave
Today at 2:40 PM

Which Inn?

SophL
Today at 2:40 PM

The one in Three Streams.

YourMainManDave
Today at 2:40 PM

I actually have the Three Streams files here. Send me your Inn file real quick.

SophL
Today at 2:42 PM

innv031.tar.gz
19.42MB

YourMainManDave
Today at 2:42 PM

Let me take a look.
…that file is corrupted.

Sophie checks the file again. Corrupted. Maybe the upload just went wrong, so she decides to upload it yet again.

SophL
Today at 2:43 PM

innv031.tar.gz
19.42MB

But it is still corrupted. Something went wrong. She checks her files again.
A portion of the files for Knights of Terra are corrupted. Mostly files for indoors textures, models and scripts. She hears a deep voice ring over the loudspeakers of the building.
"Ms. Lancester, to the Manager's office. This is urgent."
She stands up from her office chair and swiftly walks towards the glass door used to exit her department.
She walks up the staircase covered in a big blue carpet, passes by the support department and enters the managers department. Her manager is sitting on his way too comfortable office chair.
"Did you notice already?" Mr. Hunt spouts even before Sophie has a chance to just sit down.
"Just right now, yes. Listen, I myself don't know what happened."
Mr. Hunt sighs. "We promised to release this game by autumn next year. Now, your bloody team fucks up and half of your files are corrupted. This is bad, Ms. Lancester. Fix this."
"We could load up a backup and—"
"When was the last backup made?"
"About three weeks ago."
"Good, load that up. Now get out."
Sophie is quick to stand up. When she gets out and passes the support section, she feels a cramp in her chest. Her vision starts to get blurry and her throat tightening up. She attempts to grasp for air, only to slowly lose control over her muscles. She quickly grabs into her pocket to get her inhaler. She takes it, puts it in her mouth and presses the orange button on the top. She feels her throat loosening up and takes in a lot of air. And so, she walks back to her office chair.
She exhales and opens private messages.

SophL
Today at 3:01 PM

Hey. You there, James?

LazyJim
Today at 3:03 PM

Here.
You got something for me?

SophL
Today at 3:04 PM

Could you load up the backup for our server files for Knights of Terra from last week?
Something went wrong with our files. Half of them just went corrupt.

LazyJim
Today at 3:04 PM

Do we know why?

SophL
Today at 3:04 PM

Not yet. Could you look into that as well?

LazyJim
Today at 3:05 PM

On it.
This is strange.

SophL
Today at 3:12 PM

What is it?

LazyJim
Today at 3:12 PM

The records on who did what.
The one for the last two days is corrupted.

Sophie gets nervous. She quickly takes another breath from her inhaler.

SophL
Today at 3:13 PM

The backup still works though, right?

LazyJim
Today at 3:13 PM

Yeah, that one still works. Reverting to it now. Should be done in an hour or so.
Your team gets an early break. Lucky you.

SophL
Today at 3:14 PM

I wouldn't really call our situation "lucky". We have about three weeks of work to catch up on.

LazyJim
Today at 3:13 PM

Fair enough. Sorry for that comment.

Sophie sighs. She opens another DM chat.

SophL
Today at 3:16 PM

Mr. Hunt?

Hunt
Today at 3:20 PM

Have you spoken to Mr. Seybold about the backup yet?

SophL
Today at 3:21 PM

Yes.
Gonna take about an hour though. In the meantime, we can't do anything.

Hunt
Today at 3:21 PM

Plan some story elements in the meantime.

SophL
Today at 3:21 PM

We've already planned the entire story for the game.
We're way beyond that.

Hunt
Today at 3:22 PM

Plan some bonus stuff then. Achievements, Easter Eggs. Make yourself useful.

Make yourself useful.
Over the course of the next two hours, Sophie's team plans a total of 5 easter eggs and 3 achievements. During this entire time, she has this nagging thought in the back of her head: someone did this on purpose. The files went corrupt for whatever reason, which is bound to happen from time to time, but the access history corrupted as well. What if someone corrupted the files before corrupting the history to hide their wrongdoings? Sophie brushes it off. It's nothing. I'm just paranoid again.
She went to sit back down at her computer.

LazyJim
Today at 4:11 PM

Backup is done.
I also found something more worrying.

SophL
Today at 4:11 PM

Really?

LazyJim
Today at 4:12 PM

Yeah. Let me just add Hunt to the chat. This is… worrying.

Clyde BOT
Today at 4:13 PM

@LazyJim has added @Hunt to the conversation.

LazyJim
Today at 4:13 PM

There might be something of worry, Mr. @Hunt

Hunt
Today at 4:17 PM

Did the backup not work?

LazyJim
Today at 4:18 PM

Backup worked perfectly fine.
While uploading the backup, though, I noticed a .mp3 just randomly appeared. I let it run through our antivirus and it was clean. I opened it and it was just some random noise. I brushed it off as a bug and deleted the file. Later on, I got the thought that it might be a hidden message. I recovered the file and tried editing its code. Bingo - it was actual letters. Usually, when you convert an .mp3, all you get is a bunch of bizarre symbols. This, however, was actual letters and numbers. It was still some nonsensical garbage, though. Tried decoding it with some encryption decoders. I didn't really expect to get anything - but when I ran it through Base64, one of the most basic encrypters out there, I got the message. An actual letter.

Hunt
Today at 4:22 PM

What does it say?

LazyJim
Today at 4:22 PM

Just see for yourself

LazyJim
Today at 4:23 PM

letter.txt
661 B

As Sophie reads the letter she clenches onto the armrests of her chair. She feels her breathing getting stronger and faster. Her eyes close themselves. Stay calm. This-… This is fixable.

Hunt
Today at 4:25 PM

I'll inform higherups this very instant. Ms. Lancester, I know that your game isn't plagarized, the only thing the two have in common is that they're set during medieval times. They're reaching.

LazyJim
Today at 4:26 PM

Their game was 2D, ours is a VR Game! They have nothing in common! This is preposterous.

Sophie gets dizzy. She stands up from her chair and opens the window. Disgusting polluted London air enters the room, and she closed the window again.
They have three weeks of work to catch up on, so the team starts programming fast.
A total of two hours pass in which Sophie programmed her literal ass off.
It was when she returns from a small toilet break that she finds many disstressed looks on the faces of her colleagues.
As she slowely goes onto the databank of her Studio, she hears murmurs and sounds of distress coming from her colleagues. She doesn't even need to navigate down to the Knights of Terra files to see the damage. Most files were completely missing. Instead of several folders with games in them, there is a single .txt file. Sophie opens it. The PC tells her that another user from the studio was already using it, so she opens a copy.

Within an instant, she opens her chat program and attempts contacting her manager.

SophL
Today at 6:31 PM

Mr. Hunt? Are you there?

Hunt
Today at 6:38 PM

Is something the matter? I was just busy writing the incident report for the sabotage earlier.

SophL
Today at 6:38 PM

Check out the database.

Hunt
Today at 6:41 PM

Motherfuckers.
I actually had contact with an M&M Salesperson recently. Let me add that shithead.

Clyde BOT
Today at 6:43 PM

@Hunt has added @Your Average Perfet Human Being to the conversation.

Your Average Perfect Human Being
Today at 6:47 PM

Is something important the matter or do you addicts just want to waste my time?

Hunt
Today at 6:48 PM

We've seen your message.
Revert the damage you've done or we'll press legal charges.

Your Average Perfect Human Being
Today at 6:51 PM

If you do press legal charges, an investigation would be executed. An investigation that would then find out more about your "paratechnical department", run by your trusty aid James Seybold, responsible for making your games so addictive.

Sophie has never heard of a paratechnical department inside of I&I, and James is responsible for the servers, not for some department.

Your Average Perfect Human Being
Today at 6:52 PM

Your entire company would go down and you'd be arrested and taken into custody by you know who. There's nothing you can do.

Sophie wants to call the M&M Salesperson out on their bluff, but before she could even type…

Clyde BOT
Today at 6:52 PM

@Hunt has kicked you from the conversation.


The continuing saga of a man uncomfortable with other people and himself but trying mightily to hide it.

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

There was a sense of dread inherent to this part of the interrogation that Cimmerian knew all too well. It always came around the same time, once the questioner felt they had softened him up just enough to get the truth.
"Why do you wear a glove on your hand?" the seven year old asked, pointing at the injured hand.
Cimmerian pursed his lips and slowly took the glove off. The child's eyes went wide, reflecting the light from the hanging crystal lamp above the dinner table. The kid's parents had just left for the kitchen to get the food.
"I got burned Jay." Cimmerian pulled the sleeve back on his left arm and revealed that the burns went at least all the way up his arm, and then he pulled his collar down a bit to show the burns on his neck.
"How'd you get burned?"
"Well. I actually don't remember."
"How come?"
Cimmerian sighed and smirked a little. "Sometimes when you can get hurt so bad you don't really remember how it happened."
The child didn't seem too satisfied with that answer, but it didn't seem to matter. "That is so cool."
Phillip and Sheila Foster walked into the dining room holding a box of pizza each. Phillip boomed in a fake English accent. "Dinner is served!"
The pizzas were arrayed at the center of the table and Phillip gave a slice to his son. Then the three of them grabbed a slice of their own.
Cimmerian pointed the end of his pizza slice at Sheila before taking a bite. "I see how it is! Phil promises me your famous spaghetti dinner and instead I get the pizza!"
Sheila smiled warmly. "Well if Phil had told me you were coming I'd have had time to buy the ingredients."
Cimmerian noted the slightest hint of tension in the air at that comment. "So, uh, Phil tells me you made Assistant Principal?"
Sheila nodded and swallowed her pizza. "I did. But Phil here thinks I should quit."
Phillip's head snapped to his wife. "I do not. I said you should apply for the job at the company."
"You want to be my boss?"
"I just think if we both worked there things would be easier. We could ride together. We could move closer to the site."
"And what would I do?"
"We have weekly orientations and training constantly. You'd fit right in."
"Right."
Jayden looked up at his dad before he took another bite. "Dad have I ever been hurt so bad I don't remember it?"
Phillip's eyes went to Cimmerian's exposed hand. "No. And I told you that you shouldn't ask about Uncle Cimmerian's hand."
"Sorry," Jayden said, getting back to eating his pizza.

Cimmerian and Sheila sat on the floor around the living room table. Jayden had long since gone to bed, and Phillip was using the restroom.
"He misses you." Sheila said, looking up at the silent television playing in to their left.
"What?"
"You don't visit. You don't call. You don't even Email. He was your best friend for a long time."
"I uh, I know."
"Who does that?"
"I'm just too busy to…"
"Bullshit. I don't care. I'll get over it. But he was your best friend." She pointed at Cimmerian.
The moment was thankfully interrupted as Phillip came back down and sat down at the table behind his dungeon master screen. "Alright you two. Roll for initiative."

Site-88 Director Phillip Foster caught Dr. Cimmerian on his way out the door. "It was great to see you again, man."
Cimmerian nodded. "Yeah. Just like the old days."
"Do you really gotta go?"
"I do. Megan called. She wants to meet up."
"Fucking hell Jerry. Where're you staying?"
"The Ramada off the interstate."
Foster smiled and shook his head. "I'll make sure the logistics team gets you to the airport on time." Then Foster leaned in for a hug. "This was fun, we gotta do it again sometime."
Cimmerian stiffened up and patted Phillip on the back. "Yeah. We will."
Foster let go and stepped back into the doorway. "Call me next time you're in town. I promise we'll have spaghetti for real."
Cimmerian nodded and turned to disappear into the night.

« The Wisdom To Know The Difference | Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer | She Still Can't Breathe »


Once upon a time, there was a princess.
"Oh come on. Worst start ever."
"Shut up. Let me tell the story."
This princess was sad, for her sisters were beautiful, and she was not. Her sisters were the finest in the land, while others called her plain. She loved life, and took care of sick and injured, but everyone pitied her. The other nobles in the palace would be polite and respectful when she was around them, but would snicker and mock her when they thought she wasn't listening. She wept often, wishing for a beautiful face.
One day, the princess was chased into the forest by the other children of the palace. She ran and hid in a grove. She sat and cried, for she thought she would never be loved. But someone heard her cries. The spirit of the forest heard her, and he watched from the shadows. The spirit was strong, and brave, but also compassionate. His skin was like bark, and he took the form of a great beast, yet he was merciful and selfless. He didn't look at her face, or her skin, but looked at her beautiful heart. He stood in the trees, and watched.
Days went past. The princess would run to the forest to avoid the other children. She sat and cried often. The spirit continued to watch her, until one day, he revealed himself. The princess was terrified when she saw him, and she cried out in fear.
"Do not be afraid, child," Said the spirit of the forest. He sat near her, and comforted her. She wept with him the whole night through.
The next day, she awoke and found him gone. She gathered herself, and returned to the palace. The other children teased her and pulled her hair. She ran from them, to the well, trying to escape. But the other children pushed her into the well. She was not hurt, for there was still some water in the well, but she was trapped. Above her, she could see the sneering faces of the children. Suddenly, a roar sounded. The smirks on the children's faces turned to fear, and they turned away from the well, screaming. They ran away, and all was silent. Then a single vine was lowered into the well, and the princess climbed out. When she escaped, she discovered no creature, but a single white flower on the ground. The spirit of the forest had came.
"Ok, can we go to '34's story? This one is lame."
"It's my turn, so shut up."
The princess quickly became a young woman, and grew to love the forest. The other nobles still looked down on her for not being beautiful, but she ignored them. She laughed and ran with the spirit of the forest, and they promised to give their lives for each other. They gave each other gifts, to him a garland of flowers, to her a single blue key. The spirit said that the key would offer her a place of refuge, if she ever needed to hide.
One day, the princess went to the forest, to find the spirit, but she didn't see him. She called him, and he didn't come. She searched and searched, but he was nowhere to be found. She walked deeper and deeper into the forest. Three men were waiting for her.
They had swords and bows, and they threatened her. They laughed when she cried for help. But her cries were not in vain. The spirit heard them. He came running through the forest. He saw the three men, and he let out a terrible cry. The men turned to the spirit, and they screamed in their terror. The spirit killed them, butchering their bodies until they were no more than pieces on the ground. The princess was grateful to him, but she was horrified at what the spirit had done. She made the spirit promise to never kill again.
The people of the city found the three men's bodies, and they became scared. What kind of beast could do this, they asked. They held a great meeting, and decided to hunt down the spirit of the forest. The princess heard this, and rushed to the forest to warn him. He went with her, rushing away from the palace, but the soldiers found them. They grabbed the princess, and tied the spirit down with great nets and ropes. The spirit could not fight back, for he had promised not to kill. The princess screamed at the men, begging them to stop, but they did not listen. The spirit was defeated, but the princess saw one last chance. Grabbing a sword from a guard, she smote the ropes holding the spirit. The spirit rose to its feet, and she leapt onto its shoulders. It ran, far away into a little town.
The princess knew that the men would come and kill them both. And she knew the spirit would give his life to save hers. So she tricked the spirit. She told it they would both use the blue key to hide from the men. She used it to unlock a closet, and beyond was a great misty forest. The spirit leapt through the doorway, and looked back towards the princess. With tears in her eyes, she said one last thing:
"I release you from your promise." She shut the door, locking it and throwing away the key.
Now the spirit was safe forever. And in that moment, she was beautiful.
The men came, they captured the princess. They brought her back to the palace, and burned her for being a witch. They searched and searched for the spirit of the forest, but they never found him. He was hidden where they could not find him.
The spirit cried to be let out, that it might save the princess, but to no avail. The door was shut. The spirit left the door in his madness and his grief, and ventured deeper into the forest. There were many hiding places. He would live in this forest forever, unable to leave. He vowed revenge. Revenge for the princess, for what the men had done. He vowed he would return, and bring with him death. Only then could he rest in peace.
There was silence for a moment.
"That's gotta be the biggest pile of shite I've ever heard."
"It's true! All of it!"
The three Class-D were gathered in a waiting room, preparing for their test.
"'83's story was better. At least his one wasn't some fairy tale."
"Come on, give a guy a chance! That one's a legend! They say that it might even be true!"
"Legends are supposed to be good. The princess in that one was an imbecile."
A voice sounded over the intercom. "Please enter the containment room for testing."
"Finally. I thought I might die of boredom."
The Class-D's entered the room. There was a plinth in the center, and a wooden door on one of the walls. Resting on the plinth was a single blue key.


It was not a holy place. No great deeds had been done there, or were remembered there. No god had touched the earth. There was nothing of value there, or for miles around: just stone and scrub and grass waving like an ocean when the wind passed over it. For that matter, it was barely even a cave, only a crack in the side of the hill where the rocks had broken untold ages ago.
He could still go back. Probably. Possibly. He could go back, and try and come up with some lie, throw himself on his knees and beg for the mistress's mercy, and he probably wouldn't die. For this, she would not kill him outright — would in fact make a point of not killing him for a very, very long time.
Whereas if he stayed — if he did not turn, if he continued his stepwise path up the slope to the black gape in the side of the hill — he would surely die. When she was certain that he had truly fled, and when she deemed him no longer to be worth pursuing, which might be at any moment and he would not know, she would have only to speak a single, simple spell and the bronze collar about his neck would constrict and he would die trying to claw his own neck open to get air. For reason of this fear, only one in a thousand of all the slaves across the span of the Empire ever attempted to run to freedom, and Ion had heard the stories about them. All found it, of course, but only one in a thousand found a freedom that still had life and breath in it, and Ion had heard the stories about them as well, passed around in secret in dark places and low whispers.
Maybe they'd fallen on him a different way. For at some point he had vowed — to himself, not with his mouth — that he would not die on his knees, and somehow he had found himself here, breaking a trail through thigh-high grasses and struggling to repeat that vow against the part of himself that was quite firmly insisting it would rather not die at all. And if he was going to satisfy both he needed, rather bluntly, a miracle.
A small patch of ground before the cave mouth was free of scrub, and he dropped the stolen waterskin and stolen bread there, unpinned his cloak, and dropped it on top. It wouldn't be right, to take anything in. He wasn't sure why, or how he knew this, but was sure about it nonetheless.
It was harder, to deal with his boots. That, he hesitated for, most certainly longer than he should have. Too vulnerable, too much — well. No-one ever demanded that except for when they wanted to — But eventually, he managed to force his fingers to work, to unfasten the toggles and unwind his leg-wrappings and leave those too with everything else. Because he was alone, remember. It was all right. Hopefully. Hopefully.
The ground that was not holy was still cold from the night, oddly soft and yielding beneath his bare flesh. And he walked in to the dark and the coolth, barefooted and empty-handed, and went to one knee, and then the other.
“All right,” he said. “I'm here. What do you want with me?”
For a moment there was no response, nothing but the dark behind his eyelids and the quiet of the steppe all about, and in a brief surge of panic he thought it had been true, there was no god there to answer him, he had made it all up and had doomed himself to a lonesome honourless death. It wasn't going to mean anything, and his bones would stay here and rot, and everyone who had ever known him would forget him eventually and it wouldn't matter at all. He would be nothing, like he always had been.
But the voices, the whispers reappeared, slipping like tendrils around his mind, into the space between skull and brain. And they sealed up his eyelids, nose, and mouth, stoppered his ears, and led him away into darkness. He never felt himself fall.

Ion dreamed of his mother.
This would have been less bizarre had he ever actually known her. Slaves didn't - slaves weren't allowed families or lovers or homes, on the assumption that you would be less likely to fight if you didn't have anything to fight for. So before any of his memories had yet taken root, he had been taken and possessed and sold, and for him mother held the same sense as dam - yes, he must have had one, but it wasn't as though she was important at all.
Nonetheless, somehow he knew that it was her. Her hair was long and dark and loose, her eyes tightly shut and mouth open as she laboured in childbirth with a child that may have been him, and may not have been, and it didn't really seem to matter, then. Only that she would continue in them. And as he focussed, there behind her was his grandmother, and there too her own mother, who had borne her in the same way, the whole long string of his unknown ancestry, that stretched to before the cities, before the forests, back and back and back.

Someone was screaming. He only distantly heard it, as though through many walls, everything else drowned out by the pain. His whole body burned like someone was filling his veins with molten gold, was flaying apart his nerves fibre by fibre. His ribcage hurt like it had been cracked open, his head like it had been dismantled seam by seam, and he couldn't move or think or breathe or anything, there was no room in him for anything but the pain, and even that was too much, he thought he would break apart under it. Just crumble into so many fragments, and at least then it would end, it would stop, please, just let it stop.
It didn't. But he drowned again, and under all that it seemed less important, and Ion dropped back down into another layer of the world, and let it close over him.

All was dark. Ion blinked, and blinked again, vision gradually adjusting. There was stone under his feet, dark, twisted, and ropy, and the air felt hot and heavy. There was no sun or moon that could be seen through the thick cloud layer, which extended brown-grey over the whole sky, as far as he could see. Tiny patches of stars glanced through it; he couldn't recognize any of them, no familiar Wain or Archer, no red Adder's Eye. And that was all the light there was, in this world of ragged black rocks and mist and soft unending rainfall under low skies.
Off in the distance, lightning cracked. He saw the dendritic bolt first, and then the thunder. Its shadow outlined mountains far off, equally jagged and black, equally empty, and the gradual rise of the land towards them.
There was the sound of water, which was mainly the hiss of rain falling into it. Guided by his ears, Ion turned, grinding fragments of skin from his soles off against the sandpaper of the substrate, and saw the coast, only a few paces away. He went to its edge. The waves were almost silent against the shore, because they had no shingle to break and suck over, only solid rock, and the crests and troughs were barely outlined by what light reached through the clouds and from the lightning, when it struck.
He bent down and dipped the fingers on one hand into the water, only to realize that it wasn't. It clung to his skin the wrong way, was too dark and viscous and warm to be water. Under the starlight there was no colour, but he wouldn't have doubted that, when the sun rose, it would be iron-red instead of blue.
Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. The entire world was dark and silent and still beneath the stars, more barren than any desert, and Ion crouched at the shore of an ocean of blood that stretched out to the horizon, and the waves came to within a span of his feet.
Drink. It was the tiniest voice, the one that wasn't heard with the ears at all but inside the mind. It was the voice that spoke up when one was standing on a high place - the edge of a roof, or a trail above a gully - and said: jump off. The one that, when one was sitting next to a burning fire, said: put your hand in. Just to know what will happen. What it will be like.
So he scooped up a palmful and drank. It tasted as blood does, sweet and sharp and bitter all at once, and ran warm and rich down his throat and over his chin.
Step in.
So he did. One step and the waves lapped up over his ankles; a second, and halfway up his calves. Looking down, he watched the undulations, each wave as it came and went stripping a layer off his flesh, turning his skin red and inflamed, then revealing below it raw flesh, fat, muscle. Bone, about his ankles.
It didn't hurt at all. And so he went further, let the sea eddy about his thighs and waist, soak his hands and arms, and finally, close over his head. And Ion dissolved, by tissue and cell and molecule, his own blood merged with it, and then he wasn't, anymore. Nothing that could be recognized as Ion, nothing that could be recognized as alive, and whatever remained slipped down into the silt and flowed down the slope of the shelf, coming finally to rest deep down at the bottom of the basin, on the seafloor where heat bubbled from cracks in the stone, where rust dropped out to coat the area like snow.
There was movement, in a sense; there were soft currents that passed over the floor of the deep, and particles that drifted their slow way downwards to settle in papery layers. Matter clumped, broke apart, clumped again; threads like the finest silk shifted with every movement of every water molecule. They joined, end to end or side to side, twined, and split apart, over and over.
Time passed, or maybe it didn't. There was no way to tell. Creation did not hold its breath, for such words had no meaning. Everything was quiet, and everything was at peace down there in the warmth and darkness of the sea.
He didn't wait. He scarcely was. It was the perfect kind of nothing, just watching the shifting of dust and the swirling of minute warm and cool currents. Watching molecules join and separate, join and separate, join and join and join and -
And out of the peace there came violence, and into the stillness a struggle. A tiny packet of oil filled with spooled filaments and specks of dust and bewilderment at its sudden existence, and had sound been known he would have cried out at the shock of being, at the flood of — ah, it hurt to become. Even the smallest movement of water, every touch on a receptor, all of them burned against his new-formed sensitivity — he was, now, whereas before he had only known, and there was so much more of existence as to make all of it agony. Where only moments before he had been only sea, now he was only pain.
It took far too long to calm. As near eternity as makes no difference. But eventually, eventually - well, it didn't stop, not ever from that point did he stop hurting fully, no matter what he did, but stay, he told it, like it was some kind of wayward dog gnawing on him and not filling the universe, the interface where world and Ion met. And as endless years passed, if he could count years, he went numb to it, or at least number, like calluses growing on overused hands, and he could reck even the smallest changes against it, the littlest currents, the slightest shifts in the taste of the sea.
But slowly, so slowly it took him a very long time to notice, the world changed. No longer were the waters warm and sweet and gentle; something within them stung, something within them choked and poisoned, and he had no escape. Much as tried to adjust, much as he tried to excrete it, avoid it, there was too much, burning out his interior, and he suffocated, died, and was resurrected.
From there, from the other side of death and reformation, on the other side of the rebound, he grew sticky filaments and blue-green mantles, whip-like tails and beating hairs, in clumps and mounds, gullets and tendrils, sharing tiny threads and instructions and food. He gathered, he clustered, he slithered and floated and -
Something twisted. There was barely any of him to twist, but it did it anyway, a force that crushed somehow both inwards and outwards, and it divided the waters inside from the waters outside and they were separate. And split like this he could grow further, into the space between, could organize himself along higher levels, build himself a tongue to scrape, and fronds to wave in the murk, to feed. A foot to move on, long ribs for support. He flung out armoured plates and flexible lobes, tentacles and claws and tentacles with claws, eyes and sawteeth, gills and spikes, fins and funnels, swimmerets and spines, exalting in simply being, all the myriad plans and structures he could make, all the burrowing and swimming that he could now do, the hunting, clawing, feeding. He sprang from the seabed and into the water column proper, seeing all the communities laid out map-like from above, vulnerable now before him, in its thousands of colours, its tiers from sand to surface. A surface which, as he watched, darkened, turned to a slush of ash and then of ice crystals, turned to a solid roof underneath which the fish and plankton dropped out of the water column to land with small depressions in the shadowed sediment. Empty shells. Limp feathery tentacles. Stilled and curled limbs.
Fractured corals, tentacles frozen into mush and dissolving, and he froze too, ice over his eyes and into his gills. Dead, and resurrected in the thaw with bones of rock and new eyes, these ones glass clear, muscles contracting and releasing rhythmically, like the waves, like the pulse of his gill slits, and the water gave before him. He hardened and stiffened his fins, boned them with fine cartilaginous rays, and the abyss of the ocean was opened to him, great limestone and basalt castles that reared out of the darkness, sides riddled with caves where he could fall upon the hidden denizens that scuttled over the stone at unawares, shear them into soft flesh with the blade of his jaw.
Green slicks spread out over the basalt of the shores, and each sprouted a carpet of fine stalks that cast spores out into new areas. And under their assault the stone cracked and crumbled, and into the new-formed dirt went out filaments of hyphae and tiny roots, a knee-high forest unrolled over the hills like a blanket of fulled wool, broken in places by the gashes of canyons and the pillars of fungi that plaited themselves like a trunk composed entirely of ivy. He opened a mouth, popped open lungs sticky and damp, swallowed and - oh. Oh. The air was sweet and clear and warm and there was more of it, so much more than water. He tucked in gills and scrambled up on jointed legs, the ocean clinging over him and inside his carapace and under his scales, melting into his blood. The mosses were soft, much softer than the basalt, and grew and died and grew again in layers upon layers of greyish and emerald and gold, crumbled and rooted and sprouted anew. In their breath the air grew soft, so easy to breathe, to exist in -
And then it was not, anymore, it was only cold and empty. He froze, and suffocated, and was resurrected into a riot of greens and browns, layers upon layers of branches and leaves and fern fronds and rotting water, though many times warmer than the pools that rose in the forests he knew when spring melted the world. Naked roots in pinks and new-grown white worked their way into the mud and water, their fuzz of root hairs pale against the tannin-black of the rest of the shores, ringed in water moulds and tiny flecks of rot.
Seven fingers Ion trailed through the froth, clinging at thin drifting weeds and sprouting feathery mouths, shells rolling ridged and jointed and sharp-edged in the sediment beneath, bent in two and horn-curved. Too many. He sliced the littlest pragmatically off, ordered them to close up and be no longer, and the blood trickled pink out against the sand.
He wove rhizomes like basket-walls through the swamp, blocking the flow of the water and the swirl of the mud, catching the fronds and scaled stalks that extended and fell and rotted, were drawn back up to be re-built and re-extended again, and the peat grew thicker and thicker still. Seeds dropped down, rooted, or tried to, and were eaten: he packaged them in paper and bark cuir, gathered into cones.
And perched atop the branch he grew wings, spread them and took to the air, feeling all its currents run like water around and over and through the world, pouring through his setae, into the channels he had opened for it, and he breathed. The air grew thick with the whirring of flight, the dropping of seeds, the drift of needles into burial mounds upon the mud. Above here he could see the forest's end, the pale blue that was the water over lime, clouded with runoff and the white silt, and the glimmering red-tan that was the desert at the world's centre. And rivers ran through it - he could hear the clatter of stones as they rolled together in the beds, the terraces and steps the water sliced into the sand, see the prints in the soft mud at the edges with their five-toed pads, the slither-tracks of lungfish and of serpents and of lizards, their nests, hidden among the rocks, where inside pale leathery eggs tiny coiled translucent things twitched as they grew. He marked the distant arcs of mountains in burnt orange, and descending to their coast again, where piles of shell and bright whorls of tentacles and thousands of sand-like spicules reared in barrier reefs -
- and the world changed, a rush of warmth flowing out and over him and over everything, like the sigh of the ocean, and some force took a hold of his breath and pulled it out of his lungs. And it wouldn't return, no matter how hard he scrabbled at his throat and lips, trying to force them to open, to let in again air turned fever-hot and heavy. His knees buckled, and he fell, first to kneeling and then down onto his back in the shallow waters of the near sea. Silt swirled up around him, settling over his eyes and nose and mouth and over his whole body, and sediment and water swirled down through his nostrils and into his throat, and he couldn't breathe and he had to -
This time, it was almost a relief when the sunlight faded away, and his body gave out, and he died.
Death was cold. It was an endless, freezing greyness, with hard edges like chert or like fractured ice. There was no pain in it, and that was the worst of all - just a numbness that seeped in from his skin through moveless blood and muscles and bones, all the way into the centre of his being, stilling sight, hearing, scent, and movement.
And that was all. Just cold and sterile grey and a vast aching sorrow he was too numb to feel.
(Somewhere, in a different place, a different layer of the world, there was someone weeping, great racking sobs for all the grief and all the loss and all the horror of death, and tears of salt water and plasma ran from them into the dust of the ground. It wasn't here.)
Time passed, or maybe it didn't. There was no way to tell. But gradually, the grey lifted like mist at dawn - the thought slipped from his mind as quickly as it had come, because there was no mist nor dawn here in death. There wasn't anything. But nonetheless, the mist cleared, curling away into - nowhere, because there was nothing else, and he saw death surrounded by walls, great dark pillars stretching up and down into infinity. Hemming him in. Imprisoning him. He couldn't see what they were made of, and didn't care to, because there was no feeling in death either.
Climb.
So he clomb. With talons and nails and spurs, through years that became centuries that became millennia, he clomb, his grasp sinking into the material as though into clay. Until the world faded away above and below, until there was nothing left but grey and the endless sequence of reaching, pulling himself up, one limb, and then another, and then another.
It was getting harder to breathe - and he was breathing, again, now, he realized, lungs and gills contracting in and out, dragging air through. And that recognition brought back sensation, burning muscles, the material crumbling off in his hands - sheets of mineral soil deposited atop and all around him, blocking his path, his pathetic upwards crawl. The clay fell in chunks as he clawed at it, slicking over his scales and flesh. Small fragments of grey sand and jet-brown peat were embedded in it, and there were dead leaves and chunks of rotting wood, and fungi and roots that tangled between his fingers, and the more humus the harder he fought, because that meant air, closer now the blacker it got -
He scrabbled out through the dirt into a world of a different shape, all the mountain-walls and forests and coastlines in other places now, and digging his claws into the earth he went out to them. Clothed in bone carapace and poison glands he went out to meet them, heavy nailed feet and membraned digits, bony scutes and crushing teeth and the confidence that nothing could touch him ever again. Cones thudded into the ground and he gnawed them open for the seeds and planted whole gardens, weaving between the scaled trunks and burrowing between the roots. Ah, he could run faster now, his sinews springs, his bones pillars, his wrists interlocking as the foundations of his house, ferns lashing his flanks as he ranged through the forest and scrub in the hunt, nostrils flaring after the scent of his pray, gliding and pouncing, slashing open the stomachs, the skin and soft scales of all the others, getting gore on his whiskers, in his fur, the luscious hot smell curling up into his nose along with his own steaming breath.
Until the sky darkened, and fell upon him like a blanket of snow. And the colour of it was ink-black, and the weight of it was the weight of a mountain, and he was crushed into the earth inch by inch until the ash slipped into his mouth and nose and eyes. He suffocated, and died, and was resurrected.
Crawling out from the ash he slithered and scurried, buried eggs swaddled in nests of soil and moss, and when the eggs hatched he fed them on hunted insects and on his own flesh and in his own blood, bound his offspring to himself with tethers of body and vein. He slipped out gills to filter-feed and clawed limbs to hunt, carbonate shells in great stacks until he filled the continental shelf with piles of his own corpses, and reached out for the sun from the top of them.
He seized pigments, and reached around to paint his wings in blues and reds and yellows, in tiny flecks of all the colours that could be seen and a few that couldn't, and he raised limbs made of bone and grew new wings, wide and strong and feathered, and he flew again. The world below was a swirl of green-yellow-blue, and great beasts strode through its forests and over its plains, and above their heads he alighted on a branch, crushing the needles. Further he crushed them, flat and fine as paper, and drew veins with the tip of a claw and nipped the edges with the end of a beak, a million shapes to wave in the wind.
He scrabbled in the sand and burrowed, and in the safety and darkness of the tunnels within the loam he made more of himself, egg upon egg and larva upon larva, an entire army that was still all him. And when the new-made leaves first began to unfurl, soft and green, he poured from the ground and marched over the plains and forest floors, all in rank and file and all in step; sensitive antennae and devouring mandibles, he went forth, to take all that he could into himself. In his myriads he ripped carbon from the air, flashed silver and white through dark waters and poison-coloured through the winds, gave himself devouring teeth, armour of ribs and panoply of scales, feathers and flaps of skin, continuing another radiation.
And this time there was fire, that poured out over the land like an offering, like a bowl full of oil that is dropped and smashed, and it kindled all the forests and the surface of the rocks and in his feathers. For a moment he was transformed into the firebird of lore, every surface traced in orange and searing white, crying some unknown call into the depth of the sky, and he burned, and died, and was resurrected.
Once the smoke started clearing, and the sky was pale again and only smudged with black, he clambered back out from the depths of the forests and the shelter of the leaf litter and humus, and on the trees that remained he scrambled up to the branches, balancing on claws and long thin tails. And when all the canopy had been explored he slipped back down to the forest floor, where the dirt crumbled under his feet and his legs became strong, hard-nailed, good for running and creeping. Where the forest had edges he moved out, and invaded the savannahs and mountains and coastlines, migrated into tundra and desert and across continents that now bore new shapes and new biomes.
He went back down to the ocean. Of course he did. The ocean was always there, always hungry, and the mud squelched beneath his feet and nails as he scrambled down to her shore and let it rise about his legs, above his knees, to cradle his stomach and throat and tail. When he dove it licked over him, giving him fins and flukes and flippers, smoothing out his body, holding him up. The embrace of lover and mother and self all in one.
And back on land he became not only animal but plant, stretched his roots deep deep down into the soil and at the ends of his branches he unfurled flowers, blues and reds and whites to call the bees and birds and bats, to make unions, take their claws limbs fingers in partnerships, and dig rootlets through soil until he found the thin pale filaments and intertwined there, a thousand alliances against oblivion.
He was all of them, everything that moved and breathed, sugar and protein, growth and decay, a cycle never-ending and a network of a million branches, flicking from species to species and life to life with an ease like breathing, and he knew all their secret places, the flickers in their brains. The behaviours that spun from that, the claw for continuity, seconds and resources and just keeping existing, until he struggled to his feet under a sunrise that burned the sky red as iron and -
- and the sky bent down with spear in hand and antler pick hanging from belt, and it smiled a horrible square-toothed grin into his face, and he wanted to beg No before he even knew what he was begging for. But before he could it spoke, words he felt he ought to know but were strange, as though he was hearing them reflected across a thousand mirrors. Yet he could still taste the sorcery there, hard as stone and cold as snow, and managed to grab one panicked breath before its hand closed around his throat and dragged him back up and into the world.
Even there, it did not let go. Even there, it tightened further, even as he pulled, even as his fingernails broke on the bronze, the collar did not give. Couldn't breathe couldn't think couldn't even gasp out a plea it hurt so badly -
(There was more than one way to be free, but he had prayed it wouldn't come to this one.)
Cartilage crunched sickeningly, and he would have screamed, the bone above jerked painfully out of alignment. There was blood on his fingers, under his nails, smearing into the dirt, and he still had no air at all, no, please, please -
What do you want? asked the voice of high places, of fires, of blood, in the space at the centre of his brain.
I want to live, said Ion.
What will you give -
Anything! he cried. Everything.
It must have agreed, for it lunged and seized him between his teeth, and it took.

For a long time, there was nothing else.

He peeled open one eye, and then another, and then a few more, only to squeeze them all shut again against the daylight and the dizziness that came from trying to fit five visual fields into a brain that had only ever had to handle two.
Everything hurt. It hurt to breathe, to think, to be. Even the ground was five clear points of pressure along his left side, somehow flat and razor-sharp at the same time.
One eye. Then the second. And he stopped there, the world soaked in honey-yellow light from the low sun through the cave mouth and still tilted onto its side - vaguely he thought he could do something about that one, and forced loose the joints in his arms to push himself up to something resembling sitting. That returned the vision to the right direction, although it was still off somehow, colours fringing the edges of light and shadow and lining the edges of his hands, when he held them up.
How long had it been?
Maybe he should stand up. Maybe that would be a good idea. So he took a deep breath and pushed, only for something to slither loose underneath his ribcage, and he crumpled back down to his hands and knees and vomited blood into the dust.
It was harder than it should have been, like his body had forgotten how to work or move, a tool that didn't fit right in his hands, and it left him panting and dizzy, staring blankly at all that red red red. Some memory told him that he should have been worried, but the why of it escaped him now. It wasn't as though it didn't make sense.
Still, though. Couldn't stay kneeling here forever. So when he'd finally got his breath back, scrubbed a hand that must have belonged to him - it obeyed his commands if in a jerky awkward kind of way - over a face that felt like someone had rammed a metal bar through it, and stood up, tail lashing for balance. In the late afternoon light he could see the depression in the dust where he had lain, and beside it a few twisted bits of bronze, each small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He poked one experimentally with a foot, and it rolled and clunked against the others. And then he realized the weight on his collarbones was gone, and would have laughed, if he hadn't still been numb, only an alien in his own body.
Ion left the metal where it lay, went out, and sat down against the stone. His cloak and food and water were still just as he had left them. He picked up the cloak and wrapped himself in it again, for the air was cool, and picked up the bread. Not that he wanted to eat at all - that was another thing he seemed to have forgotten - but want to or not, he probably ought to. Absently he pulled off a piece, forced himself to eat it, chew, swallow. And that, that served to awaken his hunger, and the rest he devoured, tearing shreds with almost animal-like want, half-choking in haste.
It went about the same with the water.
Having finished that too, having nothing left to eat or drink, he set aside the waterskin and reached for his boots, dragging them towards him. He unfastened a toggle and then hesitated, looking between the leather form and what had been made of his limbs now. Boots. Feet. Boots. Feet, that had been so elongated and moulded as to now be paws, and that would never fit into any human boots ever again.
And then he did laugh, finally, until tears started into his eyes and a stitch slipped itself blade-like between his ribs, because it was real. Finally. He was free, remade strong and smooth-skinned and scarless, and he was alive too to see it, and he was he was he was and that was good. So he laughed until he had no breath left and had to rub the pain from his chest with the heel of his hand.
That helped, some, and so did the sunlight. Made him feel more like him, like he did in fact own the lungs and hearts and limbs that he had been given to inhabit. And since he no longer had a reason to return to his home, nor indeed by now any home to return to, he stayed put, watching the sun slide lower and lower towards the horizon. A tuft of grass sprouted near to his left knee; he picked out one of the leaves and started shredding it from the pale soft end, the tearing loud to his ears. Green fragments fell into his lap and off into the dust, and when that blade was done he pulled out another, and another, rendering them into smaller and smaller pieces.
He worked until his fingers were stained chlorophyll-green and he felt that they were his, even though the new joints were different and at their tips were wickedly-sharp claws that slipped out when he flexed his hands, and back in when he relaxed them. Just out of curiosity, he dropped the leaf and dragged one over his other wrist, watching as the skin split as evenly as though beneath a blade, red blood well out. When he pulled his claw away the tissue sealed itself back together again from the inside to the outside. Thoughtfully, he bent his head and licked the spilled blood away. At least that was the same, or tasted so, that unique viscous bitter-rich.
Waters inside, waters outside. There is an ocean within your blood, everything you have ever been is a part of you. You are life, your heritage is life. Fight for it.
Before him, the grass stretched in pale greens and yellows out to the edge of the sky, like waves before the wind, and he shut his eyes and reached out, listening to the rustling of fieldmice and nesting birds among the stalks, the footfalls of beetles and buzzing insects, all the tiny lives in the grass. And he reached out further, felt the deer drumming upon the soil as they ran, the fish in the river, green mosses and great trees in the forest, singing birds and slithering lizards, the fungi in the mould, small creatures and great, hunter and hunted, all in their endless forms most beautiful that ran and swam and flew and sprouted and lived. And then he raised his eyes and looked beyond, to the villages and roads, and to the great cities of Daevon, and all that lived there as well.
He stood up.
And Ion went forth, to take what he could.